England always left meetings early after he fought with France. He felt like he should leave before somebody did something they would regret. He left because felt that fighting was undignified. He left because England had a special method of releasing tension, and the sooner he did it the better. It wasn't exactly humane, and he knew France would find a way to kill him if he found out, but that was part of the reason why he did it. Part of him enjoyed knowing that it could make France miserable if he knew.
He reached his house, dismissing his butler and going straight to the basement. He opened a large, iron-bound, wooden door to a dank, dungeon-like room. Inside laid one of his greatest accomplishments. She was hanging from the roof by her wrists, which were scraped raw, most likely from an attempt to free herself. Her once beautiful clothes hung in limp tatters on her gaunt frame, and dried tears stained her face. England clicked his tongue shamefully. "My dear, you've been trying to escape again." He grabbed a leather apron and a knife off a table. And then he began to carve into her delicate white skin with the blade, opening some old scabs as he did so. She weakly cried out, her strength almost nothing now. But she couldn't die, not until England decided to lift the spell. And honestly, he probably never would. He loved this too much.
After he was finished, he put the knife back on the table, grabbing a whip. He proceeded to use all of his strength to snap the whip against her still bleeding back. Drops of blood sprayed from the fresh cuts, splattering against England's apron. That's why he wore it; it would be a shame to let such perfectly good clothes be ruined. Then, with a wave of his hand, England used his magic to heal the cuts. Some of the scabs remained; those were the cuts that she had gained a long time ago, cuts that even sorcery couldn't remove. After the blood disappeared, England gave her two seconds to breathe before he resumed whipping her.
This time she managed to scream, and it was an earsplitting sound that made England shudder with delight. No, he wouldn't kill her yet, not as long as he could pull those shrieks from her. Then for the first time in weeks, she spoke, her voice barely a whimper. "Please…. Please stop." Her accent was familiar, yet alien. After all, he heard it every day from the frog. Only now it resonated with a woman's voice; it was prettier then. England merely chuckled. With his tension relieved, he left the famous Joan of Arc to feel the pain, and to know what it was like to truly suffer.
This is what I came up with as a sort of prologue to a story if Joan of Arc was still alive because of England's magic. I was thinking of adding to it, so if you think I should continue the story, please let me know.