March 29, 2006
Fiction
Redemption
He came to her even in her cell, at her most desperate hour.
She drew back, startled. “I didn’t dare hope to see you. They all betrayed me. I thought even He had forsaken me.”
“His ways are mysterious, even to me,” Michael said. He reached out to her, his great wings folding around her, ever a comfort. “But I would never leave you, Jehanne.”
“I am afraid,” she said, and the archangel held her while she wept. Hard to believe that the bravest woman in the world, the savior of the French, could be reduced to such despair.
He had been with her since the beginning, along with the saints Caterine and Marguerite, when she was only a child. He had been her confidante, her advisor, her most trusted companion. It was Michael who relayed the messages that God had for her, Michael who translated them for human comprehension.
Now, huddled in a cold, damp cell in Rouen, having been turned over to the hated English by the Burgundians, threatened with rape, charged with heresy, and sentenced to burn, she asked,
“Is it His will that I am to die?”
Michael’s arms and wings tightened around her. His silence was her answer.
•
The archangel and the saints came to Jehanne d’Arc when she was twelve, telling her to be pious, go to Church, and, eventually, to help the Dauphin oust the invading Angleterre from French soil. By the time she was seventeen, she was leading an army, with Michael, the former commander of Heaven’s armies against Satan Himself, her chief counselor and advisor.
And companion of the flesh.
Jehanne never denied the nickname of La Pucelle, for in truth she had never bedded a man, and truly was a Maid. But that did not mean that she had never experienced pleasure; it did not mean that God, through Michael, had not shown her reward for her faith and her actions that pleased Him.
Since coming to the Dauphin, she had worn men’s clothing, not as a disguise, but as protection against men. The laces and points that tied together the woolen hosen and cote made it harder for someone to violate her. The benefits of making it easier to ride a horse and gaining a certain amount of respect from the troops were secondary, although no less appreciated.
The English called this heresy, the wearing of men’s clothes by a woman. Yet they still forced her to wear them, for when she wore women’s clothes in this military prison she fought off the guards again and again. She would have gladly donned a kirtle and cotehardie if they hadn’t denied her a proper detainment in a Church-run prison with nuns as her guards.
She was damned either way, in the eyes of the English, but her virginity was still intact.
•
The first time Michael had held her, she hadn’t been frightened. She felt only peace in his presence. An archangel was the hand of God, and even though Michael could be terrible in war, he was beautiful in peace. When he kissed her that first time she had trembled, not from fear but from a longing, a desire, that welled up from deep inside her, startling her with its intensity. Before then, she’d known only such a longing for God Himself, in her heart. This new longing sent heat licking across her flesh, hardened the tips of her small breasts beneath her linen shirt, and caused her very core to liquefy. Tentatively and then with more confidence she returned his kiss, welcoming his tongue into her mouth and tasting his sweet breath.
Michael could remove her clothing with just a look—no need for unlacing—and could replace them just as quickly. Sometimes Jehanne wasn’t sure if he were actually removing them or whether he was somehow slipping between them, sliding closer to her. Sometimes she didn’t truly know whether he touched her physical body or her soul, for how could her physical body be the source of such pleasure?
He caressed her not only with his hands but also with his wings. The feathers were softer than goose down yet as manipulative as his fingers. When one wingtip brushed against the bud beneath her legs, she cried out the name of God and found greater salvation than she had ever known.
•
Jehanne knew without having to ask that Michael would be with her until the end. Tonight, the night before her execution, she moved in his arms, leaving a trail of moist red bites across his chest. She knew he could heal them instantly, but it pleased them both if he let them stay, a physical reminder of their passion. Her hated clothes were gone. Feathers caressed her back like the silken sheets she’d enjoyed at the royal palace as his hands moved to her breasts. Her nipples tightened beneath his fingers, and she moaned her excitement. He suckled them as his wings gently slapped her bottom, a whip of downy steel.
“Yes, yes, yes,” she moaned in time with each spank, the pain mingling with the pleasure. Hands replaced wings and feathers slid all over her, igniting every inch of her skin until she was a single mass of desire. She was drifting in his arms and yet desperate for one final touch, the stroking that would bring her release.
He lifted her until she was at the height of his face and teased her nether lips apart with his tongue. She writhed in his embrace as he drank her juices, something he so enjoyed. When he finally slid across her aching clitoris, she tensed for an instant and then exploded, with only the archangel’s embrace to keep her from flying completely apart.
•
They thought Jehanne burned from the flames, screaming from the pain. But Michael took her beyond all of that. His touch burned her with ecstasy and her shrieks were of delight. He was everywhere: at her breasts, her bottom, the back of her neck, between her legs, teasingly drawing out the sensations, not yet letting her orgasm.
In the final moment, he entered her for the first time. Jehanne shuddered as she was finally one with him, and with God. And on the wings of rapture, they ascended to Heaven.
• • •
has published erotica in a variety of venues, and other under names has sold fantasy, science fiction, media tie-in, and romance stories. Cat Scratch Fever, her first novel (as Sophie Mouette, in collaboration with Teresa Noelle Robers), will be published by Virgin Books UK in March 2006. Her website will soon go live at www.cyvarwydd.com; in the meantime, you can check out her online journal at www.journalscape.com/dayle.
