Title: The Eve of Victory
Author: oosh@gmx.net
Keywords: FF,lesbian,transcendental

---

The Eve of Victory

by oosh@gmx.net
February 2002

"Blessed Lord! How you startled me!"

My sudden appearance had shocked her. "I am sorry... I was sent..." I did not 
know how to explain.

She stood, then, rubbing her wrists. I knew that she had been caged at one
time, attached by the neck, feet and hands, so that she could not even flex
those limbs; and for many months since, they had kept her heavily manacled.
But this was her last night, and now even her judges knew that she was
steadfastly resigned to her fate. Clearly, in the end she had won her
gaolers' grudging respect. Not only had the manacles gone: heavy upon her
shoulders, symbol of her last defiance of the bloody English, hung a coat of
mail - doubtless loaned by one of the guards. Too big for her by far, it drew
attention to the very smallness of her.

Yet this tiny poppet, this stocky, muscular little peasant girl had not only
terrorized the English usurpers by the devastating brilliance of her
generalship: she, an untaught, unlettered country maid, had endured months of
interrogation before sixty of their most cunning divines, answering without
fear, honestly, with cheerful, calm defiance, and had wavered once - only
once - under their relentless hectoring.

And if I marvelled to set eyes on her, it seemed that she, too, was consumed
with wonder. "You are... You are come from heaven. You must be."

"Why do you say that? We are all sent from heaven."

She frowned. "No... No... Not all."

"You speak of Cauchon?"

She tossed her head. "Ha! Cochon!" At that, I laughed; but she seemed
annoyed, and struck her palm with her fist. "I... I should not have said
that. That was wrong of me."

"His malice tempts you to sin. Yet, for all his present power, Cauchon is but
a slave to this world and its temptations. Even now, he stands at his desk,
chronicling in finest detail what he makes believe to be your witchcraft and
sorcery. Though he seek to justify himself before king, synod, pope and
council, in the end his own words shall suffice to condemn him."

"I do not care what their judgment will be. Saint Catherine has told me
already what will become of him, and those who have joined hands with him."
So saying, she shuddered, remembering. "I no longer fear for myself, but for
them."

"As in the next world, so in this: history will condemn them, and vindicate 
you."

Her brow darkened. "I have told you - I care nothing for the judgment of this
world."

"Nothing? Then what do you care for?"

"I have but three desires: first, my own deliverance; then, that God should
further my work; and finally, the salvation of my soul." For all her tiny
stature, she stood so obdurately there in her heavy coat of mail, legs
braced, fists clenched as if ready to fight any who would question her; and
yet she seemed afraid to look at me.

"Then, Maid, touching your first desire: do you yet understand the manner of 
your own deliverance?"

For a moment she was silent; then, her arms parted and her hands opened in an 
expressive shrug. "My voices have told me... but they are difficult to 
understand."

"And what did they tell you?"

"That my soul shall be delivered..." she looked down, and spoke in a whisper. 
"...but that my body shall not."

"Is that all they told you?"

"No. They tell me that I need have no fear. Again and again they say that. 
They tell me to trust in God."

"And do you trust?"

Again, the fists. "Let all men be liars - God alone is true!" She looked at 
me, then, piercingly, and I saw it in her eyes.

"Maid, you answer well. Though there will yet be a little pain, you will not 
suffer as you did from that arrow at Orléans -"

"That was nothing! Why, I scarcely felt it!"

"- or at Paris - nor even after that leap at Beaurevoir."

"I..." She made to interrupt, but I silenced her with a gesture.

"There will not even be the pain that Isabelle your mother suffered when she
gave you birth. And out of her love for you, she would gladly suffer that pain
ten times over."

She shook her head slowly, her eyes downcast. "But... how do you know this?"

"And now, touching your second desire - that God may aid the French: know that 
the flames that will be lit tomorrow in the market square shall burn in every 
Frenchman's heart until the English are utterly driven out of France."

She laughed then, and clapped her hands. "I know it! God has told me!" Again 
she looked at me, and again I perceived the inner light.

"But more, much more than that," I continued: "the fire that is lit tomorrow
will burn throughout all the world, and will never be extinguished."

"Throughout the world? I do not see..."

"What woman soever hears of your deeds, or learns of your courage, be she
young or old, be she French or - yes - even English - in her breast that fire 
shall blaze anew, and every one shall be proud to call herself Woman, after 
you."

She bowed, humbled at these words. "But I have failed. I have stumbled many 
times..."

"Then, you bring us to your third desire - the salvation of your soul. Yes,
you have stumbled. You stumbled at Beaurevoir, and again on Thursday last."

"Then, most especially. I... I was afraid of the fire. I damned myself to
save my life. But that was a wrong that I can undo... and tomorrow I shall."

"Our Blessed Lord, who knows all, knows very well how heavy is the cross you
bear for him - and for France. Do not forget: he himself stumbled three times
on the road to Golgotha."

"And at the last, he had Simon of Cyrene to help him."

"That is why I am here. You have not been abandoned. Recall how many times you 
have begged your captors for a woman to be your companion."

"Then it is they who have sent you here?" A third time she looked at me,
mistrustfully at first, and then I saw the inner light return. "No, that 
cannot be," she murmured, looking into my eyes as I gazed into hers. "You do 
not speak as if you come from them. And you are beautiful."

Then, I knelt before her; and, taking the hem of her coat of mail, kissed it. 
"My beauty I owe to you, Jeanne."

She stepped back. "Why do you do that?"

"Tomorrow, this coat of mail will be torn asunder, and every piece torn into a 
dozen more; and every fragment shall be accounted a precious relic, to be 
kissed and kissed again by the loyal sons and daughters of France."

"How shall this be?"

"Simply because you have worn it, Jeanne. But now it is time to set it aside:
for it is in a woman's dress that you must fight your last battle - and
tonight, you shall lie with me."

At these words, I saw a new light dawn in her eyes: the light of tenderness.

"Who are you? What is your name?"

"As to who I am, that I cannot tell you yet: not until I have kissed you
three times. And when you know who I truly am, then you and I must part. As
to my name: to those who love me, I am known as Marianne."

"Marianne..." she said it wonderingly, her eyes glowing now with desire. 
"Marianne..."

"It is late: we must go to bed. Undress me."

As she did so, her breathing quickened. "You are not like Saint Catherine - 
nor Saint Margaret."

"No. You have touched them spiritually: but you know that they are not of
this world. They are no more of this world than Saint Michael and the holy
angels."

She nodded. She had bared my arm by now, and could not forbear to caress it.
"But you... you are of this world?"

"I am."

"But if you are of this world... I do not see. How can such beauty be of this 
world?"

"You are of this world; and my beauty comes from you, Jeanne."

"From me..." She breathed the words, touching my breast tenderly. "I do not 
understand, but..." I was naked now, and she stepped back, speechless.

I could see that for the time being, her curiosity had given way to desire.

"Now you, Jeanne. You and I together."

"Yes, yes..." she seemed crestfallen. "But I am not worthy..."

In the end, I helped her put off her coat of mail and her clumsy prison
clothes, calming her with soft words as I did so. And then I looked at her.
Pale after this long confinement, and thin after nine months of nothing but
the bread of sorrow and the water of affliction, yet she was still strong,
and she was fair. "You are but nineteen," I said. "You are like a lily."

She smiled shyly. "The fleur-de-lys."

"The flower of France. Come - come to bed." I lay on her rough bed, and
beckoned her to me.

She crept into my arms like a child. At first she shivered, even though the
night was warm; but gradually, as I caressed her, she calmed and lay still.
And then she whispered, "You are lovely, Marianne. May I touch you?"

"Tonight, through God's mercy, I am yours."

Cautiously at first, and then with ever greater passion, she began to explore
my body; until, at length, transported by her passion, she began kissing my
breasts. Nor were my hands idle: but as her passion mounted, I pushed her
gently away.

"Oh," she moaned breathlessly, "I am sorry: these past months, I have known
no gentle touch - no tenderness. How I have longed and prayed for such a
night as this! Blessed be the Almighty One, to have heard and answered me! O
Marianne, you must forgive me if I have offended you."

"I am not offended, dear Jeanne. But it is not fitting that you worship
me: it is for me to worship you."

She smiled, then, a sweet, lazy smile that warmed my heart; and with a little 
of that coquettish impudence that had so infuriated Cauchon, she cocked her 
head and said, "So you were sent to kiss me? Kiss me, then."

I laughed soft and low. "You do not yet know what it is that you ask. For I 
was sent to give no ordinary kiss."

"Oh?" she teased me. "Show me, then."

"I am to kiss you in such a way..." I teased her with my fingers, and she 
wriggled in delight.

"In what way?"

"...in such a way that your soul will take leave of your body."

Her dark eyes glowed their invitation.

Slowly, teasingly, I brought my lips to hers. And then I began to kiss. She
stiffened at first; but then she yielded to me - and O! how sweet her
acquiescence! Quiet at first, she soon began to moan into my mouth,
and I felt the first pressure of her hips as they strove against me. Then,
breaking our lips apart, but not abandoning the kiss, I guided my tongue
across her chin and down to her throat. Her fingers were in my hair,
kneading, stroking, imploring me to continue as she offered herself to me
without any reservation; and so I continued my journey down, down to her
breast. The tightening of her fingers in my hair told me how welcome I was,
and how earnestly she desired me to dally there.

"O Marianne, Marianne... Never have I known such a kiss! It is a foretaste of 
heaven... Yes, yes, on and on, I beg you!" - and with suchlike words, and 
hearty groans, she encouraged me as I took all of her into my mouth, and with 
my tongue hugged her warm, resilient teat repeatedly against my palate. 
Gradually her moans became deeper, seemingly wrenched from deep inside her, 
and it was not so very long before she stiffened in my arms, her fingers like 
talons, crushing me to her; and then, at length, with a long drawn-out sigh, 
she sank back upon the bed, exhausted.

I brought myself up to face her, so that our breasts touched; and while she
dozed, I gently brushed her cheek with tender caresses, and she rewarded me
with a smile of such childlike sweetness that my heart burned with love for
her.

After a while, she opened her eyes, and for a long time regarded me, saying 
nothing, but content merely to memorize my features, and look deep into my 
eyes. When at last she spoke, her voice was normal, even a little imperious.

"Marianne: who are you?"

"Do you not know me by my kiss?"

She blinked, and shook her head. "Tell me, Marianne."

"I have not yet kissed you thrice, Jeanne, and until I have, I may not tell
you plainly. But I shall tell you this: I am your heart's desire, and I have
come to you."

At these words, her eyes filled with tears, and she held me tight to her, 
seemingly with all her strength. For a while, her shoulders shook, and I felt 
her tears upon my breasts. But then, slowly, and with gathering passion, she 
began to kiss, until again I gently pushed her away. "No, sweet maid, it is 
not for you to worship me. Before this night is out, your spirit shall leave 
your body three times. And this is to prepare you for tomorrow."

I began to touch her then, until I felt her natural ardour grow, and she
began to call out my name, and beg me to kiss her again. Then, I took her
breast in my mouth once more, and thence began to kiss down the valley and
across to its long-neglected twin. This one I long beseiged with my tongue,
while she whimpered in soft delight. For many minutes I beset her
milk-white castle mound, circling the proud citadel of her nipple, until at
last, almost weeping in the intensity of her desire, she cried: "Dear
Marianne! Take all of me, I beg you! All!"

Perhaps this breast was more sensitive than its twin; or perhaps her previous
release had left her more receptive to my touch. In any event, this time even
the gentlest tickling of my tongue upon her tender pinnacle elicited a
torrent of endearments, and the writhing of her fingers in my hair. So
sensitive was she, and so gentle I, that we passed a good part of the night
like this, she never tiring of the ever-varied play of my tongue, now
circling, now flicking, now broadly lapping, now teasing with the lightest
touch of tongue-tip.

Several times I felt her stiffen; but then I was gentle with her, and
caressed her with my palms, to soothe her. When she was calm, she would
whisper to me - sometimes soft endearments, and sometimes wisps of disordered
thought: "I never knew... All this time, I never knew... Is this what a
mother feels, Marianne? Can it be as sweet as this?" But then, I would teach
her with my lips and tongue the silent lay of my love, and her questions
would falter, until all she she could do was moan my name, over and over.

But at length, I brought her up and up: and as I did, she began crying "More!
Yes, like that!" and her hands, which had been playing softly over my
shoulders and my neck, became talons in my hair once more, and in her
extremity she drove herself against me, before collapsing again in limp
satisfaction.

A second time I drew myself up, and cradled her in my arms, where she lay 
warm, and a little sweaty. She was already kissing me before she opened her 
eyes, but when she did, she drew away a little.

"O Marianne... is this heaven, what you have shown me?"

"If being loved is heaven, then yes, sweet Maid, heaven it is. But compared to 
the love of the holy angels and saints, and of our blessed Saviour, it is 
nothing. It is but a foretaste of the rapture that awaits you when you are 
welcomed into paradise."

She wept, then, but smiled as she wept. "How can you be so sure? And is it 
right to suckle another woman thus, as if you were a grown-up child?"

"How can it not be right, if what we show is love? Nevertheless, is it not 
fitting, that a mother should suckle her own daughter?"

She drew back a little at those words, and seemed a little afraid. "Why, what 
are you saying?" Her eyes narrowed as she spoke. "Who are you, Marianne?"

"After nine months in this confinement, a confinement you have suffered for my 
sake, do you still not know who I am?"

She shook her head. "Tell me, Marianne."

"I have kissed you but twice, Jeanne, and therefore can I not yet say
plainly. But I will tell you this: I am your own daughter, your firstborn,
and I have come to you."

At these words, she wept greatly, and held me exceedingly tight. "I do not
know," she sobbed, "I do not know how this can be."

"One last kiss, blessed Maid, and you shall understand. For upon your body,
there are three citadels, that only love may conquer. So far, I have
conquered only this -" and here, I touched the one nipple - "and this. But
there is a third citadel that I must conquer, and that shall be the sweetest
kiss of all."

For a moment, she lay still; but then, to my amazement, she began to laugh.
At first, her laughter was silent; and then it became high, and silvery, yet
at the same time mingled with tears. When, at length, she quietened, she
spoke as follows: "What nonsense is this? These citadels of which you speak,
are but two. And yes, I would that you would kiss them more, for they are
lofty enough with all your kissing and fondling."

Then I drew myself up, and retired to the foot of the bed, and gestured that 
she should part her thighs.

"What?" She drew herself up, then, to face me. "You would take my virginity? 
But that is not possible for you, a woman. Besides, I have sworn, and I would 
never..."

I gestured for her to hold her peace. "Maid you are, and Maid you shall 
remain. Do you truly think that in giving honour to the virgin loins from 
which I spring, I should dishonour them, and so dishonour myself?"

Reluctantly, warily, she opened herself; and I, with gentlest touches, soothed 
her as I approached her inmost shrine.

"There is no citadel there," she scoffed at me, groaning when I caressed her,
"You have mistaken my sex, I fear."

"Oh no, Maid," I reassured her, "It is there, if you would but look, and full 
ready it is for my kiss."

"Is that it? That thing? What is it? You would not kiss me there? - That is 
where... - Oh! O Lord in Heaven!"

The last, because I had already begun this, my third and final kiss. And such
was her tumult, as I worshipped her there, that I feared that the guards
would come a-running - or perhaps not, but merely assume that their gentle
masters were putting her to the torture. Nevertheless, I interrupted my kiss
and besought her:

"Sweet Maid: you will see there, beside the bed, my chemise, lying where it
fell. Take it and make a knot of it, and bite down thereon, lest your cries
bring the men a-running in on us!"

"But I made no sound - did I, Marianne?"

"Jeanne... Dear Jeanne..." I looked into her eyes, molten with desire, and 
loved her all the more. "When your spirit departs your body, you know not what 
tumult it makes, nor what cries you utter. Do it, I pray."

With a little sigh, she complied, and I resumed my gentle conquest. How often 
she surrendered, and received the great blessing, I do not know; but time and 
again, in her extremity she strove against me with all her womanly might, and 
it became indeed a sort of battle between us, in which I had to exert all my 
strength in order to transport her utterly. And at last, as the faintest light 
began to steal through the tiny window-slot, she spoke thus:

"O Marianne, Marianne, no more, I beg you! I am empty now. Such excess of 
sweetness leaves me empty, and I am quite, quite drained."

At that, I took my leave of her sweet loins, and lay once more beside her, and 
let her doze awhile on my breast, while I petted her and soothed her with my 
caresses.

"O Marianne, Marianne, who are you, that you love me thus? Will you not tell
me now who you are?"

"Do you still not know? Smell me, Jeanne. What do you smell?"

"I smell... the smell of soil; of grass, and green leaves." She shook her
head and blinked. "I do not understand. Come: you have kissed me three times.
Now I must know."

"Then I shall tell you. But first, dear mother, pray let me look into your 
eyes one last time."

"And why must you call me 'mother'?"

"Hush, and let me look, and see what I can read therein..."

I looked, and I saw what I had longed to see. "In your eyes, I see a vision."

"Yes?" She was suddenly eager, as if her strength were flowing back. "What is 
it that you see?"

"I see you crowned... soon, this very day..."

"Yes?"

"Not with one crown, but two."

"Two crowns? Tell me of them!"

"The first crown is magnificent - more magnificent than even Saint
Catherine's or Saint Margaret's - and that crown you shall receive from our
blessed Lord and Saviour himself. It is the martyr's crown."

"Praise God! - And the second?"

"The second is a crown that girds the world about. Set therein is but one
jewel, just one. As the world turns, so turns this crown: and this is your 
earthly crown, the gift of sinful mankind."

"An earthly crown?"

"That is so. And on the thirtieth day of May..."

"The thirtieth? But... but that is today, is it not?"

"Just so. - On this day each year, that one jewel shall catch the sun's
rays, and rekindle your flame anew. And so henceforth, this day shall be your
day upon the earth, until the world shall be no more."

She clutched me then, her eyes blazing. "How do you know these things? Who are 
you, Marianne?"

"I have kissed you three times. Now I may tell you plain. And when you 
understand, you and I must part."

"For a time?"

"Yes, for a time."

She shook me, almost hurting me. "Then tell! Who are you?"

I would fain kiss her again; but that was not permitted.

"I have already told you, but then you did not understand: now you shall.

"I am your daughter, your one true daughter;
"I am your heart's desire, the jewel of your hope;
"I am your Nation, proud and free;
"I am Liberty -
"I am France."

===

Historical Note:

Joan of Arc, the Maid of Orléans, was born at Domrémy in about 1412. Jeanne
la Pucelle, "Joan the Maid", was an illiterate and highly intelligent peasant
girl from Champagne. The dauphin Charles of France was at war with the
combined forces of England and Burgundy, and from about the age of thirteen
Joan experienced inward promptings, her "voices", urging her to save France
from the aggressors. In 1429 she obtained an audience with Charles, whom she
won over; after a searching examination by churchmen, she was provided with a
suit of armour and a staff of attendants. She took charge of the French army,
which ten days later routed the English besieging Orléans. This was followed
by another victory at Patay; Troyes surrendered; and Joan persuaded the
dauphin to be crowned at Rheims, as King Charles VII. The effect of this
triumph of Joan's moral leadership was tremendous; but the French did not
press home their advantage, so in 1430 Joan went off on her own to relieve
the beleagured town of Compiègne. There the Burgundians captured her, and
sold her to the English. King Charles left her to her fate.

After nine months of brutal confinement, Joan was arraigned before the
ecclesiastical court of the bishop of Beauvais, Pierre Cauchon, on charges of
witchcraft and heresy. ("Cochon", which sounds rather like "Cauchon", means
"pig".) During fifteen sessions she stood up to her learned accusers
fearlessly and good-humouredly, with native shrewdness, always refusing to
betray her conscience or her heavenly "voices". She was found guilty, and the
University of Paris confirmed the verdict. For a short time Joan wavered
before imminent and hideous death, but then stood firm again. She was handed
over to the civil authorities and burned in the market-place of Rouen on 30
May, 1431. She was not yet twenty years old.

What of Joan's sexuality? The ecclesiastics who condemned her were clearly
perturbed by her insistence on wearing men's clothing and the masculine cut
of her hair. They questioned her repeatedly on the subject. Joan's responses
make it clear that for her, it was a matter of conscience: her voices told
her that for the moment, this is how she was to present herself. There is no
evidence that Joan was at all uncomfortable with her sexual identity as a
woman. Early in her teens, she consecrated herself to perpetual virginity.
Contemporary accounts state that she would, if possible, sleep with a woman
rather than with a man, but if with the latter, she would insist on remaining
fully clothed. In her time, women slept together as a matter of course, and
Joan felt no embarrassment in asking her captors to provide her with a female
cell-mate. At that time, there was no concept of Lesbianism as a life-style,
and if women touched one another whilst in bed together, contemporary
theologians and historians alike regarded it as of no account. Indeed, Joan's
preference for a female bed-mate was cited as evidence of her chastity.

Saint Joan of Arc was convicted by an ecclesiastical tribunal which
unscrupulously served the political designs of its English masters. To
strengthen his own position King Charles VII twice took steps to have the
verdict set aside; but it was Pope Callistus III who appointed a commission
which in 1456 declared the condemnation to have been obtained by fraud and
deceit, and fully rehabilitated the memory of its victim. Four and a half
centuries later, in 1920, Joan was canonized. Her feast day is 30 May.

During the French Revolution (1789-1792), the idea of a woman representing
the Republic became popular, but it wasn't until the Second Empire, some 60
years later, that she was named Marianne. "Marianne" was originally the name
of a secret society which struggled against the regime, and became famous
after participating in the revolt of the slate workers of Trelage, near
Angers. These pro-republican citizens represented "Marianne," a common French
name, as the proud woman leader, defying her enemy. After the fall of the
Second Empire in 1852, the Third Republic kept Marianne as the symbol of the
proud, strong France.

===

[This story won the ASSTR Silver Clitorides Award for the best story of
February 2002.]