The Execution (17 page)

For a long moment, D'ata gazed into
the eyes of the old man, as though he finally appreciated the many
years of advice and kindness the old man had shared with him. It
was as though Henri had, for eternity, packaged a wonderful gift
that D’ata was just now opening.

“
I don’t know what to say;
your words mean so much to me.” D’ata knelt and laid a hand on the
bony knee of his old friend. “I truly respect and honor your
opinion. I don’t know what will happen—but I’m comforted that you
feel this way.”

Henri patted D’ata’s shoulder gently
with one gnarled hand and leaned forward enough to plant a gentle
kiss on top of the young man’s head.

D’ata looked away towards the mansion.
The lamps were still lit in the parlor. Standing, he kicked at the
straw floor, his fine riding boots dusty and scuffed from the long
hike home. “I must go—they wait for me.” He nodded at the house.
“Please don’t worry too much for me, I’ll be all right. Father will
just have to understand.” He forced a smile.

Henri nodded and the young man turned
and left the stables, striding purposefully towards the
mansion.

* * *

Monsieur Cezanne, the Baron of
Cezanne, was a man of business. His estate encompassed nearly
seventeen thousand acres. It had prospered and grown through
careful and shrewd practice. His personal life was no less shrewd.
He loved his wife. The Baroness Cezanne was the center of his
world, and his son was a shining example of the successes of his
life—at least until today.

The baby on the church steps had
completed their life, filled an empty slot. The event had taken
care of unfinished business. It was the final chapter and the
ending was already neatly written. Madame Cezanne had begged for
the child, tended much of the infant’s cares herself, and now the
Baron fumed. He dares disgrace his mother’s good name!

D’ata’s behavior at mass that morning
embarrassed him in front of the common people as well as his peers.
This was not to be tolerated. However, it also embarrassed Madame
Cezanne, which was an even greater indiscretion.

He’d lost his temper this morning,
striking his son in the library. Nevertheless, even the most
magnificent horses needed beating sometimes, so that they could
reach their potential. D’ata had appeared insolent, and insolence
was forbidden. There would be no disruption of the plans—no
changes. Order was to be maintained. D’ata was to follow and serve
the priesthood according to his parents’ wishes, and it was never
too late to salvage the situation.

Monsieur Cezanne heard Raphael open
the doors of the front foyer. He heard his son’s deepening voice
and heard the butler direct him to the library. A moment later, a
light knock on the library door and a disheveled young man stepped
in.

“
Father, I—”

“
Silence,” The Baron
gritted his teeth, controlling his temper. “You’ll speak when I
tell you to speak.”

Surprised, D’ata halted in
silence.

His father drew his eyes over his son
to make certain he was all right, noted the cracked lip and
significantly battered face. Quickly, he wondered whether he’d
injured his son in such a fashion, or whether the young man had
been in another altercation. The gelding he'd ridden earlier had
returned alone. It stood to reason that he may have been thrown, or
fallen from the animal. “Are you all right? Have you been
injured?”

“
Yes, Father, I mean
no—I’m fine. I lost the horse a distance from here. I didn’t
realize I’d gone so far; I’m sorry if you or Mother were
worried.”

“
As you should be, but you are safely
hom
e
—
no harm is done.
” Monsieur Cezanne relaxed a bit and gestured to a chair,
turning to find his own seat.

D’ata held his ground instead,
blurting out. “I have seen her again, Father—we need to
talk.”

There was a long, awful
silence.

“
You what? No! Don’t
answer that!” He stepped towards his son, but stopped. “Did I not
forbid you to speak to her again, much less consort with her?” His
father raged, suddenly and violently, but D’ata refused to
cave.

“
I didn’t go seeking to
find her Father!” D’ata objected. “I stumbled across her at the
river! It was as though God wanted us to speak.” He involuntarily
straightened and maintained a steady voice and eye.

“
And so you have spent the
day with her against my wishes!” His father said.

“
No, yes, I
mean—”

“
Silence! Now hear me,
D’ata. You will never see her again, nor will you leave the estate
unescorted.”

D’ata started to protest but his
father waved him to silence. “You will serve at another parish, the
parish of St. Aloysius at east St. Martin.”

D’ata immediately started to object,
but his father interrupted, continuing with his rant. “It has
already been arranged! Monsignor Leoceonne will escort you there
where you will board and serve as you advance your
training!”

“
No, father! You don’t
understand. I don’t want to leave!”

“
What?” His father
interrupted. “You presume to choose?” he was incredulous, “there is
no choice! You will do as I say, and do not argue with me, son, or
your kingdom will as quickly become your prison!” He snarled, a
gesture entirely unfamiliar to the young man.

“
I love her, Father! Just
as you love Mother!” D’ata stood his full height, defiant against
his father’s onslaught.

The Baron was every bit as tall, but
he outweighed him by a good fifty pounds, and now he faced his
young son. They stared at each other, five paces apart, their
breathing heavy.

After what
seemed like an eternity of seething silence, Monsieur Cezanne
answered through clenched teeth, “Well,
that
is
unfortunate.” There was a long, painful pause. “God will cleanse
these feelings and thoughts with time.”

“
God allowed me to feel
this way!” D’ata insisted, “It is a wonderful thing!”

“
No! Your disobedience has
allowed you to feel this way! You will see Father Leoceonne in the
morning and we will not discuss this further!” His voice boomed,
arm outstretched, pointing at his son.

D’ata tried to speak but Monsieur
Cezanne waved his son to silence. The Baron's expression appeared
so incensed that for a moment he looked as if he would strike him
again.

The two men looked as though they had
just boxed a round, sweating and breathing hard.

“
How can you do this,
Father?” the younger whispered. “How can you not hear what I am
saying to you?”

“
Be quiet! Leave me at
once—to your room, and prepare to be gone in the
morning!”

“
Nobody forbade you to
love Mother!” D’ata protested.

“
Silence! You invoke my
wrath, D’ata!”

“
Please, just listen,” his
son pleaded.

“
Go! If you argue with me
further, I will see that the girl is sent away.”

D’ata gasped in disbelief at his
father’s threat.

“
Don’t think I cannot or
will not! I do possess the power to be rid of her—now be gone from
me! We will speak again in the morning, before you leave.” He
turned from his son, a gesture that closed any further
communication.

The young man turned, leaving the
dreadful library behind him, and stomped past Raphael up the long,
spiraling staircase to his room.

* * *

Raphael crept quietly up the stairs.
He hesitated briefly, before tapping on D'ata's door.

“
Leave me alone! No!
Wait—stay, come in.” D’ata called, sounding agitated. He was
standing before the window in only his breeches as he peeled out of
his dusty shirt.

Raphael edged into the room, setting
the tepid tea on the end table next to D’ata’s bed. He'd never seen
the young master in such an agitated state.

“
What do you know of
love?” D’ata demanded, turning suddenly towards his
friend.

Raphael was stunned and fell silent,
his mouth open as though he’d been about to say something, but
nothing coming out.

D’ata shook his head, cutting the
sharpness of his words a bit. “Sit down, Raphael. I need to know
about love.” He pressed his palms over his eyes, rubbing the
weariness from them. “Have you ever loved someone?”

It was true; Raphael had a reputation
as a lover. D’ata remembered slipping away one night to the foot
butler’s quarters, listening intently at the grunts and groans
coming from within. He had seen the woman sneak in with Raphael.
D’ata had guilt about this later, but this was not what he now
begged to know. His question involved matters of the
heart.

“
I love her, Raphael.” He
stated as though the butler knew of whom he spoke. “I can’t bear to
be away from her.” His hands dropped to his sides and he stared at
the floor. “My father won’t even hear me.”

The butler hesitated, then sank into
the overstuffed chair that D’ata gestured toward.

Raphael and D’ata shared a warm and
close relationship. Growing up, D’ata had confided his most secret
concerns, wishes, and thoughts to his personal servant.

“
D’ata, your mother and
father—”

“
I don’t want to hear
about what my parents think. I already know where they stand.” He
pressed Raphael. “I want to know what you think about such things.
I know you are wise about matters like this.” He looked at Raphael
earnestly.

The slender man regarded his young
friend, closed his eyes and allowed a smile to temper his features.
“D’ata, there is no equivalent to the joy that true love will bring
you.” He opened his eyes and his expression became more serious,
almost sad. “And nothing will compare to the heartache.” He paused,
suddenly more somber and guarded, as though he must say what was
expected of him, “But the eternal love which God will bring you is
on a different plane, my young friend.”

“
But—why cannot I have
true love and God’s love as well?” D’ata leaned back against the
window’s pane, his arms folded across his bare chest. It was an
honest question and deserved an honest answer.

Rubbing his thumb back and forth
across his mustache thoughtfully before answering, Raphael asked,
“My feelings? Honestly?”

D’ata nodded. “In confidence, I beg
you...”

Raphael seemed to give this very
serious consideration. His normally dancing eyes were very somber,
and he finally shrugged, “You can—but, you also invoke pain and
heartache with your family, and hers, if you continue down this
path. It must be heartache you are willing to inflict.” He regarded
his young friend, tried to recall if he’d ever been willing to
sacrifice so much for the love of a woman. Raphael was a servant.
His dallyings with love were insignificant compared to what the
young master stood to lose. For the first time, it occurred to him
that perhaps D’ata’s preordained life might be a prison of sorts.
He gave this careful thought.

Raphael had loved the child, and now
he loved the young man as though he were a son. “You know it has
been many years of well-calculated planning by your parents that
has brought you to this station in your life. Some things are not
to be argued with, only accepted.” Rising from his chair, he
turned, gesturing with open hands.

“
And what would you do?”
D’ata’s face was emotionless, but his eyes targeted his friend, as
though searching for truth.

Raphael was taken with the expression
on the face of his friend, uncomfortable with the raw sincerity of
it. He had been D’ata’s personal servant for all of his young
years. They shared true friendship and unconditional trust, and he
knew the young man deserved the truth. “What can I say?” He
shrugged. “I am a butler.” He crossed the room and joined D’ata at
the window, leaning on his elbow against the exquisite Carrara
marble before he continued. “You already know what I would do—in a
heartbeat.” He fixed his friend with a steadfast gaze, “D’ata, I
would choose love, of course. But, then again? I would lose
nothing, for I am only the butler.”

“
And freer the butler than
the royal prince, it would appear,” D’ata murmured, turning back to
the lonely moon.

It hung beautiful and sad, a lovely
thumbnail crescent in the eastern sky.

CHAPTER
TWELVE

†

Ravan struggled to pull conscious
thought from the pool of unconsciousness that he seemed to be
immersed in. He was sinking—no, he was floating, and it was warm,
soft. Ahh, this was so much better.

The first sense to return was hearing.
Insects...specifically, bees, surrounded him.

He lie still, listening to the hum.
‘Curious—why were there bees in heaven? And why were they buzzing
so closely to him? Why weren’t they stinging him? It must be for
the honey—of course.’ A ghost of a smile caressed his sleeping
lips. How he loved the sweet, rare treat. A few seconds passed and
he drifted blissfully away again.