The Execution (20 page)

Julianne reached to pull her own
stockings from her feet. She struggled with the feeling of sadness
that suddenly blanketed her heart. A heaviness weighed in her
stomach whenever she considered she might never see him
again.

“
I wish he was my suitor,”
the child giggled, flopping back on the bed.

Julianne’s mouth dropped open as she
watched her sister wriggle on the bed. She abandoned her own
troubled feelings, laughing and tickling Yvette. The little girl
shrieked with glee, slid off the bed and lay panting helpless on
the floor. Julianne slid off the bed to join her.

They lay side by side on the planks,
staring for a bit at the ceiling as the sun crept in golden red
ribbons across the beams. They looked at each other, wordless,
sharing something that only sisters can.

Finally, Julianne leaned over and
kissed Yvette on the forehead. She shuffled her into bed, tucking
her in with sheets only, because it was so hot. “Well, perhaps we
will keep this our secret. If we tell, it might go away,” Julianne
offered kindly.

Yvette nodded in total agreement and
smiled again. “Our secret, because he would be the perfect
suitor.”

The wisdom of a five year old lay
heavy on her heart later, when Julianne stole away to the wild
flower garden behind the cottage. The days were so much longer
lately. She wanted to be alone as the evening cooled, to think
things through. She was so confused, and this was very unlike
her.

Sitting on the bank of the creek, she
leaned against the old willow, watching the moon. A water wheel
slopped lazily, sending drinking in the south pasture. A favorite
volume of poetry dangled loose in her hand but remained closed.
There was no poem as sad or poignant as Julianne was at this
moment. It was so unfair that it should be this way.

As she and D’ata walked home the
evening before, after the horse had bolted—such a clever beast,
they had talked quite a bit. At other times they wandered along in
comfortable silence. It had been so perfect, so wonderful. Julianne
happily and cautiously thought of it as a day she would never
forget, knowing that to covet it would be to invite the wrath of
God.

The evening had seemed to pass so
swiftly. They’d wandered through the countryside and Julianne
recalled when they approached a fallen tree on the path to
Julianne’s home. It hadn’t really been all that tall, and she’d
hopped across it easily many times before, on the way to the
river.

D’ata had reached out instinctively to
catch her by the elbow to help her over it.

Ordinarily, she would disdain such a
gesture, but from him it just seemed—kind. Now, she absentmindedly
rubbed her elbow where he’d touched her. She closed her eyes,
sighed and allowed her mind to return to their walk
together.

While approaching Julianne’s home and
the end of their journey, D’ata hesitated, looking back down the
road from where they’d come.

Julianne paused and turned to see why
he stalled.

He turned back to her and gazed into
her eyes. “I must see you again,” he said suddenly. His hair was
tousled and he was so dark and enduring before her. His was beauty
of another kind, like a storm.

Julianne stepped close, peering up at
him. “You know that it would be ill-advised for us to see each
other again. They will disapprove.” She stayed close, unable to
step away.

“
It doesn’t matter. What
is meant to be is meant to be,” he whispered, his voice deep and
smoky.

She reached up as though she would
touch him but did not. “What is meant to be is not necessarily the
way of things.” She was so close to him that her lips practically
brushed the laces of his shirt lapels.

Julianne lifted her face to look into
the eyes of this stranger.

His eyes were closed, his chest rising
and falling, his lips parted. He was frozen.

She laid her palms against his chest
and he seemed to startle beneath them. The steady cadence of his
heart was strong, steadfast—right.

Time suspended and circled the two of
them, a dairy farmer’s daughter and unlikely priest. Then, without
warning, Julianne stood on tiptoe to let her lips brush against
his. It just seemed the right thing to do. She had read about
encounters like this, had snorted her derision at the cliché of it
all. Now, she questioned her lack of insight into what she’d
believed. ‘Could this be? Dare she even believe it to be true?’ she
wondered silently.

His eyes opened and he seemed to look
deeply into hers, as though into her heart. Then they kissed again.
This time neither pushed away and eternity was lost. The silent
eddy of their souls merged and swept between them. There was no
past, no future, no consequence. Time ceased and forever was this
moment. It was as if it had always been so and always would be.
They kissed deeply, spiritually and passionately—as one.

When they parted, there were tears in
Julianne’s eyes.

“
Oh—why do you cry, have I
hurt you? Is it because I—?”

“
Shh, no,” she
interrupted. “Oh, no. It’s just that…” She shook her hands, as
though she could shake away the wrong of it. “Don’t you see? This
is a mistake. This will cause such tribulation! Your family will
not allow this.” She stepped away from him, blinking tears away.
She refused to cry again, despite the horrible irony of it all.
“D’ata, I’m sorry; what was I thinking?”

“
Julianne, stop. Please,
don’t say that. I will speak to my father. You will see.” He
reached for her.

“
No!” She stepped away.
“No,” more gently, “you know as well as I what they expect. This
whole township knows you. All of Marseille knows you, has
expectations of you.” She tried to reason with him but had to look
away, torn at the injustice that was life and the look on his face.
There was no right or wrong. Things just were, and sometimes there
was no making it what you wanted it to be.

“
Besides, don’t you see?
You’re practically a priest as it is! God will be angry with us.”
It was painful to look at him, to see him stand before her with the
hurt in his eyes, as he listened to her words.

“
You have done nothing
wrong. Let me deal with God on my terms,” he spoke defiantly and
stepped towards her.

“
No! I mean...” She
sidestepped him, stalling. It would be so easy to believe him, to
disavow society, the rest of the world, and eternity. But she’d
lost her mother at the whim of fate, and so she believed she had an
insight beyond eternity. “Let’s give this time,” she diverted the
conversation, looking away. “I must get home now.” She turned to
continue down the path.

He caught her hand, “Promise
me.”

“
What?”

He appeared wounded, tormented,
“Promise me that you will not let life here on earth destroy this.
Promise me that you will see me again.” He spoke urgently as though
there was a great beyond, an escape, a door they must go through
before it would shut forever. D'ata held her hand firmly, waiting
for an answer

She hesitated, taking in his words,
feeling his strong hand around hers. She allowed her fingers to
lace into his. “You know I will,” she smiled sadly and shrugged,
glancing away, “at mass, if nowhere else.”

Now Julianne regretted her
words.

The moths disappeared, settling into
the grass as dusk fell. Her palms sweated with the warmth of the
evening and her memories. She leaned against the old willow tree,
digging her heels into the soft earth, watching the moon. It was
beautiful and sad, hanging there—a thumbnail crescent in the
eastern sky.

CHAPTER
FOURTEEN

†

The Dungeon: Eleven p.m.

D’ata suddenly stopped speaking and
looked out of the cell, squinting to try to see into the
darkness.

“
What is it?” Ravan
asked.

“
I don’t know—I thought I
just saw someone, out of the corner of my eye. I thought I heard a
voice. Someone there, down the hall.”

Ravan’s eyes narrowed as he also
looked away, down the hall. “It was probably just one of the other
prisoners, moving in the night.”

D’ata shifted, unsure and
uncomfortable, “Hmmm...I could have sworn I saw
someone.”

Ravan waved it away. “It’s probably
nothing. You’re just letting the accommodations get to you. In case
you haven’t noticed, we’re not exactly entertaining the King's
court.”

“
Maybe...” D’ata shrugged.
Satisfied it was nothing, he settled back in to the quiet exchange
he was having with his brother, while the book of their young lives
opened even more.

CHAPTER
FIFTEEN

†

Pierre Steele had immediately enlisted
his services to Duval. He was not a trained mercenary like the rest
of the men and had no serious potential either, but Duval was
content to get what work he could from him. Perhaps with Steele he
could buffer the losses he'd taken with the chase of the
boy.

Nearly a week had gone by at the Inn
and Duval decided that Ravan had healed enough to be transported.
He hadn't looked in on his prisoner, not even once since their
conversation, but guards were stationed at Ravan’s room and around
the Inn to prevent another attempt at escape.

It was a ridiculous gesture really.
Ravan could scarcely make it from his bed to the door. The guards
peeped through the doorjamb at intervals, curious of the gangly
youth who’s capture had demanded such resource of Duval. Ravan
ignored their stares, intent on recovery, strength—and
revenge.

Steele was driven entirely by rage, by
the disfigurement Ravan had vested upon him. The wound was hideous,
and Pierre was prone to proud flesh. The wound had already started
to calcify in his nasal passages, and he was increasingly forced to
breathe from his mouth, making his breathe putrid and his mouth
forever dry. The ragged red and purple suture line mended uneven,
stretching the surrounding skin in tented pockets, and it took on
more and more the effect of a freak as time went by.

It enraged him when he heard giggles
behind his back and no amount of fury appeared to stifle the
observations of women. He was a terribly vain man and, despite his
gross obesity and otherwise unattractiveness, he was convinced that
his new appearance made him considerably less appealing than he
otherwise should be.

Pierre vowed to finish his initial
intent with the boy. He fantasized about the rape, losing himself
in his self-gratification, masturbating violently. Naked images of
the boy coalesced in and out of his sordid mind, always culminating
in an orgasmic murder.

Duval’s men kept close notice and
reported the progress of the young captive. Ravan’s breathing
seemed one-sided still, as though he couldn’t catch his breath, and
the slightest effort winded him. The swollen left eye had shrunk
enough that he could finally see from it, the deep laceration over
it healing quickly. His right thigh, impaled through and through
during his fall, seemed to trouble him, but with great effort, he
was able to hobble about the room.

Pierre watched him with great
interest, planning his moment of revenge. It was becoming an
obsession for him. He reported to Duval that Ravan’s color was not
so ashen and that the fire in his eyes was beginning to burn
brightly once more. Steele was not sure what caused the fire to be
there, believing vainly that is was the boy’s fear of him that
caused it—that the boy sensed what his fate would be. Pierre did
not speak of this anyone. He only told Duval what he wanted him to
hear, that the boy could travel.

“
Then, we leave tomorrow,”
Duval announced.

Outside, the snow piled deep. Winter
woke up from its yawn and bellowed like a hungry bear upon Limoge.
Icicles hung frostily down in front of the windowpanes like prison
bars, ritualistically completing Ravan’s entrapment.

* * *

By keeping his clothes from him, Duval
made Ravan vulnerable. It was just another safeguard against him
trying to escape, a pathetic notion really. The boy hobbled about
the room with his bedclothes wrapped around him. Sometimes, he
leaned heavily against the windowpane, looking out at the birds
that flitted from bough to bough in the barren pecan trees, trying
to escape the winter’s torment. He absently slid the copper ring up
and down the silver chain, and it made a soft “whirr-whirr” sound.
Ravan was going nowhere.

He thought of the orphanage and
wondered how the Old One was managing. He thought of the other
children and wondered how they were negotiating the winter. They
had all been so kind to him and it warmed his heart. The
orphans—they were each in some way like him and he considered them
all, in a singular way, part of him...of the same cloth. When one
was hurt, it hurt him. When one was happy, it made him happy too.
He wondered if they thought of him, if they would know of his
circumstances—of what had happened. He frowned and hope they did
not, for it worried him that it would burden them. There would be
nothing worse than to shoulder even one of the orphans with more
worry or pain.