The Execution (50 page)

She nodded solemnly, her decision
immediate. Withdrawing the dagger from her chest, she allowed it to
slip from her hand. It dropped with a soft thud to the ground.
There were hushed murmurs in the crowd, most likely whispers of
remorse for the sentencing of the ethereal beauty before
them.

Ravan protested, “Nicolette, no! You
can’t! I will go with him, but please—just don’t...”

Without acknowledging him, she turned
away, rejecting his pleas. She walked over to the stallion,
gathered its reins and mounted Ravan’s horse. It tossed its
magnificent head and then, as though it knew the tide of the
universe had changed, it yielded and obeyed her, leaving its old
master behind. As she turned and moved away, Nicolette never looked
back. The horse walked obediently on and they disappeared down the
trail.

* * *

The wedding was extraordinary. Spring
came unusually early, and the trees were dressed in magnificent
lime green, the color that new foliage wears in celebration. The
birds were courting and tussling for nesting spaces, and the town
was alive with anticipation of the extraordinary event.

No expense was spared for the ceremony
of this unlikely pair. There was reason for festivity; the town had
grown attached to the strange and lovely woman who walked so
quietly amongst them, and they welcomed any match for the tyrant
that was Adorno. Many believed the unity would calm Adorno, soften
his hand upon the afflicted, temper his rage, and spare their
daughters.

It was a beautiful day and Nicolette
was barely showing with child as she and Adorno followed tradition,
promising their souls and lives to each other on the front steps of
the church. They stood together and spoke their vows and the
sacrament of marriage, softly giving consent.

Adorno was in his most resplendent,
white satin with a robe entirely of white ermine. It was a creature
that symbolized purity, humility, and commitment. The decadence of
an entire robe of such was unheard of, even amongst
Kings.

Their will was given and accepted, one
to the other. They answered the matrimonial questions in turn, as
the priest droned. After they confirmed their consent to one
another, they entered the church for the wedding mass and
communion.

Within the lovely little cathedral
that stood inside the confines of the castle walls, their family
and only a few nobility and servants gathered to share in the mass.
Nicolette’s mother sobbed softly as her daughter was given to the
tyrant. Her father hugged her mother, and all present pretended
they were tears of joy.

There were no friends present. The
closest friend one could figure was Moulin. He stood guard at the
door, as was expected, and grieved the wedding of the fragile
beauty for whom he’d fallen so deeply. His armor shown brilliantly.
He’d polished it to perfection late into the night, out of respect
for the sacrifice Nicolette made. Now, he watched the couple as
they knelt in the sanctuary.

His mind wandered and he imagined the
flight the mercenary had taken her on. He speculated about the many
nights they'd spent together in their magnificent exodus, the
horrible things Nicolette must have seen. He wondered about the
demise of Ravan, how he’d met his death. No one spoke of it; Adorno
forbid even mention of the name.

Strangely, Nicolette seemed unchanged
at all—she was the same bewildering beauty who was swept away
months ago. Only, her belly swelled with child, and Moulin was
certain that it must belong to the mercenary.

It was as though nothing had happened
at all. This confused Moulin, and he looked up from his silent
thoughts to see her. It stopped his breath and stilled his heart.
Moulin would have given anything to have a bride such as
this.

Nicolette was as motionless as stone,
exquisite in the midnight blue, satin wedding gown. Her skin almost
seemed to glow beneath her veil as a single sunbeam cast down on
her. She knelt upon the alter steps in the front of the sanctuary.
Her hair was pulled back, covered by an exquisite embroidered
henin, woven with jewels, the veil shrouding her face and back. The
words that came from her lips sounded peculiar, incompatible with
the nature of the joyous event, and they echoed hollowly in the
mostly vacant sanctuary.

Outside the walls of the estate
grounds, bells rang in the township and people rejoiced. There were
few excuses and little reason to ever celebrate under the rule of
the tyrant, Adorno. And so this particular celebration lasted late
into the unusually warm, spring night. Kegs were tapped, goats and
pigs roasted. The feasting and revelry continued around the blazing
of bonfires through to the dawn.

When the wedded couple eventually
retired from the castle celebration, Nicolette walked placidly in
front of her husband to her chamber door. Adorno staggered drunk
behind her and engaged Moulin as they neared. Nicolette stepped
into the chambers, but Adorno hesitated and slurred to Moulin.
“Guard this door and listen closely if you wish!” He gestured with
a goblet of champagne, masturbating himself and sloshing the drink
almost entirely over the pikeman. He barely caught himself on the
door jamb before lurching away, slamming the massive door behind
himself.

* * *

Inside, Nicolette looked over her
shoulder as she slipped immediately from her bridal gowns. They
rustled as they fell to the floor and she stepped carelessly onto
them, crushing the beautiful satin, the pearls marred against the
cruel stone floor. She stood before Adorno in their wedding
chamber, naked and gleaming, as ivory white as a winter
moon.

“
Come to me, my love,” she
murmured and backed slowly towards the bed. She sat and stretched
out on the silk coverlet, inviting him to join her there. Her skin
shone iridescent as she spread her legs, enticing him.

She had forbid his advances since
their return, told him that she would renege on her promise to wed
should he touch her at all before their wedding night.

Maidens had consequently suffered at
the hands of Adorno because of this promise but true to his word he
did not touch her, and it made him want her even more. When her
belly swelled ever so slightly with child, no mention was made of
it. Adorno convinced himself that the mercenary had abducted and
raped her, and he intended to abort the bastard child after they
were legitimately wed.

He swayed, determined to have her at
once, and tossed the silver goblet aside. It landed with a clank
onto the granite tile, bent now, and imperfect. He reveled in his
capture; Nicolette was finally his—forever. His excitement mounted
as he loosened his trousers and advanced on her, grasping his
penis, coaxing it to life. He mounted her quickly and awkwardly,
sprawling on top of her.

Adorno never felt the silver dagger as
it slipped between his shoulder blades. The alarm of his own body
telling him that he had been betrayed was what he knew first. He
startled, placing his hands against the bed on either side of her.
He tried to push himself up from her, but Nicolette held fast with
both hands around him, fixed upon the handle of the
blade.

Their eyes were but inches apart. She
looked without emotion at the surprise in his, clutched him
tightly, holding him on top of her, even as he struggled. She
grimaced, twisted the blade more, and held firmly, even pulling him
deeper into her. She smiled almost sweetly, curious at the
expression on his face. Saliva drooled from his mouth onto her
cheek and still she held strong, giving one final thrust with the
blade.

As he weakened, Nicolette pulled the
dagger from her husband. She eased him from her gently, almost
lovingly, so that he lie face up and neat on their wedding bed. She
tossed the bloodied weapon onto the coverlet beside him.

He looked so comfortable, so
serene—except for the terrible horror in his eyes. He tried to talk
but only gurgled and choked, spraying bloody spittle into the air
so that it sprayed back onto his skin with a peppering of red.
Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth and ran in a small river
down his cheek and behind his neck.

She leaned close, straightening his
pillow. “What is that? What? Nothing to say?” she whispered softly
into his ear as he agonized in his final death throes. Then, her
voice turned cold and hollow. “Know this, Adorno. That it is
Nicolette who shed your wickedness from this world. All whom you
have hurt are now vindicated and I will raise my child without you.
This kingdom will once more know a kind hand, and your lineage will
be no more.”

His eyes followed her as she rose and
went to her closet. She ignored him as she reached, taking from the
wardrobe a robe, and wrapping herself warmly in it. She reached for
the decanter on top of the dresser and poured a draft of brandy for
herself before she turned to look at her husband. As his eyes
flitted and started to close, she remarked, “Yes, look at me as
long as you can, for I am the witch who has murdered you, and all
are now free of you.”

As Adorno’s eyes closed for the last
time, she walked out onto the balcony, to sit for a while and watch
the stars slide across the eastern sky. Tomorrow morning, she would
watch the sun rise on a new kingdom, and she was fine with
that.

After some time, she came in from the
balcony and went to her chamber door, pulling the massive ring
until the clasp eased and the door creaked open.

* * *

Moulin was still at guard and seemed
genuinely surprised to see Nicolette standing in front of him. In
his mind, he'd already played over the events in the bedroom parlor
and none of them resulted in her standing before him as she now
was.

He swallowed thickly, confused and, as
always, overwhelmed by Nicolette in a way that he could not
explain. He’d been uneasy about their wedding night, about what
might be transpiring from within, having seen the swell of
Nicolette’s belly. He grieved her betrothal to Adorno and tried to
wipe from his mind the images of past episodes in Adorno’s
chambers, when Nicolette had needed set loose from her bonds.
Strangely, though, even then she had never really seemed
captured.

She stared blankly up at her guard for
a second before speaking. “Someone has killed my husband,” she said
flatly. It wasn’t a lie, it was the truth, and she said no
more.

“
What?” Moulin was
stunned. For a moment he thought he’d misheard her. He looked down
at the frail beauty before him and saw the dried blood on her
hands.

“
My husband is dead,
someone has killed him.” She gestured inside, toward the
bed.

Taking her arms and moving her gently
aside, Moulin threw open the chamber door and rushed to the bedside
of his lord. There was Adorno, eyes staring blankly, blackened maw
open in a silent scream as though he'd some terrible story to tell,
but just couldn’t muster it.

Moulin didn’t try to rouse his master;
the significant pool of coagulated blood on the coverlet was proof
enough that it would have been futile. He looked over at
Nicolette.

There she stood, hands clasped
casually in front of her, looking placidly down at her husband from
the foot of the massive four-poster. “See...” was all she
said.

“
Mmm—hmmm.” Moulin's
stunned gaze swung from the Nicolette to the corpse and
back.

“
Well, and what do you
propose we should say about this,” she pushed Moulin
gently.

He looked again, at the ghastly
expression on the face of his lord and couldn’t help himself.
Pulling the throw from the bedside chair, he tossed it over Adorno,
obscuring the awful face. It was bizarre how rapidly the tyrant no
longer resembled a man. He had become some horrid abnormality, some
twisted and contorted freak.

The whole scenario was grossly
obscene, Adorno deformed upon the bed, and his mistress covered in
blood. Moulin looked quickly back at Nicolette as though for
guidance.

She remained silent with only a queer
and calm expression on her face.

Moulin finally spoke, “It is terribly
unfortunate—sad,” he swallowed thickly, “to have happened on your
wedding night.” He gestured slightly for emphasis, still in shock
and awe.

She only peered at him,
waiting.

He cleared his throat before
continuing, “You must be devastated; I must call the constable. The
township will surely come to your defense and support in such a
difficult time as this.”

“
Do not call the
constable. I can govern quite well during this...transition, so to
speak.” She faced her sentry directly, studied him thoroughly, and
said, “Assemble my knights first thing tomorrow and—thank you.”
Then, almost as an afterthought she added, “I was hoping that
compassion and wisdom would persevere during these terrible
circumstances. The townspeople are surely going to be shocked and
traumatized by the news, as I most certainly will be—as
well.”

“
Most certainly,” he
agreed.

“
I believe assistance is
in order; I will need help. Perhaps we might assemble my advisors
late tomorrow afternoon, after the initial outrage of the incident
has passed.”