The Execution (14 page)

Suddenly, Ravan came to his senses,
and his instincts took over, as they always did. He tossed the
window sash up, paused, turning back towards her. “I will come
back. I will never forget, this I promise.” He reached out,
touching her hand, and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. “I
remember my mother sometimes. I think she was kind—like you have
been.”

The barking of dogs and commotion drew
them apart. She breathed in a quiet sob.

The young man grabbed his coat,
flipped open the sash, and crawled out the window to slide down the
skirting to the second level. From there the boy leapt from the
roof, tumbling with a grunt into the new skiff of snow, and
scampered to the edge of the woods.

CHAPTER EIGHT

†

The Dungeon: Ten p.m.

D’ata sat quietly, captivated by the
story Ravan told. There were two things that critically captured
him about it. First, he could hardly imagine the heartache and
stress a child would have endured at such events as Ravan just
described. His own childhood had been so privileged, so protected.
But, more sincerely, D’ata heard for the first time that his true
mother was dead. He’d hardly hazarded to think about her, the
biological origin or himself, and could not recall having ever
considered her welfare. Now, to hear Raven speak of her was
heartbreaking—his love for her, from the very center of his being,
and her sorrowful death. It did something to D’ata that was
profound and sincerely real.

“
So, did you bed her?”
Ravan said abruptly, surprising him quite a bit.

D’ata’s mouth dropped open and he
leaned back so he could more closely examine the face of the man
whose mouth had uttered those vile and thoughtless words. “Why, how
could you say such a thing? I should...” D’ata was
mortified.

“
What? Kill me?” Ravan
retorted. “You’ll have to wait your turn.” He cleared his throat
and selfishly took another pull from the wine flask, then added,
“And isn’t this what we are doing? We are discovering about what
happened? The whole of it, aren’t we? The good and the bad? Or does
sincerity know restraint for the privileged?”

D’ata simply stared, speechless. He'd
shared his experience of Julianne with his brother, had exposed her
memory to him, inviting his confidence. True, Ravan did not yet
know all of Julianne’s story, but even so.

There was a long moments’ quiet.
Finally, the prisoner mumbled awkwardly, “I’m sorry—that was
cruel.” He appeared uncomfortable, then, almost as an afterthought
he added, “I do not begrudge you your fortune. It’s just that, I
suppose I might have—”

“
Might have—what?” D’ata
asked, incredulous.”

Struck ill at ease, perhaps by the
familiarity of the expression of his brother, Ravan tried again,
more kindly, shrugging, “Oh, be reasonable. She was beautiful, I
mean, she sounds...” He frowned at his own lack of elegance. “I
suppose, I would have wanted to—that’s all I meant.”

Another long pause and D’ata sat back
and said hoarsely, “Just be quiet, please.” He looked upward,
towards the tiny window, not really seeing the night
beyond.

Ravan tried one last time. “I mean she
sounds really, very—um, nice...”

D’ata sighed as though wounded, but
was forgiving of his brother. “Yes.” He considered what his brother
offered to him, an apology of sorts, and then almost smiled, “Yes,
I suppose she was very—nice.”

Ravan peered at his brother, as though
suddenly moved by the expression on his face; such sadness, such
remorse. He appeared uncomfortable, almost sorry for the callous
words he’d spoken. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to...”

D’ata waved him quiet and closed his
eyes.

Ravan reached the flask towards his
brother.

Pausing, he took the flask, drank
deeply and looked into the eyes of his brother, the mercenary. It
was strange to hear the prisoner, thrashed, beaten, wounded and
caged, speak so tenderly, so kindly.

“
I wish I'd known
her—someone, like Julianne,” Ravan murmured. It was utterly
sincere, and D’ata was pleased.

“
And look at you, about to
make the woods your new home. That’s a situation if ever there was
one,” D’ata said.

“
Mmm,” was all Ravan
replied.

Leaning against each other, they
shared the cape and the wine, the night paused. By and by, the
unlikely pair continued their journey together, as a distant thread
of what once was returned to the fabric of the here and
now.

CHAPTER NINE

†

Julianne’s father was furious; the
girl was so late returning. She was supposed to be home already,
have the cider on and supper started a good hour ago. It wasn’t the
cider and the supper that worried him, it was the whereabouts of
his daughter.

His daughter was his jewel; she was
his angel, sent from God—there to hold the family together when his
wife died in childbirth with his little Yvette. Now, he was
fiercely protective of his children, especially his daughters. He
wrung his hands, an uncommon gesture for the life-hardened farmer.
He could not imagine what he would do without his
Julianne.

It was an unusually warm day and she
was, no doubt, lounging about by the river again, as she seemed so
inclined to do. Damn her! She was probably reading more of that
blasphemy that her friend, Babette, had given her.

He stomped as he paced the floor of
their humble kitchen, hiking his tunic back onto his shoulder.
Curious, how the boys could disappear for hours at a time and he
would not worry so much. His girls, however, were a different story
altogether.

Julianne’s father was outraged by this
morning’s events at the parish. Father Leoceonne had confronted him
about the whole affair; had spoken unfairly of the incident. The
father had even gone so far to as imply that Julianne was
responsible, that she should daunt her beauty a bit, restrain her
hair more effectively, and loosen her clothes so as not to
accentuate her figure. Or, perhaps she should not come to mass at
this parish at all, until the fine young D’ata finished his
discipleship. It had thoroughly infuriated him and he’d left mass
in a foul mood.

In all truth, the linen Julianne wore
was a most unbecoming gown, on most figures, but as God is inclined
to sculpt an angel, even the dowdiest of attire only seemed to draw
attention to it.

And mass? Mass was sacred! And
Julianne had been so excited to see the cathedral! He was enraged.
His family was one of simple means and the church was crucial to
them. They worked hard for their existence on the face of God’s
earth, and he would not see his family denied.

In actuality, it was true that people
of simple means clung more fiercely to their beliefs. This was
because their circumstances alone gave them a greater comprehension
of the gift of grace. When one has less, they cherish what they
have more.

Julianne’s father was angered at the
boy the most. He knew the mettle of young men and priest, or no
priest, he knew the effect Julianne had on young men. Her father
sighed, remembering how he himself had shamelessly rutted after
Julianne’s mother, of how he would have taken her to bed in an
instant if their families hadn't watched them so
closely.

He didn’t trust this young fellow,
didn’t trust him at all! He snorted and stepped outside to draw
water.

His daughter was a precious gift. She
looked so much like her mother and had her mother’s fire, of Irish
lineage. He blinked hard as he drew the water from the well, and
swallowed thickly, forcing a sudden sadness away, the deep creases
of his brow furrowing even more. It'd been so painful to lose his
wife, so difficult ever since she died.

Despite his love for Julianne, with
every breath he took, his response to the embarrassment this
morning was to berate her. He surprised himself as well as her.
They’d argued bitterly. He’d yelled at her most of their walk home,
more irritated by the fact that in reality, she was not at fault
whatsoever. Now he was considerably miserable over the whole event.
He wanted to set things straight, wanted to talk to Julianne and
make her understand that he wouldn’t yell anymore. Why did he do
that? Get angry when what he really felt was concern?

His relationship with his eldest
daughter was unusual. When his wife passed away, Julianne stepped
into the shoes of caregiver to the family. Along with that role
came a communication between her and her father that was unique.
They talked about the family, about concerns, problems and even
fears. He needed her—trusted her, and as a result, Julianne had
grown wise beyond her tender years.

He sighed again. She would be so much
easier to protect if she were not so beautiful, but then she would
not be Julianne. He carried the water into the house and dumped it
into the cistern.

This morning, his daughter had
stubbornly argued with him, her mouth frowning in defiance as she
berated the behavior of the young priest first, then her father’s
accusations second. She quoted unfamiliar teachings, words he'd
never read before, notions from scholars he'd never even heard of.
She'd yelled back at him, called him outdated, told him that he
should just trust her. She accused him of being thirteenth century
and finally she had called him ignorant!

Then, Julianne stomped out, her
beloved book in hand, away to the river no doubt. Now it was
twilight and he was worried. He deeply regretted blaming her when,
in truth, he should have beaten the young priest senseless. He
should have defended his daughter! What kind of father was
he?

Guilt saddled him like a stone yoke.
It would have been easier to just set the heavy feeling down, but
he was incapable, so he shouldered it completely.

This was nonsense, he thought. He
would set things straight when she got home, and things would be
right again. They would sit down together and have cider. All would
be as it was.

He could not believe his eyes when he
saw her walk into the yard, with the priest! His rage erupted,
crested in his ears, making them burn like fire. Without
hesitation, he charged out the front door, his generous size and
bull-like demeanor stopping the couple cold in their
tracks.

* * *

D’ata was not expecting this greeting,
as Julianne neglected to brief him on her domestic situation.
They'd spent the afternoon and early evening together, taking the
long, very long way home. They had been too enamored with the
presence of each other to consider much of anything
else.

“
Julianne, get yourself
into the house! And you—you...” Her father trembled and pointed a
thick finger at D’ata. “Get out of my sight! I’ll be speaking to
your father about this!”

“
Father, you don’t
understand!” Julianne pleaded. “It was too late and it became dark,
and Monsieur Cezanne was so kind as to—”

“
Don’t argue with me! I’ll
hear no excuses, do you hear!” he raged.

D’ata tried to interject. “Monsieur,
it is not like that. I have no intention of—”

“
Of what?” Julianne’s
father turned on him viciously. “I believe you made your intentions
perfectly clear this morning. You can take your intentions and—and
stuff them up your holy ass!”

“
Father! Don’t, please!”
Julianne pleaded, hands out.

The elder continued, focused on D’ata.
“Get out!” He took a step toward the young man while he grabbed
Julianne by the arm, jerking her roughly towards the door of the
house.

D’ata bristled, not at the words, for
those he knew were well deserved. Instead, he was surprised at how
rapidly his own anger peaked, at how quickly he objected to someone
touching Julianne so roughly, even if it was her father. He
mistakenly considered that this was the way Julianne was treated
every day.

Julianne turned back to the D’ata,
shocked by the turn of events. “I’m so sorry, I—”

“
Silence! Get inside!” Her
father demanded as he shoved her through the door. He slammed it
shut behind her and turned back to the younger man, rolling up his
shirtsleeves.

“
Monsieur, I have no
desire to—” D’ata stammered, hands up in submission. However, he
failed to back away fast enough and the elder landed his fist
squarely on the young man’s jaw. This sent him sprawling, feet up
into the air and backwards into the dusty courtyard.

“
Don’t let me catch you
around my daughter ever again!” her father turned, looking over his
shoulder. “Take your holy ass and go straight to hell!” He stomped
back up the steps, into the house and slammed the door
shut.

Thoroughly dazed, D’ata lie straight
on his back, looking briefly up at the sparkling clouds until all
went dark. It took a few moments before he came around and was able
to remember where he was. He sat up slowly, allowing himself the
luxury of gathering his senses. Dizzy, he picked himself up out of
the dirt and brushed himself off.

The events of the last few minutes
were so sudden, so unexpected. He'd never been outright boxed
before, and he’d certainly never been knocked senseless. He was
surprised at the stars that blinked like fireflies before his eyes.
He shook his head as though he might clear it, then realized the
mistake of that and leaned over, holding very still until he was
sure he would not pass out again.