It was a knife he'd made long ago, from the plowshare he used on the killer boar. Ravan had taken the plowshare to the woods and hammered the steel into a blade with a river-hardened stone. He’d built a fire by the river, and after heating and reheating the metal repeatedly, for several hours, he created the courage of the blade. It glowed red and angry with life, and Ravan stared into the beauty of it for a good long while.
Later, he took the blade to the mill wheel in the barn, ground it coarse and carefully honed it to a smooth edge with the chalkstone he'd found along the cliffs. Then, using an old leather harness strap, he meticulously buffed the blade to razor sharpness.
Finally, the boy seated the blade by hammering its shaft into the burned-out marrow of a magnificent antler tine. The antler had smoked and burned, a sweet glue smell, as Ravan heated the poker and seared out the core.
In his hand, when his task was complete, he held a thing of elegant and deadly beauty. It was a weapon which would cleave a cloth laid across it, simply by the weight of the fabric—it was that sharp. Little did Ravan know that metal smiths in Asia had suffered years to craft such a blade. It was a gift, to be able to create such a weapon. It was born of him, fashioned from his soul, and now it lay carefully wrapped in oilcloth. He felt the familiar heaviness against his calf as he sat swaying in the carriage, little boy with his bow between his knees.
Ravan did not look back but went in submissive silence as the carriage ascended from the small valley and slowly disappeared along the crest of the eastern hills. His dark head was bowed as he turned the copper ring round and round upon his finger.
CHAPTER THREE
†
D’ata was adopted at birth, or so he was told. It never occurred to him to question it as his parents offered few details of the event, at least none which would have linked him to his birth parents. Not much was known about his real mother and father, only that he'd been mysteriously left in swaddling rags on the steps of the church. Such a stir it created.
There had been a young couple in the congregation, who had no children of their own. Such a divinely ordained phenomenon this had been, the congregation murmured. A vast empty spot loomed large in the lives of this childless couple, and so they were genuinely delighted when the parish suggested they take the baby. It was only natural! Supremely intentioned, God had reached down from the heavens and created divine serendipity!
At a time when so much was uncertain, the Church offered stability to its congregation. Such was the continued purpose of the institution and, in the case of this couple, it worked like a charm. Never mind the fact that they were rich beyond all reasonable means, and all would be gratified by watching the child grow up washed in wealth. It was a wonderful diversion from the struggles of everyday life.
The event was very dramatic. Such an affluent couple as the Cezannes, unable to have children who, by the grace of God, were given a baby. D’ata had already heard the story repeated many times in social circles. He was embarrassed as he became older and witnessed the story grow and take on a life of its own as it became increasingly sensational.
Now, surrounded by such wealth and luxury, there could not be a more perfect existence. Such a perfect life and such a perfect child.
In return for his epic salvation, it was understood that D’ata should try very hard to please his parents and do their bidding. Indeed, he delighted all those around him as he was a kindhearted boy and full of life. It was very easy to love him.
His parents were fair and blonde, both of them noble and very wealthy. How unusual it was to see the dark haired boy sitting between them in mass, kicking his silk, stocking clad feet to-and-fro.
Having been practically born on the steps of the Church, it was only natural that the Church remained an important and ever-present stronghold in the boy's life, and because medieval society built the Church, they had much influence on the business of it. How dangerous would it be to tempt the hand of God in these matters? Therefore, it was a holy ordainment when D’ata became a Cezanne, and—a literal child of God.
As the years went by, the machine of divine providence groaned on as planned. D’ata’s mother and father watched with pride as he stepped in and out of the robes of altar boy, choirboy, and bishop’s assistant. Finally, he was to enter as a postulant in the fall.
Their son was a source of wonderful fulfillment for them. They greatly enjoyed the comments from their fellow parishioners on Saturdays, 'Monsieur and Madame Cezanne, your son has grown into such a fine young man. How proud you must be that he has been chosen for the clergy. God has blessed you and our church...'
How fitting it was that their son should follow such a perfectly appointed path.
As his ordainment progressed, there were no detours, no entangled side trails, and no deviations from the master plan. D’ata accepted his fate and seemed the picture of contentment in his role as the good son. There were no waves in this sea of tranquility and everything was a perfect, glistening calm.
That was before, though, before things so abruptly changed. It was before the onset of the emotional paraplegia that was soon to become his reality...
* * *
Yvette left the chickens after slinging the feed. There wasn’t an overabundance of grain these days, and she tried to scatter it well so all could share. When the larger pullets pecked and savaged the smaller ones, Yvette scolded them and kept them at bay by swishing her skirts, allowing the weaker ones a longer time to feed.
The growing season had been so short this year, the winters had been cool, but at least there were many insects with the cool and wet weather. The chickens seemed to be getting enough.
She had been sitting for a bit, watching them, feeling sorry for the cockerels. These young males had been separated from the pullets, the less than year old females, and would be slaughtered tomorrow. They didn’t seem to know, or care. They scratched the ground and pecked at each other, posturing for more space in the confinement of the small cage they now shared.
Yvette thought to herself, in the brief wisdom a four year old can sometime possess, that to be male and human was good, but to be a male chicken was a poor draw.
Besides that, the cockerels were cute, with their fluffy little tail feathers trying to grow all long and fancy, their bright red combs and silly little nubbins for spurs. She knew they would eventually be roosters and knew that roosters could be a force to be reckoned with—especially when they hopped on your back and pecked you on the head. But for now, the youngsters were fairly adorable.
Frowning, she hopped up. She suddenly wanted the company of her sister and wandered into the house looking for Julianne.
“Why do we have to kill them?” the child asked her older sister, who stood with her back turned, washing up dishes from early breakfast.
“What are you talking about?” Julianne asked, a bit cross.
It seemed Julianne was cross a good deal these days. Yvette wondered if it was because of the books her sister was reading, the ones from which she would not read aloud to her. Her sister’s mood did seem to be tempered by whatever she was reading at the moment.
“The little boy chickens—why do we have to kill them tomorrow?” Yvette had decided that there was only one who could explain something as wrong as chicken murder—Julianne.
Julianne reached up with the heel of her hand to sweep away a stray lock of hair that must have been annoying her for some time now, the way she batted at it. “We have to Yvette. What would we do with all those boy chickens when they are grown?”
Yvette wasn’t convinced. “It just seems mean that we have to do this—how would you feel if we had to axe our brothers tomorrow?” Her chin jutted out in defiance, although truthfully she would have been quite satisfied to smack her brothers a good one from time to time. But that would never happen. Yvette was the youngest, and small, even by fourteenth century standards.
Julianne dried her hands roughly, pulled a chair out from the table and motioned for Yvette to have
a seat. When her little sister was settled across from her with a glass of milk and a day old biscuit, Julianne closed her eyes and exhaled. “Yvette...it’s just the way things are. Things have to die sometimes—they have a place, a purpose, and a time to be done in this world. Chickens aren’t brothers.”
“Why?” Yvette asked, not about the chickens not being brothers, but about the ‘world purpose’ idea. “If somebody said you had a purpose, that working the cows was all you would ever get to do—your purpose, would that be good enough for you?”
The five year old’s question was dumbfounding, innocent, and sincere. Julianne’s mouth fell open, speechless. She was evidently considering her answer carefully for she said nothing for a long while. It was a harsh question, ‘Was this all the future held for one like Julianne? A dairy farm?’
Julianne started to piece together an answer, started to mumble a poor explanation, but the child saw through her and all was lost.
She shook her head and pleaded, “That’s just stupid. We could just go free them into the woods.”
Julianne tried to push the question of a moment before from her mind and laughed outright. “Yvette, if we did that, soon the woods would be all full of feisty boy chickens! Nobody could even walk there! The roosters would jump all over us and then what would we do?”
Yvette giggled and just like that, she changed course. “Can we just go read again? About the princess and the prince? Pleeeze?”
Julianne smiled, tossed the dishtowel onto the counter and stood up to take Yvette’s hand. She shook her head, “Yvette, why are you so romantic so young? Don’t you realize that life is—complicated?”
Giggles, again, were all the answer Julianne got and she said with a grin, “Come on, Yvette, you’ll make us late. We have to get ready for church.”
* * *
A beautiful April Saturday greeted the worshipers and the sun shone extra bright through the stained glass of the church. Outside, the cottonwoods shed their sticky fuzz. It collected in downy mounds in the remote corners of the cathedral, magically softening everything and giving the space around it a dreamlike glow.
It was warm inside and D’ata stood blanketed by the colors cascading through a window of stained glass, the light dancing red and purple off the inky black of his hair. The congregation filed in slowly, more than a few of them scrutinizing him as they made their way to their pews. The bishops had commented on more than one occasion regarding how attractive their young apprenticing priest was. It was a source of ill-guided vanity for a share of them, and they knew it ensured the presence of more than a few at mass.
‘Not only is our young priest appointed by God, given to us on the steps of our church no less, he is beautiful. Make no mistake, he is ours.’
Although Christians believed that the afterlife was superior to their current fate, vanity of the here-and-now did not willingly invite renunciation. D’ata was coveted by the congregation.
This morning, he was to serve communion. His hands absently separated the bread as the parishioners filed to the altar boards to kneel and contemplate their rosaries. The warm sweetness of the bread made his belly growl and as hunger pangs threatened, he regretted having skipped breakfast to spend the morning with Henri in the stables.
The soft strains of a sweet acapella filled the massive hall as the ritual began. D’ata was content, preferring the child’s voice to the heavier adult choir. The sweet and tender music lifted his thoughts from his growling belly, away from the confines of the church, out the checkerboard glass windows and across the downy cottonwood grounds.
He was lazy today, his mind meandering briefly from his task to the upcoming afternoon, when he might take one of his father’s fine horses down to the river and enjoy this rare warm spell. His duties were simple as his parents were quite wealthy.
His father, the Baron of Cezanne, had close to sixteen thousand acres and a fleet of trade ships. Monsieur Cezanne did not boast a genealogy of nobility. His title was not inherited, but had evolved of brilliant commerce. He was wealthy by his own means and whereas nobility could be granted to a superior human being, his title was largely and inarguably earned. No one disputed his power.
The Baron employed thirty-two knights and held court in royal style. He kept upon his estate a falconer, grand stable master, vintner, chef and master butler. There were countless servants, including squires, pages, cooks and handmaids. His payroll included teachers and musicians; he even employed an astrologer.
Flax and wool were the main exports of the estate. These were woven into linens so fine as to compete with the very best of England. The Baron owned the weave shops as well. The quality of a Cezanne bolt of cloth exceeded all expectations and was a coveted possession, even as far away as Russia.
Over time, the Cezanne estate had developed a fine reputation. Upon the grounds were bred some of the best horses in the region and the estate carried its own coat of arms. The township eventually bestowed to Monsieur Cezanne the title of Baron. He was wise at business, with a strong character which allowed the estate to flourish. Also, as trade was compensated almost entirely in silver and gold, the Baron coined his own money. This gave him enormous power.
The grounds were pristine, impeccably groomed. The daily routine marched along like a precision clock with breakfast at seven, cider at ten-fifteen...great expectations at every turn. The mansion was polished and immaculate, the white Moroccan marble gleaming against the green backdrop of the southern hills of the Marseille.
The black walnut finishings were oiled daily, taking on the polished purple effect which no other wood possessed. There were grand fireplaces in every room, vaulted undergrounds linking servant's quarters to the immaculate courts, and lavish furnishings, fine as coin could buy. The outside boasted fish pools, equestrian centers, gardens, a hedge maze and several substantial guest homes. Separate quarters stood for the servants, who provided attendance for the massive estate and its occupants.
Furthermore, the Baron was generous. As a result, the highest nobility and royalty, from all over Europe and even from the Far East would visit the Baron and Baroness.
The Cezanne Estate enjoyed access to the entire Mediterranean trade routes and used the Rivers Rhome and Loire to trade north. The Baron shared cordial honors with the nearby Avignon papacy and strongly preferred his Mediterranean ambiance, visiting Paris and London rarely, only when business dictated.
As an employer, the Baron commanded an estate worthy of a lifetime of allegiance. His knights were loyal and fierce. The Baron Cezanne had forged the very belt and spurs which held his crest; there was prestige, honor and money to be had by fidelity to this fief. As a result, there was little turnover of employment, and familiarity only added stability to the machinery of the Cezanne estate. It was a fine domain, one of the finest in France, fine as fine could be, and D’ata completed the agenda perfectly.
There were no chores as the servants attended to every need, and they adored D’ata. He was a generous child, never hesitating to lend a hand when Raphael was carrying wood in for the kitchen stoves. The boy particularly enjoyed the stables and was not averse to mucking the stalls on occasion just to be able to chat with Henri.
Henri was the stable master. He was small like a terrier, with wiry white locks escaping from all directions beneath his woolen cap. His eyebrows were thick and wild, hanging feral above his clear and sparkling, pale blue eyes.
He lived in and ruled the stables with a no-nonsense agenda tempered with kindness. His firm compassion agreed with the animals as well and his fine eye and horsemanship showed in the quality breeding and stamina of the fine beasts stabled there. A Cezanne stallion was a work of art. Henri, however, seldom rode anymore as scoliosis twisted him thoroughly. He walked only with the help of two canes.
Though there were other stable hands to help with the labors, D’ata particularly enjoyed helping his old friend. Henri was quick witted and teased the boy. He also provided the fatherly advice and intuition that the Baro
n, on occasion, seemed to lack.
D’ata also loved the animals, loved the smell of them and the way the earthy steam rose from their backs when he pulled the saddles after a ride. They were noble creatures, elegant and free, even when caged. It was no mystery to him that, in the horse, God created a creature capable of lifting even the most wretched heart from mediocrity to brilliance. D'ata was privileged to take the horses out at any time for a gallop over the countryside.
He would sit for hours with Henri, polishing the harnesses and bridles until the bits shone and the leather was as soft as his own expensive goatskin gloves. His father disapproved of the menial labors, however, and D’ata was careful to do them only in his father’s absence. He knew the routine well enough—knew who could be trusted and who could not, though those were few. He feigned a bored meandering when a rare one of those approached.
D’ata was at home on the estate. Young women were sometimes interested in him, visiting daughters of family friends, passing nobility or royalty. For the most part, D’ata was innocently oblivious of any adoration cast his way. His purpose did not allow it and his focus was steadfast.
The Cezannes expected him to excel in his studies, and he did, dutifully. He played the violin beautifully and, most of all, accepted his calling to the priesthood, studying hard and praying at least five times a day, and six the next if he fell short. He was faultlessly obedient, and had always been so, for D’ata knew nothing else. He was content, as the mighty cottonwoods are content. What else do they know but to stand and allow the seasons to come and go?
His life was peaceful in a very stagnant sort of way. A bird would never fly off its course; to do so would cast it off its bearings and place it at risk for a bad winter—or worse. The unknown is not safe, and one should never venture there.
The Execution Page 4
