The Execution

by Sharon Cramer

  Henri looked up from rubbing the horse down, his eyes showed worry. He scrutinized what appeared to be further assault on the face of his young friend, but he said nothing.

  “What?” D’ata asked. “What is it?”

  “It is not for me to say. Your father is waiting for you.” Henri stopped grooming the horse, resting his forehead against the smooth shoulder of the animal, tapping the curry brush against the sole of his boot to loosen the dirt and hair. He looked so fragile, his bent old body resting up against the magnificent fitness of the gelding.

  The horse turned its head in the cross ties, as if to ask why his old friend had ceased with his cares.

  Henri turned so he could face D’ata. “I have watched you grow, have seen you change in many remarkable ways—and you have been like a son to me,” he paused as though he were searching for the right thing to say.

  D’ata shifted his weight, uncomfortable with the conversation. It was like the words were suspended, hanging above him, and could crash down at any second in a bad way. Why did Henri feel compelled to say such things, as though he may never again have the chance?

  He sensed that it all had to do with Julianne. No matter though, he would make things right again. He would make them understand, and things would be better than ever. Even if things weren’t the same, even if they didn’t understand, it didn’t matter what happened as long as his fragile link with Julianne was preserved. This he’d decided beyond any doubt, on his long walk home.

  He scowled. He hadn’t really given much thought to the dynamics of it all, about how his father would react to the situation. Of course things would be discussed, changes made, circumstances negotiated. But he was sure they would understand.

  On the late evening walk, his thoughts had been filled with only her. Even now, as he allowed her memory to drift into his thoughts, his heart swelled with happiness and his beaten face beamed.

  Truthfully, for all he knew, Julianne may have come to her senses, deciding never to see him again. Nothing was certain and yet he was happier than he'd ever been! D’ata leaned against one of the enormous, roughhewn timbers in the stable and listened as Henri continued.

  * * *

  The stable master was struck at the sudden resolution of his young friend. Leaning against the beam like that, he seemed in control of his own destiny.

  And why shouldn’t he be? Who was to say he should not have a choice?

  Henri shook his head, as if to shake away this heavy chain of thoughts. It was dangerous to become too involved, and sometimes things were just meant to be. He reconsidered the direction he'd intended to take with the conversation. “D’ata, the Baron waits for you in the house and he doesn’t know where you have been, that you’ve gone to see the girl.”

  D’ata stood up immediately and blurted, “I didn’t go searching for her—I just found her. It is as if God has placed us together.” He pressed, eager to make Henri see his line of thinking, determined for him to understand, desperate for an ally. He paced the floor in his agitation. “Of nothing else in my life have I ever been sure, but of this, I am! I was meant to be with her—and she with me.”

  He stopped his pacing and addressed Henri again, directly, “I’ve decided—it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. I know this in my heart!” His expression was so suddenly distressed. He sighed, his shoulders dropped. “I love her Henri. How can God disapprove of such a thing? And I must see her again!”

  The horse stomped, uncomfortable with the new tension in the air.

  D’ata’s gaze was swept away. The gentle hand of the stable master touched his shoulder, and he turned to look down into the soft, pale eyes of his dearest old friend.

  “I am an old fool, young master; I know the beasts and little else.” He gently shook D’ata’s shoulder. “But this I do know, that I have loved you. For you, I wish only happiness.” He released the shoulder and stepped back. Then, he sat precariously down onto the edge of a crib-feeder, perched like an old chicken. “This, life has taught me, that you must follow your heart. But be prepared for the battles your choices will create, my friend.” He raised a finger, his head turned sideways and his eyes narrowed as he spoke. “Life can be unpredictable—and not always what you bargain for.”

  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 home—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.r />
  “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.

  After a while, he heard the bees again. No, wait—it wasn’t bees, it was human voices from far away. Oh, yes. They were droning, but definitely voices.

  For a long while, he just listened as the faraway people came and went, slowly getting closer and closer. Soon he was able to pick out the variable timbres, men and women. No, just one woman. He focused on the sound of the woman’s voice. It was familiar somehow, and comforting, but agitated. ‘Why would they be arguing in heaven?’ He heard the deep voices of several men.

  One said. “Monsieur Duval, he’s coming awake.”

  Conscious awareness slammed against Ravan like a tidal wave. Suddenly and violently, he was aware of his horrible reality, that he was not dead. He breathed in deeply and coughed. This was unfortunate for his broken ribs grated one upon the other and his eyes flew open with the terrible pain. He gasped, as much from realization of his circumstances as from the agony. But, oh, he had never felt such pain! It hurt so much just to breathe and for the first time in his life, he believed pain could kill him and that he would die from it.