The Execution

by Sharon Cramer

  For a few awful moments, he thought he might pass out and suffocate before he could get his breath. Tears ran from the corners of his eyes. Even more painful than his broken ribs was the terrible disappointment that smothered him. He tried to lift his head from the pillow, tried to focus on the figures in the room. Slowly, the familiar shape of the Fat Wife came loosely into view. He struggled to push himself up on one elbow, struggled to speak to her, only to glimpse her leaving the room.

  He was instantly afraid for her, afraid she might be implicated in his flight. Even so, it was a relief to see her, to know she was close by.

  Another man, one he had not noticed standing off his blind side to the left, shoved him roughly backwards down onto the bed, “Stay put you little bastard, or I’ll—”

  “Unhand him, Pierre.” The voice giving the order was unfamiliar.

  “Yes, Monsieur, as you wish.” Pierre Steele, complete with resplendent purple wound across his nose and face, snorted and stepped away.

  It was agony to be pushed so roughly back upon the bed, but is served to make Ravan more acutely aware of his surroundings. He was back at the Inn.

  He tried to assess his body for the multiple origins of pain. First and foremost was the excruciating pain in his chest. This was what kept him from taking a deep breath, and from the terrible grating sound, he knew his ribs must be broken. He recalled the same horrible sound when the deer he killed had fallen down a small ravine. As he had heaved the carcass over, it made the same awful bone against broken bone sound. When he gutted the beast, he’d seen the jagged fractures of the ribs.

  Groaning, he became aware that his shirt was gone, his chest bound tightly with cotton sheeting. He reached up; the ring on the silver chain was still there. He breathed an inaudible sigh, relieved that they had not taken it. His left eye was swollen shut and a bandage pulled at his eyebrow. His lower lip was swollen and he tested his front, lower teeth with his tongue. They were loose in the sockets.

  His right thigh ached and as he tried to flex the muscle, a searing pain shot through it. He could feel a bulky bandage there as well. Abandoning the fruitless efforts of movement, he finally lay back, helpless. Even the sheets scraped coarse and painful against his skin and the room seemed much too warm.

  There were countless smaller scrapes and bruises that he didn’t notice for the pain of the more serious ones. He thought briefly of the orphanage, wishing he was curled up next to the stove, listening to stories while his body healed. The Old One and his daughters would have taken good care of him.

  He abruptly abandoned the luxury of this memory and returned his thoughts to the perilous present. He needed to get his senses about himself and he ignored Pierre, still standing to the left of the bed. He would deal with that bastard later.

  Struggling to push himself up onto one elbow, he tried to focus on the face of the man who had spoken last. “Duval—I assume,” he murmured raggedly as he fought to compose himself.

  “You assume right.” It was the same staggering, deadly voice he’d heard moments before, as though an unspeakable creature was whispering. It continued, “Such a bright young killer you are.”

  For the first time, Ravan perceived the wickedness that the man embodied. He braced visibly, forcing himself to sit almost upright. His instinct told him he was in a grave situation with this new stranger. Blinking back tears at the agony that wracked his body, he gasped, working to control any waver in his voice. “I am no killer.” He knew this was not entirely true. He did intend, in Pierre Steele’s case, to make an exception.

  Duval grinned and his lips pulled back into a snarl that surrounded those unusually small, and staggeringly crooked, teeth. “Oh, but you will be—when I tell you to.” He smoothed his thinning red hair over his scalp. A broad man who appeared taller than he really was, Duval had the appearance of an educated farm boy, a refined farrier. There was something brutal about his eyes, though—something horrible and mercilessly pale, with peppercorn pupils that were abnormally pinpoint in the light of the room. His demeanor was guarded with his arms folded across his chest.

  Ravan struggled unsuccessfully to swing his legs out of the bed, facing Duval’s newest strong-arm, the towering Pierre. “To hell with you,” he said flatly.

  Pierre took offense to the comment and backhanded the young prisoner, sending him across the bed where he threatened to tumble off the other side onto the wood plank floor.

  Ravan’s head exploded with brilliant sparks of light and a shooting pain erupted in his left temple. Fresh blood stained the bandage around his head, above the eye, turning the crisp cotton a bright crimson. Blood dripped lazily down his left cheek. He gasped as the movement mercilessly assaulted his ribs, cruelly snatching the breath from him again. He lie there, unable to move, his eyes glazed over with pain and gasping like a dying fish. His vision faded and he was on the verge of passing out again.

  Duval ambled casually to the other side of the bed and caught Ravan before he tumbled full out of the bed. He lifted the young man back up and eased him gently back onto the pillow. It was an oddly kind gesture, given the circumstances, and belied the man’s true intent. He then purposefully, almost gently, straightened the bed sheets as the boy blinked blindly up at him, trying to regain his senses.

  “Ravan,” Duval dusted his hands and walked slowly away. “I know your kind. I know you will fight me and I have played this game before, you see.”

  “I’ll never work for you,” Ravan choked on the words, coughing, fighting to maintain wakefulness. He felt blood in his throat and his head pounded a steady, crashing, wavelike rhythm, his eyes throbbing with each pulse. The bandage on his head was now too tight and a wave of nausea washed over him. He struggled unsuccessfully to push himself further up in the bed, gasping with the effort.

  “Not ‘work’ for me, Ravan? You ‘belong’ to me.” Duval turned, looked at the prisoner and grinned, a broad, flat, two-dimensional grin—horrible, like the rest of him. “You see, there is a difference.” Duval looked at the ceiling, gesturing gallantly with his hands. “I bought you. I own you!” He laughed outright and allowed his eyes to rest again on Ravan, all humor dreadfully absent. “You will do as I say, or else—”

  “Or else you can rot in hell,” Ravan interrupted, his voice ragged, his body tensing, preparing to endure Pierre’s forthcoming attack.

  Duval motioned the man to leave the younger one be.

  It occurred to Ravan that his boots, leggings, and precious knife were missing. He quickly scanned the room for them. There were no indications of either his clothing or his knife. The clothes? Who needs them—but the knife? He would kill the thief who took it.

  Duval continued as though he hadn’t heard the boy.

  “You see, Ravan, I know you would choose to die fighting me. And we have already observed that, have we not? That is good, though ultimately useless to me. But—” he paused, waiting until he had Ravan’s full attention.

  “Are you prepared to watch others die because you fight me?” Duval took a seat, opposite his new possession. He folded his hands across his lap, fingers interlaced as though he relished this moment. “Because, it would take a monster to make such a decision as that.”

  “The hell with you! I have no one—” Ravan started.

  “Don’t you?” Duval tapped his fingertips lightly together, obviating his mirth. He seemed to enjoy the game he was playing, but was horribly inadequate at sustaining it for any significant amount of time. “I suppose the Innkeeper’s wife means nothing to you?” Duval watched as comprehension settled over his captive like a smothering wet blanket. “Or, the old man at the orphanage, and his daughters, or...” he chuckled, carefully emphasizing his next words, “those miserable, godforsaken creatures—the orphans?”

  Bile rose in the back of Ravan's throat, and he became dizzy.

  “I’ll kill them Ravan, one by one—every last pathetic soul. And I’ll do it slowly…painfully, and I will let you watch.” Duval could not seem to c
ontain himself and laughed outright at the splendor of his game.

  Growing faint, Ravan's vision swam and Duval’s form faded from the outside in. The last thing he saw was the wide face and those pinpoint, predator eyes.

  * * *

  When Ravan next awoke, it was nightfall. His body tormented him again as consciousness assaulted him, but it was good to feel alive, even with pain. He was aware of someone changing the dressing on his head.

  As the vision in his right eye slowly cleared, he squinted and saw the Fat Wife tending his wounds. He tried to focus on her face, but the task was too much and he closed his eyes as a wave of nausea swept over him. He lay still, allowing her to minister to him. Finally, he murmured, “What happened?”

  She startled, as though unaware that Ravan had awakened, “Child, you fell—from a cliff.” She wrung out the rag she was using and dabbed again at the laceration. “Pierre, that monster, has broken the wound above your eye open again. It’s quite a miracle that you are even alive, Ravan! You’ve been badly hurt, though. Now lie quiet and rest while I fix these dressings, then we’ll have a bite to eat, eh?” She tried to smile and reached for dry linen.

  “Where is he?” Ravan took her hand gently, stopping her task, and with great effort focused on her sad face.

  “Who, child?”

  “Please, don’t try to protect me—you only hurt me.” He released her hand.

  She sighed, wringing the rag in her hands. “Duval has gone into town for some supplies. He will be back in the morning, I suppose.” She reached up, smearing bacon grease onto the cut.

  Ravan winced as salt met raw flesh.

  “If we could only get you better and strong enough, I could fix the cart and we could take you somewhere else, somewhere safe.”

  “No! No, I can’t—I can’t run.” Ravan blurted back at her. “He would hurt you—hurt everyone that is important to me.” He grimaced and with an incredible effort, sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He splinted his ribs with one arm and took shallow breaths. His body betrayed him, trembling unnaturally.

  “Ravan, you can’t just live your life like he wants you to—on account of others,” she pleaded with him.

  “I don’t intend to.” He struggled to stand, but sat back down, quickly realizing the futility of it. “I will play his game for now, then, when he does not expect it...” He coughed and spat frothy blood into his palm and wiped it onto the bed sheets. “...I will kill him.”

  Her expression fell. Ravan saw it and thought that perhaps she realized that Duval’s assessment was partially true; he would kill if he needed to. But what of it? What man wouldn’t? It was like war, was it not?

  “You must do me a favor,” he asked.

  “What is it child?”

  “I had a knife, it was in my boot.” He looked about the room again, more thoroughly than he’d been able to before.

  She shook her head, “I’ll try to find it, Ravan, but I haven’t seen such a thing about.”

  “It’s different.” He reached out, steadying himself on her knee. “It has a shaft made of antler horn and the blade is double edged.” He groaned.

  She tried to steady him. “If I find it, I’ll bring it to you dear.” She patted his hand softly.

  “No, they’ll just take it again. Find it for me and hide it somewhere they would not think to look, somewhere only you know of. When the time comes, I will come back for it.” He struggled again to stand, this time succeeding, if only for a moment. The blood rushed to the wound in his thigh and forced him to collapse back onto the bed. He finally accepted that he was going nowhere.

  “Ravan, I’ll find the knife, child. When I do, I’ll hide it at the bottom of the barley barrel. No one would think to look there.” She sounded pleased that she could do this small thing for him.

  He nodded and closed his eyes, taking comfort in the proximity of her.

  She reached out to take his lean, battered hand into her fat one, sandwiching it warmly.

  He smiled weakly at the feel of her touch. Then, mercifully, he drifted deeply off into a dreamless sleep.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  †

  They were a family of six. Yvette and her sister Julianne, who was seventeen, were the only girls. Father and the three boys, ages twenty-two, nineteen and eleven, completed the family. Mother had died when Yvette was born.

  That had been a terrible and blessed time. It was the first of the year, a late March evening, almost Easter. Winter had not even offered a breath of the spring to come. The season had gone late, as had the pregnancy. Yvette came splashing abruptly into the world with the wind outside howling of bad things ahead. There had hardly been much labor, and her mother had cried out aloud as the unnatural tettanic contractions thrust the baby too hurriedly into the world.

  Julianne’s father had not seen one born in such a way, had not heard his bride scream so horribly when the others had come. He threw himself across the damp and bloody body of Julianne’s mother and held her tightly as the blood loss turned her an awful ashen gray and her life swiftly faded.

  She died very quickly, the blood gushing from her in a river. Then, he’d sobbed—forever it had seemed. The boys were too stricken to comprehend the horror of it all and peeked from around the door jamb, unwilling to allow their minds to take in what their eyes saw.

  Julianne tugged at her father’s arm, but she could not tear the tormented man away. The blood that ran steady and bright from between her mother’s legs spilled thick to the floor where it congealed a sinister black on the tongue-and-grooves.

  Some days later, father tore the planks away, as the stains never did come up. He beat the floor with a splitting maul, shattering the wood, screaming at the audacity of it, to soak her up as it had.

  Thank God in heaven, that some of the town’s women had come right away to help clean and prepare the body. So much blood, so much life to spill. It had been too much for Father to bear.

  Julianne, twelve years old, had taken the infant girl from between her mother’s legs. The placenta had never delivered and she was forced to cut the cord with a butcher knife to separate the baby from her dead mother. She blinked back tears as she wrapped the babe in the birth blanket she and mother had fashioned lovingly for Yvette and took her to the kitchen.

  She heard her father’s sobs as she laid the baby on the kitchen table and swaddled it warmly. The intricate pink and yellow tatted butterflies were now spotted red with the blood of Julianne’s mother. Gently, she folded back the blanket and stared down at her baby sister. Wiping tears from her eyes, she could feel the smudge of blood she left on her own cheek. She carefully tied waxed thread around the cord to stop the bleeding, as she remembered seeing the midwife do when her youngest brother had been born, when she was only eight.

  Some of the old women in the town whispered that tying the cord in such a way also made it so that Satan could not get in. She softly murmured a prayer...just in case. Then, she tenderly washed and dried the new baby. There had been no time for a midwife with this delivery.

  All the while, as Julianne tended the baby, she spoke a soft prayer to her mother, that she would take care of little Yvette. They had picked the name out together and had told none of the boys. It was their secret and mother was going to announce it at her birth. She had somehow known that the babe was a girl; of this Julianne had not been able to sway her. It was to be her sister and of this her mother had been absolutely certain.

  She sobbed and shuddered as she remembered these things and promised her mother that she would care for father and her brothers too. She beseeched Mother to flee to her Lord’s feet without worry, that her family would be well tended and safe until they were eventually reunited.

  Tears ran down her nose and dripped off onto the ivory white skin of the infant. They looked like tiny, transparent pearls, and Julianne stared at them for a moment before hastily wiping them away, causing the baby to cry.

  She cared for the new babe as though it
was her own. Never once did she blame the baby for her precious mother’s death. It was just how things went sometimes; people died, this is what she told herself. Later on, Yvette asked about her mother and Julianne described her in detail, truthfully creating the memory of who she was. To Yvette, her mother became nothing short of a saint, an impression she held of her older sister as well.

  * * *

  A warm evening breeze drifted across the small meadow causing the long grasses to bend in slow waves before making its way across the windowpane. It was sweet and gentle and caused the curtains to stir as dusk crept forth and the moths came out.

  Yvette believed the moths to be ‘grass-fairies’. This is what her sister told her, and at five years of age, everything was believable. She peered out the window, squinting to bring them to focus. With the setting sun coming across the tall grass at such an angle, the blades shone transparent and the moths’ wings truly did look fairy silver.

  The little girl smiled widely, satisfied that the fairies had returned and she gave her attention back to Julianne.

  The boys sat with their father in the kitchen, discussing work and the herd. They were dairy farmers, supplying not just milk but dairy cow stock for most of the township of Marseille. Their cattle were well known to be sturdy and fine milk producers, an exceptional lineage of Braunvieh.

  Most of the cheese from the area was made from the milk of Lanviere stock, and the Lanviere men were quite proud of the reputation they held. It afforded the family a humble livelihood and was a sincere and honest trade.

  In addition, the Lanviere family lineage had remained unfettered by the dreaded bonds of serfdom and so, although modest, they were free. This was something that their father was fiercely proud of.

  Monsieur Lanviere took great care to make certain his children were well tended, possessing good manners and morals. They were good Catholic children and feared God, as it should be. Church and God were critically important to this family, as they were to most in the fourteenth century.