The males sat around the kitchen table, the boys drinking scald milk. Father and sons recounted the calves dropped, the cow with the dead calf who had developed mastitis, and which bull would be entitled to breed next spring.
Yvette was too small to tend the cows yet, so she and her older sister tended to the house chores and the gardening. Yvette fed the chickens and gathered eggs. The growing season seemed very short lately and so the vegetable garden was particularly meager. But with a small flock of chickens, the meat of a culled steer or dry cow, and all the milk and cheese they could want, the family remained well fed. They led, for the most part, a sustaining and satisfying life.
This was a blessing, and the family realized this, for much of the country suffered even for food. It seemed that France was experiencing a pull and tug between powers. The church and state struggled, and it was the commoner who carried the suffering of these times. It was not uncommon to have beggars wander as far as the Lanviere farm in search of food, even with children in tow.
* * *
Years had gone by, and Julianne kept her promises. She was a guardian angel. The goodness in her was equaled only by a fierce protection of her loved ones, should anyone dare threaten or offend her beloved family.
Julianne had been forced to grow up too soon, but regarded her role with indifference. Many in the village suffered just as she did. Many women died with childbirth and sometimes so did their babies. Julianne was grateful. Her blood ran with fire, the fire of the Lanviere lineage. Her father was a dairy farmer but her ancestors were warriors, descended from the Netherlands. Norsemen, she was told they were—and fierce fighters.
Monsieur Lanviere passed this strength on to his daughter. Julianne prayed her thanks to God for this. It was good, for she believed a woman could not be too strong. She carried her commitment to her family with a grave responsibility that showed deeply in her charcoal eyes.
Tonight, Julianne sat reading to Yvette, snug in their nightshifts and stocking feet, legs outstretched on the feather-stuffed bed. She read to her little sister from the complete collections of Sister Frances’s Manners for Gentle Ladies, the chapter on how to entertain company. It was little Yvette's favorite volume as she fancied herself quite the ‘lady’. She was very feminine, not the tomboy her sister was.
Julianne would have much rather read from the poetry of Christine de Pisan, or the controversial writings of the fascinating Jean De Meung. It perplexed her that her baby sister was such a girl! Yvette liked the pink flowers best, loved to play tea, and told Julianne all about her eventual wedding day—most certainly to a prince.
Tonight, as Julianne murmured the words, “A true lady is to be chaperoned on all affairs, with moments of private conversation to be carefully directed by a guardian and forthwith, necessarily short,” her thoughts were considerably elsewhere.
Julianne read mechanically, speaking but not hearing. Her thoughts were of her afternoon with the young priest. She blushed as she recalled how irrationally she had screamed and kicked at D’ata when she tripped in the field. Her face flushed as she relived the kiss, repeatedly, with the feel of his arms around her, his lips brushing against hers—his tongue probing hers.
She shook her head involuntarily.
“What is chaperoned?” Yvette suddenly asked her sister.
“Hmm?” Julianne pulled herself begrudgingly back to the present. She closed the book, her thumb guarding the page. Distracted, she looked out at the moth fairies fluttering about on the evening breezes. They rode the updrafts created as the warm earth quarreled with the descending evening air.
“What is chaperoned? You said it, reading—just now,” Yvette insisted.
Julianne fanned herself with her other hand.
“It means when a lady is in the presence of a suitor, she is to have a chaperone. Mmm—someone else, usually an older woman, who is present to keep things proper I suppose.” She peered down at her little sister to see if her explanation was adequate.
“What is a suitor then?”
Julianne smiled wryly, looking at the cherub face of her precious baby sister. She squeezed her knee to make her squeal in delight. “Oh, that’s a gentleman, like a boy—who’s a friend, only more.”
“Like Monsieur D’ata is to you?” Yvette looked innocently up at Julianne, her eyes enormous and sparkling.
She may as well have struck her sister across the face, Julianne was so dumfounded. “What makes you say that, Yvette? Who told you that?” she demanded. She was stunned, and suddenly much more attentive than she’d been seconds before. Shifting on the bed, so she could look directly at her baby sister, she demanded, a bit too harshly, “Who gave you such a notion?”
Unaware that she’d said so much more than she had intended, Yvette pouted. “Nobody. It’s just that, well—I heard Father making such a noise about it out on the lawn yesterday, and the boys say so.” Then her eyes lit up. “Maybe it’s because you weren’t properly chaperoned?” Yvette seemed instantly satisfied and swung her legs so that her stockings crept down around her ankles, refusing to succumb to her sister’s sudden bad humor. She grinned up at Julianne, her baby teeth charmingly crooked.
Julianne waved her hand and set the book on the night table. “Monsieur D’ata is a friend—only a friend. Do you understand? You shouldn’t listen to rumors,” she scolded Yvette. “Surely you know that he is ordained into the priesthood.” Her argument was weak, even for Yvette’s sake.
Yvette reached for the book, not ready to finish yet. “Yes, mmm, but that doesn’t mean he cannot be your suitor, does it?” She cocked her head to one side. “That would be sad.”
“Well—yes it does mean that.” Julianne was at an immediate loss for explanation when she saw the look of confusion in her sister’s eyes. There was definite confusion in her own heart as well. “I know it’s hard to understand, but we could never be more than friends. It wouldn’t be right with God, now would it?” The question was meant to convince herself as much as her sister, but it did nothing to enlighten either of them.
Julianne reached to pull her own stockings from her feet. She struggled with the feeling of sadness that suddenly blanketed her heart. A heaviness weighed in her stomach whenever she considered she might never see him again.
“I wish he was my suitor,” the child giggled, flopping back on the bed.
Julianne’s mouth dropped open as she watched her sister wriggle on the bed. She abandoned her own troubled feelings, laughing and tickling Yvette. The little girl shrieked with glee, slid off the bed and lay panting helpless on the floor. Julianne slid off the bed to join her.
They lay side by side on the planks, staring for a bit at the ceiling as the sun crept in golden red ribbons across the beams. They looked at each other, wordless, sharing something that only sisters can.
Finally, Julianne leaned over and kissed Yvette on the forehead. She shuffled her into bed, tucking her in with sheets only, because it was so hot. “Well, perhaps we will keep this our secret. If we tell, it might go away,” Julianne offered kindly.
Yvette nodded in total agreement and smiled again. “Our secret, because he would be the perfect suitor.”
The wisdom of a five year old lay heavy on her heart later, when Julianne stole away to the wild flower garden behind the cottage. The days were so much longer lately. She wanted to be alone as the evening cooled, to think things through. She was so confused, and this was very unlike her.
Sitting on the bank of the creek, she leaned against the old willow, watching the moon. A water wheel slopped lazily, sending drinking in the south pasture. A favorite volume of poetry dangled loose in her hand but remained closed. There was no poem as sad or poignant as Julianne was at this moment. It was so unfair that it should be this way.
As she and D’ata walked home the evening before, after the horse had bolted—such a clever beast, they had talked quite a bit. At other times they wandered along in comfortable silence. It had been so perfect, so wonderful. Julianne happily and
cautiously thought of it as a day she would never forget, knowing that to covet it would be to invite the wrath of God.
The evening had seemed to pass so swiftly. They’d wandered through the countryside and Julianne recalled when they approached a fallen tree on the path to Julianne’s home. It hadn’t really been all that tall, and she’d hopped across it easily many times before, on the way to the river.
D’ata had reached out instinctively to catch her by the elbow to help her over it.
Ordinarily, she would disdain such a gesture, but from him it just seemed—kind. Now, she absentmindedly rubbed her elbow where he’d touched her. She closed her eyes, sighed and allowed her mind to return to their walk together.
While approaching Julianne’s home and the end of their journey, D’ata hesitated, looking back down the road from where they’d come.
Julianne paused and turned to see why he stalled.
He turned back to her and gazed into her eyes. “I must see you again,” he said suddenly. His hair was tousled and he was so dark and enduring before her. His was beauty of another kind, like a storm.
Julianne stepped close, peering up at him. “You know that it would be ill-advised for us to see each other again. They will disapprove.” She stayed close, unable to step away.
“It doesn’t matter. What is meant to be is meant to be,” he whispered, his voice deep and smoky.
She reached up as though she would touch him but did not. “What is meant to be is not necessarily the way of things.” She was so close to him that her lips practically brushed the laces of his shirt lapels.
Julianne lifted her face to look into the eyes of this stranger.
His eyes were closed, his chest rising and falling, his lips parted. He was frozen.
She laid her palms against his chest and he seemed to startle beneath them. The steady cadence of his heart was strong, steadfast—right.
Time suspended and circled the two of them, a dairy farmer’s daughter and unlikely priest. Then, without warning, Julianne stood on tiptoe to let her lips brush against his. It just seemed the right thing to do. She had read about encounters like this, had snorted her derision at the cliché of it all. Now, she questioned her lack of insight into what she’d believed. ‘Could this be? Dare she even believe it to be true?’ she wondered silently.
His eyes opened and he seemed to look deeply into hers, as though into her heart. Then they kissed again. This time neither pushed away and eternity was lost. The silent eddy of their souls merged and swept between them. There was no past, no future, no consequence. Time ceased and forever was this moment. It was as if it had always been so and always would be. They kissed deeply, spiritually and passionately—as one.
When they parted, there were tears in Julianne’s eyes.
“Oh—why do you cry, have I hurt you? Is it because I—?”
“Shh, no,” she interrupted. “Oh, no. It’s just that…” She shook her hands, as though she could shake away the wrong of it. “Don’t you see? This is a mistake. This will cause such tribulation! Your family will not allow this.” She stepped away from him, blinking tears away. She refused to cry again, despite the horrible irony of it all. “D’ata, I’m sorry; what was I thinking?”
“Julianne, stop. Please, don’t say that. I will speak to my father. You will see.” He reached for her.
“No!” She stepped away. “No,” more gently, “you know as well as I what they expect. This whole township knows you. All of Marseille knows you, has expectations of you.” She tried to reason with him but had to look away, torn at the injustice that was life and the look on his face. There was no right or wrong. Things just were, and sometimes there was no making it what you wanted it to be.
“Besides, don’t you see? You’re practically a priest as it is! God will be angry with us.” It was painful to look at him, to see him stand before her with the hurt in his eyes, as he listened to her words.
“You have done nothing wrong. Let me deal with God on my terms,” he spoke defiantly and stepped towards her.
“No! I mean...” She sidestepped him, stalling. It would be so easy to believe him, to disavow society, the rest of the world, and eternity. But she’d lost her mother at the whim of fate, and so she believed she had an insight beyond eternity. “Let’s give this time,” she diverted the conversation, looking away. “I must get home now.” She turned to continue down the path.
He caught her hand, “Promise me.”
“What?”
He appeared wounded, tormented, “Promise me that you will not let life here on earth destroy this. Promise me that you will see me again.” He spoke urgently as though there was a great beyond, an escape, a door they must go through before it would shut forever. D'ata held her hand firmly, waiting for an answer
She hesitated, taking in his words, feeling his strong hand around hers. She allowed her fingers to lace into his. “You know I will,” she smiled sadly and shrugged, glancing away, “at mass, if nowhere else.”
Now Julianne regretted her words.
The moths disappeared, settling into the grass as dusk fell. Her palms sweated with the warmth of the evening and her memories. She leaned against the old willow tree, digging her heels into the soft earth, watching the moon. It was beautiful and sad, hanging there—a thumbnail crescent in the eastern sky.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
†
The Dungeon: Eleven p.m.
D’ata suddenly stopped speaking and looked out of the cell, squinting to try to see into the darkness.
“What is it?” Ravan asked.
“I don’t know—I thought I just saw someone, out of the corner of my eye. I thought I heard a voice. Someone there, down the hall.”
Ravan’s eyes narrowed as he also looked away, down the hall. “It was probably just one of the other prisoners, moving in the night.”
D’ata shifted, unsure and uncomfortable, “Hmmm...I could have sworn I saw someone.”
Ravan waved it away. “It’s probably nothing. You’re just letting the accommodations get to you. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re not exactly entertaining the King's court.”
“Maybe...” D’ata shrugged. Satisfied it was nothing, he settled back in to the quiet exchange he was having with his brother, while the book of their young lives opened even more.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
†
Pierre Steele had immediately enlisted his services to Duval. He was not a trained mercenary like the rest of the men and had no serious potential either, but Duval was content to get what work he could from him. Perhaps with Steele he could buffer the losses he'd taken with the chase of the boy.
Nearly a week had gone by at the Inn and Duval decided that Ravan had healed enough to be transported. He hadn't looked in on his prisoner, not even once since their conversation, but guards were stationed at Ravan’s room and around the Inn to prevent another attempt at escape.
It was a ridiculous gesture really. Ravan could scarcely make it from his bed to the door. The guards peeped through the doorjamb at intervals, curious of the gangly youth who’s capture had demanded such resource of Duval. Ravan ignored their stares, intent on recovery, strength—and revenge.
Steele was driven entirely by rage, by the disfigurement Ravan had vested upon him. The wound was hideous, and Pierre was prone to proud flesh. The wound had already started to calcify in his nasal passages, and he was increasingly forced to breathe from his mouth, making his breathe putrid and his mouth forever dry. The ragged red and purple suture line mended uneven, stretching the surrounding skin in tented pockets, and it took on more and more the effect of a freak as time went by.
It enraged him when he heard giggles behind his back and no amount of fury appeared to stifle the observations of women. He was a terribly vain man and, despite his gross obesity and otherwise unattractiveness, he was convinced that his new appearance made him considerably less appealing than he otherwise should be.
Pierre vowed to finish his initia
l intent with the boy. He fantasized about the rape, losing himself in his self-gratification, masturbating violently. Naked images of the boy coalesced in and out of his sordid mind, always culminating in an orgasmic murder.
Duval’s men kept close notice and reported the progress of the young captive. Ravan’s breathing seemed one-sided still, as though he couldn’t catch his breath, and the slightest effort winded him. The swollen left eye had shrunk enough that he could finally see from it, the deep laceration over it healing quickly. His right thigh, impaled through and through during his fall, seemed to trouble him, but with great effort, he was able to hobble about the room.
Pierre watched him with great interest, planning his moment of revenge. It was becoming an obsession for him. He reported to Duval that Ravan’s color was not so ashen and that the fire in his eyes was beginning to burn brightly once more. Steele was not sure what caused the fire to be there, believing vainly that is was the boy’s fear of him that caused it—that the boy sensed what his fate would be. Pierre did not speak of this anyone. He only told Duval what he wanted him to hear, that the boy could travel.
“Then, we leave tomorrow,” Duval announced.
Outside, the snow piled deep. Winter woke up from its yawn and bellowed like a hungry bear upon Limoge. Icicles hung frostily down in front of the windowpanes like prison bars, ritualistically completing Ravan’s entrapment.
* * *
By keeping his clothes from him, Duval made Ravan vulnerable. It was just another safeguard against him trying to escape, a pathetic notion really. The boy hobbled about the room with his bedclothes wrapped around him. Sometimes, he leaned heavily against the windowpane, looking out at the birds that flitted from bough to bough in the barren pecan trees, trying to escape the winter’s torment. He absently slid the copper ring up and down the silver chain, and it made a soft “whirr-whirr” sound. Ravan was going nowhere.
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