He finally recognized that he was Duval’s, a possession, an asset, and no more important than a fine weapon or animal. He swallowed this bitter knowledge and his jaw tightened. ‘And why shouldn’t it be so?’ He thought. ‘Men were imprisoned everyday! There was no righteousness. There was no morality—no justice! God was not here, did not walk with man. He was absent, only watching man make his mistakes.’
Tossing his dark locks away from his eyes, he blinked back tears of rage. His anger made the pit of his belly burn and he had clenched his teeth so hard that his jaw ached. There was a nagging sting between his shoulder blades from the tension.
Ravan’s neck and throat were raw and torn from the shackles, and he couldn’t take a deep breath. He tried, but agonizing coughing beset him once again. He was acutely aware that he wanted to fill his lungs, breathe a sweet sigh, inhale peace and happiness into his being again, but he didn’t know where to even look for such an elusive thing. Even the air seemed acrid.
Not moving from where he stood in the tiny imprisoned room, he tried to let the memory of the Old One, the Innkeeper’s wife, and the orphans drift back into the foreground of his thoughts and memories.
Ravan remained like this, closing his eyes, allowing the faces of each of them to play before him like a sweet song. He struggled to etch into his mind the details of them, so that he might not forget them. They seemed so sadly far away now.
He recalled the Old One with his shiny, almost-bald head, how tanned it would become in the summer, only a few sparse and wiry hairs sprouting out in all directions. His hands had seemed so ancient and kind.
This made him remember when the Old One had used those hands. The distant memory surfaced so clear and bright of when the Old One pried from his fingers the bloody plowshare. Ravan had been standing knee deep in the bloody muck of the pigsty. The Old One lifted Ravan from that gruesome, filthy scene and hugged him close. He'd whispered into his ear that the little girl would be okay—and so would he.
The faint notion of a sigh relaxed Ravan’s face and his breathing deepened.
He thought of the way the Fat Wife’s face reminded him of the moon. Taking a deep breath, he recalled the sweet glowing oval of her expression, the smile that made him feel the very same way the stars did on a warm summer’s night. He thought of the forest floor, gazing at the most remarkable beauty that was the moon and remembered the day the Fat Wife had cut his hair. His hand slid up to his neck as he looked back upon the day when she’d given him the silver chain. She had been kind, like his mother.
Deeper breathing quietly overcame him and he was just a bit calmer.
Finally, he remembered the orphans, the ebb and flow of their life as they toiled and played, and sometimes, with only great effort, they survived.
The whole lot of them blended, seemed to become a single lovely creature, purity and love as sure as there ever was such a thing. He had been one of them, an integral part of this perfect thing. It very much surprised him to have such a warm feeling so quickly overcome what was, only a short time ago, anger and hatred.
This very unexpectedly made Ravan’s eyes damp again, this time for a different reason. With surprise, he reached the heel of his hand up to sweep the tears away. He looked about himself, almost startled of his own whereabouts. Taking another small and shallow sigh, the coughing fit stayed at bay while the air flowed into him with the peace of his memories, forgiving and healing.
Then, the sweet aroma of the roast pork teased his nostrils and he rationalized that he needed to become strong, and so he ate—every last scrap.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
†
“D’ata, what has possessed you, son?” Monsignor Leoceonne raised his voice to an uncharacteristic timbre, making him sound almost female. “You disgrace me, you disgrace your father, and most of all you disgrace God and the church!” He paced the floor, his robes whirling as he spun in front of D’ata.
The abbey was dark and quiet and the father’s voice rang hollow down the empty rectory halls like a lone cow bellowing the loss of her calf. The other clergy prayed in the private confines of their own chambers, silently.
Never had there been such a scandal as this. The lovers had been caught naked in St. Aloysius, and the ornamental rug was now stained with the virgin’s blood! It was so unbearably scandalous! They had been separated, ripped from each other, wet with their sweat, blood, and carnal fornication.
D’ata’s chamber was small with low ceilings and a heavy wooden door. A single window was the only other access. A lone candle burned on the simple timbered nightstand and the narrow bed sported a solitary woolen blanket with faded cotton sheeting. A bible lay on the nightstand, opened and flipped over to hold the place.
He held his head in shame, kneeling on the stone floor before the older priest, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. “Father, I don’t know what to say.” He looked up, his tormented eyes damp. “I love her, father—I cannot bear to be away from her.” He gestured with his palms up, adding hurriedly, “Perhaps it is a horrible mistake that I have chosen this path. My father may be mistaken too! I have prayed...” His dark eyes were bloodshot, his face gaunt, his hair dulled from the emotional anguish he so recently suffered.
“Silence!” The monsignor waved him quiet. “Don’t disrespect everything that has been done on your behalf!” He shook a stubby finger penitently, “Have you any idea the work that has gone into bringing you to this station!” He slashed the air with his finger. “It is not open to debate—you will accept your ordainment without argument!”
At long last, the Monsignor stopped, breathing heavily. Missing his front teeth, his incisors intact, he looked oddly to D’ata like a fat old walrus in a black dress, complete with white collar. He shook the image from his mind and cradled his face in his hands. “Please, just tell me,” he whispered and implored the Monsignor with all the heartache in the world, “where is she? Please?”
* * *
Upon their discovery, Monsignor Leoceonne had flown into a fury. Part of his anger came from the fact that he had been entrusted with the young man’s ordainment and had evidently failed miserably. Part of his anger was that his beloved church had been so flagrantly defiled. After he raged for a good long while, he burned the lovely ornate Christ rug, with the now truly bleeding heart, behind the sanctuary. The flames had lapped hungrily at the thick wool and had burned scarlet red—Satan’s fire.
Secretly, subconsciously, a certain element of the monsignor’s hostility had been due to the carnality of the situation, a desperate act that he himself would, should, never taste.
The other priests had been summoned, the girl had been removed. D’ata had been forced into his quarters and locked inside until it could be decided what to do with him.
Monsignor Leoceonne, after his initial outrage at finding the two in such a compromising position, had thought hard about what to do next. He met with the other priests to decide what steps should be taken. It was without dispute that the papacy in Rome must be notified. Monsieur Cezanne would have to be notified of his son’s transgression as well.
It was a very volatile situation. The church in Nimes could be punished and there was sure to be an investigation, but the goal was not to remove D’ata from his theological schooling. It was more prudent to force him into submission, to break and rebuild his heart. If they could do that, then his character would be more useful, more faithful than he would have ever otherwise been.
“What do you mean, ‘Where is she?’” The monsignor yelled at D’ata, his fat jowls shaking as he shook his head furiously. “She has been sent back to her family, and her father will know of this! Believe me!” He ranted on, “You have seen the last of her, D’ata! Furthermore, if I witness another confession of the sorts which you have given me in the recent past, it will be God’s will that you shall be blinded, never to look upon one such as her again!”
“I have only told the truth!” D’ata insisted. “Surely truthfulness cannot be abominabl
e in the eyes of God?”
“You, my son, are arrogant, disobedient, and bent on destruction!” The monsignor paused to gasp for air, licking his lips from between his toothless gap. His tongue snaked out, curiously small for the size of the rest of him, especially considering the volume of what must pass over it daily. “Your disobedience has hurt many, not the least of which is the young woman you profess to love so much!”
He whirled again, his robes brushing D’ata’s knees. “And do not think that your honesty makes right with our Father the abomination of your thoughts. I cannot allow you to destroy yourself and damage so many others while you do!”
D’ata pleaded, “Please forgive me—I don’t mean to hurt anyone. It’s just that...” His head fell and he shook it, falling silent, a desperate broken figure on the cold stone floor. Outside, the winds died down, the storm fading with melancholy sympathy.
Father Leoceonne harrumphed, accepting the humbled gesture as contrition. “Good, it is a start. However, do not think your repentance will right everything overnight. There will be a summons, disciplinary measures, and your father has been notified.” He gestured smugly, arms crossed, “This could go very poorly for you, D’ata.”
The young priest looked up. “No! Dear God, no—please don’t bring my father into this, not yet!” D’ata begged,
The Monsignor would hear none of it. “It is done. There is no one to blame but yourself!” Satisfied that he’d chastened the younger man sufficiently for the evening, he believed that the horror on the young man’s face was, in fact, submissive remorse. Monsignor Leoceonne pressed his fat smooth hands together in front of himself and swirled one last time, sweeping from the room like a great juggernaut. He locked the door behind him, pocketing the key.
* * *
D’ata rose from the floor. He moved slowly to the window. For a long while he just stood, his sad, slender hands resting gently against the plastered sill. His heart broke as he remembered Julianne and the terrified look on her face as they dragged her from the church. She’d reached for him and kept saying, “No! No! You can’t!” She kicked and thrashed at the men, berating them for their narrow-mindedness. She’d even called them fourteenth century buffoons!
How could the heart ache so? For D’ata, it was a crushing, suffocating ache. Once more, she was gone. He’d promised her he would not let that happen! And after she’d come so far to find him!
Looking out through the crack between the wood of the hinged shutters, he squinted to see the night, blinking to adjust his eyes to the darkness. There was no moon as the night sky was blanketed behind what was left of the summer storm.
The window was barred from the outside. He sighed and lifted the candle to the window’s ledge. Pulling the heavy, leaded crucifix from his neck, he began to use the cross to pry loose the mortar that cemented the window hinges to the wall. It crumbled away fairly easy. The plaster was a bad mix; not enough sand had been used. Even so, it was well past midnight when the heavy wooden sash finally fell away and the window hung jauntily from the frame.
With one final heave, D’ata thrust the offensive timber aside. For a quiet moment, he leaned on tiptoe, straining to see left and right, listening.
Swilled with wine and most likely masturbated to exhaustion, the remaining priests were slumbering deeply. They would flagellate tomorrow for penance.
Satisfied that all was quiet, he thrust the mangled crucifix into his pocket and hoisted himself onto the window jamb, shimmying easily out the little opening. He tumbled quietly to the blanket of wet leaves below and glancing about, made softly into the night.
D’ata’s mind was made up, he must find her and make them understand. Palming the crucifix, the chain broken from the night’s work, he mouthed a silent prayer and stole quietly into the night, praying that God would understand, forgive, and—help him.
The bible remained face down on the bedside table. The passage was Corinthians; “Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.”
Julianne had found him. Now, he would find her.
The young lover made his way cautiously to the edge of the village before quickening his pace. The black of the woods reached out her long fingers, wrapping them delicately around the dark figure. The faintest smile spread across his lips as he realized the eminence of his escape. Smiling gently back at him, the forest received him, pulling him in, swallowing him whole.
By morning, D’ata was well away from the township and wandered south and west. He was many days from his hometown of Marseille, but he possessed nothing but time and the courage of a desperate heart. The fire in his soul fueled any weakness in his legs.
He tripped along, staying well away from any paths or roads, obscuring himself in the densest regions of the forest. The beasts of the night only watched him pass, giving him safe berth. D’ata was uncertain of his whereabouts, only having a general idea of the proper direction, but this was comforting to him. He felt safe and hidden in this uncertainty, sure that each step brought him closer to his love.
It was well into the next afternoon before D’ata paused, weary in his tracks. He sought a secluded spot to rest. Finally, he came upon a particularly friendly forest spruce with its branches reaching and brushing to the forest floor.
Crawling beneath the blanketing foliage, he scrambled up close against the trunk of the tree and stretched out, completely concealed from any unlikely traveler who may remotely pass by.
The dense umbrella of needles effectively obscured any of the afternoon light from disturbing his rest, and the forest became a friend to him, a keeper of his secrets. It swept him into its silent, hidden arms.
With a last simple prayer, the young priest pulled his robes over his head and lapsed into an exhausted slumber, his belly empty and his heart full. He dreamed—of their baby.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
†
Ravan awakened to the clanking of armor and the ringing of swords in the yard. He groaned, sat upright on the edge of the bed, and squinted against the daylight. The dirty dishes remained on the settee from the evening before. He reached for the water pitcher but had finished the last of it midway through the night.
His battered body still objected to standing full upright and he struggled to his feet. Leaning heavily on the windowsill, he squinted and tried to make out the activity outside.
Dinner had agreed with him and he felt just the tiniest bit stronger this morning as he shifted his weight from one leg to another. He was hungry again.
The corpses were gone from the courtyard. Instead, a fire raged nearby, smoldering as the tissue boiled from the bodies. He wondered if the men had been friend or foe. Perhaps this was to be his eventual fate as well.
He watched as thirty to forty men fought, mostly in pairs, sometimes three or four together. Their weapons varied from sword to axe, spear to pike, and some fought bare-fisted. There appeared to be watchers, referees of sorts, who negotiated the rules. They appointed partners and when the fighters were inadequate, flailed upon them with heavy staffs, without apparent objection.
It seemed to Ravan a ridiculous sort of conditioning. He scowled at the obscenity of it and turned his thoughts instead to the archers.
At the far end, men with longbows practiced. Their targets were rude, straw-stuffed replicas of human beings. There was also a row of pumpkins on posts, emulating heads, he presumed. The targets were varying distances, the farthest not more than three hundred paces. He studied the archers, found them average for the most part. They were fairly accurate at two hundred paces—only a few were consistent at three.
These men were the most elite of Duval’s soldiers—this Ravan knew. While anyone could point and shoot a crossbow, the long-bowmen was the most accurate and highly trained of all the soldiers, their training frequently beginning at a very young age. While the crossbow could kill at two hundred paces, in the right hands and with the right conditions, the longbow could po
ssibly kill at four.
Also, the longbow could be fired up to five times more frequently in the span of a moment than a crossbow, making it not only more precise, but more efficient. Both weapons could penetrate all but the thickest of armor; however, it was a skilled long-bowman who remained the most coveted in battle.
Ravan wondered if Duval knew of his skills at this craft, if that was what had landed him as a captive at the encampment. It was a possibility, or perhaps he was simply intended to be a foot soldier. He instantly decided that this was not likely considering the sacrifices Duval had made to bring him here.
Never mind Duval’s plans. Ravan had plans of his own, many things to think through. He turned and sat back down onto the end of the bed as he started to fabricate a strategy.
Eventually, he rose to test the door, still barred. Leaning his head against the heavy timber of the jamb, he closed his eyes and listened. He could make out the occasional soft scuffling of boots and the muttering of the guards beyond the door. “You out there—I am hungry again.”
Unable to gain their attention, he returned to stretch out on the bed and wait.
The room was cold and he pulled the blanket up over his chest, crossing his arms beneath it. Slowly straightening and retracting his leg, he willed the stiffness to leave his thigh. He breathed in and out, slow deep breaths to test his lungs, forcing gradual depth to the amount of air he could take in. He pondered Duval and hatred immediately, reflexively, stirred in his belly. It was a visceral, physical sensation, and he sucked a quick breath in.
This triggered yet another coughing fit and it was at that very moment that LanCoste, the giant, came through the door unannounced.
Ravan struggled to sit and restrain his coughing. He was able to slow his breathing and quiet the coughing somewhat, and more easily than yesterday.
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