The Execution

by Sharon Cramer

  The light archer’s armor clinked softly like stacking coins as the figure swept like a juggernaut past the surprised Adorno, overshadowing the delicate little man. The warrior almost knocked Adorno from his feet, completely oblivious to the smaller man’s presence.

  Adorno straightened himself and immediately started to sputter his objections.

  The apocalyptic creature ignored him, stopping instead at the head of the table, facing Duval. He heaved a severed head, his fingers entangled in the hair, and deposited it with a heavy thud onto the table.

  The eyes of the trophy were still open, sunken, and opaque blue with decay and filth. It reeked of rot, and the impact caused it to ooze out the open mouth onto the table, one final insult for the fate it had endured.

  Duval was more than a small bit amused and glanced casually up at his mercenary. He waited—enjoying Adorno’s sputtering indignation, rage and appall.

  “They are all dead,” the mercenary offered. His dark face was impassive. “We have lost seven. LanCoste is injured but will recover.” The man reached up to his neck, gently reaffirming that a silver chain was still there. He hesitated, then as though realizing he remained in the presence of others, he stated simply, “I will be in my quarters,”

  “Ravan—” Duval said.

  The ghastly harbinger had turned to leave, but stopped on his heel only as his master addressed him. There was a long pause as the room settled like old dust. Ravan did not turn back around but looked over his shoulder, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his bastard sword. One eyebrow rose ever so slightly as he waited. He was confused, and his ebony eyes turned, just barely, to a deep chocolate brown.

  This was not the usual manner of things. Normally Ravan was allowed at least several days to himself before being sent on another mission. Duval knew this was how Ravan favored it.

  His most profitable mercenary asked for almost nothing, but his short reprieves of privacy were necessary for him to walk the fragile line of sanity that Duval had come to recognize the man treaded. Ravan balanced the precarious shift of life and death with a mind-numbing instability, and Duval sometimes sensed when he was shifting towards the cliff’s edge.

  Duval looked directly at the sputtering man at the end of the table who held a satin-gloved hand across his mouth to staunch an obvious impulse to wretch. A faint smile appeared on Duval's face.

  “Ravan...meet Adorno.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  †

  D’ata urged the old mare into a slow, labored trot as he approached the small farm that belonged to Julianne’s aunt and uncle. Henri had been invaluable in helping D’ata find directions to the modest little farm.

  Julianne’s aunt and uncle, like her father, were also dairy farmers. Their cattle were similarly well known for quality.

  He had only gotten off track twice but had garnered help from some of the local farmers. Because D’ata had a kind face, strangers were naturally compelled to assist him and since most knew of the good dairy farmer he sought, he was considerately shown the way. Finally, he found himself at the edge of the farm and his long sought-after destination.

  His excitement mounted at the thought of seeing her again. The old gray mare tossed her head, snorting her objection as D’ata thumped heavily on her ribs with his heels.

  The horse was almost twenty-five, her eyes milky with cataracts, her back swayed, and her hooves long and wide like shovels. It was not in her disposition to do anything more than amble and she pinned her ears back in frustration. Despite D’ata’s insistence, she lumbered back into a plodding walk, tossing her head again in protest. D’ata gave up pushing her.

  Pausing at the edge of the woods, he slid from the horse, patting her briefly on the neck, “You’re a good old girl, aren’t you.” He took a moment to pull the bridle and deposit a few armloads of dried grass in front of the mare and tethered her out of sight.

  Continuing on foot, he made his way to the edge of the cornfield. It was now early December and the already harvested corn stalks, sad and frail, appeared to woefully truss the heavy, gray sky. Taking care to shield himself within the remains of the weather beaten stalks, he reached the edge of the field, squatting on his heels to watch—and wait.

  It was late afternoon and cold. Drizzling rain started to fall. His clothes were soon damp and steam lifted from his shoulders as his body fought valiantly to stay warm. He was unsure of the hour as there was no sun by which to gain perspective, but his internal clock told him that the day was in the winter of its life. With time, the dull wet blue of afternoon slipped and gave way to gray. Darkness threatened as dusk pounded upon the door, and still he waited.

  Praying that he would see her before the last light faded, he also prayed that she was all right and the baby healthy. He desperately needed to sleep and his eyes played tricks on him. The tiny farmhouse would vanish from sight altogether. He would blink again, relieved when it reappeared.

  After a while, he reached back, massaging his calf muscles, rubbing away the burning that had set in from squatting for so long. He pulled the farmers jacket closed around his neck as best he could and rubbed absently at the beard stubble on his chin. As he waited he started to softly hum a hymn, and then he prayed again.

  D’ata’s eyes never left the small cottage and when finally a young woman carrying buckets backed out of the front door, his heart leapt into his throat. He stood up suddenly and awkwardly, tumbling back to the ground, his legs refusing to obey him, paralyzed from squatting so long.

  The young woman had a thick long scarf obscuring her hair and face, but as she turned her barely swollen belly came into view.

  D’ata knew, even from the distance, the movement of the woman. He recognized instantly the way she carried herself. Memories rushed back upon him, of the first time he’d seen her sitting in the church, of her reading on the tree stump by the river, of how beautiful she was that night when... His eyes blurred as he blinked desperately, willing the image to be real. When it didn’t disappear he knew instantly that it was his lovely Julianne.

  As she made her way towards the barn D’ata crossed the little meadow, vaulting easily over the rail fence that was all that separated him from the barn and all the happiness he had ever known.

  * * *

  Julianne lit the lamp she would use to milk the cow and hung the lamp on an overhead hook. She still appeared unaware of the intruder that had stolen in behind her.

  The cow blinked, turning her head to look at the humans, her cowbell clanking softly. With a shake of her head she turned back to her manger and the meager ration of oats the cold, short summer had provided her. She was unconcerned with the humans’ presence, anticipating the impending relief that milking would provide her.

  “There’s a good lady,” Julianne spoke gently to the cow, her fair white hand pushing softly on the animal’s velvety flank. She moved the cow gently over in the stall so that she could sit beside her.

  Turning to reach for the milking stool, Julianne startled as she saw the shaded figure standing in the shadows. Dropping the stool, she backed away. As the figure stepped from the dark, her fear was instantly replaced with overwhelming emotion as she recognized the lovely, lonely man before her.

  Her emotions came rocketing to the surface as the anguish of the last three months was released in one sweeping moment. She sobbed as she quickly scanned the thin and ragged figure, finally resting on the forsaken face and those beautiful, somber eyes. “Oh,” was all she could manage.

  They closed the gap, grasping onto one another as a drowning man might grasp for a lifeline, and just stood, clinging desperately to each other, disbelieving—afraid to let go. They pulled each other closer, unwilling to move for fear the dream might dissolve.

  D’ata wrapped her in his arms, hugging her so tightly that it took her breath away. He inhaled deeply, smelling the scent of her as though he were pulling her into his world again, erasing their separation and despair.

  Julianne’s arms
slipped beneath the tattered jacket and work shirt. She slid her hands up, then down his ribs, feeling the weight he'd lost, his skin hot to the touch. She hugged him tightly, as though he might vanish again. “Oh, how much I love you!” she exclaimed.

  He closed his eyes, sighed, and kissed her deeply, turning her face gently up to his.

  If someone had walked in on them just then, they would have seen something much like a Campione sculpture, in every way as tragically beautiful as the artist’s short life.

  D’ata’s hand slid down to her swelling belly, caressing the small, firm roundness of it. “It’s all right now. We are together again,” he whispered into her ear, kissing the top of her head, allowing his lips to linger against the sweet silkiness of her hair. “I will never again let us be parted.”

  “I am with child,” she said softly, her face buried against his chest.

  “I know. I have always known.”

  Perplexed, she looked up at him.

  He smiled, “I am a godly man and a good man, Julianne. God has blessed me. This child belongs.”

  The words were uncommon, mature beyond the tender years of the one who stood before her.

  She smiled warmly, but it suddenly faded. “D’ata, they will not allow us to be together. They’ll find out and—”

  He shushed her, his finger soft against her trembling lips. “Don’t worry—we’ll leave and go far away.” He grasped her arms gently, gazing intently into her eyes. “We’ll go to Italy, my love. There we can build a life together.”

  She searched his eyes for truth, wanting to believe it could be so.

  He pulled her close again. “We’ll hide next to the sea. We can watch the tides turn and our children grow. You’ll see—it will be all right.”

  She looked away toward the farmhouse, chewing her lip. “And our families?”

  “Our families cannot be helped, Julianne.” His face was somber with regret of his own, but he shook his head firmly. “They may never accept what we mean to each other.”

  Julianne was saddened as she struggled with the thought of leaving. “But, my little sister—what of Yvette?” Her voice caught in her throat and she let out one choking sob before the grief of the inevitable overwhelmed her. “I never thought I would see you again!” She collapsed against him, her words catching as she struggled to speak. “Your father, and the church—they have been searching for you.” She blinked back tears.

  “All the more reason why we must be gone as quickly and silently as possible.” He kissed her again, reassuringly. “Julianne—trust God, trust me. It will be all right, I promise you this.”

  She forced a smile, brushing the tears hastily away and nodded bravely. “Yes, of course. You are right. Let us be gone from here.”

  D’ata hugged her again, closely, and then they sank into the straw by the dairy cow to make their escape plans together.

  * * *

  Julianne finished milking the cow. Then, under the pretense of cleaning up after supper, she fixed a small sack of food, enough to last a day or so. She packed bread, cheese, boiled eggs, salted pork, and dried radishes. Then, excusing herself to bed, she layered her clothes and pulled on three pairs of stockings.

  Waiting until she was sure her aunt and uncle had gone to bed and were sleeping soundly, she crawled from beneath the covers of her bed. Hearing her uncle’s snoring reverberating through the wall, she stole quietly out the back door. Stumbling, she made her way across the dark back yard to the small stable. Her feet knew the path and her heart pounded as she covered the short distance to the barn.

  Julianne left behind a letter to her aunt and uncle.

  It was true they’d been fiercely condemning of her pregnant state and berated the unborn bastard child, but they had kindly given her safe haven and a place to work until the baby was born. After the birth it would be decided what to do with the babe. Most likely it would be raised away from society as the bastard that it was, eventually to become a common laborer. It would be only woefully welcomed into the Lanviere family of dairy farming.

  She folded the note carefully, tucking it under the kitchen table candle where she knew it would be found first thing in the morning. She wiped tears away with the hem of her shawl as she recalled her written words to her aunt and uncle.

  'Please don’t worry for me. I am happy and will be safe from harm. I know how you feel about this, how my father feels. I know you disapprove but I want my child, and I want him to know his father. I love D’ata and we are going away. Whatever life we may have together, condemned by this world, would be better to me than eternity in good grace without him.

  Please tell my father and my brothers that I love them dearly, and please give Yvette my books. Tell her she is my Jeanne d’Arc and that I am so proud of her. I love you both. Please try to be happy for me. May God keep you in his grace always, Julianne.'

  * * *

  D’ata waited impatiently for her to come to the stable. He paced nervously in the straw and the bay gelding tossed its head and swished its tail, absorbing the human’s tension.

  When D’ata heard the stable door creak and saw her step into the dim candlelight, he breathed out a sigh of relief.

  She smiled warmly and handed him the small sack of provisions. “For the journey,” she said.

  When the pair finally left, it was well past midnight and as though God wished them good journey, the clouds broke apart into lacy, milky fragments to reveal a beaming full moon. It easily lit their path as they rode quietly into the night—heaven’s light guiding their way.

  They doubled together on the big gelding to make better time. The mare would never have tolerated both their weights as the gelding now did. She remained behind, munching hay from a crib in the barn.

  D’ata sat behind with his arms snug around his precious Julianne to stabilize her should the horse start at something in the night. His breath was warm on the back of her neck and for now, all was right in the world.

  The hours passed, seemingly only a moment as they quietly rejoiced in their reunion, in feeling the closeness of each other. They spoke in whispers, both knowing the precarious situation that they were in, the terrible risk of it all and the magnitude of the potential loss that was at stake.

  “I love you,” D’ata breathed into her ear.

  She reached a gloved hand up behind her to caress the cheek of the man who spoke these words to her.

  As morning approached, D’ata slid from the animal’s back to allow it a reprieve from the extra weight.

  “Please stop, D’ata. I must rest a bit, “Julianne begged him, the weight of the child heavy within her pelvis.

  “No, my love. This first day, we must put as much distance between your uncle’s house and ourselves as we possibly can.” He tried to sound encouraging.

  “Then, I should like to walk for a bit.” She shifted her weight on the animal, reaching for D’ata so that he could help her down, resolved to have her way.

  He sighed, knowing it would slow them. Her stride was half his as a result of her pregnancy. All the same, he reached for her, swinging her gently to the ground. Her strong will would not be denied—this he had learned that very first day when they’d walked from the river to her home together. It occurred to him that he'd known her forever; she was that much a part of him already.

  He allowed her to walk in front and set the pace most comfortable.

  She glanced back at him. “I believe you will have a son.”

  He thought happily how many things he would do differently for this child. He would be the one to take him or her to mass. He would teach this one to ride, to lace their boots, and to work hard and be kind. He halted these thoughts, unwilling to presume too much. “A son or a daughter—I love them already as I’ve loved no other.”

  “Mmm, a daughter would give you much to learn,” Julianne mused aloud. “All fathers should have at least one daughter.” She lifted her skirts to step over a fallen timber.

  D’ata thought about this
for quite some time.

  They moved on slowly. D’ata’s heart was tranquil; his mind, however, was not. It nagged with trepidation. He recognized the seriousness of their situation and the need to put miles behind them. He glanced behind again and as miserable as it would be, he prayed for rain to obliterate the scent from the hounds should they come.

  * * *

  Back at the dairy farm, Julianne’s aunt had discovered the letter and run to her husband. They’d feared the worst and the worst had happened. That impetuous young man had come and taken dear Julianne from them, certainly exposing her to untold dangers. And her with child—it was preposterous!

  Her uncle harnessed the mare to the carriage and made his way to town, to send word to Monsieur the Baron of Cezanne. As though the mare knew of the whole situation, she objected, snorting her refusal to break from her ambling walk, giving the escapees' precious minutes more.

  Five evenings later, the Baron was notified and an urgent conference was held.

  The Baron, Julianne’s father, her two eldest brothers, and her uncle were present.

  The archbishop Leopold had also been notified and entered in a whirlwind of robes, a good half hour into the meeting. He was also flanked by father Leoceonne. The archbishop’s primary concern, and the position of the church, was in securing the young priest. The Baron agreed. Julianne’s welfare was hardly mentioned and only in regard to securing the Baron’s ward.

  Archbishop Leopold gestured, palms up. “I am afraid it is the work of the devil.” He paced slowly, deliberately. “Satan has so afflicted our young D’ata so that he knows not the tragedy of his actions.”

  “He should die, and I would gladly run him through!” Julianne’s father was incensed. “My daughter is a good girl and were it not for that heathen you call a priest, she would be safe at home!” He continued quickly, gesturing towards the Baron, “And were it not for gold, the fiend would be on the gallows!”