The Execution

by Sharon Cramer

  Julianne’s eldest brother piped in, “And there has been no one to tend the chores and cook since this has all happened!” He stomped his foot for emphasis.

  “Perhaps, were it not for your daughter and her promiscuous ways, D’ata would also be safely at home!” Monsieur Cezanne rose from his chair to confront Julianne’s father.

  The tension in the room thickened and settled over the small crowd like stench on forgotten swill.

  “Gentlemen, please!” The Archbishop stepped between the two men, dramatic in his countenance. “The situation is delicate, and should the devil have his way, harm could come to D’ata—and the girl. Let’s be reasonable...”

  He allowed a moment for his words to sink in, then added, “None of us benefit from hasty decisions or insensible behaviors. We are civilized men.”

  He motioned to the chairs, encouraging them to be seated, to regain composure. “Our primary concern is God’s will. All must be placed in His hands.” He bowed his head in feigned reverence as he spoke.

  “The Archbishop is right,” Julianne’s uncle interjected. “Our priorities should be to get them both home safely, as I believe God would want.”

  There were murmurs of agreement from the crowd. By nightfall, decisions had been made and a search party had been organized. There was no indication which direction the pair might have gone and it would take time to determine the trail.

  The Baron provided quick and sturdy mounts for all. There was no time to be lost. Before long a search party had been organized.

  Henri wrung his hands as the party stormed from the courtyard, scattering pigeons as they thundered away.

  Four weeks later, D’ata and Julianne had scarcely a day and a half start on them—and the gap was closing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  †

  Duval was surprised at how little resistance he met from Ravan over his new and sudden assignment.

  The mercenary stood before his master, outwardly the epitome of the savage he'd become. For all his horrible countenance, none knew the man beneath the armor. No one speculated upon the heart or the soul of this one. Blood and death were the mantle this man wore. The child fleeing through the woods was nowhere to be seen.

  “How long?” was all Ravan asked.

  “Until I say that you have finished.”

  Ravan processed this, stoic, staring at his feet.

  Duval wondered if his mercenary had even heard him.

  At last, Ravan nodded, turning to leave.

  “Oh—and Ravan?”

  He halted, but did not turn back towards Duval.

  Duval drummed his fingers softly on the table before he spoke, “He will be easy to hate Ravan, but he is of no use to me dead.”

  Slowly, Ravan looked back over his shoulder. “I know my job. Do you think all I know is how to kill?”

  Duval was surprised by the question and slightly unsettled by his mercenary’s expression. Ravan's face was blank, but his eyes always seemed to speak of something else, something Duval never quite calibrated. “No, it is just what you do best,” then as if an afterthought, “and take LanCoste with you.”

  “You waste your resources. How many can it take to defend him?”

  “Do as I say, Ravan—it is not your place to ask why.”

  “As you wish” Ravan murmured and strode from the room.

  Duval pulled absently at his beard, watching his mercenary leave. Ravan always did just as he was ordered, ever since the Innkeeper's wife had been disposed of. Why then did Ravan feel the need to question this assignment? Surely, he did not now prefer the slaughter of battle to standing easy watch over a tyrant? Also, it was unlike Ravan to not prefer the company of LanCoste; the two seemed to have developed a symbiosis of late.

  He started to question his decision to send Ravan. Perhaps, he was too talented a warrior to waste on an assignment such as this. Maybe the mercenary was right, sending LanCoste was a waste of resources. Duval wondered if he made the decision to send Ravan in haste, to shake the sniveling Adorno to his core.

  Prone to rumination, Duval argued further with himself, playing his own devil’s advocate. Perhaps Adorno was hated enough to require two bodyguards. Besides, Ravan could not guard Adorno all the time—he needed to sleep sometime. Duval came to the conclusion that the heinous little despot would eventually be a sure target for assassination, and almost certainly while he slept. It would reflect poorly on Duval if Adorno was assassinated. Therefore, Duval concluded that he needed two bodyguards.

  He shrugged his feelings of apprehension off, going back to the ledgers that lay before him. He'd enjoyed the spectacle Ravan created when he’d walked in with Adorno here, and pride kept him from changing his mind. He smiled for a brief moment at the memory and told himself it would only be for a while, until Ravan selected and trained one of Adorno’s own soldiers to the task. Then, Duval would have him back. Until then, Adorno’s gold could not be denied.

  * * *

  The next morning, Ravan and LanCoste set out for the township of Adorno’s estate, LanCoste leading. Ravan seemed particularly reticent this morning, and the giant did not press him about it.

  For as much as they worked together, Ravan and LanCoste spoke very seldom. They did, however, develop an implied language. It was efficient and not without a certain camaraderie. LanCoste glanced back at his companion and Ravan made eye contact only briefly. He shrugged and then squinted, as if to search the hills about them.

  It was en route to their new assignment that they deviated somewhat from their designated course, to a small lodge along the way.

  Ravan stood on the crest of the little knoll overlooking the Inn. He paused, trying to swallow a thickness which had formed in the back of his throat since seeing the familiar building, smaller than he remembered. He saw the blanket of forest that spanned behind the Inn, remembered hunting, running and playing there. It all seemed a very long time ago. LanCoste rode up next to him, but Ravan’s thoughts were somewhere far away by then.

  His memories flooded back to him and wrapped around him like a warm blanket as though it was only yesterday. He was surprised to feel tears in his eyes and was confused by the heaviness on his chest. Bewildered, he brushed the tears away. ‘It must be the wind,’ he thought to himself.

  The wind shifted and Ravan could suddenly smell the familiar aromas of succulent roast pork and sweet bread pudding. It was unexpectedly nostalgic and comforting to him. He briefly wondered who cooked for Monsieur LaFoote now that she wasn’t there anymore.

  Reaching absently into his vest, his fingers wrapped gently around the thin silver braid of hair tucked in his tunic pocket. He gritted his teeth. He was here for one reason alone, to re-claim Pig-Killer from the bottom of the barley barrel. She had hidden it there, nearly five years ago, and he had unfinished business to take care of. The knife would be needed for this unfinished business. It had its own destiny.

  LanCoste said nothing, only sat his horse without words or questions. His eyes squinted deeply, studying the young warrior at his side, and then he simply nodded.

  Ravan knew the giant would wait for him here, for hours if need be.

  He approached the Inn stealthily from the north side, and to the rear—the direction from which he'd so often dragged his kill when he had hunted for the LaFoote’s. The splitting axe was resting against a small heap of firewood, split by another’s hand now. He paused at the heavy door, laying his palm against the rough hewn wood encasement. Closing his eyes and leaning his head against the door, he allowed the memories to wash over him.

  Time ceased. The cyclone of the past swept abruptly against him and for a good long while he was lost. When he was all of a sudden startled back to the present by the boisterous laughter erupting from within the tavern, it occurred to him that the sun had sunk another hand’s breadth deeper. He shook his head, clearing the hauntings from his mind, and focused on what he must do.

  Pushing the iron catch, Ravan eased the door open and slipped qui
etly into the kitchen. He was overwhelmed as he looked about himself. Nothing was changed! The enormous stew pots hung as always upon their heavy iron spits. One bubbled slowly with what must be a leek and turnip stew. The pig he'd smelled from the distance lay wrapped in wet cheese cloth in the fire pit, roasting slowly, the damp smokiness of its own casing rising in threads up the chimney flu. Ravan knew the meat would literally fall succulent and sweet from the carcass when it was done.

  He turned and saw the stool he used to fall asleep on, still in the corner near the blackened iron stove. He remembered sitting on that stool as she cut his hair, and—

  No! This served no purpose! He shook himself from the heavy wrappings of his past, setting himself firmly to accomplish his task and be away from here. He was surprised that he trembled. There was nothing to be afraid of anymore as Ravan no longer feared his own mortality. Death would be a welcome visitor at any time.

  So what was it that made him tremble now?

  He stepped to the pantry and slid the wooden lid from the barley barrel, second one from the left, as always. His arms sunk easily to the bottom as he plunged them down, almost to the shoulders.

  There was a time not so long ago when he wouldn’t have so easily reached the bottom. He fished around for only a moment until his fingers palmed the old, familiar friend, just where she said it would be.

  Smiling briefly to himself, he did not expect the gasp and crash that came from behind him. Jerking his arms from the barrel, he spun around, barley kernels flying everywhere, showering down about him like cherry blossoms on a wedding day. Wielding his knife instinctively, he stared at the figure standing before him, a tray of broken clay steins dangerously decorating the floor at her feet.

  * * *

  She had collected the evening beer steins. The pork was almost roasted and dinner would be available to those who could pay. They would need more glasses and she'd hastened to the kitchen to wash her bounty. Turning the corner to the pantry, she was surprised to see the man bent over and, for some reason, immersed into the grain barrel.

  His long black hair hung glistening down between the shoulder blades, braided thickly. The face was only partially visible, turned away from her, the beard and mustache were trimmed short. His garments carried the oily, purple stains of battle and he was shrouded with the thick stench of death. He was a big man, and fierce. A sword was belted at his side, a heavy bow and quiver of arrows lay across his back. The only men who sported such weapons were soldiers—or mercenaries.

  The man had been leaning over into one of the barrels. How unusual that he would be eating the raw barley instead of stealing of the stew or tender pork, but then she remembered about the knife. It had been so long since she’d thought about the knife, and how would someone know that she had hidden his blade there?

  Her surprise was so complete that the tray and glasses crashed to the floor, shattering on the stone at her feet. Frozen, her mouth a silent ‘oh,’ she stared at the wild creature in front of her.

  The intruder, hearing the crash of the beer steins behind him, lunged upright out of the barley barrel, the grain flying up and about him in the air. He looked absurd, the tiny barley grains decorating him, clinging to his hair and beard—in his hand was Ravan’s dagger.

  ‘How could he have known she had hidden it there?’ She wondered again.

  Her mouth dropped open as she quickly searched the hardened young face of the man who stood stunned and frozen before her, the knife outstretched in his hand. In one fleeting second, her eyes passed the whole of the man. She instantly recognized the familiar face, a scar cruelly transecting his left eyebrow. Her startled gaze finally rested upon his dark brown eyes.

  Her hands still holding an invisible tray, she was without words. Like a child’s marbles falling down a flight of stairs, her eyes cascaded from one emotion to another—fear, recognition, astonishment and ultimately, joy.

  She witnessed his expression pass abruptly from surprise to recognition and dismay.

  Then, without hesitating, he was across the kitchen hearth in three easy, long strides. He unabashedly folded her into his arms, standing a good head taller than her, and kissed the top of her bonnet. “For Hell’s sake, I thought you were dead!” He squeezed the breath from her and continued, “He told me you were dead! They said you were—” All at once, his voice caught in his throat and a single, silent sob escaped. He held her tightly, as though afraid to let go. His tears cascaded freely along his cheeks, so unlikely on the face of such a man.

  “It’s all right, child. I’m all right!” She pushed away from him to better see him. “Oh, Ravan, how you have grown! And such a handsome young man you are, too.” She laughed, tears welling in her own eyes.

  Ravan searched her face for answers. “I don’t understand—Duval sent Renoir to kill you! He never came back, but Duval said you were dead. I was injured, and I thought...” He didn’t finish the sentence, only grinned broadly at her. Relief flooded his features and a rare and glorious smile, beautifully sublime, appeared on his face.

  She was thrilled and tried to explain. “It was the big fella, Ravan. The giant.” Ravan’s eyes flew open as she pressed on, “He came by and didn't have much to say, other than I was to be presumed dead, and to be my sister now. He said I should say I...I mean my poor sister, had fallen to the plague, should any ask—and no one ever does.”

  Habitually, she went to one of the kettles to spoon a hearty bowl of soup for him.

  “Then he was gone.” She shrugged and flaked off a thick slab of the succulent pork, plopping it into the bowl as well. Sawing a generous portion from a fresh baked loaf of barley bread, she slathered one swipe of churned butter across it and rested it atop the pork, allowing the butter to melt straight away. It was culinary perfection. Handing it to Ravan, she nodded to the stool. “Sit and eat child.”

  He laughed unabashedly, as though amused that she still referred to him in that way.

  She swept up the broken shards as she spoke, “The skinny ugly one—Renoir, as you call him? I remember him from when they took you away.” She frowned. “He never came, only the giant.” She pulled up the chair from the corner and sat opposite Ravan, drying her hands on her apron. “He never mentioned the skinny one. I assumed you had sent a friend to warn me. I never heard anything more, and—years have gone by.”

  He listened intently, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place. The only mystery was Renoir. Something had happened to him, and by the sound of it he’d either succumbed to the journey or LanCoste had intercepted him. Either way, he was no more.

  She motioned behind her, towards the noisy room where the travelers ate and drank. “I’ve asked about you, of men from far away, soldiers and such.” She shrugged, “No one remembers you, or they say they don’t. And by the looks of you now, how would they?” She paused, somewhat embarrassed by what they both knew, how Ravan had changed. “The giant—I asked him about you. All he said was ‘He lives.’ Not one much for words, that one.” She turned and walked to the pantry, putting up the broom. “I stay away from the crowds, child. When somebody asks, Monsieur LaFoote says that I am his sister-in-law come to help out now that he is widowed.”

  Ravan seemed to notice a pained look as it flashed across her eyes, but it evaporated as she continued, smiling at him, “And nobody notices too closely one such as I. It’s fortunate Duval and his men seldom come to the Marseille.”

  Ravan spooned the soup into his mouth, savoring the flavors as their sweet testimony reawakened his tongue.

  She sat across from him for a while, content in their silence. Then she said, “Ravan, what of you now?” Wringing her hands in her apron, she asked, “I know you must work for Duval—why are you here?” Looking away she wondered, “What is it you will do? And with the weapons you carry, why would you come for your knife and...?” She let her voice trail off.

  Swallowing, he looked happily at her, still obviously overcome by the simple fact that she was alive.

  Aft
er a moment she pleaded, “Please tell me you are not just his mercenary, his—killer?”

  Swallowing, Ravan explained, “I will finish some unfinished business. I intend to kill Pierre Steele, and it is with this knife that I shall do this. It is destiny. Then?” He shrugged, spooned another mouthful and chewed thoughtfully, “I will kill Duval.”

  Covering her mouth with one hand, she stifled a gasp.

  Her response surprised him a small bit and he confessed, “I have killed—you must know that of me, but I am not 'his' killer.” He set the bowl aside and slid closer to her, taking her hands into his. “I am not a killer, not in my heart, and that is why I must do this. I will never be free until I finish Duval.” He looked up, motioning with his hands. “And by all that is right, I cannot allow Pierre to live either. He deserves what his fate holds for him, and I intend to have a hand in that fate, that no other shall bear what...” another long pause and he looked away, “what he has done to me.”

  She watched him chew absently, seemingly engaged somewhere else, his eyes so dark and lost.

  Then, just as quickly, he focused his clear eyes intently upon her and squeezed her hands earnestly. “You must be careful. You know nothing of me, do you understand?”

  Nodding, she listened carefully.

  “And the orphanage—if need be, they must have a place to hide on sudden notice. You must go there to help them. I know this is much to ask, but it must be done until I can finish this.”

  She nodded again in agreement, listening intently, but said nothing.

  “Is Steele here?” he asked.

  “No, but he comes through frequently, usually much later in the evening.”

  He seemed to consider this for a bit.