In one clean motion, he’d unsheathed the sword and swept it swiftly and cleanly before returning it, just as efficiently back to its scabbard. The others guards fell away in horror and dismay.
The corpse stood headless for a stunned moment before falling obscenely to its knees and tumbling, chest forward, onto the ground.
The guards stumbled backward, aghast.
For Ravan and Nicolette, it was a minor inconvenience. The horse thundered from the courtyard, across the drawbridge, and onto the open road as the decapitated head rolled upright on the stones behind them, eyes still open with surprise.
Back in the castle, Adorno shrieked at his newly discovered violation, and LanCoste now had serious problems of his own...
* * *
Flying on the wings of freedom, Ravan chased the wind that night.
Nicolette held tight behind him.
The warm breath of a short Indian summer unexpectedly acquiesced in the cold of autumn, and their flight stripped tears from the corners of her eyes as she buried her face into the back of her lover. The magnificent horse frothed from its mouth and lathered its chest, as its master pushed it mercilessly through the night.
They hammered on like this for what seemed an eternity, the moon lighting their way. From the distance, they looked like a phantom, black and marauding, thundering over hill and across valley.
They’d easily evaded the initial group of men who led halfhearted pursuit after them. Ravan was trained in maneuvering and tactics, incredibly sophisticated at just such juxtaposition, and no horse matched the stallion. More than that, he was born to this and it was more than natural for him. This was what Ravan knew. It raced through his blood—flooded his soul.
There was not a single man alive who could give chase onto the wildness of this mercenary tonight.
Finally, as the night closed, he slowed the horse to a walk and rode on until the animal breathed more slowly. He brought the horse into a dense thicket of evergreen, the branches almost completely obscuring the sky. Ravan slid from the horse and pulled Nicolette down into his arms. Then, he turned and walked a very short distance away.
A small meadow opened before them. He quickly stripped the tack from the animal, placed a sling hobble on one foreleg of the beast and freed it. It wasn’t a real concern to him that the stallion would run, but best not to take chances since it had been stabled for so long.
Ravan took Nicolette gently by the hand and walked into the meadow. The moon shown bright, low and silver on the soft fern beds that bowed gently before them. He looked across the valley, shimmering and softened by the velveteen of night and swallowed, deeply overcome by the emotions which seized his heart.
He was free! Life, death, poverty, riches, companionship or loneliness; they all belonged to him now, were his to hold or let go. His destiny was his own. He could live for those he loved, but no longer would guilt make him own their fate. This knowledge was difficult, heart-rending and incredibly liberating. It gave him extraordinary power for it had been the shackle Duval had held him with.
Feeling her hand light upon his arm, he turned to see Nicolette looking not at him but across the meadow as well.
“It is beautiful, is it not?” She didn’t speak about the meadow. “To break the bonds and breathe of the free world?”
Peering down at her, he wondered about her power, her strength. It suddenly occurred to Ravan that Nicolette had also been a prisoner—prisoner of her station and the time in which they lived. Only, she had not possessed the means to escape.
Finally, he understood where her resolve sprung from; she controlled her destiny with her mind, with her soul. As captured as she'd been, she was astonishingly unfettered, even when tied to Adorno’s bed. He looked down at her and marveled at her power.
When he reached to touch her gently on the cheek, she turned to look up at him in mild surprise, as though she'd forgotten she was there with him. He smiled at her, began to recognize her queer response to the universe, a perpetual flow of soft surprise and quizzical observation.
She was beautiful, pale as the moon, and so fragile. He marveled that she controlled the space around her so completely, even here, far from the comforts of any village, in the remotest wild. “I’m happy you are here,” he said.
Tilting her head, she studied him, her expression one of faint confusion, and she almost smiled back.
Loosening the cape from her shoulders, she laid it onto the thick bed of ferns which bent softly at their feet. She laid down on the cape and slowly, deliberately, she eased her crystalline white body from its shroud and lie there, gloriously naked and unashamed.
Nicolette lay bare before him, and yet it was Ravan who felt vulnerable. He stood spellbound. He could not take his eyes from the raven black hair strewn about her, the milky white of her skin and her eternally captivating emerald eyes.
She allowed herself a long and luxurious moment to absorb him, hypnotizing him with her shamelessness. “Undress,” she said.
“I’ve,” he paused, looking briefly across the meadow again. “I haven’t ever...”
Nicolette moved to her knees, hands lying lightly upon them. She looked like a porcelain sylph, mythical and magic, kneeling naked in the meadow. “I know—but I have, and this will be faultless inasmuch.”
He gazed at her, allowing her words to penetrate and soothe the secret, fearful corners of his being.
“No mistakes—there's no such thing,” she murmured.
Apprehension faded and was replaced by a new and growing feeling. It was exciting and inviting. He heard the night more acutely, could feel the beating of his own heart. He could smell her and was alarmed at the flush of warmth that denied the cool night air.
Purposefully and slowly he removed his armor, first the chain-mail and plates and then the thick leather, allowing them to fall from his hand heavily to the ground. He pulled the wool and linen shift from over his head. Last of all, he slid the soft deerskin trousers down and stepped naked from them.
He stood over her, his eyes spellbound by her, perfectly comfortable in his nakedness. She allowed herself a long and luxurious moment to scan his body, shameless, before fixing her stare on his eyes. They were beautiful and deep, like her own.
He knelt beside her and kissed her, a long and devouring embrace as their breathing became one. Then, he lay down, drawing the cape around them and as he pulled her close, they stepped for a while from the tragedy of this world into the ecstasy of another.
She matched his lovemaking, wild and desperate, guiding him, and seemed to marvel at the faultless capacity of her lover.
Night birds took flight from the treetops and the horse pawed nervously in the distance at the carnality of it.
By and by, she pushed at his chest, for he was spent and too heavy for her.
He eased his sweaty body from her, lying beside her. It had been wordless and raw, imperfect and flawless. Above all else, it had been consummate in its genesis.
Finally, he pulled her close and they slept, a dreamless sleep, Ravan slept with his arms around her—one ear listening.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
†
It was December. The autumn had been long and unusually warm in the Marseilles, as though the season took pity. The snows had not yet come, so the rain fell cold and soft, sweet and steady, like a gentle, sad weeping on the grave. It was as though the gray skies shared the grief of those below.
The Cezanne’s afforded a noblewoman’s grave for Julianne. The headstone was enormous, polished white marble and had been placed on the lovely estate grounds. The engraving read, 'Here lies Julianne; beloved daughter and sister. God have mercy on her soul.' There was no mention of the unborn baby; no mention of her lover—her unholy, only love.
The rainwater ran softly down the massive stone, filling the engravings so that they disappeared. The stone looked oddly blank when it rained, just like the memory of her affair with her dark prince—erased, to be spoken of nevermore.
Her grave was nestled beneath a willow, and nobody but little Yvette had known the willow was her favorite tree, not even D’ata. They hadn’t the opportunity to discover those small and sweet secrets about each other that comes only from being with a loved one for a long time. Now the willow branches were bare, long fingers brushing gently back and forth above the grave.
The flowers were wilted, dead over a month. The lone figure who lie supine across the gravesite looked perfectly appropriate, nestled amongst the dead flowers.
He lie there in priest’s robes, arms outstretched to either side, as though he were crucified to the earth. His head was turned to one side, eyes open, vacant, staring without blinking. The rain ran across his sad face, over his eyes, across his ruined heart.
It was an odd picture, like a strange painting where the deceased was left on top of the grave as though someone had forgotten to bury him.
Raphael walked up to the grave, knelt and regarded his friend for a long, sad moment before he shook his head. He gathered the frail priest up once more and placed him into the carriage, bundled in a blanket. Then, as he’d done so frequently now, he brought D’ata from the gravesite back home to the estate.
It was Henri who helped remove the soaked robes and left the soup at his bedside, covering D’ata with a soft, down blanket—again.
Then, the next morning just like the day before, the young priest would mysteriously disappear from the mansion and reappear upon the gravesite.
Sometimes, when it wasn’t raining, a child would appear to sit on the grave next to the dying man. Yvette greatly mourned the loss of her sister, mourned the decaying man lying on the ground next to her, beautiful and mysterious and oh so sad. Eventually, the small one would leave before the hour was dark and Henri would come to gather D’ata from the grave.
The church didn’t prosecute D’ata. There were other pressing matters as the church wrestled with the change of venue of its Pope and the conflict of absolute power with the reigning King. Furthermore, Monsignor Leoceonne feared for the young man’s sanity, that he would not even understand his prosecution or punishment.
For now, the church allowed D’ata the luxury of time, the luxury of his insanity. Chances were he would die anyway; he certainly appeared to be the living spectacle of death—and was closer approaching it day by day.
* * *
Tonight, Raphael sat at D’ata’s bedside again, rocking gently in a chair while he watched his young friend sleep. He almost didn’t recognize him and wondered when D’ata’s face had become so thin. He thought about Julianne, about love—the force which compelled the two of them to risk everything. He worried for the young priest and recalled that someone once said time would mend a broken heart.
Raphael had known his own heart to be broken a time or two in his life, but nothing compared to what the young man before him was forced to endure. He slid deeper into the chair, snorted to himself and thought about the ‘time will mend a broken heart’ theory, deciding it was rubbish after all.
He thought to himself that time was a thief. That it steals fragments of a broken heart and hides them beneath the crusted surface of the soul.
Being a poet of sorts, Raphael rubbed his chin thoughtfully and considered this deep philosophy. He knew that all one had to do was poke about beneath the surface and turn over a few memory stones. One could return to a certain place, a certain time, and the wound would be opened anew. It would then become quite clear that time would not heal a heart like D’ata’s; it would never mend. It would only shroud itself, dull itself, the fractured holes filled in with trickery, with fancy and nearly forgotten memories.
He knew that sometimes all it would take was a familiar voice, a certain letter or portrait, an old favorite song. Sometimes it might only stir in a dream. But then, suddenly, there it would be again—all the raw pain and loss, and the pieces of the broken heart would cascade again, mercilessly broken about his feet. At this moment, he would grasp the pieces, clutch absurdly at them in an eternal struggle to desperately put them back, but it would all be for naught.
This saddened Raphael, this realization that D’ata would be one of those. One who had loved someone, truly loved someone and—truly lost someone, especially as one who loses an innocent, such as a child.
Frowning, he realized this was what D’ata suffered. His heart wasn’t just broken; broken implied it could be fixed. D’ata’s heart was shattered beyond repair. Some of the pieces were still there, uncomfortable and out of place. Some of them were gone, vanished forever, and the holes those pieces left were what caused the pain. It was like a wound, a severed arm that would never entirely heal. Sometimes, when the wound was re-injured, the old pain would come back just as fresh—just as dreadful.
D’ata stirred, moaned a bit, but slept on.
Raphael sat up, edging close enough to lay a hand on the shoulder of his friend. He struggled with the notion that he could not draw D’ata from his despair, enough to bolster him up in some way, to help him in this terrible time.
It seemed as though everyone, in some way or another, felt responsible for the outcome of the young lovers’ affair. All mourned, but no one could penetrate the fragile shell of this sad one left behind. Even Julianne’s father had adopted a sad pity for the man who had loved his daughter to death. It was tragic beyond compare, and nobody spoke of it—ever.
A strange routine took over instead; keep the living safe, take care of them, but don’t ever speak of it—never speak of it. God may reach down from the heavens and punish if anyone spoke, and the punishment could be horrible. All could now see how possible that was.
Monsieur Cezanne and his wife would peek into D’ata’s room but neither spoke to him. They whispered quietly amongst themselves instead. They were mourning indeed, unexpectedly driven to mourn the loss of a girl named Julianne, the loss of the baby, and the loss of what their son had once been.
The next day, Raphael admonished him, “You mustn’t go there tomorrow!” He tugged at the young priest’s boots and as he laid them aside, rainwater poured from them in muddy puddles onto the floor. The bedchamber was strangely warm and inviting in contrast to the fragile young man it held. In addition, something seemed even more wrong today.
“Do you hear me, D’ata? You mustn’t go there!” Raphael was frustrated, but also deeply worried. He tried to be firm with his young friend.
D’ata lie back upon the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, not answering.
Raphael leaned forward, pulling at his robes, exposing the younger man’s chest bare. He searched his eyes, looking for some recognition, some spark of life. He leaned down and pressed his ear against D’ata’s chest.
There it was—the soft rasping sound of the pneumonia as it set in, the grating of infection against the delicate lungs. Death beckoned, and today it spoke from the frail lungs of the failing priest. Raphael was no doctor, but he'd heard the sound before. He was wise and knew D’ata could die if he kept exposing himself to the elements as he was doing.
“Ah, mon ami—you kill yourself, don’t you? But, it was glorious, no?” Raphael rubbed his eyes. “To love her so?” He was tired, not from caring for his friend but from grave concern.
He turned D’ata’s head, looked into the vacant eyes and imagined the despair the young man must be living with. “Few have loved as you have, you hear me?” he whispered gently to the lost eyes, which only stared blankly back. Desperate and frightened, he pounded gently on the chest of his young friend. “Tomorrow, you will stay home, you hear me monsieur? Do you hear? You insult her memory to do this!”
Then, he lost his resolve and shook the young man by his shoulders. “I will kill you myself if you try to go again! I will!” He was desperate and choked back his tears, swallowed his words, and fell silent. His head hanging, his shoulders trembled with mute sobs. He felt a gentle and twisted, old hand on his shoulder.
“He dies,” Raphael sobbed softly, his face turned away.
Henri only nodded toward th
e dying man who lay lost in his insanity. “Come, Raph—help me tend to him. We cannot know that yet.”
The two men gently pulled the wet robes from D’ata’s body, yet again, and wrapped him naked in the warm down blanket. They exchanged worried glances at the frailty that had so quickly overtaken the once strong, young man. Taking warmed river stones, the ones Raphael had earlier laid in the fireplace, they wrapped them into quilts and placed them around D’ata to drive away the cold.
“You hear me, don’t you? I will kill you myself, D’ata, if you go there again,” Raphael spoke under his breath.
The pneumonia gripped the young man, tearing from him his waning health. It was what D’ata wanted—to die.
Henri and Raphael, however, refused to see it that way. There would be no such passage for this one. There had been enough loss of precious ones already.
They watched D’ata night and day, his parents allowing the ministerings of these, his oldest, dearest friends. He made no effort to escape to her grave now, only laid instead in his bed, the vile pneumonia draining purulent and bloody from the corners of his mouth whenever he was seized by yet another coughing fit.
His body had the fever and burned, soaking the linens. When this happened, they took turns to sponge him cool. Raphael would estimate the weight of the linens by hand, estimating the losses, and would spoon water between D’ata’s lips to carefully replace them. He knew if they lost too much ground that his friend would quickly die.
Henri would climb the stairs every day, his scoliosis making the task slow and difficult, but swearing at Raphael when the young Frenchman tried to assist him. “Get away, you young scullion; I’m not needing your help yet,” he scoffed and yet allowed Raphael the courtesy of an elbow.
Raphael and Henri meticulously cleaned D’ata’s mouth with salt water, washed gently his face and threadbare hair—rubbed his wasting body with warmed olive oil. And...they prayed. Raphael knelt on the floor with Henri, hands clasped. They prayed that God should not yet take this one from them, that he should be spared.
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