The two men considered their efforts. There was worry in their eyes for the one they'd both watched scamper about the grounds as a child. They were tormented for this rare creature who’d helped to saddle the horses, muck the stalls, carry the water and firewood. They grieved this child who'd befriend their souls and captured their hearts.
“We have to get him up, Raphael—If he doesn’t stand, the pneumonia will fill his chest and harden. I’ve seen it in the horses. If that happens, he will die,” Henri twisted his leathery old hands together in worry.
Raphael nodded and, once more, they pulled D’ata from his wheezing slumber to his feet. They forced him to walk to the window and stand in the winter sun’s low beam for bit.
D’ata was seized with a violent fit of coughing and his face turned so red that he fainted, sagging his weight onto his two friends. Eventually, the pneumonia became so thick that it was too difficult for D’ata to cough up. Henri pounded the young man’s chest and back while Raphael held him in his arms.
They boiled mint and eucalyptus leaves in water, held the bowl under D’ata’s face, a linen draped over his head forcing him to inhale the steam. This was just as Henri had done for strangled horses from time to time. They refused to call the physician, convinced that the doctor would bleed him. Henri had good instincts and told Raphael so. They knew this would do more harm than good. At intervals, they pressed spoonfuls of ox broth between his teeth and fed him bread soaked in milk.
* * *
Time passed like a black and white dream, slow and deliberate. Winter grabbed the Marseille in her clutches and D’ata did not die. His pneumonia gradually subsided under the persistent care of his friends, although the cough remained for a very long time.
He started to walk about his room on his own, staring blankly out the window at the slumbering bed of white. Spring would soon breathe over the meadows and lawns of the estate. Life would soon rejoice in the new born. All that seemed dead within the earth would spring magically forth with life for all but one. The world would plunge cruelly on—without her.
D’ata never went back to the grave. He moved instead to the small town of Castillon on the Dordogne River. He lived at the local parish and slept in a tiny room out in the old stable connected to the west end of the monastery. It was his solitary sanctuary, and it was only sometimes, rarely in his dreams, that he forgot the pain.
Julianne and his unborn child’s deaths had him to blame. This haunted him. If he had been a godly priest, if he hadn’t insisted on having what God decided he should not, the awful accident would never have happened. It was his own selfish needs and desires that caused this tragedy, was it not? Of this, he was now certain. Of this, he must believe and because of this, he knew he must suffer. There was no other way. He accepted his condemnation and carried it with him always.
Consumed with his need to forget and so aggrieved of what had happened on the banks of the river, he was hardly even aware of the fragility of his own mind. Days blurred, one into another, and he was surprised to see autumn late in the air.
Wasn’t it to be spring just now? No matter—seasons were meaningless anymore.
Initially, he did not join in the mass celebrations for they only confused him. Besides, there were too many whispers amongst the congregation. The scrutiny was extreme and Monsignor Leoceonne knew it was best to let the young man be, to allow him time to find his way back to God.
Instead, D’ata spent his time alone. When the parish was empty, he knelt upon the stone floor for endless, exhausting hours, praying. He prayed that God would forgive him and his awful sin. He prayed for divine intervention, that he should become a good and godly priest. Sometimes he forgot why he prayed, simply reciting from rote memory the words.
He prayed and he prayed, hoping that ultimately God would just take away the pain in his chest, the agony in his soul. He prayed to forget, he prayed to remember. He prayed he would die. He pondered ending it himself, but deep in his heart he feared God would then plunge him into oblivion, never to see her again.
At times, he wondered if it had all been a dream. He questioned his memories, but eventually cruel sanity would return and dash the truth down about him, just as Raphael had believed.
His knees became thick, leathery and calloused, oddly out of place on what were now his spindly and weak legs. His face was gaunt, drawn. His hair fell out in patches, but most horribly, his eyes lost the spark of life.
D’ata never saw color again, after that terrible day. Rarely, he would walk along the river which used to give him so much joy and comfort. He was bewildered by his joyful memories. Now he couldn’t comprehend why, and after a while, he never went back to the river. It never occurred to him that it was strangely gray. It seemed to him that it was how everything should be, how it had always been, like her dress, and her face. The slate-like color of his world seemed sadly normal to him now.
Several years passed and insanity was gingerly replaced with devastating remorse and cruel despair. D’ata gained some weight back. His hair grew, first in patches and later, more evenly. He would not shave his skullcap as the other priests did, but let it grow long and thick around the nape of his neck. It seemed that it was so cold all the time, regardless of the season. To D'ata, it just seemed better to let it grow that way.
He gladly accepted the tasks given him. He tended the one horse in the parish stable, out behind the rectory. He would stand for hours brushing the old animal until its coat shone like a young colt. He held the kiln-dried apple chips, flat-palmed, so the old fellow could lip them up, crunching them contentedly. The gelding happily searched his new companion’s pockets when he came around, unaccustomed to such kindness.
When the limbs of the black walnut trees scratched at the beautiful stained glass windows, it bothered D’ata somehow. There was something odd about the sound they made and he could endure it for only so long before he would trim them away. ‘Where had he heard that sound before?’ The windows were no longer beautiful to D’ata. It just seemed peculiar to him now, that someone would put together such a random assortment of cut glass and make such a fuss about it.
Going to the prison, he would give last confession to condemned prisoners, a task he particularly hated, but one he undertook willingly. Rarely, it seemed to have purpose, and so he was glad for the small comfort he could sometimes give. And these men were truly no more condemned than he was.
D’ata grew to believe that the only sanctuary for his soul, the only hope for relief from the pain, was to become a truly good priest in the eyes of God. Only God could remove the pain, and D’ata thought it might take several lifetimes to finally achieve grace and forgiveness.
No one spoke of the transgression, at least not openly. There were murmurs in the congregation and amongst the other priests. They didn’t need to speak of it to him. D’ata heard of the great sin in his own head as surely as if it were spoken at mass, every day—aloud. It wasn’t necessary to remind him, for he lived it every waking day, every sleeping night, with every breath he took. It became a part of him, his second skin, and there was not a moment that passed when it did not define him.
As more time went by, he prayed more to forget. He tried to force the memories from his mind, whenever they surfaced. Sometimes, he would forget, would awaken and brew tea, sit to read, or step outside to see the day.
Then, inevitably, something would trigger a memory. It would collide into him with devastating reality, and after a few paralytic moments, he would stagger back to his room. Curled up on his bed, he would then lay with arms tight around his head, trying to shut it out again. God tortured him, allowed him to live, which was agony—a living hell.
D’ata was damned, as surely as any man ever was.
* * *
The priest’s robes hung in heavy woolen folds, damp from the fog, as the young man made his way along the muddied streets of the sleeping town. D’ata wished for the Marseille. The cotton underlinen clung uncomfortably to his body and his collar cha
ffed against the back of his neck.
Drawn to the light of a street lamp, a moth spiraled downward into the miniature lake left by another’s footstep. D’ata watched as the moth thrashed upside down, its wings tacked to the surface of the muddy water. Its efforts rippled to the edge of the tiny lake and he stepped onto the insect, impaling it into the muck, finishing its fate. It was a gesture of mercy, a mercy killing to be sure.
In the distance, the looming shadow of the castle appeared beyond the town square. It was black and ominous and looked like it did not belong in the tiny French village.
The castle housed the criminals of the state for five townships. Tonight, it was also the end-stage of the holy man’s pilgrimage. Only one prisoner remained to be seen. The mercenary, murderer, the one to be hung, the evil one—Ravan.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
†
Adorno raged, his face reddened with poorly justified indignation.
The giant turned his deaf ear to the din; it annoyed him, and now things were changed.
Adorno didn't seem to notice as the giant left the room. LanCoste made his way to go collect his few things from his quarters.
Looking about himself, LanCoste saw no evidence that Ravan had even been there, except for a note.
There was something new about him now, a feeling of confusion that beset him recently. It was uncomfortable, almost painful, and the giant was gravely unfamiliar with it. He’d never experienced this sensation before. The notion of loss was new to him.
Silently gathering his belongings and heaving the axe onto his back, he tucked the hand scrawled note inside his vest. Mounting the Belgian, he rode from the castle. Alone, he made his way across the drawn bridge and into the night. He hadn't been dismissed. In truth, he simply left.
No one tried to stop him. Adorno had always considered him daft and thought little more of it, other than to hurl a few insults from a window high overhead at the retreating mountain of a man.
People stepped back, turning from him as he made his way to the edge of the castle grounds. No one at the portcullis tried to stop him as he rode through and crossed the moat to be swallowed up by the dark forest beyond.
The journey was long for the giant. Even though the rains continued, he rode steady and hard, nearly fifty miles the first day. The roads, what roads there were, were muddy and treacherous. But he focused on his journey and thought only of Ravan. He puzzled and even brooded, but mostly questioned the wretched vacancy within his heart. He'd never felt this before and he required a greater understanding of it.
Removing the note from his vest he stared at the words, unable to read them but comforted in a small way by the knowledge that it was from Ravan’s hand.
Duval’s forthcoming reaction to the news was scarcely even a concern to LanCoste. It was what it was, no more, no less. Perhaps, Duval would kill him for his inability to restrain Ravan and prevent his flight. This didn’t matter to him. Death was inconsequential. What mattered now was that Ravan was gone.
His massive forehead furrowed with consternation. The rain ran unnoticed down the scars and creases that were the roadmap of his face. It seemed his heart weighed too much in his chest and a heavy sigh breathed forth from him. It was sixteen days before he rode into the orphanage.
* * *
The Old One gasped at the shadow cast by the man on the war-horse. It made one believe mountains could move and as the brute descended the hill, his presence only seemed to increase.
It was evening and the Old One squinted into the sun at the horrible sight that rode over the knoll and down toward the orphanage. He shooed at the children, swooshing the air with his hands, scattering the orphans like wild chickens to the root cellar, barn, cookhouse and woods.
They fled to wherever they imagined they might be sheltered from the horrible certainty of the one who now came upon them. In truth, there was no such place. The frail and bent man spoke a silent prayer, that God would protect them. He prayed that if the children should be found that he would take them quickly and without pain.
He didn’t know why the giant approached; only a few had purpose for the unwanted children who lived here. So the Old One thought it must not be good, whatever the reason.
The barbarian approached and the Old One took an unconscious step back. His eldest daughter held fast beside him. “Avon, go! Hide with your sisters, with the children!” he whispered,
“No, Papa. I stand with you. If the coward slays you, he will have to strike a woman first.” She swallowed dryly and took her father’s leathery and worn hand into her own.
The old man prayed that the mercenary would know and harbor the code of chivalry. He hoped for a miracle, that despite his horrid appearance he would be a knight of honor. By the looks of the barbarian who approached, it was not a prayer likely to be answered for he wore no coat of arms. He held tightly to Avon's hand. “My daughter, I love you child, as I loved your mother.”
“I know, Papa,” Her voice trembled in fear, but her eyes remained fixed on the intruder who descended onto them. Taking a deep breath, she bravely stood her ground, squeezing her father’s hand tightly.
* * *
LanCoste rode straight up to the pair and whoa’d the monster steed, the beast’s armor rattling briefly as the chinks found their resting places.
No one spoke. It was an odd moment, almost as though all present had expected it.
The wind whistled lonely through the trees. The winters had been longer and colder than usual these last few years. He breathed in deeply of the late autumn. The wild cherry had already dropped their leaves and days were shortening by strides now. Evening approached, It would be dark soon and he had miles to go.
LanCoste paused, peering at the nearby forest, squinting as he struggled to gathered words that came only with great difficulty on even his best days. His battle-scarred hands lie enormous, crossed and casual, across the pommel of the saddle. Surprisingly, for his great size and strength, the giant seemed almost tired.
Still, no one spoke.
When finally it appeared that time had groaned to a halt and they were as still as salt pillars, LanCoste peered down at the face of the Old One. Slowly and casually, he shifted only his eyes to look at Avon.
Avon’s hand tightened upon her father’s.
The Old One began, “Please—she is my daughter, have mercy on...”
“I know Ravan,” LanCoste interrupted, his voice was thunderous and deep. It echoed the sad wind, and even the earth seemed to shift as he spoke slowly and deliberately, choosing his words carefully.
The Old One’s eyes, aged with cataract, shot open in surprise. There was a moment of stunned silence. “Ravan? Dear God—you know the boy?” The Old One involuntarily dropped his daughter’s hand and stepped forward.
LanCoste’s deep brow rose in mild surprise; he shifted his weight on the great horse. “I know him. He is my...” He'd started to say confederate, “He is my friend.”
Avon gasped and put her hands to her mouth.
Her father stepped forward. “Oh, dear Father in Heaven! Is he well? Do you bring us news?”
LanCoste hesitated. He wanted to speak the truth; if Ravan was alive, it would not likely be for long—not after Duval knew of his flight.
Instead, he said, “Ravan sends his...” he paused, looked again to the sad and bare fingers of the naked cherry trees, made even longer by the shadows they cast. He cleared his throat. “He sends his greetings.”
The Old One gulped, his old, blue eyes damp. His hands hung open and frail. “But, is he well? Does he—”
LanCoste interrupted again, an uncommon gesture. “He is leaving, a great distance. I am LanCoste.”
Before the old man could go on, LanCoste reached up to draw the hand-scrawled note from his vest.
Instinctively, the pair stepped back as the giant withdrew the note.
“Can you read this?” the giant implored, unable to wait any longer.
Avon shook her head. “No, we c
an’t, but...”
* * *
Just then, she stepped from the cookhouse, drying her hands on a towel.
LanCoste squinted as he recognized her.
The Innkeeper’s wife approached the giant, reached up fearlessly, and took the parchment from him.
She nodded her recognition of LanCoste as she opened the note. Unfolding the crumpled paper, she passed her fingers across the script, feeling the presence of the hand which had written it. She closed her eyes and remembered the days at the Inn, when the author would sit in the kitchen on a quiet evening and scrawl his letters.
Looking at the three of them, each in turn, she finally read. “It says, ‘LanCoste, I leave you to seek my way. I wish to be free. I would wish the same for you. Always your ally, but even more-so, and I believe you know this by now, I am your friend. Ravan.’ “
Hesitating, drinking in the familiar scrawling of the penmanship before folding it, she reached up to hand it respectfully back to the giant. She looked up at his terrible face, but for the most part, gleaned no expression from it.
The giant nodded only slightly and took the note, tucking it safely, almost gently, back into his vest.
The Innkeeper’s wife continued, “LanCoste, we have been digging, preparing a hiding place—a cellar, just in case. Should we fear Duval’s wrath?”
“There is no need.” The giant pressed his spur into the Belgian, pivoting the mammoth war-horse on its quarters. As the gelding stepped away, the mercenary looked back in all his horrid compassion, deep sad eyes on them. “If they come, you tell them LanCoste will find them—that he will kill them.”
The Execution Page 31
