The Execution

by Sharon Cramer

  Confused, Ravan stood up, reaching out to touch her elbow.

  She pulled abruptly away. “Be gone now—enough of this nonsense. I’ve work to do and you’ll be needing to chop the wood.” She stabbed with the clever towards the back door of the Inn, where the firewood already threatened to consume them.

  * * *

  While the usual commotion from the patrons took place downstairs, Ravan moved to the third room to change the candlesticks. He pried the stubby nubs from their holders and replaced them with the long, hand-dipped tapers he'd helped the Fat Wife make the week before. The spent candle nubs went into his pockets to save for re-melting later.

  Replacing them was a task Ravan usually tried to do earlier in the day, after the travelers of the previous night had gone, but before the evening’s crowd poured in. Somehow, he’d let time get away from him today.

  He never heard the breaking glass from downstairs. Instead, he was lost in his thoughts, pondering that particular afternoon when he’d given her the gloves. It was all too much to assimilate for one so young, and as a child will do, he imagined his own flawed reasons why she might have been displeased with his gift. She had been happy with them—he'd seen it! She seemed to like the gift, and then...?

  The thick wood carpentry of the Inn made for very quiet dwelling and as a result, Ravan was caught totally by surprise when the door crashed open behind him.

  Spinning about, he dropped the candlestick he held in his hand. It fell with a smack to the wooden floor, cracked and imperfect now. A big man filled the doorway, flanked by two friends almost equal in size. The man seemed genuinely surprised to see Ravan in his room and halted for a moment, swaying in the door.

  Mumbling a quiet apology for his intrusion, Ravan scooped up the broken candle and ducked towards the door, head down as though to leave. He could smell the heavy liquor on their breaths as he stepped closer and paused, unsure what to do next as they stood fast in the doorway.

  He recognized Pierre Steele, a trader who was a frequent guest at the tavern.

  Robust in size, Pierre's had big, red cheeks and a fat, pockmarked nose which spoke of frequent drinking. His small pig eyes were closely set, sickly yellow and permanently bloodshot. His personality was loud, and his enormous girth seemed to fill a room.

  Not surprisingly, Pierre was often responsible for brawls at the Inn, and he was frequently accused of petty crimes. Slippery as an eel, however, he always seemed just out of reach of proper retribution. He also possessed coin, and not an ounce of ambition, so the Inn was where he could frequently be found. The Innkeeper was generally happy to negotiate Pierre’s drunkenness, as long as the man had money.

  Pierre also had a very nasty history of perverted sexual exploits, which he kept only poorly hidden. Ravan had even overheard a tale of how Steele had been shot once, by the father of a girl barely ten. The girl had evidently identified Steele as her rapist and then she’d mysteriously disappeared. It was a few months before someone found the bent and tortured body in the river. It was terribly decayed and twisted horribly in the massive roots of a fallen tree, with a stone tied around the neck.

  The monster had survived his wound, little worse for wear, the arrow tip lodged in a fat pad that festered on and off. The father faded away into a grief stricken hollowness. Steele, undaunted, remained as cruel and foul as ever, having gotten away with murder. Only now, he kept a clumsy sword strapped to his side, the hilt practically hidden by his massively draped, oily flesh. This was what Ravan had heard about this man.

  Moving aside in an attempt to skirt past them, he was cut off as Pierre stepped into his path. “Well, well, what have we here? If it isn’t the maid!”

  Ravan instinctively backed away and Pierre followed, stepping towards him. “No doubt he meant to rob me!” The big man reached down to unbuckle the heavy belt that tightly girded his enormous gut. “And look—he’s broken a candlestick. I think he should be punished, don’t you?” he asked his comrades. His mouth, unnaturally small for his massively meaty head, twisted into a sickening grin.

  The two other men laughed outright, goading him on, as though anticipating a show.

  Ravan edged backwards against the bed, its lamb’s wool duvet pressed against the backs of his thighs. The hair bristled on the nape of his neck and an icy shiver arched across his shoulders.

  A sudden memory came upon him, of when a she-bear and her cubs stumbled across him while he was cleaning the roe deer in the forest. She had strong feelings about the human and as a consequence, Ravan spent the night in a tree. He still bore the scars on his left calf. The bear had taught him primal fear as she lashed at him while he clung just barely out of reach in the small tree.

  Now, as with the bear, his breathing grew faster and his body tensed. He knew this was a very bad situation.

  “Come my friends,” Pierre motioned to his cohorts, slurring only slightly. “This pretty little boy is mine, and you can hold him while I see that he is properly punished.” The men laughed again, eager for an exhibition.

  The awful and sickening intent of the man settled abruptly into the boy’s awareness, and he became intensely alert, thinking very fast. The room seemed all of a sudden too warm and small. He knew if he called out for help, it would probably prove futile. Most noise would be easily drowned out by the revelry below. He didn’t have time to consider much beyond this thought.

  Steele suddenly and clumsily snatched for Ravan’s arm but managed only to grasp the sleeve of his tunic. Candle nubs scattered to the floor as the boy ducked and wriggled free of the shirt, leaving himself half-naked and breathing hard. Deep red scratches ran down one arm from where Pierre’s long, filed nails clawed for him. Blood beaded in scarlet drops and dripped, unnoticed, from the tips of his fingers to the floor.

  Shirtless, Ravan scaled the bed and lit lightly on the other side. Without hesitation he reached into his boot for the familiar blade—Pig-Killer.

  Standing with the limp tunic in his hands, Pierre was aroused by the sudden nakedness of the boy, the silver necklace and copper ring shining bright against Ravan’s amber skin.

  “That’s a start, you pretty little bitch,” Pierre leered. He circled the bed slowly, hands up, claw-like, as though to catch the boy.

  One of his comrades chuckled and started to crawl across the bed, effectively trapping Ravan in the far corner of the room.

  The boy glanced beyond the man to the window, his only obvious means of escape. It seemed inaccessible, sheltered behind the advancing Pierre. The third man blocked the door. Ravan was entirely trapped. There was no means of escaping what was to come.

  Pierre lunged clumsily for Ravan, his eyes glistening with excitement and eager anticipation. The big man was slow and awkward, but his sheer size made him acutely dangerous. If he managed to get hold of Ravan, he could easily overpower him and stifle the boy’s screams, consummating the rape.

  Ravan made a calculated and desperate decision. His thoughts were blindingly fast and he acted with enormous resolve.

  Pierre had grossly miscalculated his prey, and this was a strategic error on Steele’s part.

  Suddenly twisting his body, Ravan swept the blade in a wide arc, with all the strength and commitment he could summon. He brought the knife blindingly and viciously across the face of Pierre. Pig-Killer obeyed effortlessly, leaving behind a seven-inch gash. The vicious slice went from below the man’s left ear, across the bridge of his nose and down his jaw, glancing off bone as it finished just short of his throat.

  For the briefest of moments, Pierre seemed only stunned. The blade was so sharp and quick that Steele didn’t appear to comprehend the extent of his wound.

  Seconds later, he shrieked in rage, his hands clutching at his face as blood streamed down both arms. His nose was nearly severed, the cartilage cut completely through, and it flopped loosely down onto his upper lip. He was a grotesque, horrible figure and his voice rose to a shrill pitch as he wailed, stumbling backwards. His trousers had fallen and his
erection retreated back beneath his apron of pubic fat.

  Startled, his friends stood stock still, unable to take their eyes from their comrade’s mutilation.

  Ravan, his back wedged into the corner of the room, wielded his knife in front of him. His lip was curled back in a vicious snarl, his eyes wide and fierce. The stress of the moment caused him to break out in a cold sweat and his body shone, sleek and wet. Wild and trapped, he would kill if he needed to—or die trying.

  The savagely unpredictable and vicious attack on Pierre had the desired effect on the other two, as they were planted with shocked expressions stamped upon their simple faces. They stared blindly at the butcher job of Pierre, obviously surprised by Ravan’s attack and stunned by the incredible amount of blood it produced.

  In his rage, Pierre pawed for his sword, which had dropped away from his hip with his loosened trousers. He finally found the blade and stepped forward, raising it awkwardly towards the boy’s face, his bloodied hand shaking uncontrollably.

  He seemed unsure of what to focus on, whether he should run Ravan through right away or address his own injury first. With his free hand, he pawed at his own distorted face, trying to close the hideous wound and hold his nose more closely to where it belonged.

  Ravan was shocked at his own handiwork. It was a horrifying and ghastly image, but somehow it made him feel strangely exhilarated. Quickly considering the situation, he realized he could not reach beyond the sword with his own weapon. He decided he must close the gap between them, before Pierre gained enough composure to strike. He risked being run through in the process, but as far as he could see, it was his only option.

  “Don’t touch him, Pierre. He’s not mine—he belongs to Duval,” Monsieur LaFoote’s booming voice shook the room.

  Through the corner of his eye, Pierre spotted the Innkeeper holding a razor sharp dueling sword leveled at his ear. “Look what the bastard’s done to me! Look at my face!” he screamed.

  There was only raw silence in the room.

  LaFoote continued, “We both know you’ve had this coming for a long time, you sick pig. Down to the kitchen. The wife will sew you up—or you can die right now.” He stepped closer, the sword mere inches from Pierre’s head. The tone of the Innkeeper’s voice carried with it the cold promise of truthful intention. “Do what you will with the babes of others, but touch this one and you will rape no more,” the Innkeeper warned.

  Pierre knew Lafoote was capable of this threat, but was evidently struggling with it, weighing the gravity of it to the joy of killing Ravan. He hesitated. The razor tip of the dueling sword pressed against his earlobe. “He was trying to steal from me!” Pierre screamed. A long pause stretched out in the room and only the ragged breathing of the boy could be heard.

  “You know I’ll do it, Pierre,” LaFoote pressed him. “He belongs to Duval.” His words landed like icicles dropping to paving stone.

  Sobbing and screaming revenge, Pierre finally broke away and shuffled his bulk back through the door. He kept one hand on his mangled face, the other clutched at his trousers and the hilt of his own dull sword.

  His friends followed, leaving LaFoote and Ravan alone.

  Ravan dropped his arm, the knife dangling in his hand. He straightened, still breathing hard, and blinked his eyes. He was dazed as though he was moving slowly in a dream.

  LaFoote eyed Pig-Killer. He stepped towards the boy, reached down and picked up the fallen shirt. “I’m sorry, Ravan.”

  Bewildered, Ravan stared. “I don’t understand, who is Duval?”

  The Innkeeper sighed, his arm outstretched with the shirt, but said nothing.

  Ravan looked blankly at him.

  LaFoote tossed the shirt onto the bed and turned away. “Go to your room Ravan. I’ll be up to talk with you in a bit. Bar the door until I do, and don’t come down.”

  Ravan hesitated. “But, I don’t—?”

  “I said get to your room!” LaFoote yelled at him. “Now do as you’re told, do you hear?” He startled Ravan, his reaction too angry given the boy was just moments ago defending himself from a rape.

  Still shaking, adrenaline surging through his body, Ravan searched the man’s face for clues to this evolving mystery.

  LaFoote maintained his silence, gesturing at the door with the long and serious blade.

  Ravan stared, at the Innkeeper he thought he knew, at the dueling sword he'd never seen before. He puzzled over the stormy expression on the face of the traitor. “But, I thought you brought me here to—?”

  “Speak no more!” LaFoote boomed.

  Confused and angry, Ravan snatched the shirt from the bed and left for his room, but not to wait, as instructed. Instead, he would make a plan of his own.

  CHAPTER SIX

  †

  The afternoon, as D’ata had suspected it would be, was beautiful, clear and warm. His mood, however, was not. He remained disturbed but strangely excited by the morning’s events at the church and could not remove thoughts of her from his mind. He even considered the possibility that she was not human at all, that she was sent from the devil himself to destroy the sanctity of his world, or perhaps to test him. He’d heard the monsignor speak of such things before.

  If this were the case, Satan had made great strides towards accomplishing his purpose. D’ata was, since this morning, unsure of anything. All he knew was that he must not ever see her again. The massive machine of the Cezanne estate groaned, the gears fractured. To see her again would be devastating.

  D’ata’s normally serene life was severely shaken. He was first rebuked by the senior monsignor after the church had cleared. Later, once at home, his father had flown into a rage.

  What was he thinking, the Earl yelled, such a display in front of the entire congregation, after all that had been done for him! What had he meant to do? Compromise everything? His priesthood, his status, the status of the family? What would this mean for his standing in the township, and the very trade industry that propelled the Cezanne dynasty?

  The more his father ranted, the more angered he seemed to become until finally his father had done something he'd never done before. In his rage, as his rhetoric spewed and his passion mounted, he lost control and with a level backhand struck D’ata hard across the face. It shocked both of them, and rocked the very foundation of the Cezanne Empire.

  D’ata stumbled backwards, never in his wildest dreams anticipating such a reaction from his father. He fell and sat hard down onto the floor. He was shocked and staggered by his father’s reaction. His cheek was turning an awful crimson from the blow. He didn’t recognize the ruddy-faced man, clenching his hands and towering over him. The only sound was the labored breathing the tirade had forced upon the Baron.

  His father stared mutely down at his son, sitting dazed by the sudden violent turn of events.

  Without moving, D’ata stared back, eyes wide. When he spoke, his words were as honest and sincere as his heart was broken. “But father—what if I love her?” he whispered, his face pure and his emotion raw,

  The question was heartfelt, genuine, and—totally beyond the comprehension of his father. The Earl stormed from the library, leaving D’ata completely dumbstruck.

  Now, as the afternoon swung upon him, in all its warmth and lovely exhibition, all the young priest knew and could think about was that he could not get her out of his mind. It wasn’t the horrible event in the library he ruminated about—it was her.

  Over and over, he turned her vision around in his head, remembering every detail of her lovely face, her soulful eyes, her gossamer body. He remembered how the earthen perfume of dust in her hair had drifted up into his nostrils when he leaned over to speak to her. If Satan were playing with him, he'd certainly chosen a heavenly image with which to do so.

  After his father left him, D’ata retreated to his room. A terrible, unfamiliar heaviness rested in his stomach, a sensation he could not recall ever having before. His mood darkened and after brooding for a while, he changed into hi
s riding clothes. He was getting no closer to resolving the situation. He couldn’t even properly identify it.

  This was an utterly unfamiliar landscape to him and the walls of the mansion closed in on him. Irritated, and no closer to solving his dilemma, he slipped out the back way to the stables.

  * * *

  Henri was perplexed at the young man’s foul mood. D’ata was never ill tempered, had always been a gracious and gentle boy.

  The young man hardly spoke as he pulled the big bay from its stall.

  Henri had not been in the congregation this morning, taking mass instead at the smaller parish closer to the estate. Monsieur Cezanne and his family had taken one of the finest carriages into town to take mass there and to observe D’ata’s progress.

  He'd heard the rumors though. Staff had overheard the abuse as the Earl had rebuked his son behind the closed library doors. Rumors spread like wildfire, but Henri thought it better to say nothing as D’ata slapped a saddle on the big gelding’s back. The animal stepped nervously in place, sensing the urgency of the moment. The stable master noticed the deepening bruise on the face of his friend and watched the young man tighten the cinch too roughly.

  It occurred to him that D’ata looked older today. He hesitated before handing him a bridle with a ringed snaffle bit, suspecting that in his black mood D’ata may be too severe with the animal’s soft mouth. The snaffle would be gentler than the shanked, double reined bit D’ata normally rode with.

  The young priest seemed not to even notice, murmuring a ‘Merci,’ hardly aware of Henri's presence.

  In the courtyard, Henri gave the young master a leg up onto the animal, bade him safe journey and, as he suspected, watched as D’ata yanked the horse’s head severely about and galloped from the yard.