The
EXECUTION
A Novel By
Sharon Cramer
Talking Bird Books
Copyright 2012 by B & F Publishing
Smashwords Edition
Talking Bird Books LLC. © 2012
B & F Publishing
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
Written by Sharon Cramer
Edited by Bonnie Lea Elliott
Cover design by Sharon Cramer
Publishers Note:
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and events are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is entirely coincidental.
Authors Note:
The backdrop for this story is fourteenth century France. However, I have interpreted, within this period, certain events, timelines, characteristics and people—both fictional and real, in a loose manner that may not coincide with the actual historical course of events. I have done this solely for the purpose of literary embellishment. It is my greatest wish that the reader would enjoy simple and gratuitous entertainment of this piece of fiction.
For Yvonne
My twin, my inspiration.
You knew the book before a word ever hit the page.
The
EXECUTION
FORWARD
†
Tomorrow...he would be dead.
CHAPTER ONE
†
The Dungeon: Eight p.m.
Southwestern France in November was dismal. It was a time of short gray days and long black nights.
The priest’s robes hung in heavy woolen folds, damp from the fog as he made his way along the muddied streets of the sleeping town of Castillon. The quiet village sat on the mouth of the Dordogne River and was beautiful in the summer. However, Castillon paid dearly for it in the winter as it received the fury of the winter storms from the Bay of Biscay.
The cotton underlinen clung uncomfortably to the priest’s body and his collar chafed against the back of his neck. It was, all in all, a despicable feeling, and tonight his whole outlook was miserable. D’ata wished for the Marseille, but wishing was not praying, and even prayers seemed to go unheard, as of late.
A moth, drawn to the light of a street lamp, had 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, a thousand ripples spiraling furiously to the edge of the tiny lake. The puddle took on a rainbow color as the dust slowly eroded from the moth’s wings—color in a dismally gray world. But D’ata did not see color anymore, save one...
He stepped onto the insect, impaling it in the muck, finishing its fate. It was a gesture of mercy, a mercy killing. He paused, stunned at what he had done, and on some level he begrudged the insect its oblivion, sanctuary, gracious nothingness.
It would be good to finish this undesirable business and be back to the stable behind the church, where he could shed the godforsaken robes. An evil trick it was, to make a holy man dress so.
Then, he could spend the rest of the night reading his beloved books. D’ata spent many nights escaping between the worn pages of other lands. Often, he would awaken later with his hand resting upon a still-open book. The Church would not allow the books D’ata read, but he was smart, and so it was easy to keep secrets, very easy anymore. While he read, the older priests slept, having again eaten too much, fat bastards.
The stable room was his sanctuary, away from the huge stone structure of the church. It was a magnificent church, the massive stone tower pointing elegant and cold to the sky—to the one who looked away. D’ata preferred the stable.
His room used to be the tack room and still smelled of old leather and oil. Now, there were no fine horses, just one old nag which, except for the attentions of the young priest, would gain no attention at all.
As he trudged along, it was the memory of his secluded haven behind the church that was comforting and familiar to the cloaked figure tonight. He made his way slowly through the night, watching his feet as he went. His mind, however, drifted elsewhere.
D’ata kept his door barred at night and lit a single candle to read by. In the summer, he stretched out naked on top of the blankets, allowing the cool night breezes to caress his skin after the torture of wearing the heavy robes all day. He didn’t believe in the shame of nakedness in the eyes of God. He didn’t believe in many things now, for he was not like the others. Perhaps that was why his sleep was so often disturbed. Satan is a trickster, and if the sleeping mind of a persecuted soul becomes the devil’s playground, then D’ata’s was the carnival insane.
Sometimes, the older priests peered in on his glorious nakedness, scowling, their faces drawn, as though in futile envy. They must have missed the horrible melancholy on the sad face of the youngest priest as he slept, murmuring aloud his heartbroken dreams.
Along the muddied street, which had been busy the day before with the townspeople scurrying here and there preparing for the next day’s big events, there was only ghostly silence.
The fog lamps were still lit, left burning for any unfortunate traveler, or one so disturbed as to be out on such a dreadful night. They sizzled as icy drops of rain started once more to fall. Hiss...the town seemed to whisper to him. Listen, we have a terrible story to tell! The buildings closed in on him like unwelcome echoes in the night. D’ata turned his eyes from the storefronts and cottages. He knew they only pretended to be sleeping, their shuttered eyes closed, but really they watched, judging the wretched man forced to finish a wretched task.
D’ata wavered from one side of the street to the other, connecting the lights, like a black widow weaving its crooked web. He thought to himself that to a passerby he must appear drunk, crisscrossing his way through the darkness. This almost amused him, but the lamps only made the shadows seem heavier this sad night and his heart drifted back into despair. There was no escaping that any more, was there?
He turned the corner and looked beyond the smithery. In the distance, the looming outline of a castle appeared beyond the town square. It was black and ominous, as though it did not belong in the tiny French village.
The feudal family who’d once lived there had been brutally murdered during the war. They were nobility, and tragic casualties of the ever-profitable inquisition. The adults had been drawn and quartered, their bowels doused with molten wax and lit on fire. Such a gruesome act it had been, and particularly creative, even for fourteenth century justice. They’d screamed for mercy before dying an unmerciful death. There had been no children in that family, and for this the young priest had secretly thanked God.
Then, the plague had come. It brought with it the tidal waves of Black Death, and mankind suffered like never before. Even the earlier starvation of the crop failures was preferable to the plague, but for the moment, at least, it had subsided.
Europe was an unwritten book at this time. In Castillon, it had taken sixty years to raise the stones of the church and, in the scheme of things, that was very efficient. Monumental structures such as these normally required close to a hundred years to finish, like the monastery in nearby Bordeaux. To D'ata, it was not serfdom which had raised the church, but the work of medieval society, a society very possessive of its holdings right now.
Universities were being established in Paris, Oxford, Naples and Cambridge. The compass and mechanical clock were invented, and Marco Polo had traveled to China. Dante penned his incredi
bly tragic composition of human fate, and religion was chaos. On one hand, society boasted the teachings of the gentle St. Francis while, on the other, it blessed the barbarism of the Inquisitions.
France was the most powerful country in Europe, but in the name of faith, the Hundred Years War had plunged it into a river of blood and carnage. Then, at cruel intervals, the plague cast its ruthless cloud, eventually consuming one-third of France’s population. Death beckoned as it peered into every window, whispering, ready to kiss the lips of any who dared to live.
Despite Europe’s recent leaps in commerce, technology, art and learning, D’ata was aware that it was a dark time. The hearts and minds of men were not right. He knew they were given to hopeless thoughts and desperate deeds—he shook his head and frowned. These were woeful thoughts. But let them have their death and despair—he had enough of his own.
The mucked-up streets gave way to cobbled stone as he approached the small township square. He kicked his feet, slinging the mud from his boots as the mire gave way to more solid ground.
Looking up, he saw the black outline of the castle rising high above him. Its towers stretched like arms into the sky as though it would swoop him up and dash him to the rocky sea beyond.
The castle housed the criminals of the state for five townships. Tonight, it was also the end-stage of his holy pilgrimage. D’ata sighed and reached up to scratch the back of his neck where his collar punished him.
As he walked past the square, the scaffolding for tomorrow stood skeleton-like, gaunt and spindly. The timbers looked like a giant, unholy mantis, poised in the night, waiting to behead its prey. Unconsciously, D’ata moved away from it to the other side of the street.
There'd been a flurry of activity to raise the platform for the executions. It'd been almost festive. Eat, drink—and watch.
Three men were to be beheaded. One was to be hanged. It was certain to be a lively, social affair. The venders and gawkers would be out in mass, profiting as always from the macabre curiosity of horrible things. ‘Curious, how human nature drew more to a death than a birth,’ he thought to himself—‘Let a child be born and a few significant loved ones would gather, but let a man die? Even his most remote acquaintance would show up.’
D’ata was expected to be present, some ridiculous notion left unspoken that the presence of a holy man would secure the inevitable will of God. It was a freakish barter at best, and D’ata hated it.
He’d already seen the pathetic unfortunates scheduled to lose their heads. They were pitiless creatures, belching and scratching their genitals while he offered them confession. They'd led lives of petty disregard, their sins carnal and selfish, without the notion of consequence or redemption. Did they deserve to die? Only God knew. They were most likely victims of these miserable, chaotic times.
No matter, for tomorrow their eyes would briefly look up at their decapitated bodies. They would gaze in surprise as the awareness of their final moments dimmed—like the moths, flailing, staring up at the street lamp before being smashed into Dante’s heaven or hell.
D’ata shook his head, as though to shake the thoughts away. Only one remained to be seen—the murderer, the one to be hung...the evil one. Yet, this was the fourteenth century and the necessity of absolution was divine law! No matter the crimes, all men might seek absolution and with forgiveness, or enough gold, could enter the kingdom of God.
He sighed heavily. D’ata was a righteous man, but he resented the task he faced. He knew that the elder priests gave him this chore because he was the youngest of the parish. Sulking, he gained only minimal satisfaction that one day he too would be above it, and would cast it off onto another younger, newer priest.
Then he would finally be left alone, to pray and take communion within the confines of the church. This notion was selfish—he knew this, and he would take his escape in a heartbeat when the time came. For now, however, he would be a good priest, as good as he could be. If it pleased God, perhaps there would be mercy, and D’ata would be granted his final indulgence.
For some reason, this gave him no peace tonight. His mood blackened for he knew to wish for the passage of time was dangerous. The soul lives to experience the moment. To bleed is to live. A terrible color, though—red. If he could just forget that color...
He paused in his tracks, reached up and gently touched his right temple with the first two fingers of his hand. He was uncomfortable. His thoughts tormented him and his feet were leaden. It seemed that his heart sagged in his chest. It was like that fall-too-fast feeling which happens when, as a child, you jump from too high a spot and your body outruns your heart. It was very disagreeable and he tried to shrug the feeling off. ‘Must just be the night air,’ he reasoned.
He glanced back for a moment and thought he saw another clandestine traveler behind him, but the shadow turned out to be only a vapor in the night, disappearing into thin air. He shrugged and walked on.
For now, it was to the dungeons, and he dreaded the job ahead of him. He detested laying eyes upon those miserable creatures, smelling their filth and half-listening to their confessions, blasphemies, and complaints. It disrespected humanity, and it disrespected her.
A pang of guilt stabbed at him. God would disapprove of his lack of compassion. He made a mental note to include this in his evening prayers and Saturday confessions. ‘Forgive me Father, for I have sinned—again.’
Monsignor Leoceonne would not treat him kindly for penance, though D’ata knew the Monsignor felt generally the same as he about the task. The older priest had reason to give him stiff penance at the slightest fault, for the younger man had a tormented history of severe transgressions to be sure. It was a history everyone knew, but no one spoke of.
D’ata took a deep breath as the shame of his past snuck briefly into his wandering thoughts, and he groaned aloud. Peculiar how he did that—softly, involuntarily, but definitely a groan. It always happened when the unthinkable would lay siege to his subconscious and claim a thought for itself. He could never predict when it would happen, and it made him pause on his journey tonight, head bowed with fists clenched to his forehead. He struggled, forcing the thoughts away, preferring the morbid present to the horrible anguish of his past.
‘Please, God. Make the memories go away...if you will just take them away.’
Finally, he relaxed a bit, his feet started to move again, and his journey continued.
D'ata climbed the long hill to the castle with a slow, tedious step. As he crossed the portcullis and approached the enormous, dark facade, he paused to touch it, allowing his hand to pass over the rough, cold stones. They appeared to weep in the dampness of the night, perhaps for the unfortunate men they imprisoned. Ice cold tears they must be—tears for the dying.
The skirts of his robes were wet a good hands-breath up the hem, but the rains had ceased for now.
Climbing the steps of the massive fortress, he lifted the heavy wooden knocker, pounding twice on the soggy door. The dull hammering echoed behind him, causing him to glance back again.
He shivered, squinting back into the distance from where he'd just come. The fog pushed in, rolling down the streets, claiming for itself the space from which the rain had withdrawn. Castillon was a beautiful town on a sunny day. Tonight, though, D’ata hardly recognized it.
Glancing up, he tried to make out the stars, briefly considering how others must look at the stars just as he did. Other people in other towns, perhaps watching the same sky at this very moment. Sometimes it was his way of escaping, by thinking about these strangers, so far away. His problems didn’t exist where they were—if only he could find his way there. Of course, he’d tried that once, with awful consequence.
His gaze fell to the little town and he tried to make out the sea beyond, but the fog forbade him tonight.
The gates creaked on their hinges, startling him from his far away thoughts. A middle-aged guard with disheveled hair, his cheek deeply wrinkled from his slumber, finally answered the knock. His brea
th was a putrid mix of ale and sloth. D’ata turned his head away from the stench.
Waving the priest in, his wrist disjointed and floppy with his drunkenness, the guard guided the holy man through a maze of corridors. Mumbling about the ungodly hour, though it was barely past dinner, he led D’ata to one of the two towers, adjacent to the donjon.
They passed through a heavy wooden door, which moaned is rusty objection as the guard heaved it open. Then, they wandered a ways along an alarmingly narrow hall. The confinement quickened the priest’s heart, and he was annoyed that this happened every time, at this particular spot.
The stones wept inside as well as out, though the walls were a good twelve feet thick. It was cold and gloomy, and D’ata’s mood paled even more.
Lighting a second oilcloth, the guard shoved it at the priest. He unlocked a door and nodded towards what appeared to be a dark, bottomless hole.
Holding the torch with both hands, like a crucifix, D’ata allowed his eyes to adjust to the black maw before him. The circling steps were sadly familiar to him as they fell away into apparent nothingness. He inhaled deeply, as though to venture further would command that he step beneath the surface of humanity to the abyss of heartlessness.
The guard turned, his oily breath beckoning for the liquor which would lure him back to sleep. “He’s a wretched one Father, and you shouldn’t be wasting your time on him. He’ll be Satan’s whore by tomorrow night, and God be rid of him.” He laughed heartily, handed D’ata a spare dungeon key and slammed the door, locking it behind him.