He had sat in the boughs of the thick firs, watching the confusion on the faces of the men below. He thought it random circumstance, a hunting party. Perhaps they had been following the same prey and he’d foiled them. But his gut instinct told him to elude the men, to remain unseen.
He looked out the window. “I don’t care. It doesn’t matter who paid whom, I have not consented to this barter. I refuse to be a part of it.”
She reached for his arm, turning him gently as a mother would, to look at her. “It isn’t fair, and it isn’t right. Nevertheless, it is the way of things. You are in grave danger, child.” Her clear eyes fogged over. She was crying, but this time she did not look away. “Ravan, I cannot remember such happiness as I have had at your coming here. I love you child, like my own son. It pains me more than you can ever know to send you away like this, but if I don’t, you will become one of Duval’s monsters. And that I couldn’t bear. I have been part of this deceit, and for that I pray that God and you can forgive me.”
She turned, busying herself, reaching for the flour sack on the bed. “I’ve brought you some food—some meat and bread.” She tapped him on the forehead and forced a smile. “You possess whatever else it is that you need to get away, of this I am sure. I’ve saved a little money for you.” She pressed a small leather purse with a draw cord into his hand. “You must go, my child, before it is too late.” A tear trickled down her cheek, catching and disappearing at the corner of her mouth. “Duval is close, on his way. I think Steele has sent word to town, and you know it’s not very far.”
Ravan opened his mouth to object, but a sudden commotion in the great room downstairs silenced him. He heard yelling, the voices unfamiliar, and dogs barking distantly from the front of the Inn. He glanced swiftly at the door, then back at the woman.
“Go far—as far away as you can,” she said urgently, pulling him to the window. “Be off with you, and...” she paused, her voice catching in her throat, “run, Ravan. Give them the run of their lives.” She pressed the sack into his hands.
He stood for a moment staring at her, the sack hanging limply in his hands. He was stunned from the sudden horror of it all, confused and afraid. The commotion continued and he could hear Pierre wailing his story to any who would listen.
Suddenly, Ravan came to his senses, and his instincts took over, as they always did. He tossed the window sash up, paused, turning back towards her. “I will come back. I will never forget, this I promise.” He reached out, touching her hand, and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. “I remember my mother sometimes. I think she was kind—like you have been.”
The barking of dogs and commotion drew them apart. She breathed in a quiet sob.
The young man grabbed his coat, flipped open the sash, and crawled out the window to slide down the skirting to the second level. From there the boy leapt from the roof, tumbling with a grunt into the new skiff of snow, and scampered to the edge of the woods.
CHAPTER EIGHT
†
The Dungeon: Ten p.m.
D’ata sat quietly, captivated by the story Ravan told. There were two things that critically captured him about it. First, he could hardly imagine the heartache and stress a child would have endured at such events as Ravan just described. His own childhood had been so privileged, so protected. But, more sincerely, D’ata heard for the first time that his true mother was dead. He’d hardly hazarded to think about her, the biological origin or himself, and could not recall having ever considered her welfare. Now, to hear Raven speak of her was heartbreaking—his love for her, from the very center of his being, and her sorrowful death. It did something to D’ata that was profound and sincerely real.
“So, did you bed her?” Ravan said abruptly, surprising him quite a bit.
D’ata’s mouth dropped open and he leaned back so he could more closely examine the face of the man whose mouth had uttered those vile and thoughtless words. “Why, how could you say such a thing? I should...” D’ata was mortified.
“What? Kill me?” Ravan retorted. “You’ll have to wait your turn.” He cleared his throat and selfishly took another pull from the wine flask, then added, “And isn’t this what we are doing? We are discovering about what happened? The whole of it, aren’t we? The good and the bad? Or does sincerity know restraint for the privileged?”
D’ata simply stared, speechless. He'd shared his experience of Julianne with his brother, had exposed her memory to him, inviting his confidence. True, Ravan did not yet know all of Julianne’s story, but even so.
There was a long moments’ quiet. Finally, the prisoner mumbled awkwardly, “I’m sorry—that was cruel.” He appeared uncomfortable, then, almost as an afterthought he added, “I do not begrudge you your fortune. It’s just that, I suppose I might have—”
“Might have—what?” D’ata asked, incredulous.”
Struck ill at ease, perhaps by the familiarity of the expression of his brother, Ravan tried again, more kindly, shrugging, “Oh, be reasonable. She was beautiful, I mean, she sounds...” He frowned at his own lack of elegance. “I suppose, I would have wanted to—that’s all I meant.”
Another long pause and D’ata sat back and said hoarsely, “Just be quiet, please.” He looked upward, towards the tiny window, not really seeing the night beyond.
Ravan tried one last time. “I mean she sounds really, very—um, nice...”
D’ata sighed as though wounded, but was forgiving of his brother. “Yes.” He considered what his brother offered to him, an apology of sorts, and then almost smiled, “Yes, I suppose she was very—nice.”
Ravan peered at his brother, as though suddenly moved by the expression on his face; such sadness, such remorse. He appeared uncomfortable, almost sorry for the callous words he’d spoken. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to...”
D’ata waved him quiet and closed his eyes.
Ravan reached the flask towards his brother.
Pausing, he took the flask, drank deeply and looked into the eyes of his brother, the mercenary. It was strange to hear the prisoner, thrashed, beaten, wounded and caged, speak so tenderly, so kindly.
“I wish I'd known her—someone, like Julianne,” Ravan murmured. It was utterly sincere, and D’ata was pleased.
“And look at you, about to make the woods your new home. That’s a situation if ever there was one,” D’ata said.
“Mmm,” was all Ravan replied.
Leaning against each other, they shared the cape and the wine, the night paused. By and by, the unlikely pair continued their journey together, as a distant thread of what once was returned to the fabric of the here and now.
CHAPTER NINE
†
Julianne’s father was furious; the girl was so late returning. She was supposed to be home already, have the cider on and supper started a good hour ago. It wasn’t the cider and the supper that worried him, it was the whereabouts of his daughter.
His daughter was his jewel; she was his angel, sent from God—there to hold the family together when his wife died in childbirth with his little Yvette. Now, he was fiercely protective of his children, especially his daughters. He wrung his hands, an uncommon gesture for the life-hardened farmer. He could not imagine what he would do without his Julianne.
It was an unusually warm day and she was, no doubt, lounging about by the river again, as she seemed so inclined to do. Damn her! She was probably reading more of that blasphemy that her friend, Babette, had given her.
He stomped as he paced the floor of their humble kitchen, hiking his tunic back onto his shoulder. Curious, how the boys could disappear for hours at a time and he would not worry so much. His girls, however, were a different story altogether.
Julianne’s father was outraged by this morning’s events at the parish. Father Leoceonne had confronted him about the whole affair; had spoken unfairly of the incident. The father had even gone so far to as imply that Julianne was responsible, that she should daunt her beauty a bit, restrain her hair more effective
ly, and loosen her clothes so as not to accentuate her figure. Or, perhaps she should not come to mass at this parish at all, until the fine young D’ata finished his discipleship. It had thoroughly infuriated him and he’d left mass in a foul mood.
In all truth, the linen Julianne wore was a most unbecoming gown, on most figures, but as God is inclined to sculpt an angel, even the dowdiest of attire only seemed to draw attention to it.
And mass? Mass was sacred! And Julianne had been so excited to see the cathedral! He was enraged. His family was one of simple means and the church was crucial to them. They worked hard for their existence on the face of God’s earth, and he would not see his family denied.
In actuality, it was true that people of simple means clung more fiercely to their beliefs. This was because their circumstances alone gave them a greater comprehension of the gift of grace. When one has less, they cherish what they have more.
Julianne’s father was angered at the boy the most. He knew the mettle of young men and priest, or no priest, he knew the effect Julianne had on young men. Her father sighed, remembering how he himself had shamelessly rutted after Julianne’s mother, of how he would have taken her to bed in an instant if their families hadn't watched them so closely.
He didn’t trust this young fellow, didn’t trust him at all! He snorted and stepped outside to draw water.
His daughter was a precious gift. She looked so much like her mother and had her mother’s fire, of Irish lineage. He blinked hard as he drew the water from the well, and swallowed thickly, forcing a sudden sadness away, the deep creases of his brow furrowing even more. It'd been so painful to lose his wife, so difficult ever since she died.
Despite his love for Julianne, with every breath he took, his response to the embarrassment this morning was to berate her. He surprised himself as well as her. They’d argued bitterly. He’d yelled at her most of their walk home, more irritated by the fact that in reality, she was not at fault whatsoever. Now he was considerably miserable over the whole event. He wanted to set things straight, wanted to talk to Julianne and make her understand that he wouldn’t yell anymore. Why did he do that? Get angry when what he really felt was concern?
His relationship with his eldest daughter was unusual. When his wife passed away, Julianne stepped into the shoes of caregiver to the family. Along with that role came a communication between her and her father that was unique. They talked about the family, about concerns, problems and even fears. He needed her—trusted her, and as a result, Julianne had grown wise beyond her tender years.
He sighed again. She would be so much easier to protect if she were not so beautiful, but then she would not be Julianne. He carried the water into the house and dumped it into the cistern.
This morning, his daughter had stubbornly argued with him, her mouth frowning in defiance as she berated the behavior of the young priest first, then her father’s accusations second. She quoted unfamiliar teachings, words he'd never read before, notions from scholars he'd never even heard of. She'd yelled back at him, called him outdated, told him that he should just trust her. She accused him of being thirteenth century and finally she had called him ignorant!
Then, Julianne stomped out, her beloved book in hand, away to the river no doubt. Now it was twilight and he was worried. He deeply regretted blaming her when, in truth, he should have beaten the young priest senseless. He should have defended his daughter! What kind of father was he?
Guilt saddled him like a stone yoke. It would have been easier to just set the heavy feeling down, but he was incapable, so he shouldered it completely.
This was nonsense, he thought. He would set things straight when she got home, and things would be right again. They would sit down together and have cider. All would be as it was.
He could not believe his eyes when he saw her walk into the yard, with the priest! His rage erupted, crested in his ears, making them burn like fire. Without hesitation, he charged out the front door, his generous size and bull-like demeanor stopping the couple cold in their tracks.
* * *
D’ata was not expecting this greeting, as Julianne neglected to brief him on her domestic situation. They'd spent the afternoon and early evening together, taking the long, very long way home. They had been too enamored with the presence of each other to consider much of anything else.
“Julianne, get yourself into the house! And you—you...” Her father trembled and pointed a thick finger at D’ata. “Get out of my sight! I’ll be speaking to your father about this!”
“Father, you don’t understand!” Julianne pleaded. “It was too late and it became dark, and Monsieur Cezanne was so kind as to—”
“Don’t argue with me! I’ll hear no excuses, do you hear!” he raged.
D’ata tried to interject. “Monsieur, it is not like that. I have no intention of—”
“Of what?” Julianne’s father turned on him viciously. “I believe you made your intentions perfectly clear this morning. You can take your intentions and—and stuff them up your holy ass!”
“Father! Don’t, please!” Julianne pleaded, hands out.
The elder continued, focused on D’ata. “Get out!” He took a step toward the young man while he grabbed Julianne by the arm, jerking her roughly towards the door of the house.
D’ata bristled, not at the words, for those he knew were well deserved. Instead, he was surprised at how rapidly his own anger peaked, at how quickly he objected to someone touching Julianne so roughly, even if it was her father. He mistakenly considered that this was the way Julianne was treated every day.
Julianne turned back to the D’ata, shocked by the turn of events. “I’m so sorry, I—”
“Silence! Get inside!” Her father demanded as he shoved her through the door. He slammed it shut behind her and turned back to the younger man, rolling up his shirtsleeves.
“Monsieur, I have no desire to—” D’ata stammered, hands up in submission. However, he failed to back away fast enough and the elder landed his fist squarely on the young man’s jaw. This sent him sprawling, feet up into the air and backwards into the dusty courtyard.
“Don’t let me catch you around my daughter ever again!” her father turned, looking over his shoulder. “Take your holy ass and go straight to hell!” He stomped back up the steps, into the house and slammed the door shut.
Thoroughly dazed, D’ata lie straight on his back, looking briefly up at the sparkling clouds until all went dark. It took a few moments before he came around and was able to remember where he was. He sat up slowly, allowing himself the luxury of gathering his senses. Dizzy, he picked himself up out of the dirt and brushed himself off.
The events of the last few minutes were so sudden, so unexpected. He'd never been outright boxed before, and he’d certainly never been knocked senseless. He was surprised at the stars that blinked like fireflies before his eyes. He shook his head as though he might clear it, then realized the mistake of that and leaned over, holding very still until he was sure he would not pass out again.
He thought briefly to himself that his jaw had taken a terrible beating today, and he gently manipulated it to make certain it was not broken. It was about then that his thoughts returned to the walk he and Julianne had shared on her way home, and he grinned outright.
Spitting blood from his mouth, he tested the looseness of a tooth with one finger. Exhausted, beaten and ragged, he turned and started back. He was a long way from home and without a horse, but his heart soared and his footsteps were light.
He hurt all over, but D’ata was in love. He’d never felt this way before, and life was wonderful.
CHAPTER TEN
†
It wasn’t long before the hounds had the scent of Ravan's trail. The purpose for their breeding manifested itself superbly as they hunted. They ran for one reason only, to kill the boy. Their drool laced the new snow as they slung their wet noses back and forth across the frosty brush, snapping at each other in their excitement. If unchecked,
they would hamstring their prey. If further unchecked, they would gut it alive.
Ravan knew his legs were no match for the dogs. He knew it was only a matter of time. If he was to survive, he must stay alert and use all of his resources, mental and physical. To live, he knew he must call upon everything he’d learned when he was the hunter, not the hunted.
He tied the flour sack of supplies so that it rested comfortably across his hips, not flopping about or throwing him off balance. In short order, he established a satisfactory pace, matching his breath to his efforts with a mental cadence he knew he could sustain. He conserved precious energy whenever he could. Inhale—two steps, exhale—two steps. The simple counting to himself kept him focused and calm as he jogged on. He knew it would mean disaster if he allowed himself to sweat from fear rather than exertion.
He had seen men use dogs before, to fatigue their prey and ultimately lame them. Sometimes, the hunter was too slow regaining control of the hounds, and the beasts would kill the prey, tearing them to shreds. It was gruesomely efficient and terrible poor sport. Ravan considered it the lazy man’s hunt and snorted in derision. Why his enemy had chosen to turn the dogs on him was a mystery, for they would gain nothing if they killed him—if what the Innkeeper’s wife said to him was true.
Ravan did not see himself as she had described him, as a commodity to be exploited. It was beyond the boy’s comprehension to see profit in himself. After all, he was an orphan, one of the unwanted ones.
Hadn’t LaFoote said he ‘belonged’ to someone, to this person, Duval?
And yet Ravan could not fathom what a group of men, bad men, could possibly want with him? He worried, having heard of terrible things that girls and boys were sometimes forced to do. He thought briefly of his sisters and it discouraged him to consider what their fates had likely been. No matter—that seemed so long ago, there was no point in thinking about it now.