The Execution

  Moulin didn’t try to rouse his master; the significant pool of coagulated blood on the coverlet was proof enough that it would have been futile. He looked over at Nicolette.

  There she stood, hands clasped casually in front of her, looking placidly down at her husband from the foot of the massive four-poster. “See...” was all she said.

  “Mmm—hmmm.” Moulin's stunned gaze swung from the Nicolette to the corpse and back.

  “Well, and what do you propose we should say about this,” she pushed Moulin gently.

  He looked again, at the ghastly expression on the face of his lord and couldn’t help himself. Pulling the throw from the bedside chair, he tossed it over Adorno, obscuring the awful face. It was bizarre how rapidly the tyrant no longer resembled a man. He had become some horrid abnormality, some twisted and contorted freak.

  The whole scenario was grossly obscene, Adorno deformed upon the bed, and his mistress covered in blood. Moulin looked quickly back at Nicolette as though for guidance.

  She remained silent with only a queer and calm expression on her face.

  Moulin finally spoke, “It is terribly unfortunate—sad,” he swallowed thickly, “to have happened on your wedding night.” He gestured slightly for emphasis, still in shock and awe.

  She only peered at him, waiting.

  He cleared his throat before continuing, “You must be devastated; I must call the constable. The township will surely come to your defense and support in such a difficult time as this.”

  “Do not call the constable. I can govern quite well during this...transition, so to speak.” She faced her sentry directly, studied him thoroughly, and said, “Assemble my knights first thing tomorrow and—thank you.” Then, almost as an afterthought she added, “I was hoping that compassion and wisdom would persevere during these terrible circumstances. The townspeople are surely going to be shocked and traumatized by the news, as I most certainly will be—as well.”

  “Most certainly,” he agreed.

  “I believe assistance is in order; I will need help. Perhaps we might assemble my advisors late tomorrow afternoon, after the initial outrage of the incident has passed.”

  “Yes my lady, but there will be details to be attended to.” He gestured towards the bloodied wreckage hidden beneath the throw.

  “Good—of course, but the meeting cannot wait.” She said it almost perfunctory and pressed on. “I wish to repeal the harvest tax and set aside an emergency supply of barley, for years of pestilence.” She continued before Moulin could interrupt. “I assume we have enough gold for such a thing?”

  He nodded. “Yes, my lady, I believe we do, but the scribes will know better. I—I don’t believe my lord has ever met with them.”

  “Mmm, of course not. Pity, isn’t it? We will have to change that now, won’t we?” She looked from her dead husband to Moulin, and her face brightened. “Well, all right then. Let’s be done with this mess, shall we?” She continued, almost cheerfully. “Can you clean this up? And move me to a southern exposure suite, please. I wish to see the southern sky from my new room.”

  He nodded.

  “And Moulin?”

  It was the first time he had ever heard her say his name. “Yes, my lady?”

  “Seal this chamber. Seal it from the light of day, and—leave him there.” She continued despite the look of dismay on Moulin’s face. “Any who take vexation with this can speak to me. This is no longer the Bourbon Dynasty, do you understand? It is now the Ravan Dynasty, and it belongs to me.”

  There was nothing Nicolette could do for Ravan; he was a prisoner of the state and his fate would become his own. She could, however, martyr his memory for the sake of their child.

  “Make that announcement immediately. And, I wish for you to stay on as my personal castellan.” She lifted her chin as she finished.

  His face lit up with the prospect of such an obligation. “Yes, my lady.” He bowed deeply before following her, leaving the murder bed and the legacy that was Adorno behind them.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  †

  The Dungeon: Six a.m.

  They sat in silence, sagging warmly into each other as the chill of very early morning settled about them. Even the rats seemed to have succumbed to the long night and quiet fell all around.

  Their stories told, a somber peace enveloped them. So unlikely, such polar opposite fates, and finally the circle was complete. The words had run out as their hearts had slowly filled. There was a certain exhausting finality about it, as though the symphony was finished, resplendent with sad ending.

  Neither had ever told their story before; they had kept it hidden, splintered and secret. Until now, they had not known the other, nor the why of the missing piece of their hearts. There was finally an answer to an unspoken question.

  “I’m glad to have met you, to know that you are like me,” one murmured.

  “It is truly my honor to have you as my brother. I say this from my heart,” the other replied.

  Both were overcome with the moment, and as the stars in the high overhead window started to fade, the warmth of their short time together did not, for they each had a brother, a twin, and that brother’s story was worthy and noble. Such a splendid discovery it was, and it disavowed mortal life.

  D’ata turned. “I have brandy.”

  “You bring brandy? And you just now disclose this?” Ravan’s face lit up visibly at the thought of a draft of brandy at this, the coldest and longest hour of the night.

  “I keep it, for those who suffer pain. Tonight, I want you to have it...”

  Ravan accepted the warm gift. “So kind, thank you, brother.”

  D’ata smiled and passed the flask.

  Before long, they leaned quietly against each other and dozed for a while, one more deeply than the other. It would not be long now...

  THE EXECUTION

  †

  Prisoners began to stir, those who lived. Light barely reached them, or the depths of their despair, but the intrinsic metabolic clock which is humanity roused those who would, or could, be wakened.

  Soon, the guards would make their rounds, remove the dead, toss bread if they were so inclined, and take those to torture who must be tortured, but this would only happen after midmorning. Persecution most often occurred only after dinner, when those who tortured cast a pitiless stomach for it. The butchery of man is best dealt with in later hours, as is lust, debauchery and murder. So, for now, the condemned only moaned their appreciation, or despair, for their last moments.

  It was nearly two hours later when the young priest, dressed in the clothes of a mercenary, climbed the steps of the gallows. A crowd had thronged for the event, having heard of the terrible man, the infamous murderer, kidnapper, rapist—mercenary. They had all heard of his remarkable last stand, of the mass killing he’d accomplished. He was feared, and his death would be one of necessity; destroy the beast, before it can destroy you! Consequently, the crowd was more solemn than usual, although there were jeers, calls, and curses from a foolish few.

  D’ata climbed slowly. The scaffolding seemed so much higher than it needed to be. The sun had failed him today, as it had so often, it seemed. The seasons didn’t even seem right as of late. Perhaps it fit his life, he thought to himself.

  He watched his own feet as he climbed, unfamiliar with the boots he now wore. He wondered if the dark blotches were bloodstains, wondered about the miles his brother had walked in these shoes. It gave him peace to walk in Ravan’s boots and to know that a righteous man would be free. Not only would he be free, his book would be unwritten. His brother could start anew as though he had never been born. This gave D’ata solace.

  Ravan had argued with him, had refused to make the switch. But, after a while, he slept deeply from the opium. The Brandy had cut the bitters well enough, and Ravan had drunk most of the small flask. D’ata ordinarily brought it for those who suffered physical pain from their tortures. Tonight, it had served its purpose and eventually Ravan h
ad succumbed.

  D’ata left his sleeping brother draped in the robes of a holy and righteous man and pulled straw over him. The same guard hadn’t even noticed, not even remembering, for his drunken stupor, when a priest had knocked on the castle door the evening before.

  By the time Ravan would awaken, it would be too late. His brother would be upon the gallows.

  D’ata wavered a bit, unsteady with the height of the narrow stairs, the long night, and the harrowing moment at hand. He thought briefly of Joan d’Arc. She'd refused to compromise her beliefs, and they had burned her. That would be a horrible death, he thought to himself. Hanging was better, perhaps like drowning, and it was reserved for commoners. Only condemned royalty and nobility received the mercy of the block and the executioner’s blade.

  A guard grasped his elbow to steady him. Their eyes met briefly and there was a second of hesitation when D’ata almost felt he would be discovered, but then the man just looked away, as though he could not hold the glance of one such as this. If he'd looked more closely, he would've seen beyond the disguise. The bruises were simply charcoal, smeared from the long burned out torch in the cell. If the guard had lingered even a moment longer, he might have seen the eyes of the priest who had broken communion for him just three days before. D’ata’s disguise held.

  He thought of Julianne. It wouldn’t be long now. “I’m coming, my love,” he murmured, only loud enough so that he could hear it. He was calmed and quieted by his own words. His conviction remained and there was no regret for his decision.

  The constable started reading, but D’ata didn’t hear the words. It was as though the world had gone mute. Everything was oddly silent as he looked peacefully across the crowd, beyond the town square, past the shops, taverns and homes.

  His gaze followed the meadows beyond the town, saw the chill mist roll up from the sea. He imagined he could hear her whisper from the fog-bank that she was waiting and would be there to greet him—with their child.

  There was no fear in his heart. There was no remorse, either. All was forgiven and amends were made. D’ata had prayed for days, weeks, months and years for just this moment, for God to allow him to die. His prayer had been answered. This morning, as he’d taken the clothes from the mercenary, his brother, he’d never been as sure of anything in his life as he was of this choice. Ravan had unknowingly given to him a gift so precious, and D’ata could not imagine a price more fitting than his own death.

  The Constable seemed to have stopped reading. Now the charges would be read. D'ata knew that after each one, they would toll a bell. He saw the Constable’s mouth move, saw the expressions of shock and outrage on the faces of those gathered, but thought it strange, for even this was silent to the young priest’s ears.

  It was a peculiar deafness, and D’ata became quickly aware of the beating of two hearts. He glanced across the mass of faces and recognized no one. Silence prevailed, a deafening muted silence. He heard only the beating hearts and they seemed to get louder and louder.

  D’ata glanced about himself, wondering if the others felt the strange electricity in the air that now made his hair stand on end.

  The reading of the charges continued; they were unconscionable—allegations of treason, theft, kidnapping, rape, and murder. It was a horrible list and the count of murder exceeded one hundred, for the soldiers Ravan had slain in his final battle on the cliff. D’ata had no concern for the charges. He was preoccupied.

  Evidently, the masses could not hear the slow ka-thump, ka-thump, as it trotted along in pairs. It was oddly familiar to him, though he’d never heard it before.

  “Do you hear that?” D’ata glanced at the faces of the guards standing upon the gallows, looked to see if they noticed the strange and sudden cold on their skin, as he did. They ignored him, as though they could not hear him.

  Suddenly, there was a voice, hollow and cold. “And so it is—you give your life willingly, off the whim of a story, the fleeting fancy of a tale.”

  There was something terribly familiar about it; something he thought he'd heard in the moans of the wind, down the hallway between the cells last night. It occurred to him that he’d heard this voice before, on his darkest of days. It had scoffed at him in his blackest of moments—and he knew to what it belonged.

  D’ata was stunned. “Who are you?” He spoke only in his mind, but could hear his own voice, as clearly as if he shouted across the mob below.

  “Who am I?” the voice countered. There was a terrible laugh, a sickening scree. “I am the one who watches, as you—a holy man, does the unthinkable.”

  “Why do you say this? I do this for Ravan!” D’ata insisted, fear unexpectedly clawing at the peace he only moments ago enjoyed.

  No one else seemed to hear or notice the bizarre conversation taking place. The constable continued to silently mouth the announcements, oblivious of the dialogue.

  Sneering, the voice said, “You do this for yourself! You do the unthinkable! A holy man commits suicide!”

  The guard bound D’ata’s hands behind his back, so that should his head not float he could not sustain himself on the rope.

  Lucifer continued, “You will be cast into the seventh ring of hell, past the minotaur, and there you will stay forever with those others who commit such a crime against themselves.”

  “No,” D’ata replied, a sudden bolt of terror striking his soul. It was not the thought of purgatory which struck fear in his heart; it was because he knew Julianne would not be there.

  “You shall be eternally fed upon as your roots take shallow hold and your branches bear no fruit, and this shall amuse me greatly and eternally, for I am now your Master!” the voice persisted. It did not need to define itself at this point. D’ata knew what it was. It was evil. It was death without absolution or reconciliation. It was abandonment, sorrow and pain. It was—worst of all, solitude from love, especially of one.

  “No...” D’ata spoke aloud, if only a whisper.

  “Yes!” The voice hissed, “Yes—it was for you to choose! You chose the abomination against yourself, and in Hell you will spend eternity! My prize, my conquest!”

  “I don’t commit this atrocity! I give my life for him—for Ravan!” D’ata screamed, bent over with rage. “It is a sacrifice, for him!” he appealed to the onlookers, but the crowd seemed not to notice, and the reading of the conviction began.

  The voice taunted him, unable to contain its glee. “Not for him, no, not for him! He is ever such a convenient excuse for you, but you die because of yourself! You choose this because you are selfish—it is a coward’s choice!”

  “My brother, he...” D’ata began, now questioning his own motives.

  “He lives! He is free! But, not because you bargained. You spent the night with him, but it is with me that you now barter!”

  D’ata mumbled, overcome with the horrid understanding of what the demon was saying. “I do it for—for him.” His voice broke.

  “He would not accept the choice, fool that he was!” The monster’s voice roared. “He would not accept! You tricked him, to make him sleep as you did.”

  D’ata looked around urgently. Could no one else hear the evil amongst them? He struggled, tried to free his hands from the bonds and screamed aloud, “Ravan! Can you hear me!” His mind raced as he panicked, not from fear of death, but from his own doubt as to his true motivation. Did he do this for his brother? Or, was it an excuse to step beyond; a selfish choice to seek Julianne? Only God would know this, and D’ata had to be certain.

  The hangman, garishly out of place in the bright red robe that announced his occupation, stepped forward and urged D’ata over the gallows trap. The younger man struggled, and it took two strong men to stand D’ata over death’s door.

  All at once, D’ata could hear the crowd again, could hear the constable as he offered him the chance to speak his final words. The officer crossed his hands in front of him and waited for D’ata to speak.

  The crowd hushed, and the young ma
n broke the quiet, but not to those gathered below. Instead, he spoke to Satan, who he now knew had hidden outside the cell last night. It was the feeling he and Ravan had sensed, when they believed their stories had been intruded upon. The demon had been there in the dark, hidden beyond recognition. But D’ata recognized it implicitly now.

  The devil’s voice was also silent, as though it must hear the final words of its supreme device, its epic accomplishment, its masterpiece.

  D’ata trembled, but his voice did not. “Hear me, God!” He looked up to the sky, his voice hoarse, torn, as he spoke to the heavens, “Hear me now, if you have never heard me before!” He fell to his knees in his final prayer. “I go unwillingly,” D’ata closed his eyes; spoke calmly and with great conviction. “I speak to you from my heart—I love Julianne, and I love my brother. As I kneel here, yet alive, while my heart beats and my soul stirs, I deny this demon.”

  D’ata spat his final retaliation, opened his eyes and cried out so that all could hear, “Lucifer—fiend, monster—Diable of all that is black...I deny you this death!”

  In horrible recognition of its own prideful folly, the voice suddenly wailed, a horrendous and awful sound, but D’ata continued, this time to the crowd. “I deny it this victory! I deny it this trophy, this triumph! As of this moment, I do not step here willingly! And it is vanity, supreme boastfulness, that foils the demon now!”

  The young man commanded his stage, he rang his message true even as the noose settled, heavy and coarse around his throat.

  The executioner snugged it so that it fit cruel beneath the priests’ jaw on either side.

  “Nooo!” the voice screamed, a shrill and terrible wail, as though it recognized its own folly.

  The priest stood again, and the crowd silenced.

  All waited to hear what the prisoner might finally say.

  “I am D’ata! Father, son, priest and man! I reject you, Satan, and the suicide that was almost yours!” D’ata’s voice echoed across the heads of the spectators, down the valley and into the fog beyond, and no one heard—except one.