The Execution (25 page)

The next morning, it was LanCoste who
rode onto shift and noticed the boy did not rouse for food or
water, only remained curled up beneath the blankets. He also
noticed the snow—scuffed and pink now, as though something had died
there last night.

Riding cautiously by the cage, Renoir
glancing furtively at the giant before swiftly looking away.
LanCoste stared blankly ahead, as though hardly noticing the
expression upon the face of the wicked man with the contemptible
grin.

Renoir sneered, likely believing that
the giant was daft, a ‘stupid waste of human flesh’ he’d called him
once. Evidently satisfied that his midnight secret remained
undiscovered, Renoir rode on.

It was only then, that the giant
glanced from beneath his brow, eyes narrowed, at the mercenary
riding away from him.

Pierre Steele was gone, having made
off in the middle of the night, finally satisfied with having
fulfilled his rape of the boy. He’d wanted to murder him, had
wanted to make him bleed until he bled no more, but knew that Duval
would have caught and killed him for that.

Steele doubtless believed Duval would
never know of the event, and as the giant said nothing of the
circumstances, the caravan moved on.

Duval shrugged at Pierre’s absence—he
was useless and ate too much as it were.

The boy had become ill, that is what
Duval was told. He hardly stirred and neither ate nor drank for
nearly three days. LanCoste, in an unusual gesture, had made
himself the wordless guardian of the cage. It was uncommon for the
giant to self-appoint himself to something such as that. Duval had
no issue with it, however, and thought little of it. The giant
would be utilized even more with the boy’s training, once they
reached the base, and so it served his purpose to let it
be.

CHAPTER
NINETEEN

†

The Dungeon: One a.m.

“
I’m so sorry.” D’ata
shook his head, arms crossed on his knees, staring at his feet.
“When I asked earlier, if Pierre—,” he trailed off, then tried
again. “I didn’t mean to bring up the memory of...”

Ravan, still leaning with his back
against the priest, looked sideways at him and shrugged. “What—that
he raped me?”

“
It must have been
horrible,” D’ata said.

There was a long pause before Ravan
said, “There are worse things, Father.”

“
Yes, I suppose there
are.”

Then, it was quiet for a
spell.

“
Ravan, you can call me
D’ata.”

His companion nodded and whispered,
“D’ata...”

The soft breathing of the two men
lured them to their own thoughts for a bit, then D’ata cautiously
ventured, “Whatever happened to Pierre?”

Ravan, lost for a while in his
thoughts, considered carefully before answering, “All men have a
destiny—and he found his.”

CHAPTER
TWENTY

†

By the time they reached the fortress,
Ravan was much weaker, yet his wounds were healing remarkably well.
He was dragged from the cart one final time and stumbled, blinking,
into the light of day. The snow glistened on the slopes which
seemed suspended nearly right above him.

It was a ridiculous sight, this
man-boy, slumped, emaciated, weak and wild, staring blindingly up
at the Rhone Alps.

This was Duval’s great capture!
Mercenaries gathered around to size up the boy. Most of them shook
their heads in amusement and curious befuddlement. ‘Their master
had spent so much time and resource for this? Hadn’t they lost dogs
and men for this?’

They laughed and poked at the boy who
stood shackled, staring at his feet with blood stained trousers
sagging against his too thin frame.

Duval, ignoring everyone, strode past
his capture and his men to disappear inside the
fortress.

* * *

Ravan hardly noticed their prodding,
or their callous curiosity. He was escorted, to his dull surprise,
not to a dungeon but instead to a simple, comfortable room. There
was a barred window but the slanted cold sunshine of winter shone
through nevertheless, and he was drawn to it. A settee, chair, and
small bed completed the lonely room. The shackles were removed and
a boy brought hot water, a towel, soap and a straight
razor.

For a lost amount of time, Ravan sat
on the edge of the bed staring at the window, occasionally rubbing
the leathery, wrinkled calluses on his wrists. The shadows finally
stretched, reaching for his feet. A dull headache that was now very
familiar to him pressed inward on his temples. He tried to
concentrate. Blinking to clear his eyes, he struggled to his feet
and walked to the window, squinting and peering out into the bright
afternoon. A few snow white clouds dotted the clearest blue sky
he’d ever seen.

The walls of the barricade were stone,
carefully fashioned and a good seven meters high. The courtyard was
large, forty or so acres. It held a variety of jousting, fighting,
and exercise apparatus. Men fought with heavy pads tied about them,
not the armor that was the battle uniform of the day. They were
quick. The broad sword was nowhere to be seen, the rapier
dominated.

The horses were likewise exercised.
The beasts were all in very fine shape. Archers practiced against
straw figures propped up to look like enemies, their crossbows
triggered in unison as their payloads released.

The barracks lined one wall and the
stables another. The main structure, it might have been a castle at
one time, was immense and fortified. All other structures seemed to
extend from it, although it was hard to be sure from his point of
view.

Ravan noticed, again, how the
mountains rose steeply and rocky beyond the fortress walls. He was
unable to make lay of all the buildings on the premises, as the
small window only allowed forward sight into the courtyard. He
might have been in awe of the monumental landscape, had his
situation been different, but his circumstances allowed little
curiosity, only a numb tolerance of his environment.

His gaze rested on two figures, hung
from a cross timber. They were ghastly and surreal. At first, he
thought they must be just more straw figures, as the soldiers shot
arrows into them and sliced at them with their swords. When the
bodies fell heavily to the ground, after they were cut free, a sick
realization overcame him, and in his heart he recognized his own
lack of worth to mankind. If Ravan had been disposed to prayer, he
would have prayed for the two unknowns on the ropes’
ends.

Eventually, the clouds mushroomed,
larger and angry, and the sky frowned, dumping its wet apathy onto
the courtyard. It was cold and the snow was mixed with rain. The
men ceased their training. Gray shadows obliterated most of the
light, and it was hard to tell if it was twilight or
not.

The gloom preyed further upon him and
his head sagged with fatigue. There was a rap on the door. The boy,
not much younger than he, returned to find a cold basin of water
with the unused razor. He looked quizzically at the prisoner, “Sir,
do you not wish to shave?”

He didn’t answer, only waved the boy
away. As the boy left, he did notice the guard outside the door and
heard the ‘ka-chunk’ of the deadbolt falling into its bed. Ravan
stood and stretched. His body ached, but it was glorious to extend
his arms and legs after so long in the crate. He savored the
moment, even incarcerated as he was. Hobbling to the basin, he
washed his face and armpits with the cold water, thinking still of
the two hung and dismembered men.

Ravan scrubbed himself thoroughly,
remembering how the old man at the orphanage had taught him how
important it was to be clean, on the skin and in the heart, in the
eyes of God. He wondered briefly, and with all sincerity, if God
noticed him now.

He scrubbed his body first and lastly,
he washed his groin. The remnants of the blood, the evidence of
what had been done to him, were all but gone from his thighs and
buttocks, but the stains remained on his trousers. Even so, he
scrubbed himself hard. The water in the basin was a muddy black by
the time he was finished.

Examining
himself in the looking glass, he tested the razor with his finger.
Ravan had never shaved before.
He shaved
twice over to shear the scraggly dark growth from his face, nicking
himself several times.

A striking young man looked back at
him, cheekbones hollow and a jagged red scar sliced over his left
eyebrow. He started at the unfamiliarity of himself. He was
dreadfully thin, but his bruises were gone and his eyes glistened
like wet onyx.

He raised an eyebrow at the reflection
that greeted him. Staring hard at himself, he allowed the memory of
the rape to wash over him again. He shuddered, and bile rose in the
back of his throat as he recalled the horror of that night.
Thoughts of God were quickly replaced with an increasingly familiar
emotion—hatred. He reached deep from within, eagerly pulling
strength from it and pushed thoughts of his defilement away. He had
other thoughts he must focus on now.

Looking at his reflection, he
whispered. “Do I know you?”

Then, he walked to the massive
timbered door and banged on it with his fist. “You, out there! Tell
Duval I am hungry.”

There was no answer.

“
I said, I’m
hungry!”

Still silence.

He sighed and gave up his assault on
the door. Turning, he walked back and stretched gingerly out on the
bed, testing its worth. It was ecstasy, almost to the point of
pain, to stretch out full upon the bed. His cage had not allowed
him to extend his whole body. He could sit with his legs straight
or lie with his legs bent. His tendons were taut because of this.
Ravan had been careful to vary his position frequently in the cage.
When allowed out, he had stretched liberally...until the rape.
Then, he’d lain curled up too long, for too many days. His legs
were tight, unsteady, and it hurt to lie straight.

The whole
trip had left him weak, sleep fatigued, and a good twenty pounds
lighter than was his normal, healthy weight. He felt vulnerable.
He
was
vulnerable. Duval had intended it so.

He was just about to doze off when
there was another rap on the door. The boy returned with bread,
butter, and a pitcher of scalded milk. The servant took the soiled
water and, Ravan noticed, the razor.

He drank deeply, the hot milk burning
as it poured down his throat. It was good to drink something hot,
to feel it from the inside. He had been given only water to drink
for such a long time now, and he briefly remembered how the Fat
Wife used to give him mugs of meat broth with wedges of buttered
bread to soak in it. He almost smiled at what seemed like such a
far away memory. His sadness deepened—he missed her. His hand went
to the ring and he wondered if she missed him as well, if she
worried about him. Surely she did!

Ravan finished the milk completely
before gorging on the food, his body craving the calories. Then,
leaving his worn and soiled clothing on the floor, he crawled into
bed naked. Curled and warm under the blankets, he slept for a lost
amount of time, quiet and undisturbed for the first time in
weeks.

Some hours later, he awakened with
gripping abdominal pain and diarrhea. It was dark in the room, with
only the faint light of night coming through the window. At first
he forgot where he was, thought he was still in the hold. He
urgently gathered his senses and scrambled clumsily across the room
to evacuate his bowels into the receptacle in the
corner.

Ravan had never before experienced
such pain as now gripped him, violently, from within. He was
certain that he could endure it no more, that he would pass out and
die before his body ceased with the crippling waves of pain. He
doubled over, clutching the edges of the chamber pot, unable even
to sit up straight.

Eventually, the diarrhea ended.
Sitting upright, he waited, lightheaded and afraid to leave the
receptacle for fear the waves of pain might start again. He stuffed
the dirtied towel from his earlier bath into the opening of the
latrine to stifle the vile stench.

On his hands and knees, he crawled
trembling and naked across the rough plank floor, back to bed. He
was cold and shivered, pulling the blankets over his head,
welcoming the utter darkness and closing his eyes.

When next he woke, the shadows in the
courtyard cast the opposite direction. ‘Morning’ he concluded, but
stayed where he lay. Very soon, there was a noise at his door and
two guards entered.

“
Monsieur Duval wishes to
see you.” They brought clean clothes, leather trousers, a tunic and
coat.

Ravan was dressed, shackled, and
escorted through a maze of corridors, exiting and entering
buildings twice. The men did not speak and neither did
he.

Finally, he was deposited into an
immense hall and brought to stand at the foot of an enormous
table.

Duval sat at the table head, poring
over some papers. A cartographer sat next to him, maps spread out
before them, and there were four guards to his flanks. Duval did
not look up.