The Execution (36 page)

The man had been leaning over into one
of the barrels. How unusual that he would be eating the raw barley
instead of stealing of the stew or tender pork, but then she
remembered about the knife. It had been so long since she’d thought
about the knife, and how would someone know that she had hidden his
blade there?

Her surprise was so complete that the
tray and glasses crashed to the floor, shattering on the stone at
her feet. Frozen, her mouth a silent ‘oh,’ she stared at the wild
creature in front of her.

The intruder, hearing the crash of the
beer steins behind him, lunged upright out of the barley barrel,
the grain flying up and about him in the air. He looked absurd, the
tiny barley grains decorating him, clinging to his hair and
beard—in his hand was Ravan’s dagger.

‘
How could he have known
she had hidden it there?’ She wondered again.

Her mouth dropped open as she quickly
searched the hardened young face of the man who stood stunned and
frozen before her, the knife outstretched in his hand. In one
fleeting second, her eyes passed the whole of the man. She
instantly recognized the familiar face, a scar cruelly transecting
his left eyebrow. Her startled gaze finally rested upon his dark
brown eyes.

Her hands still holding an invisible
tray, she was without words. Like a child’s marbles falling down a
flight of stairs, her eyes cascaded from one emotion to
another—fear, recognition, astonishment and ultimately,
joy.

She witnessed his expression pass
abruptly from surprise to recognition and dismay.

Then, without hesitating, he was
across the kitchen hearth in three easy, long strides. He
unabashedly folded her into his arms, standing a good head taller
than her, and kissed the top of her bonnet. “For Hell’s sake, I
thought you were dead!” He squeezed the breath from her and
continued, “He told me you were dead! They said you were—” All at
once, his voice caught in his throat and a single, silent sob
escaped. He held her tightly, as though afraid to let go. His tears
cascaded freely along his cheeks, so unlikely on the face of such a
man.

“
It’s all right, child.
I’m all right!” She pushed away from him to better see him. “Oh,
Ravan, how you have grown! And such a handsome young man you are,
too.” She laughed, tears welling in her own eyes.

Ravan searched her face for answers.
“I don’t understand—Duval sent Renoir to kill you! He never came
back, but Duval said you were dead. I was injured, and I
thought...” He didn’t finish the sentence, only grinned broadly at
her. Relief flooded his features and a rare and glorious smile,
beautifully sublime, appeared on his face.

She was thrilled and tried to explain.
“It was the big fella, Ravan. The giant.” Ravan’s eyes flew open as
she pressed on, “He came by and didn't have much to say, other than
I was to be presumed dead, and to be my sister now. He said I
should say I...I mean my poor sister, had fallen to the plague,
should any ask—and no one ever does.”

Habitually, she went to one of the
kettles to spoon a hearty bowl of soup for him.

“
Then he was gone.” She
shrugged and flaked off a thick slab of the succulent pork,
plopping it into the bowl as well. Sawing a generous portion from a
fresh baked loaf of barley bread, she slathered one swipe of
churned butter across it and rested it atop the pork, allowing the
butter to melt straight away. It was culinary perfection. Handing
it to Ravan, she nodded to the stool. “Sit and eat
child.”

He laughed unabashedly, as though
amused that she still referred to him in that way.

She swept up the broken shards as she
spoke, “The skinny ugly one—Renoir, as you call him? I remember him
from when they took you away.” She frowned. “He never came, only
the giant.” She pulled up the chair from the corner and sat
opposite Ravan, drying her hands on her apron. “He never mentioned
the skinny one. I assumed you had sent a friend to warn me. I never
heard anything more, and—years have gone by.”

He listened intently, the pieces of
the puzzle falling into place. The only mystery was Renoir.
Something had happened to him, and by the sound of it he’d either
succumbed to the journey or LanCoste had intercepted him. Either
way, he was no more.

She motioned behind her, towards the
noisy room where the travelers ate and drank. “I’ve asked about
you, of men from far away, soldiers and such.” She shrugged, “No
one remembers you, or they say they don’t. And by the looks of you
now, how would they?” She paused, somewhat embarrassed by what they
both knew, how Ravan had changed. “The giant—I asked him about you.
All he said was ‘He lives.’ Not one much for words, that one.” She
turned and walked to the pantry, putting up the broom. “I stay away
from the crowds, child. When somebody asks, Monsieur LaFoote says
that I am his sister-in-law come to help out now that he is
widowed.”

Ravan seemed to notice a pained look
as it flashed across her eyes, but it evaporated as she continued,
smiling at him, “And nobody notices too closely one such as I. It’s
fortunate Duval and his men seldom come to the
Marseille.”

Ravan spooned the soup into his mouth,
savoring the flavors as their sweet testimony reawakened his
tongue.

She sat across from him for a while,
content in their silence. Then she said, “Ravan, what of you now?”
Wringing her hands in her apron, she asked, “I know you must work
for Duval—why are you here?” Looking away she wondered, “What is it
you will do? And with the weapons you carry, why would you come for
your knife and...?” She let her voice trail off.

Swallowing, he looked happily at her,
still obviously overcome by the simple fact that she was
alive.

After a moment she pleaded, “Please
tell me you are not just his mercenary, his—killer?”

Swallowing, Ravan explained, “I will
finish some unfinished business. I intend to kill Pierre Steele,
and it is with this knife that I shall do this. It is destiny.
Then?” He shrugged, spooned another mouthful and chewed
thoughtfully, “I will kill Duval.”

Covering her mouth with one hand, she
stifled a gasp.

Her response
surprised him a small bit and he confessed, “I have
killed
—
you must know that of me, but I am not 'his' killer.” He
set the bowl aside and slid closer to her, taking her hands into
his. “I am not a killer, not in my heart, and that is why I must do
this. I will never be free until I finish Duval.” He looked up,
motioning with his hands. “And by all that is right, I cannot allow
Pierre to live either. He deserves what his fate holds for him, and
I intend to have a hand in that fate, that no other shall bear
what...” another long pause and he looked away, “what he has done
to me.”

She watched him chew absently,
seemingly engaged somewhere else, his eyes so dark and
lost.

Then, just as quickly, he focused his
clear eyes intently upon her and squeezed her hands earnestly. “You
must be careful. You know nothing of me, do you
understand?”

Nodding, she listened
carefully.

“
And the orphanage—if need
be, they must have a place to hide on sudden notice. You must go
there to help them. I know this is much to ask, but it must be done
until I can finish this.”

She nodded again in agreement,
listening intently, but said nothing.

“
Is Steele here?” he
asked.

“
No, but he comes through
frequently, usually much later in the evening.”

He seemed to consider this for a
bit.

They sat for a while, sharing each
other’s warmth, pulling strength from the integrity of each other’s
compassion. The here and now was warped into the shroud of times
gone by, fleeting glimpses of kinder days, safe and timeless. She
recalled the day of the fox fur mittens, and he spoke of the day
he’d received the silver chain. As he did, he involuntarily reached
up to briefly grasp the ring. Her heart rejoiced in the familiarity
of the bygone gesture.

* * *

Ravan felt warm and at peace sitting
with her. The moment was one which made his life a worthy task. It
suddenly occurred to him that it was only when good and righteous
purpose ceased, when times like this no longer existed that life
could accept its finality and welcome death. As he tested the
weight of Pig-Killer in his hand, he knew for certain a righteous
purpose had been set into motion. There was a spark of life that
moved within him. He had not experienced that for some time, and it
was warmly welcome. Something stirred within his hardened heart and
he was finally at ease.

He stood and held her at arm's length.
“I have loved you, as I believe I must have loved my mother.” He
said it with all sincerity and kissed her again on top of her head.
Then, he reached for her hand, gently pressing into it the thin
silver braid of hair.

She gasped, clearly overcome with
emotion as she palmed the tender token of her past.

He was surprised at how suddenly she
sobbed, how quickly emotion surfaced as though she remembered too
clearly the terrible day they’d cut the braid from her head and
taken him away.

Presently the noise within the Inn
rose and it was obvious she would be needed soon. Rising, she
turned to put together some food for him and the sun fell beyond
the horizon.

He made his way to the door. Pulling
her close to him, he struggled one more time with leaving her.
“Please don’t worry for me. I am strong. And they—they will answer
for what they have done. Of this I swear.” He looked sincerely at
her. “When it is all said and done, I will come back.” He joked
lamely, “Perhaps then I can learn the trade of the Inn.”

She looked at him, blinking back tears
as though determined not to cry this time. “I have loved you too
child, as though you were my own.” She shook her head towards the
noise behind her. “I will be leaving here now that I know you are
alive. Look for me here no more.”

He paused, nodded, and
understood.

Then they said their short goodbyes,
their faces speaking volumes more than their words ever
could.

She watched him slip, one more time,
from her life. This time, as he left, she bolted the heavy door
closed behind him when he left.

As he walked from the Inn, he heard
the catch engage behind him and believed that somehow she was
fearful no longer for the child of his past.

* * *

The next morning, Ravan spoke to the
giant as they tacked the horses out, “She lives.”

“
Hmm,” was all the giant
offered in return.

“
Pierre, apparently, does
not.”

Ravan looked up from beneath his
eyebrows at the monster across the way, but LanCoste remained
intent on his task, pulling at the massive girth cinch until it
measured two fingers width when pulled out from the side of the
warhorse.

He smiled to himself. The giant had
come to her, had perhaps intercepted Renoir along the way. It must
have been during the weeks of convalescence, after Renoir had
beaten him in the courtyard. Ravan thought back and remembered that
he'd spent much time in a despair-driven catatonia as his wounds
healed. He'd been left alone for long stretches of time. It had
been nearly a month later before the giant came for him to continue
his training.

Sometimes, the mercenaries were sent
on errands, with messages or contracts. LanCoste was seldom
utilized for these duties as it was ordinarily a lighter rider with
a faster horse who was chosen. However, if he’d been unable to
train Ravan, perhaps the giant had been sent on such a task simply
to pass the time. Perhaps it was on just such an errand that he’d
sidetracked to catch up with her at the Inn. It meant he would have
ridden hard, and it was surely because of him that she
lived.

Ravan looked long at the man he knew
so little about, the giant whom he’d fought beside on so many
occasions. Something made him suddenly sad about the breadth of the
colossus of a man who stood so alone and silent, preparing his
steed for the day’s ride. No one pretended to know him. Even Duval,
who depended so much upon him, treated him more as animal than
human.

He wondered if LanCoste had killed
Renoir? That was very unlikely. To kill another mercenary violated
the code—Duval’s code. Perhaps the Black Death had taken Renoir
after all.

He looked again at his
companion.

LanCoste ignored him, swinging his
great weight up onto his steed and turning away.

Stepping onto his own horse, he
clucked gently, urging it alongside LanCoste. He suddenly
recognized a growing companionship for the great man next to him.
“I should like to know you better, LanCoste.”

“
Hmmm...” Again, was all
he received in reply.

* * *

The little valley was in a spring
freeze when they departed for Adorno’s estate. Frost fuzzed the
branch twigs and grass blades so the world looked deceptively soft,
especially in contrast to the unlikely pair of travelers. Their
horses left two dark trails in the tall grass behind them, where
the frost was disturbed by the step of the animals.