The Execution

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 incredibly 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.