The Execution (30 page)

Personal safety was another issue
altogether. He was extremely powerful, and wealthier than most
kings, but ill-liked by even his closest acquaintances. There was
no safe council in the Bourbon estate. It would therefore be
relatively simple to assassinate him. Then a distant, and probably
English, relative would assume dominion, a thought that infuriated
Adorno. He obsessed himself daily with this fear.

Adorno was not stupid; he knew his
vulnerability was from within the confines of his heavily guarded
estate. On several occasions, even the food tasters had died from
poisoning. The loyalty that existed amongst his own army was
imposed—not earned. He knew that he required protection, constant
vigilance—a bodyguard. He also knew that there was no man amongst
his ranks who possessed truehearted allegiance to him. His
protection must from without. It must be bought.

There was a man who could be trusted
to supply such a bodyguard, and only the best. He was not an easy
man to enlist the service of, but Adorno had a vast coffer of
wealth and money. He knew that gold could buy practically anything
in any age.

This man had the reputation of
supplying the deadliest man for the job. The man was Phillippe
Censoire Benage Duval or, as anyone who knew of him, simply
Duval—King of Mercenaries. He was wicked of his own right, and his
mercenaries subjugated all others. Adorno coveted the thought of
having one of Duval’s mercenaries as his new bodyguard and would
stop at nothing to acquire him.

Assembling his knights, he ordered,
“Prepare my carriage and an entourage with two hundred of my best
soldiers. I wish to go to see this Monsieur Duval and I don’t want
to be intimidated.” As he spoke, he squinted, scrutinizing his
well-manicured nails at arm’s length.

“
My lord, you would leave
the estate vulnerable if you secure such a traveling militia. It is
nearly half your entire army.” The man who spoke was Swiss, a
pikeman who’d joined the French army as an infantry man. He was a
good soldier and had risen in the royal army despite the lack of
privilege or nobility. Now he was employed by Adorno’s family and
trustworthy to a fault.

“
Silence, you idiot! I
know what I’m doing. You will enlist the peasantry to protect the
vineyards and secure the forefront of the walls.” Adorno sneered,
his eyes mere slits as he peered sideways at his offender. “You
will do as I say!”

His first officer objected meekly,
“But, my lord! You cannot take the peasants from their tasks. They
haven’t the training or the time. It is planting season and—” His
officer paused. He was a righteous man, employed by a tyrant but
with integrity nonetheless. “My lord, forgive me, but they must
work to feed their families. They are not soldiers, my lord! I
sincerely implore you.” Jamner tried to temper his voice with kind
persuasion, appealing to his master with palms up.

Adorno walked leisurely over to his
first officer and spoke slowly as he circled him, hesitating as he
walked behind him. The bigger man stood at grave attention as
Adorno sniveled, “You dispute me again, Monsieur
Jamner?”

“
No, my Lord, I simply
wish to—” For a brief moment, Jamner did not even feel the sliver
fine, double-edged rondel slip between his ribs. Instead, he felt
his lung catch and fail to inflate, the agonizing shift of his
heart to one side as the lung collapsed. He clutched his
chest.

“
Good—because I cannot
trust a first officer that argues my every order.” Adorno murmured
sweetly, as though to a lover. He never hesitated. Turning the
blade, he buried it to the hilt and caught the master vessel from
the heart. Horribly, Adorno was familiar with anatomy as he had a
personal hobby of human dissection, even sometimes when his victims
were not altogether dead.

Jamner faltered and immediately
collapsed, falling to his hands and knees, his head rolling
forward. A frothy red meringue erupted from his mouth and nostrils
and he plunged face forward, shattering his nose as his face
planted squarely onto the granite floor. The good man shuddered and
twitched. It was a remarkably quiet affair as his body instantly
and silently bled into itself, the life spark fading rapidly—it was
alarmingly simple and utterly obscene.

Adorno was enraptured, could not take
his eyes from it.

As the man fell he allowed the body to
pull itself from the blade. “What’s that?” He sneered under his
breath, holding the blade up, studying the crimson coat it now
wore. “Nothing to say?” As if satisfied with the way the blood
appeared, almost as transparent as a fine ruby on the delicate
steel of the weapon. He answered himself, “Good.”

The crimson made him think of
her—specifically her lips. He walked slowly over to his second
officer, ignoring the final death throes behind him.

Holding the blade delicately between
his thumb and forefinger, he looked up into the face of the
trembling, new first officer. Jamner breathed his final breath but
a few steps away. Adorno slowly wiped the blood from the knife onto
the cheek of the standing officer. “Now, Monsieur Moulin, you would
not question my authority? Would you?” He said it sweetly, in
almost a child’s voice as his eyebrows raised and he cocked his
head sweetly to one side. With a sudden, slight flick of his hand
he removed the blade from the man’s cheek, leaving an ever so tiny
slice.

Moulin’s own blood beaded bright red
from the tiny wound and dripped slowly, mingling on his cheek with
the darker red blood of the dead man. “No, my lord,” he whispered,
“I would not.”

“
Good—then do as I say,”
he hissed, “assemble my traveling party.” Adorno turned briskly on
his heel to return to his bedchamber. “And bring Nicolette to
me.”

CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR

†

When D’ata's absence had been
discovered, the diocese launched a search for him. His father and
the church in Rome were notified.

The Baron had been furious, then
fearful, at the disappearance of his son. France was in a state of
perpetual, chaotic flux. There was a serious conflict within the
Church—a Papal Schism that threatened to divide Europe. The power
struggle existed between two Popes, one in Rome and one in Avignon,
and despite the widespread corruption that existed within the
church, heresy was brutally punished.

As hypocritical as Roman Catholic
religion was, the young priest was still at grave risk. This could
go very poorly for D’ata and would certainly reflect badly upon the
Cezanne name.

The local church had reason to worry
for the young priest. There was no good that could come of his
flight. Should D’ata wander into the wrong township, the wrong
diocese, he could very easily be taken into custody and tried
immediately for heresy. He would certainly be excommunicated but
perhaps even executed—made an example of.

The church dictated such ridiculous
and harsh protocols as what someone should or should not eat. It
would certainly judge D’ata’s infidelity harshly. Canonical rule
dictated that D’ata’s marriage was to the papacy alone.

It was therefore imperative to find
the young priest immediately and it should not be difficult to do.
All knew where he must be going. He was most certainly looking for
Julianne.

* * *

It was three months before D’ata made
his way to the outskirts of Marseille and he knew he must be very
cautious. The first familiar landscape was welcome and omnipresent
to him all at once. He was fearful, but there was no easy way now,
so he pressed forward. It was November and in southern France the
first snows threatened. He abandoned his clerical robes, trading
them for trousers, a tunic, and jacket that he found in a remote
farmhouse.

The clothes fit well enough, baggy, as
D’ata was much thinner than the farmer who ordinarily wore them.
But the length was good and they were warm. He inhaled deeply the
odor of another man’s hard work as he straightened the coat and
buttoned it as high as it would—the top two buttons were missing.
This only added to the intimacy of the garment and it wrapped more
than warmth around the young man.

He whispered sincere words of
gratitude to the absent farmer but felt a guilty remorse for his
transgression. Theft was a new and disagreeable venture for him, so
D’ata collected the eggs, chopped a days worth of wood, and milked
their cow, leaving the buckets outside on the door’s stoop where
the milk would stay cold.

Three hours later an urgent but
satisfied priest walked steadily southwest through the forest, and
a confused family of four returned to the farm, puzzling over the
odd circumstances and neatly folded priest’s robes that waited for
them at their home.

It was well into the night before
D’ata stole silently into the stables of the Cezanne estate. It
must have been close to midnight he thought. He shushed the stable
dog as the familiar old hound leaped upon him. It was ecstatic to
greet him and jumped up tall enough to lick his master’s face
thoroughly. D’ata scratched the Alaunt hound’s long head, smiled at
the animal’s enthusiasm and murmured a quiet greeting as he pushed
the dog down off him.

The stable master’s quarters were
halfway down the primary barn, and his boots scuffed quietly along
the stone floor as he made his way toward them.

He intended to step from his past into
a bright future. He denied the fourteenth century the parochial
intolerance and narrow-mindedness. Youth and love gave in to a new
resolve and he felt such a hopeful clarity about his decisions.
This gave him a bottomless source of strength. He was
optimistic—and without a resource in the world.

* * *

Henri struggled to focus on the
commotion that had roused him. His scoliosis twisted him most when
he wakened and he’d heard the dog’s happy whining. The beast would
never have allowed a stranger near and the stable master likely
wondered why someone familiar was about at this hour.

The trainer chose to live in a tiny
stable room close to the horses. The room was a tight space and he
shared it with various saddles, pieces of harness, and bridles.
Stacks of bloodline records, registrations, and sales papers rose
like proud towers around his small bunk. It was warm and familiar
and smelled of leather, liniment, and horse sweat.

As Henri stepped into the alley, his
jaw dropped. He rubbed his eyes as he held the lamp up to spy the
familiar, but thin, face that looked earnestly back at him from
between the cross ties. The hound circled D’ata, wagging its tail
in approval.

For a moment both stood in silence.
Tears welled in the old man’s eyes as he stumbled forward to wrap
his arms around his friend.

D’ata returned the gesture gratefully.
Tears threatened in his own eyes as he finally held his old friend
at arm’s length. “Where is she, Henri?” His eyes were urgent and
full of longing.

Henri hung the lamp on a nearby hook
and sat roughly down onto a straw bale. “D’ata, your parents will
be so relieved to—”

“
My parents are not to
know of my return,” D’ata interrupted coming quickly and gravely
back to the point. “Where is she?” He knelt, his face earnest as he
pleaded with his friend.

When the old man hesitated, D’ata
pressed him, “Henri, you know I must find her. I will do it with or
without your help, and you know this is true. Where is
she?”

Henri saw in the eyes of the young man
something different, something new. There was the look of age that
comes with maturity and pain. It saddened the old trainer that
D’ata should have to wear the pressing visage that is the
corruption of time; none are immune, but to see it on one so young
was heartbreaking. Looking into the lean face, he rested a hand on
the thin shoulder. “She is with child my son.”

“
I know,” D’ata shook his
head, impatiently.

His matter of fact response startled
Henri. “How could you know? Have you seen her?”

D’ata waved the questions aside.
“That’s not important. I must find her, Henri. It is imperative.”
He looked strangely capable in the worn and tattered clothes of the
farmer.

“
She is with her Uncle and
Aunt in east Marseille.” Henri waved in no particular direction as
he struggled to situate himself more comfortably on the hay bale.
He pulled a small leather pouch from his pocket and scraped a
minuscule amount of the black tar from it onto the back of his
thumb-nail before folding and tucking the pouch back into his
pocket.

D’ata recognized the habit, knew it
was futile to interrupt him once Henri started upon this routine,
and so now he waited as patiently as was possible.

Finally, Henri said, “Her father will
kill you, D’ata—” he continued without looking up, spreading some
of the tar across the buccal mucosa of his lower lip with the tip
of his finger, “He will kill you, if your father doesn’t
first.”

D’ata glanced outside towards the
mansion before sitting down next to Henri on the hay bale. “I’m
sorry this is so difficult for so many people.” He interlaced his
fingers, rested his elbows on his knees and leaned his forehead
into his hands. “I am sorry things are so complicated, but I will
die if I do not find her, Henri.” His voice was a whisper, “It must
seem so easy to an outsider looking in, but I cannot go on without
her.”