The Execution by Sharon Cramer Read Free Book Online

moment before from her mind and laughed outright. “Yvette, if we
did that, soon the woods would be all full of feisty boy chickens!
Nobody could even walk there! The roosters would jump all over us
and then what would we do?”
    Yvette giggled and just like that, she
changed course. “Can we just go read again? About the princess and
the prince? Pleeeze?”
    Julianne smiled, tossed the dishtowel
onto the counter and stood up to take Yvette’s hand. She shook her
head, “Yvette, why are you so romantic so young? Don’t you realize
that life is—complicated?”
    Giggles, again, were all the answer
Julianne got and she said with a grin, “Come on, Yvette, you’ll
make us late. We have to get ready for church.”
     
    * * *
     
    A beautiful April Saturday greeted the
worshipers and the sun shone extra bright through the stained glass
of the church. Outside, the cottonwoods shed their sticky fuzz. It
collected in downy mounds in the remote corners of the cathedral,
magically softening everything and giving the space around it a
dreamlike glow.
    It was warm inside and D’ata stood
blanketed by the colors cascading through a window of stained
glass, the light dancing red and purple off the inky black of his
hair. The congregation filed in slowly, more than a few of them
scrutinizing him as they made their way to their pews. The bishops
had commented on more than one occasion regarding how attractive
their young apprenticing priest was. It was a source of ill-guided
vanity for a share of them, and they knew it ensured the presence
of more than a few at mass.
    ‘ Not only is our young
priest appointed by God, given to us on the steps of our church no
less, he is beautiful. Make no mistake, he is ours.’
    Although Christians believed that the
afterlife was superior to their current fate, vanity of the
here-and-now did not willingly invite renunciation. D’ata was
coveted by the congregation.
    This morning, he was to serve
communion. His hands absently separated the bread as the
parishioners filed to the altar boards to kneel and contemplate
their rosaries. The warm sweetness of the bread made his belly
growl and as hunger pangs threatened, he regretted having skipped
breakfast to spend the morning with Henri in the
stables.
    The soft strains of a sweet acapella
filled the massive hall as the ritual began. D’ata was content,
preferring the child’s voice to the heavier adult choir. The sweet
and tender music lifted his thoughts from his growling belly, away
from the confines of the church, out the checkerboard glass windows
and across the downy cottonwood grounds.
    He was lazy today, his mind meandering
briefly from his task to the upcoming afternoon, when he might take
one of his father’s fine horses down to the river and enjoy this
rare warm spell. His duties were simple as his parents were quite
wealthy.
    His father, the Baron of Cezanne, had
close to sixteen thousand acres and a fleet of trade ships.
Monsieur Cezanne did not boast a genealogy of nobility. His title
was not inherited, but had evolved of brilliant commerce. He was
wealthy by his own means and whereas nobility could be granted to a
superior human being, his title was largely and inarguably earned.
No one disputed his power.
    The Baron employed thirty-two knights
and held court in royal style. He kept upon his estate a falconer,
grand stable master, vintner, chef and master butler. There were
countless servants, including squires, pages, cooks and handmaids.
His payroll included teachers and musicians; he even employed an
astrologer.
    Flax and wool were the main exports of
the estate. These were woven into linens so fine as to compete with
the very best of England. The Baron owned the weave shops as well.
The quality of a Cezanne bolt of cloth exceeded all expectations
and was a coveted possession, even as far away as
Russia.
    Over time, the Cezanne estate had
developed a fine reputation. Upon the grounds were bred some of the
best horses in the region