†
Julianne’s father was furious, the girl was so late returning. She was supposed to be home already, have the cider on, and supper started a good hour ago. However, it wasn’t the cider and supper that worried him—it was the whereabouts of his daughter.
His daughter was his jewel; she was his angel, sent from God, there to hold the family together when his wife died in childbirth with his little Yvette. Ever since, he was fiercely protective of his children, especially his daughters. He wrung his hands, an uncommon gesture for the life-hardened dairy farmer. He could not imagine what he would do without his Julianne!
It had been unusually cold lately, even for summer, but today was warmer. She was no doubt lounging about by the river again as she seemed so inclined to do. Damn her! She was probably reading more of that blasphemy that her friend, Babette, had given her. That’s why she’d cut her hair; it had to be!
He stomped as he paced the floor of their humble kitchen, hiking his tunic back onto his shoulders. Curious, how the boys could disappear for hours at a time and he would not worry so much. His girls, however, were a different story altogether.
The morning’s events at the church had outraged him. It’d been his first time to the parish after Julianne and Yvette told him how wonderful it was. They’d begged him to come and see the beautiful church with the cut glass windows. There was no glass in their humble home. When the season turned, hides were stretched to keep out the weather. Yvette had been so excited about the beautiful windows.
After the terrible incident, Father Leoceonne had confronted him about it—had spoken unfairly to him of the breach. The Father had even gone so far to as imply that Julianne was responsible—that she should subdue her beauty a bit, loosen her clothes so as not to accentuate her figure, and sit at the back of the church. Or, perhaps she should not come to mass at this parish at all, at least not until the fine young D’ata finished his discipleship. She would only be a distraction.
The entire conversation had thoroughly infuriated him, and he’d left mass in a very foul mood, hardly speaking to the girls the whole trip home. It hadn’t helped his temper at all that the horse had taken lame half way home.
In all truth, the linen Julianne wore was a most unbecoming gown, but even the shabbiest of attire only seemed to draw attention to her. And mass? Mass was sacred! His family was one of simple means but eternally grateful that they even had a sustaining existence, simple though it might be. The church was crucial to them. They worked honestly and hard for their short life on the face of God’s Earth, and he would not see his family denied spiritual comfort.
In actuality, it was true that people of simple means clung more fiercely to their beliefs. This was because their circumstances alone gave them a greater comprehension of the gift of grace. When one had less, they cherished what they had more.
Julianne’s father was angered at the boy the most. He knew the mettle of young men, and priest or no priest, he knew the effect Julianne had on them. Her father sighed, remembering how he himself had shamelessly rutted after Julianne’s mother, of how he would have taken her to bed in an instant if their families hadn't watched them so closely.
He didn’t trust this young fellow, didn’t trust him at all! And it didn’t help that he was a Cezanne, the son of a his enemy. The Cezanne’s, with their power and their fortune, had tried to purchase his landholdings from him to absorb into their massively growing realm. Monsieur Lanviere would not admit to himself that the offer was, in fact, extremely generous. He simply could not see it that way; saw it as a gesture from just another powerful nobleman to exploit someone less privileged. Never mind Julianne’s mother was buried on the grounds of the dairy farm as well. Regardless, he’d refused to sell, and so there was no love lost between the Cezannes and the Lanvieres.
Snorting his anger, Julianne’s father stepped outside to draw water. The well was only fifteen paces into the front yard of his home, and he thought again of his daughter as he crossed the short distance. She was a precious gift, looked so much like her mother, and had her mother’s fire—good Irish lineage. He blinked back unexpected tears as he drew the water from the well. Swallowing thickly, he tried to force the sudden sadness away. The deep creases of his brow furrowed even more. It'd been so painful to lose his wife, so difficult ever since she died. Had it really been five years?
Despite his love for Julianne, truly with every breath he took, his response to the embarrassment this morning was to berate her. Now he very much regretted this. He’d surprised himself as well as her. They’d argued bitterly; he yelled at her most of the way home. Why had he done this? It truth, he was more irritated by the fact that she was not at fault whatsoever. Now he was considerably miserable over the whole event and wanted to set things straight—wanted to talk to Julianne and make her understand that he wouldn’t yell anymore. Why did he do that anyway—get angry when what he really felt was concern?
His relationship with his eldest daughter was unusual. When his wife died, Julianne stepped into the shoes of caregiver to the family. Along with that role came a communication between her and her father that was unique. They talked about the family, about concerns, problems, and even fears. He needed her, trusted her, and as a result, Julianne had been forced to grow up too fast. She was wise beyond her tender years. Now he wondered if this had robbed her of something he could not really identify.
He sighed again. She would be so much easier to protect if she were not so…unusual, but then she would not be Julianne. He carried the water into the house and dumped it into the cistern.
This morning, his daughter had stubbornly argued with him, her mouth frowning in defiance as she first berated the behavior of the young priest, then her father’s accusations, second. She quoted unfamiliar teachings, words he'd never read before, notions from scholars he'd never even heard of.
Julianne had yelled right back at him—called him outdated and told him that he should just trust her. She accused him of being thirteenth century, and finally, she’d even called him ignorant!
Then, she’d stomped out with her damnable book in hand, the one so tattered from being read so often, and disappeared. Now it was twilight, and he was worried. He deeply regretted blaming her when in truth he should have beaten the young priest senseless. He should have defended his daughter! What kind of father was he?
Guilt saddled him like a stone yoke—and not just for his behavior this morning. Self condemnation was an unfortunate burden to bear for any who could not learn to release it. It would have been so much easier to just set the heavy feeling down, but her father was incapable, and so he shouldered it completely.
This was nonsense, he thought, and he would set things straight when she got home. They would sit down together and have cider, and things would be right again. All would be as it was. These were his thoughts when, just then, there she was. He could not believe his eyes when he saw her walk into the yard—with the priest! The optimistic feeling of just before vanished, and rage erupted, cresting in his ears, making them burn like fire. Without hesitation, he charged out the front door, his generous size and bull-like demeanor stopping the couple in their tracks.
* * *
D’ata was not expecting this greeting. Julianne had neglected to brief him on her domestic situation. They'd spent the afternoon and early evening together, taking the long, very long, way home. Completely enamored with the presence of each other, they’d neglected to consider much of anything else. It’d been a wondrous walk home and had gone by in what seemed like only seconds.
“Julianne, get yourself into the house! And you…you…” Her father trembled, pointing a thick finger at D’ata. “Get out of my sight! I’ll be speaking to your father about this!”
“Father, you don’t understand!” Julianne pleaded. “It was too late, and it might have become dark, and Monsieur Cezanne was so kind as to—”
“Don’t argue with me! I’ll hear no excuses! Do you hear?” he raged.
D’ata tried to interject. “Monsieur, it is not like that. I have no intention of—”
“Of what?” Julianne’s father turned on him viciously. “I believe you made your intentions perfectly clear this morning. You can take your…your intentions and stuff them up your holy ass!”
“Father! Don’t, please!” Julianne pleaded, hands out as she approached him.
The elder continued, focused on D’ata now. “Get out!” He took a step toward the young man as he grabbed Julianne by the arm, jerking her roughly toward the door of the house.
D’ata bristled, not at the words, for those he knew were well deserved. Instead, he was surprised at how rapidly his own anger peaked, at how quickly he objected to someone touching Julianne so roughly, even if it was her own father. He mistakenly considered this to be the way Julianne was treated every day.
Julianne turned back to D’ata, shocked by the turn of events. “I’m so sorry, I—”
“Silence! Get inside!” Her father demanded as he shoved her through the door. Slamming it shut behind her, he turned back to the younger man, rolling up his sleeves.
“Monsieur, I have no desire to…” D’ata stammered, hands up in submission. All the same, he failed to back away fast enough, and the elder landed his fist squarely on the young man’s jaw. This sent him sprawling, feet up into the air and backwards onto the dusty courtyard.
“Never let me see you around my daughter again!” Her father turned, looking over his shoulder. “Take your holy ass and go straight to the devil!” He stomped back up the steps, into the house, and slammed the door shut.
Thoroughly dazed, D’ata lay straight out on his back. He gazed briefly up at the sparkling clouds until all slipped into darkness. It took a few moments before he came around and was able to remember where he was. Sitting up slowly, he allowed himself the luxury of a few moments to gather his senses. Still dizzy, he picked himself up out of the dirt and brushed himself off.
The events of the last few minutes were so sudden, so unexpected. He'd never been outright boxed before and certainly never knocked senseless. He was surprised at the stars that still flitted like embers before his eyes. Shaking his head as though he might clear it, he then realized the mistake of that, leaned over, holding very still until he was sure he would not pass out again.
Thinking briefly to himself that his jaw had taken a terrible beating today, he gently manipulated it to make certain it was not broken. It was about then that his thoughts returned to the walk he and Julianne had shared on her way home, and he grinned outright.
Spitting blood from his mouth, he tested the looseness of a tooth with one finger. Exhausted, beaten, and ragged, he turned and started back. He was a long way from home and without a horse, but his heart soared and his footsteps were light.
He hurt all over, but D’ata was in love. He’d never felt this way before, and a blade through the heart could not dim his happiness. Life was suddenly and completely wonderful.