Chapter Three

As soon as Mac, Laura and Jonathan left the bar, Joe set his laptop computer on the office desk and plugged it in. He turned the computer on, waiting for it to boot up fully before entering the access code that would gain him entry into the Watcher database. Methos paced back and forth behind him, pausing every few seconds to look over Joe's shoulder. All this was done in the space of only a few minutes, but to Methos, it felt more like hours.

In a gesture of frustration, Methos stopped pacing and leaned forward, the palms of his hands flat on the desk. "Find anything yet?"

Joe leaned back in his chair while the computer opened the database, and he gave Methos the barest hint of a smile. He understood Methos' impatience. "You know, you don't have to be here for this," he said. "I can do it by myself."

"I want to see what her game is."

"I don't think she has one," Joe mused.

Wonderful, the voice inside Methos' head groaned. More damned chivalry. Joe's been around MacLeod too long. Out loud, he asked, "How did you and Daniel Kessler meet, anyway?"

The computer beeped, and Joe typed in a search command. "Dan was a Watcher. We went to the Academy together. After we graduated, we were sent to the same research library, and we started hanging out with one another." Joe paused. "We were actually pretty close until he got his first field assignment, but we lost touch after that."

"Do you know who he was Watching?"

"That's the strange thing about it. He wouldn't tell me." The computer beeped again, causing Joe to return his attention to the task at hand. "Damn," he muttered. "Nothing's coming up under Laura's name."

Methos wasn't surprised to hear that, but he chose not to comment on it for the time being. "Try her brother's name. If he's been a baby for as long as she can remember, he should be in the database somewhere."

"Actually, I'll enter Dan's name. Whatever Immortal he was Watching is probably connected to Laura and Jonathan somehow."

Said Methos, in a singsong voice, "I bet I know how."

"What makes you say that?"

If Methos even heard the question, he gave no indication of it . . .

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Northeast Gaul, 493 AD

It had rained all night, so by early morning the normally dry paths of the Frankish village were little more than muddy troughs pockmarked by footprints, horse tracks, and the occasional set of wheel ruts. A handful of the village children delighted in making a mess of themselves as they ran up and down the main pathway, splashing and squealing with excess glee. The merchants were already setting up their stalls for the day, and one man selling apples and pears was even then finishing a business transaction with one of the village women. The day promised to be a busy one.

The children darted, unnoticed, around the two men strolling down the main path. The taller of the two was the village Chieftain, a giant of a man who refused to be called by anything other than his title. Red-gold hair fell in loose strands past his shoulders, and he was growing a long, drooping mustache in imitation of the new Emperor. His companion, nearly a foot shorter and clean-shaven, was a newcomer to the village, and to the chieftain's small army. Both men sported helmets and cuirasses, and they had their swords belted at their sides, though circumstances kept them and the rest of the Chieftain's small army village bound.

"So," the Chieftain ventured, turning to his comrade, "how do you like my village after five moon-cycles of living here?"

When he first joined the Chieftain's forces, Methos had expected to be in battle almost immediately. Instead, he spent a rather uneventful sojourn in the Chieftain's little hamlet, doing nothing better than guarding the Chieftain's pregnant wife. He didn't mind the rest, or avoiding the battlefield. Dying wasn't on his list of favorite activities.

"It's been . . . quiet," he allowed.

The Chieftain nodded. "I know what you mean. I would rather be fighting alongside the Emperor myself."

Clovis, the latest in a long line of men seeking to become the head of a fractured, forever-warring people, was much like his forebears. He would use any tool at hand to achieve his goal. Had Clovis lived fifteen hundred years ago, and been Immortal, he might have made a respectable Horseman. "I hear that the Emperor is not fighting much nowadays," Methos pondered aloud, "because of his new bride."

The Chieftain scoffed. "The Empress Clothilde will not distract him much longer. Soon, he will return to the field of battle."

"And you intend to be at his side when he does."

"As soon as my wife delivers my firstborn," added the Chieftain. "She has been having her pains for nearly two days now. Surely my son is ready to come out!"

As if on cue, a wide-shouldered, thickly-set woman - Methos recognized her as lady-in-waiting to the Chieftain's wife - ran up to them. "My lord!" she panted. "Come quickly!"

"What is it?" demanded the Chieftain.

Drawing in a deep breath, the lady-in-waiting replied, "My lady is almost delivered of her babe. Come!"

She grabbed the Chieftain by the wrist and started to drag him off in the direction of his hut. The Chieftain could have shown his anger and had the lady-in-waiting severely punished for daring to touch him so, but perhaps the news of the babe rendered him merciful, for he merely allowed the woman to pull him along. Methos trailed behind them. "It appears that your prayers are about to be answered," he told the Chieftain.

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"Push, my lady, push!"

The shouted command assaulted Methos' ears as soon as he, the Chieftain, and the lady-in-waiting reached the doorway of the Chieftain's one-room hut. It was followed by a muffled response, then incoherent screaming. The Chieftain all but shoved the lady-in-waiting out of the way in his haste to join his wife. The lady-in- waiting trailed in his wake. Not knowing what else to do, Methos lingered in the doorway.

He watched with curiosity the scene before him. Lady Alice, the Chieftain's diminutive Gallo-Roman wife, lay in childbirth position on the low, crudely-built bed located at the far end of the room. The old pagan midwife, a domineering woman built much like the lady-in-waiting, knelt at the foot of the bed, her back to Methos. She was preparing to guide the infant out of the expectant mother's womb. The lady-in-waiting raced to the right of the bed and pulled a wet towel from a bowl sitting on a nearby table, and she used the towel to dab at Lady Alice's damp brow. Sweat glistened on Lady Alice's face and neck and made her dark hair appear as if she had just doused her whole head in water. That, along with her glazed-over eyes and scant breathing, made Methos wonder if she would survive the birthing.

The Chieftain knelt down on the other side of the bed and took one of his wife's small, pale hands in both his large ones. He reminded her that she would soon be free of the terrible pain afflicting her, that her labor was part of her Christian God's plan, that their son was worth it. It was the midwife, however, who held Lady Alice's full attention.

"One more push, my lady. One more!" the old woman ordered her.

Lady Alice's reply came out in labored gasps. "I . . . I . . . cannot!"

The midwife would have none of that. "My lady, your babe wants to come into this world," she countered, her tone uncompromising and unforgiving. "Push!"

As she obeyed the midwife's command, Lady Alice emitted a scream loud enough to awaken even a headless Immortal. The Chieftain covered his ears to shut his wife's shrieks out, and the lady-in-waiting clearly wanted to join her mistress in the unbearably loud screeching. Methos himself nearly jumped in reaction to the sound, but he forced himself to remain impassive. Nothing he said or did at that point would have any effect on the situation, so why bother? He ignored the pang of conscience that pleaded with him to do something, anything, to make Lady Alice's plight more bearable.

After a moment or two, any assistance on his part proved to be moot, anyway. The midwife pulled the baby from between its mother's legs and held it by the feet, delivering a swift smack on the infant's buttocks. The child let out a single, mewling cry, letting one and all know it had finally arrived.

"Blessed be!" the lady-in-waiting exclaimed breathlessly, as Lady Alice slumped in utter exhaustion. Methos wasn't surprised that he was the only one who noticed the complete deadness that had come across Lady Alice's features. All other eyes were on her newborn babe.

"Is it a son?" the chieftain asked hopefully.

Said the midwife, "A daughter, I'm afraid." The Chieftain showed his disappointment at the announcement. "But do not fret," the midwife was quick to add. "Sons will surely follow."

The midwife cut the umbilical cord with a knife made expressly for the purpose and handed the babe to the lady-in-waiting for its first bath. While the lady-in- waiting took charge of the girl and the Chieftain spoke quietly to his wife, Methos pulled the midwife aside, lowering his voice so that the others wouldn't hear him.

"Old woman, she has had a hard time with the birth."

The midwife wiped her hands on her skirt, seemingly unconcerned about Methos' observation. "Yet our gods were benevolent, and allowed her to live. It is a sign they want our Chieftain to have sons."

Did she not understand, or did she not care? "Listen, woman!" Methos hissed. "If Lady Alice becomes with child again, she will die! You know she cannot endure another birthing."

The midwife's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Do you have foreknowledge of this event?" she challenged him.

"I've seen it happen before."

"So have I. Your words mean nothing."

Methos refused to let the matter rest. "Then you know as well as I what could happen."

The midwife turned her back on him. "The gods will tell, in due course . . ." she put emphasis on the words in due course " . . . what is to pass."

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She came up to him while he sat down on the bench outside his own quarters and ate his midday meal. Methos decided he never liked the way the midwife walked around the village as if she had more authority than the Chieftain himself. Yes, she provided a valuable service to the women here, but that was all. She held no real power. She reminded him of some of the Immortals he met along the way. They were full of their own self-importance, too.

"I would have words with you." The midwife's inflection suggested she wouldn't take no for an answer.

Methos set down the slab of meat he was working on. "What do you want?" he demanded wearily. "I'm busy at the moment."

"Resume your meal. This will take none of your time." The midwife made herself comfortable next to him. "I wish to speak to you about the Lady Alice."

"What about her?" He tried to sound as if the Lady Alice mattered little to him.

"I would have you know that she is recovering."

She was so self-satisfied, wasn't she? "That's good to hear." He kept all indication of relief out of his voice as he went back to his eating.

The midwife seemed angry about his apparent lack of interest. "Well?" she pushed on impatiently. "Don't you want to hear about the babe?"

"A puny girl? Hardly." He swallowed the chunk of meat he'd been chewing, hoping the midwife would not notice that his indifference was a mask.

The midwife's next pronouncement echoed what Methos had already suspected. "It appears that she will not live long."

That would break Lady Alice's heart, Methos thought. "What does that have to do with me?" he deadpanned.

"I merely assumed you would like to be informed about the babe's condition," the midwife responded, "since you seem so worried about her mother's."

"Do you mean to infer something?"

"What would I wish to infer?" she inquired with false innocence before getting up and walking away. As he watched her go, Methos sensed that that was not the last he would hear of the subject . . .

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Seacouver, 1995

"Hello? Earth to Methos!"

Dawson's voice jerked Methos back to the present. He apologized, and asked Joe if the Watcher database had come up with anything yet. "No," Joe told him. "My system crashed. I'll reboot it and try again after the bar closes." He paused, stroking his gray beard thoughtfully. "You know, Methos, in over twenty-five years as a Watcher, I've never even heard of an infant Immortal."

"Nor are you likely to encounter another one," Methos responded. "I've been around five thousand years . . ."

"So you keep reminding us," Joe cut in with a wry grin.

" . . . and I've never even heard of one." He wasn't about to tell Joe about the only pre-Immortal baby he'd ever seen.

"Why is that?"

Methos strolled around the desk until he faced Joe. "Think about it. An infant who is an Immortal would be quick, defenseless prey for an opponent bent on either an easy kill or a merciful one."

Joe considered that for a moment. "That's got to be what's going on here, then."

"Excuse me?"

"Laura," answered Joe. "She must be protecting Jonathan from another Immortal."

Methos shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not."

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In his hotel room, Burke casually opened his rucksack and removed all the usual items: shirts, pants, various toiletries, a music box . . .

It was the music box he gave Melissa as a wedding present. He could never bring himself to get rid of the thing, even after he learned of her betrayal. Now, he was glad he held on to it, for he could make use of it.

Of course, it was no longer in pristine condition. It hadn't been since that night. The portrait on the carved lid showed marks of fire damage, though the rest of the box's surface was intact. And the music still played, too. Burke tested it every now and again. He felt like doing so now, while he finished his unpacking. He twisted the knob on the back of the box and opened the lid. The strains of Schubert's "Ave Maria" played softly for him. He set the box on a bedside table.

"The slut's daughter made it too easy for me to find her," Burke said aloud as he pulled a rolled-up newspaper from one of the rucksack's side pockets. He didn't need to bring it with him; he memorized the whole article. He unrolled the paper and read the front page headline once again, a cold grin slowly easing its way across his features:

"Two die as car overturns: crash leaves two miraculous survivors."

He'd bought the paper just before crossing the border into the States. It repeated everything the television reporters were saying about the wreck, and even used the same family photograph to accompany its story. Burke unfolded the paper and let his eyes fall once more on that photograph. A man by the name of Daniel Kessler stood in the background of the photo, his arm around the shoulders of a woman identified as his wife. A young blonde girl sat in the foreground, holding a baby boy in her lap. The same blonde and same baby who were with MacLeod in the hotel lobby. Burke finally settled his gaze on the wife.

"It's your fault, Melissa, that things had to come to this," he said to the woman. "It doesn't matter that they aren't of your blood any more than they are of mine. If you had not lied to me about them then, I would not have to come after them now."

He carelessly tossed the paper on the bed and finished his unpacking.