Chapter Five

Northeast Gaul, 493 AD

Three days after his daughter's birth, the Chieftain took the majority of his forces and left the village. The previous afternoon he received word that Emperor Clovis was not only ready to march but also demanded use of the Chieftain's army. The Chieftain did not worry about leaving his wife and child, who, the midwife assured him, were out of danger from the birthing. He did, however, leave a small contingent of troops behind, should any of his enemies want to take advantage of his absence and kidnap his family. Methos, he decreed, was to take charge of this home guard.

Methos didn't argue. He certainly had no wish to become one of the battlefield casualties. He could only imagine the shock and terror his rapid recovery would cause. Besides, he and Lady Alice had quickly grown close. She looked upon him as a brother, continuously turning to him for advice. Her own brother, she told him once, was part of a monastic order about half a day's ride from the village, and she said Methos reminded her strongly of him. Methos tried not to let the flattering comparison get to him, but he had to admit, being someone's brother felt good. He missed that.

That's not to say that his position in the home guard didn't have its pitfalls. One night, a few days after the Chieftain and his main army had gone, a couple of members of the home guard got into a fight, one witnessed and encouraged by the almost the entire the village, especially the Chifetain's lieutenant. At the end of it, one man stabbed the other in the stomach with a wickedly long hunting knife. Methos had to see to the injured man, mete out justice to the offender, and restructure the watch schedule around the two combatants. The idiocy of the whole affair caused him to question the Chieftain's decision to leave him in charge. With all the work he had to do regarding the fight alone, he welcomed the opportunity to return to his own meager hut, fall down on his bed, and contemplate his future plans, his past memories, anything to keep his mind off not only the two morons who thought it was a good idea to start their own war, but the rest of the village, as well.

"Captain?"

At first, Methos didn't realize someone was speaking to him, but he remembered the title the Chieftain gave him, and he opened his eyes before addressing the lady-in-waiting.

"What is it?" he asked wearily.

"Milady. She wishes to see you."

"Now?"

"Yes, Captain."

He suppressed a groan and reminded himself of Lady Alice's high opinion of him. "Tell her I'm on my way."

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Despite the lateness of the hour, Lady Alice was still wide awake. When Methos appeared in the doorway to her hut, he saw that she was sitting up in the bed, her back supported by large pillows. The baby lay asleep beside her, in a basket which rested on the bedside table. Even from across the room, Methos could hear the infant's labored breathing. Damn midwife. How could the woman not see that unlike her mother, the baby had yet to show any real improvement in her condition? Methos doubted the child would last much longer.

He kept his worries to himself, however. "You wanted to see me, my lady?"

"Yes." Lady Alice patted the edge of her bed. "Come closer, so that our talk will be unheard by others."

Methos approached the bed, but he chose to stand at the foot in case any passerby - namely the midwife - should see him in the quarters of the Chieftain's wife and assume he was there for illicit purposes, in spite of Lady Alice's chaste reputation and the way she openly addressed Methos as "brother".

Lady Alice continued. "I need to speak to you about my daughter."

Methos kept his tone neutral. "What about her?"

"She will not live long, will she?"

It was not meant as a question, but Methos still maintained the façade. "Why do you ask?"

"The birthing. It was hard on her."

"It was hard on you both, yet you recovered."

Lady Alice sighed wistfully. "Only because the Lord God willed it."

"My lady, your daughter will follow your example."

The statement was an empty one, and they both knew it. "If she dies," Lady Alice lamented, "I will have nothing, and my husband will want to find another who can give him what I cannot."

That was her greatest fear. The midwife informed her, repeatedly, that if she could bear no more children, the Chieftain would abandon her for a wife who could give him the sons he so ardently desired. The midwife did this out of spite, Lady Alice realized, yet was there not a grain of truth in the old woman's words?

"Do not say that," Methos commanded. "You must have faith, as your God teaches you to do."

"And if I have no faith?"

Methos had no answer for that.

The chieftain and Lady Alice's daughter died that night.

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Three Months Later

"In nomine padre, et fili, et spiritus sancti, amen."

Methos knelt before the altar, crossed himself, and began the ritual prayer. It was one the friars performed every evening, most in their rooms, a few, like Methos himself, in the monastery's drafty main chapel. He was alone that night, though, the rest of his brothers having retired to their chambers. He was glad for the privacy, for once again, memories of what happened in the village came back to haunt him.

Before the death of the Chieftain and Lady Alice's daughter became widely known, a village woman came to Lady Alice, bearing an infant girl she had found while gathering wood in the forest. The village woman intended to ask Lady Alice's permission to keep the babe, but once Lady Alice laid eyes on the child, she thanked the woman for bringing her lost daughter back to her. The woman knew better than to argue; she was one of the few who was aware of the death of Lady Alice's daughter and how it seemed to unsettle her ladyship's mind.

Methos also knew what transpired between Lady Alice and the village woman, even though he wasn't present when it took place. The lady-in-waiting and the midwife were aware, as well, and helped to orchestrate the switch. The lady-in-waiting, ever loyal, disposed of the dead child's body, and the village woman, having no desire to be exiled from the only home she'd ever known, had already promised her silence. The pagan midwife, on the other hand, viewed the conspiracy as a means of ridding herself of her chief rival for power in the village.

She began by telling the villagers that Methos had murdered the Chieftain's daughter and coerced Lady Alice into accepting the foundling, named Clothilde after the Emperor's new wife, as her own. When that tactic failed, she attempted to convince anyone who would listen that he was an evil sorcerer who used his dark magic to destroy Lady Alice's mind, for her ladyship truly believed that rather than dying, her daughter recovered from the birthing in a matter of hours when all had feared for her death. The very mention of sorcery was what did Methos in. The superstitious villagers were too provincial to discount the midwife's tales, and they chased Methos off, the midwife egging them on. She vowed that should Methos ever set foot near Lady Alice again, she herself would wield the ax that would cut off his head.

The monastery took him in willingly, thinking him to be a lost traveler, and when the head of the order invited him to join them, Methos accepted. He found the religion of Jesus Christ to be a curious one, but holy ground was holy ground, he reasoned, and right then he needed a safe place from which to observe what went on in the village. Would the Chieftain, upon his return, treat the foundling as his biological get, or would he shun her? If the latter turned out to be the case, Methos dreaded the consequences.

So far, though, the Chieftain had yet to come back to the village. Methos had heard that much from a recent pilgrim passing through on his way to the Holy City. How soon would that change, Methos wondered?

A whoosh of air, then . . .

Another. One of his own. As if he didn't have enough to worry about. He didn't want to face another Immortal, holy ground notwithstanding. His ruminations forgotten, Methos got to his feet and turned toward the chapel door, clear on the other end of the room.

He tugged on the collar of his cowl - one of these days, mankind would invent a way to weave softer cloth, he prayed - and held his breath. Lady Alice, wild-eyed, stood there, just inside the doorway, the baby Clothilde asleep in her arms.

"Please," she begged, "you must help us."

Methos let his consternation show. "What do you here?" he demanded.

"My daughter. She is in danger."

He heard his heart beating loudly in his chest. "How did you know where to find me?"

"My brother is a friar here. I came to seek him out."

"And you found me instead." An incredible coincidence. He cursed himself for not remembering what Lady Alice had said about her brother. He didn't know which of his fellow monks was the culprit, but he was positive that the man had communicated with his sister often enough for her to be aware of when new members joined the order. "Tell me, why do you wish to see your brother?"

"I came to him for spiritual aid." Slowly, Lady Alice began crossing the room. "That is no longer important, however. What is important is that I've found you, that God has shown me the right path."

Methos had to keep her focused, to draw her mind away from what she evidently considered a preordained occurrence. "Why do you require spiritual aid?"

"It is the midwife. She has threatened to tell my husband that Clothilde is not of his blood, that she is a changeling brought by demons to replace our true daughter."

That did not come as a surprise to Methos. Hadn't the old woman used that weapon on him? "And you say the midwife lies."

"Of course she lies." By this time Lady Alice was about two-thirds of the way across the chapel, where she paused. "Think you that I would deceive my husband so?"

"I know you were despondent when you feared your daughter would leave this world."

Lady Alice again started to approach. "But I had faith, just as you recommended, and she is better now."

"Then why would the midwife claim otherwise?" Maybe, just maybe, if Lady Alice valued his opinion that much, he might persuade her to not only admit the truth to her husband and herself, but to prevail upon the chieftain to adopt Clothilde, thereby increasing Clothilde's chances of survival.

"She does not explain herself, so I cannot say." She closed the remainder of the distance between them. "But look at Clothilde." She thrusted the baby into his arms. "Does she appear dead to you?"

So much for gentle persuasion. Methos stared down and the infant. She did bear a striking resemblance to to Lady Alice's true daughter. Methos knew he had to do something to make sure she wouldn't die just yet, but what? "My lady," he declared, handing Clothilde back to her, "this child is not yours."

"She is!!" Lady Alice fairly screamed these words in desperation. "Please! You must help us!"