Chapter Eight

Northeast Gaul, 493 AD

"Please! You must help us!"

Methos gawked wordlessly at Lady Alice for what seemed an eternity. It had been close to five hundred years since he came between a man and wife, and if he did as Lady Alice begged him, he'd be interfering once again. Dilemmas. He couldn't stand them, not when they happened to him. Especially the moral ones. Damn.

"My lady . . ." he finally began, but a noise from outside the chapel halted him mid-sentence.

Lady Alice must have heard it, too, for her eyes followed his as they searched for the noise's source. Voices, men's voices, raised in heated emotion. Methos couldn't make out what they were saying. "Who are they?" Lady Alice asked in a worried tone.

"I don't know," Methos replied. "No visitors are expected." He glanced back at Lady Alice. "Stay here," he ordered her.

He strode across the chapel and out the door, leaving Lady Alice to stare after him.

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Methos hid behind an obliging tree in the night-darkened courtyard before he could be seen by either of the two men standing by the monastery gates. One of the friars - Lady Alice's brother? - was arguing with the Chieftain's lieutenant. It would have done Methos no good for the lieutenant to learn he was here; the man was only all too happy to help the midwife out by heading the mob that chased Methos from the village. Methos cocked an ear, ready to pick up anything that might clarify the situation with Lady Alice. Or, more to the point, that might get her away from the monastery and out of his life.

"Please, sir," he heard the balding friar beg. "We are but a small order. We value our privacy, our sanctuary."

"My Chieftain values your sanctuary, as well," returned the lieutenant. "He has been informed that his wife and child were led astray and commanded to come here."

The friar hastily crossed himself. "There is no woman here, and no child."

"I thought your God forbade you to lie, holy man," the lieutenant sneered, his face a mere inches from the friar's. "A woman bearing an infant was seen entering this place earlier tonight."

"I-it is true, a woman and child did come here, just as you say." The friar was sputtering in abject fear by this point. "B-but they have already gone."

"Then you don't mind if my men look around."

"I . . . I-i cannot allow that."

"On what grounds?" The lieutenant's voice was filled with disdain and implied threats.

"Th-this is holy ground. All those who enter are guaranteed safety within our walls."

Methos had to give the friar credit. The man had summoned up at least some courage to stand up to the menacing lieutenant. Too bad it wouldn't make any difference.

The lieutenant, on the other hand, didn't care for what the friar said. "It doesn't matter," he said, simply brushing the friar's words aside. "Soon, my Chieftain will recover his wife and child, and we will be on our way."

The friar inquired, as if terrified of the answer, "W-w-what will your Chieftain do once he finds them?"

"That is none of your concern, holy man. Now, get out of my way!"

Methos felt his jaw drop. Lady Alice was a devout practitioner of Catholic Christianity, and while the Chieftain himself did not follow the dictates of his wife's religion, he ordered all his men to respect the rites and customs of the Church. Moreover, the Chieftain had to know where his wife's brother lived. What did the lieutenant think he was going to accomplish? If the newly-converted Emperor caught wind of this incident, or, worse yet, the Church . . . Methos didn't know what the consequences would be, but he shuddered at the possibilities.

Meanwhile, the more immediate outcome, though no less dire, could be deduced easily enough. If the Chieftain was so intent on locating his errant family, Lady Alice faced nothing short of what she dreaded most, abandonment, possibly death, for herself and the baby Clothilde. What would happen to Clothilde if she were to meet her first death so soon? He'd never seen one so young become Immortal, and he never wanted to. All this, along with the promise he made to never come between a man and wife, ran around and around in Methos' mind, paralyzing him to the point where he couldn't make a decision at all.

Until the decision was made for him. A large hand clamped down on Methos' shoulder and spun him around. Without warning, Methos found himself staring up into the rage-filled eyes of the Chieftain himself.

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The Chieftain had positioned his army right outside the monastery gates, and it took the lieutenant and three other soldiers to subdue Methos to the point where they could bind him hand and foot. That, a slick explanation of how Methos was a heretic bent on corrupting the friars - Methos found that one particularly funny, since the Chieftain himself still practiced pagan rituals - and a heavy bribe to the abbot, and Methos was "escorted" from the safety of the monastery.

No one spoke to him on the trek back to the village. Not the Chieftain, who headed the party, not the lieutenant, who brought up the rear, not the guards who surrounded him. Even Lady Alice, who rode beside her husband, the baby Clothilde in her arms, remained silent, her head bowed as if in fear. Fear of whom? The Chieftain wasn't exactly glowering at her or making any other ominous overtures toward her. Perhaps, Methos reasoned, the Chieftain didn't want to air whatever quarrel they had openly.

On the other hand, it could have been shame that kept her gaze lowered. Was she forced - worse yet, did she volunteer - to go to the monastery in an attempt to draw Methos out? Methos had already concluded that her brother communicated with his sister often, and told her of new recruits to his order. She would have no trouble remembering the man who spent time in her husband's army.

As if any of that mattered. Methos cursed himself repeatedly: one, for staying among the Franks longer than he had originally planned; two, for allowing himself to become concerned about Lady Alice and her daughter; and three, for letting her ladyship gull him into taking her part against the midwife.

There was no building yet set aside for prisoners, so Methos' wrists and ankles were tied securely to a long, thick pole set deeply in the ground in the middle of the village square. The townspeople made excuses to come and taunt him, and to throw sticks, rocks, and other projectiles at him. He was glad he still wore his monk's robe. It covered most of the places where he was hit.

The Chieftain did not deign to stop by, having decreed back at the monastery that Methos' trial would be held at sundown the day after the party returned to the village. The lieutenant followed the Chieftain's example, and the midwife wasn't even around to torment him. Methos assumed she was off performing her duties in a neighboring hamlet. Whatever the reason, her absence suited Methos just fine. He didn't trust himself to not say what was on his mind to her.

He did, however, receive a visit from an unexpected quarter. Once the villagers grew tired of their sport and drifted off, Lady Alice came up to him. This time, she was alone. No Clothilde to hide behind.

"Did you come to ask for forgiveness?" he growled at her.

She eyed him warily. "They mean to kill you," she told him matter-of-factly.

"I . . ." he pulled against the ropes that bound him to the pole " . . . gathered as much."

"It is the midwife's fault."

"Is that so?" Methos questioned derisively. "Was she the one who told you to run to the monastery?"

"I had no other choice," Lady Alice insisted. "I did not, I do not, want to place Clothilde in danger."

Something in the way she said Clothilde's name made Methos take notice. He studied her for a minute or two, and he saw it. It was in her eyes. Lady Alice did not lose her mind, she did not suffer from the delusion that the baby found in the forest was her own flesh and blood. No. She was perfectly aware of what was going on around her. She engineered it. Why couldn't he see that before?

"My lady," he ventured, "did you ever think of telling your husband the truth, and asking him to adopt Clothilde?"

Lady Alice drew herself up. Fixing Methos with a level stare, she replied, "I see it is pointless to talk to you. Clothilde is my daughter. Anyone in the village will tell you so."

She walked away, then, with all the bearing of a queen. As he watched her go, Methos realized where he went wrong. Whatever her claims, whether made sincerely or as part of her plan, she was married to the most powerful man in the village, and few would contradict her.

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"Bring the accused forth." At the Chieftain's command, two soldiers cut the bindings that held Methos to the pole and dragged him into the center of the crowd gathered in front of the Chieftain's hut. "Let him go." They released him; more to the point, they shoved him to the ground, and he felt the pain of the rocks and pebbles that cut into his knees. "Lieutenant, read the charges."

The lieutenant stood to the Chieftain's left. He unrolled the scroll he held and read its contents to the crowd: "One, the accused is said to have foretold the death of the natural daughter of the Chieftain and the Lady Alice. Two, when it became clear that the child would survive her difficult birth, the accused cast a spell upon the Lady Alice, making her believe that her true daughter had died. Three, he also used the dark arts to persuade a village woman that she found a changeling in the forest to replace the child he claimed was dead. Finally, he seduced the Lady Alice into taking her child and fleeing the village on the false grounds that she and the child were in mortal danger."

The Chieftain focused his glare on Methos. "How does the accused answer to the charges?"

"I'm not gong to answer to anything," Methos responded heatedly. "I've done nothing wrong!"

The Chieftain ignored his protest. "The witness will step forward." Methos wasn't in the least surprised to see the old midwife break through the throng of people. "Explain what happened the day of the birthing," the Chieftain instructed her.

"As soon as the babe was delivered," the midwife all but crowed - she was clearly in her element as the center of attention - "he pulled me aside and told me the infant would die, her mother along with her."

"How did you respond?" the Chieftain asked her.

"I warned him not to say such things, but he would not listen to me."

"Did anything further take place?" questioned the Chieftain.

"Yes." The midwife's gaze never left Methos. With her eyes, she was daring him to challenge her. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction "Three days later, he visited the Lady Alice and counseled her to give up hope for he daughter's survival."

"That's a lie!!" Methos yelled, unable to stop himself. One of the soldiers standing behind him struck the back of his head with a club, stunning him. He heard the rest of the "trial" though ears that buzzed with pain.

"The next morning, your daughter was dead," the midwife continued, "and the changeling was put in her place." Here she paused, to give her words the fullest dramatic effect they could possibly have. "Or so he would have us believe."

"The midwife is lying to you," Methos heard himself say. "She lies to all of you. She's always hated me and now she has found a way to rid herself of me."

"Quiet, sorcerer!" the midwife commanded. "We'll have none of your spell-casting here!"

The Chieftain raised his right hand, silencing everyone. "That is enough," he proclaimed. "I am ready to pass judgment.

"The accused is hereby found guilty of using dark magic in order cause chaos in our village, and it is the sentence of this court that he be taken to the edge of the forest and beheaded, his body to be left to the scavenger birds."

Methos gulped, unable to help himself. Three and half thousand years of escaping the blades of all his Immortal opponents, only to die like this, like a common criminal? It can't be happening!

"My lord!" Lady Alice's voice cut into Methos' terror like his sharpest sword. "You cannot do that!"

The Chieftain turned to his right, where he faced his wife's stare. "What do you mean, woman?"

"Beheading is too good for one such as him. Let him be taken to the forest, stab him in the belly, and watch him die a tortured death. He must be made to suffer."

Methos made a careful study of the ground. He refused to let anyone see the hope her words had given him. Lady Alice had no clue what she was sparing him. Let her think she was getting revenge for his claims about Clothilde. It would be the only revenge he would have on her.