Chapter Five

Vengeance ...

Strathclyde, 853 c.e.:

Methos had been right. Lord Strathclyde was furious. "You presume too much!" Strathclyde thundered. Methos merely stood, head bowed, silent, and apparently obsequious. "You had no right to exchange that gold for a bride for yourself! I do not care how much you thought it might improve relations between our land and his!"

"My lord," Methos meekly offered, "something had to be done. It pleased King Kenneth to think he had discovered a way out of his dilemma with my help. A substitute husband had to be offered and I had no right to offer your nephew." Methos shrugged, "I am, after all, not nearly so skilled a negotiator as yourself, my lord." Methos smiled humbly. "I will endeavor to repay your lordship... I do have some resources."

"My nephew..." Strathclyde turned, "and that is the only reason I do not immediately have you flogged or banished." Strathclyde chuckled and waved one hand at his retainer as if to say his anger had banished. "Now explain to me exactly what occurred on the return trip?"

Methos bowed, "I will try, my lord... I will try."

***

On the third day after they had left Kenneth's court, Methos and his party camped on the banks of a small stream. The water trickled over small stones, and mist rose over the last of the receding highlands behind them. Bright pinks and oranges were evident in the glorious sunset, which stretched out on their west. They had begun to reach the Low Countries and were feeling much relaxed. They would soon be in their own lands.

Methos had chosen the campsite with his usual thoroughness. It was not one that could be easily attacked from any direction. Yet even as the two servants set about ordering the camp and Robert was seeing to the horses, Methos uneasily paced the perimeter. Something was not quite right. He had camped too many times in too many places to ever feel entirely at ease, but something was definitely wrong. Still... nothing happened.

The servants announced supper... fire-roasted rabbit trapped earlier... flat bread baked on the hot stones... the last of the ale from the stores they had received from King Kenneth for their journey home. Robert clapped his hands and whooped in youthful anticipation and Methos turned to him, "Be silent!"

"What is it Sir Edward?" Robert grasped his sword hilt as if any moment the hills would erupt in waves of blue-painted warriors.

"Nothing... yet." Methos turned back to peer into the gathering gloom. He slowly turned to gaze in all directions. "But... I feel... uneasy."

"You are an old man, who jumps at shadows," laughed Robert and returned to the fire to eat his dinner. "My uncle has great faith in your abilities as a warrior and bodyguard, but I have never seen you in action." He pulled at the rabbit meat and licked his singed fingers. "For a fierce warrior, you spend a great deal of time in watching and waiting. When do you fight?"

"Only when it is necessary, replied Methos. "You would do well to learn that."

The evening shadows lengthened and the stars shone down on them. There was no moon. Methos continued to slowly pace about the perimeter. Finally he turned and strode swiftly to the fire, kicking it and stomping out the flames.

The servants mumbled and Robert looked at him sharply. "No sense in making targets of ourselves," Methos murmured quietly. "Draw your sword, Robert and lie ready. They are coming."

"Who?" The young man fumbled a bit with his sword.

"I am not entirely certain. Stay in your bedroll. Wait for my signal." Methos reclined against a rock, drew his own sword, and waited in the darkness. If he had been by himself, he would simply have vanished into that darkness... but neither Robert nor the servants would survive if he left, he was certain of that. Robert had wanted to see the "fierce warrior" in action... well he might just get his chance. Methos flexed his muscles, one after the other, warming up for what he knew was coming.

They came from the south, hoping, Methos figured, to throw their victims off guard to be attacked from an unlikely direction. They screamed ancient battle cries into the night, to startle and frighten Methos' party. If they had been sleeping, it might have worked, or... at the very least... slowed the Britons' reaction to the attack.

Methos, however, was more than ready. Even as the men approached the campsite, he moved swiftly toward them, and swiftly plunged his blade into the first man he encountered. Removing it quickly, he elbowed the next man in the head and then swung the blade about, taking off one of his opponent's arms in the process. With surprise on his face, and gushing blood, the man dropped like a stone.

Methos spared him not a second glance but whirled in a practiced motion and swept his sword into the next man. He was dead before he hit the ground. Another circled around while Methos was thus engaged and tried to attack him from the rear. Methos swiftly turned the sword in his hands and impaled the last man on it.

Finally he spared a look about him. Three men were backing away warily; they had only cudgels, and were definitely deciding that retreat might be the better part of valor. Methos roared at them and took a menacing step toward them as he brandished his great sword at them one more time. The three turned and ran. Behind them a fourth man yelled at his men... urging them to stay and fight.

Methos quickly glanced over at Robert who was sparring with an opponent. The squire and his attacker were swinging and parrying as if this were a game. "Kill him, and be done with him!" yelled the immortal and threw his knife into the man's leg.

Robert's eyes widened as he realized his opponent was no longer fighting... that he was slowly falling to his knees in pain. Robert hesitated, then thrust his sword into his opponent and slowly pulled it out. The man fell over dead.

Behind him, Methos' glance showed the two servants were beating another man into the ground with anything handy.

Instantly, he returned his attention to the fourth man, standing some ten feet away. There was something familiar about him ... then he realized what it was. "McClarendon," Methos whispered and a black expression, one filled with darkness and rage, appeared on his face. Then he smiled wickedly and motioned with one hand in invitation to McClarendon to come... come meet his doom!

McClarendon nodded, adjusted the grip on his sword, and circled slowly closer. "I am eagerly awaiting this. I am glad it is I who will kill you foreigner, and not those worthless men I hired. You ruined my plans for the girl. You have ruined everything." He circled back the other way, carefully staying out of reach. His eyes flickered over Methos' movements, assessing him... assessing his skills.

"No matter," thought the immortal, "I betray nothing he can use." He waited. His own movements were economical, carefully hiding his true intention. He had fought too many battles... McClarendon's skills, while formidable, were as nothing compared to his own. Finally, Methos purposely stumbled slightly, then dropped his right shoulder as if showing a minor weakness.

McClarendon lunged. Methos swept the sword about him, quickly deflecting McClarendon's and then plunged his own sword deeply into the man with an upthrust that completely disemboweled his surprised opponent. And then... just because he wanted to... just because it felt so good... just because it had been so very long... he quickly pulled it out and swung the sword about him with one hand to remove the mortal's head. It had been some time since he had last fought an immortal... and even though there was no quickening here... just the satisfaction of the stroke felt very, very good.

Methos screamed into the night... a cry he had last uttered thousands of years before in a language he no longer spoke. With that utterance, the addictive veil of barbarity slowly began to lift.

He leaned on his sword and breathed heavily, then glanced back at the others who were standing and staring open-mouthed. Methos sighed inwardly, if they had thought that had been a show... what if McClarendon had been an immortal.

He rose, ripped a piece of cloth from the clothing of one of his victims, and, with a practiced movement, cleaned the blood and gore from his sword and walked over to the others. "Everyone all right?" He sheathed the weapon.

Robert nodded, but he held his arm awkwardly, and there was a great gash on his cheek. The servants also had a number of minor cuts, bruises, and slices.

Methos cupped Robert's chin in one of his hands and nodded. "That will leave a scar." He dropped the boy's chin and rummaged in his packs for his ointments and bandages. He chose one and smeared it liberally onto the young man's face then looked at the wound on his arm. "This, I fear, will require stitches." He pulled out a needle and sinew and, after cleansing the wound with some water, he applied some of the ointment to the wound and then began stitching.

"Butcher... and healer," finally offered Robert quietly.

"Well," Methos answered, "in battle, men are injured. It is wise to know how to help them afterwards."

"But there is not a scratch on you! How? Why?" Robert shook his head.

"Lots of practice!" said Methos soberly as he began to bandage Robert's arm, "Way too much practice!" Once finished, he turned to check the servants' minor wounds.

Behind him, Robert still sat quietly. Finally he looked over to Methos; "I killed that man."

Nodding, Methos, continued for him, "... or he would have killed you."

"But I killed him... I never killed anyone before... I never saw anyone killed before... I never saw anyone dead before..." His voice faded away.

Methos strode back to him and stood gazing around at the now quiet night. "It can be a hard thing to kill a man," he finally told the boy quietly. "A hard thing."

"You did not seem to have any trouble!"

"Well... as I said, I have had too much practice." He waved around him, a touch of his anger still with him. "Do you think I wanted this? If you had not been with me, they might have lived. I was protecting you."

"Why would that Scotsman, McClarendon have wanted me? It was you he was angry at. It was you he came for! Would you have run away and let him live, too?" Robert's voice rose in anger and frustration.

"No," Methos admitted, "... him I would have killed anyway." He walked over to the Scots' body and picked up a pike one of the men had attempted to use. He plunged it into the ground, then grasping McClarendon's head by its long hair, slammed it onto the point of the pike. He grunted in pleasure. There were still remnants of barbarity about him.

"Why?" Robert walked up to him.

"Because he displeased me!" he yelled. Then Methos pivoted and stomped away, down to the stream to wash. He needed time to calm himself down. He needed time for his veneer of civility to reassert itself. Along the way, he gathered the weapons of the dead, and flung them angrily into the water, wishing that it were deep enough, and the current were strong enough to wash them away downstream as well as it washed the blood from his hands.

Sometimes the man he had been just did not want to go away. Sometimes... he did not want him to.

***

"The rest of the trip home was... uneventful?" asked Lord Strathclyde.

Methos bowed to him and nodded. "Yes, my lord."

"But Robert swears that now he wants to forego his knight's training and be a priest!" exclaimed Strathclyde. "What am I to do?"

"Forbid his request, my Lord," Methos shrugged as if in answer to the question. "After all, he does need your permission."

"I suppose." Strathclyde grunted and shook his head. "Still, I fear he may never become even a capable warrior. It would seem that what he saw of your expertise has quite put a distaste for battle into him."