Chapter Nine

Death...

Strathclyde, 858-864 c.e.:

For a while, life was an unending dream that seemed to take place within a single moment of time. It was as though, Methos thought, they had entered the land of Faerie where time did not pass.

On the journey from Kenneth's kingdom into Strathclyde, Methos did not sleep by the fire, nor did Aella spend much time with her female companion. She rode at his side and he showed her everything he could about the lands they were passing through. She had never been outside the hillfort since coming there as a child. At night, she would not go to the pavilion unless he went. And so he went.

His lands, to which he had maintained title for generations and visited every few centuries were nestled in a narrow valley. There was nothing overtly wealthy about the estate. It appeared modest by most standards of nobility. It was, in fact, much more of a working farm than the estate of some wandering knight. Over the millennia, both here and elsewhere, when he bought property to be held in trust for the future, he was usually careful not to make it seem too wealthy or too desirable. There was less chance of it being plundered when he was away. These places were usually just out-of-the-way havens for when he needed to lose himself between lives.

Before Aella's arrival, he had re-hired a staff, and fixed up and furnished the house a bit. His plans to abandon her still played in his mind. But not yet... not yet. The house's form, although not its structure, was reminiscent of Roman villas from several centuries before. It was sturdy, with stone and timber walls and a thatched roof. A stone wall surrounded the house. He had managed to build a small open atrium in the center of the house... an interior garden where one could sit in safety under a tree. Within the outer courtyard between the house and the wall were also servants' quarters, a kitchen, and the stables. Outside the wall were fields of crops and pastures where horses and cattle roamed. In one field, he had once invested in beehives.

Aella clapped in delight when she saw the simplicity and order of the estate. She ran to see everything, taking great delight in all she saw. Methos took delight in just watching her. Once more, she seemed so very young to him. "Gods! Was I ever that young!" he thought as he watched her dance about the holdings, laughing with glee.

When she saw "her" room she looked at him questioningly. "And where will you stay?"

Methos opened his mouth and made to gesture to another room. Before he could get a word out, she hugged him and clasped her hands about his neck. "You will stay with me, or I will stay with you." She kissed him teasingly... and so the matter was settled.

Methos turned his attention to the estate in the following days, setting gears into motion that would watch over the land once he left. The servants were from families of long-term retainers, who had some idea that their master would one day leave and that they were to keep things running until his or his "descendant's" return. Most often, this was enough. He was an old, old hand at this. He had done it many times, in many places. But he delayed his departure.

He sometimes worked alongside the field workers and participated in the gathering of crops or the slaughter of cattle and pigs. Aella now had a household to run. She had learned many lessons in King Kenneth's court about management and order, but Methos discovered quickly that she had never learned to cook. She tried, but she just had absolutely no aptitude.

When she wept about the burned bread or the charred meat or the much too salty soup, Methos held her and whispered gently, "I did not marry you for your cooking." She laughed, and he laughed with her.

Sewing was another skill she had no luck at. It wasn't that she couldn't. It was just she became easily bored by it and would drop her needle to walk in the fields, or take care of the animals, or play with the servants' children. She once tried to make him a tunic, only to discover there was no way it would ever look like a proper one. One arm hung much longer than the other and the shoulders just simply would not work right. When he tried it on and she saw that, she cried.

Once again he held her and told her, "I did not marry you for you stitching abilities."

So she gathered honey from the hives, gathered vegetables from the garden, and cared for the animals, the servants, and their children. As Kenneth had said, she had a healing touch sometimes. She just seemed to know what it was an animal or person needed. They all came to her with their problems and their hurts. Somehow, she made everything right. Laughter filled the house.

And if at times he came upon her unbeknownst and saw her eyes unfocused and filled with tears or her face lined with sadness or her shoulders bent low in despair, as soon as she saw him, she brightened, and no shadow of it remained. Yet, he began to notice more and more of these unhappy periods. If he asked her about them, she would laugh and shake her head as if they were nothing. And indeed, everything did seem fine.

Time seemed to stand still. Days passed into months... months passed into years. Only the changing seasons marked the passage of them.

***

It was therefore, a surprise one morning that Methos, awake with the dawn and unusually restless, noticed as he stroked Aella's long black hair, a single stand of silver. "Now when did that happen?" he thought. "Has so much time passed already?" He had foregone his own subtle aging techniques not long after their arrival. They hadn't seemed needed. Aella had not seemed to notice either way. When she looked at him, she seemed too happy to care.

Methos rolled softly onto his back so as not to disturb her curled up on his arm. He would have to make a decision, and soon. He would have to tell her about himself, about what he was, and possibly about what she could be. He still was uncertain as to what to do about that. To tell her might mean it would never happen.

When he exercised with his sword each day in the courtyard, she would watch, fascinated with his movements.

"It is like the dance," she laughed once.

He had taken the opportunity to try and teach her how to hold a sword, how to use it. But as with cooking and sewing, she had no aptitude for it.

"Silly goose! Why should I learn this?" she had asked, sticking her tongue out at him playfully.

"If I were killed," he had answered soberly, "you should know how to defend yourself."

"If you are dead," she had walked up to him swaying and smiling, "then why would I care to survive." She had offered a small kiss, laughed and run off to the fields. Methos had sheathed his sword and followed her., grinning in the anticipation of an afternoon loving her in the fields, among the flowers and sounds of nature.

Now, lying in their bed, Methos realized the moment of truth had to be near. If ever there was anyone not ready and not suited for the immortal life, it was Aella. Methos gently caressed her neck. For a moment, it might have been so easy. He could simply kill her and wait for her to awaken. But he could not bear the accusations and hate that would surely follow such an act. No, that was a coward's way out. He gently removed his other arm from under her. She murmured slightly and changed positions, but did not awaken. He got up and dressed quietly, then made his way out of the house to the stables. He needed to take a ride and figure some things out.

He rode down near the banks of the stream and over into the great forest that bordered the land. He rode for hours, frequently letting the horse set its own pace and direction. Methos considered all his options, all the possibilities. Finally, he decided he must tell her about himself, and see what happened. He would not tell her everything... there was no need for that. But she needed to know some of it. And as for her... that would depend on how she responded to the truth about him. Too many of the women he had known over the centuries had been unable to deal with the thought of a husband or lover who never aged. But perhaps she could. Perhaps... he knew now what to do. He needed to tell her that much at least. He needed to give her a choice in what the next move for them would be. His mind made up, he headed back to the estate.

Pulling up in the courtyard, Methos was immediately hit by the sense that she was not there. Leaping off the horse, he raced into the house.

He grabbed the arms of one of the house servants, "Where is my wife!"

"Good sir," replied the old woman, "My lady has taken young Peter with her and gone to the church."

"The church?" Methos was stunned. Since coming here, they had seldom gone to church. He was himself no longer a religious man, but was always perfectly willing to go along with whatever the prevailing religion of a time and place if it kept him safe. Aella, too, had seemed to have little interest in regular worship, although they had attended for major feast days and celebrations. Something was going on!

Methos ran back out of the house and remounted his horse, taking off at a gallop for the small stone church at the crossroads. He would get to the bottom of this! He felt anger simmering just below the surface. Just when he had things figured out, just when he had made a decision, something unexpected happened!

He reined in sharply at the church, dismounted and tossed the reins to young Peter who was standing outside holding the reins of Aella's horse. No one else was around. He could sense her within the church.

Methos roughly flung open the church doors and strode in. One door slammed loudly as he entered. Within the cool darkness of the stone church, he could make out Aella and Father Martin talking quietly in the nave near the altar rail. They both turned to stare at him as he entered.

"Edward?... What are you..." Aella seemed surprised to see him. Her eyes were filled with questions.

"Sir Edward," the priest began at almost the same time, "you have arrived most propitiously. I was just telling Lady Gray..."

"Get out!" Methos roared at Father Martin. "I wish to speak with my wife."

Father Martin glanced back and forth between the two, then bowed and went out the front doors, carefully and quietly closing them behind him.

In the quiet darkness, Aella looked very sad. She refused to meet his gaze, but stared at the floor and wrung her hands. She turned her wedding ring round and round her finger.

Methos took a deep breath to calm himself, then put his arms about her. "What is it? You can tell me anything." This was not the conversation he had planned for.

"I am talking to Father Martin about entering Holy Orders."

"What?... Why?... " Methos was taken aback. "I thought you were happy."

She finally looked up at him and her eyes brimmed with tears. "I am happy, my lord. More than I ever thought to be. It is just... just..." Her voice broke in a sob and her shoulders began to shake.

Methos held her close to him and stroked her hair. "Aella, whatever it is, we can work this out." All thoughts of leaving her anytime soon were fading away.

"I cannot give you children," she finally uttered. "At least I don't think so. I wanted to find a place where you could send me and..."

"Aella... Aella... Aella, I did not marry you for children." Methos laughed gently and kissed the top of her head.

"But you should have children. You should have strong sons to carry on for you. I kept hoping that if I prayed long enough and hard enough, like Sarah, wife of Abraham, or Hannah, mother of Samuel, that I would give you children." Her tears streamed down her face. "Now, even Father Martin thinks this may be for the best."

"Damn Father Martin and all that would tell you such a thing!" he thundered. "Aella..." he held her out from him and brushed her hair from her eyes. Gently he continued, "I love you. I will never leave you nor put you away." Even as he said it, Methos knew it was true. He had never told her that before, perhaps his worry at having to leave suddenly had prevented him from this final commitment. He would stay with her until the day she died. Now was probably not the time to tell her about his immortality; but perhaps he could ease her mind a bit.

"And as for children... I have never had children. I do not think I can. It has never been important to me. But if it is important to you, we will find children to raise as our own."

Her eyes widened in wonder, and she smiled. Then she nodded, "I think I would like..."

The slamming of the church doors interrupted her. Both of them looked in that direction.

A band of rough looking men had entered the church.

"Outlaws," thought Methos and moved Aella to stand behind him. He drew his sword... beneath him he felt the faint tremble of the earth as it warned him he was on holy ground. He could do no violence here. "What do you want?" he called out sharply.

"What do you have?" one of the men replied. The others laughed.

Methos backed up, still keeping Aella behind him. "This is a church... sanctuary... you should respect it!" he cried out. Was there a way out through Father Martin's sacristy? He thought so. Once more, as he brandished his sword, he could feel the reminder that here he was powerless.

"Church?" The leader of the band smirked as he came forward, all the while motioning his men to spread out. "Afraid I don't much respect churches." He motioned at Aella. "Come here girl. Got something for you." His men laughed once more and began to close in.

Methos glanced around him trying to figure a way out. Outside he could hear cries of slaughter. Peter and Father Martin were likely dead. There was no safety outside, but he could do nothing in here. He had to get them all out of the church and off holy ground. He could not protect her in here. He turned to motion Aella to head for the sacristy, when his chest seemed to explode in fire and pain.

He looked down to see an arrowhead emerge from his chest. He had been shot from behind! A second crossbolt hit him. He stumbled, and reached toward Aella. He could feel the blood in his mouth and already his sight was dimming. "Not now" he thought, not now!" But it was already too late. The last thing he was aware of before darkness took him was Aella's tortured screams.

***

He came to sooner than he might have... sooner than he should have. He was struggling up through the pain. He somehow had to force the healing to be faster. He weakly reached to his chest and broke off the arrow points. Then reached behind his back to pull out the shafts. The effort drove him back into the dark well of unconsciousness. But, he would heal faster now that the arrows were out.

He was next aware of the smell of smoke and the heat of the fire. Above him, the thatched roof of the church had gone up in a blaze. All about him flames reached high up the walls. The church was becoming a blazing inferno! He had to get out of here! As burning thatch fell about him he half crawled, half drug himself toward the sacristy. There was less fire there, but not for long.

With each step his lungs strained to breathe through the smoke. He was not fully healed yet. Within the ransacked sacristy there was a brief respite from the fire, but it was already eagerly licking the overhead thatch. He took several tortured breaths and headed for the small door at the rear. Nowhere in this inferno did he sense Aella, alive or dead.

Once outside, he confirmed that Peter and Father Martin were dead. From a distance he could make out peasants running toward the church. He could not let them see him! He could not let them delay him! He had to find Aella! Looking down at himself, he noted they had pretty much stripped his body. And, of course, they had taken his sword.

"They even took my boots," he thought. Tracks led into the great forest, so he headed in that direction. They had not cared to conceal their tracks, not that it would have made much difference. He was a very good tracker when he needed to be.

An hour later, Methos had pretty much regained his strength. His breathing was still a little ragged, but he had been running. Seven horses, all of them were bearing riders, one a double load. She had to still be with them. Yet he still sensed nothing. They were likely an hour ahead and getting further. He needed for them to stop, to camp... so he could catch up. At the same time, he feared what would happen to Aella when they did camp. He increased his speed.

Darkness fell. There was no moon this night and the stars were covered by a thin layer of clouds. He passed through a world painted in shadowy grays and deep blacks. Still he ran, trusting that he would find them... find her.

At last he noted a fire through the trees. She was here... she had to be here! It had been dark for several hours by the time he slunk up on the encampment. Near where the horses were hobbled, one of the men stood lookout. He vaguely recognized the man as one of the band of outlaws. Then this was the right group! Methos had no time for subtlety. He crouched for only a moment, stretching and flexing his muscles. As soon as he was ready, he rose, like a white ghost in the mist and strode purposely toward the man. Even before the outlaw could register surprise, Methos had reached him and with a swift motion twisted the man's head so that his neck snapped.

"Good," thought Methos. "One down." This was likely the bowman who had shot him. Methos retrieved the man's crossbow and loaded it with one of the bolts. The man had no sword, but he did have a long knife. That would also help. He was close enough now to sense Aella. She was still alive! Cautiously Methos approached the campfire.

The men were laughing and telling ribald jokes. One of them got up and stood facing the unseen Methos. He stretched his arms and yawned. He was just too good a target. Methos fired the crossbow. The bolt landed squarely in the man's mouth. He gasped and gurgled. Next he twisted slightly back to his companions at the fire... then dropped like a stone.

"That's two!" whispered Methos to himself, as he quickly reloaded the crossbow. His bloodlust was nearly at a fever pitch. He took a deep breath and forced himself to focus on the task at hand. He would have no second chance this time.

A third outlaw drew his sword as his companion fell. Methos got off one more shot with the crossbow. This time he hit the heart. Three other men jumped up and started toward him, their weapons at the ready. One of them yelled to the last man, out of sight of the campfire.

Methos dropped the crossbow and stepped into the firelight. Swiftly and precisely and without a waste of movement, he ran directly at the men. Using the long knife, he quickly parried away the man's sword and plunged the knife deeply into his gut. He left it there and snatched the sword from the outlaw's hands.

Methos twisted the unfamiliar sword in his hands, swiftly testing its balance and strength. He pivoted and thrust into one of the two men attacking him. The other backed away in confusion. It was he who had Methos' great sword. Methos had no fear of that sword in this man's hands and ran at him swinging. Another one down!

Just then, he felt the change in his sense of Aella. She was dead! He had not been fast enough! He should have found her first and then killed these miscreants!

The last man came running at him, a bloody knife still in his hands. With a great cry, Methos turned his unleashed fury upon Aella's murderer. A red haze covered his eyes and the long-buried ferocity took control.

By the time his rage was spent, Methos was covered in blood and there was little recognizable about the last man. He spared only a moment to howl his rage at the dark night sky. Then walked slowly over to Aella's naked body.

She lay pale and white in a pool of her own blood. Already Methos could sense the change starting to happen. He dropped the sword and knelt beside her, slowly gathering her bruised and battered body into his arms. She would be back, he knew, but she would likely never be the same. The enchanting elfin child he had come to love was likely gone forever.

Methos gently laid her back on the ground and looked about. He needed to clean himself up a bit before she woke. He could not let her see him like this... she would be frightened enough. He found water bags and quickly washed off the splattered blood. Then he rummaged through the booty the men had collected and found suitable clean clothing for both himself and for her... men's clothes... those would be better for her now. Besides, hers had been ripped to shreds. He roughly removed his stolen boots from the second man he had killed and put them back on, stomping the ground... some of his anger and fury still coursed through him. He needed to get that firmly under control!

Taking the water bag and the clothes he had selected for her, he walked over to Aella's corpse. He lay the clothes to one side and he began to gently wash her body of the blood, as though by removing it, he could somehow undo what had happened to her. Already the bruises and cuts were starting to heal. The death wound itself would be a little longer... but even it was beginning to knit. It would not be much longer. Then he wrapped her lightly in her own long cloak, which he had found thrown nearby and sat beside her to wait for what would come.