The Abbey
No time lapse
The trio made their way at an almost painfully casual pace across the abbey to the Dining Hall. Rebecca led the way, her steps confident and sure and her posture ramrod-straight. She didn't speak a word to either Æthelbert or Methos en route, and didn't even so much as glance back over her shoulder at them.
The two men, for their part, fell into uneasy silence as they made their way after the Lady of the Abbey. Methos's gate was easy and natural, as though nothing were out of the ordinary. His gaze was fixed ahead and it seemed to Æthelbert that his presence was being ignored. Not pointedly, as though to prove something, but rather casually, as though his presence didn't matter in the slightest. The prince did his best to adopt the same level of neutrality and didn't do too bad a job at it. His gate was a little unsure though, as the tension and lingering surprise filled him with unease; and he couldn't help stealing a few sidelong glances at Lord Adræfan, wondering if he really was as calm as he appeared, or if it was all for show.
Upon the royal archery range
Fifteen years ago
"Father wants me to appear at court this evening. Why would he need me there? Posturing before the courts is Æthelbald's responsibility, not mine."
"Perhaps the King wishes for his second son to learn the fine art of posturing?" the horse lord offered with a wry smile as he corrected a ten-year-old Æthelbert's stance as the boy aimed a drawn bow at a target twenty paces away.
"I shouldn't have to," the prince protested. "It's bad enough that father and Æthelbald have to sit around and pretend they care about the marriage of some dignitary to another, or about another kingdom's summer planting; but father's king and Æthelbald's heir. I'm neither."
"Perhaps your father feels that it is a necessary skill for everyone to learn?" Adræfan commented as he helped the prince hold his left arm steady.
"Well I don't think so," Æthelbert declared with some degree of dejection. "It's like a big game of pretend, but they're never allowed to stop playing. I only want to have to be me, not what they all want me to be just because my dad's the king."
"A word of advice, my young prince," Adræfan offered as he slowly removed his hand from Æthelbert's arm and backed away. "That game of pretend can become a very comfortable place to hide. I know you don't think so now, but one day you may find it appealing that not everyone knows who you really are. Playing by others' rules may not be fun, but it can be safe, and it affords the realyou some measure of protection when you drop the mask at night in relative safety behind your chamber doors."
"I do not wish to live a lie," the prince declared sincerely. "And I do not see why I should be made to. It's not like I'm ever going to sit on the throne. Why should I have to learn how to lie to diplomats or fool the servants when I'm going to grow up to be a mighty general?" Just then Æthelbert released the arrow. It sailed towards the target and hit in the fourth ring from the center. The prince grimaced.
"You never know what the future will hold, my young prince," Adræfan commented sagely. "But believe me when I tell you that 'posturing,'as you put it, has just as many uses on the field of battle as it does in regal audiences. Now, notch another arrow."
"What do you mean?" Æthelbert asked as he grabbed another arrow from his quiver. "You think I'll have to lie to Norsemen in between shooting arrows in their hearts?"
"Now who told you that a field of battle has to involve weapons?" Adræfan questioned him, humor glossing over a salient point. "And as for shooting people in the heart, if you don't learn to steady your arm you'll be lucky if you hit them at all."
"You make no sense, master horse lord," the prince lamented in confusion as he drew back his loaded bow string and took aim. His face was creased with determination as he willed his left hand not to move. Then finally he let the arrow fly, and this time it struck two rings closer to the center. "How am I to battle the enemy if I don't have any weapons?"
Adræfan's face grew very grave and for a moment Æthelbert was worried he was about to be reprimanded. His informal tutor was quick to offer suggestions and constructive criticism, yet open reprimand was almost as rare as open praise, and it scared the stuffing out of the boy each time.
"Your logic has two flaws, Æthelbert," he began, and the prince instantly took note of how no titles were used to address him. That meant that all pretense and preamble had been dropped. At times like these the prince knew well to sit up and pay close attention, for whatever words of wisdom were to follow were surely meant to have a long-lasting impact upon him—more so even than any combat move he'd ever shown him.
"First, the field of battle does not have to be where men invent new methods of disemboweling one another, nor will your enemies be easily identified by the shape of their shields and the colors of their armor. Some of the deadliest trials you must face will need to be conquered behind council doors or indeed while seated at the dinner table." Adræfan paused to let that sink in, continuing only after receiving a nod from the young prince.
"And second, your weapons are your last line of defense. Not your first. Now notch another arrow and try again."
"But, who will I be fighting then? And with what?" the prince asked, clearly confused but trying his best to understand as he reached into his quiver for another arrow.
If possible, Lord Adræfan grew even more serious. "Everyone is a potential enemy, Æthelbert. Every stranger, every acquaintance. Even friends and kinsmen."
"You lie!" the prince accused hotly as he released his arrow. His shot went wide, only barely grazing the target as it sailed by and embedded itself in a tree not far behind. "My cousins would never betray me!"
Adræfan simply sighed and shook his head at the prince's outburst. "As for your weapon, my prince—" he tapped Æthelbert roughly atop the head with an index finger— "it is this. If you do not use it then all other weapons will be useless to you. See your arrow sticking out of a tree? You did not use your head, and so your shot went wide. If that target was a real enemy you can bet that his shot would have impaled your heart instead, and then you would be lying dead instead of him."
"I did not mean that shot!" the prince defended himself. "You distracted me with your vicious lies!"
"And you think that there will be no distractions in a battle?" Adræfan shot back. "You could be riding into combat through torrential rains as lightning flashes across the sky to obscure your vision at the same time that your horse throws a shoe and still you would be expected to make your shot and land your arrow in the chest of the enemy riding in a zigzag pattern towards you!"
Æthelbert cringed back, becoming a ten-year-old boy again as opposed to a defiant prince. He saw Adræfan appraise him with cold, golden eyes and felt more exposed than he did that time Æthelbald had stolen his clothes when he'd chanced to go for a swim, and he'd had to sneak his way back to the palace without getting caught in naught but his skin.
"And as for my 'vicious lies'," Adræfan continued, "why limit yourself to your cousins? Discount no one, Prince Æthelbert. Not your brothers, not your wife, not even your very own children when you have them. And don't discount your father, either, nor your grandmother. Nor even me."
Æthelbert's eyes were as wide as saucers. "Are—are you telling me that—that you're going to—to try and kill me?" he stuttered, a quiet, insecure little-boy voice, chock full of quiet, unmeasured little-boy fears.
Adræfan's demeanor did not betray any consolatory emotions. "If ever I decide to do just that, I expect you to be ready for it. I expect you to block my sword with yours and then run your dagger straight through my heart without a second thought."
Æthelbert was pale and trembling now, and he knew it. It only added to his mounting shame. "I… But I could never kill you, Adræfan." The declaration fell softly, all aching trust and little-boy blind faith.
Finally—and only just barely—Adræfan's expression softened towards the prince. Æthelbert's quiet confession was meant as both a statement of fact and a heartfelt reassurance, for didn't Adræfan just say that everyone could be your enemy, looking to do you in with a dagger in the back?
"You're a good lad," Adræfan said at last, the words falling as a grudging concession, as though it cost him much to say them. "But if anything I have taught or ever will teach you should stick in your mind, let it be this: live, Æthelbert. Live and grow stronger, so that you might fight another day. Do whatever you need to in order to survive, even if that means killing the people you once cared about."
Æthelbert's eyes were treacherously bright as he whispered, "but what if you still care about them?"
"Especially then," Adræfan replied, his voice suddenly horse despite how easily the words had come. He bit down on his tongue, used the pain to startle some control back into him. "Especially then." Then the Lord of Horses seemed to blink and a transformation took place before the prince's very eyes. Adræfan was back to his usual self again, unaffected posture and easy demeanor returning to his person.
"Go and fetch your arrows," he directed. "Your father will never forgive me if I let you return to court sullied from practice. You must bathe and change first." Then he flashed that patented smile that never quite reached his eyes yet was still so convincing that very few people ever noticed that fact.
Æthelbert always noticed, of course, but right now he didn't care. It meant that their serious conversation was over and done with. With a bright and happy grin that only children were capable of, the prince ran over to the target to begin retrieving his arrows. When he turned back around Lord Adræfan had vanished, but his nursemaid was swiftly approaching the archery range.
The Abbey
No time lapse
Are you posturing now, Horse Lord? Æthelbert thought. Or are you truly waiting calmly for me to kill you?
The three of them were the last to enter the Dining Hall. All conversation stopped as soon as they opened the doors. The Prince's entourage immediately stood, as well as the Christian-oriented members of the Abbey. The rest, quickly catching on, followed suit scarce seconds thereafter.
Rebecca stepped gracefully aside, making Æthelbert the full center of attention. Methos slowed his pace so that he was no longer walking on the same level as the prince.
Æthelbert, for his part, seemed taken quite by surprise. "Please…" he said, forcing authority into his voice. "Do not rise on our account. Dinner should not be interrupted simply because we were late."
"They rise for you, my prince," Rebecca explained in an oddly musical voice. "They have grown accustomed to your father's visits."
"Well I am not my father," Æthelbert declared, as though there were some doubters in the room. "I would rather sit and eat than waste time on propriety and sentiment. We are not at court here, and my station does not require it."
"You are a prince," Methos spoke up, his voice perfectly level. "If your station does not demand courtly propriety, then whose?"
"How dare you address his highness!" a man suddenly called out, harsh and accusing. Methos recognized him as Æthelbert's lieutenant.
"How dare you disrupt the peace of her Lady's dining hall," Methos shot back, his own voice a quiet sneer.
The lieutenant bolted to his feet, enraged, but a sudden hand on his arm restrained him. "Sit down, Freca," the man that arm belonged to ordered. It was Eorl, Æthelbert's captain.
The lieutenant froze, still glaring daggers at Methos, but eventually he—tensely, sat back down.
"This abbey is sanctuary," Rebecca spoke, her voice almost hypnotic even though her eyes were hard as immutable as the stones of the abbey floor. "There is no place here for heated words and ill-mannered guests. All are welcomed, of course, but do not force me to take action in order to protect the integrity of St. Anne's for—rest assured—I will do so, regardless of the rank and station of the offending party."
All in Æthelbert's party winced, thoroughly chastised by the Lady of the Abbey. Even Æthelbert bowed his head a little. Methos, for his part, managed to look solemn enough despite the smirk threatening to break free across his lips.
Just then Amanda stood. "Please milady, milord… lords… Will you not join us?"
Methos smiled fondly now. Rebecca had taught the little thief well. So soft, so shy she appeared as she curtsied slightly to them and reached out an imploring hand. She was rewarded by a smile from Æthelbert, who almost reflexively stretched his own hand out to meet hers. Their fingers brushed and Amanda sweetly blushed, demurring slightly into a larger curtsey and casting her eyes respectfully at the floor. Æthelbert's own smile broadened as his fingers grazed atop hers and then swept down to her palm. He tentatively held her hand in his and then brought it up to his lips and kissed it in proper gentlemanly fashion.
"I would be delighted, noble lady, to join your table."
He released her hand and Amanda curtseyed again, grinning shyly through the flush in her cheeks. She elegantly stretched out a hand to beckon the prince over to her table. He followed Amanda and claimed one of the vacant seats beside her, never taking his eyes from her the entire time.
Methos noticed Rebecca's small smile of satisfaction as she too made her way to the table. She sat on Amanda's other side, and Methos then saw that the only remaining vacant chair was on Rebecca's other side. He smiled and slightly shook his head, swearing that if he didn't know better, that entire scene must have been planned.
Dinner was served and, for the most part, for the moment, it seemed as though everyone would be able to get along at least until the end of the meal. Methos, finding himself seated between Rebecca and the Celtic Priestess, had a hard time maintaining his casual and unaffected air. The food tonight was exquisite, fit enough to fill the plates of kings. Everyone would naturally assume that it was in honor of Æthelbert, but Methos knew better. The style, the spices, the adornments… everything had a distinctly Persian feel, and you do not cook Persian for a prince of Wessex without announcing your intentions or else the desired effect would fall decidedly flat. No, this meal wasn't for Æthelbert, Methos realized around the sudden lump in his throat. It was for him, in case it was to be his last meal on earth. It was Rebecca's gift to him.
For that fact alone, Methos managed to eat a respectable portion of his dinner despite his sudden loss of appetite. Methos picked at his dinner slowly, spending much of his time simply observing the crowd.
Rebecca, on the other hand, stared fixedly ahead. She spoke to no one as she ate but rather also found herself studying those seated before her. For better or worse, she never so much as glanced at Methos sitting beside her, and Methos almost wondered if it was because she found that she couldn't bring herself to do so.
Amanda's attentions, Methos saw, were fully captivated by the prince, who seemed almost equally enraptured. Methos wondered exactly how sincere Amanda was being, and still silently applauded her efforts to diffuse the tension in the room. It had worked in spades, and now she had the full attention of the prince to contend with—not that it appeared as though she minded in the least.
Methos regarded his former pupil almost wistfully. The last time he'd seen the boy was over two seasons ago and back then he had been completely on his guard. He had discovered the den of treachery in the royal household and didn't yet know how deeply it delved. It was a bittersweet moment for him when he realized that he had taught Æthelbert so well that he couldn't eliminate him entirely from suspicion. What was worse, Methos couldn't bring himself to not care about the rivalries in the line of succession, because the Last Sanctuary was here in Wessex, it's fate irrevocably entwined with of its king. If it were any other kingdom…
Will you be able to kill me? he wondered of Æthelbert. After what's he'd taught the prince... Will I be more gratified if you are, or if you must refuse?
Æthelbert, on the other hand, did not appear to be dwelling on the seriousness of the situation. Amanda was regaling him with stories of Rebecca's wondrous good deeds as the head of St. Anne's, and the prince appeared to be paying close attention. Of course, whether or not he was enthralled by Amanda's tales or by Amanda herself was anyone's guess, though from Leaswene's charms, Methos was inclined to assume the latter.
The one important thing he noticed, but failed to properly register at the time, was the pained and hollow look on the boy Grenhyrde's face. There was a quiet jealousy in his eyes, overshadowed by an aching sense of longing. Many years from now, and probably on unto eternity, Methos would wonder if Amanda ever really knew.
Dinner progressed with an odd sense of the passage of time. On the one hand, it flew by so quickly that Methos couldn't believe that what by rights should have been his last meal was already over. On the other, it ticked by with aching slowness. Methos would have much rather just been done with it already, as opposed to jumping through the hoops Rebecca set up in order to stall for time. While some part of him was oddly touched by it, Methos knew that he was a condemned man, and as such he didn't feel in the mood for the charade that was dinner despite Rebecca's charity. He felt anxious, he felt resigned, and, in the middle of that large crowd, he felt inexorably alone.
Suddenly his private reverie was interrupted by the intrusion of harp chords. Methos looked up sharply just in time for the flutist to join in, and he barely restrained his groan. Rebecca had arranged for some entertainment tonight too, it seemed. His irritation turned to bemusement, however, when the other dinner guests began to get up and retreat to the back of the room. Obviously such after-dinner exploits were not foreign here, and Methos found himself smiling wanly as the monks, nuns, and other abbey denizens formed a giant circle and began going through the motions of a popular folk dance.
Methos caught Rebecca's eye, and she smiled at him. Suddenly he found himself laughing, and Rebecca's smile curved some more.
"My gift to you," she whispered in the ancient tongue, just loud enough for him to hear.
The intensity of the emotion forced Methos to shut his eyes and look away. He knew what she was thinking, what she had planned. Behind them, on the wall, hung the tapestries. Two beautiful pieces of intricately woven cloth, one yellow overlaid with green that embodied how the Earth both harnesses and is harnessed by the light and power of the sun; the other silver overlaid with dark vermillion that embodied how life bled for that light and how the phases of the moon controlled the blood of the Earth. They were the flags of Sanctuary, the flags flown by the Ancient that Methos remembered flapping in the idle breezes above the temple of Ur.These tapestries hung on the wall behind the head table of the Dining Hall, while the flags of the Christians and of the crown of Wessex hung upon the side walls. This modern society could not know that Rebecca and her Abbey were screaming out their loyalties as plain as day, and that they weren't for the king or his supposed religion.
Methos saw Rebecca's smile, heard her whispered words to him as she sat beneath the daunting images of those two giant tapestries, and he knew what she wanted, what she was asking him to do. She had set the stage, enabled the distractions, put everything into its proper place. When she had arranged for this he didn't know, but he suspected that Rebecca's circle was much more loyal—and efficient—than he first gave credit for. Behind the moon tapestry—as it always was—a door was concealed. This door no doubt led to a dark, winding staircase that took a person down into the veritable dungeon level of the abbey. There it would find a narrow, unlit passageway that wound stretch on seemingly forever before it began an achingly gradual ascent. Up, up, up it would wind through the darkness until a small pinprick of light could be seen. Stick your hands out and you'd find a boulder that, even though it appeared too large for just one man to move, it would roll away easily and voila! You'd be standing in the forest, nearly a mile away.
Rebecca wanted him to run; she wanted him to use this Sanctuary and save his own life. Æthelbert—and even his men—would vouch that the Abbey had cooperated in every way with the royal inquisition. Æthelbald would be hard-pressed to drum up support for an offensive against St. Anne's. Methos's smile returned. Rebecca had saved him!
Methos looked up and scanned the crowd again. He wanted to be sure that his escape would go unseen. He saw that, when the music had changed, a few of the dancers had partnered off—including Amanda and Æthelbert. Methos had to smile at the pretty picture they made…
…Only to frown as one of the prince's entourage approached.
"My Prince, I must protest! We are here on assignment from your brother. We should be carrying out his orders, not fraternizing with Abbey mistresses!"
"Your soldiers should learn to lighten up," Amanda admonished with a beguiling smile as she twirled away from Æthelbert and danced seductive circles around their interloper. "Lord Adræfan isn't going anywhere, see?" and she pointed a slender hand in Methos's direction.
From where he was sitting Methos could feel the frigid change to Rebecca's mood.
"I am carrying out my duties, valet," the prince replied. He had stopped dancing and was now standing face to face with the other man. "If we are to execute a man this night, then surely you would deign to offer him the courtesy of a final night of feasting and song?" Æthelbert's eyes flicked briefly to Methos, who was seated tensely in his chair as suddenly the Abbey walls began to close in around him.
"If you wish to be so charitable, sir," the valet replied haughtily, "then allow the condemned to step forward and dance with the girl; but no one of Royal blood should sink so low as to twirl around the floor with one of Lady Rebecca's charity cases."
Out of the corner of his eye Methos saw Rebecca tense and nearly stand. She was waiting on Æthelbert's reply.
"No one not of Royal blood should dare attempt to dictate to a Prince what is and is not appropriate," Æthelbert answered icily.
The valet seemed unaffected. "Perhaps all the time you've spent slithering through the squalor beside the common soldiers you seem to prefer so well has affected your memories, my prince, so I shall remind you that as senior attaché to your older brother, I have been sent here to do just that."
By now everyone in the Hall had ceased whatever they were doing to pay attention to the altercation taking place.
"Please," Amanda interrupted as sweetly as she could. "Let whatever personal issues you may have be decided elsewhere. This is a place of sanctuary and rest, not a theatre for Royal arguments."
The valet rounded on Amanda like a striking cobra. "Know your place, wench!" he spat. "And do not interrupt."
"Hey don't you call her that!"
Everyone turned around to see Grenhyrde storming into the circle. Methos heard Rebecca gasp.
"Boy…" Æthelbert lowly hissed, but the warning went unheeded.
"Amanda is a student of the Lady Rebecca!" Grenhyrde hotly informed them. "She deserves your respect."
"What she deserves cannot be expressed in front of servants of the cloth," the valet sneered, turning his nose up with the air of someone who'd just caught whiff of something foul. Then it seemed that everyone was about to reply to that at once except that Rebecca's voice cut across the clamoring din.
"I will not tolerate such wanton disrespect in my halls," she declared, standing at last, wielding authority like a weapon. Her voice echoed off the walls with just as much force as though she had shouted the line when in fact her voice was deathly even. "Nor will I let agents of the crown with delusions of grandeur turn my Sanctuary into a common Ale House, for such your behavior would seem."
Everyone stood stunned a moment—very few had ever heard their Lady speak so harshly, and to agents of the Crown!
"Apologies, milady," Æthelbert offered sincerely after a moment's pause. "This buffoon—" and he gestured pointedly towards the valet— "belongs to my brother. His actions reflect poorly on us all, but rest assured his opinions are not shared and his belligerence will not go unpunished."
Methos saw the prince's eyes flicker briefly to him, but his expression did not betray any answers. He remained seated in stony silence, glittering gold eyes surveying all.
"Why do you kowtow to this woman?" the valet questioned incredulously, his own haughty gestures sweeping out towards the head table. "Your taste in company aside, you are still a prince of Wessex. Our authority here is paramount. They have no right to dictate tous."
"Hold your tongue!" Æthelbert demanded sharply. "The Lady Rebecca sits in the deepest councils of my father your king! She represents his authority, so know your place and keep your silence!"
"These ignorant harlots only serve to council the king between his bed sheets!" the valet shot back, his voice as ugly as his words. "You should know better than that, my prince."
"Stop trying to dictate to me what I should and should not know," Æthelbert ordered, icy steel in his voice that did Methos proud. Rebecca said nothing, her eyes sweeping in appraisal. "I am the prince here, not you."
"By your coarse behavior one would hardly know it," the valet replied snidely. "Freely taking pleasure as you do in the company of a common whore."
"You take that back!" Grenhyrde shouted, marching forward a few more angry paces.
Amanda gasped and Methos held his breath where he sat.
"Mind your tongue you little rat if you wish to keep it behind your teeth a while longer!"
Unbeknownst to the people on the floor, Rebecca had been silently instructing her people with a series of looks and nods in the right directions. By now most of the uninvolved parties had discretely left the Dining Hall, and the guardsmen were stealthily making their way in from behind.
"Do you think your place at my brother's side will protect you?" Æthelbert asked then, his voice unnervingly calm. "When my father hears of what you've said here today—"
"He won't have the time or the inclination to care," the valet interrupted. "He has more important things to worry about, as do we." A bony finger was thrust in Methos's direction. "Your childhood affections for that traitorous dog have clouded your judgment. Not only have you consented to eat at the same table as him, but you have mistaken tavern wenches for privileged company simply because they disguise themselves in robes of quality! We should kill the vermin and be gone from this place before they are allowed to corrupt you further!"
"Are you always this gracious to your hosts?" Amanda asked suddenly, arms folded, the air of a demure noble girl finally cast aside.
"Don't you be so quick to call yourself host," the valet remonstrated, "unless of course you are trying liken your Abbey to a brothel. Tell me then, how much would you have charged the prince for an evening of—"
SMACK!
The valet didn't get the chance to finish his sentence. Grenhyrde strode forward quickly and punched him squarely in that offending jaw.
"Grenhyrde!" Amanda shouted as the valet stumbled back, while Methos shot to his feet.
"Insolent brat!" the valet roared, steadying himself, licking at the split lip. "Someone should teach the boy some manners," he then declared, suddenly removing a dagger from the folds of his robes. Amanda gasped and Grenhyrde's eyes went wide.
"Now!" Rebecca shouted, and the guards rushed forward.
Surprised, the valet turned quickly around to see men armed with drawn swords rushing towards them.
"Stop this madness!" Æthelbert called out as a guardsman stepped up on either side of him. Nevertheless he allowed them to restrain both of his arms behind his back and, wisely, didn't protest again. What he did was look imploringly to Methos, but once again the immortal's expression betrayed absolutely nothing.
"They have no right!" the valet cried, slashing his dagger madly through the air to try and keep the soldiers at bay. It swung in close to Amanda, but she was ready for it. She grabbed his forearm in a surprisingly tight grip. When he went to slash back in the other direction he found his hand restrained. His eyes widened in surprise just as Amanda pivoted in what appeared to be a dance move from earlier. With grace and skill, she made the valet howl in pain as she wrenched the dagger away from him. The valet clutched his wrist and whimpered slightly when Amanda released her grip.
Amanda held the dagger delicately in her fingers and flashed an apologetic grin at Rebecca, who was still standing beside Methos at the head table. She also noticed that guardsmen had by now restrained every other member of Æthelbert's entourage. The valet, now unarmed, stood alone in the center of a circle of guardsmen's swords.
"It seems you both were right about unarmed combat," Amanda said to Rebecca.
"Escort them from my Abbey," Rebecca ordered with disdain, ignoring her student completely. "If they wish to further treat with us in this matter then the Prince may return in the morning,without his dogs. For now just get them out of my sight." And she dismissed them with a wave of her hand.
Æthelbert looked resigned but did not offer protest. The guards released their hold on them but did not forfeit their positions. The other members of his party were shown to the door under guard, leaving just the prince and the valet, who still stood in the center of a circle of guards. Then finally the circle deformed as they began to lead the two of them from the Dining Hall.
Unfortunately this afforded the valet an opening.
"You insolentbitch! These indignities are your fault!"
Methos saw from where he was standing that the guards had failed to see if the valet was further armed. The man drew a bodice dagger seemingly from out of nowhere and with lightning quickness hurled it towards Amanda's heart.
Amanda's eyes widened.
Rebecca gasped.
Methos vaulted over the table.
Grenhyrde screamed.
The valet gurgled slightly, blood dribbling from his mouth, as five swords held his dying body on its feet.
Æthelbert forced his way out of the restraint of his guards. He shoved Amanda roughly to the floor only to find himself suddenly standing in her place. Grenhyrde's scream died out as the prince looked down at his chest, his face showing innocent surprise almost akin to bemusement at finding the small dagger embedded there, with a red stain blossoming around it. He fingered the hilt gingerly, shivering when his body felt the subtle movement of the blade. Then he giggled in a very un-princely way, just as his knees gave out and he plummeted to the floor.
Methos made it to his side in time to catch him as he fell.
The cemetery parking lot
"You know, sometimes I relive that night in my nightmares," Amanda spoke softly. She was standing a few paces away from Methos, her back to him, as the elder immortal reclined against the side of the car, his hands warming themselves in his pockets.
"Oh?" Methos asked with casual coldness.
"That was the first time a mortal ever…"
"Took a stabbing for you?"
"Acted as though my life was worth something."
"Every life mattered to Æthelbert," Methos informed her. Then, quietly, "even mine."
Amanda turned to face him then. "When you carried him away… I was so sure he was dead, or that he would be soon enough at least. And then when I thought he'd gone and died for me—me! An immortal!" Amanda dipped her head, swallowing thickly. "It's a good thing the guards had already killed the valet, or I just might have had to test the laws of holy ground myself."
Methos was silent as he thought back to that time. He had be so close to escaping! He could have made it out with his head intact, and Rebecca and her Abbey would have had the perfect alibi. He would have been safe, and they would have been safe, and Æthelbert...
Alas that the gods never allow for perfect solutions.
The oddest part was, Methos found that he couldn't place blame. He tried, at the time, to blame the valet, the prince, Amanda, even Grenhyrde! But his conscience (and where did that come from?) refused to let him. He had to settle for blaming fate, and a return to hating gods he had long since ceased believing in. Yet even then, the anger wasn't been nearly as strong as it should have been.
Everything had been perfect. Whatever had lain between he and Rebecca, it didn't matter as much to her as his life did, for surely she didn't have to arrange for his escape once she'd learned the full gravity of the situation. She would have been justified in letting him die, and they both knew it. Methos had learned then that he still mattered to her, on whatever level, and that was what counted in the end. Even if he was to die there in the Abbey, Rebecca had taken considerable risk to try and save him, and in the end Methos discovered that that was enough. He didn't need to be granted his life. In that moment, when Rebecca smiled at him, he was granted everything he could have ever wanted.
Perhaps that's why he couldn't be angry.
Of course, in the heat of the moment, Methos didn't have much time to contemplate such things. Æthelbert had fallen and lie dying in his arms; the same arms that had taught him to swing a sword and draw a bow, the same arms that once provided comfort and safety when the nightmares had come calling to a frightened little boy. When Methos reached the prince's side, Æthelbert allowed himself to fully collapse into the comforting familiarity of the embrace. Adræfan was there, and everything would be all right.
As Methos held his hands to the wound, trying desperately to stop the bleeding, the prince had closed his eyes with a smile on his face, the way he used to do as a child.
Methos knew the prince was dying, and for the first time since arriving at the Abbey, Methos felt afraid.
Without a word, he scooped the prince up into his arms and took off for the infirmary. Rebecca and Amanda hurried to follow him, but at the time he wasn't aware of their presence.
As it turned out, the dagger hadn't hit any vital organs, but it did lacerate an artery. Only he and Rebecca, working in tandem, were able to get the bleeding under control and save the prince's life. There were moments when he was sure that Æthelbert was lost to them, but they were able to bring him back each time. It was dawn before they finished, and another two days before they were certain that the prince would live.
For two days the prince's men were left to wait outside the Abbey grounds, for Rebecca would not tolerate their presence within her walls.
For two days Amanda worried over her fallen friend, getting on Miranda's very last nerve with her anxious prattling.
For two days, Methos did not leave the prince's bedside, not until the moment he awakened.
The infirmary
Three days after the stabbing, evening
"Welcome back."
The prince groaned and winced at the sound of the voice. He tried to open his eyes but the soft lamplight hurt them.
"You gave us all a royal scare," that voice continued, seemingly quite satisfied at the pun.
Æthelbert moaned and struggled weakly against the linens that seemed to restrain him. Finally he felt a hand alight on his shoulder, and his eyes shot open. "Adræfan?" his voice was hoarse, but it aptly conveyed his surprise at seeing exactly who was leaning over him.
"Drink this." Methos eased the prince into a sitting position and then slowly helped him to drink a little water.
"What happened?" the prince asked, his voice a little clearer.
Methos gathered a few pillows together and provided him with a means of sitting up in bed. Æthelbert reclined into the soft downy support with a tired smile, but his eyes were alert and questioning.
"Your brother's valet threw a dagger into your chest," Methos replied flatly as he reclaimed his chair by the prince's bedside.
"Is that why I feel so terrible?"
Methos snorted a small laugh at the honesty of the question. Then he watched with trepidation as the prince brought his hands up to his chest and gingerly poked and prodded at the large bandage that wound its way around him. He winced a few times, but seemed satisfied with whatever he found in his inspection. He dropped his hands back to his sides and regarded Methos with uncertainty.
"Oh you'll be all right," he assured the prince with ease. "Just take it easy for a while, and follow the healers' orders."
"You saved my life…" Æthelbert declared, though he didn't sound happy about it.
"The Lady Rebecca helped considerably," Methos informed him, uncomfortably unsure of the prince's intentions.
"Why?" The question was quiet, and made the prince sound very young. "Why, when I've come here to kill you?"
"I am still a marked man, whether you live or die," Methos informed him. "Your death would not have changed my fate, and with that being the case..." Methos shrugged. "I would rather you lived."
Æthelbert was unable to hold Methos's gaze and so looked away.
"Sister Miranda has a lovely bedside manner," Methos continued. "Listen to what she says and you'll be out of that bed in a week, though it will probably take some time before you can swing swords again."
The prince nodded. Then slowly, hesitantly, he looked up to meet Methos's eyes. "What happens now?"
"Now you rest, my prince. I will see you again when you're on your feet." Methos stood from his chair and made his exit, all the while feeling Æthelbert's eyes linger upon him.
Methos didn't trust himself, and so he didn't turn back around.
The cemetery parking lot
"Why couldn't he grant you a pardon?" Amanda asked. "You did save his life, you know. That should have proven you innocent of treason."
Methos shrugged from where he was reclining. He suddenly felt chilled. "It wasn't in his power."
"But at least he could have let you escape!" Amanda protested. "Just told his brother you were dead and let you go. Shouldn't have been a hard choice if you ask me."
"But I didn't," Methos retorted matter-of-factly.
Amanda sighed tiredly and hung her head a moment. "I'm walking through that gate in a moment to go visit with Rebecca," she declared. "You can just stand there, living in the past, or you can come with me."
Methos eyed her coldly for a moment, frowning slightly. The past was such an easy place to get lost in, but now that he was here, he wasn't sure if he could turn down the chance to see Rebecca. After everything… Now that he was seriously confronted with the prospect, staying behind seemed like the worst possible insult.
His mind finally made up, Methos shifted to stand upright and removed his hands from his pockets. He walked slowly to where Amanda was patiently waiting, and stopped to stand beside her. She offered him a soft, reassuring smile, and reached out to grab his hand. Methos allowed her the gesture, and the two of them began to walk silently, hand in hand, towards the cemetery gate.
