Redemption, Chapter Nine
morga...@my-deja.com
by Beck McLaughlin
Methos, Duncan and Cassandra are the property of someone else, alas, and
no copyright infringement is intended. Everything else is mine.
Comments, criticisms and flames can be sent to bec...@umich.edu.
CHAPTER NINE
"Mon deiu!" Robert surveyed the chateau with lively interest. "This is
a Watcher building? Did you know it was once an abbey?"
"I'd heard something of it." MacLeod pulled the black, knit cap down
over his ears. Standing by the gate a few feet away, de Valicourt was
only deeper shadow in the dark. The Highlander finished covering his
face with blacking and grinned cheerfully. There was an answering flash
of perfect teeth. "Were you ever inside?"
"Oui. The abbot kept a very respectable cellar. Monseigneur Seinet had
the best . . ." For a moment, his friend's voice was dreamy, then:
"And if I remember, there is a tunnel that ran from those cellars to a
shed where the brothers made their wine. It was a distance from the
abbey. Probably past that wall."
Over the years, the abbey's grounds had been parceled off, bit by bit.
On the other side of a nearby wall was a mansion from a later time
period.
MacLeod's heart leapt. "I knew there was a reason I let you in on
this," he chuckled softly. "Do you suppose it's still there?"
"Glad to oblige, although how I will explain this to Gina . . ."
They ran across the chateau grounds, but as they approached the wall,
another shadow stepped out to block their path. Robert hissed, sword
coming out. The figure moved swiftly into the moonlight.
"Joe!" The Highlander laid a quick hand on Robert's arm.
"You didn't think you could leave me out of this, did you?"
"I didn't feel right asking you to violate your oath . . ."
". . .again," smiled Joe. "I know."
Next door, they spent precious minutes zigzagging across the lawns while
Robert attempted to reconstruct the landscape as it had been two hundred
years earlier. The wine-making shed had not survived the centuries. It
was Joe who, by tripping over a root in the dark and landing on his
face, found the stone floor.
"Here," said Robert, scraping away moss and weeds. There was an iron
ring set in a large, square stone. It was badly rusted. In spite of
cleaning away much of the debris, they almost broke it attempting to
raise the trap door.
Swearing, sweating, they finally managed it. Duncan flinched at the
resounding crash as the stone fell over. They looked nervously toward
the house, but the windows remained dark. Joe looked into the pit
without enthusiasm.
"A difficult descent, non?" Robert looked at Joe's artificial limbs and
raised his brows. Joe's face flushed in the flashlight's narrow beam.
"I can manage."
Robert looked at Duncan who nodded. The baron turned the beam on the
hole. A profusion of cobwebs covered it. One could just barely make
out the floor of the passage below.
"As you wish." Robert dropped into the hole. Joe followed, less
gracefully, but without disaster. Duncan, after a final look around,
joined them.
"Now," he muttered, "let's pray that the roof hasn't fallen in."
"More likely - they've walled off the door," Joe said, limping forward
and flashing his light up and down. The ground was uneven. Roots had
broken through overhead. He swept one aside. A stone was revealed in
the wall behind it, embossed with a cross.
Duncan moved past the Watcher and Robert, hand on his sword. The tunnel
went on, thankfully dry and secure. No sign of rockfall. It curved
gradually west, then, as predicted, ended in a brick wall. Joe pushed
the end of his cane against it. The old mortar crumbled. MacLeod dug
into his satchel and brought out an awl. He scraped away at mortar
until the tool slipped suddenly through. Again into his satchel.
"And I thought Amanda was the professional," chuckled Joe.
The tiny camera snaked through the opening on its cable. Duncan peered
into the eyepiece. He saw shadowy outlines of file cabinets, a table.
The light source was out of sight, but the room was clearly empty. "I
don't see any alarms," he observed, encouraged.
They went to work on the wall, carefully chipping away mortar, removing
bricks until they had a narrow opening. Robert went through first,
flashing his light around. "The east cellars," he pronounced. "The
1642 merlots were here."
Rolling his eyes, Joe headed for a wall of file cabinets. Pawing
through a drawer, he quickly pulled out one leather-bound file. Robert
muttered something about burgundies, and disappeared into the next room.
Duncan joined Joe at the cabinets and rooted through the "V's." He
quickly found Vortig's file. He met the Watcher at the "M" drawer.
The two men looked at each other.
"Should we?"
"We shouldn't."
"But. . ."
"RUN!" Robert burst back into the room. Behind him was shouting.
"Damn!" Joe spun around and started for the tunnel, moving as fast as
he could. Duncan was on his heels. They ran, hearing the growing
sounds of pursuit. The Highlander hauled himself up through the trap
door. Then, with him pulling and Robert pushing, they got the Watcher
up and out. They scrambled to replace the stone, succeeding in the nick
of time. On the other side of the wall, they saw searchlights and
barking dogs.
There were men around Robert's car. "This way," Joe said in a low
voice, leading them further along the street. Around a corner, and they
saw another car parked just out of the street light. It was Joe's, and
they were out of there minutes later.
At Duncan's hotel, the men gathered in the bar, tucked in a booth far
from the door. They opened Cassandra's file first. As Joe had
promised, it was much more complete. Duncan felt slightly guilty as he
pulled the papers from the leather packet.
Most of the contents were computer print-outs. There were a few
pictures, one of Cassandra in the early nineteen hundreds. He smiled
faintly at the prim expression. The spectacles were a nice touch. He
shuffled through the papers until he came to a handful that dealt with
the early fifth century. It took only a quick glance along the text
before he whistled softly.
"This is good," he said, pushing the first page over to Joe. Robert
shifted around to read over his elbow.
"High priestess of a pagan cult? Not too surprising . . ." Joe paused.
"Vortigern? She was Vortigern's lover? The high king of Britain who
supposedly dealt with Merlin? That's legend!"
"Vortigern himself is no legend," MacLeod replied. "Vortigern. Vortig.
Coincidence?"
They scrambled to open Vortig's file.
"Damn," whispered Joe finally.
"It doesn't make sense," MacLeod muttered. "According to all historical
reports, Vortigern was a craven tyrant. I can believe tyranny from
Vortig, but cowardice? I think not."
"History is written by the victors," Robert reminded them wryly. "And
Vortigern, in the end, lost."
MacLeod returned to Cassandra's file. Her Watcher reported regular
visits between the beautiful priestess and the High King. Their
relationship ended abruptly -- apparently with the marriage of Vortigern
to Severa. The Watcher noted that the breakup appeared cordial.
Over the next decade, Cassandra dwelt quietly in Wales, avoiding the
growing political turmoil. Vortigern brought in Saxons to quell the
invasions of the Irish and Picts. Christianity tightened its hold on
the land, but the local folk had grown used to their beautiful witch and
somehow, Cassandra escaped the attentions of the Church. Then, in an
entry dated 558 AD, her Watcher wrote in his journal:
"Cassandra has returned. She was accompanied by twelve pagan priests,
bearing a shrouded burden. Near dawn, some of them left. Others are
still here. I can smell incense, myrrh. Their chanting has not
stopped. I have a feeling most dire."
Then -- nothing for almost a thousand years. When she reappeared in
England, according to the text of the printed log, Cassandra came and
went with reasonable predictability, haunted certain favorite places and
made no effort to hide her activities. There was one notable exception.
Every forty years, she vanished. It was not until the early 1900's
that the Watchers learned she withdrew to an island off the northeast
coast of Canada. There were no Watcher reports from this place.
"What are these islands? There's precious little here," Duncan pointed
out, shuffling through the printouts again. "How many people live on
it? Why are these pictures so fuzzy?"
"I have no idea. There was nothing about it in the U.S. files." Joe
sounded distinctly unhappy about that.
"Shouldn't be hard to find out." Duncan tucked the paper back in the
packet. "A good atlas should tell us something. You have one, don't
you, Robert?"
"I do - and you're welcome to it," the Frenchman agreed, "however, you
shall have to report to me in St. James. I must be on my way. Gina is
patient, but not *that* patient!"
"I understand," grinned the Highlander. "Perhaps, if it looks
interesting, you both can join us."
"In the frozen north? But non, my friend. My blood is not so thick as
to brave such cold. I shall be content with a phone call or two."
***
It felt like a knife twisting in his gut to see her. Cassandra's beauty
*still* took Methos by surprise. There was that inevitable second when
he reacted purely on emotion, that unnerving, eternal instant before
reality and reason regained control.
The old, near-forgotten memory of her seated before the fire, dark hair
pouring over her shoulders, made his pulse race. It was too easy to
remember how it felt to return from battle, knowing that she waited for
him in his tent.
"DAMN IT!" Methos threw the crowbar across the clearing and swore in a
variety of languages, some of them extinct. Collapsing onto a bit of
mossy stone, he stared out over the valley. On days like this, when the
mists were burned away, one could see the entire place - from the great
Grove to the westernmost cliffs and the Dragon's Tomb. Today, the pale
stone of the monument was easily visible through the bare oaks. The
sight of it made him nervous and he looked away.
There was a light wind and the sun warmed his shoulders. The weekend's
snow had melted quickly. Methos was loathe to move, but move he must.
Dane was not happy with the slow progress in excavating the ruin. It
was Cassandra, of course. She'd seen the change in her servants since
the business with Igraine and Locksea. Gods - people had been almost
civil to him before she'd arrived.
Abandoning his comfortable perch, Methos returned to his labors. Dane's
annoyance notwithstanding, a great deal of progress *had* been made.
Over one hundred stone blocks were piled neatly at the edge of the
clearing. Forty feet of foundation had been exposed. It led straight
into the hill, which meant felling trees, digging away tons of dirt and
accumulated forest debris. Methos was not looking forward to it. He
pried the stone onto his sledge and dragged it to the others. Wiping
sweat from his eyes, he returned to the excavation and started working
on the next.
Methos had seen Cassandra only once since her return. His orders were
explicit - stay out of her sight. They were orders he was only too
happy to obey. While he was in the house, his nerves were ceaselessly
on edge, expecting at any moment to see her and wondering what the hell
he would do if he did. On the Point, the likelihood of a chance
encounter was thankfully remote. Being out here was as close to peace
as he got.
This stone was different from the others, set at an odd angle. Methos
caught a glimpse of more carving beneath the caked dirt. He dropped the
shovel and went to his knees, rubbing the surface clean with dirty
fingers. It was an image of the statue in the Tomb. The carving was
done with unusual skill, its detail startling. Each scale was carefully
etched into what appeared to be marble. In one of the eye sockets was a
chip of red crystal. This dragon held something in its jaws, but the
stone was broken just there and Methos could not see what that was.
Voices distracted him, floating up the steep hillside. He jumped to his
feet, heart speeding.
There were three children this time - two stalwart young boys and the
ethereal Igraine. They struggled up the promontory, huffing and
puffing, pulling her along behind them. Simultaneously dismayed and
amused, Methos waited as they advanced. The boys were armed with wooden
swords and shields of woven grass. Their helmets bore a suspicious
resemblance to stock-pots. At least they were warmly dressed. Igraine
was wrapped in a heavy wool coat. Around her pale brow was a wreath of
dried oak leaves and acorns. All of them were appropriately muddy.
Amusement won out over apprehension.
"Milords," he greeted them, bowing. "My lady."
The larger of the boys stepped forward and scowled up at the Immortal.
He looked no older than twelve. "Are you really Death?"
"No." Taken aback, Methos looked at the girl and found her watching him
with that peculiar, intense gaze. "People called me that, many, many
years ago. They called me that because I did terrible things. I don't
do them anymore. I haven't for a very long time."
The boy considered this. "Igraine," he said finally. "Are you sure?"
"He is Death," replied the girl serenely. She glided over the rough
ground to Methos and smiled sweetly up at him. The Immortal's heart
lurched. "He rides with the Dragon."
The boy looked very unhappy. He pulled aside his silent comrade and
they whispered earnestly to each other. Igraine tugged at Methos.
"Come," she ordered imperiously. He shook his head.
"I can't, my lady." He touched the collar and she frowned. Her
companions seemed likewise nonplused.
"It is Cassandra who says so?" Igraine asked suddenly.
Methos nodded. The encounter grew more unnerving by the second.
Perhaps it was the unusual silvery blue of her eyes that made her regard
so compelling.
"You are the servant of the Dragon," Igraine said calmly, "and when he
calls, she cannot hold you."
Methos shook his head. She paid him no attention. Crouching suddenly
at his feet, the girl ran her hand along the carving. "He sleeps now,"
she replied dreamily. "When he awakens, he will summon his knights and
his servants. I see them gathered in the sacred circle and you will be
at his left hand, Death."
"Igraine, I am not Death." Methos' throat was tight. He watched,
hypnotized, as her small, frail fingers uncovered more of the carving.
He saw an outline of a man astride the beast. The boys hung back,
anxious.
"Igraine!" One of the boys called. "Igraine, come away!"
There was a sudden, tell-tale shiver across his skin. Cassandra was
coming. Methos' heart plunged into his shoes. Gods.
"Igraine!"
The boys spun about, faces falling. The little girl jumped up and ran
to Cassandra, who bent and hugged her. When the woman straightened and
met Methos' eyes, the smile was wiped from her face. He clenched his
jaw on the tumble of explanations trying to get out.
She looked away, smile returning, and to the children, said: "You all
know that you're not to come here without permission. It's not safe.
Your parents are quite worried about you."
"We were going back," said the larger boy sullenly. "Igraine made us
come here."
"I came to see Death," piped Igraine. "To take him to the Dragon."
Cassandra's brows drew together. This time, when she looked at Methos,
there was something he could not interpret in her face.
"Why do you want to take him to the Dragon, Igraine?"
"He is the Dragon's, not yours."
"Igraine. . .".
"The Dragon speaks to me. He speaks to Methos. He doesn't speak to
you."
For a moment there was grief in the lovely face. Then, gently,
Cassandra said: "It's time to go home, Igraine."
This time, the little girl nodded. "Come," she said to her muddy
escorts. "I'm hungry!"
Cassandra went with them to the path and momentarily disappeared from
view. When she returned, her face was white with fury, spots of color
on each cheek. "Keep away from those children."
"Cassandra . . ."
"If you speak to them again, Methos, I swear you will know pain beyond
your worst nightmares! If I believe for one minute that they are in
danger from you, I will break my oath to McLeod and take your head!"
Methos shook that endangered part of his anatomy. "I didn't invite
their company, Cassandra. I swear it."
"Your word is worthless," she said bitterly. "Go back to your work."
"Cassandra . . ." Frustrated, Methos stepped toward her. She flinched.
That single, small gesture froze him in his tracks. Mutely, he watched
her turn and walk away.
***
continued
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