So We'll Go No More A-Roving...
by Christina Kamnikar
copyright 1994
Paris, near the Seine. Early spring, 1994
An observer on the quay might have seen two men, one dark, intense and lithe, in the prime of life; one younger, blond, with an almost-innocent face. They walked down the boulevard on a spring morning, looking like all the other passersby along that street. There was nothing to mark them as different from other men to the naked eye. If an observer knew what to listen for--- or what to reach for--- and if that observer were like the two men approaching the barge moored near the blossoming trees, the entire scene could be changed by that observer's presence.
But there was no such observer on this particular spring morning. The two Immortals, seeming so natural and part of the landscape, went unmolested and unchallenged.
Duncan MacLeod laughed as Richie explained how he'd planned to enter the running of the bulls at Pamplona, and then reconsidered when he'd seen the size of the animals in question. The two men walked up the gangway to the barge carrying groceries, talking amiably. "I mean, it's one thing to go jogging with some cows. It's another thing altogether to risk getting gored in a sensitive place by a heavy-duty Ferdinand. So, I told Enrique I had other things to do, places to be---"
"Smart. You never know what'll grow back and what won't. You might have ended up like St. Cloud, only worse," Duncan commented as he set the groceries on the counter. The light on his answering machine was blinking.
"Now there's a happy thought. Go through eternity without... whoa. I'm not gonna think about it; stuff like that can make you nauseous." Richie started to put things away as Duncan hit the MESSAGES button on the machine.
"Duncan?" A woman's voice, low and husky, with the barest trace of French accent. "It's Marguerite. I heard you were back in Paris. I hope you have time to see me. I know it's been a while." A rueful weariness seemed to lie beneath the words. Richie turned to glance at Duncan, but the other Immortal was standing motionless next to the machine, not looking in his direction. "Everything is fine, I just want to have dinner with you. Call me at the Esmeralda, I'm registered under the name DeCourtenay." Another long pause. "I missed you. See you soon." Then the message cut off abruptly.
"Marguerite? Anybody I should know about?" Richie teased, raising an eyebrow.
"No, not really," Duncan replied absently. He seemed to force his attention back to the present. "She isn't any kind of threat. I'm just surprised she's back in Paris."
"So she's one of us?"
"Yeah." Duncan nodded while reaching for the phone, and punched in a number from memory. "Yes, Marguerite DeCourtenay's room, please. Yes, I'll hold."
"Why haven't you ever mentioned her before?"
MacLeod grimaced, shrugging. "I've known a lot of Immortals, Richie. It's not like I've got a Watcher database to keep track of all of them, and I haven't seen her for 30 years."
"Long time to go between phone calls." Richie put some more of the groceries away, watching Duncan the whole time.
"Not really. Marguerite's always been something of a loner." Duncan stopped talking to Richie as the connection to the woman's room was made. "Margot ? It's Duncan." He smiled, listening to the person on the other end. "Yeah, I was surprised to hear from you. I thought you were never coming back here." A pause, while he listened, and then, "Yeah. We ought to know better than to make promises like that by now. When did you want to have dinner?" Another pause. "Fine with me." He laughed softly, smiling. "Oh, Margot, spare me. You owe me dinner!.... Why? Do you really want me to tell you why?" Another chuckle, and Richie could just barely hear the rapid-fire voice at the other end of the line. "All right, all right," softer, in a more placating tone, "I missed you too, cherie. I'll be there at seven.... G'bye."
Duncan turned around to see Richie's eyebrows working like Groucho Marx, a carrot in his hand held in imitation of a cigar. "So she wants to see you again, hmmm?"
MacLeod seemed to find this funny, grinning widely. "It isn't like that, Richie."
"Yeah, sure it's not. Gimme the name of one Immortal babe who you've never been 'intimate' with."
"Easy. Marguerite."
Richie blinked. "Really? Are you serious?"
"We are just friends. Margot is a very...complex woman." Something about this made Duncan chuckle to himself as he started to put away the rest of the groceries.
"Complex how? And why does she want to see you?"
"You heard her. It's been a while, and she just got back into Paris. Margot 's never been interested in taking heads." Duncan smiled again, a faintly rueful and nostalgic smile. "She used to say that she didn't see the point in adding to the violence of the world, since she had to stay in it so long. I wonder why she's back in Paris," he mused, voice trailing off as he contemplated the view out the window.
"Is there some reason she wouldn't be? I mean why is that such a big surprise, she's French, right?"
Duncan nodded, not facing Richie, just continuing to study the view. "She hasn't been here since 1944. She hated what the Nazis did to Paris. Really hated it. Marguerite was part of the Resistance during the war. After it was all over, she couldn't bear to stay." Duncan shrugged uncomfortably, and turned away from the view to busy himself with the last of the groceries, still not looking at his friend. "There was an incident anyway, she was presumed dead. She always said she'd only come back if she could be certain that a period like the Occupation would never happen again."
"Pretty hard to guarantee something like that," Richie said thoughtfully.
"True. If you live long enough, every place you've been becomes a battlefield." MacLeod finally turned back to face his friend. "Still... it's nice to get warning that someone's showing up--- for a change. Instead of the bolt out of the blue it usually is." He grinned wearily. "But then, Margot always was polite."
It was past midnight; perhaps the darkest part of the night, an hour before dawn. Just inside the south wall of the prison, five men crouched around seven slumped figures, busily adjusting coats, boots, and weapons. Duncan MacLeod pulled at the tight collar of his 'borrowed' clothes, wishing that there had been a guard nearer his size on the south wing. He glanced at his companions; two of them seemed as bad off as himself, since the sleeves to Tony's uniform had to be rolled up several times, and Phillip's coat wouldn't button across his chest. The rest were ready though; and all five had managed to take out the guard at this gate without being noticed, or making undue noise, despite the fisticuffs Michael had gotten into with his costume donor.
They had half an hour to complete their task.
In half an hour, the guards would be relieved, and their absence noticed. In that time, they had to get the thirty prisoners scheduled for trial tomorrow out of the south wing, out of Paris, and well on their way out of France. Otherwise, the entire underground network of assistance and escape which had been so carefully built over the last year would be ruined.
"One of the people scheduled for trial tomorrow was part of our network when captured. This person knows too much...names, places, times. Under the questioning of the Tribunal, who knows what might be said?" whispered Percy to the other four, his blue eyes gleaming in the flickering torchlight. The leader of the expedition was a tall Englishman in his mid-thirties, clear-cut blond looks overshadowed by the seriousness of his expression. "All our informants could tell us is that our man is being held somewhere in this wing, on the third floor. MacLeod, do you have the papers?"
"Here," Duncan whispered back, patting his breast pocket.
"You're going to have to be our actor here. The rest of us don't know enough about the prison routine. You'll have to make it convincing." The other Briton held his eyes steadily. "Can you do it?"
"Looks like that time I spent in here for 'counter-revolutionary sympathies' is finally going to come in handy," the Highlander joked back softly. "I'd better be able to do it. Otherwise, we might get to visit my old cell...."
The five men marched to the entrance of the prison, appearing to be nothing more than tired and conscientious soldiers reporting for duty. A sudden, disorienting sense of intense presence made MacLeod pause just inside the first barricade, drawing concerned stares from his companions. He concentrated, trying to isolate it, to recognize the direction from whence it came. Another Immortal was somewhere near. Not now, not now.... I can't have a challenge happen now; there's too much at stake! He managed to shake off the paralysis that had temporarily gripped him, and moved forward, offering the forged documents to the captain in charge.
"Prisoner transfer. We're moving everyone on the third floor, south wing, to Palais du Luxembourg. Citoyen Foucquier-Tourneville's orders, sir," Duncan stated, saluting smartly, eyes constantly scanning for signs of the person he knew had to be there. Small groups of prisoners and soldiers entered and left the courtyard at random, making it impossible to pin down the source of the feeling.
"At this hour of the night? What kind of idiocy...." Duncan brought his attention back to the tight-lipped captain who glared at the forged papers, appearing utterly fed up with the demands being made on him in the name of the Revolution.
"I'm sorry, sir. There's a rumor counter-revolutionaries will try to break some of them out soon. We're supposed to move the entire section before dawn. Orders are orders," shrugged Duncan, trying to look stupid and tired. Tony yawned hugely, and big, barrel-chested Phillip blinked slowly at the lieutenant standing next to the door, lending credence to their roles of tired, unquestioning soldiers being ordered to do something they didn't understand.
"I don't know you. Where have you been stationed?"
"Just back from Lyon, sir. Barbarous place. We've been quartered near Isle-de-Cite, but Luxembourg is short men right now, so...."
"Oh, very well. Next time, tell those incompetents at Luxembourg to send more warning. I won't be able to give you any men to help with the transfer; you'll have to manage all thirty of them yourselves. Shouldn't be a problem. They're not what you'd call fighters. Dirty royalist scum," the captain added under his breath. MacLeod slanted him an odd glance, almost glad that this man would be the one left holding the bag after tonight's escape.
They climbed up two flights of dank, dark, stairs; then down a long, cramped hallway, which smelled of fear, stale air, and filth. Percy fumbled with the keys to the door of the wing, and Tony and Phillip stationed themselves on either side of the door as Michael and Duncan prepared to enter the prisoner's wing. "All right, chaps. You know the drill. Get them out, move them fast. Put them into the cart outside the walls, then get rid of the uniforms. Michael and Tony, you'll meet us at the North Gate, with the next set of papers. Mac, Phillip, you're with me. No problems, no delays...you know the price if we're discovered."
They entered the wing, moving quickly to unlock cell doors and whisper the events unfolding to the surprised prisoners. Frightened, half-asleep, thin and shivering, they didn't question what was happening, by now used to events moving too quickly to be assimilated. Duncan opened one of the larger cells, glancing around, surprised to find only one prisoner in what was a relatively clean cell.
"So, you have finally come to take me to face my accusers. How nice."
MacLeod stood back, startled and somewhat amazed. The presence he'd felt before, the presence of another Immortal, wasn't one of the soldiers or jailors, as he'd feared; it was this prisoner. A small, neat, female prisoner, kneeling on the floor and clasping a rosary, glaring at him with furious blue-gray eyes.
"Coward." She spit out the word as if it were a curse, glaring up at him from her knees. "To let the Tribunal do that which you lack the courage for. Someone fetch me a sword! Guard!"
"Will you be quiet?" MacLeod whispered frantically, glancing back over his shoulder at Percy and Michael, who were watching the scene with equal parts curiosity and alarm, and a very, very small portion of amusement.
"Why? You intend to watch me die, benefitting from my death without lifting a finger of effort. Why should I let you do that without denouncing you as a craven hypocrite? Guard!" For a tiny woman, she had quite a pair of lungs. Duncan started to fear she really would have more guards there if she kept shouting like that.
"No! We're here to help, you little idiot!"
The woman blinked, then finally seemed to take in the hurried movements of the prisoners being freed outside her room. The members of Duncan's company shepherded the other thirty uncertain and terrified souls out of their cells, pointing the way down the passage. "What...?"
"We're with the underground. We're trying to get you out of Paris; out of France. To England. Now do you want to live, or would you rather stay for Madame la Guillotine's kiss?" Duncan growled in exasperation.
"Trust a man to make death sound like a carnal experience," the woman murmured, then hastily crossed herself and rose to her feet. "You aren't here to kill me, then?"
"Nooo!" Frustration pulled the vowels out, deepening MacLeod's burr. "We can talk about that after we're out of here! Now will you hurry?"
"No need to shout," she replied, grabbing her cloak and shooting through the door like an arrow. "We don't want the real guards catching us, do we?"..She tossed the words over her shoulder, a disdainful eyebrow climbing her forehead as she ran.
MacLeod sprinted to catch up to her and the rest of the group, while grumbling under his breath, "No, not any more, my lady. Now I'm just tempted to leave you to the Jacobins."
"That's unkind and uncalled for."
"That's what you think."
Twenty minutes later, thirty prisoners and five soldiers exited the Conciergerie Prison by the south gate. The prisoners proceeded into a waiting tumbril at gunpoint, and then Tony and Michael nodded and marched off to where they had left their horses, then to proceed to the West Gate, to replace two of the soldiers on duty.
"At dawn, when the gates open for commerce, we will hopefully be able to smuggle some of these thirty out. Some will be helped to safety later by Tony and Michael. But it is imperative that our spy be gotten safely out of Paris," Percy whispered to Phillip and Duncan, leaning down from the coachman's seat to speak to the two in the tumbril with their 'prisoners'.
"Which one is he?" Duncan asked.
"She, MacLeod. The last one you let out of her cell, the young lady with the rosary. Marguerite d'Arcy. You're to take her out of Paris by way of the Seine," Percy replied.
"Oh, nooo," MacLeod groaned.
"Ohhh, yes. Are you questioning my orders?"
"No, sir, I am not, but Phillip can---"
"Phillip can't, I need him with me at the Gate. It has to be you. You know the language and the city better than the rest of us." Percy nodded firmly at Duncan, his mouth a thin line, but his eyes danced with something like amusement.
"Bloody hell," Duncan muttered under his breath, meeting the eyes of the other Immortal as she glanced up from her corner of the tumbril. "Bloody, bloody, hell."
La Palette was old, having opened in the twenties from the ruins of the First World War. It was built on the banks of the Seine, overlooking Notre Dame, open to the air and full of ambiance and charm. Sunlight slanted over the open balcony, the last rays of the spring day touching everything with a delicate glow. Duncan stood outside the restaurant, feeling the familiar dislocation and pull of being near another Immortal. It sharpened, focused, and came to rest on a slender woman sipping a cup of chocolate at one of the corner tables, her eyes riveted to the newspaper she held in one hand.
Marguerite hadn't changed much since Duncan had last seen her thirty years before. Even her clothing was similar; dark gray pullover, straight blue skirt, black trenchcoat emphasizing the ivory pallor of her face and contrasting with her long gold-brown hair. She appeared to be in her early twenties; Duncan wasn't sure exactly how old she was, but knew that she had to be at least 100 years older than himself, since she was a contemporary of Connor's. Not for the first time, Duncan was glad he had died at an older age--- appearing to be twenty-two for centuries could have its drawbacks. I wonder how Richie will deal with it....
Marguerite didn't look up from her newspaper as Duncan walked up behind her, merely reached up her hand to grasp his arm and give it a shake, saying, "Have you read the news from Bosnia?"
"Bon soir, cherie." He grinned, leaned down and kissed her on the cheek, then slid into the seat across from her.
"It's absolutely appalling. In the face of the UN cease-fire, some idiot is still trying to take control of the outer boundaries of Sarajevo." Marguerite slammed the paper down, shook her head, and finally smiled at Duncan. "Oh, MacLeod. Still adorable. How ridiculous."
The other Immortal laughed. "What's so ridiculous about it?"
Marguerite gave a very Gallic shrug. "That anyone as handsome as you is not French, of course." She leaned over and gave him a swift kiss on the mouth, then summoned a waiter. "Un cafe por mon amie, sil vous plait." She turned back to Duncan, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. "So, are you very busy this week? Or can you show me the changes that have happened to my city since I was here last?"
"Not busy at all. Business is slow right now." Duncan studied her closely. She wasn't meeting his eyes, and her movements were more jittery than usual. Something was definitely bothering her. "Why are you back, Marguerite?"
Her wide-set eyes widened, then dropped. "Can't I miss an old friend, and want to see him?"
"Ye-es. But I thought you hated Paris." The waiter put his coffee down, and Duncan picked it up and took a sip, studying her over the rim of the cup.
Marguerite bit her lower lip, then looked up at him, tears shining in her eyes. "I had to come back. Because of Darius. I still can't believe..." her voice trailed off, and the tears threatened to spill over. MacLeod took her hand and gave it a quick squeeze, remembering with regret and sympathy that she had been one of the Roman monk's students. "I wish I could have made it back in time for the memorial. But I was in Russia, and by the time the news reached me, it was months later. How did it happen, Duncan? How could this occur?"
Duncan let out a breath, meeting her eyes, feeling the loss of Darius again. "A group of mortals. They call themselves the Watchers. They've been tracking us for centuries, Margot. Some of them decided they didn't like the idea of one of us surviving to be the one and only...so they took matters into their own hands."
"Unbelievable," Marguerite breathed, her face stark with disbelief and anger, blue eyes full of tears. "After all Darius did--- he was a man of peace, Duncan! Why, if these animals wanted to kill someone, didn't they go after a monster like Slan Quince, or a psychopath like St.Cloud?"
"That's exactly why, Marguerite. Darius was easier to find and kill. You know Slan would have made mincemeat out of anyone who tried to get to him."
"Except you, of course," Marguerite teased him with an effort, then turned serious again. "I also heard... I heard that your lady had died." Duncan stared into his coffee cup, turning it idly. "I'm sorry, mon amie. I'm sorry I never met her, and I am doubly sorry for your loss. She must have been very special. Amanda said that you loved her...very much."
MacLeod nodded, then glanced back up at her. "I did." I still do. Love doesn't stop with death. The echoes of Paris in Margot 's voice reminded him vividly, painfully of Tessa; the accent the same, but the voices so very different. An abrupt, pointless wish for Tessa's presence filled him again, as it had so many times since her death, but he pushed it down. As he had before, and as he would again...and again.
They were quiet for a moment, and then Margot broke the silence, by saying softly, "Amanda told me there is other sad news to ask you about; friends of ours who have died over the past year... but I do not think I wish to speak of that now, Duncan." Her voice lightened, taking on the teasing tones he knew. "Tonight, I want you to take me to dinner, and speak of happy things, and tell me how your life is now, not what it was. Oui?"
"Oui," Duncan agreed, smiling again.
***
"So, how was dinner with la belle Marguerite?" Richie asked at breakfast the next morning. "You guys spend all night talking Ôbout the good ol'days, or what?" The slightly lascivious undertone to his words made it clear that the American was having a hard time believing that Ôtalk' was all that had happened the night before.
Duncan shook his head and poured some more milk for himself, replying, "No, Richie, we did not spend all night 'reminiscing'. We took a walk down the Seine, and then I dropped her off at her hotel." Taking a sip of his milk, MacLeod studied Richie, an expression of amusement creeping across his face. "Actually...we were going to go to Notre Dame this afternoon. Care to join us?"
"Why not? I haven't got anything better to do." Richie grabbed another piece of toast and stuffed it in his mouth, so that his next words came out muffled and indistinct. "Is she is some kind of trouble? You seem kinda tense."
"Not that I know of." Duncan frowned, remembering Margot 's almost forced vivacity from the night before. She'd seemed genuinely glad to see him again, but... You worry too much. And you're used to Amanda's little games. Margot isn't like that.
"But you're not sure," Richie commented, swallowing the toast and getting up from the table to pour himself some juice.
"Something's bothering her. But I don't think she's in trouble, at least...not the kind of trouble Amanda gets into, or the kind where someone's after her. She would have told me if that were the case."
"So what else is there?" Richie slurped his juice, then frowned at the glass, muttering softly, "Blech. I hate the stuff with the pulp."
"I don't know." Duncan shrugged, eyebrows descending heavily as he stared into a middle distance, considering possibilities. "It could be something simple. Maybe she's just broke and doesn't want to mention it--- Margot's rotten when it comes to money. She's either got too much or none at all."
"Weird. I thought all you guys were rich," responded the younger Immortal, grabbing the toast as it popped up and thickly spreading jam on one slice. "I mean, you're rolling in it. I've never met an Immortal who was hurting for cash."
"Have you forgotten Amanda?"
"That's different Mac; she's a crook," Richie waved considerations of the English thief aside nonchalantly. "But the rest of you guys---"
"You're not rich yet, are you?" Duncan glared exasperatedly at his protege. "Stop making generalizations like that; it'll get you in trouble. You don't immediately get access to fortunes when you become Immortal. I've worked at antiques and long-term investments for years. So have most of the others. Some of us don't care enough to do that, though, and Margot 's one of them. I swear, Richie, you're going to get in trouble if you keep making assumptions---"
"Give it a rest, willya?" Richie took another huge bite of toast. "Sometimes you sound like a college lecturer. 'Habits of the European Immortal: Economics and Politics.'" At the darkening of his friend's expression, Richie swallowed his toast and placatingly added, "All right, okay; I'll stay alert. Sheesh. I thought you said she wasn't a problem, though."
"She shouldn't be. But you shouldn't take my word for it, Richie. You've got to make your own judgements." The tension that had prompted Richie's initial departure months before had dissipated over the past few weeks, with his return to Paris; but occasionally it would resurface with a vengeance. Duncan's habit of teaching Richie would falter and stall in the face of the changes in their friendship since Mako's death, and Richie's return to Paris with Hyde at his heels.
The two stared at each other for a moment, the delicate balance they had achieved teetering, and then Richie rolled his eyes in silent comment on Mac's statement, grinned, and said, "I'll meet you and Margot at the plaza, twelvish, okay? I've got to get some parts for my bike."
"All right," MacLeod growled.
***
Marguerite d'Arcy paced the square in front of Notre Dame, wondering how the next week would go. So many things to do--- although Duncan would help. If she was lucky, she'd be able to spend as much time with him as possible. Hopefully, he wouldn't resent her asking for his help. It was such a small thing to ask...and it would cost him so little, just a little time and effort. This was too important for her to be frustrated now.
A group of tourists passed by, English by their clothes and accents, a family on holiday, happily taking snapshots. She watched them wistfully, especially the children. After so many years, she was resigned to having no children, but a sense of family, of belonging--- that, she would always miss. Something, with the changes that came with being an Immortal, which she would never have.
Abruptly, the shivering up her spine alerted her to an Immortal's presence, but even knowing who it had to be, Margot found herself tensing, mentally preparing for battle, although there was no sword within reach. Turning, she saw Duncan approaching from across the square, talking to a younger man who swaggered in a leather jacket. Probably Richard Ryan; Duncan had mentioned that his former protege was staying with him temporarily. The young American had occasionally helped Duncan in the antiques business--- maybe that could be used to her advantage.
Summoning up all her self-assurance, Margot smiled and waved at the two men. Tilting her head, she studied Ryan when they reached her, Duncan putting his arm around her and giving her a small hug. "Sorry we're late, Margot; my car wouldn't start, and Richie had to give me a lift. This is Richie, I told you about him last night. Richie, this is Marguerite Caterine d'Arcy, otherwise known as Margot."
"Hello." Margot smiled, holding out her hand to the young man, assessing him in light of what Duncan had said of him. "Young, cocky, and reckless," he'd snorted at some point the night before. "Not unlike a certain Scotsman I once knew," she had riposted. Looking at Richie now, Margot could see why Duncan had consented to teach him, and even more, why they were friends; a little of Richie's enthusiasm would go a long way toward reminding Duncan of the man he once was, a couple hundred years ago. "I am so pleased to meet you. Duncan told me so much about you last night."
"Hi," Richie said, shaking hands and openly admiring her. "I'd like to say I've heard a lot about you, but Mac's never mentioned you before. There's probably a good reason he forgot to tell me about you...." Richie let the sentence trail off as he raised his eyebrows teasingly.
"Quite probably it is just that he hates to remember losing battles." Margot smiled wickedly.
"Losing battles? This I gotta hear," Richie grinned, watching Duncan's eyebrows descend in mock disgust.
Percy had finally explained to Duncan that descriptions of their confederate would be among the first circulated; the information she possessed regarding the resistance networks was too valuable to the men in power for her to be allowed to escape Paris alive. Which was why the young Frenchwoman needed protection, and another escape route from Paris, one that would bypass the official channels and usual tricks that were played on the unsuspecting military bureaucracy. Duncan would have liked to tell the Englishman that the woman could take care of herself; but he knew even an Immortal would die if put to the guillotine, and that would be the least of what would happen to Marguerite d'Arcy if she were caught.
Duncan heartily wished himself on the other side of the Channel as he and Mademoiselle d'Arcy separated from the escape party. This was going to be tricky.
It was the darkest part of the night, but since Duncan still wore the stolen uniform, they were allowed to pass unmolested down the quai d'Orsay. Just another soldier and his doxy, Duncan thought with grim humor, scanning his surroundings for a good place to stop and challenge her. If they only knew.
As they neared the pont du Carrousel, MacLeod spotted a deserted cul-de-sac, the backstreets of some taverns long since closed for the night. Abruptly, he swung his charge in front of him and pushed her into the darkened thoroughfare, drawing his sword. Revolution or no revolution, he had to know where she stood in the Gathering--- now. She stumbled a few steps, then whirled in anger to face him. In the reflected moonlight and the distant glow of the streetlights, Duncan could see the fury and confusion on her face.
"I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. There can be only one. Draw your sword."
Fear, bewilderment, and rage fought a brief battle on Marguerite d'Arcy's face; rage won. "You-- you--- fool!" she screamed, hands clenched, body taut with pent-up emotion. "I already told you I don't have a sword, how on Earth can I draw it?!"
Duncan blinked, momentarily nonplussed. He'd forgotten her words in the dungeon due to his need to conceal the difficulties of the situation from Percy, and his urge to prepare for the confrontation he'd been anticipating. Now he stood with his hands on the upraised sword, staring at the petite woman who looked as if she wanted to knock his head off his shoulders with her small fists. "Ummmm.... Well, we could go and get you a sword...."
Marguerite stared at him incredulously, mouth slightly open in shock. "Are you completely deranged?"
MacLeod straightened, insulted and feeling like the fool she had called him, then lowered his sword. "I just wanted to get this out of the way as soon as possible," he said shortly.
"You just didn't want the trouble of escorting me out of Paris," Mademoiselle d'Arcy accused.
The Scotsman stiffened, anger growing. "You called me a coward in the Conciergerie, and I didn't appreciate it then. I don't appreciate it now, either, mademoiselle. I am perfectly capable and willing to get you free of Paris."
"Prove it."
"What?"
"Listen--- MacLeod, is it? I have information which I must pass on to our allies in Le Havre, and I can accomplish that if you just get me past the walls of the city. Then, to satisfy your Highland bloodthirstiness, we can duel until one of us is lying headless at the bottom of the Seine." The lady seemed to have lost her rage and to be fighting back amusement now, which only served to irritate Duncan further.
His temper was not improved by the realization that he found her attractive. Pushing down his annoyance, Duncan sheathed his sword, then did a double take. "How did you know I was a Highlander?"
"Clan MacLeod," she took a few steps forward, smiling slightly. "Unless there are two such clans in Scotland? Your cousin Connor and I once shared a bottle of Chianti in Rome." So saying, she walked past Duncan and back onto the main street, bootheels clicking loudly in the quiet of the night.
MacLeod hurried to catch up to her, feeling that this was already becoming a bad habit.
Richie snickered, then laughed out loud at the expression on Mac's face. "You actually forgot she didn't have a sword?" The three of them had entered Notre Dame as Marguerite wove her tale, and Richie fought to keep his voice quiet in the middle of the church. They were in the chapel of the Blessed Mother, which was nearly deserted at that hour due to the restoration work and the guided tours taking place elsewhere.
MacLeod shrugged uncomfortably, looking slightly sheepish. "I was used to Immortals having concealed weapons on them. I forgot the prison guards would have searched her when they locked her up."
Marguerite giggled, cocking her head at Mac. "Oh, it wasn't that stupid a mistake. You must remember, Richie, that we were in the middle of a revolution, and in the middle of a prison escape at that. Duncan had a great deal on his mind."
"Alleged mind," Richie joked, then held up his hands in surrender at Duncan's glare. "Okay, okay, I don't know that I'd have managed better. The possibility of getting challenged in the middle of a prison break would make me lose my place in the music, too."
"Thanks, Richie," Mac said sarcastically, then smiled down at Margot. She smiled back, still holding his arm, and then looked around the chapel they had just entered.
"It's good to see that the restoration work hasn't changed the character very much," she mused aloud. She let go of Duncan's arm then took a few steps forward, studying the statue of the Queen of Heaven, her eyes sad and a little lost. "I wish.... I wish Darius were here," she whispered.
Duncan was silent, and Richie started to say something. MacLeod held up a hand to stop him, still watching Margot. "Margot, what's upsetting you?" Marguerite didn't turn around, her shoulders hunching forward as if to ward off a blow. "I know you miss Darius, and that you wished you could have been here for the memorial--- but there's something else, too. Why did you come back to Paris?"
She didn't turn around, but Duncan could see her shoulders slump, and then Margot took a few steps to the left and collapsed on a pew, her hands covering her face. MacLeod walked forward and knelt down next to her, watching her silently shake with tremors that seized her whole body. "Has this something to do with Darius's death? Marguerite," Duncan reached out, and took her hands from her face, "Talk to me, damnit. What is going on?"
"You're never going to forgive me," Margot whispered, gazing straight ahead. A chill moved across Duncan's heart at the starkness of her expression. He glanced back at Richie, who was leaning against one of the columns, worry in his eyes.
"Forgive you for what?" Mac asked finally, when it was obvious that she wasn't going to continue unprompted. Part of him was worried, concerned about his friend, but for the most part he was fighting back annoyance. Whatever Margot had to tell him couldn't possibly be as awful as she was making out.
"I have to ask you for a favor, and...." Margot swallowed, then closed her eyes. "If I'd done this fifty years ago, Darius wouldn't have been killed."
MacLeod froze, and noticed Richie moving forward out of the corner of his eye, looking shocked and disbelieving. Margot was still talking, her face a mask of pain. "You remember, I was one of the 'conductors' on the Resistance line?" Mac nodded, feeling anger begin to build, but still willing to listen. "People paid us in whatever they could to help keep the Resistance going. Sometimes they gave us useful information, or some of the things the Nazis appropriated. There was a boy, he couldn't have been more than eighteen, he wanted to go home to Gascony..." she stopped, and rubbed at her eyes as if they hurt.
"What has this got to do with Darius and the Watchers?" Duncan asked grimly.
"I'm getting to that." Margot's hand dropped back into her lap, and she took up the story again, eyes unseeing, speaking in an abstracted voice, clearly more aware of the 1940's she was remembering than her surroundings in 1994. "He had some books. The Nazis had sacked some private residences, and he'd saved part of a private collection before they got their hands on the whole thing. Some of what he gave me were first editions, very valuable books, medieval texts.... He hadn't read them. There was a boxful of them. At the bottom were four bound books with an odd symbol on them." Her voice trailed off.
"A circle with a curved V inside it," Richie said, his voice accusing.
"Yes." Margot shrugged, still withdrawn. "I looked at them, and received one of the greater shocks of my life: someone had written down the history of various Immortals in Latin, and ancient German. The boy couldn't read the language, thank heaven; otherwise it might have been awkward." She stood up suddenly, and walked away from the other two along the pew, her head down and her hands in her pockets. MacLeod followed her, still trying to understand what she was telling him. Something about what she was saying was beginning to connect back to what Darius had told him last year. He grabbed her arm, and pulled Margot around to face him when she reached the end of the pew.
"Margot." She glanced at his face, then away, her eyes closing in pain. "Did you give those books to Darius? Is that why he had them?"
"Not...exactly," Margot whispered, eyes still closed. The chapel was quiet, but somewhere in the distance, Duncan could hear a choir beginning practice--- Gloria, gloria in excelsis Deo--- the sound of Richie's feet scuffling on the floor, the wind outside Notre Dame; but all his attention was taken up with the woman in front of him, and her rapid breathing, which suddenly became a ragged sigh. "I hid them. I didn't have time to get them to Darius, not right then; and two days later.... Well, you remember." She opened her eyes, and smiled bitterly. "Being publicly shot by the Nazis doesn't leave a person much room for resurrection. I left the books where I had hidden them, in one of the old underground crypts." She took a deep breath, and stepped away from Duncan, then looked him full in the face, her blue eyes pleading for understanding. "Last year, when they began work on widening the Seine, I knew the books wouldn't be safe where I'd left them. So I wrote to Darius, and asked him to retrieve them, and told him they might be important."
"Might be important?" Duncan's incredulity made Margot flinch, her expression full of regret and guilt. "Might be? Margot, what were you thinking of? Why didn't you tell anyone about the Watchers? How could you keep this to yourself; were you completely out of your mind?" The anger that had been building exploded as he whirled away from the woman, unable to stand looking at her any longer. How could she? How could she be so blind, so unconcerned.... "How could you put Darius in that kind of danger? Or did you just not care?"
"No! I didn't know about them, Duncan, I swear!" Margot grabbed his arm, and he jerked around, yanking his arm away from her, smoldering with rage, but at the begging look in her eyes, he stopped and tried to listen. "I thought--- I thought one of us had written the books, don't you see? How was I to know about the Watchers? I didn't have time to read them, Mac, I only glanced through them... The only thing that worried me was that some mortal might read them, and begin to suspect about us. So, when I was killed, and had to leave Paris, I just... left them there. I thought they were safe...." Marguerite leaned against the wall near a confessional, eyes filling with tears. "I should have come back for them years ago, I know that now. But I couldn't bear it. I never wanted to see Paris again. But I should have done it myself, I shouldn't have asked Darius..," her voice cracked on the monk's name, and the tears streamed down Margot's face unchecked. Duncan found his anger dissipating in the face of her grief, and he swallowed, trying to think of something to say.
"Margot," he said quietly, then took a step towards the crying woman. "Margot, I'm sorry I said that." She didn't stop crying, lost in her guilt and sorrow, shaking with the quiet sobs that seemed to be pulled from her slight frame. Duncan took another step toward her, and pulled her into his arms, where she struggled for a moment, then relaxed, sobbing even harder. "Shhh. I'm sorry, cherie. I know you loved him. I know you'd never hurt him." Eventually, Margot's crying slowed, and she lifted her tear-streaked face from his coat, and wiped at her eyes with trembling hands.
Richie had stopped a couple pews away, perched on the edge of one of the prayer-stools. He rummaged in his pockets and came up with a handkerchief which he stepped forward and offered to Margot, who blinked at it, and then shakily nodded her thanks to the younger man. He nodded back, obviously at a loss for words. Duncan brushed Margot's tangled hair out of her face as she dabbed at her eyes and nose. "So you wrote to Darius and asked him to get the books back," he prompted quietly.
Lifting her head, Margot's lips thinned in self-reproach as she continued her story. "Yes. He wrote back to me in Leningrad and said he could only get to one of them--- I'd hidden it in a different place in the crypt, just in case. The restoration work around that area and the rising of the Seine made it impossible to get to the other three when he went down there. Maybe they're not even there anymore. And if they are still there, they might be illegible by now. But if that's what Darius was killed for, we need to get them back. I didn't realize until late last night," her face screwed up again with the effort not to cry, and her voice rose with her anguish, "That those books were why he died. I just knew I had to get them back now, since he couldn't." She swallowed hard, and gazed into Duncan's eyes again. "Mac, I'm so sorry, you know that---I had no idea---"
He hugged her again, his face tight with repressed pain. "I believe you," he said in a low voice, "but no more secrets, all right? There's nothing else you're not telling me, is there?"
Margot blinked and shook her head, smiling through the pain on her face. "That's all," she said, her voice husky, her eyes steady and never leaving Mac's face. "Will you help?"
"You know I will." Duncan fell silent for a moment, then said, "Tomorrow's no good, I have an auction to go to. Thursday should be all right. You're positive we can get to them?"
"I think so." The Frenchwoman sighed, then looked up at Richie. "But we might need help."
Richie was still frowning, then seemed to realize that she was addressing her remark to him. "Poke around in an underground mausoleum? Uhhh, I don't think so, Margot. I have this thing about dead people..."
"Oh, please, Richard. It's not like you can catch anything from them," Margot half-teased.
"Okay, maybe that's true, but---"
"Please, Richie? We need all the help we can get."
Richie shifted his weight from foot to foot, trying to look away from the entreaty on Marguerite's face, then surrendered. "All right! Okay, I'll do it. I hate it, but I'll do it."
"Thank you, Richie." As Marguerite thanked Ryan, Mac was amused to see that Richie was as much a victim of Margot's charm as he himself had been two centuries ago. Some things never changed.
"Just call me a sucker for a pretty face," Richie shrugged, cocking a wary eyebrow at Mac.
"You're a sucker for a pretty face," Mac said cordially, grinning at the younger man.
"Oh, and what does that make you? A model of good judgement?" Richie groused as they left the chapel.
***
The next day dawned bright and clear, with just the light mist softening the air that only appeared on spring days in Paris. Yawning wide enough to crack his jaw, Richie leaned back in the lawn chair he'd brought up to the roof of the barge, watching the early morning pedestrian traffic and enjoying his coffee. There was something to be said for living on a boat, especially when it gave you such a great view of the local color. Ryan grinned and waved at two young women riding their bicycles to work, glad that he didn't have to accompany Duncan to the auction. Too bad he'd have to find his own place soon; but he couldn't crash on Mac's couch forever. Well, maybe he could in theory, but in reality, Rich knew that it would only be a matter of a few more weeks before they were driving each other crazy. Breathing space, he thought with a grimace, just enough space for us to breathe, without breathing down each other's necks!
The cellular phone chirped, and Richie blinked away the last vestiges of sleepiness as he answered it. "Mac?"
"No, c'est moi, Margot. Are you doing anything important, Richard?"
Richie snorted into his coffee. "Hardly. I'm drinking my breakfast and enjoying the..scenery." Richie tilted his head to get a better look at a chic Parisienne strolling by in a leather miniskirt.
"Bon. Then I order you to take me to lunch. It is far too nice a day for me contemplate a meal in my boring little hotel room."
"You order me?" Richie laughed, putting down his coffee before he spilled it. "What'll you do to me if I ignore your orders, commander?"
"Yes, I order you. I won't tell you how Duncan and I escaped Pars if you don't take me to lunch. You know Duncan will never finish the story, it is far too embarrassing to him already." Her tone became wheedling. "Please, Richard. I am so bored, and I do not have the heart to walk through Paris alone. You will keep me company, won't you?"
"Well, how can I refuse a pretty lady when she asks so nicely?"
"You can't; I think Duncan already mentioned that," Margot laughed.
Half an hour later, the two of them were strolling slowly down the Champs Elysees, watching the street musicians play and the tourists throw money into their instrument cases. The morning was beginning to warm up, although Marguerite and Richie still wore leather jackets against the chill. They were breaking off pieces of the croissants and sipping the cappucinos they'd bought at an outdoor stall. Richie stole occasional glances at the woman walking beside him, quiet and confident. As often as he met Immortals, he always found himself wanting to ask them questions he knew they wouldn't answer: how did you become Immortal? How do you deal with the killing? Other questions, more personal ones, about families, and loved ones, were the ones he didn't want other people to ask. So many subjects you can't talk about, even with other Immortals....
"So, you promised me the end of the story," Richie said suddenly.
Margot grinned, and swallowed a bite of croissant. "So I did. You know, it would have been a lot easier if Duncan weren't so...memorable."
"Where are we going?"
"An acquaintance of mine owns a boat nearby. He might be able to get us out through the river gate." Duncan glanced around the street, still not feeling secure enough to take the main boulevards. The alarm would be sounded soon, if he was any judge. The former prisoners were supposed to have arrived at Luxembourg by this time, and another hour's grace was all they could hope for before the lieutenant at Conciergerie wondered why he hadn't received confirmation of their arrival.
"How did a Scotsman get involved with the problems of the French government and the English rescue movement?" Marguerite d'Arcy asked, pulling her cloak closer and shivering against the cold.
"I've lived in France for a long time," Duncan replied. "I speak the language. One of the British agents contacted me after I was released from prison last year and asked for my help."
"Not many of us get involved in political changes," Marguerite remarked after a couple minutes of silence, glancing at him sideways. "Why did you?"
"Why did you?" MacLeod countered.
d'Arcy shrugged. "France is my country. I love it. I can not stand by and allow those in power to selfishly slaughter so many people, simply for being related to the aristocracy or disagreeing with the current government." She sighed, her mouth turning down at the corners. "Not that the previous government was better. But you still haven't answered my question, MacLeod." She stopped walking, and put her hand on Duncan's arm, turning him to face her. "You are not French, and we run as much risk from the guillotine as any mortal. There are those among us, even, who stand as close as they dare to the executions, hoping that an Immortal will be beheaded, to get the Quickening without having to fight for it."
"I know," Duncan said curtly. "That was one of the reasons I challenged you immediately. These are dangerous times to be in Paris, much less an Immortal."
Marguerite fell silent, and MacLeod hoped that she wouldn't keep asking him why he was helping the resistance. His reasons were personal, centering around his belief in justice and a need to help those in danger. It was not something he wanted to discuss with a stranger, even one who was on the right side.
They were approaching the quay near the Bridge of St. Michel, just down the docks from a rather rowdy tavern where Duncan was certain he could find the boatsman he had in mind. He stopped abruptly a few doors away, drawing Mademoiselle d'Arcy to the side of the street. "The Three Footman is not the kind of bar a lady can enter." Marguerite raised her eyebrows and tilted her head, looking amused. "Look, I know and you know that you can take care of yourself, but the last thing we want is a scene, right? So do us both a favor and wait outside for me. I'll be back with our ride in a few minutes."
"If you're not out in ten minutes, I'm following you in, MacLeod. I don't trust you. You're a mercenary, and I have no wish to be back in my cell in the Conciergerie. Don't make me take you back to that hellhole with me, bien?"
Duncan growled a wordless answer and stalked away, gathering his cloak around him to ward off the night chill. Bloody-minded woman. When he got back to England, Percy was going to get an earful about his contacts, his assignments, and what he could do with both of them the next time he needed help in Paris.
The Three Footman was a fisherman's bar, a workman's bar; nothing intellectual about the atmosphere here. The Revolution that was born in dives like this had much to do with crushing the aristos, and little to do with Monsieur Rosseau's rarefied ideas about Natural Man and the Rights of the Masses. Every man in the smoky, ill-lit room was a patriot, although perhaps they would have had difficulty articulating the difference between a patriot and a traitor. No matter, though; they knew what they knew. They were citizens now, not subjects, as good as any marquis or comte in his laces and velvets; better, perhaps, for never having taken away another's rights, or owned property, or opened some decadent book of corrupt literature.
Duncan MacLeod slowly wandered around the room, looking for Jean Tourelle, hoping that the man hadn't stayed home with his wife and children for once. Another boat would be difficult to find, and another dishonest captain might not be as trustworthy---I suppose we can always steal a boat, but that would leave tracks.... Someone would miss their skiff, the authorities would be called, and we'd be caught---and time was running short.
"You! MacLeod!"
MacLeod whirled, caught off guard by the sound of his name. The speaker was a woman of twenty or so, blonde, buxom, dressed in a provocatively low-cut blouse and clinging skirt, her expression twisted with anger and shock. Duncan's heart sank as he recognized her. "Sophie," he said in feigned pleasure, "What a surprise! I thought you were still working in the Latin Quarter---"
"Traitor!" hissed the barmaid, then, louder: "Traitor! Citoyens! This man is an avowed Girondin, a traitor to the Cause and a Englishman besides!"
Total silence descended for only a moment; then a dull, ugly murmuring rose from all corners of the room.
"Traitor?"
"English?"
"Guards...."
Duncan felt his mouth go dry in fear, and swallowed, then protested loudly. "This is nonsense! Do I sound English? The wench is mistaken!"
"Maybe, maybe not." The bartender eyed him narrowly, rubbing his jaw. "What are you doing here?"
At that moment, Duncan finally caught sight of Jean Tourelle, the little rat, hunched near the fire, trying to appear invisible. "I have an appointment with my dear friend, Monsieur Tourelle," Duncan replied, trying to catch the fisherman's eye. "He owes me money."
"Never seen him before in my life," Tourelle muttered, hiding his face in his mug of ale.
"Tourelle, how could you forget?" Duncan laughed shortly, and took a step toward the fire, to find his way blocked by three husky dockworkers.
"He says he does not know you, monsieur," one of them said in a threatening monotone.
"But I know him, the liar! MacLeod was arrested, he was indeed, right in the middle of an... appointment with me," the barmaid said, her shrill voice trying for sincerity and only achieving spitefulness.
"Is this true, sir?" the bartender was fingering a blackjack now, and the angry audience was becoming more bloodthirsty by the moment. Duncan started to sweat, trying desperately to think of anything he could say that would not sound like the denials of a guilty man.
"Etienne! I thought I'd find you here!"
Duncan blinked, frozen for a moment; then he turned around with a smile of feigned bewilderment and fear. "Cherie! Margot! How did you find me here---"
"Where else would I find you, you lying cur?" Marguerite d'Arcy stormed from the doorway, shoving men twice her size out of her way, stomping over to Duncan like an angry toy poodle confronting an oversized Irish wolfhound. "Drinking and gambling and--- wenching, no doubt!" Margot gave Sophie a disgusted, disdainful glance, then turned back to her 'husband'. "Instead of at home with your wife and children, where you should be!" The shrewish tone of her voice should have set every hackle in the room rising, but Duncan noted with relief that most of the men were actually relaxing, appearing amused by the drama before them.
"Wife?" Sophie gaped. "He's not married! He's a bachelor, he and I were---"
"Oh, you did, did you?" Marguerite rounded back on the barmaid, her face screwed up in angry superiority. "And I suppose he said he'd marry you, and that you were the only woman he ever loved, and that he'd topple governments for you, n'cest pas?"
"Well, no," Sophie backed away from the smaller woman, utterly cowed by the rage coming from the little brunette, "but he did say that he was with the Loyalists, and he had Girondin sympathies...and...and... he was British...."
Marguerite stopped in apparent disbelief, then threw back her head with a peal of laughter. "Mon Dieu! I am surprised he didn't tell you that he was Tallyrand or Robespierre while he was at it!" The entire room broke up, laughing at the humiliated Sophie, who drew herself up and exited the room with what dignity she could manage.
"Uh-oh," Duncan said under his breath as Marguerite turned away from her defeated enemy to her erstwhile 'husband' with murder in her eyes. Strong men hastily backed away, or found business elsewhere, anything to get away from her. With carefully measured steps, Marguerite crossed the room to Duncan, stopped in front of him, and smiled sweetly---which gave MacLeod a second to prepare himself for what she did next. Standing on tiptoe, she reached up and yanked him down to her level by his ear.
"Adulterous pig! Philandering weasel! I should chain you to the bed, to keep you from sneaking out in the middle of the night!" For a tiny woman, she had a very large voice.
"A man might chew his arm off if he were chained to a bed with you in it," muttered someone softly. Marguerite turned and glared at the room at large. No one met her eyes, and several jovial conversations started up, totally ignoring the scene in front of the fire.
"Cherie, I only--- ow!--- came down here to find--- that hurts, cherie---Monsieur Tourelle," Duncan gestured to the cowering man, who was waving his arms in front of his face, soundlessly pleading with MacLeod to leave him out of the marital brawl. Marguerite glanced murderously over to the man in the corner.
"Is this the same Monsieur Tourelle who owes us seventeen louis? The one who was late with the delivery of fish?" Marguerite twisted Duncan's ear hard enough to really hurt this time, and he yelped with true feeling.
"Yes, my treasure," he said meekly.
"Then we will go with him, to find the money he owes us, won't we, Etienne? And when we have found it, he will also pay us three extra louis for our trouble in collecting it, won't he?" Marguerite released his ear suddenly, stalking toward Jean Tourelle until he curled into a corner of the hearth, plainly terrified of her.
"Anything you say, Margot. You are always right, my dear," Duncan replied, rubbing his ear. "Monsieur Tourelle, if you would be so good as to follow my wife?" The three of them left single file, Marguerite first, with the air of a conquering queen leading the prisoners of war.
Richie couldn't stop laughing. "Hoooo, boy. I should have known. With Mac, the trouble he gets into is always because of a woman. Or two," he added, chuckling.
"Oh, this is so true, and so sad," Marguerite said, shaking her head in mock condemnation. "Never, never have I known Duncan when he did not have at least one woman waiting in the wings somewhere, wondering when he'd be back."
"Were you ever...one of those women?" Ryan asked, then stuffed another bite of croissant in his mouth fast, before he could ask any other stupid questions.
Margot's laugh was freer than any he had heard yet, and she nearly spilt her coffee. "Duncan, and me? Oh, Richie, he has been telling you tales---"
"No, he hasn't, I swear, he just said that things were complex, so I kind of... wondered," Richie finished lamely. "Why they were complex, I mean, you know how he is, and," he waved the question away, feeling embarrassed and about fourteen years old, "forget I asked, alright?"
"He did not tell you much about me, did he?" Margot tilted her head, studying Richie anew, her eyes alight with mischief.
"He never does," Richie mumbled around the croissant.
Margot sighed, her mouth still curved in a smile. "Well, this story is simpler than most. I suppose he did not mention it because he does not agree with me in some things. You see, Richie, when I died and became an Immortal, I was a nun."
"A what? A nun, are you serious? Like with a habit and the veil and everything?"
"Yes, with a habit and veil and everything," Margot took a sip of her cappuccino, seeming amused at Richie's surprise. "I died during the Hundred Years' War with England--- things were very bad then. You read about religious wars today, but believe me, they could be even worse in the fourteenth century." She shrugged, appearing unbothered by the memory, but Richie found it hard to believe that Margot could dismiss it so easily. "At any rate, I have always tried to live as if I were still vowed to God. Duncan always thought I was ridiculous to try for that. But then, I am not sure how much of his reaction was his male ego and how much was true skepticism about my beliefs."
Richie shook his head to clear it. "You've been a nun since the fourteenth century?" He could hear the incredulity in his voice, and said in his next breath, "Sorry. I mean, I knew Darius was a monk for a long time, but Darius was... I don't know, I mean, he was so--- old. You're young, and---" Richie knew he was making a fool of himself again, and sighed. "Forget it. Just tell me to shut up, okay? If I keep putting my foot in my mouth like this, I'll have a bad case of Athlete's Tongue pretty soon."
"No, no, truly, Richard, I do not mind. You are not the first to say this, and you shall probably not be the last, oui? How can I explain," Margot murmured, throwing her napkin and cup in a nearby trashcan. Richie did the same, still feeling foolish. No wonder Duncan had laughed when he'd asked him about Margot. Celibate for five-hundred years? That's impossible! What a waste! He shot Margot a surreptitious glance, hoping she wasn't following the train of his thoughts, then realized that she probably had a good idea what he was thinking, if she'd had this conversation before. I can't wait until I meet some other Immortal for the first time, and I'm a hundred years older than they are, just so I don't feel like the youngest person in the room anymore!
"I have had to live as if I were truly married from time to time for my own safety, you understand. I have been married," she counted them off on her fingers, slowly, her brow furrowed in thought, "Four times. No, wait, I am wrong, five times. I think the longest marriage lasted--- ten years, perhaps? But always, they were marriages of convenience, or necessity, not of passion. For me, the most important thing in my life has been doing God's work, and helping those in trouble.
"During the French Revolution, when Duncan and I met, and during World War II, I was with the Resistance movements. I was a nurse during World War I, and Vietnam," her mouth twisted abruptly at some memory, and then her face cleared. "I was a nurse for the first time during the Crusades, when so many fell ill, and so many plagues swept Europe. I have been a journalist, during the purges in Russia, and during the raising of the Berlin Wall--- you have no idea, how lovely it was to cover that story three years ago when it fell!" She laughed aloud. "I danced, Richie, I danced on the wall with so many others, but I could not tell anyone that I had been there in 1963. I wish I could have. It would have been sweet. I am still a journalist now, in Serbia, and Russia, and South Africa..," she sighed. "So many things have changed, Richard. But so much has not. There is still so much injustice, hatred, bloodshed, war. I hate it. I always have."
"Must have been rough on you with the Gathering," Richie ventured as they turned down the Trocadero. The fountains fractured the morning sunlight, filling the air with rainbow prisms. "Hating bloodshed as much as you say. Tessa always hated it," he muttered quietly.
"Duncan's lady, yes?" Margot shook her head at Richie's nod. "I am so sorry that I never met her--- I think I would have liked her very much. And Mac is sadder now, more grave than I remember. The man I knew was more lighthearted. But perhaps my memory tricks me," she added.
"No, I think you got it right." Richie stopped at the corner of the street, realizing that they weren't far from the cemetery where Tessa was buried. "Do you want to take a detour onto holy ground?"
The grave was still well-tended, the lawn mowed down and the the headstone clear of weeds. It had been less than six months since Tessa's death, but Richie felt as if it had already been years. So much had happened in between; his entire world changed, not just by Tessa's death, but by his own. And yet he could still remember her so vividly, laughing at Duncan, joking about their upcoming wedding... cradled in Mac's arms after the shooting, blood and life seeping slowly away.
"She was really great," Richie said quietly to Margot, squatting down to place the daisies he'd bought from a street vendor on the grave. "All the stuff she had to put up with because of Mac being Immortal, and she never let it matter. It never got between them."
"An amazing woman indeed," Margot said quietly.
Richie stood up and shoved his hands in his pockets. "I loved her like she was my older sister or something. When she died, and I didn't.... People talk about life being unfair, but that, that was.... I don't know. Too ironic. Too sad." He shook his head, and added quietly, "Sometimes I think it was a mistake. That she should have been the one to wake up, and not me."
"Never say that," protested Margot, taking his arm and shaking him. "Never. It is terrible, that she should die so. But to say you should have also---"
"Not also. Instead of. Margot, Mac loved her so much, and she loved him, and if she'd been the Immortal their lives would have been perfect. So why was I the one to wake up, and not her?" He turned from the grave, shaking his head. "I just don't get it. I still don't get it."
"That is Immortality, Richie," Margot said, hurrying to keep pace with his longer strides. "It is no more fair than life is. How many people get to love someone like that? One in a hundred, maybe one in a thousand people. And you say it is unfair that she should die?" She swung him around to face her, her eyes lit with feeling. "Her life was blessed, Richard. To have someone to love like that, whether we are mortal or Immortal, is more than we can expect. More than we can ask for. Duncan was lucky to have her, my friend. Truly lucky, as was Tessa. Her death can not change that."
"Maybe," Richie said. "I just wish--- I dunno. That things could be the way they were before, I guess. Hopeless, huh?" He squinted at the woman standing before him, then smiled suddenly. "Did you ever love someone like that?"
"Me?" For the first time since he'd met her, Margot seemed off-balance. "No. I... no. There was someone, once...." Her voice trailed off wistfully, then became brisker. "But he did not feel the same way about me. As well, perhaps, that he did not, since then I should have had to choose between him and God, and that is not a choice I ever wanted."
"Who was he?" Richie asked as they reached the gate of the cemetery.
"I... no one you would have ever heard of," Margot replied, pushing an errant wisp of hair out of her face. "Someone I met in Italy, many centuries ago. He taught me some swordfighting. But he, well... he was still recovering from his wife's death. I did not know him for very long."
Richie got the feeling she was hiding something, and changed the subject to spare her feelings. "Mac said Darius taught you how to fight."
"He did," Margot nodded. "When I first came to Paris. But of course, I picked up new skills here and there. Duncan taught me some too, but then, I showed him a few moves later on. We used to practice together, whenever we'd meet. Michael would join us---" She stopped speaking and bit her lip, an expression of pain crossing her face.
"Michael Moore, right?" Richie asked, and at her nod, he went on, "Did Duncan tell you about what happened last fall?"
"No. Amanda did, when I saw her in London."
"Oh." Richie was silent, remembering the divided, troubled man who had been part psychopathic killer, part dreamer; remembered the menacing anger of the man who was Quentin Barnes, and the tormented soul named Michael Moore, who had been trying to control that madness. "That really tore Duncan up, having to kill him. You should know that Michael asked him to, though. He didn't want to live like that when he finally knew that he was Quentin Barnes."
"I can believe that. And yet.... I never saw it, Richard. I never saw how sick he was. How could none of us have seen it?" Margot puzzled.
"'Cause he was really ill, Margot, why do you think? I mean, he never showed that side of himself to his friends, and he must have considered you a friend, right?"
"Yes, but---"
"But what?" Richie shrugged impatiently. "Duncan kept wondering why he didn't see it either. Maybe I'm callous, but there was nothing anyone could do for the guy. He was a lost cause. I liked Michael, but Barnes? Totally psycho. Trust me on this, Margot, Duncan did the right thing."
Margot snorted. "The right thing. As if killing is ever right. As if this life we lead is at all moral, or ethical, or anything good...." She stopped speaking, pressing her lips together and blinking back tears.
"Hey. Hey, I'm sorry, I was out of line. I've got a big mouth, I told you that, right?" Richie sighed, then took her arm and gently shook it. "I didn't mean it. But it isn't your fault, Margot. And it isn't Duncan's. Sometimes things are just...the way they are."
Swallowing a sob, Margot looked up at him and force a weary smile. "I am just so tired of it, Richard. Of losing friends. Of the killing; of always, always needing to practice with the sword, and distrusting others, and having to be wary, and to lie about myself. This year has been so awful. Darius and Michael gone; and I lost other, mortal friends too, during the uprisings in Moscow. And someone I'd known fifteen years died in Colombia two months ago. I just..." The tears welled up again, and she stopped in the middle of the street, sobbing as if her heart would break.
Richie put his arm around her and brushed her hair out of her face. He didn't really know her well enough to do this; but he couldn't watch her cry like that and not try to offer some comfort. "Yeah," he whispered. "Yeah, it really bites sometimes." There was nothing else he could say.
Eventually, Margot's tears slowed, and they started walking again, down the street, toward the Sorbonne and the Louvre. Richie asked Margot questions about the buildings, and got her to talk about the history of the squares; the Place de la Concorde, and the Arc de Triomphe, and the events she'd witnessed there. But some sadness lingered through the rest of the afternoon, both of them thinking of those who had been lost.
***
"Y'know, I'm really starting to like Margot , but I don't understand her at all," Richie said as he and Duncan prepared to leave for the graveyard. "We were talking about stuff yesterday---dying, love, big issues---and I just couldn't understand how someone so into justice and progress could stand all the wars she's been through. I mean, she sounded like she hated it, but she keeps going back to it."
"Margot's passion for causes has always overruled her good sense," Duncan said as he stuck a flashlight and some twine into a knapsack. "If she were mortal, she would have been killed in a protest by now, or shot smuggling refugees out of El Salvador, or---" he broke off, shrugged. "I think the Gathering is harder on her. Having to kill someone is more difficult for her than getting killed herself."
"It's not like it's easy on any of us. Well, except for guys like Hyde," Richie said, shuddering in remembrance of the Englishman who'd tried to kill him a couple weeks earlier.
"Margot has other problems," Duncan said noncommittally. "Let's go. We're going to be late as it is."
Margot was waiting for them at the entrance to the mausoleum, a worried expression on her face that immediately relaxed when she saw Duncan and Richie. A bag of shovels and lanterns was leaned against the carved rose-marble entrance, and she was fiddling with a box of matches. "I was afraid you were going to change your mind," she said, smiling tentatively.
"Why would we do that?" Duncan asked sardonically.
"Oh, perhaps you had reservations about mucking about in crypts?" Margot replied brightly.
"Yeah, we had reservations all right. But Mac seemed more scared by the idea you might do this on your own," Richie said, grinning.
"I would do it brilliantly if I did it on my own! But I may have to move some things," Margot protested guiltily.
"So you need us to be muscle?" Richie teased.
"Something like that," she replied sheepishly. Duncan rolled his eyes and picked up the bag of tools she'd brought along.
"Come on. Let's get this over with before you try to talk us into something worse."
"Like what?" Richie asked curiously.
"Political protests. Hijackings. Courier work---"
"That was only one time, and besides, it came out okay." At Mac's glare, Margot amended her protest to, "Well, mostly okay. The door to the underground crypts is over here."
The main interior room of the Lavalle family mausoleum gave way to a small passage-way behind the marble cases, which lead to a stone staircase down to the older graves. Margot switched on her flashlight and Duncan did the same as they began to descend the steps. Richie lagged behind, studying the cobwebs and dust that lined the hallway. "How long has it been since anyone was down here?" he wondered.
"Not as long as you think. They had to shore up some of the foundations a few months ago---the Seine's rising has destroyed a great many of the older sites." Something ran by Duncan and Margot, and Richie jumped.
"What was that?" he asked sharply, his voice echoing down to the lower crypts.
"Just a rat." Margot shrugged nonchalantly, her voice faintly amused. "There are a few down here..."
"Now she tells us," Richie muttered to Duncan, walking faster to catch up with the older Immortals. "Great. I can see it now: thousands of rats come tumbling down on us as the water starts to seep through the walls of the crypt---"
"You've seen Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade too many times, Richie," Mac said sarcastically. "Try to keep your imagination under control."
"Last Crusade? Was that the one with Sean Connery?" Margot asked, stopping at the bottom of the staircase and turning back to the two men. "I love his movies, but I don't think I've seen that one yet."
"Yeah, well, be glad you haven't, this wouldn't be the time to remember it." Richie pulled the collar of his jacket closer, and hunched his shoulders against the chill. "Damn, it's cold in here."
Duncan scanned what little of the crypt was visible by flashlight. There were about six graves sunk into the floor, with heavy stone lids covering the cases. In the far wall, a small chapel was set into a recessed area. There was yellow tape across the opening to the chapel, and sandbags and wooden supports holding up areas of the ceiling which were crumbling away.
Margot gestured to the chapel with her flashlight, making a circle of light dance over the sandbags and sawhorses. "It's behind there."
"Behind there? How are we supposed to get back there?" Richie asked in disbelief.
"You are not. I am. I need your help to dig, and to make sure the supports don't fall while I am in there." Margot marched over to the chapel, nearly tripping on some loose tile. Duncan steadied her with an outstretched hand.
"Are you sure this is really necessary?" he asked quietly.
"Yes." The Frenchwoman's jaw was set, but her voice soft. "They'll be destroyed if we wait too much longer; or found by someone else. The workman will have to excavate here after a while, and they'll find the books." She turned pleading eyes to MacLeod in the dim light. "I know it looks dangerous, but it has to be done. There used to be a priest's hole behind the altar---I just need help digging, and then perhaps a hand lifting some stone. Please, Duncan, I am not asking for so much," her voice descended into a whisper.
Not for the first time that week, Duncan wondered why this was so important to her. More important than just retrieving the books should have been; something else was obviously at stake. But he couldn't begin to guess what. "All right," he said, shelving his questions for later. "But be careful, will you?"
Laughing with embarrassed relief, the woman nodded, and stooped to walk under the yellow tape which said DO NOT PASS, in French. The chapel was small, more an alcove than an actual chapel, with only three pews and a prieu'dieu in front of the small altar. A small statue of Mary stood off to the left, and Margot stepped carefully over to it, and then lifted the statue off its base. Duncan followed her, ducking under the tape as a section of the wall swung open slowly with a sound like grinding stone. Masonry bits quivered, and plaster fell from the ceiling. MacLeod grabbed Margot's arm as she put the statue down on the tiles and Richie joined them in front of the altar.
"This looks too dangerous, Margot. Look at the ceiling; moving that door jarred those stones loose... let's forget this and come back later---"
"No! Please, we are already here. All we have to do is place those extra struts so the doorway doesn't collapse."
"How far back are the books?" Duncan asked dubiously.
"Only a couple hundred feet. Here, Richie, prop the door and that crossbeam up with a strut, yes?" Margot was moving faster now, piling sandbags up in front of the door so it wouldn't swing shut.
Richie gave Duncan a what-can-you-do? look of resignation; the older Immortal realized that Ryan had already learned that arguing with Margot was useless. Grimly, MacLeod smothered his own unease and moved to assist her in strengthening the opening.
It took just a little over two hours to move the stones and dirt blocking the passageway so that the woman could reach the hiding place. The cold was starting to get to MacLeod; that, and the lowering darkness. The feeling of being buried. Resolutely, he pushed thoughts of the one or two times he had been buried as far away as he could. This was not the place to come down with claustrophobia. He was suddenly distracted from his dark preoccupations when Margot gave a delighted cry.
"This is it! This stone here!" she exclaimed, kneeling down and using her fingers to brush off a vertical, two-foot high block, then tracing something carved into the stone. "See? M. d'A, 1944. They're behind this. Hand me that crowbar."
"Great, does this mean we can leave soon?" Richie asked, weariness coloring his voice in the darkness. Duncan slanted a glance at him; in the flickering light of the lantern, he could see the exhaustion the younger man was holding off. MacLeod grinned; like anyone suckered into one of Margot's schemes, Richie was learning that there was always more to them than she was willing to admit.
The screech of stone giving way was followed by the ominous rumble of shifting earth and the snap of one of the struts breaking, bringing Mac's attention sharply back to what Margot was doing. The stone was on its side, out of its embedded socket; and the whole wall above it had slipped, more fragile stones breaking entirely. "Get out of here, Richie!" Duncan snapped, and with one worried look Ryan turned and hurried out of the narrow passage. "Margot, come on, this whole place is about to give way!"
The woman had her arm in the hole in the wall, two books on the ground in front of her. "There's... just...one more... I can almost---"
"Now, Margot!" MacLeod grabbed her arm, yanking it out of the wall and dragging her to her feet in almost one motion. Her eyes wide in the shadows, Margot gasped out in mingled frustration and pain, then stooped to grab the two books she had already retrieved as MacLeod pushed her ahead of him out of the hidden passage. She was protesting all the way, pleading with him to go back. When they reached the entrance, Margot dug in her heels, turning to Mac with a stubborn expression on her face, her mouth open to say something. Out of the corner of his eye Duncan saw a strut falling straight down, and with both hands he shoved her backward out of the passage. Then something hit him on the side of his head, and he blacked out.
***
"Mac!" Richie yelled, rushing forward to dig with his hands, trying to move some of the mountain that seemed to have covered the Highlander. Margot was lying on the floor and, at Richie's yell, turned to see the mess the entrance had become in the split second after Duncan pushed her. With a wail of distress, she crawled over to the collapsed stones and dirt and began frantically pulling debris off MacLeod. "He's gonna be okay," Richie said as he threw a strut off to the side. "He's gonna be okay. We just gotta get this stuff off him." A feeble groan made both Immortals stop, and part of the mound moved. Richie stooped down and began shoving away at the covering dirt, and was rewarded by the sight of a blood-covered and dirty hand feebly moving under a strut. Margot joined him, and after was seemed like forever (but really could only have been a few minutes, Richie told himself) they had most of the collapsed material moved away, exposing Duncan's battered form. He was breathing shallowly; a cut above his eye was streaming blood, and it was apparent that at least a couple bones were broken.
"Duncan," Margot whispered brokenly. "Oh, Duncan, this is my fault, je regrete---"
"Yes it is," MacLeod mumbled. "Suicidal little idiot..."
Margot gasped like she'd been hit, tears filling her eyes. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, I should have listened; I should have done this myself."
"He'll be okay," Richie insisted, reminding himself that all it would take would be an hour or so before the bones started to knit and the cuts closed up. "Right, Mac? Your spine's okay; you feel okay...?"
"Lung's pierced," Duncan said, then coughed, blood flecking his lips. "This'll...take a little longer. Damnit. Don't cry, Margot." His eyes rolled up, and he lost consciousness, his breathing becoming even more labored.
"Damn. I hate this," Richie muttered, gathering up their gear and stuffing it in the bags. "Instead of moving him, I guess we should wait until after he comes back, otherwise he'll feel worse after he comes back." A coughing rattle of breath left Mac, and Richie stiffened, unable to forget the sound of Tessa's life leaving her. There was silence in the crypt for a full minute, then with a huge gasp, MacLeod started breathing again. With a hiccup of joy, Margot hugged him, then carefully helped him sit up.
"Will you listen to me... the next time I tell you something?" Duncan rasped, eyes closed in exhaustion and pain as Margot fussed around him.
"Oui. Je regrete, Duncan, mon ami, mea culpa, oui. I promise," Margot said, trying to smile, her eyes big and sad. "Does it hurt very much? Can you move?"
"In a minute."
"I vote we leave here now. We can always get the last book later," Richie said, walking over to kneel by MacLeod, studying him intently. "Man, you look terrible---like death warmed over. I'll drive back. You rest, okay, Mac?"
"Fine," Duncan muttered. "No arguments from me. And Margot?"
"Yes?"
"Next time you need help in a cemetery, hire an undertaker."
***
Margot had refused to leave them when they exited the mausoleum, saying that it was her fault MacLeod got hurt, so she'd make sure that Duncan was comfortable and not in any pain. Richie had to admit she was good; she knew how to splint Duncan's healing bones, and what angle to tilt his body at to keep him from going into shock. It passed through Richie's mind that he really ought to learn a little first aid; given how long he had to live, and how often he might get hurt, he'd be better off if he could treat his own injuries until the healing process took over. Fewer questions from doctors; less pain while he was waiting for blue lightening to stitch up his hurts, if he knew what to do and what not to do.
Duncan was reclined in the passenger seat with his eyes closed, his mouth drawn in pain, while Margot leaned over him from the back seat, carefully daubing at the blood on his neck. "Marguerite...why wouldna you wait?" MacLeod mumbled.
"What?" d'Arcy asked, sounding distracted. In the rearview mirror, Richie could see the frown of concentration on her face as she tended to Mac.
"Tisn't so important we couldna go back," Mac said, sounding confused and a little angry, his Scots accent thick through the pain. "You're always so impatient...."
Silence from the backseat as Richie turned the car onto the road toward the Seine. "I know," Margot said softly. "It just seemed... important. After Darius, I mean. I just wanted to be sure...," her voice trailed off.
Mac was quiet until they reached the boat, then opened his eyes wearily as he unbuckled the seatbelt. "Next time, Margot, just remember that we don't have to be in that much of a hurry. They've been there fifty years; the last one can lie there fifty more for all I care. Did you remember the two you'd gotten out?"
"Yes."
"Good."
Duncan went straight to bed without mentioning the incident again, after taking two aspirin and letting Margot patch up the rest of his cuts. Richie suspected that Mac let her do that to salve her guilt at getting him killed. God, what a day, at least that's over with. We can't get back in there without a construction crew. Let the Seine have the damn book---and the rats!
Margot shut the door to Duncan's bedroom and came back out into the living room, her eyes haunted by the events of the day. She hugged herself as she stood in front of the fireplace, her face drawn in weariness. "I could have really gotten him killed," she said quietly. Richie wasn't sure she was talking to him; her voice was so low he could barely hear her. "A stone could have fallen cutting his neck; he could have been buried too deep to retrieve without causing problems...."
"But it didn't," Richie said, leaning forward. Margot jumped a little, surprised. "C'mon, Margot. You did something stupid, but it turned out okay. It would have been worse if Mac weren't Immortal, but he is, so, no harm, no foul."
Swallowing painfully, Margot smiled at him, real affection in her face mixing with the regret. "You Americans and your sports metaphors," she laughed huskily. "I hope Mac sees it that way when he wakes up."
"He already does," Richie said reassuringly. "He's just peeved that you're so---"
"Impulsive?" Margot sighed. "Always. It's too late to change it. I'm cursed that way."
"Mac gets on my case for that too. Lighten up. It's not like he hasn't gone with his gut sometimes."
Margot reached for her coat and slowly put it on. "Tomorrow," she said suddenly, smiling for real this time, "would you like to practice? While we let MacLeod sleep off his last death?"
"Yeah," Richie replied, surprised. "I would."
"Bon. I will stop by, early. Eight o'clock? I know a place--- where Michael and I and Duncan used to practice. You will like it, I think."
"Great." Richie grinned. Some time between chatting on the Champs Elysees and the roof falling in on Mac, Margot had become a friend, a real friend. Sword practice tomorrow would confirm that friendship, putting him on the same footing with Margot as Michael and Duncan. It was nice to know that, to put one more Immortal on the short list of people he could trust.
***
"Oowwww," muttered Duncan as he slowly awakened. The light was shining in through the porthole, glaringly bright for the headache he had. At least the bones didn't ache any more. Margot really owed him for this last escapade. She'd never gotten him killed before. He winced as he sat up and the newly re-knit muscles and tissue protested. Sometimes healing took longer than others. The last time he'd felt this bad he'd deliberately jumped off a cliff. Now he'd had one jump on him.
Stumbling and cursing, he slowly got dressed and went looking for some coffee. Richie's bedclothes on the couch were neatly folded and put aside; and a pot of hot Jamaica Mountain was already perking, next to a plate of croissants. Grunting, MacLeod recognized Margot's attempt at apology for yesterday's mishap.
"Hellooooo, MacLeod!" a cheery voice called to him, moments before a beaming face appeared at the doorway atop a well-fed body. "How are you this morning? Do you have the hangover?"
"No, Maurice," Duncan sighed, tearing a piece of croissant off and stuffing it in his mouth. "I just had a small accident yesterday. I'm fine."
"An accident? Poor MacLeod. I am sorry to hear that. And sorrier to tell you that the belle fille that was to meet you this morning went off with Richie instead. Ah, women," Maurice sighed philosophically. "La donna es mobile, no?"
"What pretty lady?" Mac asked, pouring himself some coffee, fairly certain it was Margot, but willing to let Maurice enjoy himself in ribald speculation for a while. His nearest neighbor was occasionally helpful in small matters dealing with the barge's management when he was out of the country. On more occasions, he was a nuisance and a snoop, but Mac still found him amusing---most of the time.
"The one who left you this letter, over an hour ago," Maurice leered, waving a white envelope in Mac's face. "On her way, off on the back of Richie's motorbike. She said it was your own fault for oversleeping."
Mac glared tolerantly at Maurice and held out his hand. Maurice pointedly and wistfully stared at the steaming croissants. "Help yourself," Mac said sardonically, and Maurice handed over the letter, then took one of the crusty rolls and happily buttered it.
Shaking his head, Duncan ripped open the letter, assuming that Margot was just telling him where she and Richie had gone, and maybe where to meet them for lunch. At the sight of the first words on the page, he froze, almost choking on a bite of bread. He read the letter through twice, then grabbed his coat and keys and headed for the door.
"MacLeod! Where are you going? Do you want the rest of these croissants?" Maurice yelled after him. Duncan didn't even slow down, running to the car, gunning the engine, and speeding away toward Le Havre.
Please God, don't let me be too late...
***
Stretching slowly, Richie could feel the tendons in his legs loosen up and shook out his arms to get the circulation going. Margot was already bouncing up and down, smiling at him in eager anticipation. Richie could see that her sword was a French cavalryman's, not too dissimilar from his own. The fact that she was smaller and lighter than he gave him a little confidence in the upcoming match---but only a little. She still had 600 years on him, and anyone who'd regularly fenced with Mac and Connor wasn't going to be any kind of slouch.
"Are you ready yet?" Margot asked as he stopped stretching and walked to the center of the clearing. The woods of Le Havre were half an hour from the barge, pretty and deserted, the sunlight filtering through the green leaves and casting a sort of amber glow on the scene. Margot had dressed in all black, almost looking like a cat burglar in dark leotard, black oversized tank top, and bicycling pants, her wild hair drawn back in a tight French braid and coiled at the base of her neck. Richie was wearing his usual sweats and tank top. The plan was to practice for two hours, then go back to the barge and drag Mac out of bed for lunch. If Maurice hadn't already woken him up so he could get to the croissants Margot promised him.
"Yeah, I'm ready. Prepare to eat grass, lady," Richie grinned, assuming a stance of readiness.
"In your dreams, child," Margot scoffed, then formally saluted him with her sword. "En garde!"
She was good, he had to admit it. They started off slow and easy, getting the feel for each other's styles; but she soon quickened the pace, and Richie responded, having to pay close attention in order to keep up. Being shorter, and not as strong, Margot had perfected her technique around dazzlingly fast cuts and jabs, stuff that wouldn't kill but that had already opened up a couple nicks on his arms when he hadn't been fast enough. Plus, she was quick, ducking his slices with ease, slipping behind him when he wasn't expecting it, anything that kept him off balance. Like now...
"OW! Damn!" She'd cut the back of his leg, making him lose his balance and fall on his butt. Margot laughed, her voice breathy and high-pitched, eyes glittering.
"You have to be more careful, Richard. Didn't MacLeod teach you anything about the importance of balance?"
"Yeah, everything," he retorted, fending off a few of her nonchalant parries and climbing to his feet with a wince. "Just not that particular move..."
"It is new, yes. Pay attention, Richard, it goes like this," Margot suddenly executed a move that came waaaay too close to his neck for comfort.
"Watch it!" he yelled, surprised and angry, then blocked her next couple moves with more concentration. "You could have---"
"Yes, I could have. Just like I could do so now," on 'now' her sword again came within an inch of slitting his throat, forcing him to respond with a really clumsy block Mac would've yelled at him for, but it still did the trick.
"I think you're getting a little too caught up in this, Margot," Richie said, breaking away from the woman for a moment, panting breathlessly, wondering why she was being so aggressive suddenly.
"You can not fight a completely defensive style, mon ami. You are far too self-protective. No surprise, you are still young. You must attack! Now, try those moves on me," Margot commanded, her face intent. "Do not worry. I will show you what to do."
Doubtfully, he attempted the move she'd almost gotten him with, and she blocked with a twist of the wrist and sliding move of the sword. "So. Not difficult, merely tricky. You must be ready. Again."
This time he almost had her; she stepped into the cut, and only his own reflexes kept him from really hurting her. "Now you're the one who isn't paying attention! What are trying to do, get yourself killed?"
Margot flinched. Richie stopped, surprised at the pain on her face, and asked, "What's wrong? What'd I say?"
"Nothing. Nothing," and a quick cut almost opened up his abdomen.
"Damn, you're sneaky. Does that wounded look work on a lot of guys, or only the chivalrous ones?"
"Only the very young ones," Margot said with a twist to her mouth, then stepped up the pace again, forcing him to really work to keep from being skewered. After about fifteen minutes he was ready to drop.
"Time out," he begged, wheezing, "It's been more than a month since my last practice. C'mon, just a little break---" and had to block again as a downward slice almost lost him an ear. "Margot!"
"No breaks. No timeouts. This is not football, Richard. This is to the death," Margot said coldly, her mouth set.
"Get real, Margot. You're my friend, this is practice," and then she kicked him in the knee, making his eyes bug out in pain, and forcing him back against the edge of the clearing. Her eyes narrowed in concentration. Limping and gasping, he backed up, defending himself and letting himself go on the attack more. This woman played dirtier than anyone he'd been up against yet!
"Bon! Better! Now, suppose I kicked you in the groin, like this," Margot said, suiting the action to the word. Fortunately, he'd moved fast enough that she only got him on the hip, but the pain radiated out from the side of his leg down to his toes. "Come now, Richard, what do you do?"
"This," Richie snapped, stabbing her through the thigh with a swift downward thrust.
The Frenchwoman grunted in pain, biting her lips, then smiled. "Now both of us limp... it is fair. But what if I really want your head, Richie?"
"Then I take yours first," Richie replied, feeling exhausted and irritated at himself, knowing that she'd gotten to him. "Okay? You've proved your point. I have to take this more seriously."
"No, I don't think so, Richard." Margot wasn't smiling anymore. "I think.... Perhaps...you must be made to understand---" and then she tried to behead him.
Incredulous, Richie realized this wasn't a game anymore, it was The Game, and started defending himself in earnest.
***
Duncan almost missed the turn to Le Havre, cursing and sweating, the headache pounding worse than when he'd woken up. He had to hope that he remembered the way to the clearing, even though it had been years since he'd been there. If he didn't, Richie would regret it for the rest of his life.
The note had been short, simple, and devastating.
Don't blame Richie, Duncan, it had started.
I'm not going to give him a choice. I like him, and respect him, and I'm sorry it has to be this way, but I have made up my mind. It is time I died; 654 years is far too long. I thought of asking you to do it, but...I decided it would not be fair. And you would try to talk me out of it. Richie is young, he will recover, and we have not been friends so long that he will grieve overmuch. Besides, you have had too much pain this year.
All my affairs are in order. The books were the last thing I had to take care of, and now they are in your hands, and you can retrieve the last one if you wish. Or not. It is your choice.
Tell Richie I'm sorry. Tell him thank you for me, afterwards. Don't let him feel guilty. You should be with him, when it is finished. I am taking him to Le Havre, where we used to practice.
Bon chance, mon ami. If anyone should win the Game, it should be you. But I...I do not wish to go a-roving anymore. Not by the light of the moon, or the stars... ever again.
Margot
It all fell into place: her mood swings, from guilt to desperation to gaiety; her intense need to retrieve the Watcher's books; why she was back in Paris at all. Not because she could finally stand to come back, or because she wanted to correct her mistakes, but to see Paris one last time, and say good-bye to him, and to ask him to kill her. Duncan wondered if she had changed her mind after he told her about Michael and Tessa. It didn't matter.
What mattered was stopping Richie from killing her in self-defense, stopping her from committing suicide. When Richie found out she'd used him to commit a strange form of hari-kari, he'd never forgive himself.
***
Richie was almost on his last legs, swaying back and forth with the final reserves of his energy, breathing heavily, muscles screaming in agony, sweat dripping into his eyes. She really wants to kill me! he thought, hardly able to believe it. But the last fifteen minutes of desperate combat had wiped away any thoughts he's had about this being a joke. His left wrist was wrenched; she'd dealt him a really nasty slice on the shoulder, and still she was coming, forcing him to fight for his life. He just couldn't figure out why.
"I thought you weren't in the Game!" he gasped, fending off another attempt to cut his legs. "I thought you hated killing people!"
"I said all that to put you off guard, Richie. Never take anything at face value," Margot taunted, then stepped back as he lunged for her, dancing out of his reach. The diffuse sunlight made her look no older than he did; the expression on her face, of mixed determination and aggression, was ancient in comparison.
"Not very nice behavior for a nun," Ryan pointed out, then got a breather when she stumbled over a root, giving him a second to catch his breath and regain his own balance.
"And how many nuns have you known?" the Frenchwoman asked, twisting around, her eyes wide with something---fear?
"C'mon, Margot, cut this out. We're friends," he pleaded, then he didn't get a chance to say anything for several minutes as she came at him furiously, her face screwed up in concentration.
"What is going on with you?" he asked as they wrestled, nearly face to face, Margot trying to force his own sword back toward his neck. Her face wasn't angry, or intent, or anything, except maybe desperate, and her eyes looked like those of a dying animal, wounded and in pain. "You don't want to do this!"
"Maybe. Maybe not. But you'll have to kill me to stop me," Margot said, then punched him hard in the diaphragm, forcing all the air out of his lungs, making him stumble forward onto her sword.
The pain was so intense he nearly blacked out. He looked down, disgusted and scared to see blood, a lot of blood, leaking out of his side. It felt like she'd gotten something major. "Wonderful. I'm gonna bleed to death, even if you don't get my head! That tears it," he snarled, and forced himself to bring his sword up and run her through the ribs.
A small screech of hurt escaped her lips as her eyes popped wide open in pain and surprise. Richie pulled his sword out, and saw the growing stain of blood start to spurt out of her torso. Margot stepped back and looked down at herself, gasping in short, painful breaths. "Well," she whispered, "finish it."
Richie leaned against a tree, trying to stop his own bleeding. "Okay," he said, trying to focus on her, but his whole body felt numb, and he could feel himself start to black out. "Okay."
"Now, Richie!" Her voice rose to a scream that abruptly subsided into a moan of pain as she dropped to her knees, her blue eyes closed in agony. "You have to..."
"Margot," he said, hurt and hurting, sad and angry, "why...?"
"Richie!" It took Ryan a minute to realize it was someone else's voice. Margot was in front of him, her sword looping crazily, her eyes clearly not taking in what they saw. She was whispering,"finish it, finish me, finish it" and her sword was coming awfully close again. He barely managed to block it, but it wouldn't have mattered; there was no strength behind her blow. Someone was running, coming closer; someone took his sword out of his hand, and supported him as he slid farther down the tree. Then the world dissolved into a gray mist as he died.
***
Duncan looked down at his friends in mingled relief, disgust, anger and pain. What a mess. Damn it Margot, couldn't you have told me what was going on? Shaking his head, Duncan picked up Margot and bundled her into the back seat of the car and Richie into the front, being careful to put their swords in the trunk where they couldn't get at them. It would be a while before they woke up, but he wasn't taking any chances.
Thank God Margot had failed. Thank God Richie had enough restraint not to behead her. And damn Margot and her suicidal plans. He was going to read her the riot act when she woke up. No, he was going to find out why she wanted to die, and why she wanted Richie to kill her---even if he did have a pretty good idea. But one thing was certain, he wouldn't be able to let her out of his sight for a while, until he was sure she wouldn't try this again. There were more than enough Immortals in the world who wouldn't stop short of taking her head, and they wouldn't be hard to find if she went looking for them.
Maurice wasn't on the barge any more, and the pastries were gone; Duncan carefully carried Richie into the spare bedroom, got him comfortable, and after a moment's thought, left Margot's note next to him for when he woke up. Then he went back and gently carried Margot into the living room and arranged her on the couch. Richie had gotten her through the lung, it looked like. Both of them had been covered in blood and gore, dried sweat and dirt from the intense combat. With gentle fingers Duncan pushed the loose tendrils of gold-brown hair out of Margot's face, then loosened the already disheveled knot so that her hair flowed free. She looked about fifteen; she hadn't been much older the first time she died, about nineteen or so. Skillful makeup and her intent facial expressions gave her face an extra half-dozen years when she was awake. Maybe he felt older than her right now because of the fallacy of her appearance; maybe it was because he'd never felt so lost that he'd wanted to die.
A little sigh from his friend alerted him to her renewed life. Margot's face was troubled, her brow furrowed in confusion before she opened her eyes to see Duncan sitting beside her, holding a glass of water. "Duncan," she mumbled, eyes wide and very dark, "what...?"
"Drink this," he said quietly. "You're dehydrated." She nodded, and Duncan could see the memories coming back as she drained the glass. She wouldn't meet his eyes when she put down the tumbler, her fingers trembling. MacLeod had no intention of letting her recover her equilibrium.
"That has to be the stupidest thing you've ever done, and I'm counting yesterday, the courier work, and that blind date you set up for me in Finland." She was still looking down at her clenched fingers, so he put his hand under her chin and forced it up so that she had no choice but to look at him. Margot was flushing dark red up to her hairline, and the tears were starting to well up again, but Duncan's voice was unyielding. "Forget for a minute that suicide is against all the teachings of the Church, and forget that you've got every reason to live. How the hell could you do that to Richie?" The anger he'd been restraining since finding himself standing over their bloody, dead bodies was boiling over, roughening his voice. He let go of Margot's chin with a jerk. "Not to bloody mention what it's doing to me. We're supposed to be friends."
"That's why I couldn't ask you," Margot whispered. "Richie told me about Tessa and Michael. How hard it was for you to do that. It wouldn't have been fair---"
"And I suppose it was a lot more fair to trick Richie into killing you," Duncan snapped.
Margot's eyes dropped again, and she swallowed painfully. "No. But Duncan, it had to be someone, and I wanted.... I wanted the Quickening to go to a friend. Someone I could trust, someone I respected."
"I thought it was something like that," MacLeod muttered. He shook his head. "Margot, look at me, damn it." She raised her head, but her eyes kept flicking away from him to all corners of the room, over his shoulder, back to the glass she held in her hands. "If you'd pulled this little plan of yours off, do you think Richie would have ever forgiven himself?"
"But that was why I left the note with you, so he'd know I wanted him to kill me---"
"You're missing the point!" Mac snarled, frustration with her pig-headedness overriding his best intentions to stay in control of the conversation. "That wouldn't have made him feel any better. It isn't going to make him feel any better when he wakes up! He's going to think he should have seen this coming. The same way I'm thinking I should have figured it out sooner! I knew something was wrong when we met in the cafe, but I thought you'd tell me what was going on eventually. So I didn't ask. If I'd made you tell me what was going on, I wouldn't have gotten scared out of my mind, trying to get to you before Richie had to take your head in self-defense!"
"I'm sorry," Margot choked, her voice aching with sorrow. "I didn't... I'm just so tired, Duncan."
"Sorry's not good enough, Margot. You're going to promise me, now, that you're not going to try this again. Ever," MacLeod added grimly, knowing how slippery she could be.
"I can't promise that." Margot's protest was made in voice full of pain and anger.
"Then I'm not letting you off this boat until you change your mind."
"You can't keep me here against my will, Duncan." Now she didn't even sound angry, just weary. She tilted her head back against the cushions, letting her eyes fall shut. "And you won't change my mind."
Silence descended between the two of them. MacLeod knew that part of what she said was true; keeping her here would be impractical if he couldn't change her mind. And he couldn't change her mind if he didn't know why she wanted to die, and give her a reason to go on living. "Margot...what could be so bad, that you wouldn't want to live? Did something happen?" he asked softly, taking her hands in his.
She was quiet for a minute, then lowered her head to meet his gaze directly for the first time since the interview started. No tears now, simply despair welling up from deep within her. "No. Not like you mean, I think. Nothing bad, or terrible, or any worse than anything else that has happened the last 600 years. I lost a few more friends this year...and Darius. Michael. It made me begin to think about my life, and what I have done with it. It made me realize that I am tired of the same thing happening, over and over. Kill or be killed...in the Game; in the arena of the world's nations'; on the streets of Paris. I'm sick of it, MacLeod. I don't want to kill anymore. I don't want to be killed anymore. I just want peace."
Duncan massaged her knuckles, noticing that Margot's voice was stronger, and her color a bit better. The healing was progressing well; which meant that Richie might wake up at any minute. He had to think of something, soon, to convince her not to try again, before this became more complicated. "You could go back into a convent again," he suggested tentatively.
"No." Margot half-laughed and shook her head sadly. "I wouldn't make a very good cloistered novitiate anymore. And the Church is no refuge if I stay alive. It didn't save Darius, did it? No, Mac. I want to die. I want an ending...can you understand that?"
"Well, I sure as hell can't understand it." Duncan gave a low groan and felt his shoulders sag at the sound of Richie's voice. "You don't want to live, so you decide to maneuver me into killing you? That's a really rotten trick, Margot." Richie stalked into view, looking a mess, hair sticking out every which way, his expression a mixture of incredulity and anger. He perched on the edge of the couch, eyeing Margot warily as if expecting her to attack him again. The Frenchwoman was giving him an equally guarded look as she bit her lip and pushed her hair out of her eyes. "I read the letter you left for Mac. Truly insane plan, Margot."
"Are you very angry with me?" Margot asked quietly.
"I'm beyond angry, lady, I passed that back in Le Havre. We're into full-fledged mad now. Didn't anybody ever tell you that killing yourself is wrong, and lying to your friends can take brownie points away from your halo?"
"This is not a joke, Richard---"
"Who's joking? I don't see anyone laughing, do you, Mac?" Richie's arms were crossed over his chest, his cocky attitude masking what Duncan knew had to be a certain amount of anger and hurt feelings with Margot. But the younger man wasn't letting it stop him from seeing what depth of pain she was in. MacLeod could only admire him for that, and mentally sigh in relief that the situation wasn't going to get any messier than it already was.
"No, no one's laughing," Duncan squeezed Margot's hand, bringing her attention back to him, and added, "and he's making sense. For once. It's wrong, Margot."
"I've lived longer than any human can expect to! I have no further reason to live; I have done everything, seen everything.... It is all the same, Duncan! And I want no more of it!"
"So I'm just supposed to look the other way, and let you set up a guillotine to chop off your head? Or not stop you from challenging any ambitious Immortal who crosses your path? Is that it? I'm supposed to help you?!" Margot's mouth was opening and closing, but no sound was coming out. Mac smiled in grim satisfaction, the beginnings of hope starting to stir in him. Maybe she wasn't too far gone.... "Forget it, Margot. It's not going to happen. As of now, you have a shadow, your own private guardian angel. Someone to make sure nothing bad happens to you."
Marguerite stared at Duncan in shock, then transferred that shocked look to Richie when he spoke up. "Sounds like a good idea. You take nights, I'll take days." Richie was smirking, and there was a definite note of wicked glee in his voice.
"What?" Margot gasped.
"Hey, being a bodyguard is hard work. Mac could use a break, right?"
"Right," Mac replied, still watching Marguerite.
"But, but, but...." Margot shook her head in complete perplexity. "I tried to kill you," she said in a small voice. "I mean, so you would kill me. So why...?"
"Because you're my friend. Even though you're really screwed up right now," Richie answered easily. "I'm still mad at you for that. Really mad. But like Mac said, it's not like we're just going to stand here and let you kill yourself."
"I am not your responsibility," Marguerite said in what was meant to be a haughty manner, but didn't quite work. "Or Mac's. I'm my own person, and now I want to end my life. If I had a terminal disease, and I was in terrible pain, you wouldn't stop me."
"You're not dying and you're not in physical pain," Mac pointed out. "You're depressed and angry and tired. That's not a good enough reason for us to let you commit suicide. If you die now, Margot, after we decided that we were going to protect you, we'd know it was because we didn't help you enough."
The Immortal woman's eyes opened wide and blinked twice, her mouth forming a stunned O. "You're trying to...to...what is the phrase...'guilt me'. You're trying to make it my fault if you feel bad when I die."
"It would be your fault," Mac said unrelentingly. "And I'd never forgive you. Just like I'd never forgive myself."
Margot's face crumpled, and she gulped, stifling a sob. "Oh. Oh. I didn't think of that...."
"I guess you didn't," Mac said gently, gathering her into his arms. Marguerite didn't fight him, just let him hold her as she sobbed hopelessly, chokingly. "Margot," Duncan said softly after a little while, "We can't make you want to keep living just because we want you to. But I think you ought to think of a reason to live, instead of a way to die. What you said before, about having done everything, seen everythingÑthat isn't true, and you know it."
She pulled away from him a little at that, scrubbing at the tears on her face with her fist and shook her head in frustration. "Yes, it is. I've been everywhere, travelled the world---"
"When was the last time you lived somewhere longer than a year?" Margot blinked at Duncan's question, and getting no response, he pushed her. "When did you do something that didn't have to do with relief efforts, or resistance movements, or helping others? Your whole life has been about serving others. That's what you wanted. But you've never done anything peaceful, never had a family, not even a dog or a cat. Right?"
"You know we shouldn't have families, it puts them in danger..."
"That's crap," Richie said. "I mean, yeah, it does put them in danger. But if what Mac's saying is right, you've never even tried for a real family. And you were telling me the other day that you were married when you had to protect yourself. What about then?" He cocked an eyebrow at her and grinned smugly.
"That was different, they knew I didn't want anything permanent, we were working for...causes...." Marguerite's voice trailed off and she bit her lip, confusion apparent on her face. "Perhaps...you are not....entirely mistaken. But," she looked from Duncan to Richie, and back again, her eyes wide and lost. "I do not know how to...do that. Live like a normal person. I...." Her eyebrows came together in a sharp V as she struggled to put into words what she was thinking. "I wouldn't know where to start."
"You get a house, then you get a job, then a cat. Then you meet someone, you fall in love, and you get married. End of story." Duncan grinned at her in relief. She wasn't going to kill herself now, he could tell. He could see the wheels turning in her brain, the way they always did when she was confronted by a problem. Only now the problem was saving herself, not someone else.
"It never works like that," Margot said without conviction. "Fairy tales...."
"How would you know?" Duncan asked, poking her in the ribs. "If you'd ever put down that torch you're carrying for Connor---"
"Connor? The guy you met in Italy was Connor?" Richie backed away from Margot's glare. "I mean, I thought he was dead, the guy you liked. Why don't you give Connor a call, see if he wants a roommate?"
"Why don't you mind your own business, Richard? And you too, Duncan," Margot snapped, pulling herself straighter.
"Marguerite," MacLeod restrained her from getting up, his arm around her shoulders. "We are only doing this because we care about you. How can you say you've lived, when you still haven't done all that? .When you've had a crush on the same man for four-hundred years, but never even told him? You can't kill yourself when you haven't finished living. That really would be a sin."
Margot was silent a long time, her face an unmoving mask, then she whispered so low that it was difficult to hear her, "Okay. You win."
"I win?"
"You win. I won't kill myself. At least...." She sighed and met Mac's eyes, her gaze honest and weary. "Not until after I try living like a normal person. And if I ever wish to die.... I shall call you. If you can't talk me out of it again, promise me you will take my head."
Duncan studied her intently for a minute, then took her hand and kissed it. "I promise. But I don't think you'll want to die."
Six months later... Seattle
"Hey, Mac! Look who we got a postcard from!" Richie flicked the postcard across the room to MacLeod as the Scotsman entered the dojo's office. "Looks like she's in Toronto."
Duncan turned the postcard over so he could read the sloping curlicued writing on the reverse side. The photo on the front was of Toronto's skyline at night. A short note was scrawled on the white space:
Mac & Richard,
I have the house now, and a cat... she
Duncan smiled. "Good. Maybe she'll stay in one place for a while now."
"There's one thing I don't get, Mac."
"Only one?"
Richie shook his head tolerantly at Duncan's teasing. "What's this roving thing that she mentions? She had it in her suicide note, too."
Mac was quiet, remembering a summer in Venice, and an afternoon with Michael, and Margot, and Connor. "It's from a poem by Byron, by the same name. About being tired... and wanting rest."
"I still don't understand why she wanted to die. I mean, there's enough people wanting our heads as it is! I can't understand just...giving up." Richie put up his hands defensively at Mac's glare. "Nothing against Margot, I'm not saying she's a coward. But I just don't get it."
Duncan gazed out the window, turning the postcard over in his hands absently. It was beautiful day in Seattle; light shining through the clouds, the trees showing their colors as fall brought the year to a close. But he was seeing a grave in Paris, and a pyre on the Plains; bodies piled high on a French battlefield, and plague victims in Corsica. "Live another hundred years, Richie, then read the poem. Maybe you'll understand it then."
*
November 11, 1793. Paris, Conciergerie Prison
1994
1793
1994
1793
1994
just made herself at home, it wasn't my idea.
I'm working at the local police department,
volunteer work with crime victims. It is
rewarding, and I feel I am truly helping others
again.
Connor may visit next Christmas.
Perhaps I will rove a little longer, after
all. I am not so tired it seems...
Amor et merci,
Margot
For the sword outwears its sheath
And the soul wears out the breast
And the heart must pause to breathe
And Love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon
---George Gordon, Lord Byron (1818)