| Chapter 5
Connor watched from a distance as Duncan began the long sword exercise again, weaving and thrusting the heavy claymore like it had no more weight than a child’s toy. Connor had never much cared for those muscle-cramping, exhaustion-inducing exercises, but they did build strength and endurance, and Duncan seemed to find them almost soothing, like the meditations Nakano had taught Connor in his travels to the East. Connor supposed it was a good thing, given that strength and endurance were currently Duncan’s best tools for survival. It would be decades before his student acquired the skills of a seasoned Immortal: a sophistication of technique that involved timing and speed, and reading your opponent so well that you could anticipate their every move. Both Ramirez and Nakano had been able to imbue Connor with that kind of awareness without him knowing even exactly how or when they did it. But their teaching skills were ancient and quite mysterious, while Duncan’s teacher was neither ancient nor mysterious, and his methods were of the more mundane variety. And that was part of their current problem. Duncan’s natural outgoing nature, so battered by years of abuse and despair, was at last reasserting itself, and it was making the prospect of another long winter in their isolated croft a kind of torture for them both. Duncan was now all too eager to wander out into the world where he would likely meet an untimely end. Or – almost as troubling – end their close kinship. For Ramirez had admonished Connor early in their relationship that once an Immortal had absorbed that first life-altering Quickening, he was no longer a student but a potential threat, a full-fledged competitor in the Game, and must be treated as such. Oh, they might remain friends, but their relationship would be forever altered and Duncan was not ready for that yet. He had much to learn yet about how to protect himself, not just in battle, but from unscrupulous men and women who would take advantage of Duncan’s trusting nature. But the tension between them had grown sharp and bitter over the last several weeks as winter grew near and they argued over whether it was time to abandon the croft and head south. Connor felt they should stay in the isolated safety of the croft, while Duncan had other ideas. Thus, after another exchange of sharp words the night before, the student had arisen before sunrise and was slashing and thrusting and parrying at invisible opponents, working off his frustrations. Connor left his student to his exertions, and after his usual morning chores headed for the horse pen to saddle his stallion. After a few minutes, Duncan appeared, leaning his forearms on the top rail of the pen. He had taken off his winter cloak as he had exercised, but now had it thrown over his shoulders even though his face was flushed and shiny with sweat. “So, you’re going,” he said, his breath making a small plume of mist in the chilly morning air. “Aye. I told you O’Brien was going to be in Aberdeen this month. It’s Huntly’s stronghold, and I owe Seamus at least an effort to get him free of the man’s clutches.” Connor looked up and met Duncan’s hostile eyes. “And no, you are not going with me. O’Brien writes there is someone asking around for me and if there is a challenge, you are better off here. You will only be a distraction for me to worry about. I’ll be back before the first snows.” Duncan looked away, off to the horizon for a moment. “I can’t say for certain I’ll be here when you get back, Connor.” Connor’s hands paused in his task and a wash of either fear or anger, perhaps both, tightened his skin. “If not, I’ll take the extra animals over to Sean MacDonald’s. He said he might be interested in buying them.” “Oh, they are yours to sell, are they?” Connor snapped. “No. They are yours. Everything is yours, Connor. Is that what you’re worried about? Well, dinna fash yourself, I’ll not take anything but my horse and my blade. Or do you think you own me, as well?” “No, but you’re my student! I am your teacher, and I, for one, take that very seriously.” Connor yanked on the girth and the stallion jerked his head and snorted in complaint. “Do you think you know all you need to know, then, lad? Do you think you can beat me, or any other Immortal? Do you care to try?” Connor pulled the katana out of its scabbard on the saddle and pushed the horse out of the way. But Duncan just stood, forearms resting on the fence, looking at him. “No, Connor. I know I can’t beat you. But you canno’ hide me away from any threat for the next century until I can, either. There are things to learn other than sword fighting, and I’ll hardly learn them here, will I? And I canno’ live forever on your charity. I must learn to make my own way in the world, Immortal Game or no.” Connor snorted and shook his head, turning to put his sword away. “You just want to find someone warm and willing for your bed!” he growled. “Well, get used to it. I once spent three years without a woman, and I lived.” Duncan laughed, his white teeth shining in the weak sunlight, and the tension between them eased a little. “Yes, but did you want to?” “You can’t make your life’s decisions based on the urges between your legs, Duncan,” Connor answered as he retrieved the stallion’s reins. “That’s nay what this is about, and you know it!” Connor clenched his jaw to contain his growing irritation as he put away his katana and tied down his saddlebags, checking one last time to make sure the water and provisions he had stored were secure. Then he led the horse out of the pen and closed the gate. He mounted, somehow feeling a little more secure on horseback, looking down at his student. Duncan wouldn’t leave, he reassured himself. This was all just a bluff to try to get Connor to take him to Aberdeen. Well, Duncan would learn that Connor MacLeod was not a man to be bluffed. “This is about you being so bloody cocksure of yourself that you think you are ready to take on another Immortal. Of you wanting to do it, isn’t it? You are a prideful fool, Duncan. A childish, prideful fool, and your very desire to leave is proof enough to me that you are far from ready.” He whirled away and kicked the stallion with a shout, urging him to a canter, forcing himself not to look back as he rode over the ridge and out of sight of the croft. His anger quickly evaporated and after a few minutes, he let the horse slow to a trot, cursing his clumsy tongue. It had not been that long since he had felt that wonder about what was just beyond the horizon. Indeed, that wanderlust had driven him across several continents, and called to him still. He was also painfully aware that just as Duncan had finally begun to get over all the hesitation and fear his banishment had caused, Connor had slapped him down once again. Ramirez and Nakano would be ashamed of him. Perhaps the person unready for the wider world was the teacher and not the student. He pressed his mount, wanting to get this trip over quickly. There were few real towns on the long route almost due east, and in four days he arrived, tired and dirty, to the twin rivers of Don and Din, now running along the joined villages called Aberdeen. The evening was gray and overcast, and the city’s granite buildings, which could sparkle like gems on a sunny day, all seemed heavy and squat. There were several inns near the waterfront where he was likely to find Seamus O’Brien and his ship, the Brigitte, but he thought it best, given his current tenuous relationship to the Lord whose lands dominated the area, to find an out of the way place closer to the edge of town.
The fresh morning air was tainted by the rank smell of tar and sweat and old fish, but despite the stench, the bustle and creak and sounds and smells of the busy harbor lifted Connor’s spirits and brought memories of happy months spent at sea. It had become a love of his, one not realized until well into his second lifetime – the freedom of riding the wind and the waves, the challenge of pitting his wits and strength against the vastness of mother nature rather than the petty meanness of human nature. One day he would own a ship, a fine three-masted caravel or brigantine fit to sail all the oceans of the earth, and he would travel across the world with no master but himself, and no foe but time and tide, wind and storm. He had been close to that goal until the call of Duncan’s burgeoning Immortal strength made him abandon his plans to find his own ship to transport the goods from the Far East, leaving the matter in the hands of Hamza Al Kahir, and ultimately, Seamus O’Brien. The reminder of his student hurried his steps. He needed to conclude his business here as quickly as possible, and get back to Glencoe and to Duncan. He would not lose the lad now. The young man had become far more than a student. He was a friend, the family he had lost when his village turned him out so long ago, giving him hope for the future and a sense of permanence that he had not even realized he had missed. He found a pile of crates stacked high and ready for loading and clambered up, seeking a higher viewpoint to examine the ships in port. The wind was a little fresher up high, blowing his hair away from his face, and chilling his cheeks. There were at least two dozen vessels rocking gently in the harbor’s gray waters, more than half of them round-bottomed local fishing vessels rigged with a couple of sails, their nets carefully gathered and tied to keep them from tangling. The pre-dawn catch had already been offloaded, and another wave of vessels would come in with the afternoon tide. But what interested Connor were the larger ships, of which there were eight, three of them snugged up against the dock, now being loaded or unloaded, the rest at anchor in the harbor, their masts rising like church crosses against the gray sky. Two were carracks, square-rigged on the fore and mainmasts, and lateen-rigged on the mizzen. Both ships were well-used, their paint beginning to fade and one had enough barnacles decorating her hull to dangerously slow her down, making her vulnerable to the pirates that that could dash out from shore and capture her before she got to open sea. Such lack of care irritated Connor’s personal sense of honor. A ship was like a living being. If you took care of her, she would take care of you and the men under your command. There were several brigantines of various sizes, probably bringing in goods from the Mediterranean, and a lovely three-masted caravel. It was large, almost 100 feet in length, with a brilliantly painted figurehead of a blondr, blue-eyed woman with braids trailing over her ample, but discreetly covered breasts. Connor couldn’t make out the name on her side from this distance, but he felt certain she was the Brigitte, named for Seamus O’Brien’s only daughter. Connor hopped down from the crates, a smile already forming on his face at the thought of being aboard a ship once more, and seeing his old friend and his daughter. Brigitte had been just a little girl in blond pigtails the last he had seen her, a sparkling-eyed child of obvious Viking decent who called him “Uncle Connor.” She had sailed with her da from the time her mother died when she was only six years old. No doubt she could haul up a mainmast with the best of them by now. He found someone to row him out to the Brigitte, and hailed the ship once she was within calling range. A moment later, Seamus O’Brien’s bald head could be seen at the side. “Is that you, Connor MacLeod?” he shouted. “Well I’ll be. Come aboard, ye old pirate! Brigitte! Come see who’s come to visit!” He had barely managed to heave himself aboard when he was tackled by a flurry of blue skirts and blonde hair, and found himself flat on his back on the hard deck. “Connor!” Brigitte shouted right in his face. “I canna believe it! By Jesus, Mary and St. Joseph, you are a sight for sore eyes. Did you get Da’s letter? Did that ugly man ever find you? Are you going to sail with us?” Connor took her shoulders to push her away and stand, trying to decide which question to attempt to answer first. The child was…well, she was certainly no longer a child. Near as tall as her da, she was broad of shoulder and her figure had certainly filled out, almost matching the somewhat idealized version of the ship’s figurehead. But before he could open his mouth to explain his presence, she wound her arms around his waist and looked up into his face with a huge grin. “I just can’t believe it,” she sighed, hugging him tightly. “You are exactly as I remember. I always told Da that you’d come back someday and marry me, and he teased me and teased me about it, but here you are!” “Uh...,” Connor’s mind suddenly blanked, and he carefully peeled her arms from around his waist. “Brigitte, I’m delighted to see you, too. Always loved you… like a daughter, ever since you were little,” he added quickly. Brigitte laughed aloud. It was the big, hearty laugh of someone who had never felt the constraining hand of society’s view of the way a ‘lady’ was supposed to act. “Well, I’m no’ little anymore, Connor MacLeod.” She rose up on tiptoe and gave him a hard kiss on the mouth. “And I decided long ago that you would be the man for me!” Connor cast a desperate glance at Seamus, who just rolled his eyes and made a poor showing at trying to hide a grin. “Well,” Connor said loudly, desperately casting about for some way to change the subject. “This is certainly a fine ship, Seamus. Have you found a good cargo?” He managed to disengage from Brigitte and move towards his old friend, who led him down through a narrow passageway and into the captain’s cramped, but serviceable quarters. “Well, that depends,” Seamus answered. “On whether I am prepared to do as Lord Huntly demands. First, he tells me I have to come here to deal with business, then dictates what cargo I’m to carry, then he charges outrageous harbor fees. The man’s impossible!” “Well, he’s hardly on my list of good friends, either, Seamus. That’s why I came, to see if, together, we could wrest the Brigitte from the bastard’s clutches.” “He might as well own her at this point,” Seamus replied, heaving himself into a chair with a sigh and restlessly stroking his shaggy, gray beard. “I’m hardly a captain of my own ship anymore.” “Well, I may have the means to remedy that,” Connor answered, finding a chair for himself. “I have some funds I can use to buy out the lien.” “Would that it were that simple, my friend. Huntly is not interested in having the lien bought out, and has found all kinds of reasons to refuse my efforts to pay it off. He wants my ship, and I think I know why.” Seamus leaned over to a small cupboard and pulled out a jug and a couple of glasses. “But at least I’ve found one benefit of dealing with his Lordship. Would you care for a sample of some of my latest cargo?” “That stuff’ll shrivel your brain,” Brigitte remonstrated, plunking a tray of wine and bread down on the table. “Or other, even more valuable parts,” she added with a glint in her eye, elbowing Connor. Despite himself, Connor felt his face get hot with what was a rare, but brilliant flush of embarrassment. Brigitte’s sudden ascension to womanhood, along with her aggressive sexuality, was very disconcerting. He couldn’t bring himself to think of her as anything but a child, and, well, the very thought of…his mind refused to go there. He gulped down a mouthful of the grog Seamus had poured, and coughed, his eyes watering from the fumes as the strong, raw liquor burned down his throat into his stomach. “Well,” he said, then had to clear his throat and cough again when his voice came out strangely choked and high. “We’ll have to find some way to persuade the good Earl that letting you out of the lien is in his own best interests.” “We could slit his throat,” Brigitte offered helpfully, perching on the edge of the nearby cot. Connor assumed she was joking, but Seamus glared at her. “None of that, now, girl! You’ll just get me into more trouble!” Seamus leaned closer to Connor, the fumes from the grog already thick on his breath. “She’s a good girl, but sometimes she gets a little… enthusiastic, if you know what I mean.” Seamus winked one eye slowly, and Connor nodded, even though he wasn’t at all sure he wanted to know what Seamus meant. He took another swallow of his drink, choking it down. Already he could feel the warmth spreading through his body, although he supposed he should worry when, after the second cup, he noticed his fingertips going slightly numb.
Someone was shouting something unintelligible, but painfully loud. The inside of his mouth was completely stuck together, and tasted vaguely like he had been drinking horse piss. And someone must have clubbed him to death, because his head felt like it had been stepped on by one of those huge things in Asia with long, wiggly noses, what were they called? Oh, yes. Elephants. He forced one eye open, and instantly shut it again when a stab of light went right to the back of his brain. It prompted a low groan that came from somewhere in his dry, ravaged throat, and he took a long breath, willing himself back into unconsciousness, but it wouldn’t come. He just lay there, wondering when his much vaunted, and sometimes incredibly uncooperative Immortal healing powers would make all this misery go away. He really should at least figure out where he was, just in case he was in a really vulnerable situation. The thought of another Immortal coming along prompted a second groan, though not because he was really worried that someone might take his head. Right now, that would be a mercy. But another Immortal would prompt that ugly vibration in the back of a head that was already vibrating sufficiently all on its own. He once again opened an eye, blinking over a gritty, dry eyeball to clear his vision. He appeared to be in the room he had rented. Well, he supposed that was reassuring. He certainly had no memory of how he'd gotten here, but he should probably be grateful he hadn’t passed out in some damp alley to be assaulted and robbed, or worse. Someone was still shouting though, and he wished to hell they would shut up. He raised his head to say as much, but the movement prompted a wave of nausea that generated a third groan, this one far more desperate. He looked around for the slop pot, stumbling out of bed, and barely found it in time, grabbing it and retching into it until nothing came up but bitter bile. “I told you that stuff would rot your brain,” a voice said behind him. He dropped the slop pot, almost spilling its disgusting contents, and groped for his sword, which was nowhere in sight. No, there it was under the bed, amid the tangle of the rest of his clothes. He dove for it, and sat up on his haunches, the blade raised, and could just see over the top of the bedcovers at the person who had made the comment. “Brigitte!?” he croaked. “Well, who else would ye expect, ye great Scottish oaf?” she answered. The heavy covers slipped a little, exposing her bare shoulders and she made no move to cover herself. “What the hell are you doing in my bed?” he asked. Brigitte laughed, pushing back the curtain of shimmering blonde hair that tumbled about her head. “Well, until a moment ago, when you started moaning like a wounded cow, I was sleeping. Were you planning to use that sword?” she pointed at his katana. “Or that one?” she pointed further down, and to his horror, Connor realized he was not wearing a stitch of clothing. He dropped his sword and dove for the floor, crawling under the bed to find his breeches. He pulled them out and forced himself to slow down, take a long breath and muster some small shred of dignity as he stood, turned his back on Brigitte and pulled the breeches on, making sure they were fully buttoned before he turned around. “Now, young lady, you should get dressed and go back to your da,” he instructed severely. “Da is still passed out in his cabin, and probably will be for the rest of the day. I must say, Connor MacLeod, you must have the constitution of a bull if you’re already up and about. I practically had to carry you up here last night. ‘Tis a good thing I am as strong as I am, to be sure.” She lay back, draped one arm languidly above her head, smiled and patted the bed beside her. “And now that you’re recovered from Da’s grog, let’s see if that constitution is useful for other things as well, aye? You certainly seemed willing and eager last night.” Connor took a long breath, trying to force his brain to actually think instead of just react. As he did, he realized the pain in his head had, indeed, diminished considerably. The shouting that had awakened him was merely a street vendor outside the inn, and it really wasn’t that loud at all. The panicked thumping of his heart slowed a little, and he managed a small smile. “If you had to haul me up the stairs, young lady, it hardly seems likely that I was able to…Christ, girl, what were you thinking?” Connor felt himself blush again. Discussing fornication with a child he had loved like a daughter made his tongue suddenly feel thick and unwieldy again, although his body was quickly sloughing off the effect of Seamus’ poisonous brew. He crossed over to the room’s one rickety chair and yanked up Brigitte’s shift, tossing it to her. “Now, dress yourself. You know you should be ashamed, crawling into bed with a man like that!” he scolded, and turned his back on her. He waited a moment, but finally there was sigh and a rustle of bedclothes and he could hear bare feet on the floor’s wooden planks. “It seems to me, Connor MacLeod, that you should be the one who is ashamed. Any real man would have…” “That’s enough of that talk!” Connor insisted. “I’m old enough to…to know better, and so are you. I think of you as a…a…a sister, Brigitte, no more. And you should’na go around climbing into strange men’s beds!” “Oh, pish posh!” Brigitte said as she flounced in front of him, and turned to let him pull and tie her stays. “You’re no stranger, Connor MacLeod. You’re my future husband, and I just wanted to…you know, find out what it was like.” “Future husband? Brigitte, I haven’t even seen you in almost six years! You cannot possibly love me, and you will have plenty of opportunity to find someone you truly care for.” "Oh, and how am I to do that? You know how long we spend in any one port, Connor? Maybe a few weeks, a month at most. I decided I’m just going to have to take what opportunities I have when a likely man comes along. And you are certainly more likely than the riffraff my father hires on for crew, or the men we meet in port.” “Do you mean you’ve done this before?” Connor yelled, outraged, yanking so hard on the stays that she stumbled. “Careful, or you’ll suffocate me!” she complained. “And what if I have? What man on the crew doesn’t seek his pleasures when we’re in port? Do you think women are any different?” “O’ course they’re different!” Connor shouted. “They’re… They’re women, for God’s sake!” He tied the stays in a clumsy bow and turned her around by the shoulders. “Well, that makes about as much sense as most men can manage,” Brigitte smirked, reaching up to tweak his nose before he could bat away her hand. “Stop that! And don’t think I believe you about chasing other men, you know. You’ve always played fast and loose with the truth.” “Oh, how can you say that?” Her big blue eyes widened in
a well-remembered expression he recognized from her childhood. “If
I told a few tales, well, was just to get you back for teasing me and pulling
my pigtails, and saying I’d never be a proper sailor just because I couldn’t
tie all those stupid knots you tried to teach me.”
“Oh!” she stomped a bare foot in frustration. “You…you think you know so much, Connor MacLeod! Well, I’ll show you what you’re missing!” She reached up, grabbed him around the neck and pulled him down, kissing him hard on the mouth. Connor froze as his body reacted automatically to the dangerously close proximity of a lush, female body, and his long-enforced celibacy. He found himself leaning in, his hands reaching for a small waist, beguiled by the smell and feel of a woman in his arms. Then common sense finally kicked in, and he pushed her off with a gasp and a shake of his head. He turned away and groped for the rest of his clothes, hoping to hide the lump of his rebellious cock now straining his all-too-thin breeches. “Stop that, Brigitte! We’re more like…like uncle and niece. You even used to call me Uncle Connor, remember? This…this is’na right, and you know it!” “I don’t know it, and neither do you,” she answered, matter-of-factly. “Why you can’t be ten years older than me, at most, and you’re nay my real uncle at all. You’ve got to admit it makes a great deal of sense. Da has a ship, he’s getting older, and he needs someone to groom to take over. You want a ship, and well, here I am, his heir an' all.” “You should marry someone you love, not just because your Da needs some security,” Connor answered stubbornly as he pulled on his boots and stood. He turned her and pushed her towards the door. Now that the grog had burned its way out of his system, he realized he was ravenously hungry. “You’re just being a stubborn Scotsman,” Brigitte announced, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “In time, you’ll come to realize I’m right.” “I doubt it,” Connor muttered, following at a discreet distance. Brigitte seemed not at all daunted by Connor’s continued insistence that he was not at all interested. Someday, hopefully soon, Brigitte would discover what real love felt like. In the meantime, he would have to be firm and clear about his intentions, or lack thereof. But it wasn’t going to be easy. In the meantime, they had the problem of the Earl of Huntly to resolve. According to Brigitte, the three of them had discussed the issue at length the night before. And while it seemed that neither Connor nor Seamus remembered the entire evening, much less the formation of any complex conspiracy against his Lordship, Brigitte recalled the conversation in perfect detail. All in all, given the men’s advanced state of inebriation at the time, it wasn’t a bad plan.
“Connor MacLeod, what a pleasant surprise,” Huntly greeted him, and while Connor didn’t doubt his visit was a surprise, he was certain Huntly didn’t consider it a pleasant one. “What brings you to Aberdeenshire?” Connor had ridden over half a day to Huntly’s estate, where the family’s ancestral castle was also built from the area’s abundant supply of granite. An impressive tower dominated one corner of the five-story structure, which looked like it had been built to withstand a heavy siege. Even so, the tower contained lovely oriel windows, with an ornate façade above and below, inscribed with the names of the first Earl of Huntly and his wife. The Earl met him in the Great Hall, where banners and tapestries and the fireplaces on every wall softened and warmed the otherwise dark, drafty room. A worktable and chairs were set near the main hearth at one end, where several large logs crackled noisily. The fire’s heat was too intense to stand very close, but further away than about ten feet, its warmth quickly dissipated in the big room. Huntly was dressed far more casually than when Connor had seen him in Edinburgh. The wig was gone, and his thin, graying hair was clubbed back into a neat ponytail. A well-made wool coat was layered over a vest and linen shirt, breeches and knee-high boots. Connor was even more wary of this less formal, genial Huntly, who attempted to put him at ease by offering him mulled wine and a selection of cheeses. “Actually, my Lord, I have a business proposition I thought might intrigue you, given your recent investment in the shipping trade,” Connor answered after they had exchanged ritual pleasantries, and he had settled into a chair to sip at the warm, spicy brew he had been served. “Really?” Huntly smiled at him. It was a slightly patronizing look, perfected over decades of dealing with what the man considered lesser mortals. The thought made Connor want to smile back, but he controlled the impulse. “And what made you think of me for this particular venture?” Huntly asked. There were many layers of implications in Huntly’s innocent question, and Connor had thought carefully about his answer to the expected query. Clearly, the man knew Connor had known who had tried to kill him and Duncan in that alley in Edinburgh. Connor would not only have no reason to trust Huntly, but might actively wish him ill. Connor conjured a hard, tight smile, meeting Huntly’s eyes. “Necessity, my Lord, and naught else, to be sure.” The Earl raised an inquiring eyebrow, and took a sip of his wine. “And what necessity is that, sir?” “You hold the lien on the Brigitte. I want to buy it out, but Captain O’Brien tells me you have refused to take anything but the scheduled payments on it, which will take another five years to pay off.” Huntly nodded. “True. I find the contract’s terms satisfactory and see no reason to change them.” Connor smiled into his cup. “I would, too, if it also meant being able to demand harbor fees, and to dictate the ship’s cargo, especially if the cargo was…questionable.” Huntly went very still for a moment, then rose, casually moving closer to the fire and turning his back to his guest. “If your proposition involves an attempt to blackmail me, Mr. MacLeod, you are making a grave mistake.” He turned, clasping his hands behind his back. “And where is your large and imposing fellow clansman, now?” he asked in a low, malicious voice. “I said I had a proposition, my Lord, not a threat,” Connor answered, forcing relaxation into his pose, leaning back in his chair. “You have something I want, and I believe I have something you might want.” “Oh? What could you possibly have that I would want?” Connor pulled an envelope out of his coat pocket and tossed it onto the nearby table. Huntly gave Connor a long look, but didn’t move. “I repeat, Mr. MacLeod, what could you possibly have that I might want?” “No curiosity, my Lord?” Connor asked in return, and the two men locked gazes for a long moment.
He moved closer to the fire for better light, and read through the long document, his glance going once to Connor’s face when he recognized what he was reading, then he folded the document and put it back in the envelope and laid it back on the table. “Well, that’s very interesting, but a Letter of Marque from the Elector of Prussia to some unknown Captain Volstov is hardly of interest to me.” “Isn’t it?” Connor asked. “What if I told you that I have sailed as the very same Captain Volstov of which the letter speaks, and that I have all the necessary documentation to create that identity, sufficient so that it could not be challenged?” Huntly was silent for almost a minute, first studying Connor, then turning to study the fire. “Interesting,” he finally said. “Let’s be candid, my Lord,” Connor offered. “You are sponsoring much of the privateering along the northern coastline, then transferring that stolen cargo to the Brigitte, in an attempt to sell it as legitimate. You’re going to get caught, sooner or later. Oh, you will probably convince the authorities that your involvement should be ignored, but it will not endear you to the King, whose sponsorship you so recently won, or the other nobles, who already view you with more than a little suspicion and distrust, if not active dislike.” “And why should my relationship with either the King or any of those bastards concern you, Mr. MacLeod?” Connor shrugged. “It doesn’t, but if you had someone under your control operating under a Letter of Marque, legitimately taking cargoes and selling them in foreign ports, it would be far less dangerous than trusting to whatever network of smugglers and privateers you are currently using, and certainly more profitable.” “Are you saying you would be willing to sail the Brigitte under a Prussian Letter of Marque?” Huntly asked, his eyes narrowed in distrust. Connor laughed. “No, my Lord. I’m saying I will trade you the Letter of Marque, along with all the necessary documents to have anyone you choose become this Captain Volstov, in return for you allowing the immediate payment in full of the lien on the Brigitte.” Huntly threw back his head and laughed out loud. “You must think me a proper fool, then! This is a trick, of course. Why would you trade me something so valuable for virtually nothing, since I would get the payment of the lien eventually anyway? What could possibly be in it for you?” “Because, my Lord, Captain O’Brien has agreed to deed me the ship when he retires, free and clear, but I won’t get her if she is impounded for smuggling, which she will be, eventually, if you keep forcing him to accept your stolen cargoes.” Huntly turned back to the fire, pulling idly at a lip as he thought about the proposition. “How do I know the letter is legitimate?” he finally asked, and Connor contained a smile of triumph. The fish was hooked. Connor pulled out another, larger envelope from his coat pocket and also tossed it onto the table. “There are the identity papers for Anton Volstov, an experienced captain about 30 years of age, of French and Russian descent. In addition, there are letters from a half-dozen brokers in various parts in Europe, acknowledging the Letter of Marque, who will swear they have known Volstov for half their lives. They will do so, my Lord, regardless of his current...incarnation.” Huntly looked through the papers, and finally raised his head, his eyes bright with greed and amazement. “I recognize the hand of some of these men. I deal with them all the time. How did you get them to…” Connor raised his hand to stop the question. “That is not necessary for you to know, is it?” he asked with a smile. Huntly chuckled and shook his head. “I suppose it isn’t, but it is something I would very much like to learn.” “Do we have a deal, my Lord?” Connor insisted, rising so that he could look down at the Earl, who clutched the packet of papers like they were made of pure gold. “If I leave today without one, I will not return.” Huntly looked at what he held with a dazed expression. “Aye,” he whispered. “I believe we have a deal, Connor MacLeod.” Within the hour, Connor had paid off the ship’s lien and received all the necessary documentation to prove that the Brigitte was free and clear of debt. The Earl offered Connor a bed for the night, but Connor had absolutely no desire to sleep under the roof of a man who had tried to assassinate him. Huntly seemed neither surprised or offended by Connor’s refusal, even though it would mean a long ride through half the night to get back to Aberdeen. Huntly walked Connor to the stables, and held his horse’s bridle for a moment as Connor mounted, preparing to leave. “Ride safely, Mr. MacLeod,” Huntly urged him. “There are cutthroats about in the woods.” The words were reminiscent of Huntly’s last warning in Edinburgh, after he had sent assassins to kill Connor. “There are cutthroats everywhere, my Lord,” Connor answered, meeting Huntly’s hard look. “You should be careful yourself. As I told you before, those with dark intent should be wary of a righteous man.” He yanked the reins from Huntly’s grasp and urged his horse to a trot, never looking back, and hoping he never had reason to deal with the Earl of Huntly again.
“He agreed?!” Brigitte squealed as Connor barely made it to the ship’s deck before she wrapped her arms around his neck. “Aye, that he did,” Connor managed to say, even though she was choking him. “Well, I’ll be. Your da must have been Irish, Connor MacLeod, for you surely have the gift.” Seamus beamed at him, his cheeks and nose reddened by the cold wind, and, no doubt, by the effects of Huntly’s illicit grog. “Come along, lad, and tell us all about it.” They went to Seamus’ cabin, where Connor showed them the papers proving the ship was free of Huntly’s lien. Even so, he was forced to relay his conversation with Huntly, word by word and gesture by gesture. He ended his tale with the final, ambiguous threat he probably should not have made. “So I suggest, Seamus, that you set out to sea as soon as you can. It will take no more than a couple of months for his Lordship to find out that the Letter of Marque was revoked over six months ago. In any event, you will not be able to do trade in either Aberdeen or Inverness for a good long while,” Connor advised. “Ah, that’s no hardship, for certain,” Seamus assured him, and offered him some grog, which Connor declined. “Scotland has become a wild, lawless place. More are leaving this land than are born to it, I fear. I can probably get a cargo of passengers looking to find a better life across the Channel. It may not pay as much, but I won’t have to worry about whether the goods are legitimate, or about the King’s bloody taxes on everything from wool to whiskey.” “Oh, Connor,” breathed Brigitte, leaning close to him, which made him scoot his chair as far away as the small space allowed. Despite his repeated assurances that he was absolutely, positively never going to marry her, she did not seem even slightly discouraged. “That reminds me, while you were gone, I was at a tavern near the docks…” “Dammit, Brigitte, you should not be wandering around there unescorted. It’s dangerous and you might get…well, it’s dangerous for a woman alone,” Connor groused. “Don’t bother, Connor,” Seamus sighed into his cup. “I’ve tried scolding her and punishing her. It does no good. She will do what she wishes.” Brigitte glared at both men. “That is right. I will do what I wish and no man will ever tell me different!” “That is not an attitude that is likely to get you a mate,” Connor sighed. “I don’t need to get myself a mate,” she replied smugly, scooting her chair next to his and slipping her hand through his arm. “I already have one.” Connor disengaged, and stood, finding a wall to lean against. “You were saying something about a tavern near the docks?” He would have done anything to change the subject at that point. “Oh, aye. I joined a bunch of lads who were talking about a man asking after someone named MacLeod. It sounded like the same man who had asked around the docks a few weeks ago. They said he was paying hard coinage for information, and someone told him he knew of a MacLeod who had been banished from his clan, who was now settled somewhere around Glencoe.” Connor’s skin washed with cold dread, and he pushed away from the wall. “Headed towards Glencoe? Do you think this was the same man you wrote me about?” Brigitte shrugged. “I don’t know. The man who asked about you said his name was Hyde, and that he was an old friend of yours, but he was certainly well armed. We told him nothing, of course, but it seems likely it might be him.” “Martin Hyde.” Connor whispered to himself. The mere sound of the name made the hairs on Connor’s arms rise. “I have to go,” Connor said, grabbing up his cloak. “No!” Brigitte cried. “You were going to sail with us, weren’t you? You said you eventually wanted the ship, I heard you and Da talking about a dowry, and I thought…oh, Connor, you can’t just leave me like this!” “Damn it, Brigitte, will you listen to me? Your Da agreed to give me this ship when he retired, and I agreed to provide a nice dowry for you, that’s all! There was no talk of marriage and never will be!” “But…” “Seamus, I have one favor to ask,” Connor turned to the old captain, hoping he was sober enough to remember his request. “Anything, Connor, you know that.” “Wait a week before you sail. If I’m not back by then, go on without me.” “I’ll wait as long as you like, Connor. Why don’t I…” “No! You need to get away from Aberdeen, away from Huntly’s influence as soon as possible. I don’t trust the man and neither should you.” “A week, it is then, old friend,” Seamus reached for Connor and crushed him in a hug, while Brigitte stood, brilliant red spots staining her cheeks and tears running down her face.
The stallion was heaving for breath with every stride. White lather streaked his withers, and foam was flying from his mouth, but Connor pressed on. He was trying not to think, trying not to feel, but the image of Ramirez’ headless body wouldn’t stop haunting his tired brain, alternating with the last image he had of Duncan, those dark eyes glittering with anger and resentment. Connor should have known not to leave him, not that way, not feeling as though Connor didn’t trust him, didn’t feel he was good enough, smart enough. Truth be told, whatever his experience as a swordsman, Duncan MacLeod was a better man, a more caring man, a man who opened his heart to others in a way Connor had never been able to do. And Connor had walked away, abandoning his student. More than his student. His kinsman, his clansman, and the best friend he had ever had. He cursed himself again, spurring his faltering horse onward. The stallion stumbled and almost went down, and Connor pulled him up at last, both man and beast heaving and gasping with exhaustion. Still, Connor urged the horse forward at a trot, and the loyal animal obliged, but his head was drooping and Connor knew he had been pushed to the end of his strength over the last two days and a hundred miles. Taking pity, but still determined to press on, Connor dismounted and walked so they could both cool down and catch their breaths. It was fortunate, or perhaps thanks to Fortune Herself that he did so, or he might not have smelled the faint tinge of woodsmoke, might not have looked in that direction, might not have been drawn off the trail to find out if a fellow traveller had recently seen a tall, dark-haired man in MacLeod tartan. Twenty feet off the trail, Immortal Presence stopped him cold. He dropped the horse’s reins and pulled his sword from its scabbard, moving forward cautiously, his heart pounding in his chest. If it was Martin Hyde, then he needed to clear his mind from all this turmoil and guilt and fear, for Hyde was an expert swordsman of vast experience. Connor had won against better swordsmen, but it was partially luck, and partially the cold determination to win that drove him to never, ever concede defeat. Connor wrapped himself in that crystalline void, and stepped over a rise, the katana raised to strike. A man stood at the far end of the clearing, legs wide, claymore held in both hands. He had thrown off his cloak, and his long hair was wild around him, drifting in the evening mist that swirled in the small valley. He looked like he had been formed from the very soil and trees of this wild land, and as Connor realized who it was, an overwhelming sense of relief struck him like a blow and he stumbled, his knees suddenly going weak. “Duncan!” he gasped, his momentum carrying him forward. Even as he moved, all the fear and guilt that had been roiling in his guts for the past two days broke free and became white-hot anger. His strides lengthened as he approached, and he grabbed Duncan by the shirtfront and pushed him hard up against the nearest tree. “What the hell do you think you are doing here!? There’s an Immortal out searching for you. You should be halfway to France by now!” Duncan shoved him away but Connor only backed off a step. “I couldn’t let him go on killing people. I had to stop him,” Duncan insisted, his mouth set in stubborn resentment. “You? You were going to stop him? Are you mad?” Connor realized he was shouting, and wondered distantly where all his cool detachment had fled. “No,” Duncan answered coldly, crossing his arms and stepping towards the campfire and away from his teacher. “I’m not a fool, Connor, despite what you may think. I rode towards Aberdeen, looking for you, because I knew I was no match for him, but he kept killing innocent people and leaving a piece of MacLeod tartan in their hands! What was I supposed to do? If I had tried to ride all the way to Aberdeen, I would only have exposed more people to Hyde’s blade.” “He was baiting you, Duncan. Trying to weaken you so you would be an easy target.” “No, Connor.” Duncan whirled back towards him. “He was killing deliberately to drive me towards you, like a child runs to its parent when they are threatened or uncertain, and when I realized that, I stopped running. I had no choice. If I didn’t face him, more people would die.” A cold fist grabbed Connor’s heart and held it still. “You fought Martin Hyde?” A snort of laughter escaped, and Duncan moved away to pull a few pieces of wood from a pile and toss them on the fire, sending up sparks and smoke into the cold air. “I don’t think it would rightly be called a fight. He threw me around like a child, then said he had no desire to fight a nobody, that I was not worth the time, and he rode off, leaving me lying in the mud.” Perhaps it was just relief, but Connor’s mouth insisted on curling into a smile at that image. He quickly turned away to retrieve his horse and valiantly refrained from saying anything further. Duncan’s safe proximity, and the familiar chore of unsaddling his poor, exhausted stallion and wiping the beast down brought him some much needed peace of mind and body. He joined his kinsman by the fire, where Duncan was roasting a couple of small rabbits. The sun was setting quickly, and the chilly mist settled around them like a shroud. Connor shivered as the cold seeped through his sweat-soaked clothes and into his skin, and a deep, aching tiredness settled in his bones. Duncan wordlessly handed over a skewer of roasted meat, and for a while the two men concentrated on their food. “We need to leave Scotland, you know,” Connor finally broke the silence as he sucked on the small bones, then wiped his fingers on his kilt. Duncan nodded, his eyes a flickering reflection of the fire’s embers. “Best to do it now before the winter storms make the Channel crossing dangerous.” “To France, then?” “Or Italy. I have a home in Ravenna.” When Duncan didn’t comment further, Connor prodded a little. “It was nothing to be ashamed of, Duncan. You are a good, strong swordsman. But Hyde is a killer with centuries of experience who has taken many, many Quickenings. I have lived for a century and had two of the finest Immortal teachers in the world, but I am not at all sure I could take him.” Duncan threw the bones from his meal into the fire, sending flames and sparks up into the dark. “And I am thirty years old, Connor. A man, not a child. If I am to be an Immortal, and not a burden to you, and if I am to live for centuries and fight to survive, then I must not take centuries to learn the ways of Immortal battles. I must learn now. From you, from others if I must, from the very best there are, no matter how long it takes until I am the best there is. And I will learn, Connor. I will not be humiliated like that again.” Connor chuckled, but held his hand up at Duncan’s dark look. “I’m not laughing at you, Duncan. And if anyone can take on that task and succeed it is you, but humiliation awaits us all, no matter our skill with a sword or all our wit or strategy. It is only a matter of time and circumstance.” Duncan’s mouth twitched into a grim smile. “Aye, well, at the rate I’m going, it will be an all too familiar one.” They headed out in the morning, moving directly east, back towards Aberdeen. They just had time to catch O’Brien before he sailed, hopefully leaving Martin Hyde far behind.
Duncan had been quiet and subdued on their hard ride, not even perking up as they reached the outskirts of the city. Connor should have been glad, he supposed, that Duncan had learned the hard lesson of misplaced confidence and arrogance without managing to lose his head. But it had taken a long time for Duncan to emerge from his shell, and his encounter with Martin Hyde was definitely a setback. “Have you ever been to sea?” Connor asked as they made their way on the cobblestones down towards the dock, after selling both their horses to a stable and arranging for the rest of their to be gear stored in trunks and delivered to the ship. “Aye,” Duncan answered, without elaborating. “When was that?” Connor probed, hoping Duncan would open up a little. After all, they were finally leaving to see the wider world, just as Duncan had wanted. “A fisherman and his family took me in for a season after…after I left Glenfinnan,” he answered. “He took his boat into the outer Hebrides and we spent days out there. They were very good to me, but I had to leave.” “Why?” “We were caught in a storm, and landed on an island with a monastery. I…I wandered into the chapel and…” Duncan stopped talking, but continued to walk, his chin tucked tight into his neck. “And what?” Connor stopped Duncan with a hand on his arm, sensing this was something important that the lad had not previously discussed. “I had a vision,” Duncan answered so softly Connor barely heard him. “A vision?” Connor repeated, then inwardly cursed himself for sound disbelieving. “It was nothing important,” Duncan snapped and resumed walking. But Connor grabbed Duncan’s elbow and brought him to a halt. “Tell me, Duncan. I want to know.” Duncan crossed his arms, looking away, a strange, distant look on his face. “I saw…an old man, pointing me towards the east. The voice said… Oh, this is ridiculous,” Duncan sighed. “It wasn’t real. I was just tired and hungry.” “Dammit, tell me what you saw!” Connor insisted. “I don’t think you’re mad, Duncan, if that’s what worries you. I, too, have had strange dreams.” Duncan signed tiredly, shaking his head. “This was no dream, Connor. I just know I ended up at Strathconnon forest as though I were driven there, where…something happened. It helped me decide to join the MacGregors, and that’s where you found me.”
“All right, lad,” Connor sighed, squeezing Duncan’s shoulder, and turned
them towards the river. They eventually reached the ‘auld Brig o’Balgounie’,
with its single Gothic arch stretching over the black waters of the Don,
and crossed over towards the harbor.
“Oh, she’s beautiful,” Duncan said in awe as they approached the side of the Brigitte. “And she’s so big!” Connor smiled, since he wasn’t sure whether Duncan was referring to the ship, or the ship’s buxom figurehead. “The figurehead is a rather idealized image of Seamus O’Brien’s late wife, and the ship is named for his daughter,” Connor informed him as they bumped gently against the side, and he helped Duncan reach for a line to haul himself aboard. Connor supposed he should have mentioned the problem of Brigitte to Duncan earlier, but he had been trying not to think about the tortuous prospect of being isolated on a ship with her for days or even weeks at a time. He pulled himself over the side, steeling himself to be tackled by a flurry of skirts once again, but he reached the deck without incident, and turned at the unexpected silence. Brigitte was standing with her mouth slightly open, her cheeks flushed, her blue eyes glazed over, staring at Duncan. Duncan was staring at Brigitte, no doubt surprised to find the image of the ship’s figurehead appearing in very real and vibrant life.
Brigitte took one tentative step forward. “Your cousin?” her voice squeaked. “I mean, I’m so pleased to meet you, Duncan.” She drew out her pronunciation of the name, as though the very sound of it had slightly immobilized her tongue, and then… she curtseyed. Connor’s mouth dropped open. He couldn’t recall ever having seen the girl curtsey before. He and Seamus exchanged amazed glances, then turned as Duncan smiled and spoke. “Delighted to meet you, Miss O’Brien,” he said softly, taking her hand and kissing it like a seasoned courtier. Seamus sidled over to Connor. “Well, old friend,” he whispered. “I think we’ve solved your problem, but who is going to solve your cousin’s problem?” Connor chuckled. “There are some problems my cousin will have
to solve entirely on his own.” Louder, he announced. “Why don’t
we go below decks, Duncan? Captain O’Brien has some remarkable grog
you must try.”
|
Connor
smiled. “Brigitte, I’d like to introduce you to my cousin, Duncan
MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.”
