This My Reward For Patience

Fandom: 15th & 16th Century CE RPF, Henry V – Shakespeare, Highlander, Irish Mythology
AU: Eternal Plantagenet
Word Count: 10,522
Characters: Henry of Monmouth | Henry V of England, Methos, Montjoy, The Morrígan

Methos convinces Henry of a less violent path, and offers him a potential reward for patience. Henry asks for one thing, but only if another is willing.

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Dawn has barely broken when Henry is awake once more, stirring up his own fire before sending for breakfast and Robert. His other advisors will be curious why he spoke first with his newest favorite, but glad enough of a few more hours of sleep. And they’ll content themselves with what he allows them of his plans, for they’re none of them wanting to soil their hands with the darker aspects of achieving his ends.

A meal is laid out on a table near the hearth in his room before a still sleepy page announces Robert’s arrival. Henry turns, and waves Robert in. “I hope you slept well, my Lord Wellesly.”

“Well enough.” Methos smothers a yawn of his own, and helps himself to a seat. “Though in truth I’m not particularly fond of mornings.” His sleep had been a welter of confused dreams, in which Henry had worn Kronos’ armor and war paint, and Kronos had worn a priest’s robes and preached peace as Methos’ blade took his head off. “I hope Your Majesty also slept well.”

“In truth, I sleep better when I am a soldier, and now is no little the same to that state. I reckon I shall sleep less well when I am once more king, no matter the right of my claim to the throne.” Henry dismisses the page, giving the boy leave to return to his bed and his sleep for now, and settles across the table from Robert. “My dreams, though, were filled with ghosts. Some pleasant, but not all.”

“Wait until you’re my age,” Methos tells him. “The ghosts don’t restrict themselves to dreams, then.” He leans back in his chair and stretches his feet out towards the fire. “It seems as if every other person I meet looks like someone long dead.”

“Perhaps they were once that person.” Henry doesn’t particularly like that idea, but it had been one he’d heard much of while traveling in the east, guarding a caravan through India. “Although if that were true, I shall hope never to meet anyone who much resembles any of my brothers, nor anyone else who I once called kin.” He gestures at the meal, simple enough fare, but good. “That all aside, do break your fast with me.”

“Gladly.” Methos is fairly sure that Henry’s nobles won’t appreciate the favor the king is showing the newcomer in their midst, and doesn’t care. “My thanks, my lord.” The food, while hardly fancy, is filling and tasty, and a vast improvement over the rations he had been living on before joining Henry. “Is there some particular way I may be of service?” he asks, and firmly pushes aside the thought of going to his knees before Henry here and now, offering him a service Methos knows the man would never ask for.

Henry takes a long moment to gather his thoughts, and to eat some of the bread and cheese himself before he speaks. “I wish to talk more of your other skills, those that pertain to death.” And to life, and to bringing back those who have been long dead. It’s something that he doesn’t know how he’ll explain to his current council, but there are some he thinks he’d sacrifice even his throne to have by his side once more. “Is there a manner of hiding that they have been brought back, that those who serve me now will not call it necromancy and darkest sorcery?”

“It’s not as if anyone will be able to tell by looking at them, save perhaps another deity. If the person you have in mind is long-dead, simply have them use another name, and pretend to be a younger relative of their true self, to explain the resemblance. I have been my own son, grandson, cousin and nephew, and other Immortals do the same, with good results.” Methos breaks off some cheese for himself before continuing, “If that’s not concealment enough, use another body. Men die every day, and it’s a simple enough matter to give an older spirit a new face upon their return.” He’s never done any of this, but as he speaks, he knows that it can be done.

“I’ll not have him forced to change his face, though I would think he should best change his name.” Henry chuckles, a half-smile crossing his face. “He was Jehan, Montjoye King of Arms. And I could, I think, pass him off as an old friend come across from France, but not if he were to appear here without arriving. If, though, I should ask you to take a message to him – to bring him back somewhere that I and my men are not – it would be less a concern, I think. And if none might tell save that they have your sort of power, than that might be all that is needed.”

“I am yours to command,” Methos murmurs. He’s never put himself entirely at any ruler’s disposal, and he’s curious as to what Henry will do with him and his abilities. He hadn’t expected that the king would wish to start by bringing a friend back to life. “Still, I will confess to being somewhat surprised. I half expected you to ask for Elizabeth’s death, or for the deaths of certain of her supporters. It’s not often that I’m surprised these days, and even more rare for the surprise to be a pleasant one.”

“Elizabeth’s death will not come so easily. Her supporters shall face the executioner’s block if they do not surrender and submit to their proper king.” Henry’s genial cheer fades somewhat, and he reaches for more bread. “She I can but exile or imprison; I’ll not make so foolish a mistake as to execute an annointed monarch. Nor may I be seen to condone her murder, or else I risk the same as I would in executing her.”

“Have you thought about how you’ll make them aware that you are the rightful king?” Methos asks. “After all, at this point, most of them think you the sort of would-be usurper you think her to be. And while I understand your reluctance to put her to death, I should perhaps point out that anything short of execution will only leave you with a determined and courageous adversary. Elizabeth is no fool, and no coward, either. She is her father’s daughter, and her mother’s – and both parents were formidable, despite the view the general public now takes of them. Henry was an able monarch, and Anne Boleyn overthrew not only a Queen, but those nobles who would have supported her as well.”

That is one thing that Henry has been working on – in some ways, ever since he had woke from his own death. Matthew may have convinced him to leave his old life behind, but he’s never been truly willing to leave England behind completely. There is nothing – and no one – that has been more important to him.

“I have a geneology, and save for the first in the line, they were all descendents of mine.” The one he claims is his own bastard son is himself, in the first lifetime after his death. He’d even named as his mother one of the few women he’d arranged an allowance for, though she hadn’t been his mistress, nor borne him a child. Merely a night’s dalliance, a foolish decision of a young man frustrated with the result of an argument with his father. “The first was myself, though I claimed to be a bastard son of my own self.”

“That’s a common enough ploy among Immortals,” Methos says. “The difficulty, however, lies in the fact that a bastard cannot inherit his father’s honours, especially if those honours include a throne.” He drums his fingers absently on the arm of his chair, turning the pieces around in his head in an effort to make them fit. “A king can grant legitimacy, of course, and forging the necessary documents wouldn’t be terribly difficult.

"Still, faced with a choice between a queen whose lineage and habits are already common knowledge and a hitherto unknown line whose origins are suspect and whose tempermant is a mystery, the average person is going to stick with the devil they know. I hate to say it, Your Majesty, but I fear that Elizabeth will *have* to die before your claim has any chance of gaining any real support. The people have had enough upheaval lately. They want stability and safety and peace, not another dynastic war.”

Henry drew in a deep breath, a grimace crossing his face. “I will not execute her.” Which means drawing her out into an all-out battle, where she can be killed as honorably as one might kill a woman, in the midst of battle. “If she shall have to die, so be it, but I will not execute her, nor will I have her murdered; such is not how I will reclaim my throne, no matter what she may be.”

Or perhaps, if he must, he will negotiate with Elizabeth, but not yet. Not until he is making his offer from a position of strength – just as he did when he fought France, when he claimed the throne there. “If she will not be drawn into battle personally, then I will remove her strongest supporters, and make myself her best option for peace and stability.”

“Have you considered marrying her?” Methos asks. “She’s turned down every suitor who’s come in search of a match, but if you can make her see that you’re not only a serious threat but a legitimate claimant, you may be able to put her in a position in which she has no choice. After all, she has no heirs of her body, and is too old to remedy that difficulty. Marriage to a younger man with his own legitimate claim to the throne will secure the succession and prevent upheaval after she dies.” He studies Henry appreciatively for a long moment before continuing. “Continued stability may not be the only thing that would appeal to her. She has an eye for beauty, and a liking for it as well – and though she’s past childbearing age, she’s not yet old. She’s not unattractive, and the combination of her throne and her mind could very well compensate for any physical shortcomings she possesses.”

A wry smile curls up one corner of Henry’s mouth a moment. “I had not yet considered such a thing, and I think such an offer should not be made until she has fewer supporters.” Deaths that must not be traced back to him and his claim on the throne, or his bid will fail. “I shall think on it, though I should perhaps, before then, make it clear I should be open to such a thing, rather than appearing to be merely a soldier who surrounds himself with his men.”

“I certainly wouldn’t recommend making the offer save from a position of near-equal power,” Methos agrees. Taking a sip of his beer, he lets himself sprawl back in his chair, utterly relaxed. “She’s already turned down several suitors, all with more to offer than a claim to her own throne that she believes to be false. Nevertheless, I think that, should the approach be made properly, she would at least consider it.” He certainly would, were he in Elizabeth’s shoes. “The matter of succession has been a thorn in her side since she was crowned, and I believe her to be intelligent enough to see that she could solve that problem and the problem of your claim in one stroke. Also, from what I know of her, she would appreciate a husband with a mind that could equal her own, especially if she intends to entrust her kingdom to him after her death.” This time, he doesn’t bother to hide the appreciation in his own gaze when he looks at Henry. “She’s also young enough to enjoy your physical appeal as well as the mental and political benefits of such a union.”

Henry laughs, grinning at the blatant appraisal. “And I shall freely admit, her beauty has not gone unremarked among even those who most dislike her. It would not be a hardship, one such as her.” This is not a conversation he would have with his other supporters, either, not yet. Not until he has secured his chance at the throne, and need only to make it more legitimate in the eyes of the people of England. “But she is not one I can consider at the moment, and I am not of a mind to be solely interested in women, though I cannot openly be known to be interested in any man, no matter how comely or interesting I might find him.”

“That sort of interest is best kept a secret, shared only by the two parties involved,” Methos agrees, one corner of his mouth curving upwards in a half-smile, “especially given the disapproval the mortals in this time and place have for those whose tastes tend in that direction.” He’s enjoying this somewhat oblique fencing a great deal, even though he’s not yet sure whether or not it will achieve his object. He’s wanted Henry in his bed since their first conversation, but isn’t willing to give up the most interesting thing he’s come across in the last two hundred years for the temporary pleasures that can be found between the sheets. Still, Henry’s reaction had been encouraging, and the man’s intelligence is at least as much of a temptation as his body. “And as you’ve no doubt realized, my liege, I’ve a great deal of experience at…keeping secrets.” Outwardly, he seems as relaxed as ever, but inwardly, he’s practically vibrating with the desire to do something, waiting for even the smallest sign that Henry is interested, rather than merely inclined the same way.

Tilting his head, Henry smiles. “Secrets are easier to keep when you have a roof over your head that does not have several military leaders whose loyalty is paramount. And these I do not think are as willing to keep such a secret as were my brothers and uncles. I should hope that there might be a chance at more privacy later, though I fear it might be a lifetime. Much to my disappointment.” For a king has less privacy than even a man who wishes to become a king.

“Privacy can be created,” Methos points out, “either here or elsewhere.” He returns Henry’s smile with a faint smirk of his own. “Death, after all, is everywhere and anywhere, and can be as invisible as it can be ostentatious.” He lifts an eyebrow, his expression almost a challenge, daring Henry to take him up on his obliquely-stated offer. “Time and space mean as much as I want them to – no more, no less. I could put twenty men inside Elizabeth’s castle within minutes – or you yourself, when you decide it’s time to approach her – as easily as you can cross this room.” He leaves the rest unspoken. Henry is more than capable of connecting the dots.

Henry is silent for a moment, watching Robert with a speculative expression. The idea of making time, of having the privacy and space to indulge in an interest that most would not tolerate, is greatly appealing. “I would not ask that you put anyone into Elizabeth’s castle – anything which I shall say to her must come, by necessity, from less suspect methods.” He smiles wryly a moment. “Privacy, though, I should think a better thing to put such a talent to use for.”

He would ask it, too, for a chance to perhaps have time with Montjoy – if, indeed, the herald will be inclined to be more than an advisor and a friend. Though he had thought there was perhaps a chance, it was something that had never come to be, between their respective stations and positions.

“I and my talents are yours to command – publicly or privately.” Methos returns Henry’s smile with one of his own. He’s served kings before – and ruled them, as well – but never so openly, without holding some part of himself or his abilities in reserve. “I’m looking forward to seeing what use you will make of them.”

“For now, I should think that your aid in identifying those who would be swayed best to my cause, and those who are powerful allies of Elizabeth who are too loyal to be brought over, will be enough of a start. And some attendence upon other matters which we have discussed, when there is time to do so.” Henry reaches out to clasp Robert’s shoulder. “I shall be glad to have you as close advisor, and perhaps too, as more, in time.”

He wishes more to have Montjoy back to him, but that too, he will have to leave for a while yet, until he can safely send Robert to ostensibly take a message to an old friend in France, and bring him to join Henry. Bring him back from the realms of those dead and moldering, into a life where hopefully his strongest ties will be to Henry, rather than to France.

“As I said – I’m yours to command.” Methos laughs. “Until I get bored, anyway.” He tips back his mug, finishing off the last of his beer. “What sort of inducements are you planning on offering? I can give you a list of names belonging to those who would willingly defect for a price, but anyone who would do so once will likely do so again. After all, to the uninitiated, your claim to the throne is fairly groundless. Anyone who does swear you fealty is, in a sense, betraying their lawful sovereign, and such men can only be trusted so far, and no further.” He taps his fingers thoughtfully on the arm of his chair.

“The first step, I think, will be to establish beyond a reasonable doubt that you do have a legitimate claim – difficult, yes, but not impossible – and to establish it with a completely neutral authority. There’s also the question of religion. There are many Catholics who would be willing to join you if you promise to restore their faith to what they believe is its proper place. It would alienate those who don’t wish to bow down to the Bishop of Rome; nevertheless, it would also ensure you the good will – and possibly even the direct aid – of not only the Vatican, but the Catholic monarchs of Europe as well.”

“As I have said, I shall not care to interfere in the worship of God by anyone, Catholic or Protestant, even the Muslim and the Jew, save those that use their religion to support political ambitions.” Henry knows it will gain him few supporters in the monarchies of Europe, Catholic or Protestant, but perhaps it will gain him some supporters in their people, who wish only to worship in peace. “And thus, I shall not overturn Elizabeth’s Church of England, but nor shall I force Catholics to abjure their beliefs and adhere to the practices of their Protestant neighbors.”

“That,” Methos says dryly, “is a reasonable, humane attitude guaranteed to infuriate absolutely everybody. It also means you’ll be voluntarily laying aside a potentially formidable weapon. After all, under Catholic law, Elizabeth is illegitimate.” He shrugs. “Of course, if you are seriously considering a political marriage, it’s probably best to leave that particular weapon sheathed.” Methos hesitates for a moment before continuing. “If I may ask – are you capable of siring heirs? I ask only because my kind are not, and if you are similarly afflicted there are ways around the difficulty.”

“My son who was king as Henry VI was blood-kin of mine, and I have had children since, as well. Indeed, the geneology which I hold is that of my own descendents, and the eldest of the direct line has been content to claim me as his son, as none of those his wife bore have lived beyond their youth. He would prefer not to leave what holdings he has to his brother.” Henry smiles wryly, thinking on the mutterings of his knighted descendent. “He has little enough of land, if much of money, for he had been a mercenary in his youth.”

“So you can trace your bloodline directly back to your original life?” It’s the sort of trick Immortals play quite frequently, and makes Methos wonder if the whole ploy was a suggestion from Matthew of Salisbury. It gives Henry’s current identity a legitimate claim to the throne and will, if they take that route, hopefully help to persuade Elizabeth that he’s a worthwhile candidate for her hand. “That might make things a little easier.” Methos gets up and paces over to the fireplace, staring down at the flames for a few moments before speaking again.

“I know you want to gain a better foothold before proposing a union between yourself and Elizabeth; nevertheless, I can’t help thinking that it might be best to at least put the offer on the table now. Nothing tears a country apart as irreparably as civil war. You’re not in a bad bargaining position now – she is already concerned about you, and about your growing base of support. If you can get her to agree to at least consider a marriage proposal, you might be able to resolve this without shedding too much blood. My suggestion is that you bring her the proposal in strictest confidence. If she accepts, the problem is solved. If she declines, neither of you is harmed. If she considers it and then declines, it can only help your cause, as her very consideration will grant you added legitimacy in the eyes of her supporters.”

Henry is quiet for a moment, a thoughtful frown on his face as he turns the idea over in his head. “That could work quite well, however she reacts to the offer.” If she accepts, he can turn his attention to expanding the influence of England, and perhaps set his sights on other lands sooner. If she rejects him, he can use that as another reason to press his advantage and draw others from her cause to his. “Though I shall have to use care in who I send to her with the offer – as I cannot do so personally.”

And it is here that having Montjoy alive once more, and in his service, would be of good use. He is well used to being the messenger, the diplomat, the herald, and he will know how best to present his proposal to Elizabeth. “Nor can I send you, who were so recently her messenger to the lords here who are more my supporters than hers. And of my supporters, none have all the necessary skills to present my suit with the care and delicacy that such should be.”

“You couldn’t send Robert,” Methos agrees. “He’d be no better at presenting your suit than any of your other vassals. Besides, word of his defection has almost certainly reached London by now, and I’d be of little use to you with my head mounted on a spike at the city gates. You *could* send *me* – but only if you’re prepared to take her fully into your confidence. I’d strongly advise doing so at some point, but at the moment I believe it would be premature.” He turns away from the fire and returns to his vacated chair. “What about Salisbury? He’s still a child, but he’s no fool, and he already has all the pertinent information, should you decide to tell Elizabeth everything.”

“I am uncertain where he is, and will have to find him before I can send him as my emissary.” But Matthew would make as good an ambassador to Elizabeth as Montjoy would if he were to ask for him to be returned from the dead. “Unless you would know of a quicker manner of locating him, and having him arrive here with sufficient alacrity.”

“I could find him and bring him here without much difficulty,” Methos admits, “but not without revealing certain facts of which I would prefer he remain ignorant. I’ve gone to great lengths over the years to become a myth even among my own kind, and would like to remain one. Nor would I like for him to find out about the…extra abilities I’ve picked up. I could get a message to his teacher. She’s not far from here, and she might know where to find him – or his lunatic student. I can’t guarantee results, though.”

Henry is quiet for a long moment before he shakes his head. “If we could be certain of locating him sufficiently quickly, I would ask that you do, but I do not wish to take too great a time if I am to present her with the proposal soon.” He is quiet again, watching Robert while he considers the idea he’d had a moment ago. “How long would it take you to bring someone back from the dead, as you have said you are capable of doing?”

“I’m honestly not sure,” Methos admits. “As I said, it’s not something I’ve ever done before.” He looks down at the floor, trying to hold back the sudden rush of memory. “I try to keep that part of myself under very strict control,” he says quietly. “The abilities in and of themselves are neither good nor evil, but the way I came to have it…” He trails off, shaking his head, and sits in silence for a few moments before continuing. “It would help if I had the body, or what remains of it. After that – I don’t think it would take long. An hour or two, perhaps, assuming he doesn’t try to fight me.” He looks back up at Henry, carefully shuttering himself away behind a neutral expression. “Do you have someone specific in mind?”

“Jehan, once the Montjoye King of Arms. He died in 1425, and was buried in Paris, or nearby, though I know not precisely where. He was a most beloved and gentle herald, and more than capable of his office.” Henry leans back in his chair, his expression slightly pensive. “If he is willing to return to life, and to be in my service as herald, than he would fit well the role needed for an emissary to Elizabeth.”

He meets Robert’s gaze for a long moment. “If you would do this, I would be most thankful, but I shall not be offended if it proves that he wishes not to return, and you cannot bring him back.”

“I can bring him back whether he wishes it or no,” Methos says flatly. “Struggle on his part would only serve to delay the inevitable, once the process is begun. I don’t know what would happen were I to stop part-way through, and I don’t particularly care to find out. This is going to have to be your decision, your Majesty, and yours alone. Do I bring him back, or not? If I do bring him back, would you have him mortal again, or shall I give him the same gift you were given? And if he refuses to enter your service, shall I return him to the earth? I’ve placed myself and all of my abilities at your disposal. I can – and will – have him here and breathing before nightfall, if you so choose.” He watches Henry steadily, waiting for an answer.

It is both a familiar situation – in which his word is all that matters, and his decision will mark a course of action from which there is no returning – and an unfamiliar one, where he has the ability to command that something be done that would not otherwise happen. “Bring him back, and give him this same gift. If he will not enter my service, he is free to remain or leave as he pleases; I shall not make this contingent upon his acceptance of service.”

As for how he shall explain to the rest of his followers how Montjoy found him – it is easy enough to know where he is, roughly, and Jehan is an old friend. He would, Henry hopes, seek him out if he were living and had this same gift.

Methos is silent for a few more seconds, studying Henry’s face before nodding and standing up.

“In that case, I’d better leave you now. I’ll ride a few miles out before I make the jump to France. If anyone asks where I’ve gone, just tell them I’ve gone to meet a friend of yours, and to escort him back to the castle.” He smiles faintly. “It’s no more than the truth, after all. I should be back a little after dark.”

And if they should remonstrate that he should have sent another out in Robert’s place, he shall tell them that his friend is well able to defend himself if Robert should prove treacherous – which Henry knows shall not be the case – and this would be a chance for Robert to prove he shall neither flee nor prove otherwise treacherous – though it is not the intent.

“I shall tell them so, if they should question where you have gone and why.” Henry smiles at Robert briefly. “I shall expect you when you have said, though.” And he does not doubt that he will indeed see Robert – and Jehan – at the appointed hour.

“Until tonight, then.” Methos returns Henry’s smile before turning on his heel and leaving the room.

He catches the attention of a passing servant, and by the time he’s finished changing into more suitable clothing and made his way down to the stables, his horse and a spare for Montjoy are saddled and ready for him. A few of Henry’s men are in the courtyard as he rides out, but though they look suspiciously at him, none of them attempt to hinder his departure – which says a great deal for Henry’s control over his followers. Once Methos has passed the gate, he spurs his horse into a gallop, heading east towards the coast. It actually makes no difference which way he goes, as he’ll be travelling most of the way in the span of a few seconds, but as he’s sure he’s being watched, he decides to go in the direction that would make the most sense to those doing the watching.

He rides for the better part of an hour, turning back occasionally to see whether or not he’s being followed. He doesn’t see anyone; nevertheless, when he feels he’s gone far enough he leaves the road and cuts across country as a final precaution against pursuit. He’s confident that no one can follow him cross-country when he’s on horseback without his knowledge, and half an hour later he’s certain that he’s alone. Reining in, he dismounts in a clearing beside a small stream, tethering the horses to a low-hanging branch that will allow them to reach the water, while he himself practices moving himself from one side of the clearing to the other. It’s been a very long time since he travelled in this fashion, and while he has no doubts as to his ability to do so, he has no wish to find out that he’s gotten rusty while making the long jump across the Channel to Paris.

Watching from her perch in a tree, the Morrigan tilts her head at the intruder into her lands, though she keeps silent for a long moment. An intruder, but one she cannot chase out and expect to win. When he begins to teleport himself, as if a child practicing a trick, she chortles, hopping down from the branch and shifting into the form of a woman clad only in a short tunic. “What brings you to my islands, Death?”

Methos turns quickly, his surprise quickly fading into irritation and a trace of embarrassment when he realizes the identity of this unexpected visitor. It’s been centuries since he last crossed paths with the Morrigan – he’d been commanding a Roman legion, and doing his best to convince himself that he’d left Death behind when he’d abandoned his brothers. Their encounter had gone a long way towards forcing him to accept that the changes were permanent, and while he hadn’t enjoyed it at the time, he’d gotten over the last lingering traces of resentment quite some time ago.

“I’ve been here for a few years now,” he admits, side-stepping her question. “You do know it’s rude to spy on people, I assume?”

The Morrigan shrugs, leaning against the tree she’d been perched in a moment ago. “It does not matter.” She tilts her head, mimicking the birds she so often appears as. “You didn’t attract my attention before. The warrior-king is mine, Death.”

It goes unspoken that she doesn’t like others who encroach on her territory, particularly when others get too close to those she’s marked as her own.

“They’re all mine in the end, Morrigan. You know that as well as I do. Though I will admit that I’d been wondering who meddled with him.” He settles himself on a fallen tree, and gives her a thin smile. “You do nice work. It took me a little while to realize there’d been any tampering done in the first place.”

She smiles at the compliment, though it’s sharp and fierce rather than sweet. “He is mine, and I do not intend to let him go.” Despite the slim belief in her personally, the belief in her aspects has kept her alive and thriving where so many of her tribe have faded and died. “You will not have him, not even for a brief moment. I kept him when you tried to steal him through disease; I will keep him through all he faces.”

“Believe it or not, I’m not interested in stealing him,” Methos says. “He’s much more interesting alive than dead, and it’s not as if one life makes a difference to me – not in the way you’re thinking of, at any rate.” He lets out a short, amused huff of laughter. “Actually, at the moment, I seem to be working for him. Hence the practicing.” He gestures at the surrounding clearing with one hand. “There’s a dead man somewhere near Paris that your protege says he needs. I’m on my way there now to see what I can do about bringing him back.”

Raising an eyebrow, she gives him a curious look. “Oh? Who does he wish for so much to ask you to bring him back?” She knows where Henry’s brothers lay – they had interested her somewhat themselves, but not enough for her to want them. The uncles, too, and all of his kin, and she’s never thought twice of them, leaving them to die as they might. There had been the boy in France, but he had lost his value as amusement quickly, too easily broken by the stresses of war. “There were none of France who had the talent and will to stand against my warrior-king.”

“He doesn’t want someone to stand against him. He wants someone to stand with him. Some herald who used to work for the French, apparently.” Methos shrugs. “Your warrior-king is planning to reclaim his throne, and he thinks the herald will be useful.” He doesn’t add that Henry wants Montjoy to live regardless of whether or not he’s willing to cooperate. “And since I’ve offered him my services, I’m heading to Paris.”

Humming a moment, the Morrigan stays still, head tilted as she turns that over. “Interesting. I had thought little of him before, an envoy of peace and diplomacy.” Not the sort of mortal she took an interest in, but now, she is curious. “I would travel with you, if you will allow. I wish to see this man that my warrior-king would have returned to him.”

“It’s fine with me,” Methos shrugs, pushing himself to his feet. “Especially if you can show me where he’s buried. I’m not particularly looking forward to wandering all over Paris trying to find his grave.”

The Morrigan tilts her head, blinking a moment. “Perhaps.” She hadn’t paid close attention to him, save in as much her warrior-king had. Enough, maybe, to find his grave when no other would – that, and her inherent abilities even within Death’s own influence. “I can look, and perhaps better seek than you.”

“We’ll give it a try.” Methos knows where Montjoy himself is, but the location of his body is, oddly enough, not part of Methos’s purview. Help in locating that would be welcome. He’ll know the place when he sees it, but that means finding it first. “Although I think doing so without attracting mortal attention would be best.”

Chortling, the Morrigan shifts, a crow that perches on Death’s shoulder. No one will look twice at a bird wheeling about the sky. She takes a moment to preen Death’s hair before taking to the air with a raucous call, daring him to keep up with her as she twists through the world, flying high above Paris in a moment, studying the city below her with an eye to what the mortals cannot see.

Methos hesitates for a moment. He’s never changed his shape before, though now that he’s thinking of it he can see how it’s done. He takes a deep breath before following her into the air, slipping easily to Paris in the space between heartbeats. He finds the Morrigan easily enough, and the awkwardness smooths out of his flight.

Next time, warn me first, he thinks at her.

Now where’s the fun in that? She laughs, the sound coming out as another raucous, corse cry. Tilting her head, she studies the city a moment longer before making a broad, sweeping circle down, slowly drawing closer to her target. It’s nothing much, a simple church which is a far cry from the elaborate tombs of her favored king and the king the occupant of the space under the church’s flagstones have. She perches on the bell tower, waiting patiently for Death to join her. Under the floor of a foreign god’s monument, instead of in his own grave. Poor thing.

He’s in here? Methos asks, the certainty of it settling into his mind as he perches beside the Morrigan. There he is. He tips his head to the side, regarding her.

Are you planning to stick around while I do this?

Did you want to play in secret? The Morrigan gives him a long look. There are no secrets that someone won’t find, even among the gods. And beside, the youngling who thinks of this as his house is a nosy little brat who wants to know everything.

I don’t mind if you stay. Methos takes flight again, winging his way down to the courtyard. He shifts back into his own shape as he touches down. Flight had been exhilarating, and he allows himself a smile at the memory of it. He takes a moment to hide himself from mortal eyes while he waits for the Morrigan to join him.

Winging down, she lands on his shoulder, chosing to remain a crow for now. It makes for more entertainment, and allows her to keep them from assuming she’s just some foolish mortal woman who need to be scolded for her sin in existing. Or perhaps for her choice of clothes, but even that makes her laugh at them, and then they start getting more annoying.

The church door turns out to be locked, and the church itself to be empty, which is something of a relief. Illusion isn’t one of Methos’s strong points; death is the ultimate reality.

A thought takes Methos through the locked door of the church, and from there it’s easy enough to find the space beneath the floor that Montjoy’s body currently inhabits. Methos kneels next to it, shutting out the Morrigan, the chapel, the sounds from outside – anything that might distract him.

Getting the body out is as simple as reaching through the floor and pulling it back up through the stone. It’s nothing but bones and scraps of old cloth, and Methos closes his eyes, reversing the corruption of the grave until the body in front of him looks just-vacated. He wants this to go as smoothly as possible, for Montjoy’s sake as well as Henry’s. The physical damage that had killed the man is just as easy to reverse, and once that’s finished Methos takes a moment to settle in more comfortably.

He reaches out for Montjoy, through the blackness that separates the dead and the living. The man is easy to locate, and Methos closes a mental hand around him, pulling gently to bring him back through the darkness.

It isn’t easy. Montjoy fights him, and Methos can feel the bone-deep grief and weariness that had sent him to his grave years ago. The outcome of the fight is not in question. In this area, anyway, Methos’s power is essentially limitless, and it isn’t long before he’s pulled Montjoy back into the land of the living and back into his restored body. As he takes his first breath, Methos wipes his own sweat-damp forehead.

Perching on a bench, the Morrigan watches Death at his work, which is in many ways greater than her own works ever can be. She catches them at their death when she wants to keep them, before they can pass beyond, and before their bodies turn from fresh corpses to bones and dust. But then, she must rely on a more limited pool of power, too, than does Death.

Jehan had been glad to embrace death when it came for him, though he had not lived as virtuous a life as might be prescribed by the church. To find himself breathing again makes him wonder for a long moment if it is perhaps the Day of Judgement, though he recalls nothing since surrendering to the soft call of breathless death. Save that he sees no angels or demons, nothing save the roof of a church, an unfamiliar man, and a crow that’s watching him with more intelligence than he might normally credit in that which isn’t human.

Nor is there any sign of either Henry or Charles, and he would think that he’d at least be swiftly in the presence of one of those esteemed men, should it be the Day of Judgement.

He looks at the man who is leaning over him, watching for a long moment before he manages a rough croak of, “Why?”

“It was asked of me, and I decided to acquiesce. Henry fights for his throne in England, and he would have you with him.” Methos thinks for a moment, then reaches back through space to retrieve the water-skin from his saddle in England. He hands it to Montjoy.

“Here. I’d imagine that a few centuries dead makes for a dry throat.”

Jehan takes the skin without thinking, though he’s surprised to find water in it. He takes a small sip, enough to dampen his throat, though he will wait for more to drink until he may find small beer or wine.

“Centuries?” He doesn’t dare ask what the stranger means by mentioning Henry, if indeed the Henry he refers to is the same sun-bright England that Jehan had once known. He can’t dare to hope that the man is alive once more, however it might have happened.

“Well, a century and a half, or thereabouts. It’s the spring of 1570.” Methos smiles briefly. “Henry is very persuasive. He asked me to make you an offer. He’s the same man you knew, and has been alive this entire time, thanks to someone’s meddling.” Methos glances at the Morrigan. “He’s immortal – he doesn’t age, he can’t get sick, and he can’t die.” Nor does he have to deal with headhunters, though that’s neither here nor there. “He asked me to offer you the same.”

Meddling. Something not evil, certainly, if Henry would be willing to see it offered another – Jehan trusts more in Henry’s nature than in the sanctity of the church, after the life he’s lived and the things he has seen in the service of Charles and France. If the one he is being told is his Henry truly is, than how can he refuse? But he can’t know, not until he sees for himself.

“I would see him.” Jehan pushes himself to a sitting position, waiting a moment for a brief dizziness to pass. He will trust this offer only once he can see Henry himself, and can ask if he did indeed make such an offer.

The Morrigan chortles to herself at Jehan’s words, clacking her beak after a moment. It’s entertaining to watch the passing of emotions openly over the herald’s face, when she can barely recall a one when he was mortal.

“And he you. I’ve been asked to take you to him as soon as you’re ready. We should be there before nightfall.” Methos is pleased that Montjoy is taking this as well as he is. He hadn’t been sure what to expect after so long in the grave, but this is nothing like the possibilities he’d been dreading.

Pushing himself to his feet, Jehan draws himself straight, watching the stranger. “How is it we can be where he is by nightfall, when I am certain even if they have cemented their hold on France, this is yet Paris and yet France?” Not that he wishes to delay, if such a thing can be done, but he is curious how it might be possible.

“I have some unusual talents – like bringing you back from the dead. I’ll take us across the Channel when you’re ready. After that, there’s a pair of horses waiting for us not far from the castle in which Henry is currently staying.”

“Then I am ready.” The sooner he can be sure this is something of Henry’s devising, the sooner he can allow himself to truly feel something about it other than mild surprise that it’s possible, and the sooner, perhaps, that he can provide something in return for such a gift.

The Morrigan lets out a hoarse call, launching herself into the air to circle around them just below the roof, twisting reality around herself to return to the clearing. Waiting perched on a branch there for Death to return with his burden before she will leave. The no-longer-a-mortal is interesting, if not nearly the sort she’d want for her own, and she’ll make sure he will return to her favored prince safely.

“Give me your hand, then,” Methos says. Once he has it, it’s a breath from there to the clearing where he left the horses. They seem not to mind all of this disappearing and reappearing.

“We’ll be there long before nightfall,” Methos says, with a glance at the sun. He’s not sure how long it had taken him to retrieve Montjoy’s soul, but it’s now late afternoon, the sunlight slanting golden into the clearing. “We’re only a little more than an hour’s ride away.” He hands Montjoy the reins of the spare horse, then turns his attention to the Morrigan.

“Are you coming with us?”

The Morrigan shifts, a woman once more, and shrugs as she leans against the tree. “I may watch you, but this is my land. I need not follow you to watch, or to see those I wish safe through these lands.”

Jehan nearly drops the reins of the horse when the crow that had vanished from the church earlier now vanishes to give way to a woman. She, he might believe to be a witch, but there is something else about her, and so he does not even dare breathe that thought aloud. Instead, he makes himself swing up into the saddle, glad that there does not seem to have been much change in the equipment for a horse.

Methos sketches a wave at her before mounting his own horse and shaking the reins loose.

“That was the Morrigan,” he tells Montjoy. “She’s one of the few pagan gods that have managed to survive the onset of Christianity. She’s the reason Henry’s still alive; apparently, she’s taken a fancy to him, though I’m not sure he knows as much.”

Jehan blinks, looking back to where the woman had been only to see an empty clearing once more, not even the crow visible. He turns to look at his companion once more, drawing in a deep breath. “And who are you, that have dragged me back into life whether I wish it or not?”

“Death. Though I’m human as well – sort of. It’s rather a long story, but the general thrust of it is that I’m as immortal as Henry, albeit in a different way, and a very long time ago I ended up becoming Death as well.” Methos ducks under a low-hanging branch. “I’m going by Robert Mortimer, Lord Wellesly, at the moment.”

A name to call him, and what the man is, as two distinct things. Though what he is makes a small shiver run down Jehan’s spine – for if someone can become Death embodied, there is a goodly risk that the man has done some horrible things in his past. And yet, he is in service to Henry, and if that is the case, then Henry is as he has always been.

“I will endeavor to recall that name, my lord.” Jehan tilts his head, the habits of his life easily returning with that state. “Other than bid you give me life once more, did His Grace give you instruction to speak to me of anything in particular?”

“He bade me give you immortality, if you would have it, and to ask if you would enter his service.” Methos smiles. “Has he always been so…easy to follow?”

Jehan chuckles, the sound rusty with disuse, and smiles to himself. “He is hard not to follow, my lord, even when he is the enemy of one’s beloved king. Those who were his soldiers loved him without reserve, as did those who were his subjects in England, and in France. Though the love of his English subjects was a jealous sort of love, begrudging his affection for his subjects in France.”

“Hopefully the subjects he has now won’t mind as much. I mean to see him king of more than just France and England. I’ve grown weary of having to move on every time people start to notice that I’m not aging.” It had been the offer of consecrated ground that had made up Methos’s mind, and he believes he’s made a good bargain.

Jehan raises his eyebrows, curious what that meant, but not wanting to ask just now, as he doesn’t have the feel for the entire situation as yet – and his instincts say it is a delicate subject to discuss, with far too many ways to potentially misstep. And even if his gift will not be taken back if he offends, he does not care to risk the potential to cause offense.

“I shall hope so, as well, for it will not be well for me if they should be as jealous, for all that I speak English well for my profession, I do not sound as one born and grown in England.”

“They’ll have to get used to it,” Methos shrugs. “Although if it truly bothers you, it takes only time and effort to change an accent. I’m not a native English speaker either.”

“I am only bothered by it as much as it might poorly serve His Grace’s purposes.” Jehan shrugs a little, watching the land around them as they travel. “If it will not present a problem, then I shall not concern myself with sounding as the Frenchman I am. If it is to be detrimental to His Grace’s purposes, than I shall concern myself with the endeavor to change how I sound.”

“I do not think it will matter,” Methos assures him. They’ve almost reached the road again. “He chose you over any other, his brothers included. I’d say it makes little difference to him how you sound.” He’s still not sure what had prompted Henry’s mind to fall on this particular man – for clearly this has more behind it than the need to have a message carried to Elizabeth. So far, he’s picked up only on a certain reassuring steadiness – but it’s early days yet.

“To him, personally, no it will not matter.” Jehan knows Henry will not care that he sounds French when it is merely them, if such privacy can be found, but whether he is bothered by it does not change if it might or might not be detrimental to him and his cause. Jehan will not know until he sees Henry again. “What can you tell me of why Henry must fight for his throne?”

“When everybody thought he died, back when you were alive the first time, he actually did. The Morrigan brought him back, but he’d already been seen to be dead, so he had to disappear. Over the last century and a half, the throne has changed hands. Right now, Elizabeth Tudor holds it, but Henry has decided that he wants it back.” Methos pushes some low growth out of his way as they reach the road. “England’s had some pretty serious upheaval recently,” he continues. “The previous king broke from the Catholic church and married a whole succession of wives. The current Queen is descended from the second – who was beheaded at her husband’s command. Some say she is illegitimate. She’s actually a brilliant ruler, but she has no husband and no children, and she refuses to marry. So there is an opportunity.”

Jehan nods, a thoughtful frown creasing his face. Henry would not have spent the intervening time idly, though what he has done, and how that will aid him in his goals, Jehan cannot know until he asks. So much waits on his seeing Henry again, and being able to talk to him, so he can build the full picture in his mind. “If the king before this Elizabeth was as yet legally married to his first wife when he married Elizabeth’s mother, she would necessarily be illegitimate. But I would think there is more than that, for I cannot imagine any king breaking with Rome and the Church.”

“The Pope wouldn’t grant him the divorce he wanted from his first wife, who had given him only a daughter. He broke from the Church over his own lack of a male heir, so that he could obtain his divorce. The reigning monarch is now the head of the Church of England,” Methos explains. “There’s actually been a growing movement to split from Rome in many places in Europe. The Pope’s grasp of power is nothing like so absolute as it was a century and a half ago.”

Chuckling, Jehan gave Death a small smile. “This would not be the first split from Rome, nor the first split in the Church. It is only unusual, I think, in that a king broke with Rome and the Church. I was born when there was a Pope in Avignon, as well as in Rome.” And saw the healing of that schism. If there will be a healing of this one, he doesn’t know, but suspects unlikely. Before, kings were trying to bring the Church back together, not the ones who were splitting from Rome.

“I spent most of the last few centuries in [Arabia], but I know what you’re talking about. Still, this is more of a split from the Church than a split within it. There’s been no rival Pope set up, but a movement to throw aside Rome and all of its trappings. Though Henry VIII’s break from Rome had less to do with conscience and more to do with politics than the rest of it seems to be.”

“It certainly sounds so.” Jehan shrugs after a moment. The politics are something he will explore more closely when he’s the chance. “Tell me of this Elizabeth, and how she rules England – not how she came to rule it, nor by what tokens she does, but in what manner.”

“She’s rather brilliant at it,” Methos admits. “She allows people to worship after their own fashion, with none of the persecution that marred her older sister’s reign. She encourages literature and the arts, patronizes playwrights and musicians and voyages of exploration, and is, I think, beginning something that will make England a major power in the world.” Methos smiles. “I was content enough in her service until I met Henry, though she never knew what I am.”

“Has she not had to show willingness to engage in conflict with England’s enemies? I cannot imagine there are none she need be worried with, not if she keeps to her father’s break with the Church.” Jehan knows that it will be seen a weakness that she is not of the Church, but it’s not one that can be used against her if her people are likewise favored of the break. What surprises him is that Henry might be her only challenge to keeping her throne.

“Spain shows fight. Henry VIII’s first wife was Spanish, as was Queen Mary’s husband. She was Elizabeth’s older half-sister,” Methos explains, “and Spain resents that they no longer have a say in English affairs. And there was a scuffle with the French about ten years ago. Other than that, she pursues a defensive foreign policy that has so far been successful.”

Jehan nods, though this time he doesn’t ask another question immediately. There is so much more to learn, but the more he hears, the more he’s certain he should wait to hear the whole of it after he’s seen and spoken to Henry. To know the will of his King, and what he is needed for. To bury whatever else he might feel beneath duty and responsibility, as he had before, because Kings are not free, are not able to give their hearts or their bodies where they will. Neither kings on thrones who rule countries, nor kings at arms who serve kings on their thrones, providing council, aid, and a voice for their King.

“She’s got a cousin, Mary Queen of Scots; a lot of people think she’s the rightful Queen of England as well,” Methos continues. “But Mary is in Elizabeth’s power, now, and I don’t think she’ll ever come safe out of it again. That’s stopped France’s play, certainly, until they can find another angle. From where I sit, Henry’s the only real threat to her, and then only because noblemen are, generally, an ungrateful lot.”

“And some more dangerous for that ingratitude than others.” The more closely related, indeed, Jehan thought, the worse they are, as he’d seen in the strife that had made France so vulnerable to Henry. “Does she have any other kin who might press some claim to the throne, even if they do not pose a great threat to her throne?”

“Another cousin, this one the Duke of Norfolk. He was caught plotting to wed Mary Queen of Scots, and imprisoned for it, though not for as long as he ought to have been.” Methos considers the man thoroughly untrustworthy, and regrets the Queen’s leniency to her kinsman. Even though he now serves Henry, he wishes Elizabeth no ill; would, in fact, prefer to see the two of them join forces. He thinks they could, together, give England a Golden Age such as hasn’t been seen since Rome fell.

Cousins, uncles, brothers, and sons. The bane of any monarch’s existance, to Jehan’s mind, and yet, too, some of their most important allies. Though clearly not able to rule Elizabeth as Charles’s kin had ruled him – else, Jehan would think England in a state of chaos – they are perhaps able to exert influence in ways that are not entirely to the benefit of either Elizabeth or her country. In their own minds, if nothing else.

“Her other kin are truly loyal, though, beyond this one cousin?”

“They seem to be. I’ll not say we can’t shake them loose later if needs must, but it doesn’t appear that we can at the moment.” Methos shrugs. “She hasn’t as many relatives as some monarchs, however. Henry VIII has only no other surviving children, nor has he any surviving brothers or sisters. And a goodly part of her mother’s family was disgraced when her mother was beheaded.”

“I would not wish to shake them loose, if they be loyal. Better to win her loyalty, and theirs with it, than to take them from her, and expect that they should be friends again after.” Jehan shakes his head. “His Grace will know this, and if he has need of reminders of why such a thing would be best, I shall speak to him of what is yet fresh in my mind that he took such great advantage of when I called him Harry England.”

Methos grins. “You seem to mirror my own thinking in this matter,” he says, pleased. It would be nice, for once, to help build something instead of always causing destruction. “I’ve already suggested a marriage, and I believe it the best option, if it can be brought about.”

“It can be brought about. How His Grace does so, though, is something I cannot speak to until I know his thoughts, as well as the situation which must be worked.” Jehan recalls the negotiations for the marriage of Henry to Catherine, and his role in them, and lets his lips twist in a wry smile. “Though I think I shall wait until I have seen and spoken with His Grace before this conversation might continue – and with his presence and input.”

“We’re almost there,” Methos assures him. “Another quarter-mile or so.” For which Methos is grateful, as the weather is beginning to turn decidedly chilly. He lifts an eyebrow at Montjoy.

“Shall we gallop the rest of the way? The horses deserve a chance to stretch their legs.”

“If the terrain has no hidden pockets to cause the horses to stumble and throw us, then perhaps some of it.” Jehan smiles, looking over the land toward the house that commands the top of one of the hills through which they have been riding. “It would not do, entirely, to arrive at a gallop when naught is amiss.”

“We’ll rein in before anyone sees us,” Methos says. “And the road looked sound enough when I came this way before.” He’s already urging his horse into a gallop before finishing the sentence, leaving kings and Death and intrigue temporarily behind in the sheer joy of the speed of the horse beneath him and the wind in his face.

Jehan chuckles, before spurring his horse to follow, racing as he could not once he had become Montjoye, and would not be able to do again unless in the company of his King in a hunt, once he is again in the service of his King.

---

Originally Posted: 19 May 2016

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