Duncan had been out in the city most of the day. He returned to the inn ready for a hot meal and the relative comfort of his bed, but when he walked through the door a snatch of conversation stopped him.
“… He’s turned almost the whole church into a hospital, I tell you. And you don’t need money. Take your brother there. I’m sure the priest will help him.”
Duncan turned toward the table where two men sat over cups of the cheap red wine that was the tavern’s main fare. The men drew back a bit as he approached, unnerved by the intensity of his wide-eyed stare.
“Where?” he asked them. “Where is this church and what is the priest’s name?”
“The priest is Father Darius,” the man Duncan had heard speaking replied. “His church is over on Rue St. Julien le Pauvre. It’s not far. You go—”
“I know,” MacLeod said quickly as he turned back toward the door. He called a thank-you over his shoulder as he headed out once more onto the streets of Paris.
Rue St. Julien le Pauvre was not far, as the man had said, but it was in the opposite direction from where Duncan had been searching. Using his memory as a guide, he had divided the city into large squares and had not yet reached the one containing Darius’s parish.
Duncan’s earlier fatigue left him as he hurried down the streets, occasionally cutting through an alley or across a city park. Although beggars, pickpockets, and prostitutes abounded, no one approached or tried to stop him. He hardly noticed them, hardly noticed anything until, at last, he stood across the street and in front of the church.
The church itself was of moderate size, built of large hewn stones like so many of the parishes in Paris. A fence of wrought-iron spikes rising out of a stone bulkhead enclosed the churchyard. To one side of the main church, a smaller building had been adjoined, a chapel no doubt dedicated to one of the parish patrons, such as the Virgin Mary or, considering the order to which Darius’s robes belonged, a St. Joseph chapel. Back behind the church, Duncan glimpsed the roof of another building—perhaps the rectory or part of the old cloister.
How long had Darius been here, Duncan wondered, guessing the church to date from somewhere around the thirteenth century—and where had he been before this? Who had he been? Even as he thought it, Duncan realized he might never know. Mortals often had their secrets—past lives that were forgotten when new ones were begun. The centuries had taught MacLeod how much more true, and more necessary, that must be for Immortals.
The parish door opened and Darius stepped out. There was no doubt this was the same priest, for Duncan felt the Immortal presence of the man surge through him. Darius glanced quickly in Duncan’s direction, but his gaze did not linger. He held the door open for an elderly woman who carried a small pot in her hands. Duncan watched Darius speak solemnly to the woman, no doubt giving her some final instructions on how the contents of the pot were to be used. It was only after she had left that the priest turned his attention back across the road.
Darius lifted a hand—in recognition, in greeting. Duncan began to walk forward, wondering as he did so why he should feel such a sense of homecoming. Why had a few hours in Darius’s company left such an indelible mark upon him?
“Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod,” Darius said as Duncan entered the churchyard and stopped before the little porch on which Darius was standing.
“I said I’d be back as soon as I could. It’s taken me a while to find you.”
Darius gave a little one-shouldered shrug. But then he smiled. “I had to come back where I belong. My parishioners need me.”
“I’ve heard you’ve opened your doors to more than just your parishioners.”
Darius looked out at the streets with a gaze of ancient sadness. “There are so many needs, so many wounds—and not just of the body,” he said in a low voice, almost to himself. Then he turned back to Duncan and gave another soft smile.
“Come in, Duncan MacLeod,” he said, his voice cheering. “I can use another pair of hands—and you, I think, can use some time where your sword will not be needed.”
“Aye,” Duncan replied. “Aye, that I can.”
Chapter Nine
Duncan kept his room at La Poule Aux Oeufs d’Or, but he spent most of his time with Darius. The days turned into weeks and into months; summer passed into autumn and the whisper of winter was heard. But the changing of the seasons did nothing to cool the boiling unrest of the Paris streets.
Inside Darius’s church it was easy to forget how much hatred was still in the world. He kept his hospital going, though the worst of the wounded from the war had already come and gone. There was always a need, he said, and the slow but constant trickle of bodies—some in need of healing, others who sought only a warm place to spend a night—proved him right.
Duncan knew Darius was right about so many things: the need for peace in the world, the futility of war. But, as wonderful as these ideals sounded, MacLeod also knew he could never be a disciple of Darius’s words. He was often a weary warrior, but a warrior nonetheless. He could not put down his arms and stand aside when injustice or greed or oppression reigned, innocents still suffered under the hands of tyrants, and the weak were still at the mercy of the strong. This was the code of honor to which Duncan MacLeod had been bom, the code he had never forsaken, and as long as evil existed he knew he must fight against it—not just with words and ideas, but with body and blood.
But their differences did not keep the two men from becoming friends. Their talks would often go on long into the night and Duncan learned many things about what Darius had done during the centuries he had been alive. There were enough allusions made for Duncan to realize Darius had once been a warrior and the leader of a great army, but the priest would not give specifics about those years. It piqued MacLeod’s curiosity and he hoped that somehow, someday, he would learn more.
The late-November wind was cold as Duncan walked back toward La Poule Aux Oeufs d’Or. Tonight, Darius had brought out an old chess set, something he said he had not used in years, from one of his many cabinets. They had played four games and though MacLeod was no novice player, Darius had thoroughly trounced him each time.
MacLeod smiled as he walked along the river. The gaslights of the Paris streets sparkled on the Seine like captured stars. Overhead the sky was heavy with a coming storm. Soon it would drop its pellets of rain that could, this time of year, easily turn to snow before the night was out. Duncan picked up his pace. Dawn was now much closer than dusk and he wanted to be inside before the storm began.
He was now such a familiar face along the waterfront, the beggars and prostitutes who worked this beat had long ago ceased accosting him. He even knew several of them by name. But tonight he saw no one. The coming cold had driven even the most desperate of them to seek refuge elsewhere.
Then MacLeod felt it—another Immortal was close. Quickly, quietly, he drew his sword and searched through the gloom and the rising mist. From an alley up ahead he heard a scuffle and a grunt, then the sound of a body falling. MacLeod rushed forward.
There was no battle between Immortals. Rounding the corner, he saw a cloaked figure bending over a body. He called out his challenge.
The cloaked figure straightened and spun—and the Immortal who faced him was a woman. Even in the dim light MacLeod could see the heavy rouge on her cheeks and lips, the paint on her eyes. He had not doubt what trade she followed.
But in her hand she also held a sword. There was blood on the blade.
“What are you doing?” MacLeod asked sharply. “He’s a mortal.”
“He’ll live,” she answered. “I only cut him a little, enough to teach him a lesson. He wouldn’t pay me what he owed—so I took it from him.” She dangled a coin purse from her fingers.
MacLeod rushed past her to the man’s side. He was more dazed than injured. There was a cut on his cheek and another, slightly deeper one on his arm.
MacLeod drew out his handkerchief and bound the man’s arm. Then he stood, grabbed the girl an
d pulled her away. She started to struggle against him, but he tightened his grip.
She lifted her sword and brandished it with a childlike awkwardness. “You… you let me go,” she said, “or. Immortal or not, I’ll cut you. There ain’t no man gonna take me without paying.”
MacLeod sighed. With a single, swift motion he disarmed her. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, “and I’m not after your… favors. Tell me your name and what you’re doing here, like this.”
“My name’s Violane, Violane Armand—and where else am I supposed to be? Back in my village where they saw me die? They’d burn me as a witch.”
“Don’t you have a teacher, someone to tell you the rules of The Game and show you how to properly use… this?” He lifted her sword.
She shrugged. “Oh, I had a teacher, all right,” she said. “‘Twas him who brought me to Paris and put me on the streets. All he wanted was the money I could make for him. But I fixed him—I cut him good and ran away.”
“Who was he, Violane?” MacLeod was angered by her tale.
“I’m not telling.” Violane stuck her chin out. “You’ll just tell him where to find me. I know what you’re like… all of you. You just want what you can get from a girl. Well, no one’s getting nothing from me… not no more.”
MacLeod shook his head. He could not blame the girl for her thoughts. She was obviously young, both in years and in Immortality, and all she had learned from her own kind was how to be used. Well, he had a solution.
“Come with me,” he said. Keeping his grip on her arm, he started back along the route he had just walked.
Back to Darius.
* * *
Still holding Violane’s arm, Duncan went straight to the rear of the churchyard and the door to Darius’s rooms. Violane had become very quiet when they neared the church but now, as she felt the unique sensation, that feeling of Immortality called and answered vibrating through the bones, she began to struggle again.
“Be quiet,” Duncan ordered as he knocked on Darius’s door. The girl obeyed, drawing back into the protection of his shadow.
Darius answered the knock quickly. “Duncan? What’s wrong?”
“This,” Duncan replied as he pulled Violane into the light.
“This… child?” Darius said. He stepped out onto the porch and put an arm around Violane’s shoulders. “Come inside, daughter, and get warm. I’ve just made a pot of tea and I think we could all use a cup.”
As he led the girl inside, he threw Duncan a look that seemed to say, “This must be a tale.” Duncan gave a barely perceivable shrug and a weary smile, then followed the priest inside.
Darius led Violane to the table and bade her sit. In the brighter light of the room, her heavy cosmetics looked garish, almost clownlike, but underneath them Duncan saw that she was even younger than he had thought—perhaps seventeen, at best. As she followed the priest’s movements with a frightened expression, she seemed far more vulnerable than she had in the alley.
Darius brought the pot of tea and three mugs to the table. “Now, my child,” he said softly, “tell me who you are. You have nothing to fear here.”
Violane looked from Darius to MacLeod and back again. Then, suddenly, all her facade of defiance left her and she started to cry.
Duncan turned away and went to stare out the room’s little window, leaving Darius to console the girl. The priest let Violane cry for a few minutes, understanding her need to release all the pent-up feelings of loss, confusion, the anger and hurt she had held inside for so long. Then he began to speak to her in a low voice, both comforting her and slowly drawing out her full story.
She was every bit as young as Duncan had guessed. She had been sixteen when she had died her first death, and that was not quite two years ago. Her parents had been Royalists, supporters of Louis XVIII and not Napoleon as the rightful ruler of France. Napoleon’s army had marched through their town, seizing what they needed to reprovision themselves and never offering a sou in payment. Most of the people had been too frightened to say anything. But not Violane’s father. He had stood up to the soldiers when they came to the farm—and he had been shot where he stood. Violane and her mother tried to run to him… they were shot as well.
When Violane awakened from that first death, she found her home in flames. The soldiers were gone, except for one—Louis Ducharde, an Immortal.
“He brought me to Paris,” Violane said. Her tears had subsided to sniffles now and her words were easier to understand. As MacLeod listened, his jaw clenched with anger.
“He said I’d have a new life. That there’d soon be money and new clothes and I could live like a real lady. But there wasn’t no money at all—except what I made for him. I said no at first. I was a good girl once. Father, truly I was. But he beat me and he said he’d take my head if I didn’t obey him.”
“It’s all right now, my child,” Darius assured her. “We all have things in our past we wish we had not done. But that is over now and you are safe. No one can hurt you here or force you to do anything.”
“You mean that. Father?” Violane asked, her voice heavy with disbelief. “You won’t send me away, even knowing what I’ve done?”
“All you have done, my child, is stay alive the only way you knew how. As have we all. Now you must decide what you will do with the life ahead of you.
“But not tonight,” Darius said, pushing his chair back from the table. “Come, and I will show you where you can rest and sleep in safety.”
MacLeod heard Violane stand and follow Darius from the room. He waited, still not turning from the window, until he heard the priest return.
“That poor, poor child,” Darius said now that he and Duncan were alone. “I am glad you brought her to me. She has many wounds to her soul that need to be healed.”
MacLeod finally turned to face Darius. He saw the sadness, the deep compassion, which filled the Immortal priest’s eyes. Duncan knew his own were still filled with anger.
“God rot the man who did this to her,” MacLeod said fiercely. “Mortal or Immortal, such men are parasites.”
‘True, my friend, very true. But such men have always existed and I’m afraid they always will. Calm yourself. Come and have some tea while there is still some warmth to it. I make it from some flowers I grow in my little garden. It is very soothing.”
Duncan let some of his anger fade—but not all of it. He knew that if he ever faced Louis Ducharde, only one of them would walk away from the encounter. But he could not hold on to such feelings for long in Darius’s presence. It was more than the tea that was soothing—it was Darius himself.
Duncan sank into the chair he had occupied just a few hours before when he and Darius had bent over a chessboard. “What will you do with Violane?” he asked as Darius poured their tea.
“That depends on what she wants. There are many women in the parish who would be happy to take her in. Or, if she wishes to stay here, I can teach her what I know of healing. I can always use more help with the sick and wounded, as you know, and Violane would learn skills that would allow her other ways to support herself. There is always a call for good healers and midwives.”
“She needs to learn more than herbs and ointments, Darius,” Duncan replied. “She needs to learn the rules of The Game and how to defend herself from other Immortals—especially ones like Louis Ducharde. Will you teach her that?”
Darius shook his head. “I have not touched a sword in centuries. But you are not the only other Immortal I know. When the time comes, I will see that she has the right teacher.”
Duncan nodded and sipped his tea. They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes. Then Duncan pushed back his chair and stood.
“I’m going to try once again to make it back to my bed,” he said.
“You know you are welcome to sleep here,” Darius replied, watching him. Duncan had the uncomfortable feeling that the priest knew his thoughts better than he did himself.
MacLeod shook his head. “It�
��s more than sleep I want. It’s a hot bath and a change of clothes.”
“Is that all you want, Duncan MacLeod?” Darius said softly. “Do not go looking for battle, my friend.”
At the priest’s words, Duncan realized that a part of him had been planning to go in search of Louis Ducharde.
“Do I sit back and do nothing then, Darius?” he asked. “How many other girls must this man be allowed to use and to hurt before someone stops him?”
“I know your motives are noble, my friend,” Darius replied, “but the world will never be changed by violence. Only love can do that—one soul at a time.”
“Not even we have that much time,” Duncan said.
Chapter Ten
The next weeks with Darius wrought quite a change in Violane. Without the cosmetics covering her features, she was a lovely girl, with dark hair that framed a small heart-shaped face, flawless skin, and large eyes the color of robin eggs. When she smiled, which still was not often, she went from pretty to beautiful, taking on a luminous quality as if someone had lit a bright candle within her.
Darius was also pleased with his new pupil, for Violane had chosen to stay and learn all she could from the priest. When Duncan arrived at the church one morning in mid-December, Darius took him back to the hospital rooms that still filled the old cloister. Violane was there, tending to a young mother and child who had come in from the cold.
Violane looked more at peace than Duncan had yet seen her, as she sat at the mother’s bedside holding the child in her lap.
“She is a good student,” Darius said proudly. “She has a quick mind and gentle hands. People respond to her. I think she will do very well in time. I tell you, Duncan, this is what we should be doing with our Immortality—using it to help people and to better the world they live in.”
Highlander: Shadow of Obsession Page 6