Forging the Blade: Part II -- Kithe and Kin Chapter 5 MacGeorge For acknowledgements and disclaimers, see Part 0. ~~~~~~~ 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.” . “And you deliberately made mistakes, just to get out of splicing rope. Sleeping with other men, indeed,” Connor huffed. “I’m not that easily fooled, young lady.” “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. At last, Huntly crossed to the table, casually picked up the envelope as if it were of no value or importance, paused when he saw the already-broken wax seal, cast a dubious glance at his guest, then removed the envelope’s contents, unfolding a large piece of paper. 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. ~~~~~~~ Cont. in Part 3