VIVÉ LA RÉVOLUTION
Laurent Gilliard
Marie-Ange
Guillaume

Part III

1793 A.D.

Paris

..........

It seems Laurent has barely shut his eyes before one of Guillaume's 
friends is shaking him awake. Likewise for Marie-Ange, who is at least a 
little more accustomed to being jolted awake early in the morning. All 
round the upper floor of the inn, there is quiet, bustling activity.

With some difficulty (and an appeal by the ever-persuasive Sir Percy to 
the young Vicomtess to exercise her persuasive powers on her father), 
the Comte D'Alais has grudgingly agreed to don <shudder> leper's 
robes.

The other members of the League are a bit non-plussed that the initial 
mission- to conduct two people out of Paris- has now expanded to escort 
four. And suspicions are still boiling beneath the surface.

<><><><><>

This morning, at least, Laurent doesn't seem to be the focus of 
Guillaume's annoyance. With the top of his head tonsured like a monk, 
he stalks throughout the back parlor of the tavern where the the fugitives 
are assembled. His glower seems divided between le Comte who is still 
chafing at the indignity of his attire, and Sir Percy's cohort...

"This will work more effectively than not," he growls at them. "A large 
escort for _one_ leper would be suspicious... but for several..."

He shrugs...

"It will seem appropriate. And that is also why the day is the best time for 
the escape. No one would move sick folk by night.

"This is no more or less of a risk than it ever is," he tells them in flat 
tones.

And le Comte, he does not address at all, beyond a curt  'Bon matin.'

The refugees and the league are not the only ones with a sense of 
forboding about this mission. But there is nothing...as yet...that 
Guillaume can put his finger on.

<><><><><>

Laurent looked to the man wearing the leper's robes.  He wondered if he 
had ever met the man before.  He wondered why Guillaume complained 
so much of him when this man was obviously a fool.  At least Laurent 
was able to swallow his pride.  He did not act like a buffoon and need to 
be convinced to dress that way.  Laurent rolled his eyes at the old man.

Laurent turned to see what Guillaume had planned for him and Marie-
Ange.  He knew there would be no problem for Marie-Ange but himself 
was another matter.

<><><><><>

[GM]

Guillaume hands Laurent another bundle of leper's rags and some grimy 
material that could serve as bandages.

It looks _so_ very authentic.

Smells authentic as well.

<><><><><>

[GM]

Coming down the hallway is another young woman, about Marie-Ange's 
age, or perhaps a bit younger. She's also wearing filthy brown robes, but 
is running her hands over them and looking down at herself as if actually 
pleased with the attire. Her eyes have a mischievous glint as she says 
"Oh, Monsieur Guillaume, this is so exciting! But tell me, whatever shall 
we do if the National Guard *does* stop us? Are you sure you could not 
give me a pistol also, just in case? I have seen father fire them often, I'm 
sure I could aim very well!" Abruptly she turns to face Laurent and 
Marie-Ange. Her speech is very clearly that of an aristocrat. "Good 
morning! Are you two being saved from the despicable Committee 
also?" The girl is bouncing around as if this is a vacation across the 
channel, rather than a flight for your lives.

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

Marie-Ange woke with a start, remembering that today they would be 
going to England.  She splashed cold water in her face and  went 
looking for M. Guillaume.

There was a man in rags ... who was obviously in costume. He had the 
same look that M. Laurent sometimes got, full of disdain and that air of 
anger that the world should be so unkind to him.

She murmured to him in passing. "It is only for a little while, M'sieur ... 
and you will soon be safe."

She went on, not waiting for a reply, to stand beside M. Laurent and 
Guillaume. "Do you have clothes for me as well, M'sieur? And what 
should I do when I am dressed?"

<><><><><>

Laurent attempts as best he can to don the rags breathing through his 
mouth as to not smell the noxious fumes emanating from them.  His nose 
wrinkles in disgust as he dons the rags fully understanding why the other 
man did not want to put them on.  However he wants to show M.  
Guillaume that he is more than capable of handling the task at hand and 
taking in adversity.  

As the young girl walks in his mind wanders to what she would be good 
for rather than firing a pistol.

He turns to Marie-Ange, "Ma petite l'ange would you help me put these 
on.  It is very difficult.  I have never done anything of this nature before 
in my life."

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

She smiles timidly at the girl ... another aristo, obviously, but turns back 
at Laurent's words.

"Of course, M. Laurent. It is hard to bandage oneself, non?"

She takes the bandages from him and begins to wrap his arms. She 
looks up at the young woman again and murmurs, "Mais oui, Ma'mselle. 
M. Laurent must get away from the Committee."

She says 'Committee' almost as if she understands all the politics.

<><><><><>

He smiles as Marie-Ange helps him liking the attention she gives him.  
Her very motherly approach with him.  

"Oui we must get out of this place and go to London.  I hope to one day 
return to Paris.  One day when it is better.", he says looking at the young 
girl.  He wonders if he is as obvious as her.

<><><><><>

[GM]

"Oh, you are a peasant!" the girl says to Marie-Ange, ingenuously and 
without malice. She looks at Laurent. "But why does a nobleman have a 
maid?"

Blakeney comes down the hall, also wearing leper's robes now. "In 
London, you may find the disparity of your relative stations somewhat 
reduced, my dear," he comments. "But for now, you are united in the 
predicament you are in, and in that you must both now cooperate and 
encourage your stubborn menfolk to do likewise." He winks at Laurent. 
"Now, Guillaume will take you and your 'maid' out first, Monsieur." He 
looks around for the shorter man. "Guillaume? Are we ready to go?"

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

She bobs just the slightest bit of a curtsey to Blakeney and turns to M. 
Guillaume. "Do we look quite disgusting enough that no one will want to 
look closely?"

Her eyes smiled at him, the shy warmth evident even with her face half 
covered by the rags.

<><><><><>

<Guillaume>

"Vraiment, Marie-Ange, I had another disguise for you..." he turns to the 
concierage, "Madame, where is the other bag?"

The woman looks faintly surprised, then apologetic. "I shall fetch it.

When she scurries away, Guillaume examines the disguises carefully. 
The comte's hands are very fine, well manicured and uncallussed--a 
dead give-away in his estimation. He binds one fist tightly in the ratty 
bandages and slips it inside the sleeve of the rough peasant shirt, tying 
the drawstrings over what looks now to be a stump. The other he 
bandages to hide the aristo's obvious gentility.

"Milaord, you will ride in the cart, with Sir Percy," he instructs... "And you 
also, mam'selle."

Laurent's hands are also smooth from lack of work, though his sword 
hand is slightly more callussed, and the nails are untrimmed and broken 
now from several days on the road. He bandages one palm, and hands 
Laurant a walking-staff that has been leaning against the wall.

And when Madame returns with a larger bag, he hands it to Marie Ange 
with a bleak smile. "Perhaps you would consent to wear this....a little 
earlier than you had planned. I think you would be most convincing, you 
see. And I know your prayers would be genuine. If Le Bon Dieu will 
listen to anyone in this party, mam'selle. He will listen to you...."

In the bag, there is a nun's habit.

He gestures for Marie Ange to return to her room and change.

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

She looked at the bundle and at Guillaume. She had to swallow hard to 
keep from crying. She shouldn't wear the habit... but le bon Dieu would 
understand. And even if they never find a way for her to join a convent, 
she would have the memory.

"Certainement, M. Guillaume." She couldn't manage other words.

She knew she had to hurry, but there was a moment in her room when 
she dropped to her knees and begged forgiveness for the pretense. And 
then she dressed. The wimple was difficult, but she managed. When she 
was finished, she looked into the mirror and saw her face, surrounded by 
the white wimple, her hair hidden and everywhere else, the black of her 
habit. 

She hadn't been ten minutes in changing. She knew they had to hurry 
and she stepped back out of her room. "Will ... do I look right?"

<><><><><>

He stared at her for a moment, his expression uncharacteristically soft.

"I think you are very convincing, indeed, ma seour marie Ange. As soon 
as I heard your name, this plan occurred to me."

"You will do very well, I am sure."

Then he turns back to his hasty conversation with Laurent.

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

She smiled back at him and went to sit in a corner, waiting for them to 
tell her what to do.

Her rosary found its way to her hands and she closed her eyes and 
prayed for the safety of her companions.

<><><><><>

Guilluame regards Laurent with an almost-satisfied look. He rebandages 
one of his hands to disguise the palm a little more, steps back and looks 
at him again.

"Your carraige is too proud, M'sieur Laurent," he observes... "It will give 
you away, no matter what your disguise...that isn't your fault... it is 
unconscious. Perhaps we can do something about it, though... if you will 
remove your boot."

(assuming Laurent will comply)

He stuffs wadded paper into the boot, at the side..."It will be mildly 
uncomfortable at first, but later will be come really uncomfortable, 
causing a limp... in a man walking a long distance. Even someone who 
knows you well, will not recognize your walk..."

He shrugs.

He takes a staff from the wall a thick, rough piece of wood with a strip of 
leather wound about it at a comfortable hand level...and offers it to 
Laurent.

If he will accept it...

<><><><><>

Laurent looks at Guillaume with a strange look when he asks him to take 
off his boot but he grudgingly does so not wanting to be the one who 
seemed like he was the broken wheel in the plan.  He got a satisfaction 
from being a little more versatile than the other man they were going 
with.  Though it bothered him just a little that even his benefactor looked 
at being an aristocrat as a bad thing.  He let Guillaume put the paper 
into his boot.  He wondered how bad it could possibly be.  A thought 
came to his mind that brightened his spirit.  At least he would never have 
to *actually* contend with being a leper.

"Merci Monsieur Guillaume.", Laurent says looking up at him a little icily 
not liking this man's help but accepting it nonetheless.  He takes the 
offered walking stick a little grudgingly snapping it out of his hand.

"If we are to be going let's go.", he turns to look at Marie-Ange, "You 
look perfect in your habit.  We shall hope that it may become your 
permanent raiment."

<><><><><>

"Hold a bit," Guillaume says quietly, though his eyes flash when Laurent 
snaps the walking stick out of his hand... "I want to show you 
something..."

Carefully, he takes the stick back from Laurent, almost daring the man to 
refuse. Then he slides the leather grip down a bit, revealing a circular 
seam that goes all the way around the circumference of the staff. He 
pulls up on the top of the staff, revealing a few inches of finely tempered 
steel, and then rejoins the two pieces of wood.

"It has neither a hand guard nor quillons and will not serve you against 
any of our brethren...yet I would not have you unarmed before the 
republican guard...if it should come to that... Take Marie-Ange and flee. 
Make for the coast. Don't stop to aid the rest. I will be responsible for 
them...Do you understand? If there is time tonight, I will explain more..."

<><><><><>

Laurent looks at Guillaume a vacant look in his eyes.  His heart 
suddenly softens to the man whom has shown that he actually does trust 
Laurent.  Laurent looks deep into Guillaume's eyes, "Oui Monsieur it 
shall be done.", is all he says turning and allowing Guillaume to deal 
with the others.  He starts to test out the manufactured limp caused by 
the paper in his shoe.  He looks to Marie Ange to see how she is doing.

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

She was quietly praying in one corner.  Her eyes were closed and the 
beads passeed through her fingers with regularity. 

When it was time to move on, M. Guillaume would tell her.

<><><><><>

He moves from one to another, checking the disguises, making an 
adjustment here...rewrapping a bandage there.

When the small boy that madame has set to watch reports that the 
streets are empty behind the hotel, he nods, finally, speaking to 
Blakeney...

"We are ready, Sir."

Marshalling his charges into the cold morning air, with the sun struggling 
to rise over the cluttered rooftops of Paris, he loads le comte, his 
daughter and the Scarlet Pimpernel into a cart no larger than a 
peddler's. There is no horse, nor donkey, but merely two hitching shafts 
reaching into nothing. Signalling Laurent, Marie Ange and the other 
member of the league--a grizzled, middle aged peasant called Bernard 
to walk beside, he takes the shafts of the wagon and pulls the human 
load behind him.

Walking out of Paris...the hard way... he is amazingly straight-backed for 
such a burden, and further surprises Blakeney by breaking into a perfect 
rendition of Matins in Gregorian chant.

Rolling the cart through the crooked, stinking streets toward the eastern 
gates to the city. The entourage seems in no particular hurry, but then... 
one can't force the poor, sick lepers to move faster, can one?

He depends heavily on Marie Ange's fervent prayers to get them 
through.

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

M. Guillaume's voice rose like birdsong to the heavens and Marie-Ange 
found a warm smile for him.  Her prayers continued as she walked 
beside him, her eyes downcast modestly.

<><><><><>

[GM]

The procession of "lepers" passes through the streets of Paris with no 
hindrance....on the contrary, even the National Guardsmen you pass 
make way quickly, having no desire to detain such people, who are 
believed to be highly contagious.


You make your way up the Rue St. Denis, to the St. Denis gate, and 
there face your first obstacle. A long line of people is backed up at the 
gate. The detachment of Guardsmen here seems to be giving everyone 
and every cart that seeks to leave the city an unusually thorough 
inspection.

<><><><><>

Undaunted, Guillaume plods his way toward the gate, chanting the 
sequence to the low mass of requiem:

"Dias irae, dias ila
Solvet secum in favilla
Teste David cum Sybilla..."

The eerie resonance is obviously meant to _draw_ the attention toward 
the little entourage, rather than to escape it.

As he approaches the line at the gate he plods straight ahead. He 
moves straight toward the guard, and those in line before him can herd 
toward the head of the line to avoid contamination, or get out of his way.

He does not look to see if Laurent and Marie Ange are following 
closely...

If they are at all, worthy of their heritage; they will be.

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

She heard M. Guillaume's voice ... and added her responses, singing 
them softly to his chant.

Her prayers were fervent, all of those people in the cart, all of them 
innocent of anything but having been born on silken sheets.

Her eyes were cast down, but her heart was reaching out for a miracle.

<><><><><>

Laurent hobbled behind feeling the piece of paper annoying his foot.  
The pain was not unbearable yet but he truely wished he could take it 
out.  He leaned on his stick as he followed Guillaume careful to keep his 
eyes down so as not to look the men in the eyes and give anything 
away.  He had a difficult time not lifting his eyes to look at the 
guardsmen to gauge their reaction.  He focused on their feet instead.

<><><><><>

[GM]

The group of you have to stand in line for nearly half an hour. Finally 
you reach the head of the line, after watching one couple get dragged 
away by the Guardsmen, a man and a woman. The woman is crying and 
pleading with the stone-faced militiamen.


An officer approaches Guillaume while three other men circle the cart 
and glower warily at the lepers, while one man leers at the nun.

"Votre certificats de civisme, s'il vous plait, Citoyen?" the officer says, 
holding out his hand to Guillaume.

<><><><><>

"Certainment!" Guillaume replies with cheerful alacrity, breaking off his 
dirge. He produces their forged, but authentic looking papers, identifying 
Fr. Bernard Lescout of the Franciscans and Seour Marie-Ange of the 
nursing sisters of the poor...and of course, their charges.

He seems in no hurry, and allows himself to drop the shafts of the cart 
and stretch his muscles gratefully, as the soldier examines the 
documents. Flexing his shoulders, he adds in gentle tones:

"I trust all is in order, n'cest pas? It would not do to keep our poor 
charges in such close proximity to the crowd...for any length of time."

<><><><><>

[GM]

The officer spends a long time inspecting the certificates. He looks up at 
you. "Friar Lescout and Seour Marie-Ange....and where exactly are you 
taking these...unfortunate souls from, and to?"

One of the soldiers is coming closer to the back of the cart, and looking 
suspiciously at the huddled pile of rags that is the Vicomtess.

<><><><><>

"We are escorting them to Ste. Geneieve's leprosarium in Langlois, 
citoyen. They are the last four unfortunate inmates from Rue Mordant's 
St. Justine's hospital...all the rest have perished..."

He drops his voice.

"Their compatriots have died in the last week of lung fever...and the 
hospital has been closed, as you no doubt have heard. St. Lazare would 
not take them...they fear the contagion will sweep through their own 
infirmary. But the nursing sisters of  Ste. Geneieve's have agreed to take 
them...they believe that the country air will disperse the miasma of the 
lung fever..."

He allows himself to look doubtful.

"I am escorting them and Seour Marie-Ange, who has come to fetch 
them...God bless her."

This last, he adds with fervent sincerity, hoping that her disguise...all of 
theirs' will be enough to survive the crucible of scrutiny which boils 
around them.

That and the fear of leprosy...and lung fever.

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

She saw the guardsman approaching the back of the cart. Which of 
the... Oh! That was the young Vicomtesse.  She was ... so pretty. She 
couldn't let him see her face.

Moving swiftly, she stepped away from Guillaume and started to the 
back of the cart. "Merci, Citoyen. I see she is slipping down, close to 
falling out." Marie-Ange interposed herself between the cart and the 
staring guardsman. "So many people are not willing to show they care 
about lepers. It is such an ugly disease and even more so when it 
attacks a face." She shook her head slowly.

"And there is no cure."

She smiled, her expression somber despite her upturned lips. "Your 
kindness will not go unnoticed, Citoyen."

<><><><><>

He does not dare to breathe, as relief floods him. While he can not 
picture Marie-Ange _ever_ with a sword in her hand, it occurs to him that 
she possesses quick wits and an instinct for survival after all.

He cannot even look back, or show her some approval.

He maintains a stance of polite concern, waiting for the guard to finish 
with their papers.

And leaves the nursing sister to her poor charges.

<><><><><>

Laurent smiles at Marie-Ange's forsight and almost let's a snicker come 
from his lips but turns it into a stifled cough.  He crosses his arm over his 
stomach as though it hurts to even think about.  He curls himself even 
more into a ball hoping that maybe his cough will scare the men away 
from him even more than they already were.  Holding his stomach he 
wraps his arm around the cane and leans much of his weight on it.  A 
smile comes unbidden to his lips underneath the rags.

<><><><><>

[GM]

The guardsman who was approaching the cart pauses, then draws back 
as Marie-Ange goes on about contagion and faces being eaten away. 
His nose wrinkles in disgust.


The officer looks up from the papers at Marie-Ange. "Such a beautiful 
young woman, a shame to see one like her throw her life away in service 
to a dusty old deity. An even greater shame if she was to catch the lung 
fever. I wonder how many of the other inmates prayed to God for succor. 
Were their prayers not fervent enough, perhaps?"

The man apparently fancies himself to be something of an intellectual, 
armed with a smattering of Revolutionary propaganda and a dose of 
puerile atheism, giving him perfect, smug faith in the superiority of his 
ideas.

He hands the papers back to Guillaume. "Go on, then."

<><><><><>

He does not answer the guard's criticisms of religion and beauty, but 
keeps his eyes properly and humbly downcast. He accepts the papers 
back with humility, taking up the cart shafts again when the man gves 
them leave.

Pulling away, he raises his voice again:

"Gloria in excelsis Deo...
Et entera pax hominibus
Bonae voluntatis..."

It is only half a pretense. He is intensely grateful for deliverance.

And he does not turn to look back at the gates of Paris, although he 
imagines he can feel the guard's eyes boring into his back.

And hopes that Laurent and Marie Ange will follow with no incident.

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

She fussed with the back of the cart until the curious guardsman backed 
away. At the odd choking sound from Laurent, she reached out and 
patted the pile of rags that was the Vicomtesse, murmured a blessing, a 
most fervent one, and scurried to Laurent's side.

"Is it worse? Do you need to ride? Lean on me if you need to."

There was real concern on her face as she looked up at her friend.

<><><><><>

Laurent waved her away from him weakly trying to shrug off her touch.  
He leaned heavily on his staff almost believing that he was actually 
infirmed.  Not saying a word he concentrated on Marie-Ange's feet.

<><><><><>

>Marie Ange<

She touched his arm gently, a benediction. 

"Courage, mon frere..." and moved to walk beside Guillaume once more, 
her voice singing the responses as her fingers told her rosary.

<><><><><>

Laurent felt a warm feeling pass over him as she cared for him just as 
she would have were he sick.  He continued to look down as she walked 
away his eyes following her feet.

<><><><><>

The procession moves through the St. Denis gate. You are out of Paris. 
But not out of France.

Blakeny sits up, still covered with his ragged sackcloth robes. "Oh, that 
was splendidly done, my dear!" he says to Marie-Ange. "Why, if I didn't 
know better, I'd believe you really *are* a blessed sister of mercy!"

The Vicomtess peeks out from under the blanket covering her. "Is that 
it?" she asks. "We escaped this easily? No skirmish with the guardsmen 
at the gate?" She sounds almost disappointed.

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

Blakeny's praise brings embarassed color to the girl's cheeks. "Oh, no, 
sir... but perhaps someday..."

She walked away from the cart, from the Vicomtesse's voice, from all of 
them. Slipping behind a tree, she knelt and prayed, thanking God for 
granting them safe passage thus far, and entreating him to continue 
watching over them.  

And then she cried, all the fear that she had felt back at the gate 
suddenly welling up.  She knelt there, rocking back and forth, silently 
crying out her terror, her certainty that they would be discovered.

<><><><><>

After a few moments of stretching the kinks out of his back, he takes a 
map from his robes and hands it to Blakeny.

"The coast road is faster, but a change of clothes and horses await in 
Langlois," he explains. "And no one would expect us to escape inland. 
You may want to look this over, for any areas we might expect to be 
dangerous. From the Abbey at Langlois, we can ride overland for the 
coast. Choose a route, my lord. I left that to your discretion. They cannot 
anticipate what we do not even, as yet, know..."

Then he moves to the copse of trees where Marie-Ange has taken 
refuge. While he is loathe to invade her privacy, she has had ample time 
to do the necessary.

When he finds her sobbing behind the tree, he puts a gentle and on her 
shoulder.

"Courage, little sister," he says awkwardly, "we still have need of your 
prayers and your nerve. And the republican guard is not the worst thing 
we must face in our lives..."

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of the habit,  "I was so afraid, 
M'sieur... I thought that at any minute, they would discover M. Laurent, 
or the Viscomtesse ... " She gulped air into her lungs, fighting down the 
sobs.

"They would have killed them!"

<><><><><>

He offers a hand to help her rise.

"They would have killed all of us, Marie-Ange, not just the aristos."

His voice is sober.

"Come, now, dry your eyes. Tonight we will sleep in the Abbey of Ste. 
Justine in Langlois and by tomorrow night you will be in England."

"I will try to explain a few things to you and to Laurent this evening, after 
a meal and vespers...God willing."

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

She took his hand and stood beside him in her black robes. "I didn't 
think of that. All I could see was poor M. Laurent at the guillotine and I 
knew that I had to do anything to keep that from happening."

Unselfconsciously, she wiped the tears from her face.

"You are a good man, M. Guillaume, and I thank you for your kindness." 
She walked beside him, back to the others.  "God will surely reward you 
for your goodness."

<><><><><>

"Some would say that He already has, Marie-Ange," he replies soberly.

Returning to the cart and the others, he prepares to take up his burden 
again.

<><><><><>

The group proceeds along the roads, with Blakeny giving directions at 
each crossroads. For an Englishman, he seems to have an uncanny 
familiarity with the French countryside, and when no other travelers on 
the road are within earshot, entertains the lot of you with very amusing 
impromptu theatrical performances, quoting Shakespeare, Dryden, and 
Milton in perfectly-translated French, interspersed with bi-lingual puns.

Therese-Anne, the young Victomtess, wants to walk alongside the cart, 
both to stretch her legs, get a better view of the countryside, and to 
relieve Guillaume and Bernard from the burden of pulling them 
constantly. Blakeney keeps her in the cart with difficulty, but her father is 
becoming more difficult with every mile. "I once led armies across 
France, damned if I'll be carted out of my native land like a sack of 
potatoes!"

Only now that the old man is sitting upright, and visible in the light of the 
morning sun, does Laurent recognize Louise-Etienne de Valois-
Angoulême, the former Marshall of France. He was a leader of the 
conservative old guard, and someone Laurent's father admired.

<><><><><>

At one of the intervals where there were no other travellers around 
Laurent looked up at the man cursing his trip in the cart, "Monsieur, 
harsh times call for harsh measures.  No one is trying to demean you by 
putting you in the cart.  In a small way it befits the greatness that you did 
France that you be chaffeured like you are.", Laurent tells him in a very 
benevolent tone.

<><><><><>

Guillaume flashes the young man an appreciative look. He had done 
something positive to keep things peaceful. And the old man was more 
likely to take the suggestion from Laurent, who being one of his own 
station, was empowered to issue it. Blakeney was a lord, but he was a 
foreigner, and Guillaume knew that he, himself counted for little in the 
old man's eyes.

They plod onward toward Langlois

<><><><><>

[GM]

It's dusk when you see Langlois ahead, in the distance. It's full dark 
when you finally reach the Abbey, refuge for the mortals, and Holy 
Ground for Guillaume, Laurent and Marie-Ange.

As everyone gets out of the cart, hiding it in the back and sneaking 
inside, Bernard comments to Guillaume and Blakeney in a whisper, 
"This has gone *awfully* smoothly so far...."

<><><><><>

Having missed both vespers and dinner, Guillaume is relieved to hear 
the Abbot assuring them that food would be provided in the Abbey's vast 
kitchens. He remembers the hearty bread and the ale at the Abbey with 
some satisfaction.

Less satisfying is Bernard's ominous pronouncement, feeding the hard 
knot of dread that had settled in the pit of his stomach since they left 
their safe house in Paris...

"Certainment," he answers his friend, "We have either been very lucky, 
or we are being set up..."

Exchanging a worried glance with Blakeney, Guillaume hurries to catch 
Laurent and Marie-Ange before the solicitous brothers hustle them away 
with the rest of their party...

"Meet me outside of the Lady chapel after Compline, mon amis. We 
must talk. Tonight."

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

"Oui, oui, M'sieur Guillaume." She nodded even as the good brothers 
led them away to the kitchen.

She ate quietly, sparingly, and if the good brothers allowed, helped 
clean up in the kitchen. Just before the appointed time, she slipped 
away to the Lady Chapel to wait for Guillaume and Laurent.

Waiting never bothered her. She waited on her knees, eyes closed as 
she prayed.

<><><><><>

Laurent moves over to a corner and slides down against the wall holding 
his staff and looking down into the folds of his rags on his lap and starts 
to think about the entire mess that he is in.   He sits on the wall rolling 
the staff in his hands not moving otherwise.

<><><><><>

Guillaume notes Laurent's brooding withdrawal with some concern. But 
this is no child he is dealing with, after all, and he has neither the time 
nor the energy to coddle him. While he sincerely hopes that the young 
man will have worked out all of his private devils by the end of Compline, 
he is aware that this type of self-absorption can only be conquered from 
within.

If Laurent can overcome his solitary misery, he shall have some 
answers...

If not...

Then with the grace of l'bon Dieu, by tomorrow he will be in England, 
and someone else's problem.

<><><><><>

Laurent was famished and the food was not up to his standards but he 
ate it appreciatively and quickly.  He had almost grown used to eating 
this way over his few weeks on the streets of Paris.  He was learning 
that he must eat what he could to survive.  If he was truly immortal it 
would not matter if it was tainted or not.  He had taken to silence in the 
rags that he now wore not saying a word to anyone only nodding his 
head in appreciation to his benefactors.  Taking his food he went back to 
a corner and leaned against it still not having said a word.

<><><><><>

It is just a little past moon rise and the last sweet echoes of Compline 
fade into the darkness near the Lady Chapel. The court yard is 
dim...only a single lantern hanging by Brother Porter's tiny shelter near 
the postern gate. Its little pool of light illuminating the pious old monk as 
he kneels at prayer.

Along the privet hedge on the western side of the chapel, Guillaume 
slowly paces, his steps measuring the short walk between the kitchen 
gardens and the low wall that marks the tiny, crowded cemetery where 
generations of monks are laid to rest. He waits for his young 
companions.

Marie-Ange, he has seen, slipping into the chapel to pray. Laurent has 
not appeared and Guillaume will not disturb the girl until the latter 
arrives. He is not altogether sure that it has not been her prayers that 
have preserved their lives so far. The shiver that envelopes him has little 
to do with the chill night that limes the crumbling grave markers with a 
layer of frost.

Somewhere in the monastery, the rest of the refugees from Paris have 
gone to their night's rest. In the morning, they will ride for the coast, on 
fresh mounts that Bernard is, even now, fetching from a sympathetic 
gentleman farmer who lives nearby. Le Bon Dieu willing, he will return 
by dawn.

Not enough time.

Not enough time to tell these young immortals what they must know. But 
it will be enough time to make them understand their prospects and their 
danger...and to explain the knowledge that was denied him during the 
first four years after his own first death

so many centuries ago.

And it must suffice until they reach a place of safety.

He paces, and he waits.

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

The soft voices of the monks had died away, fading into the old stone. 

She didn't want to leave, but she'd promised to meet M'sieurs Laurent 
and Guillaume ... and it was time.

She exited the chapel, slipping away like a ghost, but she paused as she 
saw M. Laurent, huddled on the ground, leaning against the wall. She 
stooped down beside him and asked, softly, "Were you waiting for me? 
Wouldn't you have been more comfortable with the others? Or even 
inside the chapel?"

<><><><><>

Laurent looked around cautiously as Marie Ange approached him.  He 
opened his mouth to speak again.  Then he clapped his teeth shut and 
looked around once more.  Lifting up his hood barely so he could look 
into her eyes a gleam in them and a slight almost sheepish grin on his 
face.

"Yes I was waiting for you mon ange.  I thought we would go to meet 
Guillaume together.  I don't want to talk for long."

He becomes much quieter this time his eyes tightening shut, "I wouldn't 
want to give away who I am you know.", he reaches out to touch her 
hand then realize's better of it and puts his hands onto his staff and 
hobbles in the direction of Guillaume.

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

She nodded and began to walk with him toward the appointed place. "It 
will not be long, M'sieur Laurent. We will be safe in England, and no one 
will think it odd that you speak with a refined tone."

She turned and looked up at him shyly. "It's so good of you to worry 
about our safety. I know this is so very h ard on you."

<><><><><>

Laurent focused on her feet as he walked not wanting to look up at her 
in case anyone was around.  He spoke very quietly, "Thank you Marie-
Ange.  I appreciate all that you have done for me.  I may not have 
survived.  I would not have survived nearly as easily definitely."

He continues to walk silently for a few moments staring at his own feet.  
he leans heavily on the staff the piece of paper hurting his foot as he 
walks and the limp is very pronounced.  

He tries to feel the crack in the wood underneath the cloth.

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

"We helped each other survive, M'sieur ... I owe you such a debt of 
gratitude that I can never repay. You found me... I think I should have 
gone crazy if you hadn't found me when you did." She smiled at him, 
feeling safe for the first time in days.

And then softly, she asked, "Are you sure that you're not in pain?"  Her 
hand rested on his arm, solicitously.

<><><><><>

He watches his compatriots approach, eyes widened as he notes 
Laurent's pronounced limp. He sets the bundle he was carrying against 
the wall and strides to them, a hint of amusement in his eyes...but no 
mockery.

"M'sieur Laurent," he advises gravely, "it is safe to take the paper from 
your boots now. In fact, I would recommend it. The Abbott and the good 
brothers are not our enemies and will not denounce you. You are not the 
first friends of mine to have been sheltered beneath these walls...and 
with the grace of le bon Dieu, you will not be the last..."

"You must be in great discomfort... I had planned to seek the relative 
warmth of the herborium, but perhaps you would like to shake the paper 
from your boots now...before we walk to the other end of the courtyard?"

He turns bending to pick up his bundle, from which a clank of 
earthenware containers brushing together can be heard.

"It is too cold out here to talk, but there will be no one in the herborium 
tonight. There are several things I must tell you and I am not sure they 
can wait until to reach England."

"No...in fact, I know they cannot."

"But," he adds with more cheer than they have heard from him so far, 
"there is no reason to freeze in the telling..."

<><><><><>

A look of shock crosses Laurent's features when he hears that 
Guillaume actually *trusts* the abbot.  The piece of paper was hurting 
him too much to ignore however.  He reached down to pull his boot off 
and shake the paper out.  He made sure to snatch it up in his hand 
though.  He put his boot back on carried the paper in one hand and the 
staff in the other no longer leaning on it.  

"Let us retire to the Herborium monsieur.", Laurent smiles at Guillaume 
as they begin to walk to the Herborium.

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

She followed, quietly, smiling at the two men. It certainly appeared that 
they were getting along much better.

<><><><><>

Guillaume allows Marie-Ange to proceed them, pointing the way, and 
trying to keep her next to the wall where the wind isn't quite so brisk. 
They follow the low stone barrier to the cemetery for about 50 feet to the 
gate, and then cut across the grave yard, and out on the other side 
where the grounds give way to a cloister of privet hedge and trimmed 
boxwood and holly bushes. Here and there, statues and stone benches 
dot the peace of the grounds, and then beyond...a kitchen garden 
stretches to the left and an herb garden to the right. The night's frost has 
strewn the leaves with a crystal glow in the fitful moonlight.

At the far end of the garden a low stone building stands alone, and as 
the three immortals near it, the air is redolent with the sweet scent of 
lavender. Under the eaves by the door lintel, bundles of the flowering 
herb hang to dry. Guillaume pushes the door open...apparently it is 
never locked, and steps inside, setting his bundle on a table by the door. 
As the others crowd he strikes flint to stone and lights a small oil lamp, 
casting a gentle glow about the room. Here, there are other 
scents...some sweet and some are acrid...

He reflects that this is much like the news he now must impart.

He hoists himself upon the table and indicates a bench along the wall. 
Reaching into his bundle, he draws out three earthenware jugs that are 
gently warm to the touch.

"Mulled ale," he explains, "to ward away the chill. I do not want to light a 
fire here, for what I have to say requires that only the two of you are 
present. I had wondered if it was wise at all, to speak..and then I 
decided that I must. When I was newly awakened from that first 
bewildering death, there was no one who could tell me what had 
happened. For years, I wandered, not knowing if I was blessed or 
cursed. I was right and I was wrong...it was neither....and it was both."

He hands the jugs to his companions, waiting for the onslaught of 
questions and protests that he knew would come.

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

She accepted the small jug and went to sit on the bench. 

She looks at Laurent, knowing she should wait for him, but she can't. "I 
know that somehow I died. Le bon Dieu can bring men back from the 
dead ... but why me? Why us?"

<><><><><>

Guillaume sipped his own drink, watching their faces and trying to keep 
his own a bland mask, though Marie-Ange's plaintive question tears at 
him.

"I wish I knew, ma petite, but I cannot guess what is in God's mind. But 
we are not alone in this state of life and this is the dangerous thing. We 
are, for most purposes, immortal, but as in all things, le bon Dieu has left 
us with a weakness known only to the others of our kind. We can be 
killed. We can die the final death. And the one of us who kills another 
drinks of his power and his wisdom in the doing."

She shakes his head grimly.

"Our kind are far more common than you think, but hidden among the 
normal people of the world. We are given the power of immortality to this 
degree and must decide how to use it...for good or for ill."

He continues quietly, watching their faces and expecting them to 
protest...to disbelieve.

"When I was born, Louis the Pious, son of Charlemagne sat on the 
throne of the Holy Roman Empire. I became a knight in service to his 
son, Charles the Bald. When Charles made his alliance with Louis of 
Germany, I was there. I was first killed defending France against the 
Norse onslaught. My friends and family thought that I was dead and I 
could not show myself to them. I wander for years, ignorant of what I was 
or why these things had happened to me, selling my sword first to 
Rastislaus of Moravia, and later to Basil of the Byzantines."

"Later, I returned to see Charles crowned Emporer in Italy...under 
another name."

"It is that way with us...." 

"In my early years of the awakening, as I called it then, I chanced upon 
but one immortal, a woman who taunted me with veiled threats and 
teasing admonishments, and went her way without explaining anything. 
All I knew was the feeling that you two have experienced. The next time I 
felt that, I was extremely lucky for the second time. I chanced upon the 
man..."

He stops, suddenly, choking back some emotion he does not explain. 
Continues...

"the man who became my mentor. Who told me what I needed to 
know...who taught me to survive..."

<><><><><>

Laurent listens quietly to Guillaume's emotion ridden speech.  He looks 
down at the ground for a while and then back up at Guillame, "This way 
that we can be killed is by having our head removed from our shoulders 
non?  That is why Madame Guillotine is such a threat to our 
existance...so monsieur.  What happens when madame guillotine kills 
one such as us?  Does the power dissipate?  Does it go to the nearest 
one of our kind in the area?  If the executioner is an immortal does it go 
to him?  If the person who ordered the execution is an immortal does he 
get it?  Where does it go?  This is what I am wondering.", Laurent looks 
at him waiting for an answer like he is positive that Guillaume has it.

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

She didn't ask another question. Not now. Not yet.

There was too much to take in.

How could anyone be as old as M. Guillaume said he was? M. Laurent 
didn't seem to find it hard to believe. He was asking questions about the 
beheadings and the guillotine ... as if he believed it all.

She wasn't sure what she believed and she wasn't sure how she would 
deal with it. How would she explain to her confessor?

<><><><><>

"This is true. We are, maintenant, in more danger than ever before. 
Once, only our own brethren were our nemesis, except in those 
barbarous lands where the killing blow is always a head stroke." He 
shrugs....

"But now, any citizen may denounce us...and still...it seems suspicious--
to my jaded heart--that in this place and time there are suddenly so 
many immortals...and so final a way to see to their end."

"And, mon ami, I cannot tell you exactly what transpires when one of us 
is beheaded by Madame la Guillotine. I was not there to witness my 
mentor's death. But I think it unlikely that another immortal would dare to 
stand so close, were it a public execution. When an immortal dies there 
is a great...disturbance...in God's nature. We call it the quickening, and 
it is like a storm.... At least, it could be perceived as one."

"For the immortal who is closest, it is more. A physical assault...in which 
one absorbs and assumes the life force that belongs to the dead one. 
One gains in strength and power...and in some cases, may even absorb 
knowledge and abilities...from the one he has killed."

"But, know this... it would be very obvious to any on-looker that this is 
so. And for this reason, I do not think that our enemy would openly take 
a quickening...not in front of the masses. Either the executions in 
question are private...and this is possible, even likely in my mind...or I 
believe there would have been some talk about the great storm that blew 
up when one of our people died. Superstition alone....."

He breaks off, staring into the shadows in the deeply scented herborium. 
Outside, the night is still except for the Abbey Bells chiming for the 
midnight hour...

"And so you see, why you cannot stay here now...either of you. You will 
be safe in England for a time. I'll come to you as soon as I 
have...finished this business here. Or if I do not...you must learn what 
you can...and you must survive."

He turns sharply to the woman, noting her bewildered face.

"Marie-Ange, I cannot see you in this fight. Perhaps in a few centuries, 
you may feel otherwise, but just now, your nature is too gentle for this 
fray. You _must_ stay on holy ground, where you will be safe. There, 
and only there, is the fight forbidden to all..."

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

"But ... but how?" She was ready to cry, but she kept the tears back by 
sheer force of will.

"How can I remain on holy ground? If I do not grow old, if I do not die ... 
how can I answer the questions? I will be thought mad, or possessed 
or..." She looked away from the men, wishing she were different, wishing 
she had died back in that Parisian alley.

<><><><><>

Laurent looks on in deep thought, "I have many questions which will 
have to be answered at some point.  Could I possibly ask a few more 
before you leave us this night?", he looks up at Guillaume a questioning 
look in his eyes.

He turns to look at Marie Ange, "She does have a point you know.  How 
can she possibly stay on holy ground for very long?  Perhaps ten years 
could pass before it was questioned.  Longer than that I do not know.  
The priest's are much more likely to assume she is a demon than an 
angel and they could not possibly understand any of the rest.", he sighs.

"My dear Angel this world was not designed for a gentle heart."

<><><><><>

He regards her sadly.

"I do know what to tell you, ma petite. I cannot say that the way will be 
easy or the path will be clear. We must trust le bon Dieu to make his 
wishes known, and know that He will unfold his plan in His own good 
time. I _do_ know that you are not the first immortal to serve God in a 
number of guises throughout the ages. It can be done...Several years in 
one convent or monestary....and the good nun or priest begins a 
pilgrimage. Alas! On that pilgrimage they are taken ill and lost. And 
somewhere, in a different holy place a new postulant or monk takes the 
Lord's service....to last another twenty years or so."

"I know also that there are several religious convocations that number 
our kind in their midst. There are places where you will be welcomed 
and your secrets held sacred. We will find them, Marie Ange....I promise 
you."

It is the best answer he can give.

And he adds to Laurent.

"When I called you here to tell you this, I knew that there would be 
questions. I am prepared to remain here as long as need be, and I will 
answer them for you if I can. Le bon Dieu willing, we ride tomorrow for 
the coast and Sir Percy's yacht. We will be tired...immortality does not 
exempt us from the need to rest...but in any event it will be easier going 
than a walk from Paris with paper in your boots..."

The shadow of a grin crosses his lean face briefly, and is gone. It is 
clear that this man's subtle humor is fleeting at best and largely buried 
under a layer of serious chivalry and dedication to his cause.

"Et maintenant...you may ask what you will."

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

She nodded in response to the two kind men. She would accept 
whatever God had willed for her and do what she could to keep from 
causing the others harm.

As Guillaume and Laurent talked, she sat, trying to imagine her future. It 
was difficult. It was very difficult.

<><><><><>

Laurent looks a bit relieved and relaxes a bit, "My first and foremost 
question is this...If an immortal severs the head of another immortal then 
a third immortal comes closer to the dying immortal than the victorious 
one does he gain the power and wisdom of the dying one?", Laurent 
looks at him inquisitively trying to come up with another question as that 
particular one had overshadowed it greatly.

"If one slays another in a Catholic church what happens to the 
offender?", he asks the thought springing into his mind.

<><><><><>

"Yes, but it is a dangerous prospect. These are _usually_ very solitary 
events, you see, for good reason. The immortal who takes the 
quickening is usually incapacitated temporarily...from the sheer might of 
the experience. It is a very deep and frightening thing...to take a 
quickening. You are usually very helpless, at least for the moment. It 
would be a simple matter, to take the head of an immortal in the throes 
of a quickening."

"Not to add, cowardly...." he lets it hang, feeling that it is unnecessary to 
elaborate further.

"And I must tell you it is not only the consecrated ground of holy mother 
the Church that is sacrosanct, Laurent. The holy mosques of the infidel, 
the ancient temples of the pagans, and I am told, the sacred places of 
the redmen in the new world are also forbidden. Le bon Dieu works in 
mysterious ways...and our customs and rules are older, it would seem, 
than Christendom...."

He waits, watching them carefully, his heart breaking for Marie-Ange's 
bewilderment and sadness.

But his own faith, tempered by the ages, has given neither answers to 
nor reasons for their plight. He keeps his peace now, unable to provide 
further comfort, and waiting to see if there is more that they would know.

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

"Older than Christendom? There are men who have been alive since 
before the birth of Christ?"  Her eyes began to regain the eager glow. 
"Perhaps there is someone who saw him. I heard stories when I was a 
little girl of a wandering Jew, someone who had failed to recognize 
Christ and was doomed to forever walk the earth."

She looked up at Guillaume, eagerly. "Could the wandering Jew be one 
such as we are? Might I be able to find someone like that and learn from 
him? Surely someone who actually knew Christ would be a holy one."

<><><><><>

"I do not know, ma petite."

He smiles gently.

"I do know that some immortals are very old. Perhaps that is le bon 
Dieu's plan for you...to hear the tale from the old ones, and bear witness 
to the miracles for our days and lives. I would not attempt to second-
guess the Almighty....and yet....some part of me says you are far too 
gentle and too good for this life. So it seems sensible that you have 
another role...purpose in His plan."

His face darkens.

"But, nonetheless, you are in need of protection. There are evil ones 
among us. Those who will take your head to drink your power and never 
feel a moment's remorse. I do not know if you will ever have the ability to 
defend yourself from them.... I must be honest. The same qualities that 
make you good are those that place you in the greatest danger."

"And no," he adds to Laurent, "it is not unheard of for an immortal to 
violate the rules and the holy places. Some are evil and some are 
merely mad...drunk with the power and the hunger for more. Those are 
anathema to most of us. I hunt them down....and I kill them if I can. But 
not on holy ground. Even those are forbidden to me, here."

"Nor is it unheard of that some will use the same rules they violate to 
hide behind. While many of these monasteries are safe havens, you 
must always be wary. Use the sense of the quickening to warn you. The 
feeling will always indicate another immortal is about."

"Some few of the clergy, such as the Abbott Timeaus here, know who 
and what we are. He does not understand it. But he recognizes the hand 
of God when he sees it. But I warn you, these are few and far between. 
You must be wary of whom you confide in. Some mortals will envy what 
they see as a gift. If they know how to kill you they will...hoping for that 
gift. Trust....is a commodity which you cannot afford. Treat all men 
gently, but warily."

"And it is absolutely essential that you begin immediately to improve 
your skills with a sword and learn new styles so that you can meet a 
challenge from wherever it comes. You are skilled with the rapier, 
Laurent, but that will not take a head....."

He stops, looking back to Marie-Ange.

"I am so sorry, Marie-Ange," he says softly. "These are hard and bitter 
facts you are hearing. But you must hear them. This is your way of life 
now. If you can bring yourself to do so you must learn the skills of the 
sword as well. If only to vanquish the evil ones...."

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

She sat, stunned by his words. How could she ever pick up a sword to 
harm someone? 

She shook her head, just a little.

"If my weakness makes me a danger to you, I will ..." She swallowed 
hard, the fear stronger in her, but her will was stronger. "I will leave you 
now. But I won't strike another person."

<><><><><>

He sighed.

"That is out of the question, Marie-Ange. It is no more nor less 
dangerous for me to have you with me. What would be extremely 
dangerous, however, would be to allow you to travel on your own...quite 
vulnerable to one who could sense you, and would be most anxious to 
separate your  head from your body to drink your quickening."

He knows he is being brutally blunt, but he also realizes that she has no 
real understanding of the situation.

"What may seem like a noble sacrifice to you, and one that I am truly 
certain you would be willing to make for your friends..."

He looks at Laurent through the shadows of the herborium.

"Would merely feed the evil that lurks. This is not martyrdom, Marie-
Ange. And le bon Dieu is quite unforgiving in the matter of suicide, I 
believe..."

"And besides, with your gentle nature and longevity, there is no end to 
the good you can do in this world, mon chere...if you survive."

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

She nodded, feeling helpless. "I will do what you tell me to do, M. 
Guillaume, and when we reach England, I will find a convent that will 
take me ... even if only as a servant."

<><><><><>

He nods in return.

"You are a brave young woman. And I am sure you will find a convent 
which will take you for your goodness and charity."

<><><><><>

Laurent looks unconvinced, "Saying she does get into a convent.  How 
long will she be able to stay there before she has to move on?  Before 
she has to leave all her new found friends without a word?  The church 
is unforgiving when it comes to unholy matters of which I am sure they 
will assume this is one.", he rolls his eyes, "We shall see where life 
takes us in England  I am very skeptical of this whole thing.  Were she to 
be thought a witch she could be burned and though that is not death I 
would imagine it to be unpleasant.  I saw a witch burning once...", he 
looks at Marie-Ange and stops realizing she was an innocent and had 
seen more than she ever expected in just the past short months and it 
would not help her to find more of it so quickly at least that was Laurent's 
reasoning.

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

She looked back at Laurent, her big brown eyes slowly filling with tears.

"I'm not a witch!" 

She leaped to her feet and ran out of the herbarium.

<><><><><>

"Oh...tres bien!"

 Guillaume sets the jug of ale down on the worn wooden bench with a 
little, exasperated thud.

"The last thing she needs is another thing to fear. This is difficult 
enough."

Then he shakes his head.

"It is not your fault, I know, Laurent. You are neither of you, responsible 
for what you are. You cannot live your lives worrying about what you 
have done to deserve this. The answer to that is; nothing. It just is. In all 
actuality, she might well have lived twenty or twenty five years in a 
convent. There are ways of making oneself look more mature. Do you 
honestly think I would place her anywhere in which such accusations 
would be made? Besides, they are much less nervous about witchcraft 
in England than they are here. You will see."

He sighs.

"One of us will need to follow her and try to soothe her fears, at least for 
the time being. I cannot guarantee that there are not more shocks to 
come. But I think that we will leave them for another day, non?"

"Now, do you want to go after her, or shall I?"

<><><><><>

"Mon Dieu", Laurent cries as she gets up with a totally unexpected 
reaction.  He hadn't expected her to think he was accusing her of 
anything.  Laurent gets up sighing deeply, "I will go after her monsieur.", 
he runs off after Marie-Ange calling to her softly trying to sound 
soothing.

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

A witch? People might think her a witch!

She ran lightly, the sound of the men behind her. 

All she wanted was the sanctity and sanctuary of the church and her 
destination was the Lady Chapel. Once inside, the warm darkness 
enveloped her in the familiar scents of candles and incense. She 
genuflected, then moved forward to kneel at the foot of the altar. The red 
light was there, reminding her that she was not alone and at last, the 
tears stopped.

<><><><><>

Laurent ran after Marie-Ange and watched her run into the Lady Chapel 
and went in bowing his head as he entered and making the sign of a 
cross over his chest.  He humbly walked over a little behind her got on 
his knees saying a silent prayer as he waited for her to turn around and 
look at him.

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

The soft quiet of the chapel soothed her as it always did. She could feel 
the Virgin's presence, the presence that reassured her. She wasn't a 
witch, she wasn't evil ... no more evil than anyone else.

She turned to see Laurent behind her and smiled at him. "I'm sorry," she 
whispered. "I know it was silly of me to run. Forgive me?" 

She rose and offered him her  hand in friendship. "Come, M. Laurent. 
Tomorrow will be upon us before we know it, and it will be a hard ride."

<><><><><>

Laurent was a bit shocked by her congenial tone...he had expected 
anger at his implying she was a witch.  He was suddenly realizing the 
difference between her and the aristo women that he used to take...she 
did not find insult in what was meant to be helpful she looked at reality 
not her petty insecurities about something.

Laurent looked at her and smiled, "Yes we do have a hard ride ahead of 
us tomorrow.  But I have a feeling it will be a lovely day.", he said trying 
to make light of the situation.

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

She led the way out of the chapel, pausing to anoint her head with holy 
wanter and genuflect once more before leaving.

"Do you think M. Guillaume is angry at me for running away like that? I 
... I behaved so childishly. I only hope you will both forgive me. I promise 
to do better."

<><><><><>

Laurent smiled at her, "No I do not think that M.  Guillaume thinks badly 
of you.  I think you just...worried him."

Laurent walked back with her toward the herborium.

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

"I don't want to worry him ... or you... or anyone. Everyone has enough 
to wrorry about now. They don't need to fret over me. There is so much 
real danger than my worries are only silliness."

<><><><><>

"YEs well the fact that he worries only means that he cares.", Laurent 
says it as if he is just repeating something that was drummed into him for 
ages as a child.

"Let us go find him now."

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

She took his hand with all the innocence of a child and began to run 
toward the herborium.

"I knew you would come to like him!"

<><><><><>

Laurent looks at her, "Yes I suppose you did know that."

In the back of his mind, "SHe thinks I like him now."

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

She tugged at his hand as they ran, laughing almost lightheartedly in the 
moonlight. She felt good and strong and safe again.

The Virgin would protect them.

<><><><><>

"I suppose we shall go our seperate ways once we reach London non?", 
Laurent looked at her a little sadly.

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

His words brought her up short and she stopped in the middle of the 
gravelled path. 

Slowly, she spoke. "I ... I hadn't really thought about it. You've been with 
me almost since I was reborn. Oh, M. Laurent!" Her brown eyes were 
wide open and so very sad. "Surely we will see each other?"

<><><><><>

Laurent nods, "I am certain our paths will cross but I don't want that to 
be in two or three hundred years.", he looks down, "I would hope to see 
you more often."

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

Every time someone talked in terms of hundreds of years, she got this 
sinking feeling in her stomach. M. Laurent seemed to have absorbed it 
so much better than she had.

"If I am in a convent, I won't be able to roam very far. You'll always be 
welcome wherever I am, M. Laurent."

<><><><><>

Laurent gets a slight smirk on his face.

"You know...for some reason ma chere I don't think that they like Men to 
visit the nuns in convents.", Laurent says shaking his head.

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

"Do you think that nuns do not have brothers and fathers and uncles? 
The do not come to visit everyday, but they come. You are my brother, 
Laurent."

She blushed suddenly.

"Unless one such as you would be ashamed to call me sister. And I'm 
sure that they could tell you are much too fine to be my brother."

<><><><><>

<Guillaume>

After Laurent departs in search of Marie-Ange, Guillaume finishes the 
last swallow of ale, and extinguishes the lamp he has lit in the 
herborium. An old reflex....not to be  in the light while someone observes 
him from the dark. He sits for a long time, contemplating the frail 
moonlight struggling to overcome the shadows of the headstones in the 
tiny graveyard, catching the frost-encrusted herbs in the garden...

His mind is blank, thinking of little, avoiding a replay of tomorrow's 
anticipated ride to the coast and the dangers they might incur along the 
way. Veteran of many pre-battle night watches, he knows better than to 
try to see what the future can bring. He has prepared them as well as he 
can for the moment. At least they know who and what they are, and why 
their danger is so great.

Finally, he sees them. Sees them before he can feel their presence. He 
does not turn on the light, knowing that they will be able to sense that he 
has remained.

Laurent and Marie-Ange, the newly-reborn, picking their way across the 
cemetery with a light step, easy in their friendship...

And he wonders how long it will be until they begin to distrust anyone 
who generates that sudden, dizzying alteration in the senses that 
signals another immortal nearby. How long before they begin to see 
each other in that light? Measure the strength of the particular feeling, 
for what it may or may not gain them...wondering who can be trusted...a 
feeling he knows well.

For now, they are innocents...Marie-Ange...a step away from sainthood, 
and even this bitter, self-absorbed young aristo. As such he must protect 
them. Until he can find them a mentor or a place of safety at least...this 
much he has pledged to himself.

Gathering the jugs...except for Marie-Ange's nearly full jar which he 
leaves for Brother Gardener (who will appreciate its warmth in the 
morning) he returns them to his pack and steps out into the moonlight 
where he can be seen.

"It is late," he comments briefly, "and we are weary. It would be very 
helpful, you know, if immortality granted surcease of weariness and pain, 
but it does not. Only from death. I think we should retire now, unless you 
have more questions... If so, I will answer them if I can."

"Tis a long ride we have tomorrow, non?"

<><><><><>

Laurent looks at Guillaume for a moment without saying anything.  He 
looks at Marie-Ange then back to Guillaume, "Oui tis a long trip we have 
monsieur.  I am ready to go to London.  I am ready to be out of France at 
least for a while.  When the masses come to their senses I shall come 
back ready to rule over them as my family has done for generations.", 
Laurent smiles and his voice is perfectly serious.

<><><><><>

"Hunh..." is all he answers, eyes a fair couple of dark pools in the 
shadowed herborium...unreadable.

"Then go and take your rest,' he says, still low-voiced and non-
committal. "You have a long journey ahead. Longer than you know, 
perhaps, non?"

And when they have gone to their cells, he walks slowly, not following 
precisely, but making a wide detour through the little cemetary where the 
Abbey buries its dead. Stopping before an unmarked grave, a raw 
wound in the soil, hastily dug in those last weeks before the ground 
froze too hard to accept a new offering. 

"So, what think you, old friend?" he asks of the headless corpse that lies 
silently below. One more sad vicitm of the new, enlightened times, 
spirited out of the city like so many others, to rest here...as it had never 
rested during the centuries that had made up a lifetime.

"Will I regret this one? Will I?"

The shade in the ground remains stubbornly silent.

And after a long time, he turns and plods wearily toward the Abbey.
**********************************

And with the first light, there are horses, fresh, delivered sometime 
during the cold hours before the dawn.

He chews a bit of bread, wondering if he cuts a figure in his 
uniform...and wonders what his compatriots will think, disguised as the 
hated republican guard.

**Sir Percy will cut a fine figure. God's blood. I think he enjoys this...**

"Ho, Brother Gerard," he calls suddenly to the plump shadow that has 
detached itself from the eastern wall, "What keeps my brethern?"

"They have dressed, Brother," the monk replies, a snatch of humor 
twinkling through the unworldly haze about his eyes, "and now they 
break their fast. Le bon Dieu have mercy on their bewilderment..."

"It took," he pronounces with bloodthirsty zeal, "the better part of the 
hours between Compline and Matins to scrub the bloodstains from their 
disguises."

An arch glance, a bit of likely conspiracy to lighten the dull monastic life.

**God! This is _no_ game!**

He nods briefly, waiting bneath a sun which doesn't warm, for the rest of 
his party to emerge from the refrectory.

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

She was prompt ... and obedient. She put on the clothes that she was 
given and came out quickly.

<><><><><>

Seeing Marie Ange emerge from the refrectory, he can only shake his 
head. They'd given her the  smallest uniform they had, but it hung on her 
like a jester's motley. Maybe on horseback, and from a distance she 
would pass....but.

He flashes her a cheerful smile, for his usually dour expression, and 
resists the impulse to roll and tuck her sleeves up.

"Bon matin, marie-Ange," he says, "and where are your companions? I 
realize that the guard uniforms are somewhat beneath their style, but 
they should certainly be an improvement over yesterday's leper's robes, 
n'cest pas?'

He is only half-joking. The sun has been up for an hour, and she is the 
first to emerge. Even Percy Blakney is taking his own sweet time 
preparing for this ride.

And Guillaume is itching to be away, to be riding, to be moving for the 
coast and the relative safety of the channel.

<><><><><>

[GM]

Percy finally emerges, with the rest of the League. All of them look quite 
presentable as Guardsmen, but Percy is the very image of a strutting 
National Guard Lieutenant, with his red sash worn proudly over the navy 
blue waistcoat.

"Allez!" he exclaims, "Let us be off, then!" He inspects Laurent briefly, 
and nods. "You'll pass as a Levée trooper. Just try not to open your 
mouth." He claps the smaller man heartily on the shoulder.

He looks a bit less sure of Marie-Ange's costume, but simply smiles at 
her. "We'll try to keep her out of sight as best we can," he murmurs to 
Guillaume.

The Comte and Vicomtess d'Alais are certainly the weak spot in the 
disguise. The former Marshall now wears the uniform of a Captain, a 
considerable demotion and not one to his liking. He's too old, too regal 
in manner, and it's very doubtful his disguise will last long under 
pressure. He was convinced to assume this role only after lengthy and 
frustrating arguments, and once again, it was only the prospect of his 
daughter being led to the guillutine that persuaded him. Now that he's 
astride his horse, he starts giving orders as if leading his troops, until his 
daughter runs over to pat his leg and calm him down. The Comte is 
clearly teetering on the brink of senility.

Like Marie-Ange, the Vicomtess is supposed to be a boy in the Guard, 
and similarly quite unlikely to stand close scrutiny. Unlike the peasant 
girl, the noblewoman is prancing around with glee, feeling quite naughty 
and excited dressed in men's clothing. She keeps giggling as she 
stomps about in her thick boots, which won't enhance her disguise much 
if you're observed.

..........

The group of "Guardsmen" has been riding for about an hour, with the 
Comte d'Alais alternating between complaints and reminiscences about 
past battles.

The young Vicomtess pulls up alongside Laurent. She hasn't lost any of 
her cheerfulness, though if one looks carefully, one can see a trace of 
worry in her eyes, especially when she looks at her father, and listens to 
him rant. A word from her will soothe him, but it must be clear even to 
her that her father is not entirely well.

"Monsieur Gilliard," she says. "We have not been properly introduced. I 
hope you will forgive me for being so forward as to make your 
acquaintance in such a brash manner." She blushes, but goes on. "Still, 
these are unusual circumstances, n'est pas? All of society is breaking 
down."

She shifts in her saddle uncomfortably, still unused to men's clothing, 
even if she finds it quite daring. "So, how did you and your maid come to 
be aided by le Mouron Rouge?"

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

She rode quietly, feeling odd about wearing men's clothing, but she 
knew that le bon Dieu would forgive the impropriety. 

She spent the time in prayer, praying that they would find their way to 
England safely, that M. Laurent would be well-received there, that M. 
Guillaume would find happiness, and that she would find a place where 
she could pass her days in worship.

<><><><><>

The ride is not difficult and the terrain is gentle, but his tension 
continues to mount as they near the coast. If there is going to be an 
ambush, it will be soon, he is sure. He edges his horse a bit closer to the 
rear of the group, imagining that the mostly likely attack will be from 
behind. There is a musket on his saddle bow, but he trusts it not at all. 
The sword that has been his companion for many centuries, rides 
comfortably at his hip.

He tunes out the vicomte, listening to the occasional comment from 
Percy and the barbs traded by the other members of the Pimpernel 
League...probably more bravado than actual confidence. While they 
have performed maneuvers and run escapes like this one before, each 
has it's own rush of danger....

This one, perhaps moreso, since the stakes, for Guillaume are 
considerably higher.

He approaches Marie-Ange, proffering a water bottle and a bit of bread.

"A moment from you prayers, ma petite....to renew your strength...we 
need you and your entreaties to le bon Dieu for our safety..."

He tries to smile, but fears his attempt at lightness has come off a bit flat.

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

She smiled shyly at him as she accepted the water bottle. 

"You are in my prayers already, M. Guillaume."

She shook her head a little to loosen the tight muscles in her neck.

"Are we nearly there? I had no idea that France was so immense. When 
we reach the channel, is it far from there to England?"  She laughed 
softly, slightly embarrassed.

"I am uneducated in so many things, it seems ... not like the Vicomte's 
daughter. She probably speaks English and Latin and knows about the 
world."  Her brown eyes focussed on the backs of the young woman and 
M. Laurent. "She would probably make a better nun than I."

<><><><><>

"A better nun?" the note of incredulity in his voice cannot be mistaken. "I 
hardly think so. And you will have an eternity to learn to read french and 
english and latin, and to speak and write them too. In fact, I hope you 
will be our chronicler....someone should keep a record of our kind, and 
most of us are too itinerant to do so."

"Some day you will be a great Abbess in a fair and fine convent when 
the world is sane again...You will be renouned for your wisdom and your 
charity..."

"And poor sinners like myself will visit you from time to time, to remind 
you to remember us in your prayers..."

He pauses, awkwardly.

"Why don't you keep the water bottle, ma petite."

With that he wheels his horse to the rear of the troop, watching for the 
ambush...

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

He left her no time to reply, riding away before she could tell him that 
she would never forget to pray for him, even though she did not think he 
was a great sinner.

She tucked the small water bottle away and resumed her prayers, but 
the voice in her head, the voice that gave the responses to the prayers, 
was no longer the soft voice of the village priest. His voice had been the 
one to teach her, the one to guide her, and it had always been a part of 
her soul. But now, it was M. Guillaume's voice she heard.

It was a great comfort to the young girl.

<><><><><>

Laurent rode in silence when the Vicomtess rode up next to him.  He 
made a passing glance over her in the man's clothing.  The thoughts 
that came to his mind he quickly banished.

"Hello mademoiselle.  I am M.  Laurent Gilliard.  It is a definite pleasure 
to have you make an introduction to me.", he smiles plastically but it 
looks sincere.

"It was very strange circumstances mademoiselle.  I cannot explain them 
myself...they are too jumbled in my head.", he looks down back at the 
ground.

<><><><><>

[GM]

"Oui, everything seems to have happened in a blur," the Vicomtess 
says. She continues riding next to you, giving you sidelong glances. "So 
what shall you do when you reach England?"

<><><><><>

Laurent sighs looking over at the vicomtess, "I suppose I shall work at 
rebuilding my familes name...Or else perhaps I will go to America.  Who 
knows?", there is a note of melancholy in his voice.

<><><><><>

[GM]

The trip towards the coast seems destined to be easy and unhindered. 
Which of course puts the more hardened members of the League more 
on guard.

Warniess seems justified when the small party crests a small rise in the 
road, and looks down on a village that sits almost within sight of the 
coast. Across the entrance to the village is a roadblock, manned by 
*real* National Guardsmen. At least twenty of them. The terrain is lightly 
wooded to either side...it is possible the village and the roadblock could 
be skirted around, but the Guardsmen manning the token barricade, a 
quarter mile away, have undoubtedly spotted the Vicomte in his uniform, 
atop his horse, and will wonder why the second group of National 
Guardsmen turned around.

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

She saw the barricade and gasped.

She'd begun to believe that they were going to make it through safely, 
that her prayers had been answered.

False pride, that's what it was, but surely God would not punish the 
others for her sins.

She tugged her hat down more firmly, straightened her back, and kept 
riding, her eyes on Guillaume's back.

<><><><><>

He keeps riding, with a sidelong look to Blakeney, merely loosening his 
sword in its scabbard.

"Salute, and pass..." he advises. "Just keep going."

<><><><><>

[GM]

"Oui," Blakeney agrees. He glances at the Vicomte. The young ones, 
Marie-Ange and Laurent, and the Vicomtess, may give things away with 
nervousness, but they held up well when going through the gate at 
Paris. But the Vicomte is now the most dangerous member of your party. 
If the real Guardsmen challenge him in any way, the old warhorse may 
forget he's not actually in command here, and respond the way one 
would expect the Marshall of France to respond to an insolent 
suboordinate.

The party makes its way slowly down the road towards the barricade. 
The Guardsmen, who'd been slouching at their stations, now stand up, 
and adopt some measure of military bearing. Not much, though...most of 
them are levée troops, barely more than peasants who've been stuffed 
into ill-fitting uniforms, and handed rusted old weapons.

Fighting past these poor troops might not be impossible, if it comes 
down to that....except that beyond the roadblock, you can now see half a 
dozen musketeers, who look quite professional.

Guillaume is reasonably sure he could position himself to ensure he 
takes at least one musketball. But his two fledglings, even if they are 
willing and have the nerve, probably don't have the agility and reflexes. 
And that would leave at least three more muskets potentially capable of 
bringing down the mortal members of the League...including Blakeney 
himself. Or the Vicomte and Vicomtess, the people whom everyone is 
risking their lives to save.

"This is quite a well-manned roadblock," Bernard comments dryly. The 
others exchange looks. There really isn't much reason why a tiny village 
would host a twenty-man patrol, including a squad of 
musketeers...unless they had some reason to expect someone of 
interest to be coming through.

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

There were so many of them! And they all had weapons!

She swallowed hard, then tried to assume a military bearing, or what 
would pass for a peasant girl's understanding of a military bearing. 

And her silent prayers did not cease.

**Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners... now and in the hour of 
our death.**

<><><><><>

[GM]

Your small group makes its way down the road, until it's forced to try to 
come around the barricade. The officer in charge of the Guardsmen 
comes out to greet the commander, who appears to be the Comte. 
Blakeney moves to intercept him.

"Can I help you, Lieutenant?" he asks.

"Yes, I was hoping to speak to your commander. We weren't expecting a 
patrol on this road today."

"Ah, well, we're carrying some important dispatches to the coastal 
garrison. I wish we could stop and exchange the latest with you, but the 
Committee would be most unforgiving for any delays." Blakeney waves a 
convincing-looking envelope with a seal on it.

"May I see the papers for each of your men?" the Lieutenant asks 
stonily.

"Excuse me?" Blakeney asks in astonishment. He thrusts the envelope 
under the man's very nose. "Lieutenant, may I see *your* papers, so I 
know who to report to General Poudrier as the cause of our delay?"

Blakeney's very persuasive intimidation and fast-talking abilities seem to 
be for naught. The Lieutenant says "Certainly," as he calmly pulls his 
own bonafides out of his jacket. Behind him, his men become more alert.

<><><><><>

<Guillaume>

Alert for trouble, he moves his horse to Blakeney's side, expression still 
mild, but carefully keeping the women and le comte behind him.

Moving too slowly to cause alarm, he carefully opens his saddlebag, 
pulling out a sheaf of documents, but offering them to no one.

He waits, while Sir Percy peruses the documents the officer has given 
him.

<><><><><>

>Marie-Ange<

How does a girl in a uniform who would much rather be wearing a habit 
look military?

She wasn't sure, but she straightened her spine, look directly forward 
and began silently praying with as much fervor as she could muster.

<><><><><>

[GM]

The National Guard officer stands calmly at Blakeney's side as he 
makes a great show of inspecting each paper.

"Very good, Monsieur. Since you seem determined to hold us up with 
unnecessary formalities...." Blakeney holds out his hand for the 
documents Guillaume is carrying.

As the other man comes close, Blakeney's hand makes a miniscule 
gesture, finger pointing towards the woods, which are much too far from 
the road. Guillaume recognizes the signal- *Be prepared to run for it.* 
Actually, it will be the Comte and his daughter, and Laurent and Marie-
Ange, who will run....the other League members would have to draw 
their pistols and try to take out the musketeers quickly. The odds are 
very, very bad.

<><><><><>

He hands the forged papers to Blakeney, looking properly respectful to 
his 'superior officer' and drops back, ostensibly out of deference to the 
conference between the two.

As unobtrusively as possible, he motions to Marie Ange, to Laurent, and 
to the comte's daughter, indicating that they should cut the old man from 
the bulk of the squad and be ready to ride for the woods.

He adds a prayer of his own, jaundiced perhaps, from what he knows his 
grim reality to be. The woods are much too far, and none of the group 
will know where to go next. But if the worst should happen, it will be the 
only refuge they will have....and Laurent, at least, should provide some 
defense for the women and the aging aristo....

"Mon capitan," he murmurs deferentially.... "the schedule....?"

If he can impress his sense of urgency on the commander at the 
barricade....

Reaching behind his back, underneath the sweeping cape he wears 
over the stolen uniform, he loosens his sword in its scabbard. 
Quietly....to avoid the tell-tale snick of the metal against its sheath.

<><><><><>

[GM]

A long, tense moment passes, as the lieutenant inspects your papers.

He looks over each of you, his eyes lingering on the Comte, who scowls 
pompously down at him, and then Laurent and Marie-Ange, looking 
prettily boyish in her uniform. The Victomtess has managed to keep 
herself opposite the other League members, preventing a good look at 
her.

"Pardon, for the delay Capitan," he says, handing back the papers and 
offering a crisp salute. "You understand, we must remain vigilante, in 
these dark days when our enemies are all around us."

"Er, yes," Blakeney says, saluting back. Even the unflappable Sir Percy 
can't help looking surprised. But he wastes no time in gesturing you all 
forward. "Do remain vigilante, Lieutenant, but we are late already. Allez!"


The group rides anxiously past the musketeers, and down the single 
main road of the village, and then continues towards the coast, with the 
eyes of the Guardsmen on their backs.

As soon as they're out of sight, Blakeney turns his horse aside and 
heads for the woods. "We're getting off the road, now!" he snaps.