Universe: A virtual "6th" season wherein "Modern Prometheus" was the finale of season 5 and ignores all events in the "real" season 5 finale and all of season 6, as well as the last movie. This season takes place 1997-1998
Summary: One-shot, plot hole filler, season 4, episode: Chivalry. Explains Methos's true motives for wanting Kristen dead, as well as how "Adam Pierson" got away with the beheading.
Disclaimer: If I owned them why would I waste my time posting to fanfic sites? I'd be off making lots and lots of money! But since I'm not, I therefore don't, nor do I pretend to.
This fic takes place simultaneously in 1660 Normandy (the flashback time for the episode), and two days after Methos takes Kristen's head in the "present day" (1995). There is no great time lapse between past sections and present sections, essentially making it continuous action interrupted by either a flashback or a flash forward.
In the "present day" action, Methos is masquerading as Adam Pierson in front of a fellow watcher. However, there are moments when his true self slips through, and I have noted them thusly. Also, for an explanation of dates, places, and relations see the further notes at the end of the story.
Norman Countryside, Outside Rouen
15 October 1660
"Madam, there is a woman here to see you."
Kristen turned and looked up from the task at hand. She was currently overseeing the scrap and salvage of Duncan's now vacated room, as well as getting everything she could associate with him ready for resale. She didn't want any traces of that highland barbarian left in her estate.
"Some poor traveler from the looks of it," the porter continued.
"And why would I want to see some poor woman traveler?" Kristen answered distractedly, going back to supervising her servants as they folded they stripped the bed linens.
"I'm sorry, madam, but she's quite insistent; says that she won't be denied admittance."
"So be a little more forceful," Kristen directed with an amused though impatient grin.
"Begging your pardon, madam, but we tried that," the porter explained. "Then she pulled a sword on us."
This got Kristen's full attention. She whirled around to face her porter, an infuriated expression on her face.
"Le Marc is standing tip-to-tip with her, but he's quite nervous about getting into a swordfight with a lady."
Kristen's eyes darkened and in a flash she held her own sword at her porter's throat, having pulled it deftly from the folds of her seemingly overly extravagant (yet surprisingly functional) gown.
"Perhaps you should all get used to it," she practically spat at the poor porter, who was all but cowering before her. Then just as quickly, Kristen lowered her sword and flashed the man an innocent smile before quickly heading for the door.
She felt the buzz just before arriving at her main entrance hall. True to the porter's word, her door warden was standing with drawn sword, ready to fend off the petit femme immortal in riding clothes and a faded bonnet. Kristen smiled devilishly and raised her sword.
"Stand down, Le Marc," she directed.
"But—but madam—" the warden stammered.
"Just do it!" Kristen shouted.
The warden wavered slightly before lowering his weapon. This he did slowly, and he kept it in front of him. Then Kristen moved forward, her own sword ready, and Le Marc backed away as she took his place.
"You're the last person I expected to turn up here with a drawn sword," Kristen said carefully.
"Lacking of noble stature, I assumed that it was the only way that you would agree to see me," said the other immortal. "And I was right."
"How was I to know it was you?" Kristen defended angrily.
"By the sword of course!" Replied the other immortal as though the question were pointless. Just when things appeared ready to degenerate into blows, both women broke into fits of laughter.
"It's good to see you, Grace," said Kristen as she lowered her sword.
"Good to see you too," said the other, also lowering her weapon.
Kristen stepped forward and put an arm around her former teacher. "Now, tell me what I've done to deserve the pleasure of your company."
(down the street from the Watcher Hall of Records for the Pacific NW)
27 October 1995
Methos sipped his beer, taking in the ambiance. It was a small sidewalk cafe; a little over-priced but at least the beer was cold. He'd been sitting there nearly fifteen minutes, taking in the sights and doing his best to relax. Of course, that was because he'd arrived nearly twenty minutes early. This meeting was important; he didn't want to be late. Of course, getting one good beer under his belt before his contact showed up just might help him to relax a bit more.
As he casually observed the passers by, Methos thought back to the events that lead up to the necessity of this meeting. It had been nearly 350 years in the making. Unfortunately, it hadn't played out the way he'd planned. Actually, of plans A and B, it wound up being plan C that finally worked. Of course, plan A was the most unlikely, but Methos had held out hope for plan B, which would have sufficed just as well.
Alas, that wasn't the way the final hand had been dealt.
But it didn't matter now. Or rather, it won't matter after this meeting. Kristen was dead. Finally. Even though it wasn't the highlander that killed her (which Methos had hoped for but wouldn't have put money on), or even Richie (even he could have bested her with a sword, and he too had good reason). No, in the end, he wound up having to do the job himself.
Methos smiled as he remembered the moment. Kristen was weakened from her battle with MacLeod; it wasn't so much a fight as it was an execution. Not that Methos had any problems with that. Kristen was a monster, despite her protests to the contrary. And a murderer. She deserved to be executed for her crimes, and Methos was more than willing to volunteer for the task. It had been many centuries since he's enjoyed a kill so much. Her quickening was pitiful, but for his first head in 200 years, it went down rather smoothly. Yes, Methos would be enjoying the memories of that night for probably another 350 years.
There was only one catch though. While MacLeod's watcher (the one Joe had on him that he didn't know about) was easily convinced to back off for a few days, since the highlander was palling around with Adam Pierson, mild mannered researcher, and Richie wasn't there, so neither was the watcher Mike had on him that he didn't know about, Kristen was there (obviously), and so was her watcher. Which meant that she had seen who'd taken Kristen's head. Methos knew that the watcher, a Veronique Millet, would now be trying to identify the mysterious immortal that showed up and took his assignment's head. "Adam Pierson" had to act fast if he didn't want his cover to be blown, or so he feared.
And so here he was, in a little out-of-the-way cafe in Seattle, waiting for a chance to explain himself.
No time lapse
"I'm afraid this isn't a social call," Grace said gravely. She and Kristen were now sitting to a bottle of brandy in one of the sitting rooms on the estate. Now that they had complete privacy they could discuss that which was not for outside ears.
"Well I know you didn't come here to challenge me," said Kristen with authority.
Grace laughed and shook her head.
"I'm surprised you still carry that thing," Kristen continued, gesturing towards Grace's sword, which was leaning up against the couch the immortal was currently occupying. "I thought you healer types were against doing harm."
"I keep it for emergencies," Grace explained. "Though I haven't had need of it in over a hundred years." Kristen nodded, recollecting the time span. "Besides, several people would be most unhappy with me if I were to walk around vulnerable to any headhunter who wants a shot."
"Not to mention those occasions when you have to fight your way past your old student's armed guards," Kristen added with a grin.
Grace laughed lightly and shook her head again. Then her expression turned serious. "I didn't come here for your head, but someone else might, and soon."
Kristen too dropped her light and unaffected air. "What do you mean?"
"I know about Louise Barton," said Grace, her voice tinged just slightly with a negative judgment.
Kristen dropped her eyes to the floor, but quickly recovered. "Such a tragedy," she offered. "And to think it happened on my own grounds."
"Don't play the fool with me, Kristen," Grace said tiredly. "I know you killed her, and so do others."
Kristen flustered a bit, but kept up appearances. "Well if I did kill her, which I most certainly did not, why would you come all the way here to discuss it with me?"
"Because someone will be along to avenge her."
Kristen paled slightly and pursed her lips. "If you're referring to MacLeod, he's already tried. He couldn't bring himself to kill me."
"I know," Grace said sagely. "But I wasn't referring to him."
"Well who then?"
"Her step father."
Kristen let out an amused laugh. "Well let him come," she said defiantly. "Le Marc won't hold his sword against a man, and even if he did get past my guard, Mr. Barton can't hurt me."
"Oh, yes he can," Grace corrected, her tone giving Kristen sudden pause. "He'd kill anyone he needs to in order to get to you without so much as a second thought. And his name isn't Barton—like I said, he was her step father."
"Then who is he?" Kristen demanded. Then a sudden thought made her fearful. "Is he one of us?"
"Currently he goes by the name Guillaume Chevalier," Grace answered. "And yes, he's one of us." Kristen paled a bit more, obviously distressed by this news. "He's a carpenter in Evreux where I'm currently acting as midwife."
"You know him then!" Kristen exclaimed in obvious relief. "And since he hasn't tried for your head yet, I'll just assume you're friends. You can talk him out of it."
Kristen's tone was commanding, but it only served to mask her insecurity and Grace took no notice of it. The elder immortal shook her head sadly.
"I've already spoken to him," she explained. "That's why I've come to warn you. He knows you killed Louise, and his heart is set on vengeance."
"Well then you'll just have to talk him out of it, won't you," Kristen directed, her voice becoming panicky.
"I've done all I can," Grace corrected. "He's on the road from Evreux now. He'll be here by tomorrow."
"He was leaving today at first light. I rode all night in order to get here ahead of him. If you want to keep your head, you grab only what you need and leave now."
Kristen stood from her wingchair and started pacing, very troubled by this development. Then suddenly her fear turned to anger.
"Let him come for me then," she announced. "I can hold my own with a sword—I'm probably even better than you now. And even still, many have come for me only to find that they can't kill a defenseless woman."
Grace just shook her head. "This one was born long before the age of chivalry, Kristen. Being a lady—or even being defenseless, will not save you. When he gets here, around dawn if I've timed it right, he will draw his sword, defeat you, and then take your head."
Kristen sat down quickly and put her head in her hands. "All this because of that stupid Norman tart," she mumbled.
Grace chose to ignore the comment.
"You'll have to leave Kristen," she said with sad sympathy.
Kristen took a moment to collect herself before looking up again. "Well, I always wanted to see Paris some time this century," she said with a forced grin.
"Paris won't be far enough," said Grace. Kristen sat up straighter. "He'll track you there."
Grace shook her head. "You need to get off the continent, Kristen. Head for the port of Le Harve and catch a ship."
Kristen nodded as if in a daze before recovering. "Well, London is lovely this time of year."
"Farther," Grace directed. "Sail to Oran, or the new world, or maybe Constantinople or some place thereabouts."
Kristen slouched back down and put her head in her hands again. "This can't be happening," she said in disbelief.
"Believe me Kristen, this is very real. Chevalier will track you until your trail runs cold, and even then, the first he hears of you, he'll come looking. The farther away you get, and the longer you stay away, the better your chances of staying alive."
Kristen looked up suddenly, a hopeful gleam in her eyes. "You'll come with me?"
"You know I won't," Grace answered with sad resignation.
Kristen just nodded. "I always wanted to see the pyramids," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand.
Grace nodded approvingly. "Then I guess you'd better get your things in order."
No Time Lapse
Veronique Millet arrived right on schedule. Methos recognized her from the photograph he 'found' on the watcher database and sat up straighter. After a brief moment to survey the small crowd, the other watcher came over and stood by Methos's table.
"Adam Pierson, I presume?" She asked in accented but perfect English.
"And you must be Veronique Millet," said Methos, slipping back into the guise of Adam Pierson with practiced ease. He only hoped that he'd be able to maintain the guise.
The woman nodded and Adam stood up. The two formally shook hands.
"Have a seat," he directed, and Veronique obliged. "I'm sorry to hear about Kristen," he offered with convincing sincerity. "I hear the paperwork's a bitch, not to mention having to shift gears and go and watch some other immortal that probably lives on the other side of the world."
Veronique laughed, nodding. Then the waiter came by and took their orders. They both asked for coffee.
"The business aspect of it is not pleasant," the watcher conceded. "But really, I will not be crying over it."
"I take it you didn't care for her very much then," Methos concluded, succeeding at limiting his voice to expression only scholarly interest. Indeed, keeping his emotions from coloring his watcher persona was going to be difficult.
Veronique half-shrugged in the French way. "She was a murderer," came the answer. "I don't like watching innocent people die and having the authorities write it off as accidental or a suicide, knowing who the killer is and not being able to say a thing."
Adam nodded sympathetically. "I guess whoever whacked her did the world a favor then," he offered non-committed.
The watcher nodded. "You'll get no argument here," she said. Just then the waiter came by and poured their coffee. The two watchers suspended conversation until privacy was restored.
"What really surprised me was that it wasn't MacLeod that killed her," said Adam once the coast was clear, saving his ironic grin for a later date.
Veronique nodded. "You'd think that her killing Louise Barton all those years ago would have been enough," she said.
Methos nodded, taking a sip of coffee to quench the sudden surge of emotion. Of course it worked. "Either that or her going after his student. MacLeod is known to be rather protective of the boy."
"True," Veronique conceded. "But it doesn't really matter now."
"I'll say," said Adam with an easy laugh, recovering. "Incidentally, have you had any luck figuring out who that unidentified immortal was?"
The Following Morning
The sun was low over the horizon, but climbing swiftly and casting long shadows through the east windows as it went. Grace sat in one of the front parlors, an expensive bottle of wine on the table, along with two glasses. Kristen had departed with most of her entourage the evening before, headed for the coast. Most likely she would catch one of the British trade ships bound for Marseille, and sail the Mediterranean from there.
Grace sighed and shook her head sadly. Kristen had dug herself in deep with this one, but it wasn't for her to pass judgment on her old student. All she could do was to try and keep her alive.
Meanwhile, Chevalier rode up to the estate with purpose. He was exhausted from his ride and from the long stretch of no sleep that he had endured before that. The thought to rest and recuperate before challenging the bitch that killed his step daughter had occurred to him, but he was so close now, so close to exacting his revenge…
And adrenaline is a wonderful thing.
Chevalier drew his sword and kept it ready, and guided his horse with his knees so that his other hand could be free to hold his pistol. He wasn't sure what type of resistance he would be facing, but rest assured that someone like Kristen would have servants lurking about somewhere.
That's what made the complete lack of people rather worrisome. Chevalier rode all the way to the front door and still no sign of guard or gardener. His instincts told him to be cautious. Chevalier dismounted, still holding pistol and sword at the ready. He left his mare untied, preferring that she was able to save herself if needs be... and that she could ride to his aid if he whistled for her. Indeed, for this identity he had chosen an apt name.
Chevalier climbed the front stairs cautiously, not liking the eerie, deserted feel to the estate. He pushed on the heavy oaken door with the tip of his beautiful 15th century sword-rapier (light and quick though still possessed of a strong slashing capability as well as being finely suited to the elegance of tip work), and was surprised to find give in the hinges. Someone had left it opened.
Pistol pointed and sword ready, Chevalier kicked the heavy door and it swung open with a rusty creeking sound. There was no one in sight. Cautiously he stepped across the threshold. The evening lamps were still lit, though burning low. In the early morning light a servant should have come by and snuffed them out. Very strange indeed.
Chevalier stepped inside a few more paces and that's when he felt it: another immortal was somewhere close by. Adjusting his grip on his pistol and not really caring if it was the sporting thing to do, Chevalier tried to discern from which room the buzz was coming from.
He didn't have far to look.
"Grace, what the devil are you doing here?" He asked, shoving his pistol back into his belt. He was obviously not pleased to see her.
"I've been expecting you," Grace replied from her seat in the wingchair, and then she gestured to the small couch.
Chevalier narrowed his eyes as though he weighed the decision carefully, but finally he crossed over and plopped himself down on the couch with an exasperated sigh.
"Kristen has impeccable taste in wine," Grace continued, filling two glasses and cutting off anything Chevalier might have interjected. He shot her an irritated glare, but he took the wine anyway. He held the glass in his hand and swirled the dark liquid.
"You can't stop me, Grace," he said forcibly. "I came here for Kristen's head, and I mean to take it."
"I didn't come here to stop you," said Grace matter-of-factly.
Chevalier was confused only a moment before it dawned on him. "She's not here," he said in realization.
Grace shook her head. "She left hours ago, with as many servants as she could afford to bring. They won't be coming back."
Chevalier cursed in a multiple languages, rising from the chair with the force of his anger. "Very well," he practically spat. "Hours ago, you say? She and her entourage will not be traveling fast enough to outrun me. I will pick up their trail, and follow it until I catch up to them."
Once again Grace shook her head, though this time with sadness. "She has ten men escorting her," she said. "They would not allow you to harm their mistress without a fight."
Chevalier grinned eagerly. "Oh, I'm counting on it."
"Would you kill them all? Other people's sons? Is your thirst for vengeance so great that you would willingly inflict your pain on others?"
"Only those who would stand in my way," he answered with malicious ice in his voice.
Grace was unmoved. "It matters not," she said dismissively. "They make for the port of Le Harve. You'll not catch them before then. They'll soon be on a ship and out of your reach."
Chevalier's eyes narrowed again, this time in palpable anger. "One aristocrat in the company of ten servants is not going to slip into Le Harve and aboard a ship unnoticed. I will sail after them. No space of distance can come between a father and his revenge."
Grace regarded him with a look of sadness and pity. Under that softly scrutinizing gaze, Chevalier remembered others who could look at him with such eyes, and some of his anger left him. He sat down hurriedly again, nearly collapsing from fatigue, and put his head in his hands.
"I don't doubt that you could track the ship into every port," said Grace. "But discerning where she disembarked is another matter all together. I don't doubt that she will not leave that ship in the company of the same men she boarded with. Even Kristen is smarter than that." Grace's personal feelings for her student slipped through in her discourse, and she was ashamed of her slip, for Chevalier picked up on it and turned his attentions towards her.
"Asking me to forego vengeance upon your student is one thing," he said. "Riding day and night to warn her off is entirely another, especially for a student that you don't even like."
Grace's expression changed, but almost immutably so. The sadness and pity was now shared. "Immortals are not meant to have children," she said, but she held up her hand quickly for silence when Chevalier made ready to protest. "We cannot have children of our own," she clarified. "Those of us who do not feel as though we could withstand the pain of watching a mortal child grow and eventually die... suffice ourselves with our students."
Chevalier couldn't hold the stern expression, and eventually he dropped his head again in defeat. "And parents love their children, no matter what," he said, his heart breaking for thought of Louise, and of her lovely mother, dead before her time... and of someone who once held similar thoughts for him.
Grace only nodded. "I can't stop you from killing her," she said at length. "But I can make it as hard for you as possible."
This time Chevalier nodded. Then suddenly he turned his haunted, hate-filled eyes on her, but Grace knew the true emotion was the pain of grief, and the lost feeling one has when one's family is gone, and she didn't heed the venom in them for it wasn't directed at her.
"I could kill you in Kristen's place," he said maliciously. "Kill the one that she values most, make her feel what I feel."
"You overestimate my stature," Grace declared blandly. "Kristen loves no one but herself."
Chevalier laughed outright. "I don't care what she thinks of you," he said, standing up, in a voice filled with loathing. "I came here for a head, and I mean to take one."
Grace stared unflinching down the length of steel pointed at her head as Chevalier stood menacingly over her. "You could, but you won't," she said with quiet authority. She stared impassively into his impassioned eyes and won the contest. Chevalier lowered his sword, though he still remained standing.
"There will be a time when being Rebecca's student will not save you," he said, his tone suddenly detached and deadly serious as he finally sheathed his sword.
"What about being the student of Charles de Strasbourg?" Grace asked with an amused grin.
Chevalier snorted. He often forgot that Rebecca wasn't Grace's first teacher. "It didn't save him, either," he said, a hint of sadness in his voice.
Grace nodded, her impassive expression turning thoughtful for a moment. "While you speak truth," she said, a light smile dancing across her face, "Rebecca isn't what saved me now."
Chevalier sat down heavily and grabbed his previously forgotten wine. "Perhaps not," he said, though mostly to himself, before taking a long swig of wine. "Perhaps not."
"But come," said Grace, standing, her voice full of warmth. "God only knows when you've last slept."
Chevalier nodded tiredly and finished the wine. Grace took the glass from him and set it aside.
"Rest now," she said as she coaxed him to stand. "You will be safe here."
Chevalier nodded dumbly, grateful for her understanding and her patience. Grace slipped her arm around his as she guided him out of the parlor, through the main hall, up the stairs and to the bedrooms. They didn't say anything until Chevalier found himself standing in front of the open door to a spare bedroom that wasn't being used when Kristen and her entourage departed. That's when he felt obligated to speak.
"Thank you," he said sincerely, slipping back into the ancient tongue, the one that Rebecca still teaches to her students. They are now the only ones who remember it.
"You're welcome," she answered in that same tongue as she released his arm. Their eyes locked briefly before Grace turned to go. "Good night," she said, returning to Norman French. "Sleep well."
Chevalier shut the door as Grace walked away. He made his way to the bed and collapsed in a heap upon it, not caring about anything except succumbing to sleep. He trusted Grace implicitly that he would be perfectly safe in sleeping here, and there weren't many that he trusted at all.
Grace too made her way to a spare chamber. She hadn't slept for days, having to ride like the wind to beat him here. Satisfied that he would not try and pursue Kristen to the ends of the earth, as no doubt he has the mind and fortitude to do, Grace too allowed herself to succumb to the welcoming arms of sleep as well.
When she awoke again in the late afternoon, Chevalier was nowhere to be found.
No Time Lapse
Veronique shook her head in sad frustration.
"I have been in contact with the watchers for all the immortals within a three hundred kilometer radius, and each of their assignments is accounted for during the beheading," she said, exasperated. "I've checked the recent MIA list, and the few immortals listed there either had no way of being in Seacouver at the time or don't match the description of the immortal I saw."
Adam nodded. He had expected as much. "What did the immortal look like?" He asked with scholarly interest.
The watcher shrugged again in French style. "About medium height, thin to medium build, dark hair. He fought with a one-handed weapon."
"Did you get a good look at his face?"
"Good enough to know that I haven't seen its likeness yet," said Veronique.
Adam nodded again, deftly restraining his amusement. "Have you checked the international MIA list?"
Veronique shook her head 'no.' "I'm supposed to sit with a sketch artist tomorrow, and they'll hand the image off to the Research department. Perhaps they'll have better luck."
Adam broke into an outright grin. "Well Veronique, if I'm correct, and I'm fairly certain I am, I should be able to spare you and a team of researchers a lot of time."
"What do you mean?" She asked as he pulled a file out of the briefcase resting up against the legs of his chair.
"Is that your immortal?" Methos asked, revealing a copy of old charcoal sketch of himself (that looked slightly like him but didn't nearly do him justice).
Veronique snatched the sketch and examined it closely. "Oui," she said to the charcoal face. "That's him. That's him I'm sure!"
Methos nodded smugly, pleased with himself.
"Who is he?" Veronique asked. "Where did you get this?"
"Well this bloke went by the name of Guillaume Chevalier," Adam explained, returning fully to mild-mannered watcher mode. "We first spotted him as a fisherman in Calais roundabout 1575. After that we got a line on him in Normandy in the 1580s. This sketch was rendered circa 1590."
"And he's on the MIA list?"
"We lost him around 1600 or so."
"That's when Kristen left Normandy," said Veronique, thoughtful.
"Yes," said Methos, straining to keep his voice neutral. "We think he took off after Kristen and we lost him in the process."
"But how did you come across him?"
Methos grinned a smug grin. "I work on the Methos Chronicles," he said. "I came across Chevalier while trying to get a line on one of Methos's past identities."
Veronique nodded, the explanation making sense, as Adam passed her Chevalier's file.
"When I heard that Kristen was whacked but we weren't sure by whom I remembered something that I read in this guy's file."
"He was Louise Barton's stepfather?" Veronique gasped. Then she nodded. "Yes, yes this makes sense."
"He definitely had motive," said Adam, though the strain was hard.
"And his physique fits."
"I think we've found your mystery immortal."
"Yes…" said Veronique distractedly, reading the file. "Yes, thank you," she added more directly.
"Now if only we knew where to find Chevalier now," Methos said wistfully, fully and unprofessionally enjoying himself.
"When I make my report, he'll be put on the active list at once," Veronique declared. "We'll find him. Thank you so much!"
Adam shrugged disinterestedly. "Just doing my part," he said. "You'd better go if you want to place a phone call to Paris before their headquarters closes."
Veronique looked at her watch and then nodded. "Indeed," she said as she began shuffling the papers back inside the file folder. "Thanks again, Mr. Pierson."
Methos nodded, satisfied. "Don't mention it."
Veronique threw down a ten, obviously intending to cover coffee (and the beer she didn't know he had already had) as part of her thank you before making her way back towards the office building that housed the Hall of Records. Methos watched her go and then sighed a contented sigh once she was out of sight. He raised his coffee cup and drank a silent toast to Guillaume Chevalier, and his late wife Marie Estelle Barton-Chevalier, and their daughter, the late Louise Barton. He would spend the rest of this day stewing over happier memories, and then tonight, Joe's for beer, to drink away the less-than-happy memories. Besides, tonight was the night that Joe had promised to teach him all there was to know about baseball…
According to the DVDs Grace was Kristen's teacher. It didn't specify where in Normandy Kristen's estate was, so I situated it outside the city of Rouen. According to the DVDs, Duncan first met Kristen in 1659 and then Grace in 1660 (most likely on his way from Kristen's, because she was midwifing in the town of Evreux according to the DVDs, which is approximately 100 km south of Rouen). The port city of Le Harve is the closest one of its kind to Rouen.
Grace's teacher is reported in the DVDs to be Charles of Strasbourg. However, before seeing the watcher files for season one I had stumbled across a fan site that listed her teacher as being Rebecca Horne. Therefore I have decided to combine these two facts for the purposes of this story. Immortals can have more than one teacher, just as Duncan was Connor's student first, and then was taught by the likes of Graham Ashe and Mei Ling Shen.
Methos killed Kristen 25 October 1995, and so damage control should be very soon after that. All dates are taken from the DVD's, along with the name of Kristen's watcher.