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The Alchemist's Daughter
Elaine Knighton


THE QUEST FOR SECRETS HAD DESTROYED ONE MAN SHE LOVED. HER HEART COULD NOT BEAR TO LOSE ANOTHER.Isidora Binte Deogel had lost her father to alchemy, only to see Sir Lucien de Griswold willingly tread the same dangerous path. And now a cruel irony had made him her soul's desire and her the agent of his doom!THE NEED FOR ATONEMENT HAD DRIVEN LUCIEN DE GRISWOLD TO FORSAKE ANY CHANCE AT LOVE.But did Providence have a different fate in store for him? He looked upon Isidora and saw not the daughter of his loremaster nor the guardian of great mysteries, but the only woman who could transform the leaden pain in his heart into golden joy!









“Isidora, you should go to bed.”


His breath was warm against her ear, for he had bent his head—so that he could keep his voice low, she assumed.

“Lucien, I will go to bed when and where I choose. I have lived long enough to be fully capable of such a decision.”

“Have you? I wonder, even at your age, that you do not need some guidance in that regard, or at least some inspiration?” He turned her around. “Do you want some…inspiration?”

At the sight of him so close, the feel of him, his eyes gleaming in the firelight…his attention focused upon her alone…Isidora had all the inspiration she could handle.

She felt dizzy. She wanted to fall into his arms. Kiss him. And beat him with her fists, so thickheaded was he. Had he no idea of the torture he put her through?




Praise for Elaine Knighton’s previous titles


Beauchamp Besieged

“Sensational plot turns…a gritty but vivid picture…of medieval times.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Rich details create a strong sense of place in this debut.”

—Romantic Times

“A definite must-read for those who enjoy a good medieval tale.”

—Romance Reviews Today

Fulk the Reluctant

“Knighton’s talent shines.”

—Romantic Times

“Be ready to be swept away to [the] 1200s in this fast-paced story.”

—romancejunkies.com




The Alchemist’s Daughter

Elaine Knighton







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To my wise and beautiful daughters, Asmara and Angela.




Contents


Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Epilogue




Prologue


The Holy Land

Somewhere between Jerusalem and Acre

Spring of 1197

“L ucien! De Brus has fallen. We must stop.”

“Aye, Allan, I expected it to be so.” Lucien de Griswold’s heart sank as he turned in the saddle and looked back over the straggling line of weary men and horses. De Brus, who had gone with them on pilgrimage to Jerusalem only to please his lady-wife, had taken a deep sword thrust to his thigh. The attacking tribesmen, in search of plunder, did not respect the uneasy truce between west and east, no more than did many Crusaders.

The dry wind kicked up a spiral of dust and heat shimmered over the sand and rocks. This desert, this place…the Holy Land…was not a land of milk and honey, but of blood and pain and thirst. Only the Saracens, with great determination, faith and skill, were at home here.

Allan had dismounted and helped the ailing De Brus to the shade of an overhang. Lucien left his horse in the care of a servant and knelt beside De Brus. The knight’s wound was poisoning his blood. His red, sweaty skin, his leg so swollen that his foot was mottled, testified to that fact.

“He needs more medicine than the camp leech can provide, even could we get him there before he dies,” Allan whispered.

De Brus opened his eyes. “Don’t bother trying to spare my feelings now, Allan. I know full well I am a waste of further food and water. Just leave me here in the shade.”

“Be quiet, Brus,” Lucien said. He drew Allan aside. “There was a caravanserai going east. They may know of a physician in a town nearby. It is worth a try.”

“A Saracen physician?” Allan’s brows knit.

“Aye. They have the skill Brus’s leg requires. I have seen what they can do. I fear otherwise he will indeed die while our leech deliberates and Brus argues with him. He won’t be able to argue with a Turk.”

“Very well. But be swift, for we dare not tarry here overlong. If you must go, at least take someone with you. Do not go alone.”

Lucien shook his head. “To the Arabs we Franj are dangerous wild animals. A pack of us will only make them defensive. One of us may get a better result than many. And if I should fail, there will be fewer of our party at risk. No one in Acre even knows we are here, so we have no hope of them setting out to look for us.”

“But Kalle FitzMalheury is due to return this way. No doubt he would come to our aid.”

A surge of distaste filled Lucien at the mention of the knight whose reputation for brutality overshadowed his brilliance as a commander. “I hope we are gone long before then, for I have no wish to encounter Kalle FitzMalheury—especially if I need him.”

“Aye.” Allan rubbed his dagger hilt. “I know what you mean. He is a restless lion amongst men.”

“All the more reason for me to make haste.” After downing a mouthful of warm water, Lucien set out in pursuit of the caravanserai whose dust was still visible in the distance. It was a small procession, no more than a dozen heavily laden camels, but well supplied with guards, a mixture of Turks and mercenary Franks.

With a final burst of effort from his horse, Lucien caught up with the vanguard. He brought his mount around, just close enough for them to hear his shout. Some of the guards had already turned, arrows nocked and ready to fly.

“May peace be upon you, all honor to the Prophet!” Lucien began in Arabic.

But the guards’ bows stayed taut, the arrows level; the red tassels on their horses’ bridles fluttered in the wind.

Lucien took a deep breath. “I seek a ţābib. Know you where I might find a man skilled in medicine?”

“Why should we help a murdering Franj?”

To Lucien’s surprise, one among them replied, “Because it is the Law of God, both Christian and Muslim, to show mercy to those who ask it of us, if that is within our power to bestow.”

The man rode toward Lucien, his white robes pristine despite the dust and heat. “I am Palban, known in these parts as al-Balub, a physician come from Cordoba. What is the problem?”

As he drew near, Lucien saw that whether a Saracen or no, this Spaniard was fair of complexion and not one of the Turks by birth. He quickly explained Brus’s predicament and added, “I swear to protect you and see you safely back to your escort. I can but offer you a promise of compensation, as at the moment I have nothing of value beyond my honor and gratitude.”

Palban smiled. “I see you have manners befitting a prince, if not the wealth of one. And I consider the former of more worth than the latter. It would be a refreshing change to minister to a wounded knight be he French or English or German, instead of an overfed emir. Let me collect my things.” He galloped back to the caravan and returned with a bundle strapped to his saddle. “They will await me here, for a few hours only, while they rest the horses.”

Lucien’s heart leaped with hope and he led the ţābib toward De Brus. As they rode he plied the physician with questions, of medicine, of philosophy and of alchemy, an area in which he had a deep interest. Compared to this country, where such exalted knowledge was openly sought and arcane pursuits were more valued than feared, England was an abyss of ignorance.

“I seek a teacher in these arts,” he confessed to Palban at last. It was a vast understatement. He longed for knowledge of beauty unseen, of words unspoken, of music unstruck. Beyond that, he owed his lady-mother a heavy debt of the heart, and realizing the fruits of alchemy had become his last hope of easing her pain…and his own nagging guilt. But as this campaign in the Holy Land had unfolded in a sea of blood and anguish, he had begun to despair of ever realizing such a nebulous dream.

“Ah.” Palban smiled again. “There is an old saying, ‘When the student is ready, the master appears.’ Have no worry, Sir Lucien, you will find a teacher when the time is ripe.”

Lucien smiled grimly to himself. He had been ready for a long time, with no such manifestation.

As if Palban had read his mind, he said, “But in Acre, you should visit a man named Deogal. I have not seen him in years, but I think he may be of value to you.”

“My thanks, effendi, learned one. I hope one day I will be allowed the honor of repaying this boon of your service.”

“You can repay me by being of noble service to others, my young friend, that is how I was taught.”

Lucien marveled that in this desert he had been guided to such a jewel among men. Then, as they drew near Brus, he swallowed against the lump that formed in his dry throat. He could not bear another pointless death and prayed that he had not brought Palban too late. “He is just over there. The sun has moved, but I think there is still enough shade.”

Lucien waited while Palban remained at Brus’s side until the sun neared the horizon, a crimson blaze deepening into the dusky blue of evening. At last he rose and came to Lucien, his white robes no longer pristine. “I think he can be moved to Acre now. And once there, if his wound is tended properly, he will live. But there is no time to waste. I have spoken to your comrade, Allan. He knows what measures to take in the meantime. Now I must return to my own journey.”

Lucien looked to De Brus, who dozed peacefully, his lines of pain gone. “Many thanks, effendi. You have eased more hearts this day than you can know. I’ll summon a proper escort and see you back to your party.”

After a quick meal that put the final seal upon their friendship, they set out with a half dozen men. As they left their resting place behind, a rumble of hooves met Lucien’s senses. It was part hearing, part feeling and part knowing—danger approached, and would be upon them in but a few moments.

Allan looked to Lucien. “What shall we do? There is no cover.”

Lucien shook his head. “We cannot outrun them, our horses are too weary. We must simply keep moving as we are and meet them when they find us. Keep Palban in our midst.”

The sound of pounding hooves grew louder and the last few rays of the sun caught the helms and lance heads of a group of warriors as they neared.

“They are ours!” Allan stood in his stirrups and waved, his relief apparent. “It is FitzMalheury!”

“Then do not invite him to join us!” urged Lucien. But it was too late. Kalle FitzMalheury, who had been expelled even from the ranks of the Templars because of his extremism, came upon them in a whirl of dust and clanging metal.

He brought his horse up short and it reared. “What are you doing, Lucien de Griswold, wandering in the desert? Should you not be in the safe company of your men?”

Lucien resented having to explain himself to anyone, but decided not to argue. “De Brus needed help. I found someone to provide it and now am returning his savior to his own people.”

Kalle glared at Palban. “Savior? Whom do you serve? The lords of Constantinople, or of Cairo, or of Jerusalem?”

The physician sat his horse stiffly. “I am of Cordoba, my lord. I am here on an errand, upon the request of al-’Ādil the Just, may he live forever. But I serve no one but God.”

“Which God?” Kalle pressed, his pale eyes gleaming. His gauntleted fingers twitched upon his sword hilt.

Palban raised his chin. “There is but a single God. It is you Christians who are the polytheists, worshiping a trinity.”

“A cursed tongue have you, dog of an infidel.” Kalle swung his head to face Lucien. “You have done Brus no favor, Lucien de Griswold, by turning his leg into a pagan offering!”

“FitzMalheury, have a care as to your words,” Lucien said softly, and began to ease his horse between Kalle’s and Palban’s.

“FitzMalheury?” Palban’s face paled as if he had heard of Kalle’s reputation.

Kalle sneered. “And you, Lucien, watch your empty head, lest I send it rolling along the ground as a lesson to all friends of Salah al-Din’s brother.”

“Allan,” Lucien, his heart pounding, kept his gaze upon Kalle. “Take Palban on to his destination. I would stay here with Kalle and have it out with him to my satisfaction.”

“Had you the least respect for your betters, you’d not even think of raising your hand against me. But be advised—I’ve seen to it that nothing remains of the caravanserai. And I will send this Saracen to join his friends, to be purged by the hellfire that surely awaits him.”

Kalle spurred his horse forward, his sword unleashed.

“Nay!” Lucien sought to block his advance, but the heavy destrier’s shoulder knocked his own tired mount off balance. Palban tried to rein his horse around to flee, but Kalle was almost upon him. In desperation, Lucien kicked his stirrups free and leaped from his saddle to land behind Kalle, on the destrier’s rump. Anything to slow him down.

But Kalle’s speed was beyond stopping. Palban screamed as the knight’s blade flashed. A burst of red showered through the air. Then, with a snarl, FitzMalheury rammed the pommel of his sword backward and hit Lucien between the eyes.

And Lucien thought, as the blackness swooped in, Kalle has robbed Palban of his life—and me of my honor….




Chapter One


Acre

Capital of the Kingdom of Jerusalem

Early summer, 1197

T he crunch of booted feet on packed earth and the rattle of swords echoed in the narrow, steep-walled lane. Shifting her precious bundle of glassware, Isidora hurried through the arched stone gateway into the courtyard of her father’s house.

She pushed aside her linen veil and looked back. Drying fabrics streamed and billowed like pennants from windows high above, creating a serpentine play of light and shadow on the street. Below, bareheaded in the sun, as if it were not the middle of the afternoon when sensible folk came in out of the heat and dust, a group of brawny young men strode nearer.

Tall, broad-chested warriors. Franks? English? She was not certain. But they moved with bold assurance, taking up more space with their extravagant movements and loud voices than was either seemly or wise in this city of many cultures.

When the great Salah al-Din had ruled, isolated westerners like she and her father had usually been left in peace. Then the city had been retaken by Richard Coeur de Leon and King Philippe.

Little enough blood had been shed when Acre shifted hands that time, but many a Crusader did not bother to determine who was Christian and who was Muslim before striking out.

Isidora’s stomach fluttered at the sight of the men with their fair heads and long swords. She swallowed her rising fear and took another peek. She had to admit they were glorious—like young, unruly chargers.

But joking amongst themselves and occupying half the lane, they acted as though they personally ruled the place.

Whatever their purpose, she should bar the gate before they drew any closer.

“Marylas, quick, help me.” Isidora put the glassware down.

The serving girl was a Circassian, her face and arms heavily veiled because her flawless white skin could not tolerate the desert sun. But she was strong and willing, and helped Isidora push the heavy wooden gate. It swung a short way, met a stubborn resistance and stopped short.

Isidora’s body stilled at a creak of leather and the faintest whiff of sandalwood. She looked around the edge of the thick planking. Her gaze moved from a gauntleted hand, up a muscular, linen-clad arm, and to the vivid blue eyes of the man who remained firmly in the way.

“Oh,” she breathed. If the lovely Marylas resembled a woman made of silver, this was as comely a man as could be imagined, made of red-gold. A straight nose, set in a lean, sculpted, sun-burned face, with high cheekbones and a wide jaw. Hair that flowed past his shoulders like liquid copper.

His eyebrow quirked. A charming, perfect eyebrow.

“Ma demoiselle?”

And a voice to match the rest. Resonant yet soft. Rich with nuance.

She blinked and was ready to kick herself. What am I thinking? One bewitching stranger cannot sway me from what I know to be the truth. Fair men are perfectly capable of destroying one’s life and happiness, just as are ugly ones.

“Pardon me, do you speak French or English?” he asked, still not releasing the gate.

“Or Latin? Or Greek? Lucien knows them all,” came another voice from beyond him, accompanied by male laughter.

“You are Franj?” Isidora ventured in French. His eyes were as blue as the sea beyond the walls of the city. Beteuse! What does it matter who he is or how handsome? Tell him to go away!

“Nay. But we need—guiding—to the, em, bathhouse. Can you help?”

His companions groaned. “Lucien—you and your hot water obsession! Why not ask where the nearest ale house is?”

Her father’s voice rang out into the courtyard. “Isidora! What’s keeping you?”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Nothing, my lord! Just some travelers looking for the hammam. It is up that way,” she added, and pointed in the direction they should go.

“God speed you!” she urged the young men, but they did not depart.

Then her father, Sir Deogal, emerged, tall and spare and out of sorts. His eyes glinted dangerously from beneath his heavy gray brows. He moved in the stiff but determined way of old warriors, his faded blue robe dragging along the stones of the courtyard.

Isidora threw him a concerned look. He would still pick a fight, even though outnumbered and unarmed. Strong he might be, but men like these could cut him to pieces if they chose.

“Father, please do not trouble yourself. They are just leaving.” She turned and met the handsome intruder’s gaze squarely. “Are you not?”

Clutching the slender neck of a glass alembic in one hand, Deogal threw the gate wide with the other to reveal the group of four young men.

“Take yourselves off from here. Go find someone who has time to squander dealing with the worthless likes of you!”

Just this once, curb your temper, Father! Isidora’s heart pounded and she balled her hands into fists as the knights exchanged dark looks and fingered their swords. All but the one at the gate, whose eyes smiled even when his mouth did not.

The stranger gave a dismissive wave. “My friends, waste not your strength upon a demented old man. Go on, I will catch up with you later.” When they hesitated, he fixed them with his gaze and said but one word. “Go.”

“Don’t get too clean, Lucien, or we won’t take you back.” They resumed their joking and moved down the lane, away from the hammam and toward the closest wine merchant.

Deogal shook his flask at Lucien and its contents danced in silver waves. “How dare you speak of me thus, you sorry whelp of a—”

The young knight raised his gauntleted hand. “Sir, I could not but help notice that is quicksilver in the vessel you hold there. I have an appreciation for such things, but my friends do not, so forgive me for having discouraged them in the way that I deemed best for the situation…may I speak with you?”

“You may not. I have work to do and no time for curiosity seekers. Isidora, get inside.”

As Deogal retreated, slamming the workshop door behind him, Isidora was struck by the disappointment reflected on—what had they called him?—Lucien’s face.

It was similar to her own, what she felt every time her father barred her from entering his sanctum sanctorum. From the part of his life that mattered most to him.

This fellow did not belong here. Her father needed help, aye, but she would provide it, not some stranger off the street. As much as she resented the Work, it was indeed important, and given time, Deogal would surely let her in. She was of his flesh, his only child. Sooner or later he had to….

But for now, the least she could do was show the knight that manners did exist in this household. And that she was not afraid of him.

“Lord, would you like some wine?”

The knight, who she assumed belonged to Henry of Champagne, the King of Jerusalem—known to the native residents of Acre, his capital, as al-Kond Herri—took a long breath. He crossed his arms and seemed to consider her proposal, looking at her carefully all the while. Then he nodded, once.

She had half expected him to stalk away. Half hoped that he would. But here he remained, so Isidora ushered him into the small garden where her father received his rare but usually important visitors.

All was in order. A small fountain burbled, red-flowering vines wound around the carved sandstone columns and birds chirped, flitting in and out of the shadows.

“Please sit, sir.” Isidora indicated a polished marble bench. Off to one side, Marylas stood staring, her hand clamped over her mouth. Isidora gave the girl a reassuring look and she hurried toward the kitchen.

Marylas was easily frightened by the presence of armed men. Before coming to this household, she had suffered indignities that Isidora did not want her to be reminded of by anyone. Even this Lucien.

He settled his elegant limbs, removed his gloves and dabbled long, strong fingers in the fountain’s pool as he looked about. When Marylas returned with the refreshments, and hesitated before him, Isidora saw that Lucien recognized the maid with courtesy instead of treating her as an object of contempt.

He inclined his head to her and murmured something that actually made her eyes smile. No doubt he was hoping to lay the foundation for a future assault. He would meet with a sharp, unpleasant surprise, should he try. Marylas never went without her dagger.

Isidora poured a measure of water into a mazer, then topped it with the wine and handed it to him.

“My thanks.” Lucien raised the bowl but did not drink. “Will you not join me?”

“Nay. Forgive my rudeness, I have but little time to spare.”

In truth, every moment she was with him unnerved her more. She found herself staring like a foolish girl might. He was so foreign. Gleaming. Beautiful. He glowed, like a painting of a heavenly herald.

Her mind wandered, as if along the golden curves of the lettered illuminations she labored over each day. For one ridiculous, embarrassing moment she imagined him to be sent by God, to distract her from the frustration of working for her father. Working for him, but kept apart from his work. The Work. It was all that mattered to him.

A familiar constriction squeezed her heart at the thought. She adored her father, but the Work had become her enemy, for it always stood between them. At times she hated it, as much as one could hate anything so ethereal and elusive.

Isidora looked away, for fear the young man would see her loneliness and pity her for it.

But he did not seem to notice anything amiss at all. He took a swallow of the wine and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I am Lucien de Griswold. What is your name?”

“Isidora,” she managed.

“Ah. Gift of Isis. A fitting name…for an alchemist’s daughter.”

She made a small sound. At his knowledge she was truly surprised and not a little alarmed. “You know of the Work my father does?”

“Of course. It is why I am here.”

Oh, dear. Isidora decided to have a drink of wine after all. She had to get rid of him. For his own sake, as well as that of her father. Deogal wanted no more outsiders, and few were likely to tolerate his deteriorating, increasingly erratic temper.

But “Gift of Isis”? Curse of Isis was more like it. Even her name was not meant for her, but only as a reflection of her father’s complete preoccupation with alchemy. And now here before her was a stranger, come out of nowhere. One who, it seemed, was only interested in the Work. Just like her father.

She filled a mazer without first adding water and, sitting upon the bench opposite Lucien, gulped the wine down.

To her chagrin, Lucien’s mouth curved into a wry smile. “You do not approve of me?”

Already the wine had a certain fortifying effect on Isidora. “It is not my place to approve or disapprove. I assist my father and do his bidding. Beyond that and my attempts to protect him from ill-informed churchmen or greedy fortune seekers, I have no part in it.”

Lucien leaned forward and rolled the wooden bowl between his palms. He met her gaze. “I am neither a cleric nor do I seek my fortune. I would be his student, his apprentice, if he would allow it.”

Nay, not another one! Kalle FitzMalheury had been fair of face and words, but he had hurt her father—and been the downfall of her mother…. Isidora would not let anyone hurt Deogal again. “What do you want, then, my lord Lucien?”

He looked away and the wine in his bowl shuddered. With his eyes still averted, at last he spoke. “I want the truth. I need to find the Elixir.”

“I see. Then all you wish is to attain perfect enlightenment and to live forever. Nay, I would not call that seeking your fortune.” Isidora had not intended for her words to sound cutting, but from the way Lucien’s brows drew together, it seemed he had taken them just that way.

“I need it for someone. Before it is too late.”

The sincerity and quiet regret in his voice touched Isidora despite her mistrust. Perhaps there was more to him than good looks and assorted weapons. But it was not likely to be much.

She could not help him. He was from another world and did not belong here. “There is nothing I might say to my father to make him change his mind.” Not that she wished to try, in any event.

Lucien’s resultant sad smile made her bite her lip. How did people as tempting as him come into being, after all?

“Nay, Demoiselle Isidora. If I cannot convince him of my merit, then it is not meant to be.”

There came a shuffle of leather-soled slippers. “What’s this—you are still here, boy?” Sir Deogal loomed at the edge of the courtyard. “Why?”

Lucien immediately rose to his feet, as did Isidora. Lucien was much taller than she. Broad-shouldered and well-made, he stood mere inches away. He smelled of smoke, horses and that elusive air of sandalwood.

In all her life she had never been this close to a man not related to her. And this man, she knew, from some secret place within her, was potent. Like mead or the red inks she used—a little would go a long, long way….

“I invited him in, Father. It is hot outside. It was a matter of simple courtesy.”

Lucien bowed. “I would have returned, in any case, and waited until you gave me audience, sir.”

Deogal raised his chin. “What do you want from me, then?”

“The chance to learn from a master alchemist, my lord.”

“Do you, now?” Deogal came closer and waved a hand at Isidora. Her nerves on edge, she tried not to spill as she poured him some wine, after a liberal dose of water in the bowl.

He sat beside her on the bench as if she needed protection, and looked Lucien up and down. “I have had students before. They invariably proved themselves either fools or corrupt, and had to be thrown out on their heads.”

Isidora closed her eyes against the flood of painful memories those words evoked. Not so many years past, Kalle, her father’s last partner in the Work, had brought Deogal’s wrath crashing down upon himself by his betrayal. Her father had beaten Kalle nearly to death. Then he had shoved her mother out onto the street…and lived to regret it the rest of his days. Isidora bit her lip.

She well remembered the look of rage, aye, and loss on Kalle’s bloodied face. She shivered despite the warm day. He was an enemy worthy of the fear he inspired. And her father, strong as he once had been, was no match for the cunning and evil Kalle was now rumored to be capable of.

Isidora eyed Lucien appraisingly. She had to consider that he might make himself useful as a champion to Deogal, and protect him from harm in ways Isidora could not. He seemed honest…but Kalle also had sounded sincere at first.

Lucien had remained standing. “I do not believe I am particularly corrupt or all that foolish. But I cannot promise that one day you would not be tempted to throw me out, on my head or otherwise.”

Deogal grunted a laugh. “We shall see, then, just how badly you want to be my student. But do not bother Isidora, do you understand? She is too trusting by far, to have spoken to you and allowed you entrance. Sometimes I regret raising her as the Franj do and giving her such freedom, instead of keeping her hidden away.”

Isidora refrained from groaning out loud. What freedom? The freedom to go to the marketplace and purchase supplies for his Work? And why must Father delude himself into supposing that a wealthy stranger might take interest in her?

After all, she was dark, and too outspoken. Often as not, folk mistook her for one of the servants. However, she knew who she was—the proud daughter of a noble house, and it mattered not what anyone else thought.

Lucien crossed his arms, as if closing a door around himself. A bastion not easily swayed. “I have no intention of bothering your daughter, sir.”

Then, the rogue disproved his words with but one look. His lips parted slightly and his eyes glittered with the light reflected from the fountain’s waters. His gaze swept Isidora’s skin in a hot wave and made her cheeks catch fire, as if she stood naked in the public square. How dare he show such insolence!

Isidora had to force herself not to jump up and run off to hide in the house—just to avoid losing control and slapping him. But she would not give Lucien the power to affect her so, or give her father cause to either worry or question her actions.




Chapter Two


L ucien came every day after that. He spoke but little as he sat and waited for her father to emerge and accept him as a student of the Work. At first his friends accompanied him to the gate. But as time passed and he still made no progress, one by one they fell away, until he remained alone.

Leaving his sword in Marylas’s charge, he would bow to Deogal but say nothing. His request did not need to be made out loud, for it seemed he was asking with his whole being.

Day by day his face lost some of its air of ruddy confidence. But he had a presence that seemed to take up more space than he did physically. He wore sumptuous clothes and his surcoat of raw, red silk and fine leather boots added to his princely air.

Despite Lucien’s silence, or perhaps because of it, Isidora wanted to know everything about him. Where his home was and what kind of life he led there. But she could not bring herself to ask him directly.

He was quiet, but seemed bigger than life—as though his skin couldn’t quite contain him. He made her nervous, and he might mistake her inquisitiveness about the rest of the world for a personal interest in him.

Each day she offered him unleavened bread, dates and butter, figs and honey and wine, which he occasionally accepted. But of course that was only a matter of courtesy on her part, not concern.

Lucien was polite, without ever paying her enough attention that she might engage him in true conversation. His mind was always upon his goal. He would not endanger it by “bothering” her, she was certain. But she was also just as certain that eventually he would tire of waiting and leave them in peace.

But one day Deogal emerged from the workshop, his blue robe sooty and smelling of sulphur. “Tell me again why you want to partake of this Work, boy.”

Lucien jumped to his feet. “Because I must, sir. It holds the greatest fascination for me. I sense…I know—that there are worlds of knowledge waiting to be discovered through the arts of alchemy, through the patience and persistence of those who dare venture past the mundane and into the arcane. I cannot believe that my life’s achievements are only meant to be what my father envisioned—nothing but breeding and a series of acquisitions by force of arms.”

Deogal looked down his aristocratic nose at Lucien. “You are dissatisfied with your lot? With your enviable position of privilege, rank, honor and wealth?”

Lucien gazed at Deogal and spread his strong, lean hands. “I am not ungrateful, Master Deogal. I simply cannot bear to accept that I might miss something else, something so huge and divine and all-enveloping that I cannot see it without the guidance of a man like you. Beyond that, I cannot put it into words.”

Deogal raised one shaggy gray brow. “And what makes you think I have the means to guide you? Why should I be anything other than a bad-tempered old fool puttering with substances better left alone?”

“I have heard talk…but beyond that, I felt it, from the moment I stepped over your threshold. This is the place I belong. And you are the one to teach me.”

Isidora had to hide her amazement. This cool, aloof young man had such eloquence, such passion? Only for the Work, she reminded herself.

Deogal let a smile spread across his face like the slow rising of the sun. “Then so be it, Lucien de Griswold. You will take the oath revealed to Isis and swear by Tartarus and Anubis and Cerebus and Charon and the Fates and Furies. You will do as I instruct you, and you will go to your grave with the secrets I reveal—”

A numbing cold spread through Isidora, freezing her lungs, her heart… To see her father smile like that—to hear him offer his trust, his sacred knowledge, to this stranger who had only waited a fortnight for what she had waited her whole life—it was beyond bearing.

After all that had happened, how could he trust someone who might turn out to be another Kalle—perhaps even worse than Kalle? Then the numbness gave way to a fury she did not know she possessed. To a shameful jealousy, unworthy of her.

It took her off guard, like a blow from behind. Kalle’s apprenticeship had never produced such a reaction. He had never won her father’s love.

Isidora’s body shook, she could barely breathe, and she was possessed by a sudden, dreadful hope that Lucien would collapse in fits from the glare she bestowed upon him, before leaving this house for good.

Did he not deserve it, for reducing her to such a wretched, despicable state? But he never saw her daggered look. His eyes were shining with joy and his full attention remained on her father, waiting for him to finish.

Deogal frowned at Isidora. “You, child, should not be here listening! Go to the scriptorium and find something to copy!”

“Father…” she whispered before her throat tightened beyond words. She refused to look any longer at Lucien. The hateful usurper! Her face burned as if she had scrubbed it with nettles. Yet again she was banished from all that was important to her.

But she loved her father, no matter what, and would serve and protect him as long as he needed her. Whether he wanted her to or not.

“Excuse me.” She stood and forced herself to walk slowly, with decorum. But once out of sight, she grabbed her skirts and ran through the house, up the stone stairs and into her haven. In the tiny scriptorium, a sense of calm gradually enveloped her. Here was her Work.

Isidora blinked, sniffed, swallowed, and as her heart slowed its wild beating, she regained the control that had long stood her so well. She looked at the scrolls and piles of parchment on the shelves, the bowls and bottles of colored inks that she mixed herself, from oxgall and ground lapis and all sorts of ingredients, both rare and common.

She had produced ornate manuscripts and painted portraits that had been purchased by princes and bishops and satraps. She wrote letters for those who could not do so themselves. It was how she best helped her father, for ingots of silver and vials of mercury did not come cheaply. Nor did the gold leaf or vellum she used in her finest scribing.

Isidora slipped onto the wooden seat behind the slanted table and reached down to open the small cupboard behind it. She felt for the folio inside and brought it out into the light of day. Carefully she opened the heavy leaves.

A painting of an exquisite face smiled at her from the calfskin surface. Luminous brown eyes, skin like the petals of a dusky rose, jet hair peeking from beneath a silken veil.

Here was her treasure…an image she had created, of Ayshka Binte Amir. Of her mother, as she had once looked. Before Kalle FitzMalheury had begun her death… Before her father had completed it…. Isidora swallowed the tears that threatened.

Unlike the fabled Elixir, her art was real. People could see it and feel it. It had meaning and value. Creating it was a solitary occupation, by its very nature, but such was her lot in life. Like Marylas, who had lost everything, to hope for more, for a loving father, much less for a loving husband, or children, was to ask too much.

She had seen the suffering of the truly unfortunate. What she had should be enough. Aye, she should be grateful for the bounty she possessed. Her sight, her limbs, her very life. Enough to eat and a place to sleep…even alone. It was best that way.

Why think twice about a man like Lucien? So what if Deogal wanted him to stay? So what if he brought Deogal some companionship in his labors—was that not a good thing?

Nay, not if it is at my expense!

But it was wrong to think thus.

She had her path and Lucien had his. They would be parallel for but a short time. The inevitable divergence would come, no doubt when al-Kond Herri called the knight back into service, and she would be rid of his enviable presence.

Isidora rested her cheek on the cool surface of the table and gazed out the window. Just beyond the walls of the city, the sea glistened as the afternoon waned. The sail of a returning fishing boat slid by, gilded and backlit by the sun.

Isidora gave thanks for the beautiful sight and made up her mind to banish all selfish thoughts. Her father was getting old; he needed help with the Work. God had sent him Lucien, and whether she liked it or not, she had to accept it. Just as most women had to accept so many things.

She thought of her once-beautiful mother, Ayshka, ravaged by disease and now dead. The unwelcome tears stung her eyes at last. She knew passion was possible, that true love existed. Even after banishing Ayshka, Deogal had loved her with an unseemly desperation, and that was what had fueled his love of the Work. That was what still fueled his guilt.

The Work had been his lady-wife’s last hope for a cure, short of a miracle or the touch of a saintly king…. The Work could provide the Elixir, and the Elixir could cure all ills. Even the worst—that which had afflicted her mother.

A dread disease that carried with it a terrible stigma of implied dishonor, which tainted the whole family. Indeed, it might be the real reason no man had ever asked for Isidora’s hand.

For her mother, shamed by one man and turned out of her home by another, had been visited by God’s cruelest wrath of all…leprosy.




Chapter Three


Acre

The palace of Henry, al-Kond Herri, King of Jerusalem

High summer, 1197

“M y lord Henry…can you be serious? To ally yourself—a bastion of Christianity—with Sin


n, the heathen Grand Master of the Assassins? It is unthinkable!” Kalle’s fist thumped the table.

The company of Henry’s knights and noble advisors stirred, murmuring their disapproval of this outburst. Lucien remained silent, as he had throughout the meeting, but narrowed his eyes as FitzMalheury took a visible grip on his temper. “Surely it is not necessary for you, appointed as regent here by Richard himself, to make a pact with such a one?” Kalle asked.

Henry leaned back in his great chair and stared at Kalle. “You of all men should know the value of an alliance with them. They are deadly, but capable of reason, for they pay the Templars to leave them alone—and you should have seen what took place during our conversation at al-Kahf. Sin


n demonstrated his power—he ordered two of his men to leap from atop the fortress. They did so without an instant’s hesitation and fell to their deaths upon the rocks below. I had to beg him not to repeat the spectacle…but I will ask you, Kalle—would you have shown me such unswerving loyalty?”

Henry tilted his head and did not wait for a reply. “Sin


n offered me another sample of his skills…he thought surely there must be someone I would like them to murder.” Henry leaned toward FitzMalheury and smiled good-naturedly. “I declined, but of course, dear Kalle, you came to mind as a first candidate, being commander of the garrison as well as my closest rival.”

At this the company roared with laughter, but Lucien saw that Kalle’s mirth did not reach his eyes. The knight cleared his throat. “You flatter me with such a designation, my lord. But how you came by this opinion is quite beyond my understanding.”

He then gave Lucien a direct look. One that pierced him with its enmity and stirred his own desire for revenge. “There are other candidates for elimination. Indeed, there is a man present who spends so little time amongst his own kind, one wonders whose side he is on,” Kalle said softly, still looking at Lucien.

Lucien replied, his voice as velvet as Kalle’s, “And there is another present who gives his personal ambitions priority over the interests of his lord.”

“Enough,” Henry said firmly. “Sin


n is someone I want to be close enough to that I may keep an eye on him. I need not adopt the ways of the Assassins, only learn what I may about them, to ensure the safety of others.”

Kalle stood and bowed. “As you will, my lord. I am yours to command, as ever.”

At Henry’s nod of dismissal, the group began to break up. Lucien was halfway to the door when Kalle stopped him.

“Never challenge my honor like that again, Lucien, or I will make you sorry you were ever born.”

Lucien squared his shoulders and looked down at Kalle. “Just be advised, my lord, I am loyal to Henry, and he knows it. And just because you have made an enemy of Deogal does not mean he is anyone else’s enemy.”

Kalle’s smile struck a perilous chord in Lucien. The man was like a rabid dog. And should be dealt with as such.

Kalle continued, “I shall have to pay the old man and his daughter a visit one of these days, hmm? See what progress he has made with the Work? Or perhaps you’d like to tell me yourself and spare him the pain?”

Lucien bristled. “Stay away from them. I will cut you to pieces if I catch you.”

Kalle laughed. “Of course. If you catch me. A very small likelihood. But nay…the thought of playing inquisitor with you appeals to me much more. After all, Deogal would not last more than a day or two as my…guest. And what Isidora is likely to know is hardly worth the sweat of finding it out…whereas you, Lucien, could prove entertaining, indeed. So have a care, the next shadow you see might not be your own, eh?”



Isidora wondered at the change in Lucien when he returned from the court of al-Kond Herri…his somber moods, his rude questioning of her servants about who they saw and to whom they spoke from outside, his pacing and restless nights….

His evident distraction even caught her father’s notice. “What is wrong with him?” Deogal frowned as he dipped a piece of bread into his bowl of sauce.

Isidora shrugged. “Perhaps he is ready to move on, at last. Perhaps he longs for home.”

“He cannot! Not at this stage of the Work. We are just purifying the red essence of— Never mind. Just tell him I want to see him after vespers.” Deogal pushed his half-eaten food aside and stalked back to his quarters.

Isidora stared at the carved marble bowl her father had abandoned and worry yet again twisted within her. He ate less and less, looked more and more haggard. She felt so helpless. How could she stop his decline? He paid her no attention, found her concern an annoyance.

“Isidora?”

That smooth voice, from behind. Lucien. She closed her eyes and did not move. She could not quite face him with her fears still so evident. “Aye? There is food left, should you want it.”

“Has all been quiet? Nothing amiss?”

“Nothing.”

“Why do you keep your back to me? What is wrong?”

At last she turned around. His beautiful face was limned by the golden glow of the oil lamps, accentuating the hollows of his cheeks. He, too, was in a decline. “Why don’t you tell me? You are the one who knows what is going on, Lucien. You have known for months and are making all of us miserable as a result.”

Lucien put his hand to his brow and pinched the bridge of his nose. His fingers quivered, and her alarm grew. “What is it? What has happened?”

He met her gaze. “Tonight you will hear a clamor, for the city will be in mourning, as soon as word spreads. Henry is dead.”

A sense of cold struck her, as if she had jumped into the winter sea. “What? How can this be?”

“He fell to his death…from a window in his palace. Kalle FitzMalheury has taken charge, only until a succession is sorted out, or so he says. I have little hope that this was an accident, Isidora. You and your father are in danger with Kalle now free to run wild.”

“He is no threat to us. We have friends more powerful than he, and well does he know it.”

“You do not know what he has become, Isidora. He is growing inside of himself, like an abscess of pride and corrupt power.”

“Then lance him,” she replied, shocked at her own bluntness.

Then Lucien shocked her even more when he caught her shoulders in a firm, warm grip. Her surprise kept her in place, as well as the dizzying effect of his nearness.

“Do not speak so,” he said. “I expect better of you. I would like…” His voice trailed away and the muscles in his jaw clenched as he searched her eyes.

Her belly tightened in an unfamiliar way. She felt an in visible pull, as if from his body to hers, and the tension grew until it was all she could do not to either break from his grasp and run or throw herself into his arms. “What would you like?” Isidora prompted, and yet held herself still and stiff, and closed her eyes against his gaze.

His voice emerged in a low growl. “I’d like to be finished here. Done with this place. I need to go home.”

Isidora’s cheeks burned as though he had slapped her. Why did she take his remarks personally? She did not care. Indeed had she not been looking forward to the day this troublesome knight left at last? But she had more than herself to consider. “You cannot go. M-my father needs you still.”

“Look at me, Isidora.” When she was focused on his flame-lit, blue eyes, he continued. “We are close to the Elixir. Very close. But the slightest mishap could make us have to start all over again. I am but trying to protect him, and the Work…and you. Should anything befall him, or me, all will be lost. Indeed, I cannot think why he has not included you, to ensure preservation of our progress, but I am sworn to secrecy and must respect his wishes.”

As she allowed the truth to rise within her, Isidora began to tremble. “You know, Lucien, he chooses to believe my mother yet lives…that he can still restore her to health with the Elixir. That desire is all that keeps him going. If one day he wakes up and remembers that she is dead, he, too, will die.”

Then the unthinkable happened. Lucien drew her close, wrapped his arms about her and held her to his chest, as if she were precious to him. “I won’t leave, unless you command me to go.”

Here was the moment of his obedience…she could tell him, right now, to be gone from her home, her life, her heart. But instead she replied, “You have our thanks, sir. My father is too proud to say it, but I say it on his behalf.” That was all there was to it. All there would ever be. Her father and his needs.

Lucien eased away from her and bowed, his bright hair gleaming. “I will go once more and find out the state of things in the city.” Shouldering his sword, he disappeared out the door into the darkness. He did not return that night or the next.

Weeks passed, then months…her inquiries met with no results. It was as though he had been swallowed up in the ensuing maelstrom of grief and confusion that whirled through the streets after Henry’s death became known. Perhaps Lucien had decided to go home, after all.

But Isidora knew that was not the case. And she had a good idea of where to go to next for answers.




Chapter Four


L ucien de Griswold, knight of the realm—sovereign lord of the village of East Ainsley, he reminded himself—and now prisoner of Kalle FitzMalheury, lay on his back in a dungeon of Acre. A Christian knight, in a Christian dungeon, in a city that lay months from home.

He squinted as a shaft of light penetrated through the wind hole, far above. Its feeble rays made his eyes ache. He had been here for what felt like forever, and time had lost all meaning. His capture had been the result of a fleeting slip of his attention…and a solid blow to his head.

What mattered now was the constant gnawing of his stomach, the thirst that made swallowing difficult, and the deep ache of his battered body.

It had been days since anyone had thrown him anything. Indeed, it had been days since he had seen or heard another human being. He wondered if Kalle had forgotten him.

Or perhaps some wild shift of fortune had caused the city to return to Muslim hands and the Saracens did not know of this small, isolated hole in the bowels of the keep? The place was like a rabbit warren of ancient tunnels and chambers, and he doubted if any one man had ever explored all its secrets.

But he would rather suffer repeat questioning than be abandoned. FitzMalheury had not been able to beat any information out of him. He was but a student of the Work, not an adept. He was not privy to magic keys or unfailing methods of turning lead into gold. Now, silver into gold was another matter, but unlike Kalle, Lucien believed all that to be secondary to the true Work, not its goal.

Lucien forced himself to move, to raise his throbbing head and sit up. But the resultant swaying of the world forced him to seek the wall for support. And, in addition to his hunger and weakness and pain, he was so filthy he could barely stand himself.

They had doused him with latrine water to wake him up when he passed out. Apart from the murder of Palban, that indignity alone made him hate Kalle enough to kill him.

But he had to smile. Aye, even now, had he a bowl of water, he would save a bit of it to wash with. So he could not be all that close to death. When he cared no longer, then he would worry.

“Lucien?”

Footsteps on the stone floor. A feminine voice. A familiar accent, part French and part Arabic.

“Isidora?” He strained to see. There came a rustle of fabric. She peered over the lip of the pit. A thick strand of glossy black hair had escaped her veil and hung in contrast to the paleness of her face.

Her eyes widened. Warm, brown eyes that needed no kohl to enhance their luster. “Oh, Sir Lucien! What have they done to you?”

It was Isidora. At this moment, the most welcome, beautiful sight in all creation. She lowered a basket to him and he amended his thought. Nay, this was the most welcome, beautiful sight in all creation….

He tore into the treasure and put the first flask to his mouth. Pomegranate juice…the potent liquid ran down his parched throat in a stream of pure bliss. A lemon, apples, figs, dates… Lucien paused in his ravishment of the fruit and frowned. “What are you doing here? How did you find me? You should not have come!”

“Do not eat it all at once, you’ll make yourself ill, sir. And you will need your strength if I am to get you out of here.”

“Out? How?”

“Never mind. Just catch hold of the rope and climb up. I have tied it to a ring set in the wall.”

His mouth crammed full, Lucien could not immediately respond.

“You’ve had enough for now, you must move quickly!”

He eased himself to his feet. “Take the basket up first.”

“I can get you more food, just come!”

“Nay, take it. I’ll not have it go to waste.”

“You are as maddening as ever, my lord!” she complained, but retrieved the basket on its tether.

Lucien caught hold of the rope and hoped his body would not fail him. But it was all he could do just to hang there, much less haul himself up hand over hand.

“You’re not a side of mutton. Walk up the wall, Sir Lucien.”

Her tone was light, but he heard the undercurrent of urgency in her voice. It was like a breeze that cleared the fog from his mind. She had risked her life to come for him. He had to get out, as much for her sake as his own.

He renewed his grip and put his bare feet to the cold, gritty stones of the wall. With agony chasing each increment of ascent, he climbed. As he topped the edge, his hands began to slip. “I can’t hold on…”

Isidora caught the clothing at the scruff of his neck and pulled until she fell backward and Lucien landed on top of her, his face resting cozily on her bosom. For a moment neither of them moved.

Oh, God. What a time and place for such a happen-stance. She had revived him with her basket of fruit. Only too well. She smelled clean. Like freedom. Like a woman. For one delirious, beastly instant he nearly moved against her. But even if he stank, he wasn’t an animal. Not yet.

“Lucien!” She shook him as best she could. “Get up!”

He opened one eye. Of course, he had almost forgotten. She had made it clear that she wanted no part of him. He eased himself off of her and immediately wished he could lie down again.

“Oh, Isidora. I’m going to be sick.”

“Not now. We have to go.”

Taking command of himself, Lucien agreed. “All right.” He grimaced and sat clutching his stomach.

“Here, put this on.” She unfolded a garment from the bag she carried and helped him pull it over his head.

“Oh, my God.” His hands smoothed the red cross sewn over the breast of the white surcoat. “Templar’s garb? Where did you get this?”

“It is my father’s.” She hurriedly scrubbed at his face with the cloth from the basket.

“But—”

“There is no time, sir! Just do as I bid you!”

He stumbled and lurched down the corridor, sucking on the lemon as he went.

“Sir Lucien, you will have to straighten up and walk properly. If anyone sees us, keep going, as if your business is done. If they question you, just freeze them with an arrogant gaze—you are quite good at that. I will follow behind you, as a servant might. Now go left, then take the first right turning and then right again, and I will show you the passage.”

The merest breath of air announced a side opening. With that hint of freshness, for the first time, Lucien began to believe this scheme might actually work. He forced himself straighter, composing his face into what had once been a habitually haughty expression, as Isidora had so kindly pointed out. But no more.

“How know you this way, Isidora?”

“Shh! I am privy to a few things worth knowing.”

Lucien’s mind churned. The Templars had more secrets than the Pope had ducats. So a hidden passage was not surprising. But her father, Deogal the Learned, his teacher of the arts of alchemy—was a Templar? An ex-Templar, no doubt. All that mattered now, Lucien thought, was that he had a chance to see the full light of day once again.

“Where are we going?”

“Your place is arranged on a ship to Cyprus, then to England, once you are out of here.”

He paused in astonishment and turned around to face her. The expense should have been far beyond her means. “How?”

She gave him a shove. “Never mind! Just go! Get as far away from FitzMalheury as you can.”

“What about you? I think I have proven myself worthless to him, but you—”

“I am staying here with Father.”

A lump formed in Lucien’s throat. “I will send you compensation, Isidora, as soon as I may. But I do not want to leave—”

“You must. Your family is powerful. They can help you. Father is not well. There is nothing left for you here.”

Lucien came to a halt and caught her hand. It was compact but strong, her skin soft except where her pens and brushes had calloused her fingers. “How so?”

She pleaded with her dark eyes. “Lucien, what does it matter? I can help you, now, in this moment only. You can do nothing to help him, ever. So go while you can. It is what he wants. It is what he commands.”

Nothing? Ever? A command to go? With the bitter finality of those words, all Lucien’s other troubles faded. His studies under his beloved master were at an end, just when he might be close to the knowledge he sought…to the cure he sought…for the agony he had caused his mother…for the agony inflicted upon her long-lost daughter, his own beloved twin, Estelle. He had failed to protect her, just as he had failed to protect Palban—though at least Brus had gone home with both legs intact.

There had to be a way to find the Elixir, even if it meant struggling on his own the rest of his life. Or so he still hoped. Slowly he let go of Isidora’s slim fingers and returned to trudging up the corridor.




Chapter Five


Wales

Saint Crispin’s Day

October, 1202

“B y the Rood, you don’t much resemble an excommunicated outlaw to me.” Lucien raised an eyebrow at his friend, Raymond de Beauchamp, who sat by the central fire with a contented, plump baby in his lap.

“Nor do you look much like an overeducated horse’s arse to me, Lucien, though we both know it to be God’s honest truth,” Raymond said agreeably, and planted a kiss on the baby’s head.

Raymond’s squire, Wace du Hautepont, sat cross-legged on the floor beside him, mending arrow fletches. At his master’s remark, the young man looked up from his task and grinned at Lucien. The lad had filled out and looked like a grown man, nearly ready to become a knight. Lucien grinned back at him.

“Well, I must admit, fatherhood has sweetened your temper, Raymond. Has it not, Ceridwen?”

Raymond’s lady paused in her refilling of Lucien’s bowl of mead and glanced fondly at her husband. “Indeed it has not. But who says his temper ever needed sweetening?”

At Raymond’s resultant growl of laughter, Lucien looked heavenward in mock supplication. “The pair of you make me positively ill. Such a rogue does not deserve your devotion, Ceridwen, nor your defense. As I have said before, Raymond, you are a lucky man.”

“Aye, I know it full well, Lucien. Here, hold Owain while I show this wench my gratitude.” Raymond stuffed the child into Lucien’s arms and caught Ceridwen, neatly turning so that his body shielded her from view.

Lucien, quite unused to infants, peered into the baby’s round blue eyes. The child’s soft weight was unexpectedly satisfying. Black curls—obviously Ceridwen’s contribution, since Raymond was blond—peeked out from the tiny linen coif he wore, and his cheeks were round and red.

The wee thing chortled, grabbed fistfuls of Lucien’s hair and yanked. “Oy! What have you taught him to do?”

“Eh?” Raymond released a breathless, blushing Ceridwen, who came to Lucien’s rescue.

“He ever escapes his swaddling.” She swept up Owain with expert confidence and recontained him in his wrapping.

Raymond sat in his chair once again and placed Lucien’s mazer back into his hands. “So, Lucien, when are you going to follow in my footsteps?”

“Steal Ceridwen away from you, you mean?”

“Nay,” Raymond said gently. “When will you give up this dry path of…of metallurgic sorcery you have chosen and attend to the stuff of life? Alchemy is for old men, Lucien, who have nothing else to do—or lose. You have lands to defend, crops to grow, and it is high time you took a wife.”

Lucien sighed. His bitter disappointment in his ongoing alchemical failures since returning from the Holy Land ran deep. It had been nearly five years. Knowledge of the Divine—of the Essence that could cure all ills—carried a high, painful price. He could be close, without even knowing it.

And a wife would only get in the way of his paying the debt he owed his mother… “Wives require time and attention,” he said at last.

“Marriage is not the penance you make it sound, Lucien,” Ceridwen said. “Even Raymond no longer believes that.” Her hip met Raymond’s shoulder as she stood beside him and he slid a powerful, possessive arm around her thighs.

That in itself was a small miracle, to see Raymond, so recently the terror of the marches, now basking in the glow of his lady’s affection. Though no less a warrior, he was a better man for it.

“But even supposing you are right, where am I to find a woman to put up with me as you do him?”

Ceridwen gave an unladylike snort. “Lucien, I can hardly believe my ears. Do you not notice those who follow you—nay, devour you with their eyes—at every feast or fair or market you attend? You have but to give any of them the slightest favor. Heaven knows their fathers will be delighted to hear from you. You are a prize, Lucien. A lord both handsome and wealthy, and unlike some around here, possessed of exquisite manners.”

“There you have it! From one who has me to compare you against, at that—true praise, indeed!” Raymond received a nudge of his wife’s knee in his ribs and grinned.

Their encouragement only sounded like a lot of effort, fraught with risk. Then an inspiration came to Lucien. If he would pursue the Divine, he could also seek its help. “I shall pray and ask God for a sign. I will let the choice be up to Him.”

“Let us hope the sign is not like it was for me, finding my bride impaled on the end of my sword…” Raymond looked up at Ceridwen, who gazed back at him with sultry eyes and ran the fingers of her free hand through his thick hair in a slow, sensuous movement.

Wace’s cheeks reddened and he pointedly remained absorbed in his work.

Ceridwen smiled. “Never mind, my lord, it was for the best. I would not trade my scar for anything. But look, I have caused Wace to blush, and you have bored Owain to sleep, bless him. I shall retire. Good night, Wace, Sir Lucien. Worry not, all will be well.”

“I am not worried,” Lucien lied without remorse as he rose and bowed to Ceridwen. “So, you feel secure here, Raymond, at this keep? Do you need any men?”

“Ceridwen’s brother and I make a good team, as it happens. We have enough men. And I do not think it wise for you to fight alongside us. You are established too far into England, you might bring down the anger of King John upon your head.”

“I will fight for whom I please, Raymond, make no mistake.”

“Aye, I know. Just be careful, eh? Come get some rest, now. You have a long journey to East Ainsley tomorrow.” Raymond cuffed him good-naturedly. “But mind you, I shall be sending Squire Wace to visit whilst the year is yet new, and take measure of your progress toward a wedded state.”

“I look forward to it, Beauchamp.”

Lucien sighed and lay down by the fire, cocooned in blankets of both wool and the pleasant haze of mead. He hoped, as he did every night to little avail, that his dreams did not take him back to Acre, to the nightmare of the dungeon and the inexplicable, nagging sense of something left undone whenever he thought of Isidora….

Acre

With tears streaming down her face, Isidora knelt at her father’s bedside, holding his blue-veined, wasted hand. There was so much she needed to tell him, so much she needed to hear from him, and so little time.

Since Lucien’s departure, Deogal’s illness had worsened day by day, for months and years until she despaired of him ever getting well. He had the flux, could hold nothing down; he often did not recognize her and sometimes he raved.

But now, at the end, by the grace of God, he looked at her and spoke her name.

“Isidora…the Work…”

Even at the moment of his death, he spoke of the Work but not how he felt about her?

“My daughter, you must take the scrolls to Britain, to Lucien. My notes. And the small bundle, there, on the shelf behind the antimony…it is imperative. Promise me you will do this.”

She squeezed his trembling hand but said nothing. Even had she a way to find Lucien, she could not face his mild, brotherly regard again, nor deliver into his hands a fresh obsession that would undoubtedly drive him to death and madness as it had her father.

Deogal returned her grasp and pulled himself up to face her, his eyes burning with feeling. “You must, Isidora. Please…I beseech you. It is the Key, at long last…of all my students, he alone will understand its significance and bring the Work to a magnificent conclusion…”

“Why have you never shared your knowledge with me, Father? I—I might have been closer to you that way.”

“Nay, it is not for lasses such as yourself. Besides, your mother, God rest her soul, made me promise not to involve you. In order to protect you. But now, I have no choice. I beg this of you, before it is too late.”

Her mother made him promise? To protect her? Such isolation had not felt like protection! And now he would burden her with these dark arts, when all she wanted was to burn the texts in the athanor!

He loves me, even though he hurts me. Yet again Isidora felt the heat of shame for her ingratitude.

Deogal lay back, as if the effort of his entreaty was too much. “You are the only one I can trust, Isidora. This must be removed from Acre, taken as far from FitzMalheury as it can be.”

Despite the tearing of her own heart, Isidora could not bear the anguish in his eyes. She could not nay-say him, whatever the consequences. She took a deep breath.

“Of course, Father. I will see it done.” She pulled out the small, gilt Maltese cross she wore and kissed it. “I swear upon the Holy Cross and upon the grave of my adored mother, Ayshka Binte Amir, and upon the love I hold for you, my dear father, that I will complete the task you have set me, or die in the attempt.”

He smiled. “Good girl…” He sighed. His eyes closed and his fingers relaxed completely. Irrevocably.

“Father?” Disbelief, fear, grief, rage and desolation all competed for dominance within her. She fought to breathe, fought not to weep all over again.

He was gone! Leaving her nothing of himself but an errand. Not a word of love, only his habitual, “Good girl.” Just as one said, “Good dog.”

Isidora wailed and embraced his body in death as he had never allowed her to do in life. The overburdened moment froze for an instant. The scent of mint rose from a bowl of water she had used to bathe him as a warm, dry breeze wafted through the small window. But it did not stir Deogal’s sweat-dampened hair. Nothing could touch him now.

He was safe, beyond suffering.



Kalle FitzMalheury hurled his goblet against the sandstone wall of the castle’s refectory and rounded on the bearer of bad news. “What do you mean, Deogal is dead?”

The knight, a member of Salah al-Din’s own extended family, nodded gravely. “A few days ago, effendi. He was buried this morning.”

“Then where is the book, the material? The stone?”

The knight shrugged. “There was nothing but broken glass and crockery to be found. It looked as though a whirlwind had passed through the place.”

Kalle approached the man and sneered, his pale hair hanging in greasy wisps about his face. “And the girl? The half-breed?”

The knight did not retreat by even a fraction of an inch. He met Kalle’s chilly gaze. “She is gone, as well, effendi.”

“Her father had the protection of the Templars, but I doubt that she does. So find her, Faris al-Rashid. Bring her back and I will see to the rest.”

Faris bowed to Kalle, even as his fingers longed to grasp the hilt of his dagger. La—nay. Jesus Christ frowned upon cold-blooded murder even as did the Prophet. And, Faris had the feeling, even though newly baptized, that by his forbearance he himself would prove a better Christian than Kalle FitzMalheury.

He would seek out Isidora Binte Deogal, for he had his own reasons to find her.



Her head down, Isidora crept warily along the docks, avoiding the gaze of passersby. Sailors, merchants, thieves and beggars. Strangers, and dirty, dangerous ones at that.

Her heart thumped erratically in her chest. She had managed to smash what crucibles remained before she’d slipped out of her father’s house—just ahead of the man who had come searching—for what?

She did not know if he was a robber or an assassin—but Lucien had been taken once, by Kalle FitzMalheury, so it was not so unlikely to think they might be after her.

Especially if they thought her father had passed on his secrets to her. Which, apparently, was exactly what he had done.

Not for the first time, she cursed the Work. She needed a way to get on a vessel bound for England, or even France. In truth, she had little idea of how to go about it. Lucien’s voyage had been made possible with the aid of her father’s mysterious and invisible Templar allies.

But she had no idea how to contact them for help for herself. Her father’s wretched Work had eaten up what remained of their resources. All but a few pieces of silver and the items she had been charged to deliver to Lucien.

Seabirds screeched and the scents of tar and the briny low tide filled her nostrils, along with rotting fish entrails. Despite that, she was hungry and soon it would be dark. What could she do?

If she managed to get aboard some galley in secret, and was caught, the ship’s master might sell her into slavery to obtain his payment for her passage. Nay, she needed a better way. Perhaps one of them could use a cook or a washerwoman— A hand on her shoulder made her shriek, even as a gull cried out.

“Be not afraid—I mean thee no harm.”

She whirled about and looked into the deep brown eyes of a man—one clad in a contradictory mixture of eastern and western garb. A Franj surcoat over doubled links of the finest Persian mail. A modest turban crowned his head, but he was clean-shaven. His sword was not curved, but his dagger was, the hilt crusted with jewels, as well.

She found her voice at last. “Who are you?”

“I am here to help you. I am known as Faris al-Rashid. Kalle FitzMalheury sent me— Nay, wait!” His hand restrained her instant attempt at flight. “But my mother…my mother was Ayshka Binte Amir.”

Isidora chose to ignore the last part of his statement and concentrate on the first, for he still held her arm. “Please explain yourself, sir, for Kalle FitzMalheury is no friend of mine.”

Faris glanced about and drew her into a doorway, out of sight. “It was the only way I could get close to you, without arousing his suspicion.”

“Why do you want to get close to me?”

He caught her shoulders. “Because, Isidora, you are my sister—half sister—but my blood kin all the same. You and I are all that are left. The wars have taken everyone else close to us.”

His flimsy story was hard to believe. But she saw the reflection of her mother in his eyes, in the elegant sweep of his brows. “Take off your turban and let me see you properly.”

He unwrapped it to reveal wavy black locks and a central, down-pointing hairline at his forehead, just like hers. “Why now, and not before?” she whispered.

“She was widowed when my father was killed and I was sent to be fostered in one of the royal palaces. I did not know she had remarried, nor of your existence, and in my ignorance of the Franj, would not have wanted to know. In battle, I sang the praises of Allah as I cut the infidels to pieces, right along with everyone else.

“But afterward…afterward, something happened. I had a vision, Isidora. And I received instruction from an angel that my path was no longer with the army of Salah al-Din, may his great name be honored forever. For though his brother is wise and just, my heart was no longer in the jihad. Before she returned to God, I went to see umma.”

“You did?” Isidora’s eyes glazed with tears. She had seen her mother only once after she was taken to the house of lepers. Deogal had kept her close, isolated from others. He had been determined that Isidora not fall prey to the same disease. It had taken her much time and secret effort to find Ayshka. But her mother had forbidden her ever to return, and Isidora had not seen her again before she died.

“They say it is a judgment of God, to be afflicted thus, but she was in no pain, I swear to you. She asked me to find you and to give you this…” Faris produced a small, exquisitely carved wooden box, inlaid with ivory.

Isidora took it and carefully opened the lid. Inside, beneath a layer of red velvet, lay a beautiful but oddly crafted ring of silver. It was smooth on one edge and had rippling indentations on the other. She had never seen it before. But from her mother, it was a treasure indeed.

Faris spoke again. “She said you would know what to do with it, when the time is right. And she also said to tell you that Deogal loves—loved—you as a bird loves the air, for you were all that he had left of her, like the scent of jasmine, lingering…”

Isidora swallowed hard. Her father loved her only as a reminder of her mother? But what was wrong with her, that she could not rejoice for what blessings she had, instead of pining for what she had not?

“I—I have a brother. I am not alone. Oh…” Isidora covered her face and began to weep, as she had not done since the day her father died. Only the day before yesterday.

“Shh…” Faris held her and muffled her sobs against his sturdy chest. “We need to leave this place.”

But Isidora was not done. She wiped her eyes. “How is it you can be associated with Kalle? He is a mad dog when it comes to Muslims—”

“I converted, Isidora.”

She stared at him. “Not for me, please do not say it was for me.”

“Nay, because of the angel’s visitation, I was sincere. I am still sincere. And I sincerely hate Kalle, may the one God forgive me.”

“Aye, I, too, am guilty of that. But I need to get to England, Faris, to find a student of my father’s. Can you help me? W-will you come?” It was too much to ask, too much to hope for.

He grinned, a flash of white in the deepening shadows. “If I am to journey, I’ll need a squire, and you look a promising lad, eh?”

At this, Isidora’s heart began to feel a good deal lighter.




Chapter Six


Three months later

Ainsley Hall, England…

L ucien slouched in his great chair, absently watching his servants clear away the remains of the night’s dinner. Venison—heavy—and ripe as old cheese. Such leftovers would probably choke the paupers who received them.

He missed the foodstuffs of the east. Fruit and rice and pulses. Fare that did not immediately put one to sleep. But, he was indeed grateful for what he had. None of his people were starving this winter. The hall was festooned with greenery and folk were in a state of pitched excitement, for tomorrow began the Christmas revels.

For weeks the celebrations would continue, the Feast of Fools being the highlight for those whose chief pleasures were drunkenness, dung-tossing and bawdy displays of dubious wit. The festivities would no doubt leave him exhausted, when he had much to ponder in the privacy of his solar. And such privacy was a rarity. Indeed, even now, Lucien felt a presence at his back.

“My lord.”

Mauger, his not-to-be-denied seneschal. An impeccable man sent years ago by Lucien’s late father, to keep an eye on him. One who had appointed himself advisor, bodyguard and chief nag.

Aye, who needed a wife with one such as he at hand?

“Sir Mauger. How may I be of service to you?”

The impressively large seneschal came ’round to face him and bowed. “Really, my lord Lucien, don’t mock me thus.”

Lucien smiled thinly. “How can I do otherwise? Even your plea for the betterment of my manners comes forth as an order. Dare I hope you will be chosen King of Misconduct for the Epiphany Feast?”

Mauger shook his head, making his dark curls bounce, and raised his eyes heavenward, his palms together. “I must pray for patience, Lord Lucien, for as much as I love thee, I’d see you improved as your father, God rest him, wished.”

“One might think if I have not improved sufficiently yet, I never will.”

Mauger put his fists on his hips. “What you must improve is your attention to the ladies who attend the revels, my lord. Your duty is clear, as is mine to remind you of it. You must produce an heir. Your uncle Conrad and lady-mother are as set upon it as was your father.”

Lucien shifted in his seat and avoided the seneschal’s flinty gaze. As much as Lucien loved his parents and still respected his uncle, their plans for him had not taken into account his own desires. “Plenty of time for that.”

“There is not. Children take years to grow, and often don’t survive. You must start now, Lucien, and your lord father charged both me and Lord Conrad to see that it comes to pass.”

“Oh, and what do you intend to do? Chain me to some hapless female and instruct me step by step?”

Mauger stared at Lucien, his eyes frankly challenging. “If you refuse to cooperate, then I’ll secure for you a suitable bride. Upon your uncle’s and lady-mother’s approval, of course.”

“Not mine?”

“If you force me to such action, your approval is forfeit.”

Lucien rubbed his unshaven chin with the back of his hand. “From your tone, Mauger, one might think you nursed a grievance against me.”

“You nearly got yourself killed in Acre—and not in any noble, Christian cause! If you’d allowed me to go with you, no such misery would have taken place. And furthermore, had you returned in a timely manner, the marriage your father had already arranged would’ve taken place long ago and we’d not be having this discussion.”

Lucien allowed himself a small sigh. “Ah, so it is that old complaint—I left you behind! Nay, Mauger. I needed you here, and a marvelous job you made of it. Nary a revolt, nor a shilling lost, nor a lamb or cow unaccounted for.”

Mauger’s ruddy face darkened even further. “Your description of my worthy efforts sounds like an accusation, my lord.”

“Your worthy efforts make me nearly superfluous, Sir Mauger. I am apparently only required as a means to sire offspring.”

“Indeed, look at it any way you like. You’ve been home quite long enough to settle down. But there’s yet another matter of great concern, my lord.”

Lucien waved a hand toward a carved, leather-seated chair to his left. “Please, take a seat, Mauger. Had I known this would go on so long, I would have offered it immediately.”

The seneschal sat heavily in the chair that Lucien’s lady would have occupied, had he a lady. Mauger leaned forward and spoke in a lowered tone. “My lord Lucien, this unsuitable preoccupation of yours, this dalliance with sorcery—”

“Alchemy is not sorcery, Mauger. Only the ignorant believe thus.”

Mauger clenched his fists. “I am not ignorant, and it is sorcery, make no mistake. Any art that aims to bend the course of nature to one’s own will is magic. ’Tis blatant heresy, as well, Lucien, and you risk bringing ruin—aye, even damnation—upon yourself and your family by its pursuit!”

Lucien ground his teeth and narrowed his eyes. “I will not be threatened.”

“I’m doing no such thing! I am but warning you of how most clerics view such conduct.”

“I am fully aware of the Church and what it cares about, Mauger. As long as I am free of excessive wealth, and make no enemies of priests, bishops, abbots or cardinals, I have nothing to fear from them.”

“What of the king’s spies, then, Lucien? What of any visitor, with connections you know nothing about? ’Tis one thing for foreigners in outlandish places to dabble in alchemy, but quite another for a young man of good repute to do so right here in the English countryside.”

Lucien gripped the arms of his chair, then rose. The seneschal did likewise and they met eye-to-eye. “Are you quite through, Mauger?”

“Nay, my lord. I am, though loath to do so, going to put a certain pressure upon you, in your own best interests. If you don’t give up this obsessive study—and apply yourself to finding a bride—I shall inform your uncle and mother of the situation. Then we’ll see.”

Lucien’s heart constricted, as if in the grip of an iron fist. It would be the death of his mother, should she learn of what he did in the wee hours, even though it was for her ultimate benefit… “What I would like to see, Mauger, is the two of us engaged in single combat, that I might be rid of your cursed interference once and for all!”

Mauger looked truly shocked. “You wound me, my lord, indeed you do. So little gratitude. Someone has to look after you, as you refuse to look after yourself!”

Lucien took a deep breath and crossed his arms. He knew that Mauger would no more give up this battle than a dog would a bone, for Mauger would carry out Lucien’s father’s wishes to the letter or die in the attempt.

“Nothing will keep me from my studies, Mauger, and you might as well face that right now. If and when I so choose, I will find myself a bride, not you or anyone else—so you had best leave off this well-intentioned persecution.”

“Aye. But—”

“Nay. I am no longer the stripling you could browbeat into submission. You will say nothing to my uncle—or my mother—about alchemy or any other pursuit of mine that is none of their business. Or yours. If you value my respect—and if you wish to remain here as seneschal—you will agree.”

Mauger gave him a long, appraising look, as if measuring the strength of his resolve. “I see. I can only assume that you, being the son of your father, will do the right thing. But—if, and when—you must choose the correct woman, Lucien. Not one you can easily set aside while you mix your—”

“Enough! Do not presume too much, Mauger. I am yet lord of this manor, so by God do not push me. Are we agreed?”

“Agreed.” Mauger spit on his palm and offered his hand to Lucien, who tried to hide his distaste for the ritual as he followed suit. Mauger’s face creased into a grin. “Lucien the Fastidious, that should be your name.”

“And yours should be Mauger the Meddler.”

“You’d best be off then, to the tonsor for a shave, my lord, and—”

“Aye, so I will do. No more advice, Mauger. Let me do this my way.”

“Of course, my lord.” Mauger smiled, bowed as low as his girth allowed him, and Lucien knew his troubles were just beginning.




Chapter Seven


I t was more than a fortnight past Christmas, and on the ice-rimed road to East Ainsley, Isidora’s horse attempted to snatch a mouthful of dried grass from a huge bundle carried by an overburdened man. She pulled back the reins with cold-stiffened fingers, but the horse was more determined than she.

“Oy!” the serf shouted.

“Your pardon. Though, as I am squire to the great lord Sir Faris, here, you should be honored to have a chance to feed my beast.” Isidora attempted to wink at her brother. Somehow, pretending she was a squire made her bolder than she would have been otherwise under the circumstances.

The man grunted. “I’ll feed yer beast, all right. It can be the main course for tonight’s feasting!”

Isidora exchanged looks with Faris, who understood more English than he could speak. But from the blue tinge of his lips, Isidora doubted he would be speaking in any language if they did not soon find shelter.

“We seek Ainsley, the hall of Lucien de Griswold. Is it nearby?” She could scarcely believe, after weeks of travel both under sail and overland by horse, that they might be in sight of their goal.

“Aye, ’tis so, that’s where I am to deliver this load, by the lakeside, for the wounded to lie upon.”

Isidora’s breath caught. “Wounded? What do you mean? Is there a battle?”

“Yer no from these parts, are ye then, laddie? Well, follow me, you and yer great lord there might like to join in and get warmed up.”

Faris indicated the man with his chin and addressed Isidora in French. “What is that impudent fellow talking about?”

“I do not know, Faris. But I would rather follow him than wander these foul roads any longer.”

“’Ere’s the shortcut.”

The serf led them from the road to a lane and thence to a path that wound through thick woods. A freezing gray mist crept between the gnarled tree trunks. Everything looked the same, in any direction.

Close and still, the forest gave Isidora the feeling it was creeping up on her. So different from the long views the desert afforded…but she could not think about that now. She concentrated on guiding her horse over roots and stones, every now and again looking back at Faris.

Often as not, she saw he rode with his eyes closed, his teeth gritted together. So far, England had not suited him in the least. He needed food, and a fire. “How much farther?” she asked their guide.

“Not much,” he grunted.

She could hear the faint drumming of tabors. And the occasional swell of voices, as of a crowd shouting. After a while, a meadow opened up before them, teeming with people.

All sorts, it seemed, from high-born ladies bundled in furs to the lowliest of pig-herders. They clustered around various fires and there were ale-tuns at regular intervals.

At one end was a frozen pond—a sight at which she no longer marveled. At the other was a slope of rising land, striped fields and pastures. Past a wooden wall, presumably sheltering the village of East Ainsley, the view culminated in a rocky outcropping with a small but well-situated castle.

So this was Lucien’s home. But where was he? Isidora did not know whether she dreaded seeing him or not. Her stomach churned and her heart pounded so hard that she felt quite ill.

A trumpet blast pierced the frigid air. “Hear ye, hear ye! The mêlée is about to commence! The valiant but outnumbered forces of Sir Lucien, to be faced with the Blessed Host of the Lord of Misrule! There is to be no fair fighting, no shows of bravery and every man for himself!”

At a great shout, to Isidora’s astonishment, two hordes of jubilant men poured onto opposite sides of the ice-covered pond, bearing all the accoutrements of battle as well as of farming. The smaller group seemed to be better dressed and equipped, but throughout were swords, spears, flails, staffs, clubs, forks and even digging tools.

Some rode stick horses, others had bones strapped to their feet, which seemed to allow them to glide over the ice faster than those who merely slid around in boots or shoes.

Isidora was completely baffled. Had they all gone mad?

“Knights, to the fray!” With a roar, the smaller force surged toward the center of the pond. Their opponents fell back at first, then rallied and soon the battle was fully under way. Isidora picketed the horses and coaxed Faris to warm himself at one of the fires while they watched the spectacle.

A red-cheeked young woman smiled at them. She was dressed like a troubadour, her head capped by a jaunty hat with a turned-up brim. “You’re not joining in the fight?”

Isidora bowed. “Demoiselle, we are strangers here, and are unfamiliar with this custom.”

“Oh, it is the tradition! The Feast of Fools is the one day of the year when serfs and servants are the equals of the master and his men. They battle out on the ice, and Lord Lucien is as apt to be beaten as any other. There is no fear of reprisal, and all are allowed to participate.”

“That sounds—” Isidora had been about to say “barbaric,” but amended it. “Entertaining.”

“Aye, indeed it is. My lute teacher is out there, giving as good as she gets, I’ll warrant.”

Faris asked, “Which is Lord Lucien?”

The girl raised up on her toes and peered at the mêlée. “Aye, there he is—on his knees, doubled up, with his arms over his head. Taking quite a thumping— Oh dear!”

Isidora’s jaw dropped at the sight of several rough-looking men belaboring their lord with wooden rods. These English had to be mad! Then a massive fighter came to Lucien’s rescue and tried to drive off the attackers with a flaming torch. But yet again, the mob surged toward them.

Panic surged through Isidora. She had witnessed bloody, lethal fights in the crowded streets of Acre on the heels of al-Kond Herri’s death. This looked no different. Lucien was about to be killed and she could not stand by and watch. She ran toward the pond.

“La! Isid—boy! Stop!”

Isidora heard Faris shout after her, but paid no heed. She bounded across the icy surface, only realizing her mistake when she found she could not stop, nor indeed even stay upright.

Her feet went skyward and the impact knocked the air from her lungs. She sprawled onto her back, spinning and sliding until she rammed something larger and heavier than she was. Then she knew she had made yet another mistake, for she had no weapon.

The recipient of her skidding blow was about to deliver one of his own—a fist aimed at her face. Lucien’s eyes blazed like blue flames and she squeaked in terror.

“The devil—Isidora?” he breathed, frowning, and then lowered his arm. “Good God!”

“Hold!” Faris shouted.

There came a thunder of hooves. Her brother was coming to protect her. “Nay, Faris! Stay back!”

Lucien looked up and his face paled. The horse landed on the ice and an ominous groan sounded.

“Everyone off the pond! Now! The ice is breaking!” Lucien scooped Isidora into his arms and made his way with amazing speed to the safety of the shore.

But he dumped her there only to go back out onto the ice, his skill with the bone-clad boots making him swift.

Faris had jumped clear and was attempting to help his floundering horse out of the hole he was in. Some men were racing back to land, others were still so caught up in the mêlée they had not heard the warning.

Lucien grabbed the burning torch from the huge man who wielded it and shouted until he had their attention. “Oyez! Listen to me—the ice has cracked and is broken in places. Make your way back as lightly as you can. Spread out, and do not run or cause any more vibration than you have to. If you must, slide on your bellies to spread your weight, do you understand?”

Isidora watched, her heart in her mouth. The men, common and noble alike, slowly regained the shore, leaving red patches on the ice where the fighting had been fiercest. When all were safely in front of them, Lucien and the big man followed.

Faris’s horse lunged, found its footing and scrambled out of the water. Then, with a shriek beyond anything Isidora had heard before, a gash ripped the ice open like a strike of lightning. The black water swallowed Faris up as if he had never existed. Only an echo of his cry remained.

The Persian mail! With so much metal weighing him down, he might as well have held a boulder in his arms and jumped in. She felt helpless, as if a tide were sucking the last remnants of her life away. This nightmare could not be true….



Lucien raced to within a few feet of the ice’s edge, then lay on his stomach. Wet and half frozen himself, he scooted to the brink and held the torch over the water. The stranger might have a chance to surface, if he knew which way was up. If his eyes could yet see…

All were silent. The only sound was the irregular creaking of the pond’s crust. Then came a small splash and Lucien grasped an ice-cold hand in his. A dark head emerged, and the stranger gasped for breath.

“Mauger, hold on to me! Get someone to pull us out with rope!”

His men quickly formed a human chain and tied something to Lucien’s belt. It took all his strength to hang on to the drowning man’s hand. Then his wrist. Then both wrists, and he came slithering out, as if newborn from the waters.

“Come, you can make it,” urged Lucien.

“Mâshallâh!” croaked the fellow through chattering teeth, and Lucien nearly let go of him in surprise. An Arab? A handsome devil, no less, and obviously high-born. But what was he doing here?

“My mail, effendi. S-see to it, I b-beg of you.”

Lucien blinked in confusion. Then the Arab pulled down an edge of his surcoat to reveal the shiny links.

“Of course, I will not let it rust. But let us get away from here first.”

“Shuk-r’n.”

“I only do as God allows, my friend.”

A gust of freezing wind skittered across the pond and the Arab began to shake from head to toe. Lurching and slipping, Lucien guided him until they regained the shore at last.

Lucien wrapped a cloak around the man and helped him back onto his steaming, shivering horse. He tried to untie the rope from his belt, only it was not a rope, but a long length of cloth, and his stiff fingers could not undo the wet knot.

Climbing up behind the man, Lucien took the reins and halted the horse before Isidora. “This Turk belongs to you?”

She nodded, her face white even with the snow as a background. “He is not a Turk. But, aye, that is his turban. I gave it to your men, for there was no rope.”

“Larke!” Lucien called out, his gaze sweeping the crowd.

The troubadour girl came running. “Are you all right, Lucien? Is the man all right? And the horse?”

“Aye, aye, have no worry.” He indicated Isidora with a nod. “This is my friend. Take her to the hall and get Mauger to go with you. Isidora, my sister, Larke, will attend you. Kindly do as she says.”

Isidora stared. “You have a sister? And in all the time with us you never told me? What is the matter with you, Sir Lucien?”

“Never mind, we’ll talk later. This man needs to get warm, and my cuddling him atop his horse is not going to do much good.” Lucien then turned to address his people. “This was but a minor mishap. All the revels will continue as usual, and I congratulate the fools who routed us!”

A cheer rose and Lucien breathed a sigh of relief. At least this farce was over for the year. But Isidora? In England? With a Saracen escort? He needed some hot mulled wine before he could take on such a puzzle.



Isidora sat before the fire in Lucien’s solar, sipping warm wine from a wooden bowl that still rattled against her teeth, she was yet so cold. As was Faris, no doubt.

He dozed in Lucien’s bed, dark against the white linens. No wonder Faris was exhausted. He must have found the strength of many men, to have risen in the water despite the mail coat he’d worn.

She felt a stab of fear for him, that he might be singled out and targeted by someone for the color of his skin. But so far, though many had stared, no one had said a word against the guest of their lord. He was yet safe, his sword but an arm’s length away.

And, his mail now hung from a rod, Lucien having made certain it was dried and oiled. Faris would be glad.

But to her, the situation was utterly overwhelming. The journey, the dangers, the weather, the English themselves, and now this place, Lucien’s home. It offered slender comfort, by eastern standards. Though clean enough, it was rudely furnished and only vaguely warm despite the roaring fires. Still, in any event, she did not belong here. Did not want to be here.

But perhaps he was merely a land baron now, and no longer possessed by alchemy. Perhaps she need not give him the things she had come so far to give him. Things she did not understand and that were certain to be dangerous.

“Isidora.”

Lucien’s voice, smooth and rich and heady. He was here with her, as if summoned by her thoughts of him, just as spirits—and devils—were summoned. Despite his coming up behind her, she did not jump in startlement.

Instead she was suffused by a flood of warmth. Nay, this was all wrong! She must stay strong and keep her heart her own….

“Isidora?”

The weight of his hand upon her shoulder. She closed her eyes. She would not speak, would not move, was glad she was already sitting. Maybe he would go away.

“Isidora, I do not know why you are here, or why you are garbed as a man, or who this person in my bed is to you, but…”

The intensity in Lucien’s resonant voice made her open her eyes. Now he was on his knees before her. His eyes shone in brilliant blue contrast to his blood and dirt-darkened skin—indeed, his face appeared little better than it had the last time she had seen him, but was still so handsome that he was almost painful to look upon. She shifted her gaze to the bed where Faris lay heaped with furs.

Lucien plucked the bowl of wine from her fingers and engulfed her cold hands in his even colder ones. “You shield yourself in silence, Isidora. It is not necessary.”

“Is it not? Silence reveals much, if one is patient.”

“But you must have news…an explanation?”

“I am on a grim errand, Lord Lucien. I will explain it when I am ready. Not before.”




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