The Alchemist's Daughter

“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.