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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….
