The Alchemist's Daughter. Elaine Knighton
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