The Alchemist's Daughter. Elaine Knighton
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