Читать книгу The Alchemist's Daughter - Elaine Knighton - Страница 11

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.