Читать книгу The Alchemist's Daughter - Elaine Knighton - Страница 14

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.

“Isidora.”

Lucien’s voice, smooth and rich and heady. He was here with her, as if summoned by her thoughts of him, just as spirits—and devils—were summoned. Despite his coming up behind her, she did not jump in startlement.

Instead she was suffused by a flood of warmth. Nay, this was all wrong! She must stay strong and keep her heart her own….

“Isidora?”

The weight of his hand upon her shoulder. She closed her eyes. She would not speak, would not move, was glad she was already sitting. Maybe he would go away.

“Isidora, I do not know why you are here, or why you are garbed as a man, or who this person in my bed is to you, but…”

The intensity in Lucien’s resonant voice made her open her eyes. Now he was on his knees before her. His eyes shone in brilliant blue contrast to his blood and dirt-darkened skin—indeed, his face appeared little better than it had the last time she had seen him, but was still so handsome that he was almost painful to look upon. She shifted her gaze to the bed where Faris lay heaped with furs.

Lucien plucked the bowl of wine from her fingers and engulfed her cold hands in his even colder ones. “You shield yourself in silence, Isidora. It is not necessary.”

“Is it not? Silence reveals much, if one is patient.”

“But you must have news…an explanation?”

“I am on a grim errand, Lord Lucien. I will explain it when I am ready. Not before.”