Elaine Knighton - The Alchemist's Daughter

His breath was warm against her ear, for he had bent his head—so that he could keep his voice low, she assumed.

“Lucien, I will go to bed when and where I choose. I have lived long enough to be fully capable of such a decision.”

“Have you? I wonder, even at your age, that you do not need some guidance in that regard, or at least some inspiration?” He turned her around. “Do you want some…inspiration?”

At the sight of him so close, the feel of him, his eyes gleaming in the firelight…his attention focused upon her alone…Isidora had all the inspiration she could handle.

She felt dizzy. She wanted to fall into his arms. Kiss him. And beat him with her fists, so thickheaded was he. Had he no idea of the torture he put her through?

Beauchamp Besieged

“Sensational plot turns…a gritty but vivid picture…of medieval times.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Rich details create a strong sense of place in this debut.”

—Romantic Times

“A definite must-read for those who enjoy a good medieval tale.”

—Romance Reviews Today

Fulk the Reluctant

“Knighton’s talent shines.”

—Romantic Times

“Be ready to be swept away to [the] 1200s in this fast-paced story.”

—romancejunkies.com

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my wise and beautiful daughters, Asmara and Angela.

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Epilogue

The Holy Land

Somewhere between Jerusalem and Acre

Spring of 1197

“L ucien! De Brus has fallen. We must stop.”

“Aye, Allan, I expected it to be so.” Lucien de Griswold’s heart sank as he turned in the saddle and looked back over the straggling line of weary men and horses. De Brus, who had gone with them on pilgrimage to Jerusalem only to please his lady-wife, had taken a deep sword thrust to his thigh. The attacking tribesmen, in search of plunder, did not respect the uneasy truce between west and east, no more than did many Crusaders.

The dry wind kicked up a spiral of dust and heat shimmered over the sand and rocks. This desert, this place…the Holy Land…was not a land of milk and honey, but of blood and pain and thirst. Only the Saracens, with great determination, faith and skill, were at home here.

Allan had dismounted and helped the ailing De Brus to the shade of an overhang. Lucien left his horse in the care of a servant and knelt beside De Brus. The knight’s wound was poisoning his blood. His red, sweaty skin, his leg so swollen that his foot was mottled, testified to that fact.

“He needs more medicine than the camp leech can provide, even could we get him there before he dies,” Allan whispered.

De Brus opened his eyes. “Don’t bother trying to spare my feelings now, Allan. I know full well I am a waste of further food and water. Just leave me here in the shade.”

“Be quiet, Brus,” Lucien said. He drew Allan aside. “There was a caravanserai going east. They may know of a physician in a town nearby. It is worth a try.”

“A Saracen physician?” Allan’s brows knit.

“Aye. They have the skill Brus’s leg requires. I have seen what they can do. I fear otherwise he will indeed die while our leech deliberates and Brus argues with him. He won’t be able to argue with a Turk.”

“Very well. But be swift, for we dare not tarry here overlong. If you must go, at least take someone with you. Do not go alone.”

Lucien shook his head. “To the Arabs we Franj are dangerous wild animals. A pack of us will only make them defensive. One of us may get a better result than many. And if I should fail, there will be fewer of our party at risk. No one in Acre even knows we are here, so we have no hope of them setting out to look for us.”

“But Kalle FitzMalheury is due to return this way. No doubt he would come to our aid.”

A surge of distaste filled Lucien at the mention of the knight whose reputation for brutality overshadowed his brilliance as a commander. “I hope we are gone long before then, for I have no wish to encounter Kalle FitzMalheury—especially if I need him.”

“Aye.” Allan rubbed his dagger hilt. “I know what you mean. He is a restless lion amongst men.”

“All the more reason for me to make haste.” After downing a mouthful of warm water, Lucien set out in pursuit of the caravanserai whose dust was still visible in the distance. It was a small procession, no more than a dozen heavily laden camels, but well supplied with guards, a mixture of Turks and mercenary Franks.

With a final burst of effort from his horse, Lucien caught up with the vanguard. He brought his mount around, just close enough for them to hear his shout. Some of the guards had already turned, arrows nocked and ready to fly.

“May peace be upon you, all honor to the Prophet!” Lucien began in Arabic.

But the guards’ bows stayed taut, the arrows level; the red tassels on their horses’ bridles fluttered in the wind.

Lucien took a deep breath. “I seek a ţābib. Know you where I might find a man skilled in medicine?”

“Why should we help a murdering Franj?”

To Lucien’s surprise, one among them replied, “Because it is the Law of God, both Christian and Muslim, to show mercy to those who ask it of us, if that is within our power to bestow.”

The man rode toward Lucien, his white robes pristine despite the dust and heat. “I am Palban, known in these parts as al-Balub, a physician come from Cordoba. What is the problem?”

As he drew near, Lucien saw that whether a Saracen or no, this Spaniard was fair of complexion and not one of the Turks by birth. He quickly explained Brus’s predicament and added, “I swear to protect you and see you safely back to your escort. I can but offer you a promise of compensation, as at the moment I have nothing of value beyond my honor and gratitude.”

Palban smiled. “I see you have manners befitting a prince, if not the wealth of one. And I consider the former of more worth than the latter. It would be a refreshing change to minister to a wounded knight be he French or English or German, instead of an overfed emir. Let me collect my things.” He galloped back to the caravan and returned with a bundle strapped to his saddle. “They will await me here, for a few hours only, while they rest the horses.”

Lucien’s heart leaped with hope and he led the ţābib toward De Brus. As they rode he plied the physician with questions, of medicine, of philosophy and of alchemy, an area in which he had a deep interest. Compared to this country, where such exalted knowledge was openly sought and arcane pursuits were more valued than feared, England was an abyss of ignorance.