Chapter One
Acre
Capital of the Kingdom of Jerusalem
Early summer, 1197
T he crunch of booted feet on packed earth and the rattle of swords echoed in the narrow, steep-walled lane. Shifting her precious bundle of glassware, Isidora hurried through the arched stone gateway into the courtyard of her father’s house.
She pushed aside her linen veil and looked back. Drying fabrics streamed and billowed like pennants from windows high above, creating a serpentine play of light and shadow on the street. Below, bareheaded in the sun, as if it were not the middle of the afternoon when sensible folk came in out of the heat and dust, a group of brawny young men strode nearer.
Tall, broad-chested warriors. Franks? English? She was not certain. But they moved with bold assurance, taking up more space with their extravagant movements and loud voices than was either seemly or wise in this city of many cultures.
When the great Salah al-Din had ruled, isolated westerners like she and her father had usually been left in peace. Then the city had been retaken by Richard Coeur de Leon and King Philippe.
Little enough blood had been shed when Acre shifted hands that time, but many a Crusader did not bother to determine who was Christian and who was Muslim before striking out.
Isidora’s stomach fluttered at the sight of the men with their fair heads and long swords. She swallowed her rising fear and took another peek. She had to admit they were glorious—like young, unruly chargers.
But joking amongst themselves and occupying half the lane, they acted as though they personally ruled the place.
Whatever their purpose, she should bar the gate before they drew any closer.
“Marylas, quick, help me.” Isidora put the glassware down.
The serving girl was a Circassian, her face and arms heavily veiled because her flawless white skin could not tolerate the desert sun. But she was strong and willing, and helped Isidora push the heavy wooden gate. It swung a short way, met a stubborn resistance and stopped short.
Isidora’s body stilled at a creak of leather and the faintest whiff of sandalwood. She looked around the edge of the thick planking. Her gaze moved from a gauntleted hand, up a muscular, linen-clad arm, and to the vivid blue eyes of the man who remained firmly in the way.
“Oh,” she breathed. If the lovely Marylas resembled a woman made of silver, this was as comely a man as could be imagined, made of red-gold. A straight nose, set in a lean, sculpted, sun-burned face, with high cheekbones and a wide jaw. Hair that flowed past his shoulders like liquid copper.
His eyebrow quirked. A charming, perfect eyebrow.
“Ma demoiselle?”
And a voice to match the rest. Resonant yet soft. Rich with nuance.
She blinked and was ready to kick herself. What am I thinking? One bewitching stranger cannot sway me from what I know to be the truth. Fair men are perfectly capable of destroying one’s life and happiness, just as are ugly ones.
“Pardon me, do you speak French or English?” he asked, still not releasing the gate.
“Or Latin? Or Greek? Lucien knows them all,” came another voice from beyond him, accompanied by male laughter.
“You are Franj?” Isidora ventured in French. His eyes were as blue as the sea beyond the walls of the city. Beteuse! What does it matter who he is or how handsome? Tell him to go away!
“Nay. But we need—guiding—to the, em, bathhouse. Can you help?”
His companions groaned. “Lucien—you and your hot water obsession! Why not ask where the nearest ale house is?”
Her father’s voice rang out into the courtyard. “Isidora! What’s keeping you?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Nothing, my lord! Just some travelers looking for the hammam. It is up that way,” she added, and pointed in the direction they should go.
“God speed you!” she urged the young men, but they did not depart.
Then her father, Sir Deogal, emerged, tall and spare and out of sorts. His eyes glinted dangerously from beneath his heavy gray brows. He moved in the stiff but determined way of old warriors, his faded blue robe dragging along the stones of the courtyard.
Isidora threw him a concerned look. He would still pick a fight, even though outnumbered and unarmed. Strong he might be, but men like these could cut him to pieces if they chose.
“Father, please do not trouble yourself. They are just leaving.” She turned and met the handsome intruder’s gaze squarely. “Are you not?”
Clutching the slender neck of a glass alembic in one hand, Deogal threw the gate wide with the other to reveal the group of four young men.
“Take yourselves off from here. Go find someone who has time to squander dealing with the worthless likes of you!”
Just this once, curb your temper, Father! Isidora’s heart pounded and she balled her hands into fists as the knights exchanged dark looks and fingered their swords. All but the one at the gate, whose eyes smiled even when his mouth did not.
The stranger gave a dismissive wave. “My friends, waste not your strength upon a demented old man. Go on, I will catch up with you later.” When they hesitated, he fixed them with his gaze and said but one word. “Go.”
“Don’t get too clean, Lucien, or we won’t take you back.” They resumed their joking and moved down the lane, away from the hammam and toward the closest wine merchant.
Deogal shook his flask at Lucien and its contents danced in silver waves. “How dare you speak of me thus, you sorry whelp of a—”
The young knight raised his gauntleted hand. “Sir, I could not but help notice that is quicksilver in the vessel you hold there. I have an appreciation for such things, but my friends do not, so forgive me for having discouraged them in the way that I deemed best for the situation…may I speak with you?”
“You may not. I have work to do and no time for curiosity seekers. Isidora, get inside.”
As Deogal retreated, slamming the workshop door behind him, Isidora was struck by the disappointment reflected on—what had they called him?—Lucien’s face.
It was similar to her own, what she felt every time her father barred her from entering his sanctum sanctorum. From the part of his life that mattered most to him.
This fellow did not belong here. Her father needed help, aye, but she would provide it, not some stranger off the street. As much as she resented the Work, it was indeed important, and given time, Deogal would surely let her in. She was of his flesh, his only child. Sooner or later he had to….
But for now, the least she could do was show the knight that manners did exist in this household. And that she was not afraid of him.
“Lord, would you like some wine?”
The knight, who she assumed belonged to Henry of Champagne, the King of Jerusalem—known to the native residents of Acre, his capital, as al-Kond Herri—took a long breath. He crossed his arms and seemed to consider her proposal, looking at her carefully all the while. Then he nodded, once.
She had half expected him to stalk away. Half hoped that he would. But here he remained, so Isidora ushered him into the small garden where her father received his rare but usually important visitors.
All was in order. A small fountain burbled, red-flowering vines wound around the carved sandstone columns and birds chirped, flitting in and out of the shadows.
“Please sit, sir.” Isidora indicated a polished marble bench. Off to one side, Marylas stood staring, her hand clamped