“Marriage is not the penance you make it sound, Lucien,” Ceridwen said. “Even Raymond no longer believes that.” Her hip met Raymond’s shoulder as she stood beside him and he slid a powerful, possessive arm around her thighs.
That in itself was a small miracle, to see Raymond, so recently the terror of the marches, now basking in the glow of his lady’s affection. Though no less a warrior, he was a better man for it.
“But even supposing you are right, where am I to find a woman to put up with me as you do him?”
Ceridwen gave an unladylike snort. “Lucien, I can hardly believe my ears. Do you not notice those who follow you—nay, devour you with their eyes—at every feast or fair or market you attend? You have but to give any of them the slightest favor. Heaven knows their fathers will be delighted to hear from you. You are a prize, Lucien. A lord both handsome and wealthy, and unlike some around here, possessed of exquisite manners.”
“There you have it! From one who has me to compare you against, at that—true praise, indeed!” Raymond received a nudge of his wife’s knee in his ribs and grinned.
Their encouragement only sounded like a lot of effort, fraught with risk. Then an inspiration came to Lucien. If he would pursue the Divine, he could also seek its help. “I shall pray and ask God for a sign. I will let the choice be up to Him.”
“Let us hope the sign is not like it was for me, finding my bride impaled on the end of my sword…” Raymond looked up at Ceridwen, who gazed back at him with sultry eyes and ran the fingers of her free hand through his thick hair in a slow, sensuous movement.
Wace’s cheeks reddened and he pointedly remained absorbed in his work.
Ceridwen smiled. “Never mind, my lord, it was for the best. I would not trade my scar for anything. But look, I have caused Wace to blush, and you have bored Owain to sleep, bless him. I shall retire. Good night, Wace, Sir Lucien. Worry not, all will be well.”
“I am not worried,” Lucien lied without remorse as he rose and bowed to Ceridwen. “So, you feel secure here, Raymond, at this keep? Do you need any men?”
“Ceridwen’s brother and I make a good team, as it happens. We have enough men. And I do not think it wise for you to fight alongside us. You are established too far into England, you might bring down the anger of King John upon your head.”
“I will fight for whom I please, Raymond, make no mistake.”
“Aye, I know. Just be careful, eh? Come get some rest, now. You have a long journey to East Ainsley tomorrow.” Raymond cuffed him good-naturedly. “But mind you, I shall be sending Squire Wace to visit whilst the year is yet new, and take measure of your progress toward a wedded state.”
“I look forward to it, Beauchamp.”
Lucien sighed and lay down by the fire, cocooned in blankets of both wool and the pleasant haze of mead. He hoped, as he did every night to little avail, that his dreams did not take him back to Acre, to the nightmare of the dungeon and the inexplicable, nagging sense of something left undone whenever he thought of Isidora….
Acre
With tears streaming down her face, Isidora knelt at her father’s bedside, holding his blue-veined, wasted hand. There was so much she needed to tell him, so much she needed to hear from him, and so little time.
Since Lucien’s departure, Deogal’s illness had worsened day by day, for months and years until she despaired of him ever getting well. He had the flux, could hold nothing down; he often did not recognize her and sometimes he raved.
But now, at the end, by the grace of God, he looked at her and spoke her name.
“Isidora…the Work…”
Even at the moment of his death, he spoke of the Work but not how he felt about her?
“My daughter, you must take the scrolls to Britain, to Lucien. My notes. And the small bundle, there, on the shelf behind the antimony…it is imperative. Promise me you will do this.”
She squeezed his trembling hand but said nothing. Even had she a way to find Lucien, she could not face his mild, brotherly regard again, nor deliver into his hands a fresh obsession that would undoubtedly drive him to death and madness as it had her father.
Deogal returned her grasp and pulled himself up to face her, his eyes burning with feeling. “You must, Isidora. Please…I beseech you. It is the Key, at long last…of all my students, he alone will understand its significance and bring the Work to a magnificent conclusion…”
“Why have you never shared your knowledge with me, Father? I—I might have been closer to you that way.”
“Nay, it is not for lasses such as yourself. Besides, your mother, God rest her soul, made me promise not to involve you. In order to protect you. But now, I have no choice. I beg this of you, before it is too late.”
Her mother made him promise? To protect her? Such isolation had not felt like protection! And now he would burden her with these dark arts, when all she wanted was to burn the texts in the athanor!
He loves me, even though he hurts me. Yet again Isidora felt the heat of shame for her ingratitude.
Deogal lay back, as if the effort of his entreaty was too much. “You are the only one I can trust, Isidora. This must be removed from Acre, taken as far from FitzMalheury as it can be.”
Despite the tearing of her own heart, Isidora could not bear the anguish in his eyes. She could not nay-say him, whatever the consequences. She took a deep breath.
“Of course, Father. I will see it done.” She pulled out the small, gilt Maltese cross she wore and kissed it. “I swear upon the Holy Cross and upon the grave of my adored mother, Ayshka Binte Amir, and upon the love I hold for you, my dear father, that I will complete the task you have set me, or die in the attempt.”
He smiled. “Good girl…” He sighed. His eyes closed and his fingers relaxed completely. Irrevocably.
“Father?” Disbelief, fear, grief, rage and desolation all competed for dominance within her. She fought to breathe, fought not to weep all over again.
He was gone! Leaving her nothing of himself but an errand. Not a word of love, only his habitual, “Good girl.” Just as one said, “Good dog.”
Isidora wailed and embraced his body in death as he had never allowed her to do in life. The overburdened moment froze for an instant. The scent of mint rose from a bowl of water she had used to bathe him as a warm, dry breeze wafted through the small window. But it did not stir Deogal’s sweat-dampened hair. Nothing could touch him now.
He was safe, beyond suffering.
Kalle FitzMalheury hurled his goblet against the sandstone wall of the castle’s refectory and rounded on the bearer of bad news. “What do you mean, Deogal is dead?”
The knight, a member of Salah al-Din’s own extended family, nodded gravely. “A few days ago, effendi. He was buried this morning.”
“Then where is the book, the material? The stone?”
The knight shrugged. “There was nothing but broken glass and crockery to be found. It looked as though a whirlwind had passed through the place.”
Kalle approached the man and sneered, his pale hair hanging in greasy wisps about his face. “And the girl? The half-breed?”
The knight did not retreat by even a fraction of an inch. He met Kalle’s chilly gaze. “She is gone, as well, effendi.”
“Her father had the protection of the Templars, but I doubt that she does. So find her, Faris al-Rashid. Bring her back and I will see to the rest.”
Faris bowed to Kalle, even as his fingers longed to grasp the hilt of his dagger. La—nay.