The Alchemist's Daughter. Elaine Knighton

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ