Shadow of the Alchemist

10

Crispin rolled his eyes, disappointed. “You must be jesting.”

“No! No, not at all. He has gained fame far and wide for this remarkable achievement. Why, even pagan scholars from the East are said to travel over great distances merely to consult with him. And now you say he is on these shores! Well!” He rubbed his hands together. “I will beg an audience with him, naturally. Of course I will. Although, I doubt he will share his secrets with anyone other than his own apprentice. More’s the pity. But a man can try.”

“His apprentice is dead. Murdered.”

“Saint Luke!” He wrung his hands and wandered toward his fire, gaze lost in the flickering flames. “W-why did they slay him?”

“I wonder. If many others knew that Flamel made this Stone, then they might wish to have it for themselves.”

Jack smacked his forehead with his hand. “Stone, sir! The ransom demanded the Stone, not the broach.”

“So I am beginning to see.”

“But begging your pardon, sir…” Jack addressed the both of them. “What is this Philosopher’s Stone? Why is it valuable?”

The alchemist stared at him. “You ignorant boy! Don’t you know about the Philosopher’s Stone?” He turned to Crispin. “Does he not know?”

“Clearly,” said Crispin.

The alchemist shook his head, disgusted. He grabbed more sticks and tossed them on his fire. They sparked with green and purple flames before billowing a black cloud up the athanor’s flue. “Some alchemists have spent their entire lives searching for the answers to its creation. It isn’t merely a simple combination of formulas. No! Everything must be perfection. The position of the moon and stars, the time of day, the time of year, the purest ingredients. Salt, sulfur, mercury … It is said that even pulverized unicorn horn might be used in the process-extremely rare, you understand. But such ingredients might be mere mythos, to send a lesser Adept off the scent. Hard to say. In order to achieve the Grand Arcanum, the Lapis Philosophorum, one must dedicate one’s life to this research, to experimentation.” He nodded with a greedy look in his eye. “Few Adepts can be found who truly understand the Lesser and Greater Circulations. A clear understanding of roots, herbs, plants … even poisons. And then the metals, so important, so complicated in nature.… Ah, but I have gotten off my course. The Philosopher’s Stone, the Lapis Philosophorum. Many men wish to possess it for its use in turning simple metals into the most precious of all, into gold. If that were all it did, then perhaps lesser Adepts might be able to accomplish it.”

“Isn’t that enough?” asked Jack, entranced.

“For fools,” spat the alchemist. “But for true Adepts educated in the highest Arcana, that is only the beginning of knowledge. The true, the purest, use of obtaining the Lapis Philosophorum is to create the Elixir of Life.”

Jack leaned forward. Quietly, he asked, “What does that do?”

“Those who drink of the Elixir of Life are given immortality.”

“God blind me!”

“Indeed.”

Crispin’s hand clenched and unclenched on the hilt of his sheathed dagger. “But such a thing is a myth. A fool’s errand. Why would you believe such mad babbling? Unicorns, indeed!”

“Why should I believe? I can see that you are a man with little understanding, Crispin Guest.” He pointed an accusatory finger. “You are not an Adept. One would have thought that a man with your education could be more accepting. But I see,” he said with haughty pique, “that you are not.”

“Never mind me, you fool. What makes you think that Flamel has made this Stone?”

“All of the continent know it. I met some Greek travelers only last year who mentioned having met him in Paris. Oh, they did not mention the Stone, of course, talked around it. But I have a wily mind, you understand?” He tapped his temple. “I could see it behind their eyes and between their words. There are many and many who speak of the Philosopher’s Stone and Nicholas Flamel all in the same breath.”

“Nonsense. This is utter nonsense.”

Jack sucked on his lip. “Aye, Master, but if others believe it, like this man, then that makes Master Flamel just as vulnerable as if he did possess it.”

He nodded. “That’s true enough, Jack. Master Bartholomew, what does such a Stone look like?”

His brows clustered over his forehead. “Well … I have never actually seen it for myself, you understand. Rumor has it that it is a simple stone. Something nondescript. Like a lump of tin or of coal. And yet, I have also heard that it can be a very lovely stone, like a crystal.”

“So it would not appear as a fabulous gem?”

“It might. But with the materials used to make it, I should think not. And I would never attempt to facet it. That might render it useless.”

“I thank you, Master Bartholomew, for assisting me.”

“If you seek the Stone yourself, I should warn you, Master Guest. It is protected, not just by the secret nature of it, or by the spirits that watch over such things. But by the communion of other alchemists. I know nothing about it in other places, but in England the alchemists communicate with one another. We are a … a guild of sorts. We protect what is ours. Our secret knowledge that we have accumulated with toil and sweat is not to be given to just anyone. A man must earn his right to be allowed into the circle. It would be wiser if you left that which you little understand alone.”

“I understand murder, sir. And the abduction of an innocent woman. Would you shield these crimes behind your guild’s need for secrecy? Loyalty should only take you so far.”

“I … I had no idea…”

“If I thought you did, I would haul you before the hangman myself.” He smiled unpleasantly. “What do you know of the murder of the apprentice of Nicholas Flamel?”

“Why, nothing! I never even knew Master Flamel was in London until you told me. Neither did I know of the man’s murder until you also related that information.”

“Why would his servant bring me to you, then?”

“How should I know that! You said yourself that she is deaf and dumb. And mad, most likely.”

He could tell Jack was about to agree, but he interrupted. “I do not think her mad. The way about her, perhaps, but I am of a mind that she is cannier than anyone thus far has given her credit for.”

Crispin knew that he was allowing his sentiments to get the better of him. “Be that as it may, I believe she drew me here for your help. Not just with telling us of the Philosopher’s Stone, of which the old alchemist did not tell us, but with the symbols that have been cropping up all over the city.”

“Eh? Symbols? What are you talking about?”

“Have you not seen them?”

“I do not leave the confines of my shop very often, Master Guest. I am at my own Great Work, you understand.” He tapped a leather-bound volume sitting on his table. A symbol was etched on its cover.

“I will show you if you will come.”

The alchemist nodded and followed Crispin out the door.

“It is only this way,” said Crispin. “There are many more throughout London. I have no idea how many.” They arrived at the house on the corner, and Crispin pointed. The symbols were scratched over hastily but still easily read. The light was fading, but they were clear enough when the sun breached the low swag of clouds. “There. What do you make of it?”

The man’s eyes grew fearful and he tugged his cap low over his head. He pushed Crispin aside and marched back to his shop.

“Master Bartholomew!”

He waved his fist over his shoulder. Crispin and Jack exchanged a look before they trotted after. The alchemist met him at the doorway, blocking it. “I cannot help you, Master Guest. I pray that you go elsewhere for your information from now on. Please. Do not trouble me again. I have my own work to do.” He slammed the door and bolted it for good measure, leaving Crispin staring at the worn wood.

“God’s blood. What ails the man?”

“It meant something to him,” Jack pointed out.

“Indeed it did. But what? Jack, there may be other alchemists in the city. He said as much. They are a guild. Perhaps we can reason with their leaders, come to some mutual agreement.”

“What if they are all scared of them markings?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps we can persuade Master Flamel-”

A boy dragging a priest through the street was shoving people out of the way and making a ruckus.

“Slow down, boy,” said the old cleric.

“But my lord, my sister is dying. She can’t die without the sacraments!”

“God will help us, child.”

“Can I help?” said Crispin, trotting forward.

The cleric looked him up and down. “Oh! Well, perhaps you can clear a path. Where are we off to, boy?”

“Down on Thames Street. Hurry, my lord, by the grace of God!”

Crispin and Jack pushed the passersby out of the way and led them, by the boy’s guidance, to the house in mourning.

Crispin didn’t know why he followed them in, but he was ushered along with some of the other neighbors and they all found themselves squeezed through the door of the humble dwelling and watching the priest administer the bread of Christ to the dying girl.

She was thin and wan, lying on a pallet bed. She could be little more than eight or nine. Breathing shallowly, she could barely take the Host between her lips, but a woman Crispin took to be her mother propped the lolling head on her thigh and with great gentleness brushed back the lank hair from her perspiring forehead. Her body was convulsing, and foam pooled at the corners of her mouth. When her eyes rolled back and her body gave a great heave, she suddenly stilled and the woman sitting above the girl, head cradled in her lap, began to weep.

“She went with Christ,” the priest declared. “She took the Host and renounced Satan. She squeezed my hand to tell me so.” He signed a benediction over her sunken form and then another over the weeping mother and sad-eyed father. The boy who had brought the priest gave the cleric a cup of ale and a coin and thanked him wearily for coming. He did not look well himself, with dark circles around his eyes and a yellow pallor to his skin. His thin fingers clutched at his belly as if it pained him.

The old man drank the proffered ale, bowed to them, and set the beaker aside before he shuffled toward the door, shaking his head.

“Such sadness,” he said as he passed under the lintel. Crispin met him outside, allowing more neighbors to crowd in. They offered bread and jugs of ale to the family. “It was only yesterday that I offered the last sacraments for their little boy.”

“Two deaths in two days?” asked Crispin.

“It is the way of it sometimes,” he said, pocketing his coin. “Tragedy often compounds upon tragedy.”

“The boy in there, he does not look well. What illness is it that has taken their children?”

“I do not know. It is not like any illness I have seen before. Usually, there are signs. But these came on suddenly. Much as the others in the parish.”

“Others?”

“Yes. Yesterday it was an old woman and an old man. And the day before a young boy and his grandfather in another parish. Little signs of illness in the rest of the family, though some were briefly ill. But by my Lady, I know what a plague is and this looks nothing like it. They died very quickly after feeling weak and unwell. But very painfully.”

“Odd. And what of the sick families? Did they succumb?”

“No, they said that they dosed themselves with garlic and thick pottage.”

“Only the very young and the old died? Any in swaddling?”

“No, none, thank the Virgin. I have seen plenty in all my years, Master. Many ways that men die.”

“But this does strike you strangely.”

The priest put up his hood and shivered when a cold wind swept down the lane. “Yes. It has the foul stench of the demon’s work about it. Witchcraft, striking the innocent. There is a preacher that has been going about the city proclaiming loudly of the sin and corruption of the soul. He says that witchcraft and the works of Satan are nigh. Those foul symbols. They should be scratched off when they are discovered.”

“Symbols? Do you think they have to do with these illnesses? How can that be?”

“It is the way of God’s mystery that is beyond our ken, good Master. If I see another of those foul Devil’s marks, I shall eradicate them!”

“I wish you would not.”

“Eh? What? Preserve the signs of Satan himself? Let him get a foothold in our city, smiting the young and the old?”

“I am investigating something, my lord. Something equally heinous. They might help me. They might be a clue to what I need to discover and who I need to bring to justice.”

His eyes scanned Crispin and then fell on Jack. “Are you … are you by any chance that fellow they call the Tracker?”

“Yes, my lord. Crispin Guest.”

“Blessed Mother. I have heard strange tales of you. A onetime traitor who purges himself by serving the people of England. A new Robin Hood. Strange tales indeed.… I’ve also heard that you were the friend of the abbot of Westminster.”

“Yes to all of that. Will you help me? Will you tell me the other places you have seen these symbols?”

“What is it you are after, man?”

“A murderer, perhaps. One of flesh and blood.”

“I see. Then yes, I will help you, of course.”

“Take my apprentice here. His name is Jack Tucker.” Jack bowed. “Jack, see that this kind father makes his way home safely.”

“Yes, Master Crispin. My lord? Lead me.”

Crispin watched them go, thinking. These illnesses did not sound like a plague to him, at least not any plague he had ever heard of. The young and the old had fallen. But no one of middle years. And no infants. And those who fell ill seemed to recover with a quick remedy. As he’d watched that young girl die, his mind had brushed against the notion of poison, but it was a fleeting thought. Foolish. What and who would poison so many different unrelated people? He dismissed it as unreasonable.

A bell chimed from the nearby church, and soon each one sounded in every parish of London, echoing, calling to one another like ravens in the trees. Vespers.

Too many mysteries. His plate was already full with a murdered apprentice and a missing woman. These symbols might have to do with it, but of that he wasn’t certain. He needed to seek out that preacher. If only Crispin were two people!

He suddenly thought of Lenny, the nearly toothless beggar and thief he had used many a time to help in his investigations. A farthing would go a long way with Lenny, but Crispin also recalled that they had had a falling-out. Crispin had been fed up with Lenny’s thieving ways and threatened him with the law … and more.

He reached back and pulled his leather hood up over his head, securing it in place. Standing in the middle of the emptying street, he wondered what to do, which way to go. Back to Flamel’s? To Avelyn? To the Boar’s Tusk for a much-needed drink, bite of food, and warmth? Back home, where he might ponder these strange events?

It was late. Home won out, and he made his way back to the Shambles but paused when he turned the corner at Cheap and saw a horse tied up below his stairs. The owner of the horse might be visiting the tinker, his landlord, Martin Kemp, whose shop lay below his lodgings. But it was a fine horse with an even finer tack, and he did not think such men patronized a lowly tinker on the Shambles.

He girded himself and climbed his stairs. The door was open, which meant his landlord had let the person in. Cautiously he pushed on the door with his foot, and it whined, falling back.

Henry Bolingbroke was there with more fuel in and beside Crispin’s fireplace. His smile was not as broad as it had been before, but he beckoned Crispin in.

“Crispin. By God, you are seldom here! Come in. We have much to talk about.”