Shadow of the Alchemist

12

Feeling unsettled, Crispin left his lodgings. He felt unclean, as if he had just been manipulated. Henry was his father’s son, true enough. He might not be able to tell Crispin what he was doing at the cathedral, but it didn’t mean Crispin wasn’t going to damn well find out what it was.

He needed to clear his head, for much of it was stuffed with the wool of Henry and his deceptions, the much-felt absence of Lancaster, the dead apprentice, the stubborn alchemist … and his strangely beautiful servant.

Flamel had not wanted to divulge if he had such a thing as the Philosopher’s Stone, or what he believed to be the Stone. But Avelyn had no such reservations. She had wanted Crispin to know. Why else would she have brought him to the second alchemist?

And he definitely wanted to talk to this Robert Pickthorn, the preacher. It seemed unbelievable that his fiery speeches and the symbols on London’s streets could possibly be related to the dead apprentice, but he had seen the like before. Recent events had molded him into less of a skeptic than he used to be.

When he looked up from walking, he realized he had been going west, following the Thames. Lantern light glittered off the surging water and darkness descended over the city. He skirted a water carrier straining under the yoke of his burden, a last trip from one of many of London’s cisterns. He did not envy such men, especially in the winter, for it meant perpetually frozen hands and cold water splashing over one’s legs. He hoped they were paid well.

He could have stopped his wandering at Ludgate. He should have, and returned to the Shambles, but he kept going, following the Strand, and then before he knew it, Charing Cross came into view ahead.

He arrived at the crossroads. The stone cross and its rambling structure of arches, covered in snow, served as mean shelter to a young beggar. The boy crouched in its shadow out of the weather, staring at Crispin with large, luminous eyes as he passed. He tossed the boy a silver penny, always thinking of Jack Tucker when he saw such beggars. The boy scrambled out of his shelter, snatched the coin from the snow, and ran off into the gloom.

It wasn’t long before Crispin stood outside the spires of Westminster Abbey. Its gray stone stood dark against the pale sky. He stared up at it a long time until he felt foolish, like some country pilgrim, and walked up the long path to the north entrance. It was marginally warmer on the inside. No wind, but the stone arches, columns, and tile held the cold close to it, like a virgin over her virtue, refusing to let it go.

Men gathered in furtive clutches, conferring, seeking employment, just as they did at St. Paul’s in London. A frail man in a long dark gown approached Crispin. “Clerk, sir? Have you need of an accomplished clerk to pen your documents before the day is out?”

“No, thank you.”

Disappointed, the man bowed and wandered away.

Down the nave was the quire and beyond that the rood. Monks moved silently, lighting candles that had gone out or sweeping the floor with mute brooms. Always, they kept a judicious eye peeled on the men wandering the nave. There were gold candlesticks to protect, after all, gilt stone to keep an eye on. It was not uncommon to catch a man scraping the gilt from a stone runner with his knife blade.

The nave walkers would be ushered out soon enough. The day was over and it was time to think of the morrow and start again.

Crispin walked down the long space, skirted the quire, and came upon the rood screen. Beyond it hung a wooden cross with the figure of Christ, lit by two large candles below it. Crispin gazed at it through the open woodwork of the screen.

He stood a while before he felt the presence of the monk long before the man spoke.

“Master Crispin. It is good to see you. It has almost been a year since last you came.”

He turned but hadn’t needed to. “Brother Eric. God keep you, sir.”

“And you.” They stood silently, both in their own thoughts, when the monk spoke aloud what they were both thinking. “He is sorely missed, is Abbot Nicholas.”

“Indeed. I do miss him greatly.”

“I was told that whenever you returned, I was to take you to Abbot William.”

“Oh? So the archdeacon William Colchester was made abbot? I thought the king favored Brother John Lakyngheth.”

Eric glanced carefully over his shoulder before he answered. “Our treasurer was so favored by his grace the king … but the monks elected our archdeacon instead last year. The pope’s commission only arrived a month ago, but our abbot has been serving faithfully even when his appointment was in doubt.”

Crispin knew that Colchester had spent much of his years in the monastery on foreign travel, going to and from Rome. He was a man of books, so Abbot Nicholas had said. Crispin had met the man only once, years ago. Now he was abbot, taking the place of a much-beloved man.

“Are you still Abbot William’s chaplain, as you so served Abbot Nicholas?”

The monk, a man much the same age as Crispin, though there was gray in the hair at his temples, gave a condoling smile. His hands were tucked warmly in the sleeves of his habit. “Alas. His temperament is different from our former abbot’s. His needs are therefore different. I will escort you, but Brother John Sandon and Brother Thomas Merke will attend you.”

Crispin girded himself, nodded to the monk, and allowed the man to lead him along the familiar path to the abbot’s lodgings.

The early twilit sky bathed the courtyard in tints of blue. The snow-patched grass was brown, but a rabbit in the far corner nibbled tentatively, looking for green shoots that were yet months away from appearing.

Ravens called to one another from the red-tiled rooftops of the abbey precincts, looking like monks themselves in their dark raiment and scowling down at Crispin for trespassing.

Brother Eric suddenly stopped and gestured toward the worn stone path. “You know the rest of the way, I daresay, Master Crispin.”

“Thank you, Brother.” Crispin continued down the path, stepping up to the doorway. He knocked and waited. At length, the door opened, and a young monk with a pale face and a noticeable shadow of a beard peered at him from out of his cowl.

“Yes? Who are you?”

He bowed. “I am Crispin Guest, Brother. Brother Eric instructed me-”

“Oh!” The young monk’s face opened into smiles and he threw back his hood, stepped forward, and grabbed Crispin’s arm. “You are the famed Crispin Guest? Come in, come in.”

Crispin stepped into the comfortable surroundings he knew so well. The warmth of the abbot’s parlor thawed his bones. But amid the familiar was the unaccustomed sound of a harp playing a quiet tune. Abbot Nicholas was not given to the enjoyment of music. Things were different in the abbot’s lodge these days.

“I have heard much about you from the other brothers,” the monk continued. “I am Brother John.” He bowed. “I will let Abbot William know you are here.” He bowed again and left through an arch into the abbot’s private solar.

Crispin waited, listening to the somber notes of the harp, until Brother John returned. “Will you come with me? Can I get you refreshment, sir? Wine?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

He turned the corner and spied a monk sitting at a long, rectangular table. The man wore the vestments of his office, a gown of black wool, but they were also trimmed in dark fur and subtle embroidery. It was not overly resplendent, but neither would an observer question his power and wealth. He was older than Crispin, older even than the duke of Lancaster, but he wore his years well. His fleshy face, round nose, and prominent chin looked more like those of a tradesman, but Crispin knew him to be a man of property.

The room itself looked different. Chairs with crimson cushions and an ambry that Nicholas had not possessed were situated about the room. Likewise a tapestry hung on a far wall depicting Adam and Eve. The abbot sat at a table covered with a fine carpet in maroons and gold thread, and on either side of him, large silver candelabras lit his work with tall beeswax candles. A corona of more candles hung in the middle of the room, lighting the vaulted space in cheerful, golden light. Gratifying to Crispin was a shelf against a wall with a good number of books and scrolls ensconced upon it. He itched to peruse the shelf himself, as he often did when Nicholas was at home, sometimes reading the texts in silence next to the older man, while Nicholas schemed with his seneschal, contriving some hunting festivity on his lands he was planning for the nobility of court.

A fire burned warm and bright in the hearth, and beside it sat the harpist on a stool, plucking a song on the strings of the instrument balanced on his thighs.

Crispin searched for the old greyhound, Horatio, that used to sit at Abbot Nicholas’s feet, but he surmised that the dog was also gone, not long after its master left this earth.

The abbot pored over his ledgers, quill scratching. He continued to write without looking up. Meanwhile, Brother John proffered a folding chair for Crispin, silently bade him sit, and soon brought him a silver goblet filled with floral-scented wine. Crispin tasted it, and the sweet flavors surged in his mouth. Even better than the Lancaster wine Henry had brought. Having little better to do, he drank and watched the harpist play for a while before he turned his attention toward the abbot. The man’s finger slid carefully down the page over notation after notation, before his quill made a sharp check by each one.

“So you are Crispin Guest,” he said, startling Crispin, as he had not looked up or stopped what he was doing. His voice was strong, his mouth set in a stern frown.

Crispin rose slightly as he bowed. “Indeed. May I offer my congratulations at your appointment as abbot of Westminster?”

The abbot’s pale blue eyes rose to him only briefly before turning back to his pages. “You may,” he said in a clipped Essex accent. “Though I was compromissioned last December by my own monks. I suppose these tidings are new to London nearly a year late.”

Crispin longed to ask how Richard took this news but held his tongue. After all, he did not know William de Colchester. He did not think he was in Richard’s pocket since his election went against the royal favor, but after a year, Crispin assumed Richard had made peace with the decision or would very well soon have to.

The abbot laid his quill aside, sprinkled sand on his ledger, blew it off, and closed the books. He rested his hands on the leather cover and studied Crispin from across his table. “You are this Tracker they speak of,” he said without preamble. “My predecessor seemed intrigued by this vocation of yours. But I am well acquainted with your tale. I am not as enamored.”

Crispin tapped his finger against his goblet. “Abbot Nicholas and I were friends. We were friends before my disseisement and we continued our friendship after. Discreetly. If you fear that my being here has endangered you in any way-”

He waved a hand in dismissal. “Be at ease, Master Guest. I shall not toss you out to save myself.”

Crispin raised a brow at that.

“No,” the abbot went on, “not that I wish to be a martyr, either. But I am, perhaps, more cautious than our dear late brother. And so I hope that you will not have too many occasions to visit the abbey. Except to use the church, of course, for the enlightenment of your soul.”

And don’t allow the door to hit you as you make a hasty exit, thought Crispin with a grim smile. He rose and set his goblet aside. “I see. That sounds like a request to leave.”

“Not at all,” said the abbot, making no move to stop him. “Our dear Abbot Litlyngton advised me on you, Master Guest.”

Crispin paused. “Oh?”

“Indeed. He told me to trust you. But also to guide you. I will, of course, do my best. You are, after all, a soul in need of much guidance.”

Crispin scuffed his boot against the floor. “A man is never too old for guidance, especially where his soul is concerned. Educating the mind without educating the heart is no education at all. But I would not let it trouble you, my Lord Abbot. I doubt I shall return for your good counsel.” He bowed and strode toward the door, jaw clenched.

“I would not be so hasty,” said the abbot, rising from his chair at last. The harpist continued to play, the soft strains serving as a counterpoint to the tension between the men. The abbot walked around the table. “One never knows when counsel will be needed and in what form it might take.”

“True. But I am not often to go at my leisure where I am clearly unwelcomed.”

“Did I leave you with that impression?” He looked Crispin up and down. They were of similar height. “Not at all.” Crispin itched to leave, but the abbot suddenly seemed reluctant to allow him to do so. “I asked to see you,” said the abbot, “because Brother Nicholas bequeathed something to you.”

Crispin stiffened. The thought was painful and at the same time warmed a spot in his chest. Abbot William motioned to Brother John, who had entered from a rear door, and whispered something into the monk’s ear. Brother John nodded and trotted off. The abbot didn’t move. His stoic posture spoke of his years as the abbey’s emissary. No doubt there were many such instances where he was forced to wait in the halls of Bruges, Paris, or Rome, and he had learned how to do so with patience and calm.

When Brother John returned, he was carrying a small coffer wrapped in a silky cloth. He handed it to Crispin.

It was heavy. He looked to the abbot, puzzled.

“It is a chess set. Brother Nicholas mentioned spending many a pleasant afternoon with you playing games of strategy. He often spoke of you fondly.” His expression took on one of bewilderment, as if he could not fathom the like.

Crispin looked around the room, searching for that familiar chess set, but did not find it. Apparently, it was now under his arm.

“At any rate,” continued the abbot, “we did not know how to get it to you, but Brother Eric was certain that you would somehow … appear.”

Bollocks. Who was easier to find than Crispin? How would he get clients if they could not find him? Bah! It mattered little in the end. Crispin clutched the box tightly. It was a fine remembrance of the man.

“I thank you, my Lord Abbot. I bid you God’s grace.”

The abbot signed the cross over Crispin, but even as he passed over the threshold, the abbot called out one last time, “Discretion, Master Guest.” As if he needed reminding.

He tucked the heavy box under his arm as he made the long walk home in the falling light. He wondered about the man he had just met, wondered how he would receive the news of Henry’s lords forcing the king to bend to their will. Would he be an ally to Richard or would he prefer to stay clear of politics? In Crispin’s experience, clerics seldom stayed on the fence.

He was back on the Shambles just as the church bells struck Compline. He trudged up the stairs and opened the door, pleased to find Jack there.

“We had another visit from Lord Henry?” asked the boy, gesturing toward the wood and the meat, cooling off to the side of the hearth.

“Yes. I will tell you of that later.” He set the box on the table and unwrapped the cloth from it.

Jack approached the table and looked it over. “What’s that?”

“A bequest from Abbot Nicholas.”

“Oh.” It was part sigh, part exclamation.

Crispin opened the coffer and took out the chessboard. The pieces lay snugly in their own velvet-lined niches. He set up the board. “It’s a chessboard, Jack.”

“It’s beautiful, Master Crispin. Is it worth a lot?”

“Probably.” He examined one ivory pawn before placing it on its square. “But worth far more in memories.”

“I remembered it from the abbot’s lodgings, sir. You played often with Abbot Nicholas, didn’t you?”

“As often as time permitted. It never seemed like enough time.”

The abbot favored the white men, and Crispin automatically set up the board so that black was on his side. He looked up at Jack. “Would you like to learn to play?”

Jack’s eyes brightened. “Oh yes, sir! Indeed, sir!” He scrambled for the stool and pulled it up to the table, sitting and waiting.

“First,” said Crispin. “What did you learn from the priest about those symbols?”

Jack picked up a knight, examining the intricate detail of the carving. “They was all over, sir. He pointed them out on our way back to his church, but I found a few more when returning home. Most were scratched out. What do they mean?”

He shook his head, toying with the king. “I don’t know. We must find that preacher again.”

“I hear of him, that is for certain. He should not be difficult to find. I’ll begin my search again first thing in the morning. But in the meantime…” He placed the knight back on its square. “Can you not tell me of this game, Master?”

He smiled. “And so, each piece has its own rules. Each moves differently, can achieve different ends. But the object of the game is to capture the king. When the king can move no more, when he has nowhere to go, then he is lost.”

Jack gave him a significant look.

“Yes, well. It does have its parallels in our current political circumstances. It is a game of strategy. Of thinking far ahead of the current state of the board. Of being able to adjust your thinking depending on what is presented to you.”

“Blind me, sir. It’s like what we do all the time.”

“Indeed. As I said, it’s a fine metaphor for the games of court and politics. But unlike politics, the outcome can sometimes be predicted. Even directed.”

Crispin grasped his pawn and moved it two squares forward, but just as he placed it on the square, a knock sounded on the door.

They both straightened, hands on their knife hilts. At a signal from Crispin, Jack went to the door and opened it.

Avelyn stood there, hands behind her back, rocking from side to side. When she spied Crispin, her smile widened impossibly.

She rushed past Jack, nearly toppling him. “Oi! Watch it!”

She stopped right in front of Crispin, looking up at him with her chin high. It bared her throat, and a long, lovely throat it is, he mused, though it was slightly marred by his love bites. His eyes could not help but travel downward to the shadow of her bosom, where he remembered proffering a few more gentle nibbles.

They looked at each other for a while before Jack loudly let out a gust of exasperation. “I’ll be outside, I reckon,” he grumbled, grabbing his cloak, and he slammed the door behind him.

Crispin didn’t even wait for the last click of the lock. His hands reached up and grasped her shoulders and slid up to her neck. He ran his fingers over her hair, but it was tightly braided again into one long plait. “I do prefer your hair loose,” he said softly.

She moved her face into his hand, nuzzling. She lifted her arms, running her hands up his chest until she reached his neck and tugged him down. He bent obligingly and their lips touched. He opened his mouth over hers, clutched her small frame, and lifted her off the floor. Her feet dangled just below his knees. She weighed nothing at all.

Their tongues tangled slowly, slick and wet, and one hand traveled down her back, lower, until he was able to cup one arsecheek and squeeze it.

They kissed for a long time, until he drew his mouth away mere inches from hers. “Have you come with a message from your master?” he asked breathlessly, thinking that he should at least ask the question. Her mistress was, after all, still in peril.

But he wasn’t far enough away for her to see his lips and he quickly forgot the question and molded his mouth to hers again. They kissed another few moments before she tore away and landed on her feet. Swallowing hard, he shook his head to clear it. “Avelyn?” He didn’t even realize he was still reaching for her when she pushed him back. With determination she shook her head and then started to gesture.

“You know I can’t understand.” He slipped his hands around her petite waist and pulled. When she was flush against him, his hands cupped her jaw and he bent over and found her mouth again. She kissed back, but with far less enthusiasm and pushed him away again.

He looked down at her in puzzlement and she continued to sign.

“Clearly you are trying to tell me something.” He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. “You are right, of course. Something must be done about Madam Flamel.” What did he know of abductions? For the most part, he knew of instances where knights were captured on the battlefield and they would be kept until a ransom was paid. They lived at ease, for the most part, for courtesy demanded they be treated with care, only they were unable to leave the precincts of whatever castle or manor house kept them. Even Richard Lionheart was kept for years until his brother, Prince John, collected enough ransom in taxes to set him free.

And on the streets of London, a woman might be captured by her rival’s family until her own family agreed to marry her off to the abductor’s son. Such things were not entirely legal but were well-known.

But an abduction for a ransom alone, and one involving murder, was not oft heard of. Would she be safe? Would the abductor exercise patience? God’s blood! He had been careless and selfish, getting distracted by the likes of Henry and this seductress, who was even now trying desperately to tell him something. He had dismissed her in favor of asking her master the questions he needed to ask, but he had been a fool.

“Avelyn,” he said, sobered, “tell me. Try.”

She looked around the darkening room when her gaze landed on the chess set. She grabbed a knight and showed it to him. He shrugged, taking it from her hand.

With a breath of vexation, she gestured to the corners of the room. But still he did not know her meaning. She ran to the bucket, dipped in her hand, and wrote with her wet finger on the wall. She made one of those symbols he had seen on the streets of London.

He hurried over to her. “Do you know what they mean?”

She gave a tentative nod. Crispin grabbed his cloak, and when he opened the door, he beckoned a sleepy Jack to come along.