Shadow of the Alchemist

13

The muddied snow was tinged blue in the dark. People had retreated to their homes, as they were obligated to do. The curfew was in place and shutters were closed and locked. Horses were stabled and suppers consumed.

And it was cold. Night crept in like a thief in the house, and Crispin, Jack, and Avelyn made their careful way over the streets, keeping an eye skinned for a slippery patch of ice as well as for the Watch.

With her hand clutched around the hem of his cloak, she pulled Crispin to a corner and showed him the symbol. “Yes, I see it, but I don’t know what it means. Master Bartholomew, the other alchemist, seemed afraid of them.”

She nodded but kept pointing to it.

He looked at Jack for help. Jack tapped her shoulder, and keeping his voice low, he enunciated, “HE DON’T KNOW WHAT IT MEANS.”

Scowling at him, she winced away from Jack’s touch.

“We must return to Flamel,” said Crispin. It was a long night ahead for all of them, he decided. They needed to decipher once and for all what these symbols might mean.

They hurried as the darkness enveloped them. Only a slice of moon lit their way now. Occasional sparks swirled up from a chimney but quickly died in the cold and gloom. The smell of cooking fires on the wind took them all the way to Fleet Ditch, and Avelyn led the way directly into the alchemist’s shop.

Instead of worrying at a rosary or pacing the floor, the alchemist was busy at his crucibles. A leather-bound book lay open to the side, and on its parchment pages were many of the same symbols Crispin had seen all over London. More symbols, written in chalk, decorated the alchemist’s table, floor, and walls, connected by long straight lines. Strange smells issued from his bubbling retorts, and the fire beneath each beaker lit the man’s determined face with dancing shadows. In fact, more shadows flickered wildly against a far wall in shapes that Crispin dared not look at.

Directly in front of the alchemist was a shallow basin filled with dark water that did not move. He appeared to be staring into it with great concentration, leaning farther and farther toward its unnatural plane.

And above it all came the creak and groan of the metal planets circling endlessly, fire rippling over their brass faces.

Crispin drew back, alarmed. This was sorcery!

“Master Flamel! What are you doing?”

The alchemist startled and jerked up. “Maître Guest!” He cast his glance across his work. “I am doing what I can, what I must, in order to find my dear wife. Alchemy is much more than using the simple elements of the earth.”

“It looks very much like witchcraft to me.”

Flamel scowled. “Oh? And you are very much acquainted with witchcraft, are you?” He raised his hand before Crispin could speak. “As acquainted as you are with alchemy, no doubt. I assure you, Maître, it is not sorcery or witchcraft! It has been a full day and I have received no more messages and no one has ever approached the statue of Saint Paul.”

“We must put our heads together and think on it, Master Flamel. Not delve into these … dubious methods.” He interrupted what were to be the alchemist’s indignant protests. “No more distractions. No more detours.” He sat and settled beside the alchemist. “There are symbols etched on the walls of the city,” Crispin explained. He pointed to the chalked sigils on the table. “And they look like these. What do they mean? A preacher called them the work of the Devil, for indeed, they are mysterious and strange.” He eyed Flamel’s glyphs with suspicion. “But he also seemed to know about your dead apprentice, and he looked directly at me when he said it, thinking that I was an alchemist. I have reason to believe they are connected with these crimes, and I want you, Master Flamel, to come with us.”

“Now? It is the fall of night and my work-”

“Night is better. We will go unnoticed. Fetch a lantern.”

Avelyn fixed a small candle in a conical metal lantern and held it aloft by its ring.

“We must be cautious of the Watch,” he told them.

Quietly, they filtered out of the shop. Under the small glow of Avelyn’s lantern, they moved quickly through the street. She showed the alchemist the signs and he made a small gasp. “Oh! Alchemical symbols.”

“If these are signs an alchemist would recognize, then why would an alchemist fear them?”

“We do not leave our marks for just anyone to see them. They are easily misconstrued as a sorcerer’s writings.” He narrowed his eyes at Crispin.

“Then is it safe to say that the person who made these marks is an alchemist?”

“That very well may be true,” Flamel said reluctantly. “On the other hand, these symbols mean nothing. They are random, as if merely using the symbols, like a child who makes letters but cannot read them.”

“Then what you are saying is that this miscreant may not be an alchemist?”

Flamel shrugged. “They are … very random.”

Crispin pointed to the strange glyphs. “There is Hebrew there. Perhaps a Jew wrote this.”

Flamel gave Crispin a measuring gaze. “How did you know it is Hebrew?”

“Another investigation from some years ago.”

He nodded. “As it happens, I do have an acquaintance with the language of the Old Testament. Alchemy has close ties to the Jewish scriptures and to their magical writings, as well as numerology. Are you familiar with the Kabbalah?”

A shiver passed up his spine. “Intimately.”

“Well … the Hebrew glyphs are used along with the sigils found in the Kabbalah for our special writings on alchemy. Alchemists have used this language since ancient times, even before Christianity. They are considered suspicious by the Church, and so we must be cautious … but why are they here? What does this have to do with Perenelle?”

“Your servant seems to think they are important.”

He looked at Avelyn and she looked back at her master earnestly. “Take us to the next one,” he told her.

By lantern light, they moved deeper into London.

The four of them spent hours traipsing through the icy lanes. On two occasions they nearly ran into the Watch, but Crispin carefully directed them down what looked like a dead end but what he knew better to be merely a narrow close.

Crispin watched the old alchemist squint at the symbols, whether scratched out or not, but each time the man shook his head. They were random, he told him. They made no sense and offered no further clues. Crispin was beginning to think that someone was playing an elaborate prank. But why would they take the time?

With Flamel weary and distracted, Crispin called a halt to their investigation and they all returned to the alchemist’s shop in the early hours of the morning.

It was still dark when they turned the corner and the little candle in Avelyn’s lantern was nearly spent, but she suddenly sprinted for the door without them, leaving them alone in the dense gloom.

“Sarding woman,” grunted Jack.

Crispin was about to mouth the same sentiments when he saw it. Her lantern’s light glinted off the dagger stuck into the wood, and Crispin ran forward. He heard Jack’s steps behind him and they both stopped in front of the door.

The dagger held a parchment fragment in place. Crispin grasped the dagger just as Flamel jogged forward, huffing and wheezing. “What is it? What is it? My Perenelle!”

“Hush, man. Do you wish to wake the whole parish?” As it was, Crispin spied a shutter across the way open and a curious shadow move across the candlelight within.

Crispin quickly pulled out the dagger, grabbed the note, and ushered the others inside.

He crossed to the fire beside Avelyn, who stoked it roughly with an iron poker. They crowded round him. In Latin again. He translated it aloud:

“‘You shall never see her return unless you play fairly. You had best begin at the beginning.’”

Flamel tore the cap from his head and heaved it to the floor. “What are we to do? What is it he is doing to us, to her!”

“Calm yourself, Master Flamel. This is a good sign. It proves he is still interested, still in the game.”

“It is not a game!” he insisted. Spittle flecked his beard.

“It is to him. What does he mean by ‘begin at the beginning’?”

Jack shrugged. “Sunrise? Matins? Should we be at a church?”

“At St. Paul’s,” offered the alchemist. “Should I leave the ransom there again?”

“He was more straightforward before about placing the ransom where and when. Why not simply pick another place and tell us so? What has changed?”

“He saw us trying to deceive him,” said Jack.

Crispin nodded. “He must be watching us as much as we are watching for him.” And he suddenly remembered the men in the shadows following him and Jack. Should he see them again, he would leave little left for subtlety.

“So what does it mean, sir?”

“Jack, I wish I knew.”

Exhausted, Flamel moved to a chair before the hearth. Crispin followed suit, the momentary excitement from the discovery of the new parchment fading, making him feel how tired he was. He edged his chair away from the chalked symbols and settled. No one spoke. Flamel stared into the flames. Crispin clutched the parchment and followed his example, hoping to find enlightenment within the leaping fire, while Avelyn scrambled about, seemingly as energetic as ever, heating wine and serving them hunks of bread and cheese on a wooden platter.

Crispin ate absently, just to fill the hollowness in his belly. The wine warmed him and the fire thawed his cold feet. He picked up the parchment from time to time, just to feel that it was real. After their night of scrambling after these alchemical symbols, Crispin wondered for the hundredth time if the abductor was referring to those signs. With a shake of his head, he realized he was becoming more and more obsessed with the symbols. They couldn’t be random, as Flamel suggested. They had to mean something. “It’s as if he’s playing some sort of game with us,” he murmured.

Crispin folded his arms over his chest. But then again, why did they have to mean anything at all? Flamel said as much, said that the symbols meant nothing. Was he relying too much on the ramblings of this preacher, whom neither he nor Jack had been able to confront?

“I still do not see how you think these things have truck with my Perenelle?” The alchemist’s sudden words in the relative peace and calm jarred Crispin’s senses.

Crispin rubbed his chin. The stubble was as pronounced as when he woke in the morning. But of course, it was nearly morning again. He realized if he wished for truth from Flamel, it was time to share some of his own. “On the day we left the ransom,” he said quietly, “the earl of Derby was there. He seemed to know of the exchange. Do you know Henry Bolingbroke?”

Flamel’s eyes were haunted, but there was no deception there. Only bewilderment. “No. I do not know this Henry Bolingbroke. Why did you not say anything of this before?”

Crispin did not look at Jack, but he felt the boy stir, sit up taller. “He is the duke of Lancaster’s son. And … I am acquainted with him and his family.”

Flamel staggered to his feet, his horn beaker falling to the floor in a splash of wine across the hearth. “Lancaster,” he breathed.

“Master Flamel?”

“These names,” he said. The effort it took to control his outburst was written on his face in strained lines and pronounced veins at his temples. Slowly he sat again, stroking his gown in a futile gesture of calm and looking for his wine. Avelyn fetched the cup from the floor and filled it again. She pressed it into his hand. “I … get them confused sometimes. There are similar lords in the court of France.”

Crispin drank a dose of wine while studying the man over the rim of his cup. He set the wine aside and licked his lips. “Can you tell me, then, of the Philosopher’s Stone? May I see it?”

The alchemist froze. Only his eyes moved, darting from here to there, terrified. Slowly he recovered, even tried to chuckle. “Silly. You misunderstand. The Stone is not a real object, Maître Guest. It is the alchemist’s quest to attain purity of the soul.”

Crispin cocked a brow. “Is it? And have you found it? Purity of soul, that is?”

“It is an endless search. A lifetime’s worth.”

Crispin set the parchment down and rose. He sauntered toward him and looked down at the shorter man with his thumbs fitted in his belt. “Harken to me, sir. There is no use in denying it. I know you have it, or think you do. Show it to me. Or I shall walk out that door.”

Flamel stammered and tried to look away, but in the end he raised his face to Crispin with a mixture of fear and a good dose of amazement. “How … how did you know?”

Crispin threw back his shoulders with a haughty tilt. “I am the Tracker, sir. I am paid to discover the truth.”

The man inhaled a shaky breath and slowly got to his feet. “Very well. You have earned the right to see it.”

Jack canted forward, looking at Crispin with wonderment.

Flamel shuffled to that same ambry that held the broach. But as his hand slid along the side, another hidden drawer popped open. Shadows surrounded him and Crispin could not see clearly what he was doing, but he brought forth a small glass phial and held it gingerly, walking with care when he returned to the fire. He held it up. The phial was no more than two fingers wide and was made of crystal or clear glass, like a reliquary. Inside was what looked like another piece of amber glass, but as Crispin drew forward and peered more carefully, he saw that the amber lozenge was rough on one side, like something hewn from a rock, but the rest was like a crystal: clear, smooth, and unblemished. It was only the size of a small parsnip and shaped very like one, too.

“This,” said Flamel with a hint of awe in his voice, “is the Philosopher’s Stone. I was able to re-create it from my grandfather’s notes and from the papers given to me by an old Jew I met once in the Holy Land.” He turned it and the firelight caught its facets, shooting bright pinpricks of light outward to dazzle Crispin’s eyes. The man smiled, gazing at it. “From this small stone, I have been able to transmute simple metals into gold. Mere playthings.”

Crispin suddenly remembered the odd collection of gold objects with which Flamel had paid his fee, objects that still sat in his scrip.

No, this is not possible. “You … made this?” His hand came near it, whether to touch the phial or to snatch it, he did not know.

But Flamel pulled it away, his fingers covering the small object. “I did. Years ago. And it works. It is the crowning achievement of my life.”

“And the Elixir? Have you … have you made that?”

He raised the phial again, unable to look away from it, turning it, letting the firelight play off its surface, first the rough side and then the faceted side. “No. Not yet. My permutations have been unsuccessful. My wife and I were close to achieving it. Very close.” His fingers closed over the phial, and he lowered his hand, hiding the Stone from view in the drapery of his gown. “You see, Maître,” he said quietly, as quietly as the soft crackle of the flames or the caress of the wind against the shutter, “alchemy is more than science, more than the transmuting of one element into another. It is Humanity itself, the spiritual progress that transforms us. I was not far wrong when I spoke of it as a metaphorical quest. For it is that and more. When you create, when you use such Prima Materia, you begin to understand the intricacies of Life itself. How can you not?” His face darkened. “But it is not a plaything for the greedy, a toy for the bored nobleman. Instead, it is a sacred duty, a keen responsibility for the initiated, and I take that responsibility very seriously. I would never share this knowledge with just anyone. Oh no. And surely you, Maître Guest, covet your knowledge the same. For I cannot imagine that you would share your art with one who was not a worthy apprentice.”

Jack squared his shoulders and raised his spotted chin. Crispin gave him a glance and a soft smile. “I may be a skeptic as to the veracity of your claims about the Stone itself, Master Flamel, but I can understand your sentiments as concerns your work.” He bowed. “Can you tell me, then, who is it that wants this Stone? Surely you must have an inkling.” Crispin’s gray eyes met the pale blue of the alchemist’s.

“I have many acolytes, Maître, as you might have surmised. But many enemies as well. Greedy men, men with no fortitude, no scruples, who would use the power of this Stone for selfish ends. It is not to be trifled with. So many vile men I cannot count them all, have tried to wrest this Stone for themselves. But they will not have it!”

“Is that why you put the false ransom in the bag?”

“Yes, yes. I knew it would buy us time, for he would think it was the Philosopher’s Stone. You see, no one knows what it truly looks like. No one … but the four of us here … and my wife.” His eyes tracked from face to startled face. Only Avelyn showed no signs of amazement at all.

“And if what you say is true concerning these signs and sigils,” the alchemist went on, “then my wife’s abductor must be an alchemist himself … or he is using an alchemist for his ends. In which case, more than my wife will be in danger. You must solve this, Maître. You must get my Perenelle back in all haste. We must not let him get the Stone.”

Crispin and Jack made it home before the market bells rang for the start of the business day. Wearily, they stumbled into the room. Jack sank onto the stool. He yawned loudly. “I’m bone weary, Master. I can’t think no more.”

“You can’t think anymore,” Crispin corrected absently. “And neither can I.” But thoughts of the Stone played in his mind like a minstrel’s song, tumbling over and over again in an endless refrain in his thoughts. He dug into his scrip and pulled out his money pouch. He untied the string and poured its contents onto the table beside the chessboard. Out spun silver coins of various sizes, the image of the king imprinted upon them. But also there were the gold key, spoon, and nail. He picked them up, having forgotten all about them, and examined each of them carefully.

He could understand someone wishing to have a gold key or even a gold spoon, but a golden nail? What would be the purpose?

He turned the nail in his hand, startled when Tucker lit the candle on the table, giving him more light.

Jack tossed the lit straw into the fire and sat back down. “What are these, Master?”

“Payment.” He did nothing as Jack took up each one, turned them in his hands, and then set them down again.

“Strange. Who gave them to you?”

“Nicholas Flamel.” They exchanged glances.

“You don’t mean to say…”

“These could have been made out of gold in the first place, Jack. Who’s to say they were not? The man has that broach, after all. It is likely that the King of France or some other eccentric French noble had them made and gave these to him.”

“But Master! Who would have cause to make this nail? In gold? It must be that Stone he has. It does work! What a man could do with that!”

“And for that he would kill. And steal a man’s wife.”

Jack’s expression suddenly turned hard. “Even if he were already a rich and noble lord?”

Crispin felt sick. How many times could a man be betrayed? How many times could he allow his heart to be so used?

“You’re thinking of Henry.”

Jack jumped from his stool. “Of course I’m thinking of Lord Henry! But you’re too stubborn to consider him.”

Crispin slammed his hand to the table. “Watch it, Tucker.”

“No. It’s my task to be your conscience, sir. For if you will not listen to the wisdom inside you, it is up to me to point it out. You must go to Lord Henry and ask him straightaway.”

“Don’t you think I already have? And do you think for one moment he would tell me the truth?”

He hadn’t wanted to say it, to think it. He was too afraid that it was true, that Henry had lied and that Crispin had believed that lie. Because he had wanted to.

Crispin scrubbed his face. “I’m too tired to think. Let us get at least a few hours of sleep before we begin again. You have a preacher to find, after all.”

Jack slumped. He nodded. The boy was tired, too. And just as the two of them meandered to their separate corners, there was a knock at the door.

They froze, hands on hilts. Jack went first and opened the door a fraction.

“Is this the home of Crispin Guest? That Tracker fellow?”

The voice was familiar, and Crispin moved Jack aside and opened the door. It was the priest he had met on the street the day before. “My lord?” he said, stepping aside to let him in.

The priest stepped over the threshold and looked around the small room. “I must say, I expected something … more.”

“Yes, well. What can I do for you, Father?”

“I should have introduced myself before. I am Father Edmund from St. Aelred’s church. We talked of the deaths yesterday.…”

“I remember you, Father. Please, sit.” The old priest lowered himself to the chair. “Jack, bring wine for this good priest.”

The priest didn’t argue as Jack scrambled. He grabbed a bowl and wiped its rim with his sleeve and then went to the back window and stopped short, marveling at the jug left by Derby. He shook himself loose and quickly uncorked the wooden stopper and poured.

While Jack brought the wine, Crispin poked the fire and got it going. “It is late, Father Edmund. What brings you to the Shambles?”

“Late? Why, it’s early.” He sipped the wine and his brows rose in surprise at the fine taste.

Crispin chuckled tiredly. “So it is. It only seems late to me.”

Father Edmund set the bowl aside. “My mind has been capering on those deaths, Master Guest. I cannot seem to forget them. I have learned from my fellow priests of many more. Twenty-five so far.”

“Oh? Tell me.”

“So many more than I could ever have imagined. Blessed Virgin. I prayed on it and the Divine presence seemed to hint to me that this was no mere plague.”

“Father…” His brief suspicion suddenly rose up again. “Have you any reason to believe that they might have been … poisoned?”

“Poisoned? To what end? Why should a weaver, a cordwainer, a cobbler, and any number of other craftsmen’s children have been poisoned?”

“It is merely a notion I had in passing, my lord. I have no basis for this theory.”

“Evil witchcraft, more like, targeting the children for some offense. I would pay you to find the source, Master Guest, but I am but a humble priest.”

Crispin eyed his fur-trimmed gown and his rings without comment. “As it happens, I would happily investigate for you on my own. As a concerned citizen.”

“Is it witchcraft, then? How can I help our flock?”

“I know nothing of witchcraft, but something of poisons.”

“Do you persist in this notion, then, of poison?”

“It is not any stranger a notion than witchcraft, is it, Father?”

He shrugged and becrossed himself again.

“Perhaps you could tell me the names and streets that are mourning a loss,” said Crispin. He turned to Jack, who looked back at him with puzzlement before he figured out what Crispin wanted and scrambled to the coffer. The boy opened it and pulled out parchment, quill, and ink. He set them on the table, and when he saw that Crispin had no intention of taking them up, he set them up himself by smoothing out the parchment and uncorking the ink from its clay pot. He dipped the quill in, and with tongue set firmly between his lips, he waited.

The old priest recited names and the streets where the families could be found. Crispin listened to the litany and scrubbed at his eyes. God’s blood, but he was weary. Madam Perenelle’s fate was dire, but these random citizens had all been targeted with death. Something had to be done. But he and Jack needed rest.

Once the priest was finished, Jack stoppered the ink and set the quill aside, glancing over the tiny scrawl of his writing.

“Father Edmund,” said Crispin, “I thank you for coming and assigning me this task. But you must excuse me and my apprentice. We were up the whole of the night on another grim matter. We need a little sleep.”

“Not me, Master. I’ve got a second wind, as it were. Let me go in search of … er…” He looked at the priest eyeing him suspiciously. “You know who,” he said cryptically to Crispin.

Yes, the preacher Robert Pickthorn. The man needed to be found. “Good Father, have you seen this lay preacher, this Robert Pickthorn, again? We would very much like to speak with him.”

“Do you? I daresay he could tell you a kettle full of the sin and vile corruption that permeates the city.”

“Do you know where he is staying? With the bishop or some other worthy?”

“Dear me, no. I know nothing of him. But he is a fiery speaker, so they say.”

“So I have seen.” He turned to the boy. “Go on, Jack. I need at least a few hours’ rest. Come fetch me when you’ve found anything of this Pickthorn.”

Jack nodded, bowed to the priest, and fled out the door.

Father Edmund rose. “Then I shall leave you as well. It seems your hands are full at the moment. I pray that you have the strength to do all you must, Master Guest. I shall light a candle for you.”

Crispin took a coin from the table and pressed it into the priest’s hands, even as he scooped up the others and the golden objects and dropped them again into his pouch. “Do that, my lord. I could use all the help I can get.”

He slept for several hours, waking only when the bells tolled for Sext. Groggily, he sat up and rubbed his eyes. He rinsed his mouth with the leftover wine from the priest’s bowl, brushed and straightened his cotehardie, and left his lodgings.

With Jack’s parchment in his hand, he made his way to Threeneedle Street. He asked some shopkeepers which house it was and was soon led to a weaver’s. When he knocked, a maiden let him in.

“Is this the house in mourning?” he asked of the young woman. The walls had been hung with cloth, and shelves were stocked with bolts of varied weaves and colors.

“Aye, sir,” she said sadly. “My younger brother. Three days ago.”

A baby cried in the next room, a lusty, healthy cry.

She looked in that direction, raising her chin. “My other brother.”

“Has anyone else taken sick?” Her wary expression gave him pause. “My apologies, damosel. I don’t ask out of prurient interest. I am Crispin Guest. You may have heard of me. I am called the Tracker.”

Her eyes widened. “I shall fetch my father.”

She departed through the other door, and he was uncertain as to whether this was a good sign or not. Presently a man emerged. His tunic was covered in bits of varied-colored threads cast off during his time at the loom. “My daughter said you were that Tracker man we hear tell about. Is this true?”

He bowed. “It is, good Master. Can you tell me about your son’s illness?”

“Are you investigating that? Don’t waste your time. It was a sickness that took my boy. If it were anything but God’s will, I’d have called in the sheriffs.”

“It is merely my own fancy that leads me here. And the priest Father Edmund. And so. Can you tell me of his illness?”

The man shook his head and becrossed himself. “It was sudden-like. Over before it began. He felt unwell, too sick to work. A bad stomach. He was a good lad, God preserve him, not like to shirk, even though he had always been a slight lad. He got worse, over a span of two days. And then it was done.”

“Did anyone else feel unwell?”

“Well, Mary, here,” he said, motioning toward his daughter. “Headache and bellyache. But she felt better after the cure. But no one else.”

“Cure?”

“Mother said it would settle my belly,” she said. “Drank raw eggs and chewed garlic.”

Crispin winced. “I see. A good cure, then.” He touched her chin to look at her face. She still looked listless but did not seem worse for wear. He let her go. “I am heartily sorry for your loss. I pray that all will be well.”

“God’s blessings on you, sir.”

He left a coin with them for their loss, looking back at the humble shop as they closed the door. Nothing unusual about it. And as he visited three more homes, he heard much the same. The elderly had died, grandfathers and grandmothers. The youngest ones were also afflicted, especially the weakest. Yet the babes in swaddling or toddlers went unaffected. Nor did anyone else in the household feel ill or aggrieved, except by their great loss.

Something was tapping at the back of his mind, and the notion emerged once again that it sounded to him like a poisoning. But why on earth target those humble people? None of them were important, they did not know one another, and they did no harm. They had nothing in common except as hardworking citizens. What good would it do to kill the children of a weaver, a corn merchant, or a chandler? Or any number of these others on his list that he had not yet talked to?

He walked slowly through the streets, ignoring those around him to immerse himself in his thoughts, or, as he had told Jack, to walk through the facts.

The youngsters or elderly. As long as they were the weakest. But by far, most were children.

He sat on a stone step that led to the cistern near Cornhill. Christ, but he was tired. He ran his hand through his hair under his hood and leaned back against a post. Absently, he watched a boy trying to lift his coneys away from the yapping of a dog at his heels. Two nuns walked side by side, the wet hems of their brown habits rippling over patchy snow. Water carriers hurried up and down the steps, giving Crispin a sneer as they skirted past him, for Crispin sat in their way. Heavy yokes burdened their shoulders, each with a heavy water skin hanging from either end. Boys like these were paid to quickly fill their buckets from the cisterns throughout the city, for the water of the Thames was not fit to drink, with its privies and butchering stalls along its banks.

An old man was moving a hog through the streets and he beat it as the pig stopped near a turnip seller’s cart and began rooting through it. An argument ensued between the pig man and the turnip dealer, and Crispin watched dispassionately, wondering idly if it would come to blows.

He had rested enough and was ready to depart until he saw a cluster of small children running up to the cistern. Each took a drink from the ladle that was there and then let it fall again into the font. One of the children, the smallest, wasn’t running as fast as the others and had to stop to catch his breath before he hurried to keep up. He did not look well.

A notion struck Crispin. A foul, diabolical notion. He looked back at the water carriers trudging to their duties. Others, maids and housewives, also moved under the burden of heavy buckets or skins swollen with chilled water from the cistern.

No.

Crispin leapt to his feet and ran back the way he had come, knocked on the doors of the grieving houses he had only just visited to ask one question: Which cistern did they use to get their water?

Each section of London had its own cistern. There was the Standard down Cheap, where Crispin got his water, and the Mercery near the hospital of St. Thomas of Acon, and the Tun up Cornhill way, and numerous other smaller cisterns and conduits. Some of the wealthier patrons even had running water through pipes, a rare innovation stolen from the ancient Romans, as Crispin had seen in his younger days in Bath and in Lancaster’s castles.

But the three families afflicted used the water from the Tun. Crispin looked down at the parchment in his hand. Unmindful of the stares, he raced down the lane in search of the others.

His suspicions were confirmed. All the families with losses had partaken of the cistern at the Tun. And only those who most frequently drank of the water-the youngsters and a few elderly-took sick and died. Babes in swaddling and toddlers did not, for they suckled at their mother’s breasts. And the rest of the family consumed ale.

As diabolical as it seemed, someone had poisoned the cistern.