Shadow of the Alchemist

21

It wasn’t long before he realized he was heading toward Newgate Market and then up the steps to the prison itself.

He was yanked around until he saw the sheriffs’ serjeants in the firelight of their brazier.

“Why, look who’s here, Wendell,” said Tom. “It’s Crispin Guest. The man with the impertinent mouth. Just so there won’t be any backtalk…” He swung. Crispin’s head snapped back and his mouth was suddenly flooded with the steely taste of blood. He spat it out on Tom’s boot.

Tom glared, but the serjeants holding on to Crispin whipped him around. “There’ll be plenty of time to settle this later,” one guard said gruffly before pushing Crispin up the stairs.

Crispin stumbled and tried to save his chin from barking on the stone step by throwing his tied hands forward. He managed to barely avoid it before they grabbed his arm hard and yanked him upward.

One shoulder scraped along the wall as they ascended the spiral stair and he was marched past the empty alcove where the clerk usually sat and into the warm sheriffs’ parlor … where they shoved him hard and he fell, knees first, onto the floor before the crackling hearth.

Both sheriffs stood on either side of the fireplace and looked down at him, each encased in their cloaks. The light shifted on their faces, but they wore unmistakable twin scowls.

“Guest, you are a nuisance and a traitor, and I wish to God I had nothing more to do with you,” said Sheriff Venour.

Sheriff Fastolf lifted his booted foot and shoved Crispin in the shoulder, pushing his face to the floor despite Crispin’s trying to prevent it with his bound hands. “What were you supposed to do, eh, Guest?” Fastolf ground out. “What did we tell you to do at the outset? You were supposed to find out who killed that apprentice! Nothing more, nothing less. And now it’s poisoned cisterns and sneaking abroad at night where you clearly do not belong!”

“I oft go abroad at night, my lords. How else am I to track a murderer?” His mouth was still bloody and he spat again, this time away from the sheriff’s boots.

“And you expect us to believe that?” He crouched down and looked Crispin in the face. “I want you off this task, Guest. I want you to forget it. Leave this for the coroner’s jury to solve.” He jabbed a finger into Crispin’s face. “And I especially want you to stay away from the cisterns. It’s none of your concern. You’re meddling again. We want you to stop.”

“But my lord, the coroner’s jury will not be able to-”

Fastolf raised his head and nodded to the serjeant. A boot to Crispin’s gut silenced his protest. He gasped and rolled to the floor, trying to breathe.

“What was that, Guest? Were you trying to infer that you know better than we do?” He put a hand to his ear. “I don’t believe I heard you aright.”

Crispin took in a shaky breath and pushed himself onto his knees. He licked his bloody lips and glowered up at the sheriff. “Why now, Lord Sheriff? For days I tracked this murderer. You told me to do so. And now you bring me here to tell me to stop my work? You know how my curiosity is piqued when I am told to back away.”

The sheriff stole a glance at Venour, who had a wild look in his eye. It was he who nodded sharply to the serjeant this time. Crispin girded himself, and when the boot came again, he grabbed it with his bound hands and twisted as he shoved. The guard gave a cry and flew backward. Before he landed, the other serjeant grabbed Crispin by his hood and slammed his head into the fat table leg.

Crispin saw stars burst behind his lids and hunched forward, hanging his head below his shoulders. Dizzy, he blinked several times and shook his head. “That would be a ‘no’ to answering my query.”

“Guest,” said Venour, exasperated, “you must truly have a death wish. As the king’s emissaries to keep the peace, I am ordering you to cease this investigation. His Majesty’s courtiers keep a sharp eye on our doings and have expressed their displeasure at your meddling.”

I noticed. But who expressed it … and for what, exactly? They looked frightened, the both of them. Was it someone the sheriffs were protecting? They emphasized that there were courtiers watching their doings. Did this go that high? Higher? They were the king’s emissaries, after all. Certainly the scope of the riddles all over town would seem to suggest it, for how could one man have accomplished it all?

But then it begged the question Why? Why in the world would King Richard need the Philosopher’s Stone? If he believed all that was said of it, he might certainly want the gold. But he was a very devout man, and alchemy smacked of sorcery. Would he pursue such a thing? And if it were he, why abduct Perenelle? Would it not be more expeditious to steal the alchemist himself and force him to explain whatever the Stone was supposed to do?

He licked his swollen lips again. No. He couldn’t imagine it. Not Richard. But his ministers, on the other hand … They had meddled before. It was Suffolk who wanted the relic Crispin had encountered only last year, but Crispin had been unable to prove Suffolk’s complicity. Crispin would like it to be him. He’d like to corner Suffolk in some alleyway and show him how precisely he had injured Crispin and those he cared about.

But what of the poisoning of the cistern? The sheriffs had reluctantly obliged in protecting the water sources for London, but they seemed disinclined to continue it. Were they being told to back away? And again, by whom? Capturing the Philosopher’s Stone was one thing, but poisoning London’s water supply was quite another. One had nothing to do with the other. Except that the sheriffs couldn’t help but speak of the two in one breath, and that was troubling.

A madman, perhaps, would poison the water, but it seemed more likely it was a French plot that they so recently mocked.

Who at the English court would protect a French plot?

“He is silenced at last. Perhaps that last stroke addled his brain.” Sheriff Venour bent over to look at Crispin. “Will you behave, Guest? Or will my serjeants need to further convince you?”

“No, my lords. I am thoroughly convinced. There is just one thing.”

Venour straightened and threw his head back impatiently. “Yes?”

“What concerns you dearest? The dead apprentice … or the poisoned water?”

Venour took a step back and gave a rushed look of terror at his companion. “Get him out of here,” he said to the guards. “And see that you finish the lesson before releasing him.”

Even though his lodgings were just down the street, it took a long time for Crispin to reach them. With the dark, it was twice as hard to navigate even a few yards. And he had to stop periodically and lean against a wall. Dizzy. Headache. And … was that double vision? “Perfect,” he muttered.

Tom and Wendell had been invited to join in tutoring Crispin into behaving. Crispin clutched his sore ribs as he slowly climbed his stairs. When the door moved open by his mere touch, he was glad it wasn’t an unwelcome visitor. He didn’t think he had the strength to fight off anyone.

Avelyn made a cry of distress upon seeing him and rushed across the room. She ducked a shoulder under his arm and helped him to the bed.

He eased down, relieved to be on his bed at last. She knelt at his feet to remove his boots. “I don’t know why you are here-you should be with your master-but I can’t say I am not glad of it.”

She lifted his feet onto the mattress and then cradled him so he leaned back until his head rested on the pillow. He knew his face must look like raw meat-felt like it-and one of his eyelids had swollen shut.

He closed the other eye and just breathed, thankful that he still could. Ribs weren’t broken. That was a mercy. He didn’t know how he’d avoided it, but he had.

Lying on his bed, he simply breathed for a time, relishing the warmth from the hearth. He startled upward when an ice-cold cloth slid against his face. Avelyn’s fingers on his arm soothed him back down. She carefully bathed his sore cheeks and chin, leaving the cold cloth on the most swollen parts: his nose, cheek, and eye. It felt good.

Fingers started unbuttoning his coat and he gently closed his hand over them. “Leave it. My ribs hurt from the pounding they took.” But she persisted and he found himself sitting up enough for her to pull off his hood, cloak, and coat. Fingers slipped up under his shirt and probed, testing the tender flesh and pressing gently on the ribs. When she was satisfied, she tucked a blanket over him and went to the fire to jam a poker in to urge it higher. He did not immediately notice when she left.

He must have dozed, for when she returned she was pressing something to his lips. A cup. He opened his mouth obligingly and drank. It tasted of herbs and earthy tones and was not particularly pleasant. But it did not take long for his limbs to feel warm and weightless, and it took the edge off the pain in his face. “You are a miracle worker.”

“Not so much a miracle,” said the unexpected voice of Flamel. “Alchemy takes many forms.” Crispin opened his good eye and looked at the man standing by his table. Avelyn remained next to him on the bed, holding the cup.

“I thank you both.”

“Such a dangerous job you have, Maître. So much sacrifice.”

“It must be done.”

“Yes, I see that.”

“I have a question for you, Master Flamel.”

“Perhaps you should rest, Maître. You have suffered much.”

“Just one question. How long have you been in England?”

“Some three months. We arrived on the evening tide in August. And no one knew we were coming. We told no one we were leaving and booked passage the day we left. No one knew.”

“But-”

“Rest, Maître Crispin. Rest.”

He closed his eyes and let the potion do its work.

He awoke to Jack arguing with Flamel. “And you didn’t think to ask how he got this way?” Jack stomped back and forth over the floor. “Could have been robbers. Could have been this man we are looking for. It could have been … ah! God blind me with a poker! Those men following us!”

“Jack, has anyone ever told you how loud you are in the morning?”

The boy stopped his furious pacing and flung himself on Crispin’s bed. “Master Crispin! How do you fare, sir?”

“Knocked about a bit. How do you think I fare, especially with you yelling at the top of your lungs?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I was just worried about you.”

He rested a hand on Jack’s and patted it. He was surprised to note that he could see with both eyes. He raised a hand to his face and felt that almost all the swelling was gone. A miracle indeed. “Master Flamel was kind enough to minister to me and stay with me all night.”

Flamel bowed to him.

“And it was the sheriffs’ men. Our dear sheriffs wanted to make certain that I got a message: I was meddling where I didn’t belong. Curious. I did not know I had gotten that far in my investigation, but clearly they thought I had. What do you make of that, Jack?”

Tucker scratched his lightly fuzzed chin. “I dunno. When did they grab you?”

“Right outside the Cockerel’s Tail Inn.”

“That is curious, sir.”

“Did our preacher return?”

“No. Which leads me to believe, sir, that he has other lodgings.”

“Accomplices?”

“Perhaps. I had many such bolt-holes when I was about my business as a young lad. Places to hide when on the run. He might have them, too.”

Crispin lay back, resting his head on his bent arm. “Why should a preacher need such hiding places?”

“He is a very bad preacher?” offered Flamel.

“By all accounts he is a very good preacher. But I suppose the feeling is relative.”

“Master,” said Jack, leaning forward, “there is a great ruckus up Cornhill Street. People are rioting.”

“What? Why?”

“The cistern. They demanded to know why it was closed. They blame the king and his ministers. The sheriffs’ men at the other cisterns are having a time of it, so I hear. I went myself to the Standard and there is fighting there as well.”

Crispin sat up. “Do you suppose there are more poisonings?”

“I don’t know, Master. But at the Tun, I did notice this sign near it.” He ran to the coffer, grabbed a wax slate, and brought it over. He sketched the sign and showed it to Crispin.

Flamel grabbed the slate from his hand and gasped. “Maître, this is the sign for arsenic.”

“God’s blood!” hissed Crispin. “The bastard was actually taunting us! Jack, did you see this at any of the other cisterns?”

“No, sir. I looked, but I found nothing.”

Crispin lay back. His aching ribs were making themselves known again. “I do not know if that is a mercy or not.”

“And something else, sir.” He leaned in much closer to Crispin when he said, “I saw Lord Henry there, in the background. He was taking note of it all. And then he saw me and left hurriedly.”

“Damn! Curse it all!” He threw himself forward and sat up, clutching his belly. Jack was poised, ready to catch him if he fell over, but even through the stabbing aches, he reassured the boy with a quick nod. “The sheriffs were not pleased with me. At first I thought it was for being out after curfew, and then for taking so long over investigating this murder of Thomas Cornhill-which they had admonished me to do in the first place. But then they were also angry that I was ‘meddling,’ so they said, in this matter of poison in the cistern. I got the impression that they were being censured for acquiescing to my demands to protect the water supply.”

Jack gasped. “They were censured? The sheriffs have something to do with poisoning the cisterns?”

“I don’t know. But they wanted me to stay out of it. I had begun to think that it might have been a French plot.” Flamel stiffened at that, but Crispin ignored it and pressed on. “But instead, I rather think they are protecting someone. Someone in high places.”

“Lord Henry?”

“No. They are after him, remember? It seems outlandish on the surface, and yet-”

“We have encountered the like before,” Jack finished. “The earl of Suffolk,” he muttered. “Aye, but how to discover it?” His face drained of all color. “Will … will we have to go to court, Master?”

“That seems unlikely. And you know how welcomed I would be there.” With a grunt of pain, he rose to his feet and stood unsteadily. “At any rate, we must talk to this preacher, despite what the sheriffs desire. He has something to do with one of these events. At least he knows more than we do.”

Jack offered Crispin a steadying hand. “Wine, sir? I’ve warmed some.”

“Yes. I will take it.”

“What are you saying, Maître Crispin?” said Flamel, giving him an arm to lean on as Jack hastened to fetch the wine. He helped Crispin to a seat by the fire.

“As strange as it seems, Master Flamel, there may very well be royal connections to not only the poisoning of the water, but to you and to your wife’s disappearance.”

“What? How? How can they possibly be connected?”

“This preacher. It can’t be a coincidence that he knew of the dead apprentice. He spoke of a man hung by his heel like a traitor, and he also spoke of the signs carved all over London as signs of the Devil. And finally, he accused me of being an alchemist … although now that I think about it, I am not so certain he did.”

“But he did call you that, sir,” said Jack, handing Crispin a steaming bowl of wine. “I heard him.”

Crispin drank and licked his lips, sighing as the hot liquid warmed his throat and chest. “The ‘alchemist’s lair,’ is what he said. He knew. He knew that an alchemist lived there. How did he know if Master Flamel’s being here was a secret?”

Jack fell silent, thinking.

“Master Flamel,” said Crispin, “where might one obtain arsenic? An apothecary?”

“Of course. But one might also obtain it from an alchemist. But such men who sell these poisons … well. Alchemists of any caliber do not sell poisons to men they do not know.”

“Perhaps he did know the man. I should query the local alchemists. I do know of at least one such man.” He looked at Jack, whose mouth firmed to a stern line.

“Aye, Master. Let us ask this Bartholomew of Oxford.”

Jack kept a keen eye on Crispin as they moved through the streets of London. He was grateful for the boy’s concern, but his constant anxious looks frayed Crispin’s nerves to the edge.

At last they found the sign of Mercury and slogged through the dung-soaked mud to the door. The shop was empty as usual, but they heard the telltale rustling of the man in the back room. When he stuck his carbuncled nose past the curtain, only his face emerged, and he kept the curtain around him like a shield.

“Master Guest,” he said cautiously. “What is it you want- Oh! What happened to you, man?”

Though the swelling was down, he had no doubt that his face was a rainbow of purple and yellow bruises.

“A run-in with several disagreeable fellows.”

“Perhaps you bedeviled them, too. Why have you returned?”

“You’re the only other alchemist I know, Master Bartholomew. I wonder if you can tell me something.”

The man gave a harried sigh. “Master Guest, you seem to think that men should feel compelled to cooperate with you. That they are at their leisure with nothing else to do. All this without charge. I do not. I must sell my goods in order to keep a roof over my head. And so it does not follow that I may give to anyone-whoever they may be-free information. My material is hard earned over many years of toiling. And my time is equally valuable. Surely you can appreciate that.”

Crispin looked around the strange room. His nose flared at the unpleasant smells. “You want payment, then.”

“Not so crude a transaction as that. Perhaps in exchange for my useful information you could make a purchase.” Crispin grimaced, but the alchemist brightened at his own thought. “How about this?” He ducked away behind the curtain for a moment and then returned. He held aloft a small gauze bag tied with a leather thong as a necklace. “A fragrant sachet.” He pressed it to his nose and inhaled. “Ah. Lovely. Surely a pleasant smell about your person could be most enticing.”

“I don’t need to be enticing,” he growled.

“It will help soothe the pain you must surely feel. By my Lady, Master Guest, I do not know how, with a face like that, you can walk about at all.”

Crispin snatched it from the man’s hand. “How much?”

“Two pence.”

“Two pence? That’s robbery!”

The man shrugged and smiled, revealing one sharp, grayed tooth.

Swearing under his breath, Crispin dug his hand into his scrip, produced the coins, and slapped them into the man’s hand. “Now will you answer my questions?”

“Put it on, sir. I would see my handiwork for what it was meant for.”

After glaring at the man for several heartbeats, he pulled the necklace over his head and let it rest on his chest for only a moment before, annoyed by the scent, he stuffed it through the collar of his shirt. “Happy?”

“Most happy. That is my first sale of the day. And now. You wish to ask a question.”

“Yes.” He leaned in, feeling the bag rustle against his coat. It sent a musky floral aroma up through the cloth. He was reluctant to admit that it was more pleasant than he’d originally thought. “Do you sell poisons, Master Bartholomew?”

The man blinked, taken aback. “Poisons? What a question. Why should I sell poisons?”

“The question was not why, but whether you did or not.” He leaned farther, within grabbing distance should the man decide to bolt. “Did you?”

He narrowed his eyes. “I take the measure of the man, Master Guest. Not everyone is up to no good. The use of some poisons is quite legitimate. Many alchemists use them in their experiments in the Greater Circulations. If a man will pay, I will sell.”

“Have you sold any lately?”

His downcast eyes looked at his fingers fiddling with the loose threads on his robe’s sleeve. “I … might have.”

“And what might this worthy look like?”

“Well, let me see. His hair was of auburn color, and he had a way about him.”

Coldness touched Crispin’s heart. For the first thought that came to mind was Henry of Lancaster.

“Was he young?”

“Oh, no. I should not say he was young. A man of about my age.”

Relief flooded him. “I see. You would not by any chance know his name?”

“No. We did not exchange such pleasantries.”

“Did you know him?”

“No, sir. I did not. He convinced me that he knew what to do with it and I sold him the quantity he desired.”

“How much?”

“A goodly amount.”

“Enough to do … alchemy?”

“I should say so. Why? What’s he done?”

Instead of answering, Crispin sneered. “Would you recognize him again should I bring him here?”

“I … well, yes. I think so.”

“Good. Then plan on seeing me again. Much thanks, Master Alchemist.” He turned away, then swiveled his head back. “I won’t be buying anything when I return. Understood?” He made a show of resting his hand on his dagger.

With an audible swallow, the man backed away toward his curtain. “U-understood, Master Guest.”

With a swirl of his cloak, Crispin passed through the doorway and onto the street, with Jack on his heels. “The nerve of him, Master.”

“Yes. But it might be worth it. His description. Who did it remind you of?”

Jack nodded. “Auburn hair. Well-spoken. If I had to hazard a guess, I would say … Robert Pickthorn?”

“Could be. I wonder if that was the reason Avelyn sent us here. She knew of this Pickthorn spending coin at this shop.”

“I don’t trust her, sir.”

“What’s the matter, Tucker? Does she seem too wily for a servant?”

“Aye! I mean, no! Some servants are just as wily as they need to be.”

Crispin smiled and patted Jack’s shoulder. “Never fear. I’m rather fond of wily servants myself.”

Jack gusted a relieved laugh. “You do have your jests, don’t you,” he muttered. “Where shall we look for this preacher, Master Crispin?”

“We shall ask around. That’s a lot of ground to cover, but we might get lucky. And Jack, if you encounter him, do not engage him in any violence.”

“You take the fun out of everything, Master Crispin.” He smiled with a lopsided grin.

“Go on. Meet me at the Boar’s Tusk in about an hour’s time. I have a feeling I’ll be needing a drink about then.”

Crispin watched Jack walk away before he headed out alone along the Shambles until it became Newgate Market. He turned south on Old Dean’s Lane with the intention of checking outside the walls. This man might be preaching in London’s outskirts, along Holborn or Shoe Lane. He passed out of the walled part of the city at Ludgate, glancing again at the sigils inscribed on the stone of the arch that had begun their hunt.

While he walked, he began thinking of Flamel and the troubling words he had used that reminded him of Abbot Nicholas. You must forget what you think you know. Beware of what you find. Why had he chosen those exact words? Abbot Nicholas had used them, he was certain of it. Almost precisely a year ago as he lay dying. He had been speaking of the many relics that crossed Crispin’s path over and over again. But the Stone was not one of God’s relics. And yet … its power was reputed to transcend the ether. Was this not the Almighty’s territory? Was Man foolish to dabble in it, trespassing on Divine creation?

What did it mean? Forget what you think you know. What did he know? He knew, in this instance, that a man was killed and a threat was levied to another man’s wife, all for a ransom. But then, it hadn’t been all for a ransom, had it? They were dancing to the tune of one man, of which, so far, only he knew the rules. And Crispin thought that Henry might be involved, for a man in his position naturally played a game of cruel suspicions and backroom transactions. But was he involved?

Beware of what you find. That was a certainty. He did not want to find that Henry was too intimate with this game of abductions, murder, and threats. He did not want to find that he could be as cruel as his father, and yet he knew that this was most likely the case, given who he was.

What else was he to find? The wife? Alive, he hoped. But also the culprit. And once he knew who he was, would Crispin be glad that he found him?

He looked up at the street, watching men with wooden yokes fitted across their shoulders, balancing their wares from each end in bundles, making their way toward London proper. Crispin walked around them and their burdens, while several dogs yipped at one another, prancing and following at the heels of the men on their way back through the gated arch.

Crispin pricked his ears, listening for that telltale voice that rose easily above the crowd. But all he heard was the noise of wagons rattling over the street, of masters admonishing their apprentices, of women laughing, and of brooms sweeping.

He scouted the streets of Farringdon and stopped a man or two to ask if they had seen the preacher. All shook their heads, staring at his bruised face. He moved up to West Smithfield and saw much the same. At midday, he bought some cheese and a roasted egg from a goat girl resting beside her charges along the road. He ate as he crossed the stark, snow-whitened fields near St. Giles church, leaving fragments of eggshell behind him. Eventually, he made his way back through the walls at Cripplegate. No sign of the preacher, and when he asked of a woman tending geese, she had not seen the man either.

Crispin stood at the crossroads of Coleman and Lothbury and made a scoffing sound. This was insane. London was too big a city for two people to find one man.

And just as he decided that perhaps it was time to give up and go to the Boar’s Tusk, he heard a sound in the distance. A sound of many people. He hurried in that direction down Lothbury and came upon a crowd of people yelling at one of the king’s guards. A solitary soldier with a kettle helm and mail under his surcote, he was standing before a cistern and looking as if he would rather be anywhere else.

“For the last time,” said the guard with a roll of his eyes. He clenched his chapped hands over his spear shaft. “I’m not preventing you from getting your water. I’m merely guarding it. For your own sarding protection.”

“Guarding the water?” said a strident voice above the melee of shouting wives and fist-waving men. “Guarding God’s most precious gift to Man? And what does it need guarding from?”

Crispin strained up on his toes to see above the crowd, for that was the familiar voice he had been looking for. He pushed his way forward, ignoring the disgruntled grimaces that turned to look at him, and found his man, standing not too far from the flummoxed guard.

“Water from God’s Heaven is the purest, and will renew and rejuvenate. Why did He choose water to baptize, to cleanse, if it were not safe for us?”

The crowd began to quiet and listen to the preacher. Crispin finally got a good look at him. With coarse reddish hair, he stood tall, though he had a slight paunch to his middle. His clothes were not as fine as even a merchant’s, but neither were they patched or particularly worn. He surveyed the crowd with a confident air, sweeping his arm to encompass the cistern and the weary guard before it.

“‘But he that drinketh of the water that I shall give him, shall not thirst without end; but the water that I shall give him, shall be made in him a well of water, springing up into everlasting life.’ So says Holy Scripture. Who blocks this well from you? A sinner! Sent forth from sinners!”

The guard turned a squint on him. “Oi!” he cried, shaking a fist at him. “Who’s a sarding sinner?”

“‘What great troubles, many and evil, thou hast sent me! and then turned, thou hast granted me life, and hast brought me up again from the watery depths of the earth and hast brought me up again from the grave.’ Good people of London. You are being deceived. This man claims to be guarding your cistern, but he is following orders from above, from those who would despoil this city from its rightful governor. For it is not the king that prevents you from the water, but the work of these so-called commissioners who have invaded the city, lords who would usurp God’s anointed.”

“That’s enough of that!” shouted the guard, and with spear pointed toward Pickthorn, he advanced.

The preacher raised his chin at the man, seemingly unafraid. And soon Crispin saw why. Men in the crowd had surged forward to protect him, and he gave the guard a smile to show that he had the upper hand. But it wasn’t until he swept the crowd with his proud gaze that it fell on Crispin, and the recognition in his eyes had a most profound effect on him.

He bounded off the makeshift platform of barrels and shoved into the crowd, beating a hasty retreat away from Crispin.

Crispin dove headlong into the surging people, not afraid to elbow hard anyone who got in his way. Once he was free of the heaving throng, he hit the mud running.

Pickthorn was well ahead of him. The man looked over his shoulder once with wild eyes, then lowered his head to pick up speed.

No, you don’t, thought Crispin, feet hammering hard on the cobblestones and slipping when he hit a patch of snow or frozen mud.

Pickthorn rounded a corner, and when Crispin approached the same turn, he could see that the man was trapped by a flock of muddy sheep. The beasts bleated around him. By the mud and wet spots on the man’s clothes, Crispin could tell that he must have fallen and was trying desperately to make his way through.

Crispin pounced, tackling the man to the frozen ground. Sheep bounded out of the way, and the drover, a boy of only eleven or so, shook his fist and swore at them like a whoremonger.

Crispin ignored him and struggled, subduing the preacher. “Stop! Stop your struggling.” He hauled the man to his feet and untangled his wet cloak from Pickthorn’s, whipping it behind him. He pushed the man against a wall and pressed him there.

“Let me go, you ruffian.”

“If I let you go, will you talk to me?”

“It depends on what you have to say.” Crispin mangled the man’s coat in a tight grip and twisted until Pickthorn choked. “Yes, I yield! God have mercy!”

With a sneer, Crispin released him, stepping back to give the man room. “Why did you run from me?”

“You can be a frightening man. Witness for yourself what you have done to me.” He wiped down the mud from his coat and valiantly tried to right his twisted cloak.

“My apologies,” said Crispin without meaning it. “But I have been seeking you for some time.” As the man straightened his clothes, Crispin spied a crystal phial hanging around his neck on a knotted red thread. It appeared to be empty. He grabbed for it and held it up. “What is this?”

The man snatched it back and clutched it in his hand. “What business is it of yours?”

“Perhaps nothing. Perhaps much. Tell me, what were you doing harassing that poor guard? He was merely performing his appointed task and guarding the cistern from mischief.”

“Mischief indeed!” the man scoffed indignantly. “That guard was set there by those commissioners appointed by Parliament, that which is led by Lancaster’s son.” He said the last with such vehemence that Crispin pulled back. “It is sedition, is what it is,” he went on. “Nothing more, nothing less. The Devil has whispered in the ears of these noble men and seduced them with lies and their own greed for power. The water doesn’t need guarding. It needs renewing with God’s gentle grace to allow the people to be reborn with the Water of Life.”

Crispin wanted dearly to smack the man but held himself back. “That water has been killing people. Someone has poisoned it.”

“What? Absurd. You, sir, fall into the same trap of believing what these commissioners say rather than the good king. Nothing whatsoever has happened to the water of this city-”

“I tell you the water was poisoned. At the Tun. It was infused with arsenic. Many young and innocent died from it. The guards are there to prevent it from happening to the other cisterns.”

The man paused, eyes flicking over Crispin’s face in disbelief. “No! That is foolish talk.”

“I tell you I saw it! I saw the proof of it with my own eyes.”

Pickthorn froze. He looked down at the phial in his hand, looked up once at Crispin, then down at the phial again and shook his head.

Crispin opened his mouth to ask but nearly bit his lip when Pickthorn shoved him back. Not expecting it, Crispin lost his balance and toppled backward, biting out a curse when he hit the ground hard.

By the time Crispin sat up, Pickthorn was gone, with only the sound of his escaping footsteps echoing in the alley.