Shadow of the Alchemist

22

Crispin jumped to his feet and ran hard. He spied the man up ahead at the curve of the road. Pickthorn was older than Crispin, so Crispin had that advantage, at least. How far could the man go? Yet he had run quite a way and Crispin wasn’t gaining on him.

Ahead, Crispin spotted a broom propped against a wall. As he ran by, he reached out and grabbed it. Cocking his arm back, he took aim and then heaved it forward. After spinning in the air, it slammed into the man’s feet and over he went, skidding shoulder first along the muddy lane.

Crispin caught his breath as he stood over him. “Up you get,” he grunted. He grabbed the man by his shoulders and shoved him into the nearest wall.

An old man with a basket of bread looked on as Crispin smacked the preacher in the face. “I don’t like it when people run from me. Makes me angry.”

Pickthorn touched his stinging cheek and ran his narrowed-eyed glare over Crispin’s features. “You dare! I preach the good Lord’s word and you dare to lay hands upon me!”

Crispin smacked him on the other cheek with the back of his hand. “You’ll get more if you don’t answer me.”

“Hold! Stop! I … I don’t know what you want.”

“Yes, you do. This.” He grasped the empty phial from the man’s neck and held it up. “What was in here? What did you do?”

“I … I did not poison anyone.”

Again, the flat of Crispin’s hand struck up at his chin, knocking Pickthorn’s head back against the wall. There were tears of pain in his eyes when he glared back at Crispin.

“I can show you the graves that tell me otherwise. What did you put in the water at the Tun?”

“Nothing harmful, I swear by almighty God!”

“For the last time, answer me, or I shall shove this down your throat. What was in the phial?”

“A … a harmless concoction of holy water and pulverized herbs. The man assured me that it would put the people in an amenable mood, to make them gentle as lambs so that they would be open and heed the word of the Lord.”

“Holy water and herbs? Are you mad? It was poison!”

Pickthorn looked confused. “No. No, it couldn’t have been. They did listen. They repented. The solution was working!”

“I tell you it was killing them. Had I not had the cistern closed, you would have killed more.”

He blinked, eyes glistening with filling tears. “Jesus, mercy,” he whispered. “What have I done?”

Crispin released him and stepped back. He watched the man’s face collapse in despair. “Dead,” he gasped. “Because of me?” He crossed himself and murmured his prayers into his tightly folded hands.

Crispin watched for a moment and sighed. “You were deceived. Now you must make it right.”

“Yes, yes.” He bent forward and wept into his prayerful hands. “Will I … will I hang for it?”

“That is for the law to decide. But I do not have in mind to turn you in to the law. Yet.”

“What must I do?”

“Did you get this ‘solution’ from an alchemist?”

He looked up, face streaked with dirt and tears. “I did. I was preaching one day, and after I was done, he approached me, told me he could help me. I went to his shop and he gave me this phial and said to put it in the cistern and what it would do.”

“Why did you believe him?”

“Because he seemed genuinely sincere. Told me that my words had changed his life and he was going to give up his sorcery.”

“‘Sorcery’? Is that what he said?”

“His words, I assure you, good Master. But now I see…” He straightened, a new determination lighting his eyes. “The Devil had taken hold of him. A damned man if ever there was one. Who but such a one who schemed with Satan could manufacture as diabolical a plot?”

“Indeed. And what of the sigils on the walls of London? What had you to do with those?”

“Why … nothing whatever. I saw them and knew they were the signs of the Demon.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“You … you are the one that they speak of. You are the Tracker.”

“Yes. And when you saw me some days ago, you said I was emerging from the alchemist’s lair. How did you know that that was an alchemist’s shop?”

“I was told it. By that other foul sorcerer.” He frowned. “Oh, the Deceiver is clever and uses honeyed words, but they are all lies. I thought he had turned a new leaf. I thought he had repented and was declaring war on the others of his ilk. He told me about this other alchemist and that’s why I chose that corner to do my preaching, to catch him. I thought at first it was you, but later I learned who you were.”

“There is one thing more. You have a crusade against these commissioners appointed by Parliament. Against … against Lord Derby, it would seem, in particular. Why?”

“I am a law-abiding man, Master Guest. My king is my sovereign, not his Parliament. And these councillors would seem to want to take his crown, to make him nothing but a figurehead. No. No man who loves God can abide it.”

“I see. You realize that these appointed men are only trying to make certain that the king conforms to his vows made before God? That the taxes collected were to be for the good running and defense of the kingdom, not for the use of his favorites?”

Pickthorn turned his reddened eyes to Crispin, peering steadily. “That, Master, is treasonous talk. And I hear that you were once a man who stepped into the cesspool of treason yourself. Is that why you support these usurpers?”

Crispin stepped back, chastened. “I assure you…” His voice was unsteady and he cursed it. “My loyalties are with the crown. I will not make that mistake again.” He heaved an angry breath and stared at the ground, toeing the mud with his boot. “And now what to do with you.”

Pickthorn sagged against the wall. The red marks Crispin had made to his cheeks were fading in the cold air. “I will turn myself in to the sheriffs, of course. I … I have sinned against my fellow man-” His voice choked off with a whimper.

“Not of your own devising. I tell you what you must do instead, Master Pickthorn. You must lay low, forget your preaching for a time.”

He raised his face. “But-”

“I tell you, you must lay low! I will smooth this over with the sheriffs. It is this alchemist to blame. I will take care of him. Go back to the Cockerel’s Tail Inn.”

He took Crispin’s hand and laid his cheek upon it. “Bless you, Master Guest. I shall pray for your kind soul, and for your deep repentance. And I shall further pray to soften your hardened heart so that you may truly see. For I fear you are blinded by your past loyalties. You must see the evil that Lancaster and his son are spilling into the heart of London, just as surely as if they poisoned the waters themselves.”

Crispin snatched his hand away. “Pray if you must for my soul, but leave the rest. Now begone. I will do what I can.”

“Thank you, Master Guest. May the Lord make His face to shine upon you and give you peace.”

“Yes, yes,” he grumbled, watching Pickthorn out of the corner of his eye as the preacher scurried away. Something about the man unsettled him, and it wasn’t merely his politics. He shook it off. He had other work to do. “Bartholomew of Oxford,” he sneered. He looked up, assessing the gray sun disappearing behind the heavy drapery of cloud. “You’re next.”

It was drizzling by the time Crispin neared the alchemist’s street. The drifts of dirty snow along the lane were melting away.

Crispin had worked himself up into full indignation. The man had looked him in the eye and lied. Lied for days. Told him fantasies of the Stone and how devoted he was to his craft. “Witchcraft, more like,” he muttered. What was his game? Was he in league with this abductor, this killer?

The drizzle became a steady rain, and though his leather hood protected most of his head, his face was spattered with droplets and his lashes were sticky and damp. He pulled his dagger and was stomping toward the shop when someone grabbed his dagger arm.

He spun, yanking his arm away from those grasping fingers. Turning, he readied to strike at his attacker-and stumbled to a stop instead.

He lowered the blade and made a growl of exasperation. “You damned woman!” He sheathed the blade and took Avelyn by her shoulders. “I nearly killed you.”

She ignored his warning and took his hand, dragging him away.

“Wait,” he said, digging in his heels. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

She tried to sign it to him, but he closed his hands over her wildly gesticulating fingers. “I can’t understand you.” He glanced once at the shop with the sign of Mercury over the door and relented to Avelyn’s endless tugging.

They hurried over the rainy streets to Flamel’s shop. Avelyn reached the porch and waited for Crispin. When he arrived, she shoved him through.

“Master Flamel? What is it? I was in the middle of-”

Flamel turned to him, his face pale as bone. Crispin moved his gaze from his face to what was in his hand. Another scrap of parchment … and a lock of hair.