Shadow of the Alchemist

27

Jack scrambled up and seized his cloak as Crispin threw open the door and carefully stepped out onto the icy landing. The cold hit him hard, and he paused to pull up his hood. Down he went, hand easing over the railing and ready to grab it if he slipped.

He made it to the slushy snow at the bottom. The light snow had continued from early evening, blanketing the street in lacy white. It reflected the sparse light from a wayward crescent moon that dodged clouds slipping over its face. It was enough light to see, at any rate, and Crispin quickened along the lane, partly to keep warm and partly because he wanted to hurry.

He turned up Old Fish and headed for the alchemists’ guildhall for the third time this night and found himself waiting for Jack to catch up to him.

“What are we doing here again?” Jack whispered.

“Let’s get in,” said Crispin, climbing the stairs. “Keep watch. I don’t want to be coshed like Lord Henry.”

Jack stayed at the bottom of the stairs while Crispin drew his dagger. After examining the door with cold fingers, he slid the blade between door and jamb and managed to force the bolt. The door creaked open.

“Come along, Jack,” he hissed.

Jack’s muffled steps crossed the landing and Crispin told him to bolt the door again. Kicking dead leaves, he walked across the littered floor. “Does it look the same, Jack? Has it changed since we encountered it earlier today?”

“I … I suppose. I think it’s the same.”

“Are you certain? We must be certain, or we’ve thrown away the most valuable clue.”

He looked around helplessly. “Yes, I … but I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

“Don’t you?” Crispin strode to the nearest pillar with its intricate carvings on its plinth and capital. He set his foot on the ledge of the plinth and hoisted himself up. There was enough pitting and cracks in the column’s cylinder to stick his foot in and pull himself higher. Holding on to the stone foliate of the capital, Crispin turned, looking down.

The room was dark. Slivers of light cast stripes on the tiled floor from the shuttered windows, just enough for Crispin to see. “God’s blood,” he whispered.

Hopping down, he gestured toward the pillar. “You go,” he said to Jack.

Jack gave him a doubtful expression. It was full of his assertion that Crispin had finally gone mad, but as always, Jack shook his head and shuffled to comply. His foot lodged on the plinth and limber legs wrapped around the column as he shimmied upward. Fingers wrapped themselves over the carved foliations as Crispin had done. Nearly hanging free like an ape, he swiveled and looked down. “I’m looking,” he confirmed.

“But what do you see?”

“A floor. Some statues.”

Crispin punched his fist into his hip. “What sort of floor?”

“Checkered.”

“And?”

“And … I don’t know what you want me to see, Master.”

“Keep looking.”

He heard some grumbling and a few oaths before Jack switched hands and swung the other way. “I’m still looking,” he said.

“And still not seeing. When I think of the hours I spent tutoring you on the finer points of observation…”

“Wait!” He saw it dawn on the boy’s face. It was unmistakable in the widening of his eyes and the sudden slackness of his jaw. “God blind me with a poker! It’s a chessboard!”

“See here,” said Crispin, pointing to the floor at the base of one of the statues. “See the marks on the tiles where it was deliberately dragged to this spot?”

“Aye, Master. So now. What does it mean?”

“Well, let’s look at it.”

One statue was of a female saint. “Let’s call this a queen,” said Crispin, running his hand over the cold stone. Just to the left of the “queen” stood a figure, which leaned against a rocky brace, but on closer examination, the rocky outcropping appeared to be a castle tower. “And this a rook.” Another figure stood nearby, and in his hand he held a harp.

Across the room stood another figure. Carved from marble, the figure seemed to be emerging from another castle-looking structure. Beside it a few squares down was another figure of a saint wearing robes and a miter. “A bishop.” Crispin eyed them all. “Jack, from your vantage, whose move is it?”

“I can’t be sure, sir. But I’d say the queen was about to be captured by the rook. The … erm … pawn-if that fellow with the harp could be called so-is not in a position to help her.”

“Yes. But I see no king on this board.”

“There, sir.” Jack pointed. Crispin followed the track of his finger and came upon a wreath of ivy on a black square, hidden by a swath of dried leaves.

“A crown?”

“So it would seem, sir.”

“Hmm. What does this tell us?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

“You may come down.”

Jack didn’t bother climbing. He leapt away from the pillar like a squirrel leaping from a tree and landed on his feet. He joined Crispin and stood beside him. “I suppose the queen is meant to represent Perenelle Flamel?”

“Possibly. A castle will capture her … or she is near a castle. But there are two on the board. Two castles.”

“Two castles,” Jack murmured. “Two kingdoms? France and England? No.” He snapped his fingers. “Two castles … The Tower, sir, and Westminster Palace!”

“Correct. But which one is which?”

The “queen” was soon to be overtaken by the castle figure to her right. Crispin walked over to it and circled it, and then the “pawn.” No help there. He walked over to the other “castle,” looked it over, and then rested his hand on the “bishop.” “This rook has a bishop,” he said. “What does that suggest?”

Squinting his entire face, including eyes shut tight, Tucker thought hard. “Bishop. Bishop and a castle.” His eyes snapped open. “The abbey, sir? Westminster?”

“Indeed. So the other must be the Tower of London.”

“She’s near the Tower, then! I told you! Let’s go!” He spun on his heel to race away, but Crispin grabbed the point of his hood.

“Not so hasty, Tucker. We don’t know where by the Tower.”

Jack slumped. “Oh. Right.”

Crispin walked back to the “queen” and patted the head of the “pawn.” “What of this fellow?”

“The pawn. You?”

“If that were the case, then I would think that our knave’s sense of wit would have to have made him a knight instead. But it is true I do feel like a pawn in this. No. He is a squire of sorts. Some saint or other personage. And he is carrying a harp.”

“He’s a minstrel. Should we look for a minstrel? No, no. That’s foolish. A harp is a symbol for the Irish. Could he be an Irishman, this knave?”

“You’re thinking too hard, Jack. And at any rate, if I am right, he is a Frenchman. I was supposing Harp Lane. It is near the Tower.”

“Blind me! It is!” He ran his hand over his jaw. “What will we find there, Master? Will Madam Flamel just … be there for the taking?”

“I very much doubt that. I suspect more tricks, more games.”

“When should we go?”

“Tomorrow. And not you. Me. I’ve already told you. You have another job to do.”

“But I won’t need to guard Master Flamel if you find Madam Perenelle.”

“There’s more to this than one madman, Jack. Far more. Lord Derby has been dragged into it, and that means a conspiracy. Richard needs to know that his closest men are arranging some mischief to one of the heirs to the throne.”

Jack gasped. “But … but Lord Henry is not the heir. That’s some other noble. The earl of March … isn’t it?”

“Let me see if I can explain this. Roger Mortimer, earl of March, is descended in the female line from Edward III’s second son, whilst Henry is descended from the third son. Do you see? His grace John the duke of Lancaster is the third son of King Edward, not the first, as was Edward of Woodstock, Richard’s father, or the second son, Lionel of Antwerp. Lionel would have been second in line. Therefore, because Lionel’s only child, Philippa, married into the Mortimer family and bore Roger, Richard’s cousin, it is Roger earl of March who is the presumptive heir. And if he has no sons, then it may still fall to Henry.”

Jack blinked. “Blind me. It’s complicated, isn’t it?”

“Very. But most important.”

Jack sucked on his fingers. “Lord Derby. So he could be the heir. He could be the next king. Blind me! He’s been in our lodgings!”

“Yes. A few times now.”

“Christ! The heir to the throne.” Jack fell silent, thoughtful. He raised his eyes under his long fringe. “Master, Lord Derby. He isn’t … that is … he isn’t trying to … to…”

“No.” The boy was sometimes too perceptive. “I … I am quite certain of that.” Though he wasn’t certain at all. “He is sincere in his desire to see that Richard is put on the right path. Many of the noble houses would like to see Richard put aside these favorites of his. He has no choice. He must.”

“Or?”

“Or … well. I shouldn’t like to think of the consequences. It shall certainly devolve into war.”

“War? Here?”

“Yes. At our very door. London will not be spared. Lord Henry’s army already awaits outside the city.”

Jack becrossed himself. “I pray it shall not come to that.”

“As do I.” But I think it inevitable. He would not say it aloud. He feared that the dread he saw in Jack’s eyes was contagious. He cast about the room one last time, hoping for further inspiration but finding nothing more. “I think we should go home and to bed. We’ve been up late enough.”

“Aye, Master. We both have a busy day ahead of us.”

They crept out, checking the empty street first before doing the best they could to lock the door behind them. With snow-dampened steps, they returned to the Shambles.

With the dawn of the day, both Crispin and Jack were silent as they prepared themselves. As usual, Jack heated water for Crispin’s shave, warmed the wine, and toasted some heels of bread for both of them before smearing them with slices of pungent cheese. Then they ate in silence.

By some mutual signal, they both rose at the same time. Jack banked the coals in the fire and helped Crispin on with his cloak before he shrugged on his own. Together, they trudged down the steps.

They both traveled up Fleet, found Flamel’s shop, and knocked on the door. Avelyn greeted Crispin and curtseyed as he pushed inside. Jack followed.

“Maître! Is there any hope? On this the Lord’s day, have you come to tell me to prepare for the worst?”

“Of course not. But it is time for answers, Master Flamel. I fear you have still not confided in me.”

Flamel’s deadened eyes looked him over, and without a word, he retreated to his athanor. He stood over the bubbling vessels, the steaming retorts, and silently took up an iron pincher. With the instrument, he carefully removed each vessel from the fire and set them on the stone of the high hearth, off the heat.

With a heavy sigh, he laid the pincher beside the hot kettles and shuffled to the table. The lines of his face seemed scored deeper since the first day Crispin had met him. He sat at the table and motioned for Avelyn to approach. She attended him less like a servant and more like a dutiful daughter.

The alchemist sighed. “Piers was more than a colleague to me, as you have already guessed, Maître. He was more like a brother.” Flamel opened his hand, and what Crispin at first took for a rosary was instead a gold button. He turned it in his fingers absently, just as one might finger the beads of a paternoster. “He came from England,” he went on, “but was born of French parents. He lived here many years, in London, in fact. But as a young man, he traveled to France and it was there that we met. He knew his alchemy and we bonded instantly. We worked together for many years. We even began together on the Great Work some twenty years ago. He was a genius with compounds. He understood their character, their formulations. He was the perfect master of cupellation, that is, separating base metals from precious metals. In other words, Maître, he had the touch! So few truly do. These alchemists in London.” He shook his head and frowned. “They play their games, they make their potions, but they have no true understanding, no true feel for it. Do you catch my meaning? They are mere apprentices. Piers was a master. But…”

Flamel looked down at the button in his hand, worn smooth by his stained fingers, and slowly stuffed it back in his scrip. “Piers was envious of any talent greater than his own. For such a man, his pride sometimes overtakes his better judgment. Alas, I was the master of him. I could do such alchemy that he could only dream of, and look on with craving. I soon surpassed him, and this he could not stand, though he tried to hide his feelings from me. Alchemy is a secret thing, Maître, as I have intimated before. And only shared between master and apprentice. But we-Piers and I-worked as one. Yet I could not make him understand the finer points of the Great Work. He could not open himself to it. His mind was only a narrow channel and would not branch out to embrace that which he could not easily grasp.” His eyes flicked upward toward the slowly rotating brass planets, suspended in the air. “Alchemy demands such thinking, I am afraid.”

“I already surmised he was a master alchemist.”

“Yes, but it went much further even than that. You see, when I met Perenelle, she was still married. But I fell in love with her. It was a chaste love, Maître, for we would not cross the boundaries of the marriage vow. But Piers fell in love with her, too. If there was something I coveted, he would covet it as well, much like competing brothers. And yet, he desired to do me one better. He wooed her, but she refused him. And then when her husband suddenly died, he pressed that much more. But now I was also free to woo her.” A faint smile passed his lips as he recalled it.

“Master Flamel, is it possible that this Piers … murdered Perenelle’s husband?”

He looked up at Crispin, eyes heavy with sorrow. “It never once crossed my mind before. But now…” He lowered his face and becrossed himself. With his face lowered and in shadow, he continued his tale. “We used to play many games and wagers to decide this and that, Piers and I, as young men do. Our competitions and puzzles often became fierce. But it was always only in fun. Yet this time, he challenged me to a game of chess to decide who should woo the fair Perenelle and who should step aside. I won that game, Maître Guest, and never was I so happy to have been a champion.”

“How did he take that news?”

“He was furious, naturally. But he did stand aside as I won her hand and married her. He remained friends with us. I thought he had put it behind him, for he had found a woman of his own and married her. They had a son. Perenelle and I, alas. We could never have children. It is perhaps why I indulge our Avelyn here as I do.” He chucked her chin and she smiled at him. “But when the child was three, his wife was taken ill from a fever and died. He moved to estates in Limoges. Not long after that, English troops marched into France. Limoges was sacked, burned. He and his son burned to death. It was a great tragedy. I mourned their passing for years. It was over.”

He passed a hand over his face and stared at the candles on the table.

“Were you a witness to this, Master Flamel?”

“No. I was not living in Limoges at the time. Perenelle and I had moved to Paris by then. But there were many witnesses. Many who saw him in the flaming house, running from window to window. And I saw nothing of him more. He was dead. Dead. Or so I thought.”

“This man who has captured Madam Flamel likes to play games. And he is an alchemist. He knows his poisons,” Crispin said ruefully. “Is it possible he survived after all?”

“I suppose. It must be!” Desperation glittered his eyes. “And he will have his revenge.”

“What sort of revenge does he desire, Master Flamel? Do you think he means to keep Perenelle?”

“This is my greatest fear,” he said quietly. “But he wanted the Stone, too. This, he could never achieve on his own. But what he did not realize is that Perenelle was instrumental in helping me achieve it. Her mind is keen, more than any other woman I have ever met. I had notes from my grand-père. It was said that he had made the Stone once before he died. But his notes … They were a jumble, the rambling of an old man. It was Perenelle who made sense of all the dross. Without her, I could not have made the Philosopher’s Stone. We were on the verge of creating the Elixir of Life. But without her I cannot.”

“Is that what he means to do, sir? Is that why he wants her, besides sticking a dagger into your heart?”

He laughed, a dry, unpleasant sound. “Yes, he means to stick a dagger in my heart. He has done it! But I think he does intend to make the Elixir and keep Perenelle … forever.”

Crispin shuffled on his seat. “When you say … forever…”

“I mean forever! Once they achieve the Elixir, they will both be immortal. She will never be free of him.” He dropped his face into his hands, but he did not weep. Crispin feared he was beyond weeping now. “Our only hope is that she keeps silent, does not let slip how much she knows of how to make the Stone and the Elixir. If she tells him-or, God help her, is compelled to tell him-then all is lost. What can we do?”

“Tell me one thing more, Master Flamel. Who was the leader of this English army who killed Piers’s son?”

He lifted his face. “Do you not know? It was the late Prince Edward and his brother John, the duke of Lancaster.”

He heard Jack’s startled gasp from over his shoulder.

Crispin had known. After all, he had been there at Limoges as well, fighting at the duke’s side, some seventeen years ago. And now it all made sense. “He is alive, Master Flamel, and he is seeking revenge not just on you, but on Lord Derby. He is Lancaster’s son. At first he tried to discredit him, but just last night, Lord Henry was attacked. Had I not been there, he would certainly have been killed.”

Flamel slammed the table with his hand. The candles wobbled, spitting wax onto the table. “It must stop! We must rescue Perenelle and stop him, Maître.”

“We will stop him. Jack, here, will stay with you, keep watch. But before I leave, would you know of anyone from court who would sponsor such an operation? For I am convinced that Piers came to England at the urging of another. And with the true purpose of poisoning London’s water supply.”

“The poisoned cistern,” he murmured. “But King Richard’s court? No, I am sorry. I am unfamiliar with those of the English court.”

Crispin nodded. “It doesn’t matter. I received another clue last night. He’s given me the last clue, the last place I might find him. But he has many tricks. I need to know how to get past his defenses. He played a game of chess with me, but I do not yet know who the winner will be.”

“There are no defenses. But if he has made the Elixir and has drunk it, then you may try to kill him but you will not be successful.”

“I do not believe it. Only God can give us everlasting life.”

He stared at Crispin steadily now. “Believe what you like, Maître Guest. I only know what I know. But you must forget what you think you know.”

Crispin stopped. His heart pounded. Those words again! Though it was true. Whether Nicholas de Litlyngton told him or Nicholas Flamel, he had to forget what he thought he knew.