Shadow of the Alchemist

28

Crispin strode down harp Lane, taking in both sides of the street with sweeps of his gaze. He did not know what he was looking for, but he assumed he’d know it when he saw it.

Above the rooftops, he could just see the tall battlements of the Tower of London. Surrounded by a moat, it was the most secure place in all of the city, save Westminster Palace itself.

Eyes scanning the street, he saw the usual shops and houses. Nothing that could help him in his quest. Had he been duped again? Was this a false lead? No, the man played fair, and playing was what he did best. Flamel might use his means of sorcery to stop the man, but Crispin had only his own senses, and they were not helping him.

“Where is the bastard?” he muttered. He had to come out sometime, didn’t he? But where was Crispin to look for him? He ran the chessboard at the guildhall over in his mind. All pointed to Harp Lane, and as diligently as he looked, he knew he would not find any alchemical symbols to help him this time.

Leaning against a wall and folding his arms under his cloak, he settled in to wait.

Hours passed. The ringing of the bells told him so, as did the many passersby with their carts and donkeys, traveling to and from their parish churches. It was Sunday, the Lord’s day, and cause to celebrate, for the citizens of Christendom were not burdened with work on this day. None but Crispin.

He looked up to the gray sky above the rooftops, watched his own cloud of breath escape heavenward, and settled his gaze on the lane again, shadowed under his hood.

He was surprised to spy Robert Pickthorn striding down the lane, a sack over his shoulder. The man’s gait was sure but careful, and he checked from side to side and over his shoulder. What business did he have here? Especially after Crispin had told the man to lay low. Was it a coincidence his coming to this particular street? Crispin had the urge to follow him, but there was little reason to do so. The man had been a dupe of this scheme and was of interest only because Crispin was bored.

He let it go, though he watched him make progress north toward the curve of the road until he disappeared in the crowd.

So much for that. Crispin wondered if he should move on to another section of road, but at the thoroughfare seemed as good a spot as any. He had a good view of most of the lane, yet it was frustrating not knowing just what he was looking for.

Another hour passed. He rolled his shoulder and stomped his feet to get the feeling back in them. If he stayed much longer, he’d become an icicle. The clouds above were heavy with snow, he could feel it, and the air was dense with waiting. A dog wandered nearby and Crispin had been so still that it never even looked his way as it sniffed along and lifted its leg to a post.

Coming from the opposite direction, with his head covered by a hood, was Pickthorn again. His coarse hair protruded from under his hood. Someone stopped him to talk and he listened patiently, though Crispin sensed the tenseness in his shoulders and restless hands.

Then he turned his head and smiled.

Crispin jerked up. His hand fell to his dagger.

God’s blood! So that was what had unsettled Crispin. That smile. He’d seen that smile before. That one gray tooth in just the same place. Oh yes. He’d seen it twice now. He’d seen it on Pickthorn, but he’d also seen it under the bulbous nose of the impostor Bartholomew of Oxford. The alchemist wasn’t an accomplice. He was the same person!

Pickthorn continued on, without seeing Crispin. Crispin let him get several yards ahead and then peeled away from the wall and followed.

The man went nowhere in particular. He stopped at a grocer and picked through the bruised apples. He ran his hands into a sack of dried peas. Leaving that behind, he wandered farther and examined pelts from a fur merchant.

What was he doing? Crispin wondered. Simply shopping? Or did he know he was being followed and had decided to lead Crispin on a useless route to throw him off the scent?

Crispin had been patient thus far. He could continue to be so.

Pickthorn left the furrier and continued on his aimless path. Now Crispin was certain the man knew he was being followed. Or perhaps hoped. Crispin stayed back as far as he reasonably could. He wanted the man to doubt it, to make an uncalculated move. But he seemed steady in his determination to travel carelessly and purposelessly.

At last he ducked into a tavern.

Crispin waited as long as he dared. How could he go in without the man noticing him? He couldn’t, that was plain.

A boy carrying a sack over his shoulder scampered in front of Crispin, and Crispin stuck out a hand and grabbed the boy’s shoulder. The child looked up with wary eyes.

“Boy, how would you like to make a quick halfpenny?”

Wide-eyed, the boy set his sack at his feet. “Aye, sir. What would you have me do?”

“I want you to go into that tavern and look for a man with red hair. He is wearing a dark gown, to his ankles. Tell me where he is sitting.”

The boy scratched his head. He could not be more than ten or eleven. “That’s all?”

“That’s all. Make haste now.”

He shouldered his burden again and went to the door, pushing it open. Crispin stepped away from the open doorway and into the shadows. He waited, keeping his eye on the door and on the men leaving the tavern. Soon the boy returned and set his sack on the ground before him.

“I’m sorry, sir. But there was no one there with red hair. Can I still have the coin?”

Crispin frowned. “Are you certain?”

“Yes, my lord. I saw no one like that.”

Crispin narrowed his eyes in thought. Absently, he reached into his scrip for the coin purse. He took out a coin and handed it to the boy, who stared at the bounty in his dirty palm.

“By my Lady!” he gasped, and closed his hand. “Thank you, my lord!”

“Be on your way,” he said, and scoured the street once more.

The boy scurried on, kicking up clods of mud as he ran. Back door, Crispin thought. Must be. Unless …

He backtracked, following the circuitous path that Pickthorn had led him on. When he arrived at the place Crispin had originally kept his vigil for the first few hours, he spotted a man in a long, dark gown. It looked the same. He was heading back the way Pickthorn had come. Crispin followed far behind, and it wasn’t until the man turned once to skirt a wide cart that Crispin saw his face. No dark beard. No red hair. Extremely short brown hair, above his ears.

He didn’t have Bartholomew’s nose, for that was a disguise. Or his dark beard and hair, for that, too, was a deception. Nor did he have Pickthorn’s lank red hair, coarse, more like that of a horse’s tail. But it was the same man, all three of them. And he wondered now if he was finally seeing Piers Malemeyns with his true visage, however fleeting.

The man moved up the lane. Crispin followed.

Keeping his distance and hiding behind several men haggling over the price of a brace of coneys, Crispin watched Piers-for he was certain, this time, it was he-descend a short flight of steps to unlock a door set in the foundation of a plain-looking shop.

The windows were shuttered, and anemic smoke spilled from the chimney over the broken slate roof. Either he had forgotten to bank his fire or someone, a confederate, was inside.

Or even his victim.

The front door was out. Too defended, he was certain. He made his way round to the back courtyard. The house stood alone on its corner, perhaps too far away to hear the cries of a helpless woman. The back courtyard was small, with only enough room for a privy. He stepped over the wattle fence and slid behind the foul-smelling pit. Listening for any movement, he was satisfied when he heard none. He used the rickety fence to get a leg up and climbed to the privy’s roof. From there, he leapt to an upper windowsill of the house, hanging for a moment before he could swing his leg up. He crouched on the narrow ledge, holding on to the projections from the window frame. He peered in through the cracks of the shutter. A room, empty, except for crates and sticks of furniture piled one atop the other. Storage, he supposed.

He released one hand, steadied himself, and pulled his dagger. With one quick jerk of his hand, the latch lifted and the window fell open. He sheathed the dagger and rolled over the sill, landing as lightly as he could.

Silence.

He slipped his dagger from its sheath again and fitted the hilt comfortably in his hand. He took in the dark room and confirmed it was used for storage and nothing more. He crept along the walls like a cat, mindful of creaking planks.

Just as he made it to the door, an unholy noise exploded below. Wood splintering, shouts, tumbling across the floors.

Crispin yanked open the door and peered down over the gallery.

Two men were struggling below with Crispin’s quarry. He glanced quickly around, but there was nothing to help him, nothing to hurl down at the men beneath to stop their battle. And who were these men now fighting Piers?

He girded himself and leapt up onto the railing, measuring the scene and tallying his choices. No help for it. He’d have to join the fight.

He fixed his aim toward the center of the melee and dove over the side.