Shadow of the Alchemist

30

Of course Derby had estates in London. Lancaster castles they had aplenty, spread all over England and outside London’s precincts, but they had houses in London. The Savoy had been under slow reconstruction after the riots of Wat Tyler back in the fifth year of Richard’s reign, but he knew Henry wouldn’t be there. He wouldn’t be at any of them. If there was an encampment outside the city, that’s where he’d be.

With his hood up against the cold as well as for secrecy, Crispin hurried through the late afternoon streets. He was deeply disturbed by the fact of Oxford’s treachery. What had he hoped to gain by eliminating Henry? Did Oxford fear more than the commissioners’ impositions? Did he think Henry threatened the crown itself? Of course Oxford would do anything to defend Richard, for Richard kept him in riches, heaping upon him honors and titles. Duke of Ireland, justice of Chester, marquess of Dublin. Rumor had it that Oxford had even put aside his wife in order to marry one of the queen’s ladies. He thought he could commit any atrocity he wished, any foul exploit, and remain immune. Poison the cisterns and blame it on the French, as a distraction, no doubt. A distraction! Killing innocent lives just for that. Yes, there was great call indeed for Henry’s commissioners.

But worse. Crispin was no longer in any position to challenge him, to stop him. He had to rely on Henry to do that. Was the boy strong enough? Was his cadre of lords powerful enough to stop Richard and his men from these misdeeds? He hoped so, and he prayed that Lancaster would soon return from his mission in Spain. He could not come home soon enough!

After a time, Crispin passed through Bishopsgate and took the lonely road toward Spitalfields. He heard the sound of troops before he reached it over a rise. Men-at-arms strode the fields and tended to horses. Colorful pavilion tents crowded together like a market day. Banners with the arms of Henry’s lords whipped in the wind and Crispin headed toward the one with the arms of Lancaster, feeling distinctly vulnerable as heads turned toward him. The question now was, would he be admitted?

He strode up to the entrance of the encampment and to an assembly of men-at-arms. He bowed gravely. “Masters,” he said, “I would speak with his grace, Henry of Derby.”

No one spoke, and for a moment, Crispin wondered if anyone would. After all, who would come to such a camp without a horse, without a retinue?

One wary guard ventured forward, clutching the shaft of his poleaxe. “Who comes to see his grace?”

“Crispin Guest. With a matter of some urgency.”

By the men’s expressions, Crispin could well see that they recognized his name. The men-at-arms exchanged a silent consultation before the first man licked his lips and gave a curt jerk to his head for Crispin to follow.

Crispin was only slightly surprised but did not stand by musing over it. He hurried across the muddied field behind the man-at-arms and traipsed between the tents, where they met another guard.

The man gestured back toward Crispin. “Crispin Guest to see Lord Henry.”

The new guard, wearing the Lancaster colors, openly assessed Crispin.

“Please,” said Crispin. “You know who I am. You know I would never betray him.”

The guard studied him for a long time before he said in a gruff voice, “I will announce you.” He turned and walked away, leaving Crispin to stand on the chill plain with the single guard behind him.

It wasn’t long until another man in livery arrived. He, too, looked Crispin over. “I am Hugh Waterton, Earl Derby’s chamberlain. What makes you think that Lord Henry will see you?”

“He will.”

Again, Crispin stood under scrutiny. Waterton glanced out over the encampment, where his gaze finally landed on the man-at-arms standing by. He gave him a dismissing nod and turned to Crispin. “Come with me.”

Crispin followed him through the aisles between more tents and finally to a large pavilion, whose sides rippled with the wind. Waterton pushed aside the tent flap and held it open for Crispin.

Crispin bowed to the man, held the flap for himself, and ducked through. The flap fell back in place behind him.

The floor was covered in carpets. A large oak table with folding chairs encircling it sat in the middle of the tent, but there was still room enough for a large bed, coffers, and several cots. Candles burned from sconces beside an altar at the far end, where a man knelt at a prie dieu. He was enrobed in a long cloak that draped over his feet. A sword hilt poked out and lay across the carpeted floor.

After a long moment, he turned.

Henry.

He rose quickly, smoothly, and strode across the tent. A frown furrowed his brows. “Why did you come here?”

“Forgive me, my lord. But I had to warn you. I did not want to send a message that might go astray.”

“Well, then?”

“There are assassins who seek you.”

He barked a laugh. “This is not news.”

“Their origin is. It’s Oxford. He is sending them.”

“What?” His hand went to his sword hilt.

“It does not please me to relate this to you, my lord. But Oxford is behind all the schemes of late in London. The poisoning, the missives you received, and the men sent to kill you.”

“How … how does he dare?”

“He is loyal to Richard.”

“Does Richard know?”

“I … don’t know. But I doubt it. I think Oxford is doing this on his own for his own interests as well as the king’s.”

Henry’s hand closed into a fist as he stared at the floor. His shoulders rose and fell in a quick succession of breaths. “Who else knows that you know?”

Crispin shrugged. “No one but you and me.”

“My men have told me that Oxford and Suffolk are preparing to leave court. They might be gone already.”

“Why, Henry? What is happening?”

He lifted his head. “I have a message to deliver to his Majesty. Today. An appeal of treason on his advisers.”

“Don’t go, Henry. Send others to do it.”

“How can I not go? Especially when one of the names is Oxford. You see, Crispin, I already know what a swine he is.”

“I beg you, Henry, don’t go.”

“Because of what it will look like?”

“It will look like you are making a move on the throne.”

Henry paced away from Crispin. His long cloak feathered along the carpeted floor after him.

“I don’t … want to know whether it’s true or not,” said Crispin. Henry looked over his shoulder at him, brows raised. “I don’t.”

“It’s not,” he answered quickly.

Crispin breathed again. He licked his lips. “Don’t go to court. He’ll arrest you.”

“Whom should I send, eh? If not myself?”

“Send your uncle, at least. As a show of good faith to Richard.”

“Who else?”

He shook his head. “I do not know who your commissioners are. Not all of them, anyway.”

“Richard Fitzalan, Thomas Mowbray, Thomas Beauchamp. Should I send them all and not go myself?”

“Send Arundel and Warwick, then, along with your uncle. A small delegation. Not too intimidating.”

“But I think rather that they should be intimidating.”

“The message is intimidating enough, don’t you think? Richard will not take it well.”

A small smile formed on his face. “Would it interest you to know that my uncle Gloucester made all the very same arguments? I suppose I should take that advice, then, if the both of you are in agreement.”

“Gloucester and I have agreed on so few things. Perhaps this is the time to listen.”

He nodded. “Very well. I’ll send the message. And I’ll stay here. For now.”

“What will Suffolk and Oxford do?”

“God knows. I know what I would do.”

“And what’s that?” But Crispin already knew the answer.

“Bring back an army,” said Henry.

Crispin took his thoughts with him back to Fleet Street. Before he reached it, however, he heard a noise and looked up. Above the rooftops were not the dark, dense clouds full of rain, but great billowing, choking clouds of smoke from a fire. Like many others on the street, he started running. A fire in the city could easily spread from street to street in the tightly packed parishes. Any able-bodied man was required to help.

His fear doubled when he saw the roof of Flamel’s shop engulfed. Sooty men were passing buckets of water to one another and tossing their contents on the blaze flickering through the doorway.

Crispin ran up to a man who seemed to be in charge. “The people?” he asked. “Did the people get out?”

“I don’t know. I came upon it when the fire appeared to start. I called out but heard no one within.”

The smoke and fire in the doorway parted for only a moment, and Crispin leapt through.

“Wait! Damn fool.”

Inside, the place was like the pits of Hell. Fire leapt from every surface. Heat surged all around him. He put his cloak up over his mouth and nose, but his eyes stung from the smoke. He squinted through the tears and cast about. “Is anyone here?”

He kept low, below the rolling smoke, searching in all the corners. When he could find no sign of anyone, he grabbed the ladder to the loft. He was coughing now and closed his eyes as he climbed each rung, saving his eyes the pain from the heat. Once he gained the top, he looked around. “Flamel! Jack!”

Flames licked at him from the railing and the now rickety floorboards. In the smoke, the brass planets continued their slow progress, oblivious to the carnage around them.

Crispin looked up. In the rafters he caught sight of a square that looked like the sky, and when he coughed enough, and blinked enough, he saw that it was the sky. A trapdoor to the roof yawning wide open.

He stumbled his way toward it, trying to breathe only through his damp cloak, and stood under the door. No ladder. The remnants of it were burning nearby. They must have made their escape that way.

He looked back the way he had come.

The flames covered the railing now, engulfing the ladder to the loft. That way was barred. And the fire was gaining on the floorboards. Already some of the floor had given way and gaping holes with spitting flames were all around him. The roof was his only exit, but how to reach it?

Everything was aflame. Even the bed was smoldering … but not yet engulfed. He grabbed it and pulled it away from the wall. It was heavy. It dragged across the floor with a great groan. All at once, part of the floor gave way, and one corner of the bed sank into the fiery hole. Crispin grabbed hold of one post and heaved. It swiveled on its one axis in the breached floor and one post was suddenly poised under the trapdoor. That would have to do.

Crispin climbed atop the bed and jammed his foot on the carvings on the post, hoisting himself as high as he could go. It wasn’t quite enough. “Dammit.” He looked down. The room was red and gold, with more heat than he’d ever encountered before. It was not a good way to die, he decided, and turned back up toward the square of sky, trying to breathe any air filtering down.

He’d have to jump for it.

Just as he positioned himself to climb again, the bed lurched.

The hole in the loft widened and the bed tilted into it. The mattress caught fire and began to smoke furiously in black billows.

Quickly, he jumped away just as the bed, in a loud bellow of creaking timbers, crashed through the floor, sending up a great belch of dark smoke and shooting flames.

Trapped.

The planets whooshed slowly by and Crispin saw it was his only hope. The railing was barely intact. He waited till the sun on its outer arm swung closest toward him before jumping onto the rail. He sprang forward and grabbed hold of one of the sun’s rays, wrapping an arm around it. The contraption groaned and wobbled under his weight but continued to move slowly toward the trapdoor. He knew he had only the one chance left. If he missed it …

The brass sun finally creaked directly beneath the trapdoor. Crispin prayed and leapt.

His fingers caught the edge of the opening and he dangled over the fire crackling and spitting upward from two floors below him.

With a grunt, he slid an arm up and over onto the roof, gripped tight, and swung his leg up, catching it on the opening’s edge. Gritting his teeth and bellowing with the rest of his strength, he used his leg muscles to pull himself up the rest of the way until he was able to grab hold of the roof itself. His arms did the rest of the work and he slid across the broken tiles to fresh air.

Once his feet were free of the fiery room, he lay on the tiles and breathed.

Where were they, the Flamels and Jack and Avelyn? Were they safe?

He gained his feet. The tiles were hot under his boots. The roof wouldn’t last long.

When he looked up, he spied figures being hauled into an attic window on another rooftop across the lane. A woman was being handed down, assisted by a soot-covered blond-haired girl. Avelyn, helping her mistress. And there was Flamel, with Jack last.

“Jack!” He waved his arm.

Jack looked up and saw him. “Master!” he called across the rooftops. “Come on!”

Crispin moved, but out from behind a chimney, a figure in a long black gown emerged.

“You can’t help but get in my way, can you, Guest?”

“Malemeyns.” He drew his dagger. “I was hoping I’d have my chance at you. You started this fire.”

“Of course I did. My son died in a fire. Why not Nicholas?”

“He wasn’t responsible for that.”

“No, Lancaster was accountable for it. But Nicholas killed my wife, stole my Perenelle. He ruined my life and I’ll ruin his.”

“It’s over. You won’t be committing any more murders.”

“It is justice. What would you know of that? Oh, I know your tale. I weep for it,” he said sarcastically. “But it was different for me. All was lost, never to be recovered.”

“And so, too, was my life lost.”

“But now you thrive, is that it? I should do the same? You are clever, I will give you that. But you have no one to blame but yourself. I have Nicholas. And Lancaster. And I’ll have my revenge.”

Crispin heard the joists give way beneath him and he leapt aside. Flames shot up from the rafters.

Piers smiled. His teeth gleamed from a sooty face … all but his one gray tooth. He, too, had a dagger in his hand. “Who will triumph, I wonder?” He cocked his head toward where Flamel had escaped. “He can try to hide from me, but I’ll never stop harrying him. I will prevail. Perenelle will be mine one day. For I have already made the Elixir. I have time. All eternity, in fact.”

“I think you’re lying. Perenelle told me you didn’t know what you were doing.”

He ticked his head. “Poor deluded Perenelle. She chose so unwisely.”

“But she didn’t choose. You lost her. In a game of chess. Isn’t that right? You like to play games.”

He frowned. “So I did. The next game won’t be as easy to lose. Nicholas never would have found her without your help. And you won’t be there the next time.”

“Oh? I was rather thinking that this was your last game.”

“A game?” His face brightened. “Shall we play one? One last time?”

“I’m through with your damn games.”

“Oh, no! Games are always appropriate. What can we play up here?”

“How about catch the dagger?” Crispin lunged with his blade … but Piers stepped aside. Almost skidding off the roof, Crispin windmilled his arms and righted himself at the last moment. It was a long way down.

“But I already told you, Guest. I have taken the Elixir. I cannot be killed. I know the potion worked. I prepared it myself with the use of the Stone. You will always see me just as I am now. Vigorous. Invincible. For now I shall never age.”

He stomped down hard. The roof cracked, buckled … and suddenly gave way under Crispin.

A fireball leapt up, barely missing him, and Crispin fell through the roof. He barked his chin on the way down, but it bounced him enough that his arms reached out and gripped the edge of the broken tiles.

Piers approached and crouched down to face him. “Looks like you lose.”

Arms trembling, Crispin slammed a fist on the tile nearest Malemeyns’s foot. It crumbled and the man slipped. He lost his footing and toppled, rolling to the edge of the roof.

Crispin used that distraction to haul himself up, and none too soon. He could feel the fire licking at his boots. When he looked down, the leather was singed and smoking.

By then, Piers had regained his footing. He was wagging a finger at Crispin. “You must have nine lives, Crispin Guest.”

“I must,” he agreed.

“It’s a pity. Such a keen mind and a nimble body.”

“Why did you lead me to Old Fish Street? I never would have found you had you not left clues.”

“It’s the game, Master Guest. Have you never played games?”

“Isn’t the object of the game to win?”

“Of course it is. But the object of the game is also to play. And while I knew that ultimately Nicholas would lose, it doesn’t diminish the sport of the game itself.” He shook his head and tsked. “I would have thought a man such as yourself would know that.”

“It’s important to have the advantage.”

“Yes, isn’t it? And I have that.”

“Do you?”

“You’re trying to stall. How amusing. Let’s play.” He jabbed forward with his dagger and Crispin leapt back. They circled each other. Crispin knew the man was older than him, but he didn’t seem to be tiring. It couldn’t have to do with that Elixir, could it? No! He refused to believe it. Piers was propelled by madness, nothing more than that.

Crispin made a lunge, but Piers stepped nimbly out of the way. Smoke surrounded them and both their faces were covered in soot, but Piers was smiling, his teeth bright.

He made a feint at Crispin and then swept his blade down the other way. It caught Crispin’s shoulder. A stripe of blood appeared beneath the tear in Crispin’s coat and then a sharp pain bloomed. He ignored it.

Piers smiled in triumph and took a swing with his blade at Crispin’s head. Crispin leapt out of the way but lost his footing on the slanted tiles. He was falling backward and reached out wildly, grabbing hold of Malemeyns’s cloak as he fell. He yanked the man with him, and they tumbled one over the other toward the roof’s edge, stopping short of the precipice.

Each tried to stab the other, and each fended the blades aside with their free hands clutching each other’s wrists. Piers gritted his teeth, smiling a rictus at Crispin. Crispin clutched the man’s dagger arm for all he was worth, forcing it back, trying with only one hand to slam it down against the tiles. Slowly, inch by inch, he managed to force it down until he gave the man’s arm a twist.

The dagger fell from his grip and hurtled over the side to the ground below.

Piers cried out in anger and used both hands to grab Crispin’s dagger arm.

Crispin rolled them both uphill, back to the fiery hole now licking its flames upward through the tiles amid black curls of smoke.

Malemeyns pushed, knocking Crispin back. Piers was suddenly free and he skittered across the rooftop back toward the chimney. He crouched and grabbed loosened tiles, hurling them one after the other at Crispin’s head. Crispin ducked and dodged them, feeling them crack painfully across the forearm he held up for protection.

The missiles stopped, but Piers was suddenly standing above him, and though Crispin tried to scramble to his feet, he kept slipping on the slick tiles. Swinging a flaming faggot of wood broken off from one of the rafters, Piers approached.

“I’m done with you, Crispin Guest. Quite done.”

He swung at Crispin’s head, but Crispin managed to duck. He jumped up and jerked backward away from the flaming wood. Malemeyns swung again, gritting his teeth.

Crispin fell to one knee, dodging it by leaning to the side. He twisted and shoved his knife upward … right into Malemeyns’s gut. He jerked the blade higher, relishing the tearing of more flesh, doing as much damage as he could before withdrawing the knife.

Shocked, Piers looked down at the blood spilling from the wound. A portion of his entrails dangled free. “But…”

Panting, Crispin watched as the man’s skin paled and his blood gushed. Piers doubled over. “Forever doesn’t seem to be as long as it used to be,” said Crispin.

With surprise still etching his features, Piers fell forward into the hole in the roof, just as a burst of flame erupted and swallowed him up.