Shadow of the Alchemist

31

Days shifted into weeks. Perenelle recovered from her ordeal, and they found new lodgings in which to complete their work. Avelyn visited Crispin many more times, spending long nights there, but when he awoke in the morning, she was always gone.

By the end of November, Avelyn brought a message from Flamel, telling Crispin that they were sailing for France.

He met them at Queenhithe wharf. They would take a skiff to the sea, where they would pick up a ship to sail the channel.

Their luggage was there, being loaded by wherrymen. Crispin bowed to Perenelle. “I suppose I am surprised you stayed this long.”

“I wanted my wife fully recovered. And yet, being so late in the year, we may be waiting at Dover for some time anyway.”

Crispin turned to Avelyn. She was looking at him fondly. “I am sorry to see you go,” he said to her.

She smiled and signed to him.

He laughed and stilled her hands, holding them in his. “I have not yet mastered your language. Now I never shall.” He touched her face, trailing his fingers along her jaw until he took her chin and tilted it upward. He leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to her pliant lips. “I will miss you,” he whispered, and then he signed her name, making her smile.

“We shall not see you again, Maître Guest,” said the alchemist, moving between them. “How should we ever thank you enough? There is not enough gold in all the world. But here is a small token.” He offered a pouch, but Crispin did not take it.

“You already paid me, sir.”

“But you have earned more than that. Take it. It will be a cold winter in London, I fear.”

The news was still not good, and Crispin bowed to the wisdom of it. At least he and Jack would stay warm. Reluctantly, he cupped it in his palm. He was relieved that it felt like coins.

“Must you go? Must … Avelyn go?” He admitted, at least to himself, that he’d grown fond of her.

But Flamel, looking cheerful at last, shook his head and touched her long braid lovingly. “Oh, we couldn’t possibly leave her behind. She’s been with my family for years … and years.” He leaned toward Crispin and whispered, “You see, she was once my nursemaid.” He smiled and nodded before he turned to climb onto the boat, steadying it for Perenelle. He held her hand and would not let go until she was settled.

Crispin laughed. “You jest with me, sir. She’s far younger than you.”

Flamel cocked his head and smiled at Crispin. His eyes glittered mischievously. “Is she?”

Avelyn leapt onto the boat and turned to Crispin, giving him a wink.

The boat skimmed away from the dock, and they all waved back at him.

“Master,” said Jack at his elbow, “can that be true? Master Flamel did say that his grandfather had created a Philosopher’s Stone. Could she be-”

“Nonsense, Jack. Of course not.” Avelyn kept looking at him with a sly smile. “Let’s go home.” But even as they drew away, he turned back one last time to gaze at the young woman. She stood upon the deck at the railing, old eyes looking distantly ahead.

December arrived, and anxious over the tidings at court, Crispin drank too much at the Boar’s Tusk and listened, along with every other citizen in London, about Richard and his advisers and Henry of Lancaster’s commissioners. But it was never detailed enough, never full of the information he wanted to know. He wanted news of the commissioners. He wanted news of Henry.

But he did hear, along with everyone else, about the appeals of treason levied at the king’s closest advisers. Crispin had reluctantly sent Jack to loiter near the palace to get any news he could. The boy soon found himself a popular visitor to the Boar’s Tusk.

Jack sat by the fire, a beaker of ale in his hand. Crispin and Gilbert Langton, the alehouse owner, sat close to him as he sipped. “Just as you predicted, sir,” Jack said quietly, eyes darting here and there about the tavern. “I heard tell that Suffolk fled the country. And not only that, but the Archbishop Neville disguised himself and escaped back to his diocese at York.”

Crispin snorted. “They tested the wind and saw it was an ill one.”

“Aye, Master. A very ill one indeed. There was another. One of the king’s knights who was chief justice. I forgot his name-”

“Sir Robert Tresilian,” Crispin offered.

“Aye, that’s the one. Well, he went into hiding in Westminster. And the former lord mayor is said to remain in London.”

“That fool Brembre,” muttered Crispin. “He surely must believe no harm will come to him, and that London would be loyal to him.”

“You do not think that is so?” said Gilbert, pouring more wine into Crispin’s beaker.

“Surely you must sense it, Gilbert. The feeling in London is one of anger and betrayal. I fear they will not stand with Brembre. He is for the gallows for certain.”

Gilbert winced. Crispin knew he did not like such free talk. Even Crispin scanned the room immediately around them, but men seemed to be concerned in their own tight circles, probably discussing the same issues.

He turned to Jack. “What of Oxford?”

“Just as you feared, sir. Oxford retreated to his lands and is mustering an army.”

* * *

BY MID-DECEMBER, THE WORD had spread throughout London that Oxford would march on the city. The citizens hunkered down. The bitter cold kept most from the streets, but it was also the wait for a siege that made the lanes empty. Henry’s forces left the fields around London and set out for Oxfordshire while London cowered, waiting for news.

Crispin sat for hours by his window, staring through the crack in his shutter until Jack roused him with a touch to his shoulder to admonish him to eat his weak pottage.

At last, when the news came that Lord Henry had stopped Oxford’s army at Radcot Bridge, a collective sigh of relief came from the city. But Crispin knew it was far from over.

The commissioners’ armies returned to camp outside of London, making certain that all of the court knew they were there. The panicked city was in turmoil once more. Food was hoarded. Goods were scarce. Advent was a subdued affair.

Crispin watched by his window and was one of the first to hear the man riding down the Shambles. “The king retreated to the Tower!” he cried, his voice harsh with desperation.

Crispin pushed open the shutter and leaned down. “What’s that, man? What are you saying?”

He yanked on his reins and the horse turned, shaking its head. He looked up at Crispin. His face was sooty and his cloak was torn.

“The king and his retinue, sir. They’ve gone to the Tower and barricaded themselves within.”

Crispin’s fingers curled tightly around the edge of the shutter. “Why? What’s happened?”

“I don’t know, sir. But every able-bodied man must prepare himself. If I were you, I’d head to your parish church for prayer.” He kicked the horse’s flanks and hurried the beast toward Newgate, sending clods of muddy snow behind him.

Crispin pulled back inside, away from the harsh cold, and closed the shutters. He looked at Jack. “It’s begun.”

For days Crispin and Jack waited for news, for any kind of hint at what was happening. Occasionally someone would ride through the streets and call out a snippet here and there. But there was never enough. Nothing to pin any hope to.

Finally, they couldn’t stand it any longer. Crispin and Jack had burned the last of Henry’s wood anyway, and with cloaks wrapped tightly around them, they trudged over the frozen streets to the Boar’s Tusk.

Crispin settled in by the fire, with Jack on his right and an anxious Gilbert on his left. Men gathered in clusters, talking among themselves, peering over their shoulders. For the first time in Crispin’s life, he was on the outside along with every other citizen of London. He knew nothing of what was transpiring. He was not at the right hand of the duke or the old king, ready to take to the battlefield with them. He hated it. He hated not knowing.

The door slammed opened and everyone jumped. A page tore through the entrance with a wild face and fretful eyes. “He’s done it!” he cried. “He’s done it!”

Crispin, along with every man there, rose to his feet. His heart pounded in his chest.

Someone shoved a beaker of ale into the lad’s hand and he gulped it down in one. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and was suddenly swept up by the crowd and settled by the fire.

“What happened, boy?” someone asked.

His eyes searched the room, and when his audience had quieted, he took a deep breath. “The king. He’s come out of the Tower. They’re escorting him back to Westminster.”

“As … as the king?” Crispin finally asked. Every man in the place quieted, waiting to hear.

“Aye,” said the boy. And everyone breathed a sigh-Crispin, too, and was surprised at himself for it. “Henry of Lancaster-that is, Lord Derby-he and his lords went to the king to plead with him to return to good governance. But King Richard wasn’t pleased with them. They showed him letters from the earl of Oxford written to the French king, appealing to him to help Richard against his own people.”

The men growled at that.

The page held up his hand. “Aye, I know. Lord Henry’s lords were angered by that and it was said that the king was chastened by this news. They rebuked him. Said he was deceitful and dishonest.”

A man from the crowd leaned in toward the page. “They said that to him? To the king?”

“Aye, they did. I saw Lord Henry myself. His eyes were angry, but his voice was steady. He was on a white horse and his cloak was made of ermine. He looked like a king himself, did Lord Henry. He warned the king to correct his mistakes and that he was to rule better or else. He warned him that he had an heir of full age.”

The room gasped, and men turned toward one another, murmuring.

“What did the king say to that?” asked an old man by the page’s elbow.

Gilbert poured more ale into the lad’s cup and he drank again, throat rolling. When he set the cup down on his thigh, he leaned toward the crowd again. “He agreed to submit to their demands. He said he agreed to be guided by their wholesome advice.”

The page stopped talking and looked at all their faces. Some men murmured while others fell silent. No one knew what to think.

Until, almost as one, they all turned to Crispin.

He didn’t notice at first until Jack elbowed him. Scouring their anxious expressions, Crispin merely raised a brow at them. “I do not have the ear of the court,” he said quietly.

“But they say you speak to Henry of Lancaster,” said the old man beside the page. “And that he speaks to you. What can you tell us, Master Crispin?”

“I honestly don’t know. These tidings are as new to me as they are to you.”

Some clearly did not believe him, and before it turned to arguments and fights, Jack wisely took Crispin by the arm and pulled him out of the tavern.

They both said nothing as they returned to the Shambles.

They stayed in for the rest of the day, and at nightfall, they huddled beside the small fire, drinking the last of the warmed wine. Their feet, wrapped in extra stockings, were nearly tucked into the coals.

A rap on the door well after Compline made them look at each other. Jack hesitated. “Can’t be a client this late.”

“It might be. But I’ll get it. You … be ready.”

Jack unsheathed his dagger and stood behind the door. Crispin thought of unsheathing his own but decided against it.

When he opened it, he was glad he hadn’t.

Henry, looking tired and worn, hung in the doorway.

“God’s blood, Henry. What are you doing here?”

He staggered in and stood before the fire. In his hand he held a long wrapped bundle. “Have you heard?”

“Yes. Is … is the king truly back at Westminster?”

Henry nodded wearily. “Yes. And because I know you will ask it, he is still the king.”

Crispin nodded. Jack closed the door and came upon Henry on his other flank. Henry turned to Jack and smiled a little. “Young Jack. I’m glad to see you are safe here with your master.”

“What happened, Henry?” Crispin was nearly thrumming with impatience. “There is so little news.”

“Yes, I forgot you would not have heard much. Richard’s hens are scattered and will meet the noose should they return. And my cousin has promised to do as he ought. There was a moment when my uncle and I … argued. But I had only just received a letter from my lord father.” Henry smiled and sat, laying the bundle across his thighs. “He cautioned me in no uncertain terms to resist taking the crown. Oh, but it was hard, Crispin. It was nearly there for the taking.”

“You did the right thing, Henry,” he said solemnly.

“Did I? Well. It’s done, at any rate.” He sighed before holding out the bundle with one hand. “Here. Take it.”

When Crispin closed his hand over it, he knew immediately what it was. “What-?”

The wrappings fell away, revealing a sword in a plain leather scabbard, wrapped with a belt.

“What’s this?”

“The spoils of war,” said Henry. “With a few additions.”

“Why are you-”

Henry looked at Jack. “You have a fool for a master, young Jack. He has forgotten what a sword is.”

“I haven’t forgotten.” He pushed it back into Henry’s hands. “You very well know I am not allowed to own one. The king does not wish it and I have no right of property.”

“Right of property, he says.”

Crispin spread out his arm, showing the humble room. “Does this look like twenty pounds’ worth of property to you? I own none of it and it isn’t worth a privy.”

He shoved the sword back into Crispin’s hands. “I told you, it’s the spoils of war. With additions. Withdraw it.”

Crispin stared at it. At the unadorned leather sheath and the plain roundel pommel.

“You do remember how to withdraw a sword, don’t you?” teased Henry.

With a growl, Crispin pulled it partway from the sheath. The blade was shiny, but it was not new. And there were words newly engraved on the blade, words in Latin. He pulled it farther.

“Read it aloud,” Henry urged.

“‘A donum a Henricus Lancastriae ad Crispinus Guest-habet Ius.’”

Jack was at his elbow and translated aloud. “‘A gift from Henry Lancaster to Crispin Guest-He has the Right’ … Oh, Master!”

Crispin couldn’t breathe. He stared at the words till he couldn’t see them anymore.

“You served our household well, Crispin. You saved my life. You saved the crown, if it comes to that. Who has the greater right to wield a sword? And now, with those words, you have proof of that right. I wish I could grant you your knighthood again, Crispin, but as my royal cousin will never allow it, this is the best I can do. Here, young squire. You’d best learn now how to buckle on a knight’s sword.”

Crispin didn’t move. Henry tried to show Jack, but the boy’s hands trembled so badly that Henry had to do it himself.

Henry put his hand on Crispin’s shoulder once the sword hung at his left side. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

Crispin still could not speak. Henry smiled. “I still have much to do this night. This is far from over. But I’m certain, Crispin, I will see you again.” He turned toward the door and stopped before it. He nodded toward the sword hanging now from Crispin’s hip. “Very soon-too soon-you might need that. God be with you.”

And with a cold gust of night wind and a few flurries of snow, he was gone.