Shadow of the Alchemist

4

Startled, Crispin nearly fell over the threshold. “Your grace!”

Henry turned and smiled. His auburn beard had fleshed out from last year, curling across the line of his jaw, and his hair framed his face with just a hint of a curl under his chin. He wore a white-leopard fur cloak over his blue velvet houppelande as he sat before the fire. Crispin noted a bundle of fuel-sticks and real logs-sitting on the hearth. The sight was almost more joyful than his seeing Henry again. But he sobered quickly when he realized that Henry-his former charge-was seeing for himself his poor lodgings and meager existence. Heat crept up his collar.

“My lord.” He bowed awkwardly.

But Henry continued to smile. His gaze fell on the surprised Jack peering over Crispin’s shoulder. “Well, don’t leave the door open. It’s damnably cold in here.”

Jack pushed Crispin the rest of the way through and barred the door after him. He unbuttoned Crispin’s cloak-since Crispin felt incapable of moving-shook it out, and hung it on one of the pegs beside the door.

Henry turned again to the fire and rocked back on his chair. “Have you wine?”

Crispin, terrified that there was none, stared at Jack. The boy hurried to the sill to fetch the jug and turned to the pantry to grab two bowls. After a pause, he put one of the bowls back and poured the cheap red wine within, and, with a shaky hand, he offered it to Henry.

The young lord took it with a nod and sipped, pausing at the sharp taste.

Crispin fretted at his wet sleeve, toying with a loosened button. “I beg your pardon, my lord. I know the wine is not what you are used to.…”

“It doesn’t matter, Crispin. I am just glad to see you. Sit.”

Slowly, Crispin lowered to the vacant stool and leaned heavily against the table between them.

Henry continued to stare into the fire. “My lord father the duke must have come here many a time.”

Crispin licked his lips. He would have been grateful for a little wine-fie on his apprentice! — but did see the sense in Jack’s hesitation. He steadied himself against the table. “Only once, your grace.”

“Henry, Crispin. You used to call me Henry.”

“Your grace,” he answered stubbornly.

Henry sighed. “My father came here only once?”

“It is not meet that he should be here, my lord.”

“Meaning I shouldn’t be either, eh, Crispin?”

Crispin lumbered to his feet. “No, you should not. Henry, I thought you would have more sense than this. You know what the king thinks of me!”

His mild gaze sought out Crispin. A smirk stole across his face. “Indeed. Does not all England know what my lord cousin thinks of you? Convicted of treason, you were cast from his court. Was it ten years ago now? Eleven? Since my father urged him to spare your life, he thought you would die on the streets without your title and wealth. Proved him wrong, did you not?”

“Not easily, my lord.”

“And yet you did. So I do not worry overmuch what his grace the king thinks.”

“Henry,” he warned.

“Oh, very well.” He rose and turned his chair around, sliding it up to the table. “No more dangerous talk. I’m here for a reason.”

“And that reason is?”

“Crispin, sit. It sounds as if you would be rid of me. Surely that is not the case! You practically raised me.”

Crispin lowered himself to the stool again. “The Lady Katherine was your governess, not I.”

“But you and I spent many an hour riding and practicing with arms. And jesting, too. And laughing.”

“Ha!” Jack threw his hand over his mouth. Clearly he had not meant to vocalize his astonishment. Though little wonder. How often had Jack seen him laugh over the last few years? Yet he used to laugh. Often. With the good company of young Henry and his siblings and with Lancaster and even with Geoffrey Chaucer, they were as a big family, laughing, dancing, hunting, dining. All the things families did. Until he was wrenched away from it all because of his own stupidity.

Henry smiled at Jack’s gaffe. His eyes sparkled. “And so he did, my young apprentice. Your master played tricks and laughed quite a bit before he grew so dark and gloomy.”

Crispin cleared his throat. “Well, that’s enough about me,” he grumbled, face red. “You were telling me why you felt it appropriate to visit me in person at my lodgings, a forbidden place for those at court.”

“What did I tell you?” he said to Jack, raising his brows.

“Henry!”

Even as exasperated as he was, Crispin couldn’t help but gaze at his former charge. Henry was a man now. Broad of shoulder, thick arms, auburn hair that tended toward ginger when the firelight caught it. His beard and mustache were perfectly coiffed. At almost two and twenty, he was nearing the height of his power. And, Crispin remembered, he was also a new father, only since September.

“I must offer my congratulations to you, Henry. You’re the father of a fine son, I hear.”

Henry’s smile split his face with laugh lines. “Indeed! A very fine son. He is hale and hearty, God be praised. Another Henry. My wife insisted.”

“I’m very pleased,” said Crispin. His heart ached to see the child, but he knew he never would. “And your lady wife? Well, I pray?”

“Oh, yes. A strong lass. There will be many sons, I am certain of it.” He took up the bowl and slurped the wine, his gloved finger wiping the remnants from his mustache. “And you, Crispin? Still no wife?”

He looked away. “I cannot bring a wife to this.”

“But surely other men do as much.”

“I am not like other men.”

“Hmm. So you are not. The things you used to teach me. The things you could have taught my son. If only…” Derby sat back, appraising Crispin across the table. “Well.” He had the decency to look contrite, and Crispin’s heart ached all the more for the futility of the thought.

Crispin stared at the flames dancing up from the chunks of wood Henry had brought. The fire should have cheered him, but he knew the rumors circulating all over London. Nothing had died down from the disquiet at court of last year. In fact, the only reason Henry was in London and not in Spain in his father’s army was that he’d been appointed to command an army made up of a group of noblemen and bishops gathered by Parliament to look into the excesses of Richard’s household, to investigate his favorites, to restore order, and to force Richard to fulfill his obligations as king.

Trouble was definitely brewing. Trouble of the kind where good men took up arms and bad men gathered their own armies. Crispin smelled treason on the wind, but he wasn’t sure from which direction it blew.

It made him all the more anxious to find Henry in his home. “Your grace, why are you here?”

He seemed unaware of Crispin’s misgivings. “I’m interested in your vocation. This tracking you do. I’d like to help.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Crispin noted Jack stiffen at his place by the door.

Henry noticed, too, and tilted his head. Crispin wasn’t being as subtle as he thought. “Shall I supplant your apprentice, Crispin? After all, I can be of valuable service to you, going where you cannot.”

Jack pressed forward, his feet faltering across the plank floor. “My lord? Y-you don’t mean it? I mean, I’ve served Master Crispin for nigh on four years now.”

“By the saints, the boy is troubled.”

“No one is supplanting you, Jack. Lord Henry is jesting.”

“Not a bit of it. I came to help. Consider me your new apprentice!”

Jack’s face flushed and his hands curled into impotent fists held tight at his sides. He said nothing. What could he say against such a nobleman? Crispin didn’t find it funny. This was his livelihood, dammit. He’d be damned if it was made a point of ridicule.

He leaned forward. “God’s blood, Henry! Stop it. Even if your generous offer was sincere, I would never give up my apprentice. I trust him. He is ever loyal to me, and I know he will continue to be so to my dying breath. I will not-we will not-be made sport of.”

The young lord’s expression softened. “Ah, Crispin. You have shamed me. I did not mean to make sport of you. But I do find these things you do extremely intriguing. Who would ever have thought, eh? This private sheriffing you do. When I first heard of it, I thought it was something best left to the coroner’s jury. But you do prove to be successful time and again. And an asset to the sheriffs.”

“They are not as enamored of me as you seem to be. Very often they get in my way.”

“Do they? Well, it is a pity you are not an alderman, for you would make a very fine sheriff.”

“Perish the thought. They do little to keep the peace and have nothing whatsoever to do with bringing miscreants to justice.”

“Such savage criticism of the king’s sheriffs, Crispin. Were they not duly appointed?”

Crispin clamped his lips shut. Never should he have an argument on such topics when he had been drinking. He shoved away from the table and stood unsteadily. “My lord, forgive me for speaking out of turn. But as you see, I am not entirely … myself.”

The smirk was back as Henry rose. “Yes, I can see that,” he said into his shirt. “But I shall not be put off, Crispin. This tracking you do. How do you go about it?”

“My lord?”

“I mean, a weaver cards the wool and spins it into thread and then his thread is eased into the loom and he weaves. But you find, say, a dead man. How would you proceed? Further, from what I hear, many of your assignments seem to exclude anyone who has seen or heard anything of the crime. It is impossible, what you do. How is it done?”

He couldn’t help but be flattered by Henry’s interest, and he felt his cheeks heat up. No one had ever asked him before. Even Jack seemed to learn it by example. “I … I observe. The area around the corpse. How long ago he was killed and by what means. I ask questions and listen carefully to the answers. I am an interpreter of lies.”

“Just like the old days, eh, Crispin?”

He chuckled in spite of himself. “Yes. I find that court politics was good practice for my current vocation. And just as deadly.”

“But these questions you ask. How do you know whom to ask?”

“Sometimes the answer to that presents itself. Sometimes I stumble upon it. And sometimes I ferret it out for myself after much digging. That is what makes it rewarding, after a fashion. The work that must be done is primarily in the mind.”

Henry smiled. “I can see how that suits you. And how much…” He looked away. “How much righting wrongs suits you as well.”

Crispin nodded. He caught only a glimpse of Jack’s fond gaze. “But surely there is another motive for your being here,” he said to Henry. “After all, you are a busy man and I am not deaf to the rumors circulating throughout London. These are troubled times. And your father-”

“My father is not here,” he said, losing something of his cheer.

“And the king has said that those who oppose his … his decisions, are traitors. I know you have been appointed by these commissioners, Henry, to raise an army. If you oppose Richard, force him to do the will of Parliament, impede in any way his royal rights, then it shall be called treason. Indeed, he threatened that he was anointed by God and, as such, may dissolve Parliament.”

Derby gritted his teeth. “Just so. And even invoking the name of his sovereign ancestor Edward II in these terms was construed to be an act of treason.”

Little wonder, Crispin snorted, when Edward II was deposed for insisting on similar rights … and with fewer favorites than had Richard.

“So you will forgive me,” he said, bowing to Derby, “if I seem skeptical at your personal interest in my welfare. If there is something you want of me, you should simply ask. I think it particularly imprudent of you to come to my lodgings at this time.” He leaned forward. “You do know you might be in danger,” he said quietly. “And you are most certainly being followed.”

“Am I?” He turned toward the fire, but Crispin caught the edge of his smile. “Well, while it is true that I am occupied with curtailing the treasury and my cousin the king from imprudence, there is always time for leisure, to visit friends.” The sparkle in his eyes dimmed and he spoke confidentially, for Crispin’s ears. “But a word of caution is in order. Do take care, Crispin. Keep a sharp eye in the direction of Westminster. There’s a storm on the horizon. I do not trust Richard’s advisers. Especially those who were once loyal to my father.”

“Suffolk,” Crispin breathed.

Henry barely nodded. “Stay awake, Crispin.”

He strode to the door, stopping in front of Jack. He tapped his knuckles none too gently to the boy’s chest, making him take a step back. His smile and sparkle had returned. “Take care, young apprentice, or you shall find your shoes filled by a better man.” He laughed and opened the door. “It is good to see you, Crispin. God keep you.” His laughter echoed all the way down the stairs.

Jack went to the door and slammed it hard before he threw the bolt. He swung to face Crispin, glared at him once, before stomping to the fire. He picked up the iron and jabbed the wood with it, watching the logs crumble into glowing blocks of coal.

Crispin dragged himself wearily to the bed and sat. With a long sigh he fell back, throwing an arm over his eyes. The room felt unnaturally warm and comfortable. Enough wood in the hearth, for once, kept the small room snug while the snow fell relentlessly outside. After a long pause wherein Tucker said nothing but could be heard clanging the iron against the stone hearth, Crispin finally said, “He brought fuel, at least. We are warm, for once.”

“He’d be better than me, there’s no mistaking that.” Jack’s tone was sour and he spoke low to the fire. “He’s rich. He’s handsome. He’s better than me in every way I can think of.”

God’s blood. Jealous again? Every new person in their life lately had caused Jack to lose his nerve, to grow insecure of his place. Was it his age? Did Crispin act this way when he was fifteen? Possibly. Fifteen was a time for stretching one’s legs, for doing battle and riding furiously. Crispin had been a blur at fifteen. Why shouldn’t Jack feel anxious? “Give it a rest, Tucker. He will not replace you. For one, he is a lord and heir. Why would he content himself with doing our business? He has far more important work to do.” He winced at that. Those sentiments could have been better expressed.

Jack snorted and Crispin heard the chair creak as he leaned it back. “He shall rule the duke’s lands someday,” Jack muttered. “He is leading an army now, isn’t he? But we find murderers and stop them. Murder is a great sin. What’s more important than that?”

You are seeking a knot in a bulrush. “Be still, Jack, and stop being a fool. No one’s replacing you. Now give me a little peace so I may recover myself.”

Jack fell silent again and Crispin let his worries fall away. He let thoughts of Henry and Lancaster and treason disperse. It wasn’t long till he dozed.

He awoke with a start and saw that it was early morning. Jack was already up, casting his wash water out the back garden window. Crispin squinted at the rosy sky. Clear, at least. No snow today if God smiled on them. But he shivered at the cold draft, and Jack snapped the shutter closed.

“Good morning, Master. Should we not go in search of Madam Flamel today?”

Oh God. That hadn’t been a dream, then? He rubbed his head, shaking loose the cobwebs. “Remind me, Jack. What is it we are doing … exactly?”

With his fists at his hips, Jack glared at him. “Don’t you recall anything?”

“Well … I seem to recall … a French alchemist?” Jack nodded. “And a strange female servant?”

“Aye.”

“And then…?”

“God blind me, Master Crispin! You give a man gray whiskers. Here’s a client-a paying client-and you don’t remember?”

He cradled his head from Jack’s loud admonishment. “Give me a moment.”

“Well, I was there, too, so I can tell you all about it, I suppose.”

Jack moved about the room, fetching Crispin’s wash water and explaining about the missing wife and apprentice; how they had gone to the apprentice’s family, but the man wasn’t there. And then, as he handed Crispin a bowl of watery broth, he mentioned curtly about the unexpected visitation of Henry of Derby.

Oh, yes. Crispin seemed to remember that! He made a secret glance at Jack as he stoked the fire and noted the red tips of his ears. Crispin smiled into his bowl. A jealous Jack was an amusing one.

But none of it was amusing once they got outside. It might have been a clear day with only a wintry haze along the horizon, but it was starkly cold. His feet were already numb even under two layers of stockings.

“Tell me, Jack,” he said, climbing carefully down the stairs. “Had we any idea where to start this search?”

He still wore a hurt expression, one he seemed to hold dear from last night when Henry taunted him. “I’m not the Tracker, you are.”

Crispin would have rolled his eyes, but his head still hurt. “Very well. We could- God’s blood!”

A cluster of women chattered close together in front of the poulterer’s, vying for the plumpest hen hanging by its feet from a hook in the front of the stall, and the poulterer smiled broadly at his good fortune. But just beside them, not part of the group, stood Avelyn.

Her sparkling eyes followed Crispin as he descended the stairs, but she made no move to approach.

“What’s she doing here?” said Jack, voicing Crispin’s thoughts.

“I don’t know.” They both stood on their own patches of dirty snow, regarding each other across the lane. But the longer they stood at this silent battle, the more foolish Crispin felt. “She doesn’t seem to have anything to offer. Let us go, Jack.”

As he threw his hood up over his head, his foot hit the street and sank into the cart-rutted snow. Slyly, he looked back over his shoulder. Avelyn hadn’t moved. Very well, then.

Of course, he had no idea where he was going. It seemed foolish to simply wander all over London looking for a lost wife. Though more likely, she had returned. If the servant Avelyn were only able to talk, he might have asked her. He stopped and whipped around, looking for her tiny frame, but she was no longer standing in the drift by the poulterer’s.

He supposed it might be best to see this Nicholas Flamel again to find out what had transpired.

He turned and headed toward the Fleet. Shopkeepers set out their wares. A baker’s apprentice wandered the streets with a heavy canvas bag slung across his shoulder. Inside were warm meat pies and small loaves of maslin. Whenever he was stopped to sell his wares, the apprentice opened the flap of the bag and steam arose, sending the tantalizing whiff of fresh bread and meat spices into the air.

The broth seemed a mere memory in Crispin’s belly, and his mouth watered to smell the aromas.

Along the way, Crispin let the familiar scenes of an awakening London trickle past him. A master here and an apprentice there, plying their trade in open doorways. Braziers burned with sticks and dung along the avenues, and travelers warmed their hands and faces over the smoky fires.

He passed a familiar shop with its heavy posts in each corner. Crispin had passed it hundreds of times, perhaps a thousand times, without giving it thought. But this time, he came to an abrupt halt. Walking backward, he returned to stare at the dark wood of the corner post. It rose to the second story with white lime plaster swathed in between window and corner. He’d never had reason to take note of it before, but today, carved crudely into the wood, was a set of strange symbols.

He approached and raised his hand. Cold fingertips slid over the crudely carved shapes. “Jack,” he said softly, “am I imagining this, or…” He had been about to ask if the symbols had always been there only he had never noticed. But the truth was under his fingers, for the carving was new and even left a splinter in his skin.

He rubbed it free and studied the wall. Jack came up beside him.

“What is that, Master?”

“I don’t know. It is writing of some sort. Reminds me of something.” Try as he might, he could not recall the memory.

Dismissing it, he turned and suddenly came face-to-face with Avelyn. Her unexpected appearance disconcerted him.

“What do you want, wench?” He realized even as he said it that she could not hear him.

But her face was drawn in consternation and she grabbed his arm, yanking him forward.

Reflexively, he pulled away from her, but she was not put off. She leapt up and grabbed him again, jerking his arm hard.

“What the devil-”

Jack grabbed her shoulders and pulled her back, but she spun in his arms and elbowed him in the gut with surprising strength. Jack doubled with the blow, and she seized Crispin’s arm again, pulling him into the middle of the lane.

“I’m going to go with her, Jack. Are you all right?”

The boy sputtered and staggered after him. “Aye … Master. God’s teeth but she’s got a sharp jab.”

Crispin let himself be dragged along. It was useless trying to slide her grip from him. She’d only grasp on again like a limpet.

They were steadily making their way to the alchemist’s shop. Passersby stared at them with amusement, but Crispin was far from amused. He’d give the man a piece of his mind for his servant’s actions!

They turned the corner and she let Crispin go to run to the shop. She stood at the door, looking back at Crispin and beckoning with urgency. Crispin felt compelled to trot forward, his heart thumping faster, a strange feeling stirring in his gut.

When she opened the door, he stopped dead.

The alchemist sat on the floor on his knees, weeping. Above him, swinging gently back and forth, hung a young man.

Upside down he hung, his left leg bent and tied behind his right to form a triangle. He’d been hung by his left foot, which was wrapped with a heavy rope leading up to the rafter beam.

And on his chest a dagger was thrust through, holding in place a piece of parchment with dark writing and a blotch of blood.