Shadow of the Alchemist

6

“What … what are you doing here, your grace?” Crispin looked toward the niche and the velvet pouch he could just see under the statue’s shadow. But then his gaze traveled back to the man before him.

Henry gazed at him mildly, his eyes flicking to the dagger on the floor. “Pick up your weapon, Crispin. And for God’s sake, sheathe it.”

Stiffly, Crispin crouched and retrieved his blade, absently shoving it in its scabbard. Mouth dry, heart pounding, he faced Henry again. “What are you doing here?” All other questions seemed to have been chased from his mind. This was the only question he wanted, needed, to know the answer to.

Henry smiled, but it didn’t make it to his eyes. “Why, I am merely paying my respects to Saint Paul. What else would I be doing?”

Crispin peered over his shoulder at the many men in the nave, some still regarding them with curious or alarmed expressions. His mind snapped back to the problem. Henry had clearly been reaching for the ransom. He had known it was there. And the only reason for knowing it was there was that he had told Flamel to put it there.

His voice was hoarse when he finally said, “My lord, what were you doing at this particular statue … at this particular time of day?”

Henry’s expression had been placid, but as Crispin observed, it slowly darkened. His eyes shuttered, became unreadable. “My time is my own, Crispin. I need not detail my itinerary to anyone. Even you.”

“It is just that … just that … God’s blood, Henry. I know why you are here. You must tell me the truth!”

“I must?” His voice took on the quality of his father’s. With a simple lowering of a brow and the stern pronouncement of one word, he could make it plain that he was the son of a duke and Crispin was far lower. “Master Guest, I do not think that I must do anything of the kind.”

“M-my lord,” he tried again. Instinct made him lower his eyes, but his own pride made him raise them again and his chin as well. “My lord, a man was brutally murdered and another man’s innocent wife is in the hands of a foul abductor, awaiting a ransom left here at the foot of this statue. What can you tell me of these monstrous events?”

Henry’s expression never wavered. “Indeed? Interesting tidings, Crispin. What makes you think I would have any knowledge of such doings?”

“Because you are here!” he hissed, losing patience, heart aching at the same time. “And you knew where the ransom was kept.”

“Did I?”

“Yes! Why are you toying with me? I caught you in the act of seizing it. For the love of all the saints, Henry, tell me.”

“I do not know your meaning, Master Guest.” The formality drew thick around him, like a cloak of ermine. It reminded Crispin that Henry was no longer the boy he had known, with flushed cheeks and ready hugs for his household companion. He was a man of duty now, a man with great responsibilities and the power to back it up.

“And know this,” he went on in a cool, emotionless tone. “Remember to whom you are speaking.” He stepped closer, his face so close to Crispin’s that Crispin could count the freckles on his nose. He spoke with a steady whisper. “Do not get in my way or you shall regret it.” He dealt one last look of finality, turned on his heel, and stalked away.

Crispin let out his breath in one long cloud. With his heart breaking, he watched Henry retreat. Surely not. Surely Henry was not involved in murder and abduction. But Henry was a powerful lord. He was the head of these commissioners, above even that of his own uncle, the duke of Gloucester. Did it have to do with this commission? What if he should need an army of his own, as the sheriffs hinted at? He would need money for such a venture. And to extort such funds from a French citizen seemed rich indeed. Yes, soldiers were not above taking noblemen for ransom, even killing their retainers to do it. But to abduct Madam Flamel seemed outrageous. Yet Henry must have known of the stone broach, else why choose this secretive man, this alchemist? The stone came from King Charles of France. Was it because of the broach’s provenance?

Feeling sick in his gut and in his heart, Crispin turned to leave but stopped and noticed with some small relief that the velvet bag was still there. For all Henry’s posturing, he had not bothered to take it. Had he been embarrassed to do so in front of Crispin? Crispin took it and placed it into his scrip.

He trudged through the dirty snow back to Fleet Ditch, looking at no one, mind a whirl. The alchemist’s shop came into view and he knocked hesitantly on the door. It flung open and Avelyn was there. She grabbed his arm and dragged him in.

The room had been straightened, debris removed and furniture put back to what it once was. Flamel sat at his worktable, but it didn’t look as if he was working. He raised his head, an anxious expression parting his dry lips.

Crispin bowed his head. “He … failed to arrive.” From inside his pouch, he brought up the velvet bag and laid it gently on the table. Flamel stared at it. “But we must not give up, Master Flamel. There is more to learn. I will discover her whereabouts and return her unharmed to you. That, I vow.”

Flamel shot to his feet. “Mon Dieu! Vierge Marie, what shall I do? Ma chère Perenelle! Maître Guest! I fear greatly for her life. What must I do? Help me, please!”

“Master Flamel, you must gird yourself, sir. All is not lost.” He hoped. He did not yet know Henry’s game, but he would soon learn it. And he hadn’t forgotten the preacher’s words. That man knew something, too. Were they working together? It seemed an absurd notion, but Crispin had encountered far stranger things in the past. He’d find out more when next he spoke to Jack Tucker.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Avelyn take the discarded velvet bag and slip the stone from it, but it was not the sapphire broach Crispin had seen before. Like a flash of lightning, his hand shot out and closed over her wrist. He squeezed tight, forcing her hand open, and a plain piece of river stone lay there. “Master Flamel!” He snatched the stone from her hand and held it up to him. “What is this deception?”

The alchemist’s eyes widened like bezants. “Oh. I … I hoped to buy us time.”

“Buy you time? By giving your extortionist a false ransom?”

He looked toward Avelyn as if she could help him. She answered by kicking Crispin in the shin.

“Ow! You bitch!” He grabbed her before she could escape and slapped her across the face. She was momentarily off balance but soon righted herself and turned her face obstinately back at him … before stomping on his foot.

He stumbled backward. “Dammit! Stop that!”

Wrestling her arm free of him, she glared. His handprint on her cheek changed from pink to red.

“Call off your mastiff,” he growled.

Flamel moved like a much older man around the table and rested his hands on her shoulders. His mere touch seemed to calm her, and her tensed shoulders dropped back to their normal posture. But she still glared at Crispin.

“She seems to know what we are saying,” he said, watching her warily. His foot and shin both throbbed.

Flamel sighed. “She reads the movement of our lips. She can understand both French and English, possibly other languages as well, though she cannot hear them. Very accomplished is my Avelyn. I do not know how or when she learned it.”

“But you speak to her with your hands.”

“Yes. It was she who taught me that.”

He looked at her anew and she offered a smug smile. It seemed she did know what they were saying. He gave her a sneer in return.

“Be that as it may,” said Crispin, moving out of range of Avelyn’s feet, “I do not understand why you would risk the life of your wife with a false ransom. How did you hope to buy time with a simple stone instead of the valuable jewel he wanted? This might have angered him, forced his hand.”

“You don’t understand, Maître Guest.”

“No, I don’t. And I like all this even less. You are keeping information from me, and that might cost Madam Flamel her life. If you do not wish to aid me, then there is little I can do for you.”

The alchemist wrung his hands. “If only I could explain it all, Maître. But I cannot. There are ancient secrets that must be kept. Alchemists swear oaths to keep these secrets sacred. Even for the life of my dear Perenelle, I may not divulge all. She would surely understand that. If only you could believe me. And trust me. Please. You must help me.”

Crispin raked his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know how to help you if you will not tell me the truth.” Though he, too, was keeping secrets from Flamel. For could Henry of Bolingbroke be both a murderer and an abductor?

No. He refused to believe it. Though he had often allowed the people he trusted to deceive him, he was also a good judge of character, and this did not fit in with Henry’s character at all. He was as wealthy as they came. He wouldn’t need to extort an expensive broach from some unknown alchemist. Even if that broach did come from the King of France. Henry was in charge of an army. And even if he needed an additional one, one for himself for selfish purposes, he still wouldn’t need another man’s money to do it. No, something else was afoot here. Something more. If Flamel would not tell him, he would find it out for himself.

He breathed, calming down. “Very well. Since the exchange did not go as planned, we must await a message from the abductor. I believe it will be soon.” Avelyn had moved closer to Flamel and was petting his arm soothingly. Crispin tapped the table in front of her and she looked up at him. “Take care of your master,” he said. He was amazed when she nodded.

“Master Flamel, I must go. Alert me when you receive another message. Do nothing until you talk to me.”

“Yes, Maître. I swear I will.”

Crispin nodded, bowed, and left.

He stood in the street, inhaling deeply of the heavy cold. Now that he thought on it, Henry’s visit to the Shambles seemed even stranger. Had he been trying to warn Crispin? Or trying to see what he knew? But this was before the dead man was discovered or the note about the ransom. The uncertainty gave him a headache.

He walked on, and when he finally turned the corner of the Shambles, he halted. Both sheriffs sat in their saddles. Their horses bowed their heads, snuffling for dead grass through the snow. The sheriffs’ gazes fell on Crispin, but they did not beckon him. What else would they be doing in the Shambles except to watch him? Did they not trust he would do his best to find the killer? They’d seen him accomplish as much before and were as ungrateful each time.

He bowed slightly to them and they pointedly turned away, refusing to acknowledge him. “Whoresons,” Crispin muttered, and continued on to his lodgings.

He made a quick stop at a meat pie seller, handing over his coins and taking the greasy pastry in exchange. The pie warmed his fingers and he was grateful for that as he trudged up the stairs, hoping Jack would be there. But when he opened the door, he found Avelyn stoking his fire instead. “God’s blood!” How had she gotten here so fast? He stomped toward her and she turned, perhaps sensing his steps through the floor. The fire lit a halo of her already fair hair. Her eyes took him in and a small smile graced her face. She still looked elfin, like a changeling, yet he could appreciate her more feminine charms. And she was using them, either consciously or as part of her nature. Much softer than he intended, he asked, “Why are you here? You should be by your master, easing his anxiety.”

She smiled and simply knelt by the fire. He noticed she had a pot of wine steaming there and grabbed the pot’s handle with the rolled-up hem of her apron and poured its contents into a bowl. How had she accomplished so much in so little time? She must have raced here when Crispin left the alchemist.

With a smile, she offered the bowl to him. Disconcerted, he took it reluctantly. “Yes … thank you.” He sipped the hot wine. It felt good as it warmed. He set it aside and sat on his chair, leaning toward her. “You must not stay.” She turned to the fire again and he tapped her shoulder. “I say, you must not stay. You must return to your master. He needs you.”

She shook her head and got up on her knees, touching his to keep herself steady. Her fingers fluttered as she tried to speak her hand language, but he closed his larger hands over her petite ones. “No. I don’t understand you.”

She sighed and clasped her delicate fingers together. After merely looking at him for a long moment, she rose again and made more motions, seemed to act out something, but it still made no sense to Crispin.

“I’m sorry. But I do not understand you. I thank you for the wine, but it might be best to return to-” She laid her fingers to his lips. When he stopped speaking, the fingers slowly withdrew. She touched the bowl, made a motion with her fingers, and then waited. She repeated and waited again expectantly.

“Are you … trying to teach me?” She made the motion a third time and, tentatively, he imitated it.

A broad smile broke out on her face and she repeated the motion. He did a better job of imitating her and she clapped her hands. She jumped to her feet and pointed to the hearth, making a motion with her fingers. And then she pointed to the candle flame. Her fingers meant “fire,” he supposed, and, feeling slightly foolish, he made the motion back. She smiled again and treated many objects in the room in the same way, going to the next only when he made the correct motion.

The strange language intrigued him. He’d always enjoyed learning languages, and this was no different. He marveled at the simplicity of the movements, which reminded him of some of the dancing movements he’d seen in miracle plays. She cupped her hand for the bowl, she wiggled her fingers to represent fire or flames, the same movement only downward represented water. Over and over she’d teach him simple words, the movements a poetic accompaniment to each object she’d encounter.

She laughed her braying laugh again and settled with a flourish of skirts at his feet, hands resting on his knees.

“Where do you come from?” he said to her when she looked up at him with laughing eyes. “Did you come from France?”

She nodded, hands still on his knees. He looked down at her tapered fingers curled around his joints. She tapped his knee and made a motion. He repeated, for if he didn’t, she would repeat it endlessly as if he were a dim child.

She sat up and slid her hands from his knees over his thighs. Her smile was softer and her eyes shadowed by her lashes. She tapped his leg and made a sign. He repeated it.

She scooted closer, touched his chest, and made the sign. She did not wait for him to repeat it when she reached up and touched his lips. She quickly made the sign with her other hand but did not take her fingers away. The fingers began a slow caress. He gave her a small smile and gently took her wrist, removing her hand. But as soon as he released her, her fingers were back, touching his lips and then his chin, the pads of her fingers catching on the stubble.

She withdrew a moment to touch her chest and made the sign of her name.

His voice was roughened when he pointed to himself. “I am Crispin.”

She made a sign for it and he repeated it.

She touched her lips and then touched his and made a sign.

“I don’t understand.”

She repeated the sign, repeated touching her lips and then his. He could not help but lean forward. “I’m sorry. I don’t think … I don’t understand.”

Her hand closed on his coat and dragged him forward. He nearly fell out of his chair when she pulled him farther until his lips touched hers. Startled, he tried to pull away, but her grip on his coat was surprisingly strong. She was gentle as their mouths slid together and then, teasingly, barely touched.

“Avelyn,” he murmured, lips tingling against her nibbling mouth. He took her upper arms in a gentle grasp, trying to push her back. “Avelyn, you shouldn’t be here.” She should be with her master. This was foolish. But the softness of her mouth, moving gently, patiently, over his, as patient as the motions and signs she taught him, grew captivating. Their noses prodded each other. He held his breath when she angled her head and pressed more firmly, hot breath searing his mouth. His lids drifted closed. Slowly, she opened her lips with maddening tenderness. Her tongue caressed. He resisted, but she swiped her tongue over his mouth again before snaking it forward, breaching the seam of his lips. She barely touched the tip of her tongue to his, but all at once, it seemed to be the invitation Crispin was waiting for. His arms enveloped her and he opened his mouth to cover hers.

He inhaled her warm scent and clenched his eyes, feeling little but their wet brush of tongues and the warmth of her breath on his cheek.

Her fingers unwound from his coat and slid up his chest, arms moving around his neck. Her body was suddenly pressed tight to the length of his. Small breasts crushed against his chest, and her spindly arms embraced. He pulled her up until he was sitting back against the chair and she was standing between his spread legs.

They kissed deeply with a mutual need that sent Crispin’s senses spiraling upward. Lips and mouths slid together and they knew nothing but each other’s breath and taste, felt their two bodies react to each other. His hands eased over her shoulders, back, buttocks.

He stood and held fast to her lithe frame, holding her so that her feet lifted from the floor. She was so small, like a child, and her kisses, too, were like a child’s in their sweetness while at the same time like a woman’s in their bold exploration.

He swung her around to the table and laid her down, pushing up her skirts, but she shook her head, rolling it from side to side, nearly toppling the candle. He drew back, perplexed, and she sat up, hopping off. Her wicked smile was back and she curled her fingers over Crispin’s belt and dragged him toward the bed.

He followed without complaint and stood over her as she sat on the straw-stuffed mattress. She busily unbuckled his belt and let it fall to the floor, then began on the buttons of his cotehardie from the bottom up, determined, it seemed, to unbutton each and every one slowly but efficiently.

She stood and peeled the coat off his shoulders and let that, too, fall. Digging into the laces of his linen chemise, she spread open the neckline and used both hands to push the fabric up his chest until Crispin took the hint and lifted it over his head himself, letting it join the cotehardie.

Standing in only his braies, stockings, and boots, he reached for her, but she stretched her open hands over his chest, sliding her fingers through his dark chest hair before they found the many scars puckering his flesh. Her fingers, touching light as a butterfly’s wings, skimmed over the knife wounds, the sword cuts, the burn marks of torture.

They told the story of his life, and her fingers moved over them as if reading their tales. He stiffened and didn’t move as her hands and fingers paused over each one. Her gaze was intent on his skin with parted mouth, until those large, luminous eyes flicked up to his face.

Her brow furrowed and she gestured as if to ask, “Why?”

He closed his hand over hers and breathed again, holding her small hand against his chest, which was rising and falling vigorously. “I was once a man of great property and responsibility. I was a knight. But I chose an ill-considered path and lost it all.”

She pulled her fingers loose from his hand and sketched the scars from the torture of ten years ago. “Yes,” he said quietly. “Those were inflicted upon me. They were deserved. I committed treason, after all. But I live, as you can see.”

Her face expressed her disbelief, but he offered a grim smile. “It’s quite true, I assure you.” He sat on the bed beside her. Her head came only to his shoulder. She wore no veil, and he looked down upon the shiny crown of her hair. It was gathered in one large plait at the back of her neck. He lifted it, feeling the heavy, silky braid. He wrapped it around his wrist, toying with it.

She reached around, grabbed the end of the braid, and slowly began to unwind it.

He watched her for some moments. Each strand of hair that was freed kinked and lay raggedly on her shoulder. His fingers found them and he ran the silken strands over the calluses on his palms and fingertips. “I know nothing about you,” he said, though she wasn’t watching his lips as he said it, so he knew she could not “hear” him. “You are from France, but that is all I know. I don’t know your age or your family or … anything else.”

She pulled her fingers through her hair, loosening it all, and shook it out. White hair, fine like spun silk, drifted over his hands, a waterfall of elfin silver. He twisted it in his fist and bent her head back, leaned in, and kissed her again. Her fingernails ran hard over his bare skin, raising gooseflesh.

He drew back. His fingers caressed her face where the red mark from his hand was fading. “I’m sorry for this.”

She blinked slowly and looked up at him with drowsy lids, breath slipping over her parted lips. Her tongue poked out and licked them to dampness, and he decided to speak no more.

He unbuttoned her cotehardie, laying open the rough-spun material and pushing it down her shoulders. She shifted to slip it farther. He didn’t wait. He attacked the laces of her chemise and opened it wide, reaching in with his hands and closing them on her small white breasts.

His face fell to her neck, nuzzling the musky scent of her. The fine strands of her hair fell over his nose and cheeks. She was silent, except for her ragged breathing and small sighs.