Shadow of the Alchemist

8

Spent, with a sheen of sweat cooling on his skin, Crispin lay back on the bed with Avelyn tucked into the crook of his neck. She was signing again, giggling as she showed him new words for impolite things.

She must have felt him chuckle against her face, and she raised her head. Her silvery blond hair lay in disarray over her shoulders, framing her petite breasts and small, round belly. Her smile was bright. Pearly teeth caught the firelight. “Who are you?” He felt soft and warm against her, and utterly relaxed. He pointed to her chest and enunciated. “Who … are … you?”

She frowned and signed the motion for “Avelyn.” He shook his head. “No. Who is…” And he made the sign for her name instead of pointing.

She seemed especially pleased by that and leaned in quickly to kiss his mouth. His hand slid along her flank, down her hip, and over the swell of her bum before she drew beyond his reach when she pulled swiftly back, sitting cross-legged. She did not seem burdened by the cold, sitting naked, clothed only in her long hair. Shadows hid her privities, though irregular wavering hearth light lit in brief flickers the tuft of ash blond curls directly below her belly. He watched her with languid eyes.

Her hands tried to explain, but he was not versed in the intricacies of her alien language. He allowed her frustration for several slow breaths before he grabbed her and pulled her back against him. “No more talking,” he said to the top of her head. “With your hands or without.” He tilted up her chin and repeated himself to her bright gaze. “No more talking. You must leave soon to return to your master. What if he received a message while you were gone?”

She blew out a sigh and began signing again. He closed a hand over hers. “No more. Sleep a little, eh?”

She tried to continue to sign, but his hand squeezed hers and he pulled her down beside him. His eyes drifted shut.

Crispin awoke sometime in the middle of the night. Avelyn still lay beside him, and in the light of the glowing ashes, he saw the shape of Jack Tucker, snuggled down in his pile of straw in the opposite corner.

He should have sent her on her way instead of selfishly holding her to him. There was little to be done about it now. He wanted to hear Jack’s news as well, but that would also have to wait. He lay back and stared up into the gloom of the rafters. Avelyn stirred, mewling like a kitten, and suddenly her bright eyes opened and she moved, propping her chin on his chest.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispered.

She merely smiled under heavy-lidded eyes. Still keeping his gaze, she bent her head and kissed his chest, lips trailing over his flesh until she reached a nipple and took it between her teeth. He hissed at the sensation that shot to his belly and lower. Eyes darting quickly toward Jack, still snoring, he grasped the blanket and threw it over their heads before he nuzzled his face into the warm softness of her body.

Crispin yawned into the rosy light of morning drifting in through the shutters. Jack stood stiffly, pissed into the chamber pot beside his bed of straw, and scratched his backside. Yawning as he finished his business, he shuffled toward the fire and picked up the poker. Sleepily, he jabbed it into the ashes before leaning it against the hearth and grabbing a small square of peat and a few sticks. He placed them on the glowing coals and blew on it until it sparked to a quick flame. More sticks and one of Henry’s quartered logs made for cozy warmth and light.

It was then that Avelyn jumped out of bed and stretched her small limbs. She was naked and the firelight flickered over her pale, smooth skin.

Jack’s head snapped toward her and his jaw dropped open and remained that way as, unconcerned, she stretched again and languidly bent to pull on her shift.

Crispin shivered at the cold and tugged on his own shirt, forcing himself out of bed. He stood with his backside toward the fire. “Morning, Jack.”

“Good morn, M-Master Crispin. Er…”

She offered a lazy smile and a wink to Jack and leaned her head against Crispin’s chest as they both stood by the fire, warming themselves.

“Should I … er…”

“You should heat the water,” said Crispin with a smile.

“Erm … right.” Jack scrambled for the bucket by the door, broke through the thin layer of ice, and poured a splashing dollop into an iron pot. He dragged the cauldron to the fire, kicked the trivet over the flames, and set the pot atop it.

He turned back to them, staring, eyes traveling particularly over Avelyn and her shift, which was not as opaque as Crispin would have liked.

Crispin tapped her shoulder. “Your gown. Are you not cold?”

She smirked and bent to retrieve Crispin’s braies and stockings, balled them into a bundle, and shoved them into his hands. Next she retrieved her own cotehardie and shook it out before shrugging into it.

Crispin casually donned his braies and then the stockings, tying each to the linen underwear.

With her undone buttons still gaping her gown, Avelyn handed Crispin his cotehardie and helped him slip an arm in each sleeve. She took her time buttoning it up, from the hem, lingering at his groin, then up his torso, and at last to his throat.

“Thank you,” he said, and finger-spoke it at the same time. She kissed him as a reward, and Jack made a squeak.

“What’s that, Tucker?”

“I … uh … I…”

“How’s that water coming?”

His eyes flicked to the steaming cauldron while Avelyn took up the chamber pot and retreated outside and downstairs, presumably to the privy in the back garden.

“What’s she doing here?” he rasped as the door closed. Crispin gave him a lopsided grin and Tucker scowled. “Never mind. I can see for myself.”

Crispin chuckled.

“So you can speak her finger language now, eh? Amazing what a night of concentration will do for a man.”

He cuffed the boy good-naturedly, and Jack chuckled with him.

“Just a few words,” said Crispin. “Not enough to have a proper conversation, as I suspect she was trying to do.” He frowned. “But you had your own course yesterday. Tell me, what did you discover?”

With a cloth wrapped around the pot’s bail handle, Jack lifted the cauldron from the fire and poured half of the water into the shaving basin. He returned the pot to the fire and shuffled to the back window where the wine jug sat, took it to the fire, and poured some into the remaining hot water.

“Well,” he said, swirling the water and wine in the pot. The steam curled around his face. “I returned to that preacher fellow and listened to more wailing and accusations. I don’t know if he’s right, sir. I don’t know if a man will go to Hell if he don’t take the path he was talking about. I mean, men like us, we do our best, do we not?”

“That is true, Jack. We do our best, we say our prayers, we ask forgiveness of the Almighty, and we serve the least of our brothers. What more can a man do?”

“Just so. But that man didn’t have no good words for nobody. According to him, we’re all going to Hell, no matter what.”

“That may be true for some, Jack. For those who do not repent.”

Jack glanced over his shoulder toward the door just as Avelyn returned. “Repent, eh?” He grinned.

Crispin was tempted to snap his belt at the boy but buckled it around his waist instead. He unbuttoned the sleeves of his coat, pushed up his shirtsleeves, and dipped his cupped hands into the basin of hot water, sluicing his face. He reached for the soap cake and the razor, but Avelyn was faster and urged him to sit.

Jack looked on amused as he poured the hot watered wine into two bowls. He sipped his and slid the other near Crispin. Crispin first offered it to Avelyn, who shook her head vigorously while she readied his razor.

Jack gestured with his steaming bowl. “Do you suppose she knows what she’s doing?”

Crispin sipped the warmed wine, savoring the heat. “We’ll soon see. Either I will be well shaved or no longer burdened of this workaday world.”

Jack hovered, suddenly looking worried. Crispin kept his expression neutral as the woman, with fierce concentration, steadily ran the razor over his soaped-up jawline.

“You were telling me of the preaching man, Jack.”

“Oh, aye.” He sat back, sipped his wine, and then set the bowl down with his hand still wrapped around it. “Robert Pickthorn is the scoundrel’s name. He is a lay preacher. New to London. I followed him as he preached. Didn’t even stop to take a piss. He talked on and on. And then he just … disappeared.”

“What do you mean?”

“The crowd had gathered, he said his piece, and then, even as I watched, he slipped away.”

Crispin jerked in his seat. Deftly, Avelyn took the razor away from his skin before he cut himself. He pushed her back and wiped his face with a rag. “He what?”

“I’m sorry, Master, but he got away. I questioned all and sundry, but no one had seen him go and none knew where he lives. I searched and searched.”

“And when was it that he disappeared, Jack? What time of day?”

“Well, let me think.” He scratched his head. “Round about Sext, by the church bells ringing not long thereafter.” He looked up, alert. “What of the ransom drop, sir? What happened? After I searched for the whoreson, I returned to Master Flamel’s shop in the hopes that you would be there, but you had gone. He said … he said the man had failed to show. Is that what happened, sir?”

Crispin stood at the table and consumed the rest of his now lukewarm wine. “Not exactly. Someone did come to claim the ransom.”

Jack finished and set his bowl aside. “Well? Who was it?”

The sick sensation swooped in his belly again. “It was Henry Bolingbroke,” he said, voice rough.

“Oh, Master! It couldn’t have been.”

With a surge of frustration, he heaved his wooden bowl into a corner. Wine fanned across the table. The bowl clattered against the floor, spun, and finally came to rest. “It was him, dammit! Don’t you think I know my own-” Family? Charge? Whatever it was he meant to say died in the smoky room.

“But why, sir?”

“I don’t know. I … I confronted him. He told me in so many words to back off. That I was not seeing what I thought I was seeing, or some such nonsense. He claimed to know nothing of the ransom, but he was there, Jack, at the statue with his hand there at Saint Paul’s feet, as guilty as any rogue. He knew. I know he did.”

Jack slumped onto his stool. “Blind me.” He shook his head in disbelief and stared at the floor.

He and Crispin both looked over at Avelyn as she noisily mopped up the spilled wine and retrieved the upturned bowl. She turned it in her hands, looking for cracks, he presumed. Satisfied, she returned it to the pantry shelf and waited, looking only at Crispin.

“You must go home now, Avelyn.” He made the hand movements for “home.” Jack watched, rapt.

She stubbornly shook her head and made a series of signs.

“I don’t understand you,” he growled. He took her by the shoulders and propelled her roughly toward the door. “You must leave!”

She shook him off and gritted her teeth in frustration. She looked around the room and ran from corner to corner, etching more signs on the walls with her fingers.

“She’s gone mad,” said Jack in a whisper.

“She is trying to tell me something, but I don’t have time to decipher it.” He ran his hand over his face. He had passed quite a pleasant night with her. It cheered his heart and made some of the pain go away, but now the light of day had arrived and the fancies of the night were best forgotten.

Night. He looked at his apprentice, who kept his eyes on the young woman. “Where were you most of the night, Jack?”

“I was at Master Flamel’s, sir. I thought I should await a message from the abductor since the ransom was not taken.”

“And was there a message?”

“No, sir. None. And Master Flamel was having a right fit. I spent most of the night calming him down. I thought to spend the night, as Avelyn had not returned.…’Course, now I see why. But I thought you would want me back, so though it was late, I returned. But Master Crispin, if it was Lord Henry in St. Paul’s to collect the ransom and you caught him at it-”

“I am not convinced he is involved.”

“Oh. Well. Perhaps. But if not him, then who?”

“I don’t know. They want this precious stone. And yet Flamel exchanged the ransom for one of no value. He told me it was to buy time, but that is a very unsatisfactory answer.”

“Wait,” said Jack, eyes pinging back and forth between Avelyn’s still frantic movements and Crispin’s stillness. “Why would Lord Henry have need for a valuable commodity such as that broach? He has his own wealth, almost as rich as the duke.”

“I know. I did wonder that, too. Which makes me all the more convinced that Henry had little to do with it.”

“A coincidence his being there, then?”

“No, not a coincidence. I don’t believe in those.”

“What, then?”

“I haven’t worked it out yet, Jack. What of this Robert Pickthorn? He left about the time the ransom was to be collected.”

“Did you see him at the cathedral, sir?”

He slammed his fist to the table. “I must admit, once I laid eyes upon Henry I did not look anywhere else. He could have been there and I missed it. But once I left, I took the ransom with me. The false ransom, that is.”

“‘Buy him time.’ What could that mean?”

“I don’t know. Best to- Will you stop that, you insufferable woman!”

But of course, Avelyn could not hear him as she continued her strange dramatics. Finally, she threw herself at his feet, hiked up her skirts, and lay on the floor.

Jack backed away. “What is she doing now? Is it a fit?”

But Crispin finally looked. She had positioned herself upside down, head at his feet, with one leg crooked behind the other … just as the dead apprentice had looked. “Jack, she’s showing us Thomas Cornhill.”

“The dead man?”

“Yes.”

Once she saw that Crispin understood, she jerked her head in a nod, jumped to her feet, and began to repeat her wall drawing in the corners.

“Wait. Jack, those drawings. She is trying to show us something of those symbols. I have seen them in several spots throughout London.” Two strides took him across the room. He grabbed her arms and spun her to face him. To her eyes he said carefully, “Avelyn, what is it you wish to show me?”

She made a huffing noise and nodded, satisfied at last. Grabbing her cloak from the peg, she cast open the door, and headed quickly down the stairs.

Crispin looked at Jack, and as one, they both grabbed their cloaks and bolted after her.

She ran through the gently falling snow, her footsteps disappearing as she fled over the whitened streets. They ran after her, and when she stopped at a corner, pointing at the carvings in the wood, Crispin knew he had been right. It was possible she had tried to get him to understand her last night, tried to make him go out to show him, but she had distracted him, as a pretty face was wont to do. Careless, to be so distracted when a woman’s life was at stake.

When the preacher Robert Pickthorn pointed out the sigils as the Devil’s work and looked directly at Crispin and described a man hanging by his heel, that’s when he had made the tenuous leap that the symbols might be related to the apprentice’s death and to Madam Flamel’s disappearance. But was it warranted?

Avelyn kept prodding the carvings with her finger until he drew nearer, examining them. They did not look like any writing he understood. How many of these were there? And what did they mean?

Before he had a chance to speculate, she grabbed his hand and ran with him down the lane, with Jack close on their heels.

Down lane after lane they trotted, until finally she pointed ahead to a stone archway and pulled Crispin up to it. His fingers traced the etchings. Different from the ones before. And someone had tried to scratch these out.

She tried to grab him and pull him again, but Crispin stopped her, turned her to him. “Avelyn, do you know what these mean? Do they have to do with Madam Perenelle?”

She didn’t seem certain but insisted he follow. “Wait, wait, Avelyn. Please.” She stopped and looked at him questioningly, blinking the snow from her pale lashes. “I need a way to decipher these. Can you help me?”

She thought a moment, gnawing on one of her red-chapped knuckles. Her eyes brightened and she grabbed his sleeve again, pulling him along. He took her hand from his sleeve and smiled. “I can follow, you know.”

She laughed that rough, alien laugh and hurried forward, looking back from time to time to make certain that he was there.

Jack came up beside him, eyes on Avelyn. “She’s a ball of fire, isn’t she?”

“Indeed,” he said with more passion than he meant to reveal.

Tucker laughed. “You do find them, don’t you, Master? Or they manage to find you. Ah me. You expend your energies teaching me languages and how to read and write. But surely you can spare the time to tutor me in this, sir.”

“You’re a knave, Tucker. I have no wish to be your whoremaster.”

Jack laughed again. Avelyn frowned when she turned back to look at them. Impatiently, she tapped her foot.

She proceeded on and they grew quiet as they moved through the streets full of citizens at their daily tasks. A man moved his oxcart by tapping the beasts with a stick on the oxen’s rumps. Under an ale stake jutting into the street, servants shouted the praises of their master’s alehouse. A pelt merchant held aloft his wares hanging from racks on poles and he walked up and down the avenue, carrying it like a banner into battle. The food merchants, the water carriers, the servants hauling fuel upon braces on their backs. Through all of that, Crispin still noticed them. The shadowy figures trailing along the edges, slipping into the alleys, standing in the closes. Shadows that followed them no matter what street they turned down. He elbowed Jack and gave a flick of his head. The boy was quick to get his meaning and take notice. Surreptitiously, they both watched the figures follow. Crispin counted three and opened that number of fingers in his hand at his flank on the side facing Jack, tapping them until the boy saw and barely nodded.

Three, then. Crispin allowed Avelyn to lead him. He hoped it wasn’t to a trap.

They wove through the people down a narrow lane, and Avelyn finally stopped before a door. Above the lintel hung a wooden sign covered with snow. A symbol was painted on both sides of its worn surface:

Crispin moved toward the door, but Jack held him back. “Master Crispin,” he whispered. He eyed the sign fearfully, almost afraid to take his eyes from it. “You’re not going in there, are you? That … that’s the Devil’s sign.”

“Don’t be a fool, Tucker. That is the symbol for Mercury, a well-known alchemical sign. She has brought us to another alchemist.”

He stepped forward under the creaking wooden sign, feeling a chill as he passed under it, and pushed open the door. A small shop. A curtain covered another doorway. Barring the way stood a sturdy table. More small tables and shelves lined the walls, with canisters and ceramic pots on shelves. A tripod was pushed as far into the hearth as it could go next to the blackened plaster of the wall. On the tripod hung a cauldron on a chain. The contents bubbled with chunks of unidentifiable objects roiling to the surface, only to sink below the shivering liquid. The stench coming from it made him wince. A crucible with dried yellowish matter that smelled of rotten eggs sat on a trivet near a raised hearth that looked more like a forge. Crispin knew it was called an alchemist’s athanor, and beside it, a ceramic retort sat on another trivet.

“Is anyone here?” he asked, standing as far from the fire as possible. Jack stood beside him, eyes wide as they scanned the shelves.

Avelyn seemed at home and poked around at the canisters, opening lids or pulling off their canvas drapes to peer inside, sniffing experimentally.

There was a rustle at the curtained doorway. Steps scraped across the floor. The drapes parted and a man, older than Crispin, peered at them. His dark, greasy hair was covered by a felt cap with ear flaps. A dark beard hung from his jaw, and his nose was noticeably uneven and enlarged by carbuncles. His heavy robes were stained and seemed to weigh him down, or perhaps his stooped shoulders and dragging shuffle came from years bent over a workbench, devising his alchemy.

“Yes?” He eyed them with tiny brown eyes set close together under bushy black brows. He never raised his chin fully, perhaps more interested in his compounds than in faces, and clutched the table, which served as a barrier between him and his customers. “What is it you want?” Then his gaze fell on Avelyn. “You! What are you doing here?” He cast about for something and found it in a corner: a broom. He took it up and brandished it. “Get out before I chase you out.”

Crispin stepped in front of her and frowned down at the crooked man. “There’s no call for that. She led me here to you. For information.”

He scowled at Crispin and rumbled in his gruff voice, “If you know her, then I can scarce trust you.”

“Come, man. If you know her, then you must know her master, Nicholas Flamel.”

“Nicholas Flamel? That is her master?” He stared at her anew. Admiration bloomed on his features, and the broom lowered.

Alarmed, Avelyn looked from one man to the other and rushed to Crispin, covering his lips with her fingers.

“No, Avelyn. Stop. Yes, you’ve heard of Master Flamel, then?”

“Of course! What alchemist of any worth will not have heard of Nicholas Flamel! But I did not know he was in England.” He almost smiled at Avelyn, though it seemed as if his mouth were unused to such an expression. Avelyn was beside herself, trying to get their attention. She banged on the man’s table with the flat of her hand.

Crispin grabbed her and handed her off to Jack. The boy wrapped his large freckled hands around her arms, and though she tried to flail in his grip, he held firm.

“Quit fighting me,” he cried. “Or I shall throw you into that foul pot!”

“Foul pot?” said the alchemist.

“Aye, sir,” said Jack, motioning to the bubbling cauldron with his head. “That. What manner of alchemy are you making there?”

The alchemist raised his bulbous nose indignantly. “My dinner!”

“Oh. Beg pardon.” Jack looked contrite for only a moment … right before Avelyn kicked him in the shin.

He swore and let her loose. Hopping about, he grabbed his leg. “Sarding woman!”

“Yes, I should have warned you,” said Crispin. He gave her a stern look and she quieted immediately, crossing her arms over her chest. She turned a glare on Tucker, daring him to approach. He wisely kept his distance.

“Pray, sir,” said the alchemist, while frowning at Avelyn, “what brings you here? How can I help you?”

“I am assisting Master Flamel with a … well, a discreet task.”

The alchemist’s smug smile seemed to indicate that this was expected.

“I am Crispin Guest. And this servant led me here to-”

“Crispin Guest? No! No, no, no. You must leave at once, do you hear? Leave my property!” He raised the broom once more, but this time he looked reluctant to approach.

“But sir!”

“Out with you! Or I shall call in the law.”

Irritated, Crispin stiffened. “Very well. There will be no need for that.” Though many in London had heard of him and were anxious to assist his course, he knew there were many more that were wary of having anything to do with a traitor to the crown.

He swung toward the door and cast it open, minding not at all as it slammed against the wall. He heard glass breaking behind him with a satisfied smirk.