Death of an Alchemist

by Mary Lawrence

  Thomas Plumbum stopped at the Royal Poke and ordered a pottle pot. He hoped he’d made a lasting impression on the loathsome coward. Plumbum straightened, assuring himself he had definitely trounced the gutless dastard and had chased him off.

  A pretty maid of fair complexion and copper hair set the ale in front of him and collected her coin. He was weary enough to allow his gaze to fall upon the dewy shade of cleavage hovering at eye level. There his interest lingered happily while she collected empty tankards, exchanged tart words with a patron, then caught him nearly cross-eyed for a better look at her cleavage.

  “I would say you need more than an ale tonight,” she said, straightening, ignoring his leer. She was used to such wanton ogling. “You’re bleeding from a gash on the temple.”

  Plumbum did not respond, but neither did he drag his eyes from her display. He took another sip, continuing to stare.

  The maid scowled, gathering a fistful of empty tankards on one hip. “I know from where I have seen you. You’re Plumbum, my father’s friend. An alchemist.”

  This got Thomas Plumbum’s attention, and he jolted upright as if prodded by a hot poker. He scrutinized the girl’s face. Ferris Stannum’s daughter—Amice. The last he had seen her she seemed but a child.

  He felt the unwanted attention of a table of men giving him black looks. Having it announced one is an alchemist does not particularly ensure a safe passage home.

  Plumbum shook his head. “Nay, you have me mistaken for another,” he said. “I do not know your father.” Like Peter denying Jesus, he shirked and listened for a cock to crow.

  Amice insisted, trying to shog his memory. “You hid at my father’s when you had a band of men after you. Didn’t the father of a young lad take exception with you? I remember you were perhaps overly partial to his son.”

  “Nay, I am not that man. It is possible another may resemble me. But I am not he!” Plumbum glanced nervously at the table of inquisitive stares. “I do most thoroughly assure you.” Seeing no sympathy from his tablemates, he took on an indignant tone. “I am appalled at what you are implying. I do not have to sit here and be accused of heinous behavior.”

  “Then what is it ye do?” asked one of the patrons. The man had the kind of intelligence, a perceptiveness, that set him apart.

  One glance was enough to worry Plumbum at ever having his true nature painfully exposed. His lie had better be a good one. And he had better tell it as smoothly as he could. “I am a tailor,” he said, hiding his face behind a long drink of ale. Inwardly, he cringed at his lack of imagination.

  The man’s eyes worked their way down his person and up again. “A tailor, ye say?” The corner of his mouth lifted in a condescending smile. “By my measure, not a very good one.”

  “I was recently set upon. Tangled in a scuff. My garb is a bit frayed.”

  “Frayed? Sirrah, tattered is a better choice of word. A more shapeless and unsavory doublet I have not had the misfortune of seeing. Indeed, I have witnessed beggars more handsomely clad. It does not speak well of your vocation.”

  “I would thank you not to judge. I have fallen on difficult times as late.”

  “As late as the day ye were born?”

  Amice snorted, expecting to be vindicated. She ignored the whistling and waving imbibers ready for refills.

  Thomas Plumbum took another lengthy drink of ale, hoping by the time he set his tankard on the table, the man would be gone. Or at least would have lost interest in him.

  “What might a tailor be in a scuffle about?” the man persisted to Plumbum’s chagrin. “And why might a tailor be havin’ his ale in this puny boozing ken?”

  “Did you not hear? I have fallen on difficult times.”

  “Aye, by the looks of ye, I say ye have certainly fallen. Ye got an eye swelling bigger than a bull’s bollocks from the looks of it.” The men at the table roused with gusty accord, further encouraging the provocateur to grow more brazen. He held out a flap of Plumbum’s torn sleeve. “Gentlemen, I ask what construct of fashion might this be?”

  “I would offer he wears the garment of a Spaniard.”

  “Nay,” said another, “methinks it is the new French fashion.” He batted his eyes and kissed the air, elbowing his neighbor. The table of men launched into jeering their horse-eating foe across the sea. For the moment, Plumbum was spared further harassment. The king’s preparations to invade France were greatly despised by the commoners. Their taxes had increased and they were being enlisted to risk their lives for the glory of their peevish king.

  The alchemist took advantage of this shift in attention and, as unobtrusively as he could, rose from the bench and sneaked toward the door.

  But his exiting had not gone unnoticed. Amice watched with baleful eyes. She resented being made a liar and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Still dazed and bleary, Bianca opened her eyes. At first she was completely baffled. With her cheek against the ground, she saw nothing but dirt and the legs of an abandoned shop stall across the way. She pushed herself to sitting, wincing from the pain in her hand, and leaned back against the stone building. After a few minutes of waiting for her head to clear, she was able to remember where she was and why.

  Night had not yet given way to dawn. She figured that at least she had been lying in the street for only a few minutes. No night watchman called the time, but by the deep black sky overhead, she thought perhaps it was the small hours. She held up her hand and worked her fingers. Fortunately, they all moved as they should, but she expected her skin to be purple by the next day. She rubbed her cheekbone and opened her mouth, feeling her jaw. Her body ached a bit, but she was relieved she’d escaped with a minimum of hurt.

  If she had not heard the faint cry of a baby and the distant clop of hooves, she would have wondered if the town was even inhabited. A visitor arriving at this neglected hour would think London abandoned. Bianca got to her feet and straightened her bodice, brushed the powdery dirt from her kirtle. Looking down toward the water, she wondered if she might still find a ferrier to take her across to Southwark. No doubt the bridge would be closed for curfew.

  Her thoughts flew to John, and she worried how he was faring. Was he still sleeping or had he woken and discovered her gone? Would he even be aware of his surroundings? Just the thought of him alone and needing her help spurred her to action. She glanced around before heading to the river and caught sight of her satchel. It was pushed against the stone wall next to the building where she had lain.

  She looked around and, seeing no other living soul, went to the bag. Was it not the reason for her being followed and attacked? Someone had tried to steal the satchel and had made sure she could not object to its being taken. Yet, there it was, in plain view.

  Bianca had little recollection of what she had seen. Who had attacked her? And who had intervened? Cautiously she opened the satchel. She removed the linen cloth stuffed on top and found the journal underneath. Whoever wanted the satchel, or the journal, had not taken it. Bianca crammed the cloth back into the bag and tied the flap closed.

  She glanced around. Was someone watching her? Watching to see that she took the satchel? Bianca slung it across her chest, trying to remember the person who had come to her aid. Why had he come to her defense and not stayed? Why leave the satchel? Perhaps he had no interest in it.

  Her muffin cap lay nearby and she shook off the dirt and stuffed it in her pocket, keeping a watchful eye out. She headed for the water. This time, she gripped the bag with both hands and kept it in front of her. A night watchman called, “Two in the night and to all a good night.”

  But perhaps she was wrong to think her rescuer had no interest in the satchel. Could he have intervened to make sure she kept it? A chill ran up her spine, and it wasn’t from the night air.

  The moon shimmered on the river, luminous silver, like flowing mercury. A lone ferrier answered her whistle. Soon she would be home.

  Thomas Plumbum slipped into the night air, distancing himself from the
Royal Poke and its atrocious clientele. He made a mental note to avoid the unsavory ken in the future. Perhaps if he had not been recognized by Ferris Stannum’s daughter he might have gone unnoticed. He could have enjoyed his pottle pot in peace. The alchemist unbuttoned his doublet. It was too hot and too late to bother with appearance.

  The gash on his temple oozed. Plumbum removed his cap and wiped the sweat trickling into the wound. He would soon be home and could tend to it then.

  He turned a corner, and a mongrel drinking from a puddle of city filth decided the alchemist was more interesting and fell in pace beside him. Plumbum was in no mood for company. He reared back and kicked the dog in the side, launching it into the air. It landed, whimpering pathetically, and scrambled to be gone.

  It was damnably dark this time of night. Lanterns had been extinguished; candles had burned out. The only means of illumination was the light of the stars and the Queen Moon sneering at him from behind St. Paul’s Cathedral, refusing to rise above its roof and light his way.

  London suffered from a disconcerting lack of respectable alehouses—essentially a contradiction in terms; there probably was no such establishment. Well, thought Plumbum bitterly, at least not an alehouse that he could afford.

  He trudged on, avoiding the Crooked Cork and Jack Blade’s territory. Ever wary, Thomas Plumbum hesitated, thinking he’d heard the squeak of leather behind him. He wheeled about, squinting into the inky night. It took a moment for his eyes to thoroughly focus on the street behind him.

  “I know you are there,” he said, warning whoever followed him. He withdrew his dirk from its sheath and held it at the ready. “What do you want?” He slashed at the empty air. “If it is coin, I haven’t got any.” The pottle pot from the Royal Poke had been no watered-down swill. It affected his vision and compromised his better judgment. Sober, he would never have conversed with a ruffian whom he could not even see.

  Blood dripped in his eyes and he dashed the cut with his sleeve, resuming a menacing pose. “Come, now,” he squawked, losing his nerve. “Show yourself.”

  No one did.

  He waited another minute, ears straining for any telltale hint. He was rattled to the point where he thought he might puke; his attention wavered. His singular notion was to make it home.

  He started walking backward, still watching for a stalker to show himself. Seeing no one, Plumbum turned back to face the road ahead of him and quickened his step.

  If he weren’t so anxious to be home, he would have circled back to St. Benet’s to see if the satchel was still against the wall. His head throbbed. He was so weary he didn’t even think he could make it there and back.

  Blood continued to trickle from the gash, and it ran down his face, dripping onto his front, further aggravating him. “Ach, and now the doublet is staining with blood.” He muttered how he would have to soak it in his rain barrel but remembered this was not possible since the barrel was now empty. He had dumped the water—fouled with Jack Blade’s piss—into the alley. “And no rain in a fortnight,” he said, feeling demoralized.

  He stopped to look at something orange in the road that caught his eye and bent down. “Aw, poor bird,” he said, picking up the dismembered foot of a duck. He envisioned the creature trying to walk on one leg and burst out laughing imagining it. The sound of his guffaw startled him. He was drunker than he thought. He glanced around to see if anyone had heard him. Seeing no one, he reasoned aloud, “Well, he just stays in the water.” He wondered how a duck would look swimming with one foot. Would it wobble in the water? Or would it swim in circles? He tossed the foot over his shoulder and continued on.

  As he neared St. Paul’s Cathedral, he paused to watch the young gamins sleeping in the shadows of its massive stone exterior. A pang of desire stirred his membership, and he adjusted his codpiece but thought better of it. He was nearly home and mustn’t risk his chance of getting there.

  His jittery nerves and drink caused him to suddenly appeal to the heavens. “Have I not proven myself?” He did not wait for an answer, but forced himself to keep walking. “My past may have been filled with poor decisions, but have I not redeemed myself?” Somewhere a dog began to bark. “Do I not deserve some reward? Some mercy, some compensation for my atonement?” He stopped and stared up at the stars, looking for a sign. Was that a shooting star? The red planet? “At least acknowledge that I have proven myself worthy.”

  But Thomas Plumbum would get no commendation on this dark night. He dropped his head to his chest.

  With an exasperated sigh, Thomas staggered on. It would soon be morning, and with it came the promise of a new day. From now on, he would live a virtuous life. If God didn’t feel like bargaining today, maybe He would tomorrow.

  Within sight of his neighborhood, Plumbum smiled with relief. As he turned onto his lane, he mistakenly clung to the corner instead of keeping to the center. It would have given him a few extra seconds.

  Had he not partaken of the Royal Poke’s noxious swill, he would have had enough sense to avoid a grim situation. But God turned an indifferent shoulder to Plumbum’s redemptive plea. He had something else in mind for the alchemist.

  Thomas Plumbum’s eyes opened wide in surprise at the sudden recognition of a rogue lunging forward, seemingly out of nowhere. He did not hear the knife being plunged into his liver, only the bestial utterance of the man doing it. A searing pain caught up to his surprise as he looked down at the hilt of a dirk protruding from his side, and the man’s hand still upon it. Seconds inexplicably lengthened as the alchemist realized that these precious moments would be his last.

  Hunching over, he reached for the knife just as his assailant withdrew it. Plumbum dropped to his knees, withering from agony.

  It was not by accident that Thomas Plumbum breathed his last. It was with cause that the alchemist saw his end. He had been warned. But being distracted by a ludicrous belief was as much to blame as it was his nature. In the end, Thomas Plumbum was a victim of his fatuous pursuit of an unobtainable dream. And, as he lay crumpled in the lane and took his final breath, he thought that if this was his reward, then God had a sadistic sense of humor.

  CHAPTER 22

  The last few steps took longer than all that had come before. Bianca slowed as she neared her room of Medicinals and Physickes. Not only did she ache from her brutal attack, but her trepidation over John and what she might find weighed her down. She scolded her fears into submission and dragged herself up the stoop.

  She had left the door ajar, hoping for a cross breeze to keep John cool. Doing so had left the rent and John vulnerable. Aware that perhaps it had been poor judgment on her part, she cautiously pushed on the door. It creaked open and the black tiger approached to greet her.

  Bianca peered into the dark, her eyes finding John in their bed. She set the satchel on the board and went to him.

  At first she thought he was sleeping peaceably, and for that she was grateful. She quietly sat on the edge next to him, not wishing to disturb his rest, but hoping he would respond to her weight. But he did not. Bianca brought her face close to his.

  “John,” she said, hoping he would stir.

  When he did not, she gently shook him.

  Her query went unheeded.

  Alarmed, she rocked him enough so that his head lolled from side to side.

  “John!” she said louder and more firmly. When he did not answer or open his eyes, she laid her head on his chest to listen for the beat of his heart. The black tiger walked across John’s legs and sat observing the two of them.

  Though the cat’s boisterous purring made it difficult, Bianca finally caught John’s heartbeat, faint and slow. She pulled his eyelids back. The whites glinted in the dim light. John stared, unseeingly, at the ceiling overhead.

  If she had stayed and not gone to her father’s, could she have prevented his slipping into the heavy sleep? She chided herself for leaving, but how could she have prevented him cascading into the world between the living and the dead?


  She observed his chest expand shallowly, worrying that the rattle in his lungs would worsen. He could not continue to lie flat or the phlegm would drown him and he would never stir. Taking her pillow, she maneuvered it under his head, raising his shoulders to a slight incline. She sat beside him and thought.

  Despite her tears, Bianca knew she must not despair. She must not sit in regret of what she had or had not done. Her reason for leaving him was to find out what she needed to know in order to cure him. She reminded herself that her intentions were born from love.

  The cat, sensing her distress, gave a short chirp, as if asking if she was all right. She ran her hand down its back, feeling the need for reassurance. In return, the cat gave her an appreciative rub against her chin.

  Night would soon give way to day’s boisterous arrival. Sleep would elude her, but neither did she have any desire to rest. Her mind galloped on, thinking what she could do to save John. She wandered over to the shelves of ingredients, medicants, and syrups as she had done earlier in the day. Was there some combination, some mixture or technique that she had missed? She ran through the possibilities. But her mind could still think of nothing.

  Her father claimed she could not make any one part of the elixir of life and expect it to help. Bianca disagreed. Surely at some point, the elixir would start to wield its healing powers.

  The cat jumped on the table and knocked a wedge of cheese to the floor. She reached down and shaved off a few slivers for its meal.

  And what if she did succeed in creating the elixir of life and gave it to John?

  Indefinitely extending one person’s life would not disrupt the course of humanity, she reasoned. Extending everyone’s life certainly could.

  “Well,” Bianca said to the cat, “I only seek to save John.”

  Besides, did it matter if one person lived forever, walking the earth for eternity? Belief in God ensured an everlasting life after death. Did it not? If one believed, did one get to sit at God’s table and pass Him the plate of potatoes?