Shadow of the Alchemist: A Medieval Noir

by Westerson, Jeri

  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.

  7

  THE CAPTIVE LOOKED UP as the pale man returned, stomping through the dark room. His hands scrambled over the shelf, making noises of wood against stone, until a spark struck and he moved back within her vision and lit the cold hearth.

  “Well,” he said. His tone conveyed anger, and anger was the one thing she did not wish to cause. “So. We are delayed.” He stood up from his ministering to the fire and turned, looking down at her. “Shall we see about food?”

  “Please,” she said softly. “You must let me go. There is no profit in this, you know it.”

  “Profit? Oh, but you are wrong. There is indeed great profit. More than you realize. Yet there are … forces … in my way. But that is no matter to you. What matters is, you must be hungry.”

  She hated that jovial tone that masked his ire. It was a false beguilement, and for its strangeness it seemed more terrifying than his anger.

  He continued to move about behind her, outside her vision. She tried to turn, to see what he was about, but she could not twist that way in her bindings. He dragged something to the table—a sack—and drew something out. She heard him sawing on it. Bread, she hoped. But water would be better. She was so thirsty, and she had been alone for so long.

  “Your soul, then,” she said softly, licking her dry lips. “Your soul does not profit from this.”

  “What do I care of that? God will deal with me one way or another.” The sawing went on. More sounds. Liquid being poured into a wooden cup. She licked her lips again. It smelled like sweet ale.

  “Now then.” He moved to crouch in front of her. His eyes tracked over her face in so familiar a gesture, it almost made her weep. Weep more than she had. At first she had wept for the sight of him, and then for all that came after. “You must be thirsty,” he said. He seemed oblivious to her turmoil. “But just to make this interesting, let us see if you deserve this ale.”

  “Please. For the love of our Lady…”

  “Now, now.” He raised one hand in a gesture of silence. In his other hand, he clutched the cup. She could see the glimmer of the foamy liquid within. “This will be amusing.” He set the cup behind her again on the table and took a deck of cards from the scrip on his hip. They seemed newly printed, like the finely carved block-printed decks she had seen before in Paris. The reverse design was Moorish, and the deck itself was clean and unmarred. “Tell me what the card is on the top of this deck, and I shall grant you a drink.”

  She shook her head. “I am no seer.”

  “It’s only a game, Madame. Come. Play with me. Look, I’ll make it even easier. You just tell me the suit. Coins, cups, swords, or batons? That’s a twenty-five percent chance. Much better than most people get. Much better than I got.” His eyes gleamed with a malicious glint, with memories that should have been long forgotten but had, instead, festered.

  He tapped the deck with his finger. “Tell me.”

  “I don’t want to play this game. Please. Just give me the ale. I thirst.”

  “But you must play. Play the game with me. Coins, cups, swords, or batons? Come now, beautiful Madame. Tell me.”

  She inhaled a shaky breath, twisting her wrists in the bindings. Already the flesh was raw when she had strained, trying to free herself when he was gone.

  “I would not have imagined this of you,” she whimpered.

  “Did you not? Well. Then you did not know me at all.” He rubbed at his clean-shaven chin. His small eyes glimmered, but his smile did not reach them. She could tell by the tense set of his heavy brows, by his teeth digging into his lip, that he was pretending a calm he did not feel. He shoved the cards nearly under her nose. “Choose.”

  “I don’t know.” She struggled to look back at the ale on the table, but she couldn’t see it. “Please!”

  “Tell me!”

  “Swords!” she cried, sobbing. The first thing to come into her mind was a weapon to slay him with.

  He relaxed and sat back on his heels. The cards lay on his palm, and with his other hand, he slipped the topmost card off the pile. Pinching it between two fingers, he turned it over. Two of cups. “A pity. You lose. No ale for you.”

  She moaned and more tears spilled from her eyes.

  He put the card under the deck and rested his fingers on the top again. “Shall we see if you get any bread now?”

  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 s
he 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.”