Shadow of the Alchemist: A Medieval Noir

by Westerson, Jeri

  “It is a shame, then, that you do not know what you are doing.”

  “I do know!” he hissed. His breath at her ear suddenly felt dirtier than her body felt from days without cleaning herself or changing her underclothes. “I know it,” he said more calmly. She remembered that about him, that he could change his outward calm on a wisp of the breeze, though now the change seemed more abrupt, more like a twitch that one could not control. “And what I don’t know, I will make Nicholas tell me,” he went on. “For I think he will be here soon. With the help of his Tracker.”

  Her arm jerked, and though she willed him not to look, he did, and saw the loosened rope. He laughed. “Oh, ma chère. How clever you are.” He strode to the other side of her chair and pulled on the rope. “I must make this especially tight, then, so that you will not escape.”

  She cried out as the rope dug into her already chafed skin.

  “Nice and tight,” he said, securing the last knot.

  Her heart sank and the fear she had held at bay crept over her again. Escape was growing further away from her. And now she feared for Nicholas, too. Was he planning on trapping Nicholas? Would he kill him as he killed their apprentice? She would stall him, then. Tell him a partial truth. But she would have to tread carefully. He was wild now. Wilder than he had ever been.

  “I could help you. In exchange for a little freedom. And proper food and water. I can help you.”

  “Help me? Would you now. We will make the Elixir together, then?”

  “Yes. But you must release me. Let me walk about. My legs ache.”

  “Hmm. An interesting proposition. I shall think on it.”

  She lowered her head, looking away so that he would not see her eyes, for through her fear she also felt elation. He might be tricked. It might work. And Nicholas had gotten the help of a man who found things, found people. A champion! Would he find her in time?

  24

  THE GAME IS NOT over. What are you waiting for?

  Crispin read the words on the scrap of parchment again. He glanced at the lock of hair, red gold, streaked with gray, that Flamel would not release, and turned at last to Avelyn.

  “Avelyn, do you know where the Boar’s Tusk is? A tavern on Gutter Lane?”

  She nodded.

  “Go with all haste and bring back Jack Tucker. Don’t take no for an answer.”

  She leapt up and darted out the door.

  When the door slammed shut, he took Flamel by the arm and sat him on a chair by the fire. “Master Flamel, is this a lock of hair from your wife?”

  He nodded, eyes never leaving the strands tied with a blue ribbon of cloth.

  Crispin lowered the parchment. “He has the Stone. But it isn’t merely about that, is it?”

  The alchemist shook his head again. “He … he must want my help in order to use it. It is a most complicated process. And so I must … I must…” His chin hit his chest and he shivered.

  “Master Flamel, he did not speak of your helping him. He spoke of a game.”

  Flamel shot to his feet, hand now curled around the lock. “But he is dead! It is impossible!”

  “Hadn’t you better tell me everything, sir, no matter how impossible it might seem?”

  Wild-eyed, he glared at Crispin. “Very well. My … my wife was married before me. But her husband died and left her a wealthy widow. But that didn’t matter to me. I was in love.”

  He shuffled to the fire and leaned an arm over the hearth. The flames’ light danced over his long face, creasing the lines in deep shadow. “She was not as enamored of me, however. I was younger than her, rash. She had a suitor in France in those days. He was somewhat relentless in his pursuit. But … well … she eventually spurned him in favor of me. I am afraid he took a long time to get over it. But this was many years ago. He married someone else. Had children. Then there was a fire … he was killed along with his son.”

  “The man’s name?”

  “Piers Malemeyns. A brilliant alchemist himself. But he could never achieve even close to the Philosopher’s Stone. He was always too impatient. Too greedy. He could not understand that the journey is the achievement, not the end result.”

  “I fear he is not dead and that he is behind more than this abduction, Master Flamel. I think he is the man who hired others to poison the cistern.”

  “But why? It makes no sense. If he wanted Perenelle, if he wanted the Stone, all he need do is deal with me.”

  Crispin nodded. “Yes. That is a problem of logic.”

  “But no! Maître, it cannot be. He is dead. I am certain of it.”

  “But I am not so certain.” He looked at the parchment again, holding it up to the light to be sure there were no other hidden messages. “I feel this is a good sign rather than a bad omen. There is still something he wishes to negotiate. Or to gloat. Either way, I feel that Madam Flamel is still alive.” He deliberately left out and unharmed, for of that, he was no longer certain.

  He read the parchment again.

  The game is not over. What are you waiting for?

  “He’s watching us. He’s watching us find the clues. He knows we have not pursued the last one and he wants us to continue.”

  “It is a trap, then!”

  “Perhaps. In that case, Jack and I will pursue this alone.”

  The door flung open and both men whirled. Jack Tucker stood in the doorway, with Avelyn clutching his shirt as if she had dragged him the whole way. He smacked her hands away and glared at her. “I’m here, you sarding woman! Let go of me. Master Crispin?” He eyed his master. “I thought you would meet me at the Boar’s Tusk.”

  “More has come to light, Jack. I want you to stay here with Master Flamel. At no time are you to leave him. We received another message.” He shoved the parchment into the boy’s hand and then cocked his head at the lock of hair in Flamel’s fist. Jack read and looked again at the lock of hair. “God blind me,” he whispered.

  “And that’s not all. I did encounter our Robert Pickthorn, but he was a dupe, thought he was only helping the people of London and putting a draught in the water that would make them pliable. The true villain is the alchemist Bartholomew of Oxford. Master Flamel?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you know this alchemist?”

  “No. I never heard of him. But I do not know the alchemists of London. I kept my presence here a secret … or so I thought.”

  “It’s that apprentice,” said Jack. All eyes turned to him and he lowered his head sheepishly. “Thomas Cornhill. May he rest in peace. But he must have told others. Proud of the new job he got. His family, too. If anyone asked and he said that he was apprenticing with the French alchemist Nicholas Flamel, well … Someone must have overheard.”

  Flamel nodded and lowered his head to his hands. “Foolishness. I should have sworn him to secrecy. I did not know. How could I have known?”

  “Jack, stay here. Help them to clean up this disorder. I must deal with this other alchemist.”

  “Right, Master Crispin. I won’t leave his side until you yourself tell me to.”

  “Good lad.”

  Crispin glanced once at the pensive face of Avelyn before rushing out the door.

  * * *

  BACK HE WENT TO the sign of Mercury and tried the door. Locked, of course. He was too angry to try to pick it. Brute force seemed to be what he wanted most, and he drew back and slammed his shoulder into the wood. He heard a crack but little more. He tried it again and again, little feeling the sore ache to his shoulder and arm with the blows.

  “Here! What do you think you are doing?”

  Crispin turned, and a man of middle years with mousy brown hair shook a pilgrim’s staff at him. Behind him was a boy a few years younger than Tucker, gripping the lead of a mule bearing the burden of parcels and luggage packed high on its back.

  He stepped forward and looked Crispin up and down. “I’ll call the law on you. What do you think you are doing?”

  “Pardon me, good sir,” said Cri
spin with a hasty bow. “But I beg you to stay out of it. This is none of your affair.”

  He drew back to slam the door again when the staff landed hard on his shoulder. Crispin whipped toward the man, his hand on his sheathed dagger. “If you value your life,” Crispin growled, “you will not do that again!”

  “Go for the sheriffs,” said the man to his young servant. The boy, mouth agape and eyes like mazers, dropped the lead, ready to run.

  “Hold!” Crispin grabbed the boy’s arm, and the lad shrank from him, dropping to the ground with a shriek. Crispin let him go. “I’m not going to hurt you … or your master.” He gestured toward the door. “My grievance is with the alchemist within, Bartholomew of Oxford, and him alone.”

  The man blustered, “Well then. What do you want?”

  “Are you mad or deaf? I have business with the man who owns this shop.”

  “And that would be me,” said the man.

  Crispin dropped his face in his hand. “No, good sir. Not with the owner of the building, but the man who runs this shop.”

  “Yes!” he said more sternly. “I am Bartholomew of Oxford, you demented churl!”

  “No, you’re not. I—” He stared at the man, at the boy, at the mule packed high with luggage, and then at the man again. “You … are the alchemist whose shop this is? But I have been dealing with the alchemist here for the last few days.”

  “What? Impossible. I have been out of town for a month. I have been traveling, and buying ingredients. This shop has lain empty.”

  Crispin lowered his head. “I apologize, Master Bartholomew, but I regret to say that it has not lain empty.”

  * * *

  IT WAS THE ALCHEMIST’S turn to lay his face in his hands. The boy ran to fetch ale from the nearest alehouse, and Crispin lit candles and sat the man down in his shop by the hearth, explaining as much of it as he dared, leaving out about Flamel and the Stone. But he did speak of the arsenic and the poisonings. As he spoke, he moved about the shop surreptitiously, seeing if any clues as to the man’s identity and whereabouts were indicated. He parted the curtain and found only a small bed and personal items.

  The athanor was still warm. The ashes had been hastily stirred and extinguished. Eating bowls were left dirty and unattended. Pots and kettles were disturbed and lay crusted with whatever the impostor had devised.

  Crispin had described the man, but the true Bartholomew of Oxford did not recognize him.

  “The gall of the man,” said the alchemist. “What utter gall to use my good name so.”

  Crispin pulled at the collar of his coat. He felt a bit warm and his stomach churned. No doubt because he had eaten very little today. “Might I inquire if you have ever heard the name Nicholas Flamel?”

  “Nicholas Flamel? What alchemist has not heard of him? He is famed far and wide for his reported creation of the Philosopher’s Stone. What has Flamel to do with this business?”

  “Perhaps nothing,” he said, rubbing his stomach. He thought it best to keep his client’s identity safe … but he had to know if he had been duped in the matter of Flamel’s fame as well. Clearly not. “But his name came up,” he offered.

  “This is abominable. My clientele! Oh, I dearly hope he has not soured those who have kept their trust in me. We must call in the sheriff!”

  “Forgive me, Master Bartholomew, but there is very little the sheriffs can and will do. But I assure you that I will do my best. There is a greater deception being perpetrated. A very dangerous one.” Crispin glanced toward the cracked door. “I apologize for any damage I have done to your door, Master.” He reached for his scrip, but the man stayed him with a wave of his hand.

  “No, Master Guest. I quite understand. I only hope that you will find this culprit. Should we fear his return?”

  “No, Master, I do not think he will return here. He has done most of what he set out to do. Now it is up to me to do the rest.”

  And as far as Crispin could reckon, that meant that the hunt all over London for those clues must continue and the “game” had to go on.

  * * *

  FATIGUED AND WITH AN aching belly, he returned to Flamel’s shop. When he entered, Jack sprang to his feet and met him at the door. “You weren’t gone very long, Master.”

  “No. A great many deceptions are overtaking us. The alchemist whom we thought was Bartholomew of Oxford was instead an impostor. I fear he may very well have been the abductor.” His eyes flicked to Avelyn, who must have read his lips, for she suddenly paled. “Why did you lead me to that particular place, Avelyn?”

  Flamel twisted round to look at her. Her sorrowful eyes were locked on Crispin’s, and without looking at Flamel, she signed to him.

  The alchemist scrubbed his eyes. “She says he was the first other alchemist she could find. She prays that you—that we—forgive her, for putting us in the madman’s path.” He gave her an avuncular smile. “You foolish girl. Of course I do. What would I do without you?”

  She fell into his arms, and he held her as a father holds a child. But when she lifted her face, there were no tears there. Slowly, she pulled free of him and walked toward Crispin. She looked up at him, trying to gauge his expression.

  “I, too, forgive you. How can I do any less when your master—who has known you far longer—has done the same?” She reached up and kissed his cheek.

  A wave of nausea made him dizzy, and he held her hand to steady himself. He dismissed her look of concern. “I have not eaten much today. Perhaps a little wine and bread before we rejoin the hunt.”

  She hurried to comply and ran into Jack, trying to do the very same thing. They argued over who poured the wine and had a tug-of-war on a loaf of bread.

  By the time they both placed the spilled beaker of wine and torn hunk of bread in front of him, his roiling belly couldn’t stomach the idea of eating or drinking. He sipped the wine anyway and decided to forgo the bread.

  “I’m not as hungry as I thought. Jack, let us go.”

  He moved toward the door, but not before he noticed Jack make a face at the girl.

  “Tucker! Must you?”

  “She started it!” At Crispin’s glower, the boy looked only slightly chastened. Jack stood at his side on the threshold as they surveyed the street. Jack buttoned his cloak. “Do you know what is going on, sir?”

  “No. But I have my suspicions. Let us follow the latest clue.”

  “What did it say again?”

  He took out the parchment from his scrip. “‘Eyes bold, skin cold, silver-armored, breath hold. Multiplying, fortifying, never thirsting, shore shying.’”

  Jack thought for a moment. “Sounds like a dead man. A dead knight. But what does ‘multiplying’ and ‘fortifying’ have to do with it?”

  “Think, Jack. What was multiplied while at the same time fortifying?”

  “Multiplying, eh?” His face opened in surprise. “Loaves and … fishes! A fish has wide eyes, cold skin, and ‘armor.’ Clever, that.”

  “Correct. My supposition is Old Fish Street. Shall we?”

  * * *

  FISH STREET WAS LIKE any other lane in London, crammed with houses and shops shouldering one another and creating a narrow canyon, dimming the street with lonesome shadows and smoke. Citizens passed them by on their way to do business. Chatelaines inspected the silvery bodies of fish laid out on folding displays; cockles in baskets; live eels in tubs of water. Wives haggled with the fishmongers, and cats roamed for fallen scraps. The mud of Fish Street sparkled from discarded scales and smelled like fish guts and the stench of death.

  Crispin and Jack spread out, searching for the next clue. Crispin hoped this would all soon be at an end. The fourth day of Perenelle’s abduction was coming to a close and there was no sign of her yet.

  He spotted a scratched-out sigil on a post and ran for it. He ignored the stares of the shopkeeper and pulled a parchment from a tiny niche.

  Well done, Crispin Guest. But not correct. Keep looking.

  He froze. Looking
over his shoulder, Crispin felt a chill. It had been personal for Flamel from the very beginning. The abduction of his wife, the killing of his apprentice, and all for the Philosopher’s Stone. But now, the man knew Crispin was involved. Said so by name. This was far more troubling.

  Of course, that knave at the alchemist’s shop knew Crispin now, whatever the bastard’s true name was. Likely it was the same man who stole Perenelle. The same man leaving these clues. But if he was leaving them using Crispin’s name, then he wasn’t far ahead of them.

  He crushed the parchment in his hand before he let it fall to the mud.

  Jack came tearing around the corner. “Master! Master Crispin! I found it! I found it!”

  He skidded to a stop before Crispin and saw the crumpled parchment hit the muddy path. “What’s that?”

  “The wrong direction. But this time, Jack, he mentioned me by name.”

  “What?” He dived for the parchment and unfurled it. His eyes scanned the smudged words and he let it fall again. “Blind me. He’s watching us. Too closely.”

  “So it would seem. What have you found?”

  “Oh. Er … back there. Another one of them symbols. It’s on a high eave. Passed by it the first time.”

  “Then lead the way.”

  Jack fell silent as he walked beside Crispin. This whole episode was getting under his skin. He didn’t like his enemies getting the upper hand. And spying on him was certainly not acceptable.

  “Master, might Master Flamel be right? Could this all be a trap?”

  Crispin locked eyes with the anxious boy. “I know it is a trap.”

  Jack lurched to a halt and grabbed Crispin’s arm. “Then, sir! Why are you walking blindly into it?”

  “First, I am not walking blindly. And second, we gain nothing by sitting on our arses. We must let him think that we are walking into it unmindful. There is little choice, at any rate, if we want to recover Madam Flamel.”