Shadow of the Alchemist: A Medieval Noir

by Westerson, Jeri

  26

  “HENRY!” HE HELPED THE young man to a sitting position. Henry rubbed his forehead where a goose-egg bump was forming.

  “God’s blood and bones!” he swore. “Dammit, that hurts like a sonofabitch. Help me up.”

  “Are you certain—”

  “Help me up, damn you!”

  Crispin took hold of his arm and lifted. Henry suddenly bent double and retched, spitting the bile into the mud.

  “I told you so,” said Crispin, unable to resist.

  “Just let me stand here a while till the world stops spinning.… Ah, better.”

  He turned to Crispin and pushed his hood back fully. Crispin did likewise. “Crispin, thank God you were here. But … why are you here?”

  “I should ask the same thing, my lord.”

  Henry looked at him, blinked, and shivered. “Your lodgings are near here, are they not? Do you have any of that Lancaster wine left? I could use some.”

  “Er … certainly, my lord.”

  With an arm slipped through his, Crispin allowed Henry to lean against him as they made their way to the Shambles.

  Crispin speculated wildly as they moved in silence. For someone supposed to be in hiding, Henry was certainly turning up quite a bit.

  They rounded the corner of the Shambles and hurried along the silent avenue to the sign of the tinker. Crispin helped him up the stairs, though Henry’s strides were surer now. When Crispin opened the door, Avelyn stood by the fire, the poker in her hand.

  Jack sleepily raised his head from the pile of straw. His eyes widened when he beheld Crispin and Henry at the door, and he popped up out of his bed, straw flying all around him.

  “Master Crispin! My Lord Derby! What … what is going on?”

  Crispin helped Henry to the chair and stood above him. Jack shrugged quickly into his cotehardie and hissed at Crispin’s elbow, “I thought you were going to bed!”

  “Change of plans,” he whispered back. “Bring us wine, Jack.”

  Buttoning his coat, Jack hurried to comply. Henry was looking at Avelyn admiringly. “Who is this, Crispin?”

  Crispin felt his cheeks suddenly warming. “Erm … she’s … she’s…”

  “Another servant, my lord,” Jack said quickly, placing a full wine bowl before Henry and offering the second to Crispin.

  Henry eyed the fading red on Crispin’s cheeks and gave him a leering smile. He took up the bowl and, thirstily, drank it down. He set aside the now empty bowl and wiped his mouth with his hand. Crispin sipped his, studying Henry over the bowl’s rim.

  “And so,” Crispin said after a moment, “may I ask what you were doing there?”

  His eyes settled on Crispin’s. The playfulness was gone and so was the teasing smile. “I was playing the fool, apparently. Stupid.” He touched the lump on his forehead again and winced.

  Jack was instantly at his side. “Can I get you a cold cloth for that, my lord?”

  “No, boy. But much thanks for the thought.”

  “Jack, my Lord of Derby, here, was about to tell me why he was skulking around the alchemists’ guildhall.”

  Jack gasped at the same time Henry perked up. “Alchemists’ guildhall, eh? Strange.”

  “Perhaps not. Tell me.”

  He wheezed out a long sigh and drummed his fingers on the table. “I … I received a missive. Anonymous. It told me to be there.”

  Crispin gritted his teeth, biting down on what he wanted to say. “And are you in the habit of following blindly what anonymous missives tell you to do?”

  “You sounded just like my father in that instance.”

  “Henry! This is no laughing matter.”

  “Who’s laughing?”

  “Answer the question!”

  “I have a hell of a headache now. Don’t yell at me. People are always yelling at me. My uncle, my advisers, my father…”

  “Perhaps it is time to listen to them.”

  Henry slammed his hand to the table. “You’re not my father!”

  “Neither are you!”

  They glared at each other for a long moment before Henry relented first, dropping his head on his hand. “I know,” he said quietly. “But I’m trying.”

  Crispin scraped his knuckles uncomfortably along the table’s rough surface before he sat on the stool opposite the young lord. “You are under much duress, I know. But there are factions after you. I would have thought you would lie low. What made you follow this missive’s instructions? It was clearly an ambush.”

  “Because I had gotten two like it before.”

  At this rate, his teeth would be ground to stubs. “Explain,” he said tightly.

  “One I received when I arrived in London a few months ago. It was innocuous enough. Told me where I could find some information I needed, and I did find it. When I got the second, I recognized the hand. It told me to go to St. Paul’s. And that’s when I encountered you.”

  “At the foot of the statue? It told you to go there specifically?”

  “Yes. And that I would reap a reward. More information, that is. Was there really a ransom there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good God. For whom?”

  “A woman, who is still missing. And I, too, was similarly led to that guildhall.”

  “Someone is playing both of us for a fool.”

  “No. It is more insidious than that. This time, it was to trap you in an ambush. I shudder to think what might have happened had I not decided to return tonight.”

  “Wait. You mean you had already been summoned there earlier?”

  “Yes. Our missive writer could not have known I would return and discover you.”

  “Interesting. Were you attacked, too?”

  Crispin sipped at his wine. “No. It was under … other circumstances that I arrived there.”

  “You don’t have to tell me,” said Henry, eyes narrowing.

  “But you do have to tell me. What was so important that you would risk your safety to investigate in such a foolhardy way?”

  Henry puffed up and frowned. Crispin swore that he would smack Henry himself if the man spouted some half-arsed quip or tried to lord it over him.

  But Henry deflated quickly, looking contrite. “Crispin, you know why I am in London, do you not? The missive told me of further corruption in King Richard’s court. Fuel that I need to press our advantage over my cousin.”

  Anger bubbled up in Crispin’s breast. “And so you thought you’d just go alone into uncertain danger. Did you even know the nature of this evidence?”

  “No, but I had to investigate it. Don’t you see?”

  “No, I don’t see! Henry, you have vast responsibilities. You can’t just go yourself into these situations. You must use your head. You should have sent a servant at the very least—”

  “You would have gone.”

  “That’s different.”

  “How? How is it different? Because I am not a man like you?”

  “Because you are more important than I am, you fool!” He shook his head. “Henry, Henry. I am not a lord any longer. I am not one of the king’s barons. I am … nothing.”

  “Not to me.”

  It stopped Crispin’s tirade cold. He lowered his face. He didn’t know what to say to that and so chose to ignore it. “Nevertheless, you mustn’t indulge your fancies, my lord. You must not. Your work is important. If you wish to rein in Richard, then you had best keep hold of those reins yourself. Let others put themselves in danger. Stand back and observe. It’s … it’s what your father would have done.”

  Irritation smoldered in Henry’s eyes and his lips pressed tight, but he said nothing. Instead, he threw himself to the back of the chair, arms folded petulantly over his chest, and brooded.

  “You were lucky to escape with only a bump on the head,” Crispin went on. “It could have gone much worse. Anything could have been behind those messages. This, the missing woman, the poisonings of the cisterns. Anything.”

  “Hold. Pois
oning of what cisterns?”

  Crispin proceeded to tell him of the deaths and what he’d discovered, and how the sheriffs had reluctantly agreed to guard them.

  Henry leaned forward. “Was that why there were riots at the Tun today?”

  “It was to save lives.”

  “Are you certain of that? That it was poisoned?”

  “Yes. And further, I think it has to do with the missing wife of the alchemist.”

  “Alchemist, eh? More than just a coincidence I was sent to that particular guildhall?”

  “It’s not a coincidence at all. It is all tied together somehow.”

  “But why me? What have I to do with an alchemist?”

  Crispin toyed with his bowl. “There is a lay preacher who does not like what you and your lords are doing. He says as much in his sermons. While you are seeking to discredit the king, might someone else be plotting to discredit you?”

  “An alchemist? A preacher? An unlikely conspiracy.”

  “I’m not convinced it’s so unlikely. It’s taken some planning to get to this point. It would take money and influence.”

  “Influence. Crispin, you don’t mean to say that you think someone at court had aught to do with these unrelated events?”

  “I’m beginning to think so.”

  “Who is feeding you this tripe? It can’t be true.”

  “I have seen the like before, believe me. And either killing you or discrediting you, the result would be the same. You would be out of the way and your assembly of lords would be in disarray.”

  “Richard?” he whispered. “You don’t think—”

  “I don’t know what to think!” cried Crispin, running his fingers through his hair.

  Henry was on his feet. “They tried to kill me! I don’t take kindly to that.”

  Crispin straightened. “No. Neither would I.” He stared at the table, at the whorls of wood grain, the patterns of spilled wine, and the dribble of pooled wax dripping from the candle dish. “Who at court would have a particular crusade against you?”

  Henry stood woodenly, staring vacantly into the fire. “I don’t accuse Richard. I can’t believe that of him. We are kin, after all.”

  Crispin kept his thoughts on the subject to himself. History was littered with bodies dispatched by the victim’s own relatives. “What of his advisers?”

  Henry’s lip curled in a snarl. “Yes, I can well believe that of them. But which one?”

  Leaning forward, Crispin pressed his hands to the table. “You said before that you wanted to help me, Henry. Do you? The woman I seek is still missing, may be in terrible straits. I must still find her.”

  Henry’s eyes glinted from the candle flame between them. “I do. What would you have of me, Crispin?”

  “See what you can discover about Richard’s advisers. About anything that might hint at this lay preacher, about the Tun. You cannot go to court yourself, but surely your men can keep their ears peeled, ask discreet questions. I would know of anything they might discover.”

  “Yes. I would know the swines who put my life at stake. Is there anything else?”

  “Yes, Henry. For my sanity’s sake, lay low.”

  Henry chuckled and bowed. “Very well, Master Guest.”

  Crispin glanced at both Henry and Jack in turn. “Both are troublesome and neither wish to mind me when I clearly know what I am talking about.”

  Henry laughed again and even slapped Jack on the shoulders. “Young Jack, I think he’s talking about us. Did you know, Jack, that Crispin here raised me, too? Taught me to be a knight. Or at least how to comport myself as such. He left when I was still quite young.” His voice softened when he said to Jack, “In many ways, I envy you.”

  “Me, sir?”

  “Yes. He’s tutoring you, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, sir.” He flicked a glance at Crispin’s reddening face. “He taught me to read and write. Taught me history, and arms, and languages. And Aristotle—”

  “That damned Aristotle!” Henry shook his head, but he was still smiling wistfully.

  “Oh, he’s most wise, sir, is Aristotle. He wrote sage words on life and such. Like ‘All persons ought to endeavor to follow what is right, and not what is established.’ That’s a hard thought, isn’t it? But that’s what Master Crispin always does, don’t you, sir?” he said to Crispin. “My master lives by them words … those words, sir. And I would, too.”

  Henry’s eyes twinkled. “I see. Well, young Jack, you listen well to your tutor. I’ve no doubt it will make of you a better man.”

  Jack raised his chin proudly. “He already has, sir.”

  Crispin cleared his throat. “Hadn’t you better be on your way, my lord?”

  “I’m going, I’m going,” he said, grabbing the door latch. “God keep you both.” He leaned into Crispin and asked, “I suppose you know what you’re doing.”

  He smiled. “Never.”

  The door closed after Henry’s chuckles, and once his steps no longer thudded down the stairwell, all fell to silence again.

  And then Avelyn stirred the coals once more.

  “Can’t she stop doing that?” Jack held his arms over his chest and swung away, standing at the back window and looking out over the rooftops of St. Martin’s Lane.

  He watched the boy for a time before turning to Avelyn and touching her shoulder. “Put the poker down. Perhaps it is best if you go.”

  She shook her head again, but Crispin insisted. “We have much to plot this night. I won’t have time for you.”

  She huffed and sneered in Jack’s direction. Her fingers had their say, showing her displeasure. He could only imagine what they said.

  “Beastly woman,” he muttered, and steered her toward the door. She resisted, but he pushed. Hard. She stumbled and righted herself. When she turned toward him, he expected a scolding, but she only grinned slyly. The implication made him blush. “I repeat. You are a witch.”

  She made a silent chuckle and then a gesture to come closer. He complied, already regretting sending her away. When he was directly before her, she grabbed his coat and dragged him down for a kiss. It was wet and warm and full of promise. And he nearly forgot he was sending her away when his hand found her hip and squeezed the plump flesh there.

  She stepped back out of his embrace and raised her chin. She winked and turned quickly, slipping out the door.

  He closed it slowly behind her and leaned on it, bringing his breathing back under control.

  “You didn’t have to do that, Master,” came the soft voice behind him.

  He adjusted his braies and straightened his coat before turning to face Jack. “I did. She is … distracting.” He stared at the fire for a moment before he went to the table and opened the box with the chess pieces. “Fancy another game?”

  “Aye. Might as well.” He sat on the stool and shuffled it to the table.

  Crispin laid out the board and waited for Jack to begin. They moved pieces, Jack taking more time to examine his options, sometimes speaking them aloud so Crispin could instruct.

  Crispin moved a piece and settled his chin on his hand. “Once it is daylight, Jack, I want you to go to Flamel’s shop and guard him.”

  “Why can I not go with you, sir?” he asked, moving his rook. “I’d rather help you gather more clues.”

  “You sure you want to do that?”

  Jack looked up with shock etching his face. “Help you with clues?”

  Crispin nodded to the board. “No. That.”

  “Oh, blind me.” He scoured the board once more and finally nodded.

  “Very well.” Crispin captured the rook with his knight.

  “Dammit. I missed that.”

  “You’re a little distracted.” He settled his elbows on the table and closed his hands together. “I trust you. That is why I want you to guard them. Someone must.”

  “But you’re the one going into danger alone. Why can I not protect you?”

  “Because it might be a trap and I w
ant at least one of us to keep the alchemist safe. He might do something foolish.”

  “How long must I wait for you, then?”

  “I reckon I will be gone for a good part of the day. Check.”

  “Check what, sir?”

  “Your king is in check.”

  “Oh.” His eyes scanned the board. Most of Jack’s pieces had been taken. The lad’s mind was clearly not on the game.

  While Jack studied the board, Crispin yawned and only casually glanced at the array of pieces. He was tired. He should go to bed. And he would do so once the game was done. He was sorry he had made Avelyn leave. She would have kept him warm. He shivered slightly and wrapped his arms around himself.

  When he glanced down at the board again, his sleepy eyes snapped open. “God’s blood!” He nearly upended the table jerking to his feet.

  “What? What is it?”

  He pushed back the wayward locks of his hair. “I missed it. I completely missed it.”

  “What did you miss? Did I win?”

  “Get your cloak.”

  “What? Now?”

  Crispin was already at the door and pulled down his mantle from its peg. “Get your cloak!”

  27

  JACK SCRAMBLED UP AND seized his cloak as Crispin threw open the door and carefully stepped out onto the icy landing. The cold hit him hard, and he paused to pull up his hood. Down he went, hand easing over the railing and ready to grab it if he slipped.

  He made it to the slushy snow at the bottom. The light snow had continued from early evening, blanketing the street in lacy white. It reflected the sparse light from a wayward crescent moon that dodged clouds slipping over its face. It was enough light to see, at any rate, and Crispin quickened along the lane, partly to keep warm and partly because he wanted to hurry.

  He turned up Old Fish and headed for the alchemists’ guildhall for the third time this night and found himself waiting for Jack to catch up to him.

  “What are we doing here again?” Jack whispered.

  “Let’s get in,” said Crispin, climbing the stairs. “Keep watch. I don’t want to be coshed like Lord Henry.”

  Jack stayed at the bottom of the stairs while Crispin drew his dagger. After examining the door with cold fingers, he slid the blade between door and jamb and managed to force the bolt. The door creaked open.