Shadow of the Alchemist: A Medieval Noir

by Westerson, Jeri

  Crispin stopped. His heart pounded. Those words again! Though it was true. Whether Nicholas de Litlyngton told him or Nicholas Flamel, he had to forget what he thought he knew.

  28

  CRISPIN STRODE DOWN HARP Lane, taking in both sides of the street with sweeps of his gaze. He did not know what he was looking for, but he assumed he’d know it when he saw it.

  Above the rooftops, he could just see the tall battlements of the Tower of London. Surrounded by a moat, it was the most secure place in all of the city, save Westminster Palace itself.

  Eyes scanning the street, he saw the usual shops and houses. Nothing that could help him in his quest. Had he been duped again? Was this a false lead? No, the man played fair, and playing was what he did best. Flamel might use his means of sorcery to stop the man, but Crispin had only his own senses, and they were not helping him.

  “Where is the bastard?” he muttered. He had to come out sometime, didn’t he? But where was Crispin to look for him? He ran the chessboard at the guildhall over in his mind. All pointed to Harp Lane, and as diligently as he looked, he knew he would not find any alchemical symbols to help him this time.

  Leaning against a wall and folding his arms under his cloak, he settled in to wait.

  * * *

  HOURS PASSED. THE RINGING of the bells told him so, as did the many passersby with their carts and donkeys, traveling to and from their parish churches. It was Sunday, the Lord’s day, and cause to celebrate, for the citizens of Christendom were not burdened with work on this day. None but Crispin.

  He looked up to the gray sky above the rooftops, watched his own cloud of breath escape heavenward, and settled his gaze on the lane again, shadowed under his hood.

  He was surprised to spy Robert Pickthorn striding down the lane, a sack over his shoulder. The man’s gait was sure but careful, and he checked from side to side and over his shoulder. What business did he have here? Especially after Crispin had told the man to lay low. Was it a coincidence his coming to this particular street? Crispin had the urge to follow him, but there was little reason to do so. The man had been a dupe of this scheme and was of interest only because Crispin was bored.

  He let it go, though he watched him make progress north toward the curve of the road until he disappeared in the crowd.

  So much for that. Crispin wondered if he should move on to another section of road, but at the thoroughfare seemed as good a spot as any. He had a good view of most of the lane, yet it was frustrating not knowing just what he was looking for.

  Another hour passed. He rolled his shoulder and stomped his feet to get the feeling back in them. If he stayed much longer, he’d become an icicle. The clouds above were heavy with snow, he could feel it, and the air was dense with waiting. A dog wandered nearby and Crispin had been so still that it never even looked his way as it sniffed along and lifted its leg to a post.

  Coming from the opposite direction, with his head covered by a hood, was Pickthorn again. His coarse hair protruded from under his hood. Someone stopped him to talk and he listened patiently, though Crispin sensed the tenseness in his shoulders and restless hands.

  Then he turned his head and smiled.

  Crispin jerked up. His hand fell to his dagger.

  God’s blood! So that was what had unsettled Crispin. That smile. He’d seen that smile before. That one gray tooth in just the same place. Oh yes. He’d seen it twice now. He’d seen it on Pickthorn, but he’d also seen it under the bulbous nose of the impostor Bartholomew of Oxford. The alchemist wasn’t an accomplice. He was the same person!

  Pickthorn continued on, without seeing Crispin. Crispin let him get several yards ahead and then peeled away from the wall and followed.

  The man went nowhere in particular. He stopped at a grocer and picked through the bruised apples. He ran his hands into a sack of dried peas. Leaving that behind, he wandered farther and examined pelts from a fur merchant.

  What was he doing? Crispin wondered. Simply shopping? Or did he know he was being followed and had decided to lead Crispin on a useless route to throw him off the scent?

  Crispin had been patient thus far. He could continue to be so.

  Pickthorn left the furrier and continued on his aimless path. Now Crispin was certain the man knew he was being followed. Or perhaps hoped. Crispin stayed back as far as he reasonably could. He wanted the man to doubt it, to make an uncalculated move. But he seemed steady in his determination to travel carelessly and purposelessly.

  At last he ducked into a tavern.

  Crispin waited as long as he dared. How could he go in without the man noticing him? He couldn’t, that was plain.

  A boy carrying a sack over his shoulder scampered in front of Crispin, and Crispin stuck out a hand and grabbed the boy’s shoulder. The child looked up with wary eyes.

  “Boy, how would you like to make a quick halfpenny?”

  Wide-eyed, the boy set his sack at his feet. “Aye, sir. What would you have me do?”

  “I want you to go into that tavern and look for a man with red hair. He is wearing a dark gown, to his ankles. Tell me where he is sitting.”

  The boy scratched his head. He could not be more than ten or eleven. “That’s all?”

  “That’s all. Make haste now.”

  He shouldered his burden again and went to the door, pushing it open. Crispin stepped away from the open doorway and into the shadows. He waited, keeping his eye on the door and on the men leaving the tavern. Soon the boy returned and set his sack on the ground before him.

  “I’m sorry, sir. But there was no one there with red hair. Can I still have the coin?”

  Crispin frowned. “Are you certain?”

  “Yes, my lord. I saw no one like that.”

  Crispin narrowed his eyes in thought. Absently, he reached into his scrip for the coin purse. He took out a coin and handed it to the boy, who stared at the bounty in his dirty palm.

  “By my Lady!” he gasped, and closed his hand. “Thank you, my lord!”

  “Be on your way,” he said, and scoured the street once more.

  The boy scurried on, kicking up clods of mud as he ran. Back door, Crispin thought. Must be. Unless …

  He backtracked, following the circuitous path that Pickthorn had led him on. When he arrived at the place Crispin had originally kept his vigil for the first few hours, he spotted a man in a long, dark gown. It looked the same. He was heading back the way Pickthorn had come. Crispin followed far behind, and it wasn’t until the man turned once to skirt a wide cart that Crispin saw his face. No dark beard. No red hair. Extremely short brown hair, above his ears.

  He didn’t have Bartholomew’s nose, for that was a disguise. Or his dark beard and hair, for that, too, was a deception. Nor did he have Pickthorn’s lank red hair, coarse, more like that of a horse’s tail. But it was the same man, all three of them. And he wondered now if he was finally seeing Piers Malemeyns with his true visage, however fleeting.

  The man moved up the lane. Crispin followed.

  Keeping his distance and hiding behind several men haggling over the price of a brace of coneys, Crispin watched Piers—for he was certain, this time, it was he—descend a short flight of steps to unlock a door set in the foundation of a plain-looking shop.

  The windows were shuttered, and anemic smoke spilled from the chimney over the broken slate roof. Either he had forgotten to bank his fire or someone, a confederate, was inside.

  Or even his victim.

  The front door was out. Too defended, he was certain. He made his way round to the back courtyard. The house stood alone on its corner, perhaps too far away to hear the cries of a helpless woman. The back courtyard was small, with only enough room for a privy. He stepped over the wattle fence and slid behind the foul-smelling pit. Listening for any movement, he was satisfied when he heard none. He used the rickety fence to get a leg up and climbed to the privy’s roof. From there, he leapt to an upper windowsill of the house, hanging for a moment before he could swing
his leg up. He crouched on the narrow ledge, holding on to the projections from the window frame. He peered in through the cracks of the shutter. A room, empty, except for crates and sticks of furniture piled one atop the other. Storage, he supposed.

  He released one hand, steadied himself, and pulled his dagger. With one quick jerk of his hand, the latch lifted and the window fell open. He sheathed the dagger and rolled over the sill, landing as lightly as he could.

  Silence.

  He slipped his dagger from its sheath again and fitted the hilt comfortably in his hand. He took in the dark room and confirmed it was used for storage and nothing more. He crept along the walls like a cat, mindful of creaking planks.

  Just as he made it to the door, an unholy noise exploded below. Wood splintering, shouts, tumbling across the floors.

  Crispin yanked open the door and peered down over the gallery.

  Two men were struggling below with Crispin’s quarry. He glanced quickly around, but there was nothing to help him, nothing to hurl down at the men beneath to stop their battle. And who were these men now fighting Piers?

  He girded himself and leapt up onto the railing, measuring the scene and tallying his choices. No help for it. He’d have to join the fight.

  He fixed his aim toward the center of the melee and dove over the side.

  29

  THE MEN LOOKED UP just as Crispin landed on their chests. They all tumbled backward, scattered and disoriented. He took advantage of it to grab Piers by his throat and hauled him to his feet. His dagger was at the man’s cheek.

  “The games are over,” Crispin growled.

  Piers glared at him, his bruised face long and open. And then his blood-cracked lips curved into a smile. That gray tooth gave him away again. “You are a clever man, Crispin Guest,” he got out before the others clambered to their feet.

  They were swathed in dark cloaks and dark hoods. Their shadowed faces were not ones Crispin recognized, but they did not run as he’d expected. Instead, they dove forward, drawing their swords.

  Crispin glared back at Piers. “It appears they want you dead. As dead as I want you.”

  “So popular,” he grunted, before freeing himself from Crispin’s grasp with one jerk of his shoulders. He ducked Crispin’s swinging arm and head-butted one approaching assailant.

  They hollered and the one fell into the other, but both recovered quickly, brandishing their blades. Catching a glance at Piers, Crispin saw that he did not seem as much concerned as excited. He, too, had a dagger in hand. He cocked his head at Crispin.

  “Fight together, then fight one another?”

  There was no other option. One man went for Piers and the other for Crispin.

  Crispin blocked the sword blade with his dagger hilt and tried to shove it away, but the man forced his dagger hand down. Crispin twisted, releasing their locked blades with one swift arc of his arm. The sword whooshed toward him. He ducked, smiting the man’s back with his fist. The man grunted and lurched forward, off balance. Crispin took advantage and kicked at the back of the man’s knee. A crunch and he howled, going down. Crispin flipped the dagger in his hand and used the hilt in his fist to deal a punishing uppercut to the man’s jaw. A fan of blood swept across the floor as he dropped.

  Rubbing his fist, Crispin swiveled toward the other two clinched in mortal combat.

  Piers landed a blow to the man’s belly, knocking him backward right into Crispin. They both struggled to keep their feet. When they righted, retreating footsteps told Crispin that Piers had bolted. The door swinging freely made it a certainty.

  Crispin went after him, but someone yanking on his hood wrenched him to a halt. He turned. The assassin gripped his hood and tugged it down, exposing Crispin’s neck. The sword swung down to behead him.

  With all his might, Crispin rolled to the side, pulling the man with him. The man let go of the hood and Crispin twisted away, rolling on the floor away from the assailant, but the man pursued. His sword clanged down against the floor near Crispin’s head, once, twice.

  Still on the floor, Crispin grabbed a chair with his legs and shoved it at the man, right into his belly. The man staggered back and with gritted teeth chopped down with the blade again. The chair splintered.

  Crispin jumped to his feet and rushed him, closing him in a bear hug. His dagger plunged deep into the assailant’s neck before slashing it outward.

  Blood shot forth, spurting with each heartbeat. The man fell back, gurgling on his own blood. The metallic smell of it filled the air. He slipped in the gore and writhed and rattled on the floor. Crispin stepped back out of the way and watched dispassionately as the man’s eyes rolled back, his thrashing ceased, and the blood pooled.

  He wiped his blade and his hands on the man’s cloak and turned his eyes on the other, still unconscious on the floor beside him. Crispin didn’t know how long he had. Piers was gone. But what of Perenelle?

  “Madam Flamel! Are you here?”

  A muffled cry sounded from the room beyond the archway. He stepped over the dead man and tried the door. Locked. With the flat of his foot, he kicked hard at the feeble lock and it caved in as the door slammed open.

  The room was dark and cold. A figure seated on a chair moaned and moved its head from side to side, blowing out a cloud of breath. Crispin approached and saw a woman, hair disheveled, face weary and dirty, and mouth stretched taut with a gag. He grabbed the gag first and stripped it away from her. She spit on the floor, away from him.

  “Madam Flamel?”

  She nodded, tears glistening in her eyes. “And you must be Crispin Guest,” she said in a dry voice. He was surprised she knew of him. Her mouth was cracked and chapped. She laid her head back and licked her lips as Crispin worked his dagger through her bindings.

  He tried to lift her, but she resisted, shaking her head. “Please. I thirst.”

  He hurried back into the outer room and found an untouched flagon of wine. He sniffed it, making sure it was what he thought it was, and then found a goblet on the floor. He returned, pouring it for her.

  Her trembling hands came up to hold it, but he could see she had no strength. He cradled her head and fed the goblet to her lips. She drank greedily, slurping it. It dribbled down her chin to her dirty gown.

  She breathed when the empty cup was taken away. “I am weak. I haven’t used my legs in days. They are feeble. Please help me up.”

  He took her by the shoulders and lifted her, and she cried out. Had she been tied to the chair all this time, for five days?

  “I’ve got you,” he said. “But we must leave. It isn’t safe.”

  “Have you killed him?”

  “No.”

  She said nothing to that. He helped her cross the threshold of the room. Her gown was soiled and she stank of urine. His anger boiled and he wished he had killed him, killed him slowly.

  They headed toward the door when she stopped him. “The Stone. You must find it.”

  “We haven’t time.”

  “He mustn’t keep it. He mustn’t make the Elixir.”

  “It won’t do him any good when I kill him.”

  “You don’t understand. He won’t be able to be killed.”

  “I don’t believe in that nonsense. I must get you out of here.”

  But when he tried to pull her through the front door, her clawed hands held on to the jamb. “I won’t leave without the Stone!”

  “God’s blood, woman! Bah! Very well.” He propped her against the door and she leaned down and kneaded her legs through her soiled gown.

  Crispin looked about the room. In their fight, tables had overturned and chairs had been smashed. The detritus of broken crockery and instruments were everywhere. “Malemeyns might have kept it on his person,” he said to her as he looked. “He might not have—”

  “No, he couldn’t. He had to … had to keep it in a crucible in order to make the Elixir. If he knew even that much, it will be here.”

  “If he knew that much?”

&n
bsp; She looked down at the bodies on the floor, one that would move no more, covered in his own blood, and the other that still breathed shallowly, though through a gurgle of red. His jaw might be broken or dislocated. He might die anyway. Crispin didn’t mourn it.

  “Piers was skilled in the alchemical sciences,” she went on, unmoved by the plight of the bodies lying at her feet. “But he could not master the Stone. And if one could not master that, then he could not master the Elixir. But it has been a long time. He had time to learn. And if he had notions to bring Nicholas here to help him, he hadn’t realized that it was me instead, all along.”

  He said nothing as he searched.

  Slowly, using the jamb, she straightened, wincing. “Do you think women are only for softness and bearing children? We have many other skills. And mine was in alchemy. It’s what drew Nicholas to me and, I am afraid, Piers. Can we stop him?”

  “We will. This I vow to you. But first we must flee this place.”

  “Not without the Stone.”

  “Women are also considerably more stubborn,” he muttered. Yet he admired her. For she had truly suffered much in the past week, and even as safety was nigh, she would not turn her course. He envied Flamel.

  With his dagger, he carefully turned over broken beakers, their contents hissing and bubbling on the wooden floor. What at first he thought was a shard of glass, he recognized as the Stone Flamel had shown him before. Crouching, he pushed it with his blade out of the mess and tipped it into the stained tablecloth lying on the floor. He wiped it off and straightened. Returning to her, he handed her the crystallized Stone.

  “You knew what it looked like,” she said, her voice, even as scratchy as it was, filled with awe. She clasped it tight in her hand. “Nicholas showed you.”

  “Yes. I made him show me once we discerned what Malemeyns wanted.” He unbuttoned his cloak, took it off, and threw it over her quivering shoulders.

  “He wanted more than that,” she said, leaning into him as he led her out the door. “He told me the terrible things he was doing, Maître. He was brought over from France in order to poison the cisterns, and make it look as if it were a French plot, turning against his own people.”