“I see.”
“But more. He was also to discredit the duke of Lancaster in the process. When he discovered the duke was in Spain, he turned his attention to his son.”
“So I also suspected.”
“Did you? Nicholas was wise to find you. But what this English lord who hired him did not know was Piers’s great hatred for Lancaster. For killing his son. He wanted to do his own justice and kill Lancaster’s son in return. But when he found Nicholas here…”
“He hatched many plots indeed. But tell me. Did he tell you which English lord hired him?”
“Oxford was the name he used. I do not know if it is a name or a place.”
“Oxford?” Not Suffolk. “It is both,” he said absently. So. Robert de Vere was playing his hand. And was he not recently appointed the justice of Chester, in direct control of Henry’s lands? Did Richard know about all this? He’d like to know the answer to that.
They moved through the streets. Crispin kept the pace slow for Perenelle’s sake. He kept looking back over his shoulder, but no one pursued them.
“The many plots seemed to have collapsed,” he said. “For one, those men were sent to dispatch Malemeyns. Perhaps Oxford’s patronage had expired.”
“Assassins,” she said. “But they did not get him.”
“I’m afraid I arrived at an inopportune moment.”
They shouldered past a man burdened with bundled sticks over his back. “A pity you could not have been delayed a few moments more.”
“I fear if I had, they might have gotten to you.”
“Me? How could I be a threat?”
“You were a witness. You knew it was Oxford. And even if you did not, they could not take that chance. They would certainly have killed you.”
She snorted. “I had the protection of the Holy Virgin. She kept me safe and I am alive and unhurt.”
“So you are.”
“And she sent you. I am most grateful. I will light many candles for you, Maître.”
He felt his cheeks warming, even in the cold and without his cloak. He said nothing.
“Piers discovered that Nicholas and I were here. And he changed his strategies. You see, when his house burned and took the life of his son, it also destroyed his work. He claims he was close to creating the Stone. But that, I doubt.”
“Yet it seems as if Master Flamel is famed for creating the Stone, at least among alchemists. How did Malemeyns dare steal it and call it his own invention?”
“He is mad. Mad with vengeance and envy. And hatred. It was an accident, but long ago, Nicholas was responsible for his wife’s death. He mixed a potion to heal her, but she reacted very badly to it. She died, painfully. I am certain that was part of the reason he stole me and treated me so abominably.”
“A man will have his revenge,” he said, thinking now that he’d like to take his own revenge on Piers. “He seemed also to take on many guises. Another alchemist, a preacher. He sounded like a Londoner to me.”
“He was from London as a child and often returned. Though once he was married he traveled less often. He made a name for himself in England, but that was not what he wanted. He wanted to be the prima alchemist of France, to have the king bestow honors on him as he had upon Nicholas. He felt in his heart he was a Frenchman, and to use the English in this plot was his greatest jest.”
“Do you have a clue as to where he is now?”
“No. He told me much, but he was also careful. I got the impression he had many hiding places within the city.”
“So he did, even to using the house of a man away on travels and pretending to be him.”
“So clever. So unafraid. So without scruples.” She bundled the cloak tightly about her. “A man like that can feel he can do anything, that he is entitled to do so. A man like that is the most dangerous of all.”
They said no more and moved up Fleet at last to the shop. Even as she leaned upon him, he felt her urge him forward. Crispin knocked on the door and he spied Jack for only a moment before Avelyn threw him aside. Perenelle seemed to lose the control she had carefully kept. “Ma chère! Je suis si contente de vous voir!”
Avelyn cried out and took her elbow, and Flamel was instantly at her side, enclosing her in his arms. The two of them rocked together, soft sobs escaping both of them.
“It was Piers,” she murmured, and he drew back, staring at her. “But your gallant Maître Guest saved me … and this.” She opened her hand to reveal the Stone.
“Ah!” he cried, folding his hand over hers, and the both of them clutched each other again, as well as the Stone. “Maître, Maître!” He looked with a tear-streaked face up at Crispin over the top of his wife’s head. “How … how can I ever thank you? What shall ever be enough?”
“It isn’t over, Master Flamel. He escaped me and I fear he may still do harm.”
“But you will find him. I know you will. And Thomas can now rest in peace. Come, Avelyn,” he said, signaling the girl. Avelyn was looking adoringly at Crispin when Flamel finally caught her attention. “Take your mistress and bathe and clothe her. See that she is comfortable.”
Avelyn nodded and took Perenelle’s hand, kissing it before she led the drooping woman away. Perenelle stopped, straightened, and removed Crispin’s cloak from her shoulders. She handed it to him and he took it, crushing it to his chest. “May our Lady bless you, Maître. May she bless all who hold you dear.”
He bowed low as she was led away. Jack looked on with stoic admiration. Flamel’s hands on Crispin’s sleeve brought him back to his attention. “You did it! You did it! You are a miracle.”
Crispin moved away from the man’s embrace to spin his cloak over his shoulders and step closer to the fire. He didn’t feel much like a miracle. He felt like a failure. He hadn’t captured Piers yet, let him escape. Though he supposed he was busy at the time.
But that also meant that Henry was still in danger.
Jack nudged Crispin’s elbow, offering ale, and sat beside Crispin, sipping his own. Crispin related to him how Piers was not only Bartholomew, but Robert Pickthorn.
“No! That cannot be,” he said with a snarl. “How could he have deceived us so!”
“He is a master at it. At disguise and guile. Perhaps he even uses his sorcery to do it. A false nose, wigs, false beards.”
“But all them people. How did he ever get away with it?”
“I’ve told you before, Jack. People see only what you force them to see. We saw him only in an alchemist’s shop as Bartholomew, and when we saw him as Pickthorn, he was fiery and bombastic, just as we expected to see. Change the voice a bit and add an accent, a stooped shoulder, and none will be the wiser. I’ve done it myself.”
“You never!”
“I have.”
Jack let out a breath. “He’s laughing at us.”
“Let him. He won’t be laughing when my dagger goes through him.”
“So what now? He’s still after Lord Derby.”
“Yes. That worries me. Henry is wise enough now not to follow any more anonymous missives, but what if Malemeyns put my name to it?”
Jack shot to his feet. “God’s blood, sir! He can’t do that!”
He stared at Jack anew and tried mightily not to smile at his apprentice’s use of Crispin’s favorite oath. “No, he certainly cannot be allowed to. But I don’t know where Henry lodges.”
“And just how is it the Tracker finds that out?”
“Right.” He got up and headed for the door. Abruptly, he stopped. “Jack, I want you to stay here.”
Jack slumped. “What! Again?”
“They need guarding, Jack. I fear that Malemeyns may try to return. And remember, he can disguise himself.”
Jack looked disappointed for only a moment before he pushed his shoulders back. “Aye, Master Crispin. I’ll stay. I’ll do my best. I’ll make you proud.”
“You already do.”
30
OF COURSE DERBY HAD estates in London. Lancaster castles t
hey had aplenty, spread all over England and outside London’s precincts, but they had houses in London. The Savoy had been under slow reconstruction after the riots of Wat Tyler back in the fifth year of Richard’s reign, but he knew Henry wouldn’t be there. He wouldn’t be at any of them. If there was an encampment outside the city, that’s where he’d be.
With his hood up against the cold as well as for secrecy, Crispin hurried through the late afternoon streets. He was deeply disturbed by the fact of Oxford’s treachery. What had he hoped to gain by eliminating Henry? Did Oxford fear more than the commissioners’ impositions? Did he think Henry threatened the crown itself? Of course Oxford would do anything to defend Richard, for Richard kept him in riches, heaping upon him honors and titles. Duke of Ireland, justice of Chester, marquess of Dublin. Rumor had it that Oxford had even put aside his wife in order to marry one of the queen’s ladies. He thought he could commit any atrocity he wished, any foul exploit, and remain immune. Poison the cisterns and blame it on the French, as a distraction, no doubt. A distraction! Killing innocent lives just for that. Yes, there was great call indeed for Henry’s commissioners.
But worse. Crispin was no longer in any position to challenge him, to stop him. He had to rely on Henry to do that. Was the boy strong enough? Was his cadre of lords powerful enough to stop Richard and his men from these misdeeds? He hoped so, and he prayed that Lancaster would soon return from his mission in Spain. He could not come home soon enough!
After a time, Crispin passed through Bishopsgate and took the lonely road toward Spitalfields. He heard the sound of troops before he reached it over a rise. Men-at-arms strode the fields and tended to horses. Colorful pavilion tents crowded together like a market day. Banners with the arms of Henry’s lords whipped in the wind and Crispin headed toward the one with the arms of Lancaster, feeling distinctly vulnerable as heads turned toward him. The question now was, would he be admitted?
He strode up to the entrance of the encampment and to an assembly of men-at-arms. He bowed gravely. “Masters,” he said, “I would speak with his grace, Henry of Derby.”
No one spoke, and for a moment, Crispin wondered if anyone would. After all, who would come to such a camp without a horse, without a retinue?
One wary guard ventured forward, clutching the shaft of his poleaxe. “Who comes to see his grace?”
“Crispin Guest. With a matter of some urgency.”
By the men’s expressions, Crispin could well see that they recognized his name. The men-at-arms exchanged a silent consultation before the first man licked his lips and gave a curt jerk to his head for Crispin to follow.
Crispin was only slightly surprised but did not stand by musing over it. He hurried across the muddied field behind the man-at-arms and traipsed between the tents, where they met another guard.
The man gestured back toward Crispin. “Crispin Guest to see Lord Henry.”
The new guard, wearing the Lancaster colors, openly assessed Crispin.
“Please,” said Crispin. “You know who I am. You know I would never betray him.”
The guard studied him for a long time before he said in a gruff voice, “I will announce you.” He turned and walked away, leaving Crispin to stand on the chill plain with the single guard behind him.
It wasn’t long until another man in livery arrived. He, too, looked Crispin over. “I am Hugh Waterton, Earl Derby’s chamberlain. What makes you think that Lord Henry will see you?”
“He will.”
Again, Crispin stood under scrutiny. Waterton glanced out over the encampment, where his gaze finally landed on the man-at-arms standing by. He gave him a dismissing nod and turned to Crispin. “Come with me.”
Crispin followed him through the aisles between more tents and finally to a large pavilion, whose sides rippled with the wind. Waterton pushed aside the tent flap and held it open for Crispin.
Crispin bowed to the man, held the flap for himself, and ducked through. The flap fell back in place behind him.
The floor was covered in carpets. A large oak table with folding chairs encircling it sat in the middle of the tent, but there was still room enough for a large bed, coffers, and several cots. Candles burned from sconces beside an altar at the far end, where a man knelt at a prie dieu. He was enrobed in a long cloak that draped over his feet. A sword hilt poked out and lay across the carpeted floor.
After a long moment, he turned.
Henry.
He rose quickly, smoothly, and strode across the tent. A frown furrowed his brows. “Why did you come here?”
“Forgive me, my lord. But I had to warn you. I did not want to send a message that might go astray.”
“Well, then?”
“There are assassins who seek you.”
He barked a laugh. “This is not news.”
“Their origin is. It’s Oxford. He is sending them.”
“What?” His hand went to his sword hilt.
“It does not please me to relate this to you, my lord. But Oxford is behind all the schemes of late in London. The poisoning, the missives you received, and the men sent to kill you.”
“How … how does he dare?”
“He is loyal to Richard.”
“Does Richard know?”
“I … don’t know. But I doubt it. I think Oxford is doing this on his own for his own interests as well as the king’s.”
Henry’s hand closed into a fist as he stared at the floor. His shoulders rose and fell in a quick succession of breaths. “Who else knows that you know?”
Crispin shrugged. “No one but you and me.”
“My men have told me that Oxford and Suffolk are preparing to leave court. They might be gone already.”
“Why, Henry? What is happening?”
He lifted his head. “I have a message to deliver to his Majesty. Today. An appeal of treason on his advisers.”
“Don’t go, Henry. Send others to do it.”
“How can I not go? Especially when one of the names is Oxford. You see, Crispin, I already know what a swine he is.”
“I beg you, Henry, don’t go.”
“Because of what it will look like?”
“It will look like you are making a move on the throne.”
Henry paced away from Crispin. His long cloak feathered along the carpeted floor after him.
“I don’t … want to know whether it’s true or not,” said Crispin. Henry looked over his shoulder at him, brows raised. “I don’t.”
“It’s not,” he answered quickly.
Crispin breathed again. He licked his lips. “Don’t go to court. He’ll arrest you.”
“Whom should I send, eh? If not myself?”
“Send your uncle, at least. As a show of good faith to Richard.”
“Who else?”
He shook his head. “I do not know who your commissioners are. Not all of them, anyway.”
“Richard Fitzalan, Thomas Mowbray, Thomas Beauchamp. Should I send them all and not go myself?”
“Send Arundel and Warwick, then, along with your uncle. A small delegation. Not too intimidating.”
“But I think rather that they should be intimidating.”
“The message is intimidating enough, don’t you think? Richard will not take it well.”
A small smile formed on his face. “Would it interest you to know that my uncle Gloucester made all the very same arguments? I suppose I should take that advice, then, if the both of you are in agreement.”
“Gloucester and I have agreed on so few things. Perhaps this is the time to listen.”
He nodded. “Very well. I’ll send the message. And I’ll stay here. For now.”
“What will Suffolk and Oxford do?”
“God knows. I know what I would do.”
“And what’s that?” But Crispin already knew the answer.
“Bring back an army,” said Henry.
* * *
CRISPIN TOOK HIS THOUGHTS with him back to Fleet Street. Before he reached it, h
owever, he heard a noise and looked up. Above the rooftops were not the dark, dense clouds full of rain, but great billowing, choking clouds of smoke from a fire. Like many others on the street, he started running. A fire in the city could easily spread from street to street in the tightly packed parishes. Any able-bodied man was required to help.
His fear doubled when he saw the roof of Flamel’s shop engulfed. Sooty men were passing buckets of water to one another and tossing their contents on the blaze flickering through the doorway.
Crispin ran up to a man who seemed to be in charge. “The people?” he asked. “Did the people get out?”
“I don’t know. I came upon it when the fire appeared to start. I called out but heard no one within.”
The smoke and fire in the doorway parted for only a moment, and Crispin leapt through.
“Wait! Damn fool.”
Inside, the place was like the pits of Hell. Fire leapt from every surface. Heat surged all around him. He put his cloak up over his mouth and nose, but his eyes stung from the smoke. He squinted through the tears and cast about. “Is anyone here?”
He kept low, below the rolling smoke, searching in all the corners. When he could find no sign of anyone, he grabbed the ladder to the loft. He was coughing now and closed his eyes as he climbed each rung, saving his eyes the pain from the heat. Once he gained the top, he looked around. “Flamel! Jack!”
Flames licked at him from the railing and the now rickety floorboards. In the smoke, the brass planets continued their slow progress, oblivious to the carnage around them.
Crispin looked up. In the rafters he caught sight of a square that looked like the sky, and when he coughed enough, and blinked enough, he saw that it was the sky. A trapdoor to the roof yawning wide open.
He stumbled his way toward it, trying to breathe only through his damp cloak, and stood under the door. No ladder. The remnants of it were burning nearby. They must have made their escape that way.
He looked back the way he had come.
Shadow of the Alchemist: A Medieval Noir Page 28
