Jeri Westerson - Shadow of the Alchemist

“This was a gift from King Charles,” Flamel said softly. “We-Perenelle and I-did him a great service.”

“A great service indeed,” said Crispin in the same quiet tone. “I understand your hesitation, but your wife…”

“Yes, Maître, of course you are right.”

“You will take this and place it as he specified. But I will be following you and waiting nearby to capture the knave.”

“Is … is that all there is to that?” asked Flamel, wringing his hands. “You capture him and he tells you where my wife is? For I have never been involved in such matters before.”

“I assure you, sir, that the matter will be over quickly.”

Flamel readied himself, told Avelyn to stay, and ventured forth. Crispin allowed him a lead and then made his way out the alchemist’s door.

He had not gotten far when he encountered a crowd gathered around a man with coarse ruddy hair, waving his arms about. He had a thick Southwark accent with just the hint of somewhere else.

“… Then Satan, the enemy of the Father,” the man was saying in a loud voice, hoarse from speaking, “wishing to trouble the peace and Kingdom of the Holy Father, knocked upon the door of Man. And Man, because he is not vigilant and is weak of heart and soul, did not set guardians on his door and allowed him in. And, hidden amongst them, Satan began to solicit them with false promises. Time and again, Satan, the Great Deceiver, the one true enemy of God the Father, slew the soul of Man because he would not take the narrow gate! Look! Look here! Signs of sorcery and witchcraft.” He flung his hand toward the stone foundation of a weaver’s shop. Etched upon the surface was another odd set of symbols, something that Crispin did not recognize.

“See!” the man went on. “See the devilry at work. Have we forgotten so soon the punishment sent down upon us by our generous Lord to cleanse us of our sins? Do we not recall the terrible plague that swept our midst a mere generation ago, taking the high and the lowly, for Death does not aim his scythe at only the one or the other? All men must die, all men must suffer for to be worthy of the presence of our Father in the sky in His heavenly chamber.”

The man swept the crowd with his gaze and it landed upon Crispin, where it stayed. That pointing finger swept toward Crispin. “Lo! See the evildoer emerging from the alchemist’s lair! Foul Sorcerer, Tempter! Dabbling where angels have forbidden. Your fate is sealed, as are the fates of others so inclined to follow the path of Satan.”

Crispin straightened his coat. “Rubbish.”

Some in the crowd gasped. It stopped the mouth of the preacher, but only for a moment. He narrowed his eyes and his thin lips spread into a feral smile, revealing one gray tooth. “He does not repent. And so his sin spreads to the good people of London like a disease. To you, dear friends. His sin compounds and leaves open the unguarded door. For a traitor to God shall suffer the fate of traitors and hang by his heel to be devoured by dogs. Plague shall return unless we repent of our sins and make the sinner pay!”

Laying a hand on his dagger hilt, Crispin took a cautious step back. But the crowd seemed disinclined to make good on the preacher’s admonitions.

“For God’s sake,” said Jack, stepping protectively before Crispin. The lad was just as tall and blocked Crispin’s view of the crowd. “This man is not a sinner nor an alchemist. He’s-”

Crispin jabbed Jack in the ribs with his elbow, and the boy winced. What did this preaching man know of men hanging by their feet? Just at that moment and from the look on the man’s face, Crispin did not wish to identify himself.

“Come, Jack.” He yanked his apprentice along but kept an eye on the ruddy-haired man.

They turned a corner and Crispin ushered them quickly away until they had made a circuitous route toward Pater Noster Row above St. Paul’s.

“Master,” Jack said, flustered, “what was that all about? Why did you stop me from putting that man aright?”

“Did you not listen to him? He spoke of a man hanging upside down .”

Jack stopped. “Blind me. Do you think…”

“I do not know what to think. I like guessing even less. Go back and keep an eye on him, Jack. Tell me where he goes.”

“You will go on to St. Paul’s?”

“Yes. Meet me later back at our lodgings.”

“Aye, Master.”

“I need not tell you that the man must not know you are there.”

Jack gave him a crooked smile, not dissimilar to Crispin’s own. “I know that, Master Crispin. I’ll not let him see me. Of that you can be certain. God keep you, sir.”

“And you. Go on, you knave.”

Jack saluted and took off back down the lane, snow flying from his boots.

Crispin gathered his cloak tighter across his chest and proceeded down the street. He turned the corner at St. Paul’s and stood in the slush at the bottom of the hill, looking up toward the cathedral. Its spires, tipped with frost, sparkled in the frail sunshine. He raised his hood to keep the cold at bay and to disguise himself. At this distance, he had a clear view of the courtyard and arched entry. Men were coming and going through the church’s doors. It was a place for clerks and lawyers to solicit business, milling as they did in the cold nave, out of the weather. The nave was known as Paul’s Walk, and merchants, too, wandered, selling trinkets and sometimes food. Boys played rough games as well, until they were chased out by the bishop’s servants. Crispin often thought of the Scripture where Jesus drove the merchants from the temple and just as often wondered why the bishop did not do the same.

Crispin headed toward the church and trotted up the steps, walking in under the arch into the dim interior. He dipped his fingers into the icy holy water from the font and sketched a cross over his brow.

Just as he imagined, men were moving within the open nave under the vaulted ceiling and around the columns. They congregated in groups or stood stoically alone, trying for an air of something between eagerness and indifference. He made his way through, meeting the hopeful eyes of the men looking for employment but giving them only a slight bow in return. Ahead stood the statue of Saint Paul, and Crispin stood opposite, leaning against a pillar, pretending to do his prayers while keeping an eye trained on the statue.

Flamel appeared out of the shadows of the cathedral’s archway and walked through the nave. He found the statue and fumbled his way, depositing the ransom between the feet of the effigy. He stepped back and moved jerkily across the nave again, looking over his shoulder, until he disappeared out the door again beyond Crispin’s sight.

Men moved near the effigy, but none went directly to it. Crispin settled in, watching his breath fog around his face. The noon bell for Sext startled him. It reverberated above his head from the aerie reaches of the bell tower. The sounds resonated along Paul’s Walk and gamboled up into the vaulted ceiling high overhead. Crispin didn’t move, waiting anxiously now, eyes darting throughout the gloomy nave for anyone who showed an interest in the effigy of Saint Paul.

Could he have missed him? He hoped he had not been so foolish as to let the opportunity slip through his fingers.

The last stroke of the bell echoed throughout the cavernous nave, pinging from column to column and settling into a muted tone that disappeared into the dim, arched ceiling. A lone figure approached the statue, heading directly for it. His spurs clinked with each step on the square tiles, and even in the low light Crispin could see the fine material of his long cloak that hid his frame while his face was shadowed under a chaperon hood.

Crispin moved. Cautiously he drew nearer, eyes now riveted to the back of the man who stopped before the statue of Saint Paul in its tall niche, looking up at it. The man checked slyly over his shoulder, first to his left and then his right, before stepping up to the very foot of the statue.