Jeri Westerson - Shadow of the Alchemist

Softly, Crispin drew his dagger. He made certain his steps were quiet.

The man reached forward to the effigy and stuck his hand deep between the stone feet.

In an instant, Crispin’s dagger was at the man’s neck and he stuck his face near his hooded ear. “Do not move. Do not cry out.”

The man stiffened, his hand still poised beneath the statue.

“Slowly,” said Crispin. “Take your hand out, but keep them both where I can see them.”

The man did as told, his gloved hand empty and his other hovering waist high, surely itching to grab his own dagger.

With his knife still at the man’s neck, Crispin spun him to get a look at the knave who had killed, had abducted the innocent wife of the alchemist.

His dagger fell to the floor in a shock of metal on tile. Heads turned toward them, but Crispin never noticed. His gaze was fixed on the man before him, who was looking back at him with an air of annoyance.

“What game are you playing now, Crispin?” asked Henry, Lord Derby.

“What … what are you doing here, your grace?” Crispin looked toward the niche and the velvet pouch he could just see under the statue’s shadow. But then his gaze traveled back to the man before him.

Henry gazed at him mildly, his eyes flicking to the dagger on the floor. “Pick up your weapon, Crispin. And for God’s sake, sheathe it.”

Stiffly, Crispin crouched and retrieved his blade, absently shoving it in its scabbard. Mouth dry, heart pounding, he faced Henry again. “What are you doing here?” All other questions seemed to have been chased from his mind. This was the only question he wanted, needed, to know the answer to.

Henry smiled, but it didn’t make it to his eyes. “Why, I am merely paying my respects to Saint Paul. What else would I be doing?”

Crispin peered over his shoulder at the many men in the nave, some still regarding them with curious or alarmed expressions. His mind snapped back to the problem. Henry had clearly been reaching for the ransom. He had known it was there. And the only reason for knowing it was there was that he had told Flamel to put it there.

His voice was hoarse when he finally said, “My lord, what were you doing at this particular statue … at this particular time of day?”

Henry’s expression had been placid, but as Crispin observed, it slowly darkened. His eyes shuttered, became unreadable. “My time is my own, Crispin. I need not detail my itinerary to anyone. Even you.”

“It is just that … just that … God’s blood, Henry. I know why you are here. You must tell me the truth!”

“I must ?” His voice took on the quality of his father’s. With a simple lowering of a brow and the stern pronouncement of one word, he could make it plain that he was the son of a duke and Crispin was far lower. “Master Guest, I do not think that I must do anything of the kind.”

“M-my lord,” he tried again. Instinct made him lower his eyes, but his own pride made him raise them again and his chin as well. “My lord, a man was brutally murdered and another man’s innocent wife is in the hands of a foul abductor, awaiting a ransom left here at the foot of this statue. What can you tell me of these monstrous events?”

Henry’s expression never wavered. “Indeed? Interesting tidings, Crispin. What makes you think I would have any knowledge of such doings?”

“Because you are here!” he hissed, losing patience, heart aching at the same time. “And you knew where the ransom was kept.”

“Did I?”

“Yes! Why are you toying with me? I caught you in the act of seizing it. For the love of all the saints, Henry, tell me.”

“I do not know your meaning, Master Guest.” The formality drew thick around him, like a cloak of ermine. It reminded Crispin that Henry was no longer the boy he had known, with flushed cheeks and ready hugs for his household companion. He was a man of duty now, a man with great responsibilities and the power to back it up.

“And know this,” he went on in a cool, emotionless tone. “Remember to whom you are speaking.” He stepped closer, his face so close to Crispin’s that Crispin could count the freckles on his nose. He spoke with a steady whisper. “Do not get in my way or you shall regret it.” He dealt one last look of finality, turned on his heel, and stalked away.

Crispin let out his breath in one long cloud. With his heart breaking, he watched Henry retreat. Surely not. Surely Henry was not involved in murder and abduction. But Henry was a powerful lord. He was the head of these commissioners, above even that of his own uncle, the duke of Gloucester. Did it have to do with this commission? What if he should need an army of his own, as the sheriffs hinted at? He would need money for such a venture. And to extort such funds from a French citizen seemed rich indeed. Yes, soldiers were not above taking noblemen for ransom, even killing their retainers to do it. But to abduct Madam Flamel seemed outrageous. Yet Henry must have known of the stone broach, else why choose this secretive man, this alchemist? The stone came from King Charles of France. Was it because of the broach’s provenance?

Feeling sick in his gut and in his heart, Crispin turned to leave but stopped and noticed with some small relief that the velvet bag was still there. For all Henry’s posturing, he had not bothered to take it. Had he been embarrassed to do so in front of Crispin? Crispin took it and placed it into his scrip.

He trudged through the dirty snow back to Fleet Ditch, looking at no one, mind a whirl. The alchemist’s shop came into view and he knocked hesitantly on the door. It flung open and Avelyn was there. She grabbed his arm and dragged him in.

The room had been straightened, debris removed and furniture put back to what it once was. Flamel sat at his worktable, but it didn’t look as if he was working. He raised his head, an anxious expression parting his dry lips.

Crispin bowed his head. “He … failed to arrive.” From inside his pouch, he brought up the velvet bag and laid it gently on the table. Flamel stared at it. “But we must not give up, Master Flamel. There is more to learn. I will discover her whereabouts and return her unharmed to you. That, I vow.”

Flamel shot to his feet. “ Mon Dieu! Vierge Marie, what shall I do? Ma chère Perenelle! Maître Guest! I fear greatly for her life. What must I do? Help me, please!”

“Master Flamel, you must gird yourself, sir. All is not lost.” He hoped. He did not yet know Henry’s game, but he would soon learn it. And he hadn’t forgotten the preacher’s words. That man knew something, too. Were they working together? It seemed an absurd notion, but Crispin had encountered far stranger things in the past. He’d find out more when next he spoke to Jack Tucker.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Avelyn take the discarded velvet bag and slip the stone from it, but it was not the sapphire broach Crispin had seen before. Like a flash of lightning, his hand shot out and closed over her wrist. He squeezed tight, forcing her hand open, and a plain piece of river stone lay there. “Master Flamel!” He snatched the stone from her hand and held it up to him. “What is this deception?”

The alchemist’s eyes widened like bezants. “Oh. I … I hoped to buy us time.”

“Buy you time? By giving your extortionist a false ransom?”

He looked toward Avelyn as if she could help him. She answered by kicking Crispin in the shin.

“Ow! You bitch!” He grabbed her before she could escape and slapped her across the face. She was momentarily off balance but soon righted herself and turned her face obstinately back at him … before stomping on his foot.