Jeri Westerson - Shadow of the Alchemist

Jack’s head snapped toward her and his jaw dropped open and remained that way as, unconcerned, she stretched again and languidly bent to pull on her shift.

Crispin shivered at the cold and tugged on his own shirt, forcing himself out of bed. He stood with his backside toward the fire. “Morning, Jack.”

“Good morn, M-Master Crispin. Er…”

She offered a lazy smile and a wink to Jack and leaned her head against Crispin’s chest as they both stood by the fire, warming themselves.

“Should I … er…”

“You should heat the water,” said Crispin with a smile.

“Erm … right.” Jack scrambled for the bucket by the door, broke through the thin layer of ice, and poured a splashing dollop into an iron pot. He dragged the cauldron to the fire, kicked the trivet over the flames, and set the pot atop it.

He turned back to them, staring, eyes traveling particularly over Avelyn and her shift, which was not as opaque as Crispin would have liked.

Crispin tapped her shoulder. “Your gown. Are you not cold?”

She smirked and bent to retrieve Crispin’s braies and stockings, balled them into a bundle, and shoved them into his hands. Next she retrieved her own cotehardie and shook it out before shrugging into it.

Crispin casually donned his braies and then the stockings, tying each to the linen underwear.

With her undone buttons still gaping her gown, Avelyn handed Crispin his cotehardie and helped him slip an arm in each sleeve. She took her time buttoning it up, from the hem, lingering at his groin, then up his torso, and at last to his throat.

“Thank you,” he said, and finger-spoke it at the same time. She kissed him as a reward, and Jack made a squeak.

“What’s that, Tucker?”

“I … uh … I…”

“How’s that water coming?”

His eyes flicked to the steaming cauldron while Avelyn took up the chamber pot and retreated outside and downstairs, presumably to the privy in the back garden.

“What’s she doing here?” he rasped as the door closed. Crispin gave him a lopsided grin and Tucker scowled. “Never mind. I can see for myself.”

Crispin chuckled.

“So you can speak her finger language now, eh? Amazing what a night of concentration will do for a man.”

He cuffed the boy good-naturedly, and Jack chuckled with him.

“Just a few words,” said Crispin. “Not enough to have a proper conversation, as I suspect she was trying to do.” He frowned. “But you had your own course yesterday. Tell me, what did you discover?”

With a cloth wrapped around the pot’s bail handle, Jack lifted the cauldron from the fire and poured half of the water into the shaving basin. He returned the pot to the fire and shuffled to the back window where the wine jug sat, took it to the fire, and poured some into the remaining hot water.

“Well,” he said, swirling the water and wine in the pot. The steam curled around his face. “I returned to that preacher fellow and listened to more wailing and accusations. I don’t know if he’s right, sir. I don’t know if a man will go to Hell if he don’t take the path he was talking about. I mean, men like us, we do our best, do we not?”

“That is true, Jack. We do our best, we say our prayers, we ask forgiveness of the Almighty, and we serve the least of our brothers. What more can a man do?”

“Just so. But that man didn’t have no good words for nobody. According to him, we’re all going to Hell, no matter what.”

“That may be true for some, Jack. For those who do not repent.”

Jack glanced over his shoulder toward the door just as Avelyn returned. “Repent, eh?” He grinned.

Crispin was tempted to snap his belt at the boy but buckled it around his waist instead. He unbuttoned the sleeves of his coat, pushed up his shirtsleeves, and dipped his cupped hands into the basin of hot water, sluicing his face. He reached for the soap cake and the razor, but Avelyn was faster and urged him to sit.

Jack looked on amused as he poured the hot watered wine into two bowls. He sipped his and slid the other near Crispin. Crispin first offered it to Avelyn, who shook her head vigorously while she readied his razor.

Jack gestured with his steaming bowl. “Do you suppose she knows what she’s doing?”

Crispin sipped the warmed wine, savoring the heat. “We’ll soon see. Either I will be well shaved or no longer burdened of this workaday world.”

Jack hovered, suddenly looking worried. Crispin kept his expression neutral as the woman, with fierce concentration, steadily ran the razor over his soaped-up jawline.

“You were telling me of the preaching man, Jack.”

“Oh, aye.” He sat back, sipped his wine, and then set the bowl down with his hand still wrapped around it. “Robert Pickthorn is the scoundrel’s name. He is a lay preacher. New to London. I followed him as he preached. Didn’t even stop to take a piss. He talked on and on. And then he just … disappeared.”

“What do you mean?”

“The crowd had gathered, he said his piece, and then, even as I watched, he slipped away.”

Crispin jerked in his seat. Deftly, Avelyn took the razor away from his skin before he cut himself. He pushed her back and wiped his face with a rag. “He what?”

“I’m sorry, Master, but he got away. I questioned all and sundry, but no one had seen him go and none knew where he lives. I searched and searched.”

“And when was it that he disappeared, Jack? What time of day?”

“Well, let me think.” He scratched his head. “Round about Sext, by the church bells ringing not long thereafter.” He looked up, alert. “What of the ransom drop, sir? What happened? After I searched for the whoreson, I returned to Master Flamel’s shop in the hopes that you would be there, but you had gone. He said … he said the man had failed to show. Is that what happened, sir?”

Crispin stood at the table and consumed the rest of his now lukewarm wine. “Not exactly. Someone did come to claim the ransom.”

Jack finished and set his bowl aside. “Well? Who was it?”

The sick sensation swooped in his belly again. “It was Henry Bolingbroke,” he said, voice rough.

“Oh, Master! It couldn’t have been.”

With a surge of frustration, he heaved his wooden bowl into a corner. Wine fanned across the table. The bowl clattered against the floor, spun, and finally came to rest. “It was him, dammit! Don’t you think I know my own-” Family? Charge? Whatever it was he meant to say died in the smoky room.

“But why, sir?”

“I don’t know. I … I confronted him. He told me in so many words to back off. That I was not seeing what I thought I was seeing, or some such nonsense. He claimed to know nothing of the ransom, but he was there, Jack, at the statue with his hand there at Saint Paul’s feet, as guilty as any rogue. He knew. I know he did.”

Jack slumped onto his stool. “Blind me.” He shook his head in disbelief and stared at the floor.

He and Crispin both looked over at Avelyn as she noisily mopped up the spilled wine and retrieved the upturned bowl. She turned it in her hands, looking for cracks, he presumed. Satisfied, she returned it to the pantry shelf and waited, looking only at Crispin.

“You must go home now, Avelyn.” He made the hand movements for “home.” Jack watched, rapt.

She stubbornly shook her head and made a series of signs.

“I don’t understand you,” he growled. He took her by the shoulders and propelled her roughly toward the door. “You must leave!”

She shook him off and gritted her teeth in frustration. She looked around the room and ran from corner to corner, etching more signs on the walls with her fingers.

“She’s gone mad,” said Jack in a whisper.