Jeri Westerson - Shadow of the Alchemist

Flamel seemed to sense Crispin’s unease with this tactic, but he raised his hand to silence any arguments. “I cannot be certain of the wisdom of this course, but let us try this little ruse to see, eh? To see if I am not completely mad.”

I already think you’re completely mad, thought Crispin, but he did not say it aloud.

Flamel shuffled to his feet, took the cloak Avelyn offered him, and, with one backward glance at Crispin, slouched out the door.

Crispin and Jack reluctantly returned to the Shambles and did not hear from Flamel for the remainder of the day.

Pacing restlessly, Crispin went from window to hearth over and over again, peering out the slightly open shutters to the street below. He saw nothing of the French alchemist. No word from Avelyn, nothing from Flamel. He had made himself into the biggest fool. Flamel was right. He had no business forgetting his task to play paramour to the man’s servant. It was base, even for him. His loneliness was not an excuse. Perhaps it might be best to practice some humility. Or celibacy, at the very least. Though the thought made him grimace.

Jack lay with his head on his arms, sitting at the table. Crispin thought he heard him snore.

Finally, Crispin could take it no more. He stalked to the door and pulled down his cloak, whipping it over his shoulders.

Jack jerked up, sputtering, “Master Crispin? Where are you going?”

“I’m going to talk to that alchemist.”

“What? Flamel?”

“No, the other. Avelyn took us there for a reason.”

Jack lumbered up from his chair and shuffled toward his cloak. He shrugged it on and buttoned it up. “But you heard Flamel, Master. He said she was mad.”

“There is far more to this than meets the eye, Jack. I will make that man talk to me.” He yanked open the door and stalked onto the landing.

“Now, Master Crispin. There’s no need to be getting into any trouble. Them sheriffs are none too fond of you.”

He trotted down the stairs with Jack behind him. “And I am none too fond of them.”

Crispin looked both ways down the lane. At least it had stopped snowing. The sky extended its pale wash of blue down to a blushing horizon. The naked trees in back courtyards stretched their spindly arms into the heavens, looking more like cracks against the dense flatness of the sky.

Crispin walked briskly, satisfied that he was at least doing something . He inhaled deeply of the heavy, cold air and warmed himself by swinging his limbs freely.

Jack’s long strides kept pace. The boy might argue, but he always complied. He knew in the end that he would at least learn something of value.

“What do you make of this Nicholas Flamel, Jack?”

The boy ran his sleeve under his reddened nose and exhaled a long white cloud. “He’s strange, sir. I reckon it’s all them compounds he works with. But why is he lying, you mean?”

Crispin nodded, kept moving.

“Why does a man lie?” said Jack, throwing back his head and blinking into the fading sunshine. He ticked it off on his fingers. “Well, he lies because he is dishonest; because he is hiding something he’d rather not anyone else know; he’s protecting someone else who is guilty … and … er … he’s just a whoreson and likes to lie?”

“Close. He may also lie to misdirect.”

“Oh, aye.”

“Or it could be a combination of many of those reasons.”

“Then what is his game, eh? Don’t he want his wife back?”

“By all indications, he does.”

“Then why not cooperate with us? We only mean well. Except … that you lied to him, too.”

“About Henry Bolingbroke.”

“Aye. I understand why … mostly. I think you are trying to protect Lord Derby. But from what, I know not.”

Crispin said nothing and stared straight ahead. Maybe he had taught the boy too well.

“Master, just because you used to know Lord Henry doesn’t mean he is the same man. You have been deceived before by that very family.”

“I don’t need to be reminded,” he bit out, voice low.

“I don’t mean naught by it, Master Crispin. I’m only doing what you told me. I’m walking my mind through the facts. The roots of education are bitter, but the fruit is sweet. So says Aristotle.”

Crispin’s ire quickly fled and he tried to hide his gratified smile by looking away toward the icy buildings.

“And so as far as I am concerned, we must not rule out Lord Derby as having something to do with these same crimes,” Jack went on. “Even though it is well established that he is not in need of the money himself.”

His heart filled with pride at the boy’s logic, even if the cause of it still pained him. But his words were also slowly sinking in. He stopped, unmindful of the wet snow dampening his boots. “No, he doesn’t need the money . But what if he needed that broach ?”

“Ah!” Jack stomped and patted his arms to keep warm. “A curious thought, Master. That broach. It came from the King of France. What might that mean? Something to do with treaties or other such nobleman’s vows? Or maybe it didn’t belong to Flamel at all. After all, we only have his word that it was given to him by King Charles.”

“God’s blood, Jack, but you might be right. I wonder how he fared with his ransom deposit today.”

“Would you like me to go see, sir?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Crispin spotted figures standing under the eaves of the frost-slickened buildings. He might not have noticed them if they were moving as everyone else did on the street, winding down their labors for the end of the day. But these lingered, moving ahead slowly and in step with Crispin and just behind his vision. Their hoods were drawn low over their faces and it was impossible to discern whether they were known to Crispin or not.

Crispin knelt down to pretend to adjust his boot and looked slyly over the leather cape of his chaperon hood bunched on his shoulder. There were four of them now, two on either side of the lane, and they were looking at one another and making vague and unsubtle gestures in communication.

“Jack,” he said quietly, “don’t look up, but our shadows are back. And one more has been added. Two each side.” He rose. “I think you should continue on with me. I’d rather we have two sets of eyes to track them.”

“Aye, Master.”

They hurried their pace and finally turned the corner to where the other alchemist was. Crispin glanced at the scratched-out signs scrawled on the post of the shop on the corner but kept moving. His shadowing men were still with them, but they hung back. He saw that Jack took note, too, and headed directly to the shop. He pushed open the door under the snow-covered sign of Mercury, and when Jack entered behind him and closed the door, they waited for the alchemist to appear.

No foul cauldron bubbled now, but three coneys hung from the beam near the curtained doorway and Crispin wondered if there was some deeper significance or whether they were merely more of the man’s supper.

He leaned toward Tucker. “Jack, you call out.”

He cleared his throat. “Oi! Master Alchemist!”

“Patience,” said that gruff voice from beyond the curtain. “I shall be there anon.”

They waited a moment more before the same man appeared, bulbous nose and small, squinting eyes. “I am Bartholomew of Oxford, at your humble service. How may I-” But when he beheld Crispin, he pointed toward the door. “Get out!”

Crispin didn’t hesitate. He darted over the plank separating them, grabbed the man by his tattered fur collar, and dragged him over the table. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”