Jeri Westerson - Shadow of the Alchemist

“Yes to all of that. Will you help me? Will you tell me the other places you have seen these symbols?”

“What is it you are after, man?”

“A murderer, perhaps. One of flesh and blood.”

“I see. Then yes, I will help you, of course.”

“Take my apprentice here. His name is Jack Tucker.” Jack bowed. “Jack, see that this kind father makes his way home safely.”

“Yes, Master Crispin. My lord? Lead me.”

Crispin watched them go, thinking. These illnesses did not sound like a plague to him, at least not any plague he had ever heard of. The young and the old had fallen. But no one of middle years. And no infants. And those who fell ill seemed to recover with a quick remedy. As he’d watched that young girl die, his mind had brushed against the notion of poison, but it was a fleeting thought. Foolish. What and who would poison so many different unrelated people? He dismissed it as unreasonable.

A bell chimed from the nearby church, and soon each one sounded in every parish of London, echoing, calling to one another like ravens in the trees. Vespers.

Too many mysteries. His plate was already full with a murdered apprentice and a missing woman. These symbols might have to do with it, but of that he wasn’t certain. He needed to seek out that preacher. If only Crispin were two people!

He suddenly thought of Lenny, the nearly toothless beggar and thief he had used many a time to help in his investigations. A farthing would go a long way with Lenny, but Crispin also recalled that they had had a falling-out. Crispin had been fed up with Lenny’s thieving ways and threatened him with the law … and more.

He reached back and pulled his leather hood up over his head, securing it in place. Standing in the middle of the emptying street, he wondered what to do, which way to go. Back to Flamel’s? To Avelyn? To the Boar’s Tusk for a much-needed drink, bite of food, and warmth? Back home, where he might ponder these strange events?

It was late. Home won out, and he made his way back to the Shambles but paused when he turned the corner at Cheap and saw a horse tied up below his stairs. The owner of the horse might be visiting the tinker, his landlord, Martin Kemp, whose shop lay below his lodgings. But it was a fine horse with an even finer tack, and he did not think such men patronized a lowly tinker on the Shambles.

He girded himself and climbed his stairs. The door was open, which meant his landlord had let the person in. Cautiously he pushed on the door with his foot, and it whined, falling back.

Henry Bolingbroke was there with more fuel in and beside Crispin’s fireplace. His smile was not as broad as it had been before, but he beckoned Crispin in.

“Crispin. By God, you are seldom here! Come in. We have much to talk about.”

Crispin stood at the door, leaning against it. “Have you come to confess?”

Henry did not look as stern as he had a day ago. But his smile did not reach his eyes. “You’re an impudent knave. Have you always been so? Is that what my father liked about you?”

“Your father-his grace the duke-was fond of me for my loyalty and perseverance.” He pushed away from the door, glanced at the new stack of wood piled by the hearth, at the haunch of what smelled like lamb roasting over his fire, and turned to Henry with his thumbs thrust in his belt. “We also confided in one another … after a fashion. Why are you here?”

Henry had the decency to look abashed, but only slightly. “I treated you badly yesterday, Crispin. I never meant to do that.”

“I do tend to bring out the worst in people.”

“Nonsense. I was out of sorts and you caught me off guard. A foolish thing to be caught at in these times.” He raised his face. Contrition was written all over it. “Please sit with me.”

After a moment’s pause, Crispin pulled out the stool and settled himself. Resting his clasped hands on the table, he waited. He did not offer wine, for he did not want easy camaraderie just now. He preferred answers.

But Henry wasn’t giving any. He studied Crispin instead. If they weren’t to sit in silence for the remainder of the evening, then Crispin decided to blink first. “Well, Henry? What were you doing in St. Paul’s?”

“Would you believe me if I said it was a coincidence?”

“No.”

He chuckled and seemed to mean it this time. “Very well. I told you I wanted to help you in your investigations. And so I set out on my own, investigating … something. I did not know what I was to find.”

“Why to St. Paul’s?”

“Ah!” He laid a finger alongside his nose and grinned. “ That I cannot say. But tell me. You seemed to think there was a ransom to be laid. Why? What is the crime?”

“I do not believe I can say either.”

“Fie on it! We cannot trust each other.”

“So it would seem.”

Henry closed his lips and tapped his fingers on the table.

Trying another tack, Crispin scooted closer. “What of the news of court? One doesn’t hear many details outside of Westminster Palace. And what is heard is surely little better than rumor.”

“First, why don’t you serve us some meat? And I brought wine. That miserable piss you call wine nearly burned through my gut.”

Crispin reddened at his words but saw it, sitting beneath his back windowsill. A shouldered jug of mustard-colored glaze stamped with the arms of Lancaster. He fetched it as well as two bowls and poured a dose in each before setting them on the table and kneeling by the meat. He used his knife to cut off steaming hunks. The juices flowed as his blade sliced, and his stomach growled. He had not eaten fine cuts of meat such as this in a very long time. He dropped the slices in a ceramic pot beside the hearth and brought that, too, to the table.

Henry poked into it with his knife and brought out a slice. He blew on it and nibbled on the crispy end. Crispin did the same, chewing the moist, savory meat, grateful to have it. Henry took a swig from his bowl and smiled. “French wine. Go on. I think it will be to your taste.”

Crispin sipped. It reminded him of the old days, of dinners sitting at the head table with Lancaster on one side and young Henry on the other. “It is very good. Thank you, my lord, for the wine and the meat.”

He waved his hand and continued to eat. “You asked about court,” he went on with his mouth full. He wiped the wet from his mustache with a finger. “And I tell you, Crispin, I wish you were in my retinue.”

So do I. But he would not voice it aloud. Instead, he bent his head to his meal, looking up only when Henry seemed to want acknowledgment that he heard.

After a time when they both fell silent, eating and drinking, Crispin suddenly said, “By the way, the sheriffs are looking for you.”

Henry chuckled. “Are they? Did you tell them that you saw me?”

“No. Nor shall I. Unless it proves necessary.”

Henry looked up from his food. “‘Proves necessary’? Why, Crispin. Are you not still loyal to the house of Lancaster?”

“My new fealty is to the law, your grace.”

Henry stared at him, clearly surprised. Crispin chewed his food uncomfortably. The lamb stuck to his throat when he tried to swallow. He cleared his palate with a little wine, and then he sawed at his meat again, not looking up at Derby. “Why do you shy from court?”

Henry poured himself more wine. “Because, my dear Crispin, I have no wish to follow in your footsteps and be arrested for treason myself.” The blunt delivery was not meant to wound, but the words always made him wince, like rubbing a sore spot. “I am not a traitor. I and my commissioners merely wish for my cousin to see to what detriment he is bringing the realm. He has no heirs, yet he has far too many favorites and bestows on these men honors and titles they do not deserve, honors that are more fitting for his own kin. They are taking advantage of his good graces and he does not see that they spend the treasury as if it were their own strongbox.”