Jeri Westerson - Shadow of the Alchemist

“Surely Parliament-”

“Parliament acts as his tool. Five lords stand between the king and despotism: my uncle Gloucester, Richard Fitzalan the earl of Arundel, Thomas Beauchamp the earl of Warwick, Thomas Mowbray the earl of Nottingham … and me.”

“Do you truly believe that, Henry?”

“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here. I’d be happily at my estates in Chester or in Spain with Father.”

“But … what can be done? Last year you made no friends at court trying to impose your will over Richard.”

“Not our will, Crispin. He might have been anointed by God, but he is still lawfully bound to do good in the realm. We merely want to remind him that there are limits to his powers by law and that he must protect the privileges of his lords.”

“How does your father the duke see this move?”

“My uncle Gloucester has a fire in his belly over it. He has sent messages to the earl of March.”

The sweet wine went sour on Crispin’s tongue. “Roger Mortimer? The … king’s designated heir?”

Henry seemed unusually interested in his meat and would not look up. “It is only a precaution.”

“Does Richard know messages have been sent to March?”

“No. It is not advised that he does, though I have little doubt that he has some inkling. Hence the accusation of treason.”

Crispin clutched his knife, thinking faraway thoughts.

“And so,” said Henry, “you are uneasy at my presence.”

Crispin got up from the table, wiped his knife on a rag by the bucket, and washed his hands. “I am now. But you haven’t answered my question. What does your father say?”

Henry looked cross for only a moment and then seemed to let it go. “He … is not pleased by it. He begged us to await his return, but we cannot. We cannot let these grievances continue to compound. Who knows when Father will return?”

Crispin made his way to the fire and stood with his back to it, relishing the warmth. “But you can see his point of view, can you not? When Richard first took the throne, Parliament expected that your father would steal it from him. Conspiracies abounded.” He shuffled, eyes downcast. “As you well know,” he said softly. “He swore again and again to Parliament that he would uphold Richard as king. He will not forswear himself now.”

The young lord rose and went to the same bucket to sluice his hands. “My father is not here, Crispin. I am my own man. And times are different.”

“If you say so, my lord. It is just that … well.”

“Well?” He stomped back to the table, moved around it to face Crispin toe to toe. “What? Speak!”

Crispin rocked before the fire. “Young men are hot to see their way and often move forward without considering the consequences.” More quietly, he said, “When my troubles began, I was not too much older than you are now, my lord.”

“How dare you! You say that to me? Me, who has led armies and fought battles?”

“Be still, Henry!” It came out how he used to say it, when Henry was a child and he needed correction, and Henry reacted much as he used to do. He snapped to and stared wide-eyed at his former minder. “I have led armies, too, do not forget,” said Crispin. “And I am older and more experienced than you. Why else would you have come to me? To hear me agree with everything you say? I was never that man. I never will be. That much should be obvious, even to you!”

Chastened, Henry took a step back, considered, then swiveled and walked slowly to the front window. He pushed the shutter open to stare down at the snow-covered Shambles.

“I have always valued your advice,” Henry said softly. “I sought you out more than I did my own father. After all, you were often there when he was not. I came to think of you as…” He inhaled the cold air, hand resting on his hip. The street below still held his attention. “You left me,” he said quietly, voice roughened from the cold, or so Crispin hoped.

“I am sorry, my lord. I did not mean to leave you.”

“I hated those times, Crispin. No one would say anything. No one would tell me what had happened to you. And when I tried to ask, I was silenced. I had nightmares for years afterwards, thinking that they would come for me, too.” He turned then.

With his wide, dark eyes and his fragile mouth, Henry suddenly seemed like the child he had been ten years ago. In the depth of that gaze, the years of hurt and uncertainty rolled forth like words on a scroll. Crispin could only imagine how it must have been for young Henry. His best playmate, his child-minder, suddenly gone, and Crispin’s name spoken of only in hesitant whispers. Certainly Henry must have known, must have been told eventually.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

Henry barked a laugh. “You’re apologizing to me ?”

“I would never have hurt you, my lord, or dared put you or the duke at risk.”

“I know.” He returned to staring out the window again. His hand rested on the squeaky shutter. “I am a father now. I am not at my son’s cradle every hour of the day. I well understand that others must take on the duty of advising and teaching my son. I have my own duties. As did my father. As did you, I daresay.”

“So why will you not listen to the advice you so crave?”

He faced Crispin once again. “My uncle Gloucester also offered his sage advice. He is in the thick of it with me and understands more clearly. More than I can explain to you. I listen to his guidance as well, and he thinks we should press on. It is what is right, Crispin. Richard cannot be allowed to go on as he has. He must be made to see reason, and if he will not do it of his own accord, he will be made to do it. King or not.”

Crispin nodded. “Very well. Your mind is made up on the matter. So why come to me?”

“To apologize. To show you what I have accomplished. To help you, where I can. And to ask … that you not interfere.”

“My lord…”

“I’m only asking, Crispin. No more threats.”

Henry strode toward the door, then plucked his cloak from its peg and slipped it over his shoulders. The fur lining looked pleasantly warm. He pulled the door open and stopped when Crispin called out to him.

“Henry. Can you truly tell me nothing of why you were in St. Paul’s?”

Henry did not turn as he gritted out a laugh. “Stick to the crimes you can solve, Crispin, and stay away from the rest.”

A swirl of snow spiraled in over the threshold, taking Henry with it as he closed the door.

Feeling unsettled, Crispin left his lodgings. He felt unclean, as if he had just been manipulated. Henry was his father’s son, true enough. He might not be able to tell Crispin what he was doing at the cathedral, but it didn’t mean Crispin wasn’t going to damn well find out what it was.

He needed to clear his head, for much of it was stuffed with the wool of Henry and his deceptions, the much-felt absence of Lancaster, the dead apprentice, the stubborn alchemist … and his strangely beautiful servant.

Flamel had not wanted to divulge if he had such a thing as the Philosopher’s Stone, or what he believed to be the Stone. But Avelyn had no such reservations. She had wanted Crispin to know. Why else would she have brought him to the second alchemist?

And he definitely wanted to talk to this Robert Pickthorn, the preacher. It seemed unbelievable that his fiery speeches and the symbols on London’s streets could possibly be related to the dead apprentice, but he had seen the like before. Recent events had molded him into less of a skeptic than he used to be.

When he looked up from walking, he realized he had been going west, following the Thames. Lantern light glittered off the surging water and darkness descended over the city. He skirted a water carrier straining under the yoke of his burden, a last trip from one of many of London’s cisterns. He did not envy such men, especially in the winter, for it meant perpetually frozen hands and cold water splashing over one’s legs. He hoped they were paid well.