Jeri Westerson - Shadow of the Alchemist

He could have stopped his wandering at Ludgate. He should have, and returned to the Shambles, but he kept going, following the Strand, and then before he knew it, Charing Cross came into view ahead.

He arrived at the crossroads. The stone cross and its rambling structure of arches, covered in snow, served as mean shelter to a young beggar. The boy crouched in its shadow out of the weather, staring at Crispin with large, luminous eyes as he passed. He tossed the boy a silver penny, always thinking of Jack Tucker when he saw such beggars. The boy scrambled out of his shelter, snatched the coin from the snow, and ran off into the gloom.

It wasn’t long before Crispin stood outside the spires of Westminster Abbey. Its gray stone stood dark against the pale sky. He stared up at it a long time until he felt foolish, like some country pilgrim, and walked up the long path to the north entrance. It was marginally warmer on the inside. No wind, but the stone arches, columns, and tile held the cold close to it, like a virgin over her virtue, refusing to let it go.

Men gathered in furtive clutches, conferring, seeking employment, just as they did at St. Paul’s in London. A frail man in a long dark gown approached Crispin. “Clerk, sir? Have you need of an accomplished clerk to pen your documents before the day is out?”

“No, thank you.”

Disappointed, the man bowed and wandered away.

Down the nave was the quire and beyond that the rood. Monks moved silently, lighting candles that had gone out or sweeping the floor with mute brooms. Always, they kept a judicious eye peeled on the men wandering the nave. There were gold candlesticks to protect, after all, gilt stone to keep an eye on. It was not uncommon to catch a man scraping the gilt from a stone runner with his knife blade.

The nave walkers would be ushered out soon enough. The day was over and it was time to think of the morrow and start again.

Crispin walked down the long space, skirted the quire, and came upon the rood screen. Beyond it hung a wooden cross with the figure of Christ, lit by two large candles below it. Crispin gazed at it through the open woodwork of the screen.

He stood a while before he felt the presence of the monk long before the man spoke.

“Master Crispin. It is good to see you. It has almost been a year since last you came.”

He turned but hadn’t needed to. “Brother Eric. God keep you, sir.”

“And you.” They stood silently, both in their own thoughts, when the monk spoke aloud what they were both thinking. “He is sorely missed, is Abbot Nicholas.”

“Indeed. I do miss him greatly.”

“I was told that whenever you returned, I was to take you to Abbot William.”

“Oh? So the archdeacon William Colchester was made abbot? I thought the king favored Brother John Lakyngheth.”

Eric glanced carefully over his shoulder before he answered. “Our treasurer was so favored by his grace the king … but the monks elected our archdeacon instead last year. The pope’s commission only arrived a month ago, but our abbot has been serving faithfully even when his appointment was in doubt.”

Crispin knew that Colchester had spent much of his years in the monastery on foreign travel, going to and from Rome. He was a man of books, so Abbot Nicholas had said. Crispin had met the man only once, years ago. Now he was abbot, taking the place of a much-beloved man.

“Are you still Abbot William’s chaplain, as you so served Abbot Nicholas?”

The monk, a man much the same age as Crispin, though there was gray in the hair at his temples, gave a condoling smile. His hands were tucked warmly in the sleeves of his habit. “Alas. His temperament is different from our former abbot’s. His needs are therefore different. I will escort you, but Brother John Sandon and Brother Thomas Merke will attend you.”

Crispin girded himself, nodded to the monk, and allowed the man to lead him along the familiar path to the abbot’s lodgings.

The early twilit sky bathed the courtyard in tints of blue. The snow-patched grass was brown, but a rabbit in the far corner nibbled tentatively, looking for green shoots that were yet months away from appearing.

Ravens called to one another from the red-tiled rooftops of the abbey precincts, looking like monks themselves in their dark raiment and scowling down at Crispin for trespassing.

Brother Eric suddenly stopped and gestured toward the worn stone path. “You know the rest of the way, I daresay, Master Crispin.”

“Thank you, Brother.” Crispin continued down the path, stepping up to the doorway. He knocked and waited. At length, the door opened, and a young monk with a pale face and a noticeable shadow of a beard peered at him from out of his cowl.

“Yes? Who are you?”

He bowed. “I am Crispin Guest, Brother. Brother Eric instructed me-”

“Oh!” The young monk’s face opened into smiles and he threw back his hood, stepped forward, and grabbed Crispin’s arm. “You are the famed Crispin Guest? Come in, come in.”

Crispin stepped into the comfortable surroundings he knew so well. The warmth of the abbot’s parlor thawed his bones. But amid the familiar was the unaccustomed sound of a harp playing a quiet tune. Abbot Nicholas was not given to the enjoyment of music. Things were different in the abbot’s lodge these days.

“I have heard much about you from the other brothers,” the monk continued. “I am Brother John.” He bowed. “I will let Abbot William know you are here.” He bowed again and left through an arch into the abbot’s private solar.

Crispin waited, listening to the somber notes of the harp, until Brother John returned. “Will you come with me? Can I get you refreshment, sir? Wine?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

He turned the corner and spied a monk sitting at a long, rectangular table. The man wore the vestments of his office, a gown of black wool, but they were also trimmed in dark fur and subtle embroidery. It was not overly resplendent, but neither would an observer question his power and wealth. He was older than Crispin, older even than the duke of Lancaster, but he wore his years well. His fleshy face, round nose, and prominent chin looked more like those of a tradesman, but Crispin knew him to be a man of property.

The room itself looked different. Chairs with crimson cushions and an ambry that Nicholas had not possessed were situated about the room. Likewise a tapestry hung on a far wall depicting Adam and Eve. The abbot sat at a table covered with a fine carpet in maroons and gold thread, and on either side of him, large silver candelabras lit his work with tall beeswax candles. A corona of more candles hung in the middle of the room, lighting the vaulted space in cheerful, golden light. Gratifying to Crispin was a shelf against a wall with a good number of books and scrolls ensconced upon it. He itched to peruse the shelf himself, as he often did when Nicholas was at home, sometimes reading the texts in silence next to the older man, while Nicholas schemed with his seneschal, contriving some hunting festivity on his lands he was planning for the nobility of court.

A fire burned warm and bright in the hearth, and beside it sat the harpist on a stool, plucking a song on the strings of the instrument balanced on his thighs.

Crispin searched for the old greyhound, Horatio, that used to sit at Abbot Nicholas’s feet, but he surmised that the dog was also gone, not long after its master left this earth.

The abbot pored over his ledgers, quill scratching. He continued to write without looking up. Meanwhile, Brother John proffered a folding chair for Crispin, silently bade him sit, and soon brought him a silver goblet filled with floral-scented wine. Crispin tasted it, and the sweet flavors surged in his mouth. Even better than the Lancaster wine Henry had brought. Having little better to do, he drank and watched the harpist play for a while before he turned his attention toward the abbot. The man’s finger slid carefully down the page over notation after notation, before his quill made a sharp check by each one.