Jeri Westerson - Shadow of the Alchemist

“So you are Crispin Guest,” he said, startling Crispin, as he had not looked up or stopped what he was doing. His voice was strong, his mouth set in a stern frown.

Crispin rose slightly as he bowed. “Indeed. May I offer my congratulations at your appointment as abbot of Westminster?”

The abbot’s pale blue eyes rose to him only briefly before turning back to his pages. “You may,” he said in a clipped Essex accent. “Though I was compromissioned last December by my own monks. I suppose these tidings are new to London nearly a year late.”

Crispin longed to ask how Richard took this news but held his tongue. After all, he did not know William de Colchester. He did not think he was in Richard’s pocket since his election went against the royal favor, but after a year, Crispin assumed Richard had made peace with the decision or would very well soon have to.

The abbot laid his quill aside, sprinkled sand on his ledger, blew it off, and closed the books. He rested his hands on the leather cover and studied Crispin from across his table. “You are this Tracker they speak of,” he said without preamble. “My predecessor seemed intrigued by this vocation of yours. But I am well acquainted with your tale. I am not as enamored.”

Crispin tapped his finger against his goblet. “Abbot Nicholas and I were friends. We were friends before my disseisement and we continued our friendship after. Discreetly. If you fear that my being here has endangered you in any way-”

He waved a hand in dismissal. “Be at ease, Master Guest. I shall not toss you out to save myself.”

Crispin raised a brow at that.

“No,” the abbot went on, “not that I wish to be a martyr, either. But I am, perhaps, more cautious than our dear late brother. And so I hope that you will not have too many occasions to visit the abbey. Except to use the church, of course, for the enlightenment of your soul.”

And don’t allow the door to hit you as you make a hasty exit, thought Crispin with a grim smile. He rose and set his goblet aside. “I see. That sounds like a request to leave.”

“Not at all,” said the abbot, making no move to stop him. “Our dear Abbot Litlyngton advised me on you, Master Guest.”

Crispin paused. “Oh?”

“Indeed. He told me to trust you. But also to guide you. I will, of course, do my best. You are, after all, a soul in need of much guidance.”

Crispin scuffed his boot against the floor. “A man is never too old for guidance, especially where his soul is concerned. Educating the mind without educating the heart is no education at all. But I would not let it trouble you, my Lord Abbot. I doubt I shall return for your good counsel.” He bowed and strode toward the door, jaw clenched.

“I would not be so hasty,” said the abbot, rising from his chair at last. The harpist continued to play, the soft strains serving as a counterpoint to the tension between the men. The abbot walked around the table. “One never knows when counsel will be needed and in what form it might take.”

“True. But I am not often to go at my leisure where I am clearly unwelcomed.”

“Did I leave you with that impression?” He looked Crispin up and down. They were of similar height. “Not at all.” Crispin itched to leave, but the abbot suddenly seemed reluctant to allow him to do so. “I asked to see you,” said the abbot, “because Brother Nicholas bequeathed something to you.”

Crispin stiffened. The thought was painful and at the same time warmed a spot in his chest. Abbot William motioned to Brother John, who had entered from a rear door, and whispered something into the monk’s ear. Brother John nodded and trotted off. The abbot didn’t move. His stoic posture spoke of his years as the abbey’s emissary. No doubt there were many such instances where he was forced to wait in the halls of Bruges, Paris, or Rome, and he had learned how to do so with patience and calm.

When Brother John returned, he was carrying a small coffer wrapped in a silky cloth. He handed it to Crispin.

It was heavy. He looked to the abbot, puzzled.

“It is a chess set. Brother Nicholas mentioned spending many a pleasant afternoon with you playing games of strategy. He often spoke of you fondly.” His expression took on one of bewilderment, as if he could not fathom the like.

Crispin looked around the room, searching for that familiar chess set, but did not find it. Apparently, it was now under his arm.

“At any rate,” continued the abbot, “we did not know how to get it to you, but Brother Eric was certain that you would somehow … appear.”

Bollocks. Who was easier to find than Crispin? How would he get clients if they could not find him? Bah! It mattered little in the end. Crispin clutched the box tightly. It was a fine remembrance of the man.

“I thank you, my Lord Abbot. I bid you God’s grace.”

The abbot signed the cross over Crispin, but even as he passed over the threshold, the abbot called out one last time, “Discretion, Master Guest.” As if he needed reminding.

He tucked the heavy box under his arm as he made the long walk home in the falling light. He wondered about the man he had just met, wondered how he would receive the news of Henry’s lords forcing the king to bend to their will. Would he be an ally to Richard or would he prefer to stay clear of politics? In Crispin’s experience, clerics seldom stayed on the fence.

He was back on the Shambles just as the church bells struck Compline. He trudged up the stairs and opened the door, pleased to find Jack there.

“We had another visit from Lord Henry?” asked the boy, gesturing toward the wood and the meat, cooling off to the side of the hearth.

“Yes. I will tell you of that later.” He set the box on the table and unwrapped the cloth from it.

Jack approached the table and looked it over. “What’s that?”

“A bequest from Abbot Nicholas.”

“Oh.” It was part sigh, part exclamation.

Crispin opened the coffer and took out the chessboard. The pieces lay snugly in their own velvet-lined niches. He set up the board. “It’s a chessboard, Jack.”

“It’s beautiful, Master Crispin. Is it worth a lot?”

“Probably.” He examined one ivory pawn before placing it on its square. “But worth far more in memories.”

“I remembered it from the abbot’s lodgings, sir. You played often with Abbot Nicholas, didn’t you?”

“As often as time permitted. It never seemed like enough time.”

The abbot favored the white men, and Crispin automatically set up the board so that black was on his side. He looked up at Jack. “Would you like to learn to play?”

Jack’s eyes brightened. “Oh yes, sir! Indeed, sir!” He scrambled for the stool and pulled it up to the table, sitting and waiting.

“First,” said Crispin. “What did you learn from the priest about those symbols?”

Jack picked up a knight, examining the intricate detail of the carving. “They was all over, sir. He pointed them out on our way back to his church, but I found a few more when returning home. Most were scratched out. What do they mean?”

He shook his head, toying with the king. “I don’t know. We must find that preacher again.”

“I hear of him, that is for certain. He should not be difficult to find. I’ll begin my search again first thing in the morning. But in the meantime…” He placed the knight back on its square. “Can you not tell me of this game, Master?”

He smiled. “And so, each piece has its own rules. Each moves differently, can achieve different ends. But the object of the game is to capture the king. When the king can move no more, when he has nowhere to go, then he is lost.”