Jeri Westerson - Shadow of the Alchemist

Henry turned and smiled. His auburn beard had fleshed out from last year, curling across the line of his jaw, and his hair framed his face with just a hint of a curl under his chin. He wore a white-leopard fur cloak over his blue velvet houppelande as he sat before the fire. Crispin noted a bundle of fuel-sticks and real logs-sitting on the hearth. The sight was almost more joyful than his seeing Henry again. But he sobered quickly when he realized that Henry-his former charge-was seeing for himself his poor lodgings and meager existence. Heat crept up his collar.

“My lord.” He bowed awkwardly.

But Henry continued to smile. His gaze fell on the surprised Jack peering over Crispin’s shoulder. “Well, don’t leave the door open. It’s damnably cold in here.”

Jack pushed Crispin the rest of the way through and barred the door after him. He unbuttoned Crispin’s cloak-since Crispin felt incapable of moving-shook it out, and hung it on one of the pegs beside the door.

Henry turned again to the fire and rocked back on his chair. “Have you wine?”

Crispin, terrified that there was none, stared at Jack. The boy hurried to the sill to fetch the jug and turned to the pantry to grab two bowls. After a pause, he put one of the bowls back and poured the cheap red wine within, and, with a shaky hand, he offered it to Henry.

The young lord took it with a nod and sipped, pausing at the sharp taste.

Crispin fretted at his wet sleeve, toying with a loosened button. “I beg your pardon, my lord. I know the wine is not what you are used to.…”

“It doesn’t matter, Crispin. I am just glad to see you. Sit.”

Slowly, Crispin lowered to the vacant stool and leaned heavily against the table between them.

Henry continued to stare into the fire. “My lord father the duke must have come here many a time.”

Crispin licked his lips. He would have been grateful for a little wine-fie on his apprentice! — but did see the sense in Jack’s hesitation. He steadied himself against the table. “Only once, your grace.”

“Henry, Crispin. You used to call me Henry.”

“Your grace, ” he answered stubbornly.

Henry sighed. “My father came here only once?”

“It is not meet that he should be here, my lord.”

“Meaning I shouldn’t be either, eh, Crispin?”

Crispin lumbered to his feet. “No, you should not. Henry, I thought you would have more sense than this. You know what the king thinks of me!”

His mild gaze sought out Crispin. A smirk stole across his face. “Indeed. Does not all England know what my lord cousin thinks of you? Convicted of treason, you were cast from his court. Was it ten years ago now? Eleven? Since my father urged him to spare your life, he thought you would die on the streets without your title and wealth. Proved him wrong, did you not?”

“Not easily, my lord.”

“And yet you did. So I do not worry overmuch what his grace the king thinks.”

“Henry,” he warned.

“Oh, very well.” He rose and turned his chair around, sliding it up to the table. “No more dangerous talk. I’m here for a reason.”

“And that reason is?”

“Crispin, sit. It sounds as if you would be rid of me. Surely that is not the case! You practically raised me.”

Crispin lowered himself to the stool again. “The Lady Katherine was your governess, not I.”

“But you and I spent many an hour riding and practicing with arms. And jesting, too. And laughing.”

“Ha!” Jack threw his hand over his mouth. Clearly he had not meant to vocalize his astonishment. Though little wonder. How often had Jack seen him laugh over the last few years? Yet he used to laugh. Often. With the good company of young Henry and his siblings and with Lancaster and even with Geoffrey Chaucer, they were as a big family, laughing, dancing, hunting, dining. All the things families did. Until he was wrenched away from it all because of his own stupidity.

Henry smiled at Jack’s gaffe. His eyes sparkled. “And so he did, my young apprentice. Your master played tricks and laughed quite a bit before he grew so dark and gloomy.”

Crispin cleared his throat. “Well, that’s enough about me,” he grumbled, face red. “You were telling me why you felt it appropriate to visit me in person at my lodgings, a forbidden place for those at court.”

“What did I tell you?” he said to Jack, raising his brows.

“Henry!”

Even as exasperated as he was, Crispin couldn’t help but gaze at his former charge. Henry was a man now. Broad of shoulder, thick arms, auburn hair that tended toward ginger when the firelight caught it. His beard and mustache were perfectly coiffed. At almost two and twenty, he was nearing the height of his power. And, Crispin remembered, he was also a new father, only since September.

“I must offer my congratulations to you, Henry. You’re the father of a fine son, I hear.”

Henry’s smile split his face with laugh lines. “Indeed! A very fine son. He is hale and hearty, God be praised. Another Henry. My wife insisted.”

“I’m very pleased,” said Crispin. His heart ached to see the child, but he knew he never would. “And your lady wife? Well, I pray?”

“Oh, yes. A strong lass. There will be many sons, I am certain of it.” He took up the bowl and slurped the wine, his gloved finger wiping the remnants from his mustache. “And you, Crispin? Still no wife?”

He looked away. “I cannot bring a wife to this.”

“But surely other men do as much.”

“I am not like other men.”

“Hmm. So you are not. The things you used to teach me. The things you could have taught my son. If only…” Derby sat back, appraising Crispin across the table. “Well.” He had the decency to look contrite, and Crispin’s heart ached all the more for the futility of the thought.

Crispin stared at the flames dancing up from the chunks of wood Henry had brought. The fire should have cheered him, but he knew the rumors circulating all over London. Nothing had died down from the disquiet at court of last year. In fact, the only reason Henry was in London and not in Spain in his father’s army was that he’d been appointed to command an army made up of a group of noblemen and bishops gathered by Parliament to look into the excesses of Richard’s household, to investigate his favorites, to restore order, and to force Richard to fulfill his obligations as king.

Trouble was definitely brewing. Trouble of the kind where good men took up arms and bad men gathered their own armies. Crispin smelled treason on the wind, but he wasn’t sure from which direction it blew.

It made him all the more anxious to find Henry in his home. “Your grace, why are you here?”

He seemed unaware of Crispin’s misgivings. “I’m interested in your vocation. This tracking you do. I’d like to help.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Crispin noted Jack stiffen at his place by the door.

Henry noticed, too, and tilted his head. Crispin wasn’t being as subtle as he thought. “Shall I supplant your apprentice, Crispin? After all, I can be of valuable service to you, going where you cannot.”

Jack pressed forward, his feet faltering across the plank floor. “My lord? Y-you don’t mean it? I mean, I’ve served Master Crispin for nigh on four years now.”

“By the saints, the boy is troubled.”

“No one is supplanting you, Jack. Lord Henry is jesting.”

“Not a bit of it. I came to help. Consider me your new apprentice!”

Jack’s face flushed and his hands curled into impotent fists held tight at his sides. He said nothing. What could he say against such a nobleman? Crispin didn’t find it funny. This was his livelihood, dammit. He’d be damned if it was made a point of ridicule.