Shadow of the Alchemist: A Medieval Noir

by Westerson, Jeri

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  To Craig,

  who sends all my shadows away

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Map

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Afterword

  Glossary

  Also by Jeri Westerson

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  AS USUAL, I WANT to thank my Long-Suffering Husband, Craig; my beta readers, Bobbie Gosnell and Ana Brazil; my agent, Joshua Bilmes; my editor, Keith Kahla; and my publisher, Andrew Martin, who first gave this series a chance. But I’d also like to thank the many reference librarians I’ve bothered over the years, the folks at mediev-l who were kind enough to answer my questions, Jacques Guiod for correcting my French, and the numerous authors—from both long ago and more recently—who put together the histories I use for research. Last but certainly not least, a very special thank-you to the many loyal readers who have made Crispin their hero, too.

  A word about the liturgical hours that are mentioned frequently in the novel. They were first used for monastics, denoting the specific hours of the day for certain prayers. Also called the canonical hours, these soon became how the laity could also divide the day, since the monks and nuns rang bells to call their community to prayer. It was a precursor to clocks, and Crispin and the other occupants of village and city alike knew what specific time of the day it was by the ringing of the bells. They were divided roughly like this:

  Matins (during the night, usually midnight, sometimes called Vigils)

  Lauds (at dawn or 3:00 A.M.)

  Prime (first hour, 6:00 A.M.)

  Terce (third hour, 9:00 A.M.)

  Sext (sixth hour, noon)

  None (ninth hour, 3:00 P.M.)

  Vespers (6:00 P.M.)

  Compline (9:00 P.M.)

  1

  London, 1387

  THE MAN RODE UP to the entrance of the dark building under a deeply shadowed archway and pulled on the reins. His horse complained in a husky rumble, shaking its head with a jangle of the bridle, before the man dismounted and tossed the lead around a post. The beast immediately ducked its head, bristly muzzle rooting into the snow for morsels of grass or hay. The man puffed a cloud of breath, gathered his cloak around him, keeping it close under his chin, and stared down one side of the empty street and then up the other. A gray mist obscured the lane and muffled any street sounds down the curve of the road. He was pleased to see there were no prying eyes either from a lone passerby or from the tightly shuttered windows above him.

  He turned at last to the door, hesitated, and then, without knocking, opened it and ducked under the low lintel.

  The place smelled unwholesome, of strange odors of unknown substances. He wanted to cover his mouth but felt it might appear as a sign of weakness. Instead, he threw back his cloak over one shoulder, displaying the finery of his cotehardie and bejeweled necklace.

  He saw no one yet, though the glow of a fire flitted over the wall through an archway. Moving carefully through the dimly lit parlor, he made his way around shadowy chairs and tables with strange beakers and jars sitting on their surfaces. He passed under the archway and finally reached the hearth. Moving to stand before it, he tucked down the kid leather gloves between the joints of his fingers as casually as he could. It served to calm him, calm the ravaging thoughts galloping through his mind.

  He was momentarily startled when he noticed the other man waiting for him off in the shadows outside the fire’s glow. Perhaps he had been standing there all along, watching him enter, studying him. He had not liked the pale man the moment he had met him weeks ago, but there was little he could do about it now. His sources had told him that the man could do the job and he hadn’t time to search anymore.

  The pale man in the shadows hadn’t moved. One side of his face was barely lit by the flickering light, while the other side fell to blackness. His inky hair flowed over the black gown hanging from his shoulders. The gown’s smooth lines and fur trim seemed to be more shadow than cloth.

  It annoyed the visiting man to be so startled. He didn’t like to be taken unaware. “I am here,” he snapped in French.

  The pale man’s lip curled in a shadow of a smirk before he bowed and still said nothing. His white hands were crossed one over the other and the first man couldn’t help but think of a corpse, wrapped in a shroud, hands carefully crossed over the breast.

  He glowered and turned to the flames, watching them lick over the wood. He wondered if the pale man knew that he would soon become a loose end, and loose ends needed to be discarded. Preferably in the Thames, where they couldn’t be found again.

  He opened and closed his fist, kid leather squeaking over his fingers. This was an ill-conceived meeting. He should never have agreed to it. “I don’t care how you do it,” he continued. “Just get it done.”

  “What you ask,” the pale man said suddenly. His voice had a hint of amusement to it. As if he were laughing at the other. “It will not be easy.”

  “I’m not paying for easy.” He glared at him squarely. “If you couldn’t do it, you should have said so in your letters. I’ve gone to great expense to bring you here. You came highly recommended.”

  “I am aware of that, my lord. Never fear. It shall be as you wish.”

  “It had better be. Can you … can you find your way…”

  “I spent many years in London as a lad, my lord. I know my way around quite well.”

  “I see. Good.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as possible. There is no time to waste.”

  A sound in the next room drew his attention away from the pale man. He looked to his left, where the door was ajar. In the dim light, he could just make out a figure, seated. The person was squirming. He could not tell if it was a man or a woman before the figure gave another muffled whimper, as if its mouth were covered by a gag. He narrowed his eyes, peering. Was the figure tied to the chair?

  He turned away. Not his business.

  He reached into his scrip and pulled out the money pouch. After walking to the rectangular table sitting in the center of the room, he dropped the considerable pouch there. The coins clinked together and the leather pouch pooled.

  “Don’t contact me again,” he said. He did not look about the room, did not look back at the pale man or the struggling person through the doorway. He merely adjusted his cloak and strode out the door into the mist.

  2

  CRISPIN GROWLED. SOMETHING POKED him in the side and he swatted at it, laying his head again on the sticky table. Table? Not at home, then? He would most certainly have been in bed. And cold. His room was often too cold. But
now there was a pleasant warmth to his back, and in the jumble of his mind he reasoned that it probably meant he was at the Boar’s Tusk. Yes, if he pricked his ears, he could detect the low murmur of many voices, many men slowly getting as drunk as he supposed he was. He blew out a breath and settled.

  It poked again. What the devil? “Begone,” he muttered, turning his face the other way, letting that cheek get a bit of the table’s stickiness.

  Another poke. He crushed his lids tighter. “Do that again and you’ll find my dagger in your eye.”

  “Mon Dieu,” said a voice above him with a soft French accent. “Maître Guest? You are Crispin Guest, are you not?”

  “I said go away,” he grumbled to the table’s surface. His thoughts were hazy. Why had he fallen asleep at the Boar’s Tusk again? That’s right. He’d been caught by Jack staring morosely at that little painting of Philippa Walcote. Stuffing it in his scrip had not relieved the feeling of abandonment that came upon contemplating what was and could never be. He seemed to think of her often these days, even though the task that had caused them to cross paths happened years ago.

  With coins in his pouch, he had retreated to his favorite tavern and had made his way easily through two jugs of wine. Well, one and a half. He had just laid his head down to rest a moment …

  That damned poking again!

  He reached for his dagger and snapped upright, swaying on the bench. Squinting, he stared at a man holding up his hands protectively.

  “What do you want?”

  “You are Maître Crispin Guest, no?”

  “I am. Speak or leave me be.”

  Crispin watched amazed as the man, unfazed, slid onto the bench beside him. “I need your help.”

  “Do you? I don’t think I am fit to help anyone today. Try me tomorrow.” Puzzled, he looked at the dagger in his hand. Don’t remember unsheathing that. He shoved it unsteadily into its scabbard and leaned on the table, fingers reaching for his wine bowl.

  “But you must,” said the strange man. He wore a dark cap with long flaps over his ears, and just peeking below that was wheat-colored hair shot with gray. He had a long face and a long brown beard, one that suited the flaps of his cap, which seemed an extension of his expression and clouded his eyes to a blurry blue, like dirty ice. “You must,” he said again, leaning toward Crispin.

  Even with his senses dulled with wine, Crispin sized him up as a man of means. His clothes bespoke of coin, at any rate. They were clean, fairly new. That particular cloth did not come cheap.

  Crispin tried to straighten himself, even smoothed down the stained front of his own cotehardie. He cleared his throat and tried to focus. “Very well. I work for sixpence a day—”

  “That does not matter. I will pay whatever you ask. I beg of you … help me—” His voice broke on the last.

  Crispin nodded. “What is your difficulty, then?”

  But even as the man passed a quaking hand over his face, his sharp gaze darted about the room. “Not here. Is there a place we can talk?”

  “Of course.” Crispin rose, braced himself on the table, and pushed away from it. Staggering a bit, he straightened, one vertebra at a time. Hazily, he knew he wasn’t presenting the best front to this client, but he also hadn’t seen any coin yet. He shouldered the door open and stepped out to the bitter cold of November. An icy wind with dots of wet flakes sobered him enough to walk without staggering down Gutter Lane, where he turned right at the Shambles. He glanced back, and the man, head down with his hands buried in his cloak, trudged after.

  When he reached the tinker’s shop, Alice Kemp, the tinker’s wife, was dusting snow from their wares with a broom. She stopped long enough to glare at Crispin and he barely had the presence of mind not to sneer back. It didn’t do to show animosity to his landlord’s wife when she disliked him so strongly anyway. Instead, he gave her a cursory bow, which caused him to stumble. She snorted. “Drunk again,” she grumbled, but took it out on the broom and swept briskly, upturning the cooking pots she had carefully arranged on display.

  He shoved a foot on the bottom stair and stopped, turning back to his client. “Mind the stairs. They’re icy.” He led the way, slipped once, but with his hand firmly on the rail he made it to the landing. He had managed to wrestle his key from his scrip, but the lock kept skirting his attempts to engage it.

  The door swung open on its own, and he looked up into his apprentice’s amber eyes. “Jack,” he said, and cocked his head, indicating the man behind him. “Client.”

  Jack took in Crispin’s state and the fact of a paying client in one glance. The boy grabbed Crispin’s arm and yanked him in. What does the knave think he’s doing? The table stopped Crispin’s further progress as he slammed against it. “Jack! What the devil—!”

  “Sit, Master. Let me welcome your client.” He scowled at Jack, who had seemed to become a tall, lanky lad overnight. He was now somewhere in his fifteenth year, with wild curls of ginger hair falling over his eyes. Crispin sat on the stool and held on to the table as Jack bowed to the as yet unknown man and offered him the other chair. “May I fetch you wine, sir?” the lad asked politely.

  Crispin raised his hand, but the boy said out of the side of his mouth, “Not you!”

  “Insubordinate,” he grumbled. “A fine apprentice you are.”

  The man looked from servant to master and then back to servant. “This is the home of the Tracker, no?”

  “Yes, my lord. It is just that Master Crispin is sometimes under the weather … as he is now. But he is attentive, I assure you.” Crispin sagged and Jack elbowed him hard. He snapped upright again and blinked.

  “Er … yes.” He ran a hand down his face, wiping away the melted snowflakes and feeling the rough grit of a day-old beard. He was just cognizant enough to realize he probably looked a mess. And here was a man willing to pay for his services. Snap to, Crispin. Clearing his throat, he leaned forward. “I do apologize, sir. I am … out of sorts, as my apprentice says.” He considered before gesturing toward Jack. “Er … this is Jack Tucker.” The man nodded to the boy. “How can we serve you?”

  The man laid stained fingers gingerly to the wine bowl Jack set before him. “It is urgent business I have with you. I understand that you are a man who finds things and can be discreet.”

  “Correct on both counts.”

  “The matter is … personal.”

  God’s blood. He hated personal matters. He sighed and sagged. Jack elbowed him again and he scowled up at the boy. Jack gave him an equally scowling glare in return. Outrageous, that knave’s audacity.

  “Personal matter?” he said weakly.

  “Yes. My wife…”

  Crispin scrambled to his feet and stumbled toward the fire. Dammit! He didn’t want these sorts of jobs! Nothing good ever came from them. Nothing but heartache for all concerned, including him. It was Philippa Walcote all over again, for had he not also met her because of “personal matters”? He leaned heavily over the hearth, feeling the heat scorch up his chest. “I cannot help you, sir,” he muttered. “I … do not deal in these troubles.”

  “But Maître Guest!” He was instantly on his feet behind Crispin. “I fear she has run away with my apprentice. I must find her!”

  “These are matters for your confessor, sir, not for me. I cannot help you.”

  “Master Crispin is out of sorts, sir. We can and will accommodate you,” said the voice at Crispin’s shoulder. He whipped around to glare at Jack. Did the knave dare to gainsay him?

  Jack sidled up to Crispin and, eye to eye, whispered harshly, “What’s gotten your humor so sour? We need the funds. Let’s hear him out, at least.”

  Motioning for the man to sit again, Jack pushed the wine bowl toward him. “What is your name, good Master?”

  The man fumbled sitting and stared at the table, shaking his head. “I am Nicholas Flamel. My wife and I came to London to get away from … from prying eyes. There was much work we needed to do, and in Paris there were too many … well
. Spies.”

  Crispin swiveled shakily. He spared Jack a sneer before he turned to the man. “Master Flamel. What do you mean by spies? You are French?”

  The man looked up at that and his eyes widened. “Oh no! I did not mean that I was a spy. Bless me, no. I do not care for politics. I am no spy, sir.”

  “One can’t be too careful in these grave days. So you and your wife came to London. And this apprentice of yours. Did he come with you as well?”

  He shook his head and dropped his gaze again. “No. We hired him here, in London. He came highly recommended. He was ever loyal, always trustworthy. I cannot believe it of him.”

  “And yet, such things are known to happen. Does your wife have money in her own right?”

  “Yes. She was married before I met her. Widowed. And she knows much of my art.”

  “Your art?”

  “That of alchemy. In Paris I am well-known for the alchemical sciences. We were working on a most important venture. But my apprentice is young and fine-looking.” He dropped his head on his hand and fisted the stray strands of hair that escaped from his cap. “I never should have left them alone.”

  Crispin slowly turned away from the hearth and Jack helped him into his seat. The boy was right, of course. He had to set his feelings aside. He couldn’t afford to let them get in the way of a fee. It was better to be immersed in another assignment, for the winter did not bring much to the table.

  “Had you any indication of this before?”

  “No, none.” His eyes were glossy and his hands moved restlessly from his hair to the table.

  Crispin nodded. The spouse was always the last to know. And yet, what did the man expect Crispin to do? “Am I to find her and bring her back? Take you to her?”

  Flamel slid from his chair and paced the small room. “I do not know,” he said wearily, rubbing his hands. “I am unfamiliar with the protocol. What must I do, Maître Guest?”