Shadow of the Alchemist: A Medieval Noir

by Westerson, Jeri

  “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.

  12

  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.

  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.

  “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.”