The crowd began to quiet and listen to the preacher. Crispin finally got a good look at him. With coarse reddish hair, he stood tall, though he had a slight paunch to his middle. His clothes were not as fine as even a merchant’s, but neither were they patched or particularly worn. He surveyed the crowd with a confident air, sweeping his arm to encompass the cistern and the weary guard before it.
“‘But he that drinketh of the water that I shall give him, shall not thirst without end; but the water that I shall give him, shall be made in him a well of water, springing up into everlasting life.’ So says Holy Scripture. Who blocks this well from you? A sinner! Sent forth from sinners!”
The guard turned a squint on him. “Oi!” he cried, shaking a fist at him. “Who’s a sarding sinner?”
“‘What great troubles, many and evil, thou hast sent me! and then turned, thou hast granted me life, and hast brought me up again from the watery depths of the earth and hast brought me up again from the grave.’ Good people of London. You are being deceived. This man claims to be guarding your cistern, but he is following orders from above, from those who would despoil this city from its rightful governor. For it is not the king that prevents you from the water, but the work of these so-called commissioners who have invaded the city, lords who would usurp God’s anointed.”
“That’s enough of that!” shouted the guard, and with spear pointed toward Pickthorn, he advanced.
The preacher raised his chin at the man, seemingly unafraid. And soon Crispin saw why. Men in the crowd had surged forward to protect him, and he gave the guard a smile to show that he had the upper hand. But it wasn’t until he swept the crowd with his proud gaze that it fell on Crispin, and the recognition in his eyes had a most profound effect on him.
He bounded off the makeshift platform of barrels and shoved into the crowd, beating a hasty retreat away from Crispin.
Crispin dove headlong into the surging people, not afraid to elbow hard anyone who got in his way. Once he was free of the heaving throng, he hit the mud running.
Pickthorn was well ahead of him. The man looked over his shoulder once with wild eyes, then lowered his head to pick up speed.
No, you don’t, thought Crispin, feet hammering hard on the cobblestones and slipping when he hit a patch of snow or frozen mud.
Pickthorn rounded a corner, and when Crispin approached the same turn, he could see that the man was trapped by a flock of muddy sheep. The beasts bleated around him. By the mud and wet spots on the man’s clothes, Crispin could tell that he must have fallen and was trying desperately to make his way through.
Crispin pounced, tackling the man to the frozen ground. Sheep bounded out of the way, and the drover, a boy of only eleven or so, shook his fist and swore at them like a whoremonger.
Crispin ignored him and struggled, subduing the preacher. “Stop! Stop your struggling.” He hauled the man to his feet and untangled his wet cloak from Pickthorn’s, whipping it behind him. He pushed the man against a wall and pressed him there.
“Let me go, you ruffian.”
“If I let you go, will you talk to me?”
“It depends on what you have to say.” Crispin mangled the man’s coat in a tight grip and twisted until Pickthorn choked. “Yes, I yield! God have mercy!”
With a sneer, Crispin released him, stepping back to give the man room. “Why did you run from me?”
“You can be a frightening man. Witness for yourself what you have done to me.” He wiped down the mud from his coat and valiantly tried to right his twisted cloak.
“My apologies,” said Crispin without meaning it. “But I have been seeking you for some time.” As the man straightened his clothes, Crispin spied a crystal phial hanging around his neck on a knotted red thread. It appeared to be empty. He grabbed for it and held it up. “What is this?”
The man snatched it back and clutched it in his hand. “What business is it of yours?”
“Perhaps nothing. Perhaps much. Tell me, what were you doing harassing that poor guard? He was merely performing his appointed task and guarding the cistern from mischief.”
“Mischief indeed!” the man scoffed indignantly. “That guard was set there by those commissioners appointed by Parliament, that which is led by Lancaster’s son.” He said the last with such vehemence that Crispin pulled back. “It is sedition, is what it is,” he went on. “Nothing more, nothing less. The Devil has whispered in the ears of these noble men and seduced them with lies and their own greed for power. The water doesn’t need guarding. It needs renewing with God’s gentle grace to allow the people to be reborn with the Water of Life.”
Crispin wanted dearly to smack the man but held himself back. “That water has been killing people. Someone has poisoned it.”
“What? Absurd. You, sir, fall into the same trap of believing what these commissioners say rather than the good king. Nothing whatsoever has happened to the water of this city—”
“I tell you the water was poisoned. At the Tun. It was infused with arsenic. Many young and innocent died from it. The guards are there to prevent it from happening to the other cisterns.”
The man paused, eyes flicking over Crispin’s face in disbelief. “No! That is foolish talk.”
“I tell you I saw it! I saw the proof of it with my own eyes.”
Pickthorn froze. He looked down at the phial in his hand, looked up once at Crispin, then down at the phial again and shook his head.
Crispin opened his mouth to ask but nearly bit his lip when Pickthorn shoved him back. Not expecting it, Crispin lost his balance and toppled backward, biting out a curse when he hit the ground hard.
By the time Crispin sat up, Pickthorn was gone, with only the sound of his escaping footsteps echoing in the alley.
22
CRISPIN JUMPED TO HIS feet and ran hard. He spied the man up ahead at the curve of the road. Pickthorn was older than Crispin, so Crispin had that advantage, at least. How far could the man go? Yet he had run quite a way and Crispin wasn’t gaining on him.
Ahead, Crispin spotted a broom propped against a wall. As he ran by, he reached out and grabbed it. Cocking his arm back, he took aim and then heaved it forward. After spinning in the air, it slammed into the man’s feet and over he went, skidding shoulder first along the muddy lane.
Crispin caught his breath as he stood over him. “Up you get,” he grunted. He grabbed the man by his shoulders and shoved him into the nearest wall.
An old man with a basket of bread looked on as Crispin smacked the preacher in the face. “I don’t like it when people run from me. Makes me angry.”
Pickthorn touched his stinging cheek and ran his narrowed-eyed glare over Crispin’s features. “You dare! I preach the good Lord’s word and you dare to lay hands upon me!”
Crispin smacked him on the other cheek with the back of his hand. “You’ll get more if you don’t answer me.”
“Hold! Stop! I … I don’t know what you want.”
“Yes, you do. This.” He grasped the empty phial from the man’s neck and held it up. “What was in here? What did you do?”
“I … I did not poison anyone.”
Again, the flat of Crispin’s hand struck up at his chin, knocking Pickthorn’s head back against the wall. There were tears of pain in his eyes when he glared back at Crispin.
“I can show you the graves that tell me otherwise. What did you put in the water at the Tun?”
“Nothing harmful, I swear by almighty God!”
“For the last time, answer me, or I shall shove this down your throat. What was in the phial?”
“A … a harmless concoction of holy water and pulverized herbs. The man assured me that it would put the people in an amenable mood, to make them gentle as lambs so that they would be open and heed the word of the Lord.”
“Holy water and herbs? Are you mad? It was poison!”
Pickthorn looked confused. “No. No, it couldn’t have been. They did listen. They repented. The solution was working!”
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“I tell you it was killing them. Had I not had the cistern closed, you would have killed more.”
He blinked, eyes glistening with filling tears. “Jesus, mercy,” he whispered. “What have I done?”
Crispin released him and stepped back. He watched the man’s face collapse in despair. “Dead,” he gasped. “Because of me?” He crossed himself and murmured his prayers into his tightly folded hands.
Crispin watched for a moment and sighed. “You were deceived. Now you must make it right.”
“Yes, yes.” He bent forward and wept into his prayerful hands. “Will I … will I hang for it?”
“That is for the law to decide. But I do not have in mind to turn you in to the law. Yet.”
“What must I do?”
“Did you get this ‘solution’ from an alchemist?”
He looked up, face streaked with dirt and tears. “I did. I was preaching one day, and after I was done, he approached me, told me he could help me. I went to his shop and he gave me this phial and said to put it in the cistern and what it would do.”
“Why did you believe him?”
“Because he seemed genuinely sincere. Told me that my words had changed his life and he was going to give up his sorcery.”
“‘Sorcery’? Is that what he said?”
“His words, I assure you, good Master. But now I see…” He straightened, a new determination lighting his eyes. “The Devil had taken hold of him. A damned man if ever there was one. Who but such a one who schemed with Satan could manufacture as diabolical a plot?”
“Indeed. And what of the sigils on the walls of London? What had you to do with those?”
“Why … nothing whatever. I saw them and knew they were the signs of the Demon.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“You … you are the one that they speak of. You are the Tracker.”
“Yes. And when you saw me some days ago, you said I was emerging from the alchemist’s lair. How did you know that that was an alchemist’s shop?”
“I was told it. By that other foul sorcerer.” He frowned. “Oh, the Deceiver is clever and uses honeyed words, but they are all lies. I thought he had turned a new leaf. I thought he had repented and was declaring war on the others of his ilk. He told me about this other alchemist and that’s why I chose that corner to do my preaching, to catch him. I thought at first it was you, but later I learned who you were.”
“There is one thing more. You have a crusade against these commissioners appointed by Parliament. Against … against Lord Derby, it would seem, in particular. Why?”
“I am a law-abiding man, Master Guest. My king is my sovereign, not his Parliament. And these councillors would seem to want to take his crown, to make him nothing but a figurehead. No. No man who loves God can abide it.”
“I see. You realize that these appointed men are only trying to make certain that the king conforms to his vows made before God? That the taxes collected were to be for the good running and defense of the kingdom, not for the use of his favorites?”
Pickthorn turned his reddened eyes to Crispin, peering steadily. “That, Master, is treasonous talk. And I hear that you were once a man who stepped into the cesspool of treason yourself. Is that why you support these usurpers?”
Crispin stepped back, chastened. “I assure you…” His voice was unsteady and he cursed it. “My loyalties are with the crown. I will not make that mistake again.” He heaved an angry breath and stared at the ground, toeing the mud with his boot. “And now what to do with you.”
Pickthorn sagged against the wall. The red marks Crispin had made to his cheeks were fading in the cold air. “I will turn myself in to the sheriffs, of course. I … I have sinned against my fellow man—” His voice choked off with a whimper.
“Not of your own devising. I tell you what you must do instead, Master Pickthorn. You must lay low, forget your preaching for a time.”
He raised his face. “But—”
“I tell you, you must lay low! I will smooth this over with the sheriffs. It is this alchemist to blame. I will take care of him. Go back to the Cockerel’s Tail Inn.”
He took Crispin’s hand and laid his cheek upon it. “Bless you, Master Guest. I shall pray for your kind soul, and for your deep repentance. And I shall further pray to soften your hardened heart so that you may truly see. For I fear you are blinded by your past loyalties. You must see the evil that Lancaster and his son are spilling into the heart of London, just as surely as if they poisoned the waters themselves.”
Crispin snatched his hand away. “Pray if you must for my soul, but leave the rest. Now begone. I will do what I can.”
“Thank you, Master Guest. May the Lord make His face to shine upon you and give you peace.”
“Yes, yes,” he grumbled, watching Pickthorn out of the corner of his eye as the preacher scurried away. Something about the man unsettled him, and it wasn’t merely his politics. He shook it off. He had other work to do. “Bartholomew of Oxford,” he sneered. He looked up, assessing the gray sun disappearing behind the heavy drapery of cloud. “You’re next.”
* * *
IT WAS DRIZZLING BY the time Crispin neared the alchemist’s street. The drifts of dirty snow along the lane were melting away.
Crispin had worked himself up into full indignation. The man had looked him in the eye and lied. Lied for days. Told him fantasies of the Stone and how devoted he was to his craft. “Witchcraft, more like,” he muttered. What was his game? Was he in league with this abductor, this killer?
The drizzle became a steady rain, and though his leather hood protected most of his head, his face was spattered with droplets and his lashes were sticky and damp. He pulled his dagger and was stomping toward the shop when someone grabbed his dagger arm.
He spun, yanking his arm away from those grasping fingers. Turning, he readied to strike at his attacker—and stumbled to a stop instead.
He lowered the blade and made a growl of exasperation. “You damned woman!” He sheathed the blade and took Avelyn by her shoulders. “I nearly killed you.”
She ignored his warning and took his hand, dragging him away.
“Wait,” he said, digging in his heels. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
She tried to sign it to him, but he closed his hands over her wildly gesticulating fingers. “I can’t understand you.” He glanced once at the shop with the sign of Mercury over the door and relented to Avelyn’s endless tugging.
They hurried over the rainy streets to Flamel’s shop. Avelyn reached the porch and waited for Crispin. When he arrived, she shoved him through.
“Master Flamel? What is it? I was in the middle of—”
Flamel turned to him, his face pale as bone. Crispin moved his gaze from his face to what was in his hand. Another scrap of parchment … and a lock of hair.
23
HER HANDS WERE NEARLY free. She could feel the rope loosening. But then a light shone from under the door. He had returned. And now she heard his furious stomping about the room, heard glass retorts and metal instruments clatter behind the wall. With the sound of fuel snapping and a poker pushing around coals, she knew he was busy at that fire, at his athanor, concocting his ridiculous work. Fear still coiled in her belly, but it was tempered now by anger and indignation. How could he? How could he do this to her?
She wrapped up the loosened end of rope in her hands and waited.
Her door slammed open, hitting the wall behind it, and he stood in the doorway, a dark silhouette against the flickering light from the hearth in the outer room. His hands opened and closed, fingers curled angrily.
She allowed a brief spike of envy for the warmth she saw flooding the outer room, a warmth she was not allowed unless she “won” it with one of his senseless games.
“You have a champion,” he said.
She turned away, feigning disinterest. She knew this irked him the most, that she did not hang on his every word. She had given him her full attention at first
but soon learned it played into his deepest desires. And now he had the Stone. He had showed it to her last night, bragged about how he would soon use it. But by his words she suspected he hadn’t the faintest idea how to use it.
“Madame, did you hear? A most renowned man in London. I have just learned of him and his feats. Have you heard of him? He is called the Tracker. And he is tracking us.” He laughed. “It’s delightful. And most invigorating. It makes the game that much more entertaining, don’t you agree?”
She said nothing, relishing the aggravation surely building with her silence.
He went on, heedless of her stillness, or so it seemed. “Tracker.” He laughed. “His name is Crispin Guest. He’s a private sheriff, tracking for hire. These English.” He shook his head affectionately. “I’ve asked about him. Seems most of the London citizenry have heard of him. He was a traitor, but his life was spared by none other than Lancaster himself. Is that not amusing, mon amour? Is that not ironic? He finds lost things, lost people. Do you think he will be clever enough to find you?”
“You’re a fool. And I don’t care what you think. Will you release me? My bones ache from being in this position for so long.”
“Dear, dear. Shall we toss for it?”
“No more games! For the love of the Holy Virgin! Do a kindness for kindness’ sake. Can you not do that, at least? For the sake of our pasts.”
But as soon as she said it, she knew it was a mistake. His strangely jovial demeanor hardened. “For the sake of our pasts?” he whispered. “For that sake, I would keep you tied up forever, Madame!”
“I did not mean—”
“For all eternity!” He moved with such speed, such agility, it was hard to fathom that he was nearly the same age as Nicholas. He got down on one knee beside her so that his face could be close to her ear. She pulled at her restraints to get as far away from him as possible. “I have the Stone now.” His voice was harsh at her ear. His spittle pelted her hair, now disarrayed and falling from her careful coiffure. “I can do what I have planned. These other things are merely an amusing distraction. The cauldron is bubbling, my love. The retorts are full of the compounds I need.”
Shadow of the Alchemist: A Medieval Noir Page 21