The flames covered the railing now, engulfing the ladder to the loft. That way was barred. And the fire was gaining on the floorboards. Already some of the floor had given way and gaping holes with spitting flames were all around him. The roof was his only exit, but how to reach it?
Everything was aflame. Even the bed was smoldering … but not yet engulfed. He grabbed it and pulled it away from the wall. It was heavy. It dragged across the floor with a great groan. All at once, part of the floor gave way, and one corner of the bed sank into the fiery hole. Crispin grabbed hold of one post and heaved. It swiveled on its one axis in the breached floor and one post was suddenly poised under the trapdoor. That would have to do.
Crispin climbed atop the bed and jammed his foot on the carvings on the post, hoisting himself as high as he could go. It wasn’t quite enough. “Dammit.” He looked down. The room was red and gold, with more heat than he’d ever encountered before. It was not a good way to die, he decided, and turned back up toward the square of sky, trying to breathe any air filtering down.
He’d have to jump for it.
Just as he positioned himself to climb again, the bed lurched.
The hole in the loft widened and the bed tilted into it. The mattress caught fire and began to smoke furiously in black billows.
Quickly, he jumped away just as the bed, in a loud bellow of creaking timbers, crashed through the floor, sending up a great belch of dark smoke and shooting flames.
Trapped.
The planets whooshed slowly by and Crispin saw it was his only hope. The railing was barely intact. He waited till the sun on its outer arm swung closest toward him before jumping onto the rail. He sprang forward and grabbed hold of one of the sun’s rays, wrapping an arm around it. The contraption groaned and wobbled under his weight but continued to move slowly toward the trapdoor. He knew he had only the one chance left. If he missed it …
The brass sun finally creaked directly beneath the trapdoor. Crispin prayed and leapt.
His fingers caught the edge of the opening and he dangled over the fire crackling and spitting upward from two floors below him.
With a grunt, he slid an arm up and over onto the roof, gripped tight, and swung his leg up, catching it on the opening’s edge. Gritting his teeth and bellowing with the rest of his strength, he used his leg muscles to pull himself up the rest of the way until he was able to grab hold of the roof itself. His arms did the rest of the work and he slid across the broken tiles to fresh air.
Once his feet were free of the fiery room, he lay on the tiles and breathed.
Where were they, the Flamels and Jack and Avelyn? Were they safe?
He gained his feet. The tiles were hot under his boots. The roof wouldn’t last long.
When he looked up, he spied figures being hauled into an attic window on another rooftop across the lane. A woman was being handed down, assisted by a soot-covered blond-haired girl. Avelyn, helping her mistress. And there was Flamel, with Jack last.
“Jack!” He waved his arm.
Jack looked up and saw him. “Master!” he called across the rooftops. “Come on!”
Crispin moved, but out from behind a chimney, a figure in a long black gown emerged.
“You can’t help but get in my way, can you, Guest?”
“Malemeyns.” He drew his dagger. “I was hoping I’d have my chance at you. You started this fire.”
“Of course I did. My son died in a fire. Why not Nicholas?”
“He wasn’t responsible for that.”
“No, Lancaster was accountable for it. But Nicholas killed my wife, stole my Perenelle. He ruined my life and I’ll ruin his.”
“It’s over. You won’t be committing any more murders.”
“It is justice. What would you know of that? Oh, I know your tale. I weep for it,” he said sarcastically. “But it was different for me. All was lost, never to be recovered.”
“And so, too, was my life lost.”
“But now you thrive, is that it? I should do the same? You are clever, I will give you that. But you have no one to blame but yourself. I have Nicholas. And Lancaster. And I’ll have my revenge.”
Crispin heard the joists give way beneath him and he leapt aside. Flames shot up from the rafters.
Piers smiled. His teeth gleamed from a sooty face … all but his one gray tooth. He, too, had a dagger in his hand. “Who will triumph, I wonder?” He cocked his head toward where Flamel had escaped. “He can try to hide from me, but I’ll never stop harrying him. I will prevail. Perenelle will be mine one day. For I have already made the Elixir. I have time. All eternity, in fact.”
“I think you’re lying. Perenelle told me you didn’t know what you were doing.”
He ticked his head. “Poor deluded Perenelle. She chose so unwisely.”
“But she didn’t choose. You lost her. In a game of chess. Isn’t that right? You like to play games.”
He frowned. “So I did. The next game won’t be as easy to lose. Nicholas never would have found her without your help. And you won’t be there the next time.”
“Oh? I was rather thinking that this was your last game.”
“A game?” His face brightened. “Shall we play one? One last time?”
“I’m through with your damn games.”
“Oh, no! Games are always appropriate. What can we play up here?”
“How about catch the dagger?” Crispin lunged with his blade … but Piers stepped aside. Almost skidding off the roof, Crispin windmilled his arms and righted himself at the last moment. It was a long way down.
“But I already told you, Guest. I have taken the Elixir. I cannot be killed. I know the potion worked. I prepared it myself with the use of the Stone. You will always see me just as I am now. Vigorous. Invincible. For now I shall never age.”
He stomped down hard. The roof cracked, buckled … and suddenly gave way under Crispin.
A fireball leapt up, barely missing him, and Crispin fell through the roof. He barked his chin on the way down, but it bounced him enough that his arms reached out and gripped the edge of the broken tiles.
Piers approached and crouched down to face him. “Looks like you lose.”
Arms trembling, Crispin slammed a fist on the tile nearest Malemeyns’s foot. It crumbled and the man slipped. He lost his footing and toppled, rolling to the edge of the roof.
Crispin used that distraction to haul himself up, and none too soon. He could feel the fire licking at his boots. When he looked down, the leather was singed and smoking.
By then, Piers had regained his footing. He was wagging a finger at Crispin. “You must have nine lives, Crispin Guest.”
“I must,” he agreed.
“It’s a pity. Such a keen mind and a nimble body.”
“Why did you lead me to Old Fish Street? I never would have found you had you not left clues.”
“It’s the game, Master Guest. Have you never played games?”
“Isn’t the object of the game to win?”
“Of course it is. But the object of the game is also to play. And while I knew that ultimately Nicholas would lose, it doesn’t diminish the sport of the game itself.” He shook his head and tsked. “I would have thought a man such as yourself would know that.”
“It’s important to have the advantage.”
“Yes, isn’t it? And I have that.”
“Do you?”
“You’re trying to stall. How amusing. Let’s play.” He jabbed forward with his dagger and Crispin leapt back. They circled each other. Crispin knew the man was older than him, but he didn’t seem to be tiring. It couldn’t have to do with that Elixir, could it? No! He refused to believe it. Piers was propelled by madness, nothing more than that.
Crispin made a lunge, but Piers stepped nimbly out of the way. Smoke surrounded them and both their faces were covered in soot, but Piers was smiling, his teeth bright.
He made a feint at Crispin and then swept his blade down the other way. It caught Crispin’
s shoulder. A stripe of blood appeared beneath the tear in Crispin’s coat and then a sharp pain bloomed. He ignored it.
Piers smiled in triumph and took a swing with his blade at Crispin’s head. Crispin leapt out of the way but lost his footing on the slanted tiles. He was falling backward and reached out wildly, grabbing hold of Malemeyns’s cloak as he fell. He yanked the man with him, and they tumbled one over the other toward the roof’s edge, stopping short of the precipice.
Each tried to stab the other, and each fended the blades aside with their free hands clutching each other’s wrists. Piers gritted his teeth, smiling a rictus at Crispin. Crispin clutched the man’s dagger arm for all he was worth, forcing it back, trying with only one hand to slam it down against the tiles. Slowly, inch by inch, he managed to force it down until he gave the man’s arm a twist.
The dagger fell from his grip and hurtled over the side to the ground below.
Piers cried out in anger and used both hands to grab Crispin’s dagger arm.
Crispin rolled them both uphill, back to the fiery hole now licking its flames upward through the tiles amid black curls of smoke.
Malemeyns pushed, knocking Crispin back. Piers was suddenly free and he skittered across the rooftop back toward the chimney. He crouched and grabbed loosened tiles, hurling them one after the other at Crispin’s head. Crispin ducked and dodged them, feeling them crack painfully across the forearm he held up for protection.
The missiles stopped, but Piers was suddenly standing above him, and though Crispin tried to scramble to his feet, he kept slipping on the slick tiles. Swinging a flaming faggot of wood broken off from one of the rafters, Piers approached.
“I’m done with you, Crispin Guest. Quite done.”
He swung at Crispin’s head, but Crispin managed to duck. He jumped up and jerked backward away from the flaming wood. Malemeyns swung again, gritting his teeth.
Crispin fell to one knee, dodging it by leaning to the side. He twisted and shoved his knife upward … right into Malemeyns’s gut. He jerked the blade higher, relishing the tearing of more flesh, doing as much damage as he could before withdrawing the knife.
Shocked, Piers looked down at the blood spilling from the wound. A portion of his entrails dangled free. “But…”
Panting, Crispin watched as the man’s skin paled and his blood gushed. Piers doubled over. “Forever doesn’t seem to be as long as it used to be,” said Crispin.
With surprise still etching his features, Piers fell forward into the hole in the roof, just as a burst of flame erupted and swallowed him up.
31
DAYS SHIFTED INTO WEEKS. Perenelle recovered from her ordeal, and they found new lodgings in which to complete their work. Avelyn visited Crispin many more times, spending long nights there, but when he awoke in the morning, she was always gone.
By the end of November, Avelyn brought a message from Flamel, telling Crispin that they were sailing for France.
He met them at Queenhithe wharf. They would take a skiff to the sea, where they would pick up a ship to sail the channel.
Their luggage was there, being loaded by wherrymen. Crispin bowed to Perenelle. “I suppose I am surprised you stayed this long.”
“I wanted my wife fully recovered. And yet, being so late in the year, we may be waiting at Dover for some time anyway.”
Crispin turned to Avelyn. She was looking at him fondly. “I am sorry to see you go,” he said to her.
She smiled and signed to him.
He laughed and stilled her hands, holding them in his. “I have not yet mastered your language. Now I never shall.” He touched her face, trailing his fingers along her jaw until he took her chin and tilted it upward. He leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to her pliant lips. “I will miss you,” he whispered, and then he signed her name, making her smile.
“We shall not see you again, Maître Guest,” said the alchemist, moving between them. “How should we ever thank you enough? There is not enough gold in all the world. But here is a small token.” He offered a pouch, but Crispin did not take it.
“You already paid me, sir.”
“But you have earned more than that. Take it. It will be a cold winter in London, I fear.”
The news was still not good, and Crispin bowed to the wisdom of it. At least he and Jack would stay warm. Reluctantly, he cupped it in his palm. He was relieved that it felt like coins.
“Must you go? Must … Avelyn go?” He admitted, at least to himself, that he’d grown fond of her.
But Flamel, looking cheerful at last, shook his head and touched her long braid lovingly. “Oh, we couldn’t possibly leave her behind. She’s been with my family for years … and years.” He leaned toward Crispin and whispered, “You see, she was once my nursemaid.” He smiled and nodded before he turned to climb onto the boat, steadying it for Perenelle. He held her hand and would not let go until she was settled.
Crispin laughed. “You jest with me, sir. She’s far younger than you.”
Flamel cocked his head and smiled at Crispin. His eyes glittered mischievously. “Is she?”
Avelyn leapt onto the boat and turned to Crispin, giving him a wink.
The boat skimmed away from the dock, and they all waved back at him.
“Master,” said Jack at his elbow, “can that be true? Master Flamel did say that his grandfather had created a Philosopher’s Stone. Could she be—”
“Nonsense, Jack. Of course not.” Avelyn kept looking at him with a sly smile. “Let’s go home.” But even as they drew away, he turned back one last time to gaze at the young woman. She stood upon the deck at the railing, old eyes looking distantly ahead.
* * *
DECEMBER ARRIVED, AND ANXIOUS over the tidings at court, Crispin drank too much at the Boar’s Tusk and listened, along with every other citizen in London, about Richard and his advisers and Henry of Lancaster’s commissioners. But it was never detailed enough, never full of the information he wanted to know. He wanted news of the commissioners. He wanted news of Henry.
But he did hear, along with everyone else, about the appeals of treason levied at the king’s closest advisers. Crispin had reluctantly sent Jack to loiter near the palace to get any news he could. The boy soon found himself a popular visitor to the Boar’s Tusk.
Jack sat by the fire, a beaker of ale in his hand. Crispin and Gilbert Langton, the alehouse owner, sat close to him as he sipped. “Just as you predicted, sir,” Jack said quietly, eyes darting here and there about the tavern. “I heard tell that Suffolk fled the country. And not only that, but the Archbishop Neville disguised himself and escaped back to his diocese at York.”
Crispin snorted. “They tested the wind and saw it was an ill one.”
“Aye, Master. A very ill one indeed. There was another. One of the king’s knights who was chief justice. I forgot his name—”
“Sir Robert Tresilian,” Crispin offered.
“Aye, that’s the one. Well, he went into hiding in Westminster. And the former lord mayor is said to remain in London.”
“That fool Brembre,” muttered Crispin. “He surely must believe no harm will come to him, and that London would be loyal to him.”
“You do not think that is so?” said Gilbert, pouring more wine into Crispin’s beaker.
“Surely you must sense it, Gilbert. The feeling in London is one of anger and betrayal. I fear they will not stand with Brembre. He is for the gallows for certain.”
Gilbert winced. Crispin knew he did not like such free talk. Even Crispin scanned the room immediately around them, but men seemed to be concerned in their own tight circles, probably discussing the same issues.
He turned to Jack. “What of Oxford?”
“Just as you feared, sir. Oxford retreated to his lands and is mustering an army.”
* * *
BY MID-DECEMBER, THE WORD had spread throughout London that Oxford would march on the city. The citizens hunkered down. The bitter cold kept most from the streets, but it was also t
he wait for a siege that made the lanes empty. Henry’s forces left the fields around London and set out for Oxfordshire while London cowered, waiting for news.
Crispin sat for hours by his window, staring through the crack in his shutter until Jack roused him with a touch to his shoulder to admonish him to eat his weak pottage.
At last, when the news came that Lord Henry had stopped Oxford’s army at Radcot Bridge, a collective sigh of relief came from the city. But Crispin knew it was far from over.
The commissioners’ armies returned to camp outside of London, making certain that all of the court knew they were there. The panicked city was in turmoil once more. Food was hoarded. Goods were scarce. Advent was a subdued affair.
Crispin watched by his window and was one of the first to hear the man riding down the Shambles. “The king retreated to the Tower!” he cried, his voice harsh with desperation.
Crispin pushed open the shutter and leaned down. “What’s that, man? What are you saying?”
He yanked on his reins and the horse turned, shaking its head. He looked up at Crispin. His face was sooty and his cloak was torn.
“The king and his retinue, sir. They’ve gone to the Tower and barricaded themselves within.”
Crispin’s fingers curled tightly around the edge of the shutter. “Why? What’s happened?”
“I don’t know, sir. But every able-bodied man must prepare himself. If I were you, I’d head to your parish church for prayer.” He kicked the horse’s flanks and hurried the beast toward Newgate, sending clods of muddy snow behind him.
Crispin pulled back inside, away from the harsh cold, and closed the shutters. He looked at Jack. “It’s begun.”
* * *
FOR DAYS CRISPIN AND Jack waited for news, for any kind of hint at what was happening. Occasionally someone would ride through the streets and call out a snippet here and there. But there was never enough. Nothing to pin any hope to.
Finally, they couldn’t stand it any longer. Crispin and Jack had burned the last of Henry’s wood anyway, and with cloaks wrapped tightly around them, they trudged over the frozen streets to the Boar’s Tusk.
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