Crispin settled in by the fire, with Jack on his right and an anxious Gilbert on his left. Men gathered in clusters, talking among themselves, peering over their shoulders. For the first time in Crispin’s life, he was on the outside along with every other citizen of London. He knew nothing of what was transpiring. He was not at the right hand of the duke or the old king, ready to take to the battlefield with them. He hated it. He hated not knowing.
The door slammed opened and everyone jumped. A page tore through the entrance with a wild face and fretful eyes. “He’s done it!” he cried. “He’s done it!”
Crispin, along with every man there, rose to his feet. His heart pounded in his chest.
Someone shoved a beaker of ale into the lad’s hand and he gulped it down in one. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and was suddenly swept up by the crowd and settled by the fire.
“What happened, boy?” someone asked.
His eyes searched the room, and when his audience had quieted, he took a deep breath. “The king. He’s come out of the Tower. They’re escorting him back to Westminster.”
“As … as the king?” Crispin finally asked. Every man in the place quieted, waiting to hear.
“Aye,” said the boy. And everyone breathed a sigh—Crispin, too, and was surprised at himself for it. “Henry of Lancaster—that is, Lord Derby—he and his lords went to the king to plead with him to return to good governance. But King Richard wasn’t pleased with them. They showed him letters from the earl of Oxford written to the French king, appealing to him to help Richard against his own people.”
The men growled at that.
The page held up his hand. “Aye, I know. Lord Henry’s lords were angered by that and it was said that the king was chastened by this news. They rebuked him. Said he was deceitful and dishonest.”
A man from the crowd leaned in toward the page. “They said that to him? To the king?”
“Aye, they did. I saw Lord Henry myself. His eyes were angry, but his voice was steady. He was on a white horse and his cloak was made of ermine. He looked like a king himself, did Lord Henry. He warned the king to correct his mistakes and that he was to rule better or else. He warned him that he had an heir of full age.”
The room gasped, and men turned toward one another, murmuring.
“What did the king say to that?” asked an old man by the page’s elbow.
Gilbert poured more ale into the lad’s cup and he drank again, throat rolling. When he set the cup down on his thigh, he leaned toward the crowd again. “He agreed to submit to their demands. He said he agreed to be guided by their wholesome advice.”
The page stopped talking and looked at all their faces. Some men murmured while others fell silent. No one knew what to think.
Until, almost as one, they all turned to Crispin.
He didn’t notice at first until Jack elbowed him. Scouring their anxious expressions, Crispin merely raised a brow at them. “I do not have the ear of the court,” he said quietly.
“But they say you speak to Henry of Lancaster,” said the old man beside the page. “And that he speaks to you. What can you tell us, Master Crispin?”
“I honestly don’t know. These tidings are as new to me as they are to you.”
Some clearly did not believe him, and before it turned to arguments and fights, Jack wisely took Crispin by the arm and pulled him out of the tavern.
They both said nothing as they returned to the Shambles.
They stayed in for the rest of the day, and at nightfall, they huddled beside the small fire, drinking the last of the warmed wine. Their feet, wrapped in extra stockings, were nearly tucked into the coals.
A rap on the door well after Compline made them look at each other. Jack hesitated. “Can’t be a client this late.”
“It might be. But I’ll get it. You … be ready.”
Jack unsheathed his dagger and stood behind the door. Crispin thought of unsheathing his own but decided against it.
When he opened it, he was glad he hadn’t.
Henry, looking tired and worn, hung in the doorway.
“God’s blood, Henry. What are you doing here?”
He staggered in and stood before the fire. In his hand he held a long wrapped bundle. “Have you heard?”
“Yes. Is … is the king truly back at Westminster?”
Henry nodded wearily. “Yes. And because I know you will ask it, he is still the king.”
Crispin nodded. Jack closed the door and came upon Henry on his other flank. Henry turned to Jack and smiled a little. “Young Jack. I’m glad to see you are safe here with your master.”
“What happened, Henry?” Crispin was nearly thrumming with impatience. “There is so little news.”
“Yes, I forgot you would not have heard much. Richard’s hens are scattered and will meet the noose should they return. And my cousin has promised to do as he ought. There was a moment when my uncle and I … argued. But I had only just received a letter from my lord father.” Henry smiled and sat, laying the bundle across his thighs. “He cautioned me in no uncertain terms to resist taking the crown. Oh, but it was hard, Crispin. It was nearly there for the taking.”
“You did the right thing, Henry,” he said solemnly.
“Did I? Well. It’s done, at any rate.” He sighed before holding out the bundle with one hand. “Here. Take it.”
When Crispin closed his hand over it, he knew immediately what it was. “What—?”
The wrappings fell away, revealing a sword in a plain leather scabbard, wrapped with a belt.
“What’s this?”
“The spoils of war,” said Henry. “With a few additions.”
“Why are you—”
Henry looked at Jack. “You have a fool for a master, young Jack. He has forgotten what a sword is.”
“I haven’t forgotten.” He pushed it back into Henry’s hands. “You very well know I am not allowed to own one. The king does not wish it and I have no right of property.”
“Right of property, he says.”
Crispin spread out his arm, showing the humble room. “Does this look like twenty pounds’ worth of property to you? I own none of it and it isn’t worth a privy.”
He shoved the sword back into Crispin’s hands. “I told you, it’s the spoils of war. With additions. Withdraw it.”
Crispin stared at it. At the unadorned leather sheath and the plain roundel pommel.
“You do remember how to withdraw a sword, don’t you?” teased Henry.
With a growl, Crispin pulled it partway from the sheath. The blade was shiny, but it was not new. And there were words newly engraved on the blade, words in Latin. He pulled it farther.
“Read it aloud,” Henry urged.
“‘A donum a Henricus Lancastriae ad Crispinus Guest—habet Ius.’”
Jack was at his elbow and translated aloud. “‘A gift from Henry Lancaster to Crispin Guest—He has the Right’ … Oh, Master!”
Crispin couldn’t breathe. He stared at the words till he couldn’t see them anymore.
“You served our household well, Crispin. You saved my life. You saved the crown, if it comes to that. Who has the greater right to wield a sword? And now, with those words, you have proof of that right. I wish I could grant you your knighthood again, Crispin, but as my royal cousin will never allow it, this is the best I can do. Here, young squire. You’d best learn now how to buckle on a knight’s sword.”
Crispin didn’t move. Henry tried to show Jack, but the boy’s hands trembled so badly that Henry had to do it himself.
Henry put his hand on Crispin’s shoulder once the sword hung at his left side. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”
Crispin still could not speak. Henry smiled. “I still have much to do this night. This is far from over. But I’m certain, Crispin, I will see you again.” He turned toward the door and stopped before it. He nodded toward the sword hanging now from Crispin’s hip. “Very soon—too soon—you might need that. God be with you.”
<
br /> And with a cold gust of night wind and a few flurries of snow, he was gone.
Afterword
SO WHAT ABOUT NICHOLAS FLAMEL? He didn’t belong just to the world of Harry Potter. He was a real fourteenth-century fellow. But was he a famous alchemist? It depends on whom you ask and when you ask them. He was a writer and manuscript seller in fourteenth-century Paris, but because of his interest in and study of the Philosopher’s Stone, he was thought by many to be an accomplished alchemist, though much of that speculation came long after he died, mostly through writings about him and alchemy from the seventeenth century. His house in Paris still stands and is the oldest stone house in the city. He and his wife, Perenelle, were known in their day as gracious benefactors, donating their wealth to hospitals, churches, and the poor. They seemed to live a long and happy life in France.
Did they live an unusually long time?
Flamel was about eighty-eight when he died and Perenelle about ninety-two. Not bad for the Middle Ages. So, Philosopher’s Stone? Hmm.
The imposition of Piers, Avelyn, and Flamel’s trip to England was my little fiction.
But that’s not all that was happening in this book. The end of 1387 in England was quite a turbulent time. It really got started a year before, when Richard was backed into a corner. As you may remember from Blood Lance, Crispin’s previous book, Parliament wanted to oust Michael de la Pole, the earl of Suffolk and one of Richard’s closest friends, but Richard wasn’t having it. In fact, it was Richard’s strategy that if he traveled around the country and just never opened Parliament, his troubles might fade away. But the lords and commons reminded him that he was obliged to open Parliament at least twice a year so that “errors of government might be made right”—and, oh, by the way, the people had a right to know how their taxes were being spent. They further reminded Richard that any king who refused to take his lords’ advice could be deposed, just like his great-granddaddy Edward II. Reluctantly, Richard returned to London, and when Parliament opened, they impeached Suffolk, since they couldn’t very well impeach Richard. Further, a council was appointed to watch over all the expenses of court, and they radically cut Richard’s household funds. That hurt.
By 1387, Richard was not even running the country, hadn’t any money, and felt pretty closed in because this council was always there, looking over his shoulder! Who was king around here? To get away from prying eyes, he did a lot of traveling between Windsor, Westminster, and his hunting lodge in the Thames Valley. And while he was out and about, he tried to muster support among the sheriffs and judges in the shires.
Richard’s favorite cronies were all pretty well disliked by the lords and even the people by this time. Suffolk was the former chancellor and spent the tax coffers of the kingdom on too many personal items for Richard and his pals. When he was impeached, he was driven from office essentially for dereliction of duty, but he stuck around. But by the end of 1387, he had to flee to France, was sentenced to die in absentia, and had his title stripped from him. He never returned to England.
Sir Robert Tresilian, another household friend and adviser, had been appointed Chief Justice of the King’s Bench by Richard, and he was the one who urged all those judges that Richard mustered around the country to say that the commissioners didn’t have the right to impeach Suffolk. He was executed for treason the following year.
Yet another adviser, Sir Nicholas Brembre, former Lord Mayor of London, had often loaned money to the king and thought himself so beloved by the people of London that he was untouchable. He was also executed for treason the following year.
Alexander Neville, the archbishop of York, was in Richard’s pocket. He was supposed to serve a life sentence at Rochester Castle, but the pope took pity on him, and with papal help, Neville managed to slip from Henry’s fingers and ended up as a parish priest in Flanders, where he spent the rest of his life.
And Robert de Vere, the earl of Oxford, was possibly the most odious of them all. Not of royal blood, he was nevertheless heaped with honors, titles, and lands, even above those of the king’s uncle Thomas of Woodstock, the duke of Gloucester. Oxford was made marquess of Dublin and duke of Ireland, and he was given the castle and town of Colchester, the castles of Queensborough in Kent and Oakham, and the sheriffdom of Rutland. He also put aside his wife—the granddaughter of Edward III—for one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting. He was sentenced to death in absentia after he fled the country following his failed march on London, and his lands and titles were forfeit to the crown. He died in a hunting accident in 1392, also in Flanders, and three years later, an aggrieved Richard had his embalmed body brought back to England for reburial. He really was a favorite of Richard’s.
When this book opens at the end of 1387, clouds of dissent are building. But the truly sad part is, Richard never really learns his lesson. And as for Henry Bolingbroke, this is just a practice run. At one point in December 1387, when Richard holed himself up in the Tower, Henry and his uncle Gloucester argued about possibly taking the crown, only they argued as to which one of them it would be. Gloucester wanted it for himself, because he was a fourth son and he never got anything! It seemed like a good time to go for it because his brother John, the duke of Lancaster—warrior, statesman, and all-around rich guy—was conveniently out of the country.
Henry, naturally, thought that he himself should get the crown. After all, it was his army that went to all the trouble to head off Oxford at Radcot Bridge.
In the end, they decided against it, mostly because of a timely letter from Lancaster warning them to stop it or else.
Sadly, boys in armor can’t ever play nice, and it will all come to a head again in 1399. But that’s for a future book.
In the meantime, Crispin and friends will return in another adventure, this time concerning something King Richard desperately needs to find, in The Silence of Stones.
Glossary
BEZANT A medieval gold coin.
CHAPERON HOOD/HAT A hood that comes down and covers the shoulders in a short cape. When this was bunched together and wound onto the head, it became a hat, and later it was designed exclusively as a hat.
COXCOMB The comb on the head of a rooster, or shaped like it.
DAGGED An edge cut with decorative scallops.
DISSEISE(MENT) To dispossess a person of his estates and title.
MASLIN Bread made from wheat and rye.
MAZER Outer wooden part of a bowl used for drinking.
PILIER CANTONNÉ A compound pier or pillar used in Gothic architecture.
PSALTER A prayer book.
SCRIP A small bag, wallet, or satchel.
The Crispin Guest Novels by Jeri Westerson
Veil of Lies
Serpent in the Thorns
The Demon’s Parchment
Troubled Bones
Blood Lance
About the Author
Jeri Westerson is the author of five previous novels featuring Crispin Guest, most recently Blood Lance. Her books were finalists for several major mystery awards, including the Agatha, the Shamus, and the Macavity. She lives in Menifee, California.
Visit the author’s Web site at www.jeriwesterson.com and find Crispin Guest on Facebook at www.facebook.com/crispin.guest.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
SHADOW OF THE ALCHEMIST. Copyright © 2013 by Jeri Westerson. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein
Cover photo illustration by Steve Gardner/Pixelworks Studios
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request
ISBN 978-1-250-00030-9 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-3642-6 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781466836426
First Edition: October 201
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