The sheriff seemed to take pleasure in saying, “Lord Derby and Nottingham stand against the king, or so the rumor holds. How do you think he is faring? At any rate, no one knows where he is, and if you know anything, Guest, you had better come to us forthwith. The king wishes to see his cousin at court.”
Henry’s visit of the night before ran through Crispin’s mind. He desperately tried to remember what he had been telling Crispin besides the silly jesting. Damn the wine that punched holes through his memory!
“But Lord Sheriff-”
He turned on his heel and signaled to Fastolf. “I’m not your herald, Guest. Go to an alehouse if you wish to get more news.” He talked to his serjeants about taking the body away to the apprentice’s family before he turned a last time to Crispin. “In any case, Guest, we expect results from you.”
Crispin bowed. “As always, Lord Sheriff.” He caught Venour rolling his eyes before the man pushed his way out the front door, followed quickly by Fastolf.
The serjeants carried the man away, and all was quiet again. Yet a rope still hung from the rafters, swinging from the draft of the ever-moving planets.
Crispin picked up the discarded bit of rope cut from the man’s leg and turned it over in his hands. Good-quality rope. Not a fisherman’s rope. New. Bought for this purpose? He placed it on the table beside the bloodied knife and parchment. The sheriffs had been so anxious to allow someone else to do their job that they had not noticed these items among the clutter, for which Crispin was grateful. He did not like to have to explain to the sheriffs the intricacies of what was truly happening. Nor did he care to lie … too much.
Just as he reached for the parchment, Avelyn swooped in and snatched it up.
“Damnable woman! Give it here!”
She pulled it away from him, holding it up to the window and studying it.
“What is she doing, Master Flamel? Make her give it to me. I-”
But he saw it. She held it up to the oiled hide covering the window opening. It allowed golden light to filter through, but it cast enough light that he saw faint lines etched on the parchment. He stepped up and took it from her, and this time she let him, nodding. He held it up for himself, finger tracing the careful invisible writing evident only with the backlighting from the window.
“Master Crispin?” Jack was at his side. “What is it? God blind me! There’s more writing there!”
Crispin brought the parchment to the hearth and took up the poker. He pulled some ashes from the cooling fire and scraped them into a pile on the hearthstone. He crouched and took some of the ashes in his hand and sprinkled them on the parchment, gently rubbing them in with his fingertips, taking special care to embed them into the words etched with an empty quill. When he’d filled in the lines, he tipped the parchment and blew away the remaining ashes.
He squinted. The lines were only just legible. He read aloud:
“‘Leave the Stone at the niche at Saint Paul’s feet in his cathedral by Sext today. Do this or she dies.’”
Jack took it from his hands and read the lines carefully, mouth moving silently.
Crispin turned to Flamel. “You knew this secret message was here.”
He shook his head frantically. “No.”
“You know far more than what you are saying. Do you realize your wife’s life is at stake? If you know the man who abducted your wife, you had best tell me.”
“Of course I don’t!”
“Then why did your servant know of this secret message?” He turned to Avelyn. She scrutinized Crispin with narrowed eyes.
“She … she is familiar with my own ways. I do many of my notes in codes and with such methods because the work I do is secret and dangerous. Of course she would naturally look for it.”
Crispin was unconvinced. “This Stone he speaks of,” he said. “And don’t waste my time lying that you don’t know what it is.”
Flamel wrestled with himself and finally nodded. “Yes. Yes. It is a very valuable broach. The most valuable thing I own, save my wife.”
Satisfied, Crispin fit his thumbs in his belt. “Well then. I suggest you fetch it. We will place it at the feet of Saint Paul as instructed and await this abductor. We’ll trap this rat with the proper cheese.”
And yet, Flamel still hesitated. Was any object worth the life of a loved one? Crispin watched the contortions of the man’s mind written clearly on his face. And then he looked to Avelyn. She was also watching Flamel. Her body tensed, as if waiting to run or jump to his bidding. Then suddenly she turned to Crispin. Her eyes seemed to bore through him, searching his soul. She was a changeling, he was certain of it. No human could have such pale hair and eyes. No human could see so clearly inside of him. He wasn’t entirely certain that she liked all she saw, but it seemed to satisfy her enough. Without being asked, she pivoted and dove into the clutter of the alchemist’s things, shoving papers aside, moving coffers out of her way to get to the doors of an ambry. She opened it and hesitated, then looked over her shoulder at Crispin. An elfin smile drew up her mouth as she touched a carving around the edge of the ambry’s opening. An audible click sounded, and a drawer that had not been there before slid forward. She reached inside, still looking at Crispin with that strange, enigmatic smile, and blindly retrieved a velvet pouch.
She pushed the secret drawer closed and it vanished as mysteriously as it had appeared. She handed the bag to Flamel with an absent curtsy. Those slanted faery eyes moved with Crispin as he walked over to the man and looked down into his hand.
He pulled forth a sapphire broach. It was nearly the size of a robin’s egg, deep and pure, surrounded by clear faceted crystals. Three teardrop pearls hung from the bottom of the oval of stone. “Magnificent,” Crispin whispered. Jack whistled. Crispin knew little of jewelry, but he knew enough that he reckoned the sale of a stone like this might buy him a very decent wardrobe … for everyone he knew.
“This was a gift from King Charles,” Flamel said softly. “We-Perenelle and I-did him a great service.”
“A great service indeed,” said Crispin in the same quiet tone. “I understand your hesitation, but your wife…”
“Yes, Maître, of course you are right.”
“You will take this and place it as he specified. But I will be following you and waiting nearby to capture the knave.”
“Is … is that all there is to that?” asked Flamel, wringing his hands. “You capture him and he tells you where my wife is? For I have never been involved in such matters before.”
“I assure you, sir, that the matter will be over quickly.”
Flamel readied himself, told Avelyn to stay, and ventured forth. Crispin allowed him a lead and then made his way out the alchemist’s door.
He had not gotten far when he encountered a crowd gathered around a man with coarse ruddy hair, waving his arms about. He had a thick Southwark accent with just the hint of somewhere else.
“… Then Satan, the enemy of the Father,” the man was saying in a loud voice, hoarse from speaking, “wishing to trouble the peace and Kingdom of the Holy Father, knocked upon the door of Man. And Man, because he is not vigilant and is weak of heart and soul, did not set guardians on his door and allowed him in. And, hidden amongst them, Satan began to solicit them with false promises. Time and again, Satan, the Great Deceiver, the one true enemy of God the Father, slew the soul of Man because he would not take the narrow gate! Look! Look here! Signs of sorcery and witchcraft.” He flung his hand toward the stone foundation of a weaver’s shop. Etched upon the surface was another odd set of symbols, something that Crispin did not recognize.
“See!” the man went on. “See the devilry at work. Have we forgotten so soon the punishment sent down upon us by our generous Lord to cleanse us of our sins? Do we not recall the terrible plague that swept our midst a mere generation ago, taking the high and the lowly, for Death does not aim his scythe at only the one or the other? All men must die, all men must suffer for to be worthy of the presence of our Father in the sky in His heavenly chamber.”