The man swept the crowd with his gaze and it landed upon Crispin, where it stayed. That pointing finger swept toward Crispin. “Lo! See the evildoer emerging from the alchemist’s lair! Foul Sorcerer, Tempter! Dabbling where angels have forbidden. Your fate is sealed, as are the fates of others so inclined to follow the path of Satan.”
Crispin straightened his coat. “Rubbish.”
Some in the crowd gasped. It stopped the mouth of the preacher, but only for a moment. He narrowed his eyes and his thin lips spread into a feral smile, revealing one gray tooth. “He does not repent. And so his sin spreads to the good people of London like a disease. To you, dear friends. His sin compounds and leaves open the unguarded door. For a traitor to God shall suffer the fate of traitors and hang by his heel to be devoured by dogs. Plague shall return unless we repent of our sins and make the sinner pay!”
Laying a hand on his dagger hilt, Crispin took a cautious step back. But the crowd seemed disinclined to make good on the preacher’s admonitions.
“For God’s sake,” said Jack, stepping protectively before Crispin. The lad was just as tall and blocked Crispin’s view of the crowd. “This man is not a sinner nor an alchemist. He’s-”
Crispin jabbed Jack in the ribs with his elbow, and the boy winced. What did this preaching man know of men hanging by their feet? Just at that moment and from the look on the man’s face, Crispin did not wish to identify himself.
“Come, Jack.” He yanked his apprentice along but kept an eye on the ruddy-haired man.
They turned a corner and Crispin ushered them quickly away until they had made a circuitous route toward Pater Noster Row above St. Paul’s.
“Master,” Jack said, flustered, “what was that all about? Why did you stop me from putting that man aright?”
“Did you not listen to him? He spoke of a man hanging upside down.”
Jack stopped. “Blind me. Do you think…”
“I do not know what to think. I like guessing even less. Go back and keep an eye on him, Jack. Tell me where he goes.”
“You will go on to St. Paul’s?”
“Yes. Meet me later back at our lodgings.”
“Aye, Master.”
“I need not tell you that the man must not know you are there.”
Jack gave him a crooked smile, not dissimilar to Crispin’s own. “I know that, Master Crispin. I’ll not let him see me. Of that you can be certain. God keep you, sir.”
“And you. Go on, you knave.”
Jack saluted and took off back down the lane, snow flying from his boots.
Crispin gathered his cloak tighter across his chest and proceeded down the street. He turned the corner at St. Paul’s and stood in the slush at the bottom of the hill, looking up toward the cathedral. Its spires, tipped with frost, sparkled in the frail sunshine. He raised his hood to keep the cold at bay and to disguise himself. At this distance, he had a clear view of the courtyard and arched entry. Men were coming and going through the church’s doors. It was a place for clerks and lawyers to solicit business, milling as they did in the cold nave, out of the weather. The nave was known as Paul’s Walk, and merchants, too, wandered, selling trinkets and sometimes food. Boys played rough games as well, until they were chased out by the bishop’s servants. Crispin often thought of the Scripture where Jesus drove the merchants from the temple and just as often wondered why the bishop did not do the same.
Crispin headed toward the church and trotted up the steps, walking in under the arch into the dim interior. He dipped his fingers into the icy holy water from the font and sketched a cross over his brow.
Just as he imagined, men were moving within the open nave under the vaulted ceiling and around the columns. They congregated in groups or stood stoically alone, trying for an air of something between eagerness and indifference. He made his way through, meeting the hopeful eyes of the men looking for employment but giving them only a slight bow in return. Ahead stood the statue of Saint Paul, and Crispin stood opposite, leaning against a pillar, pretending to do his prayers while keeping an eye trained on the statue.
Flamel appeared out of the shadows of the cathedral’s archway and walked through the nave. He found the statue and fumbled his way, depositing the ransom between the feet of the effigy. He stepped back and moved jerkily across the nave again, looking over his shoulder, until he disappeared out the door again beyond Crispin’s sight.
Men moved near the effigy, but none went directly to it. Crispin settled in, watching his breath fog around his face. The noon bell for Sext startled him. It reverberated above his head from the aerie reaches of the bell tower. The sounds resonated along Paul’s Walk and gamboled up into the vaulted ceiling high overhead. Crispin didn’t move, waiting anxiously now, eyes darting throughout the gloomy nave for anyone who showed an interest in the effigy of Saint Paul.
Could he have missed him? He hoped he had not been so foolish as to let the opportunity slip through his fingers.
The last stroke of the bell echoed throughout the cavernous nave, pinging from column to column and settling into a muted tone that disappeared into the dim, arched ceiling. A lone figure approached the statue, heading directly for it. His spurs clinked with each step on the square tiles, and even in the low light Crispin could see the fine material of his long cloak that hid his frame while his face was shadowed under a chaperon hood.
Crispin moved. Cautiously he drew nearer, eyes now riveted to the back of the man who stopped before the statue of Saint Paul in its tall niche, looking up at it. The man checked slyly over his shoulder, first to his left and then his right, before stepping up to the very foot of the statue.
Softly, Crispin drew his dagger. He made certain his steps were quiet.
The man reached forward to the effigy and stuck his hand deep between the stone feet.
In an instant, Crispin’s dagger was at the man’s neck and he stuck his face near his hooded ear. “Do not move. Do not cry out.”
The man stiffened, his hand still poised beneath the statue.
“Slowly,” said Crispin. “Take your hand out, but keep them both where I can see them.”
The man did as told, his gloved hand empty and his other hovering waist high, surely itching to grab his own dagger.
With his knife still at the man’s neck, Crispin spun him to get a look at the knave who had killed, had abducted the innocent wife of the alchemist.
His dagger fell to the floor in a shock of metal on tile. Heads turned toward them, but Crispin never noticed. His gaze was fixed on the man before him, who was looking back at him with an air of annoyance.
“What game are you playing now, Crispin?” asked Henry, Lord Derby.
6
“What … what are you doing here, your grace?” Crispin looked toward the niche and the velvet pouch he could just see under the statue’s shadow. But then his gaze traveled back to the man before him.
Henry gazed at him mildly, his eyes flicking to the dagger on the floor. “Pick up your weapon, Crispin. And for God’s sake, sheathe it.”
Stiffly, Crispin crouched and retrieved his blade, absently shoving it in its scabbard. Mouth dry, heart pounding, he faced Henry again. “What are you doing here?” All other questions seemed to have been chased from his mind. This was the only question he wanted, needed, to know the answer to.
Henry smiled, but it didn’t make it to his eyes. “Why, I am merely paying my respects to Saint Paul. What else would I be doing?”
Crispin peered over his shoulder at the many men in the nave, some still regarding them with curious or alarmed expressions. His mind snapped back to the problem. Henry had clearly been reaching for the ransom. He had known it was there. And the only reason for knowing it was there was that he had told Flamel to put it there.