“By all indications, he does.”
“Then why not cooperate with us? We only mean well. Except … that you lied to him, too.”
“About Henry Bolingbroke.”
“Aye. I understand why … mostly. I think you are trying to protect Lord Derby. But from what, I know not.”
Crispin said nothing and stared straight ahead. Maybe he had taught the boy too well.
“Master, just because you used to know Lord Henry doesn’t mean he is the same man. You have been deceived before by that very family.”
“I don’t need to be reminded,” he bit out, voice low.
“I don’t mean naught by it, Master Crispin. I’m only doing what you told me. I’m walking my mind through the facts. The roots of education are bitter, but the fruit is sweet. So says Aristotle.”
Crispin’s ire quickly fled and he tried to hide his gratified smile by looking away toward the icy buildings.
“And so as far as I am concerned, we must not rule out Lord Derby as having something to do with these same crimes,” Jack went on. “Even though it is well established that he is not in need of the money himself.”
His heart filled with pride at the boy’s logic, even if the cause of it still pained him. But his words were also slowly sinking in. He stopped, unmindful of the wet snow dampening his boots. “No, he doesn’t need the money. But what if he needed that broach?”
“Ah!” Jack stomped and patted his arms to keep warm. “A curious thought, Master. That broach. It came from the King of France. What might that mean? Something to do with treaties or other such nobleman’s vows? Or maybe it didn’t belong to Flamel at all. After all, we only have his word that it was given to him by King Charles.”
“God’s blood, Jack, but you might be right. I wonder how he fared with his ransom deposit today.”
“Would you like me to go see, sir?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Crispin spotted figures standing under the eaves of the frost-slickened buildings. He might not have noticed them if they were moving as everyone else did on the street, winding down their labors for the end of the day. But these lingered, moving ahead slowly and in step with Crispin and just behind his vision. Their hoods were drawn low over their faces and it was impossible to discern whether they were known to Crispin or not.
Crispin knelt down to pretend to adjust his boot and looked slyly over the leather cape of his chaperon hood bunched on his shoulder. There were four of them now, two on either side of the lane, and they were looking at one another and making vague and unsubtle gestures in communication.
“Jack,” he said quietly, “don’t look up, but our shadows are back. And one more has been added. Two each side.” He rose. “I think you should continue on with me. I’d rather we have two sets of eyes to track them.”
“Aye, Master.”
They hurried their pace and finally turned the corner to where the other alchemist was. Crispin glanced at the scratched-out signs scrawled on the post of the shop on the corner but kept moving. His shadowing men were still with them, but they hung back. He saw that Jack took note, too, and headed directly to the shop. He pushed open the door under the snow-covered sign of Mercury, and when Jack entered behind him and closed the door, they waited for the alchemist to appear.
No foul cauldron bubbled now, but three coneys hung from the beam near the curtained doorway and Crispin wondered if there was some deeper significance or whether they were merely more of the man’s supper.
He leaned toward Tucker. “Jack, you call out.”
He cleared his throat. “Oi! Master Alchemist!”
“Patience,” said that gruff voice from beyond the curtain. “I shall be there anon.”
They waited a moment more before the same man appeared, bulbous nose and small, squinting eyes. “I am Bartholomew of Oxford, at your humble service. How may I-” But when he beheld Crispin, he pointed toward the door. “Get out!”
Crispin didn’t hesitate. He darted over the plank separating them, grabbed the man by his tattered fur collar, and dragged him over the table. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
The man sputtered and fluttered his lids, turning his face away from a possible blow. “P-please. Don’t hurt me!”
With a snort of disgust, Crispin let him go, even smoothed down where he’d wrinkled the man’s collar and gown. He helped the alchemist to his feet. His Adam’s apple bobbed as his widened eyes darted between Crispin and Jack.
“You have seen that woman before, the woman who brought me here earlier.”
“Yes. Too many times. I thought she was a beggar … or worse. She came sniffing around my shop and seemed far too familiar with my goods, as if she planned to steal them. Always touching, touching.” He wiped his hands down his gown from the memory.
“And yet once you discovered she was the servant of Nicholas Flamel…”
“Oh yes!” He seemed only now to remember that. “Well, then, of course, I … well. I would welcome her to, perhaps, talk. Though she does seem a bit strange, truth to tell.”
“She’s deaf and dumb.”
“Oh.” He wrinkled his brow and pulled down on his dark, greasy locks, stroking absently. “Pity. I should have liked to ask her … well.”
“Ask her what? Tell me, why is Flamel so well-known to you?”
He studied Crispin this time, looked him over with particular care. And when he was done with him, he turned to Jack with equal scrutiny. “We alchemists … we use ancient secrets to perfect our art. As old as Scripture. Sometimes our methods are judged badly by outsiders. The Church does not always approve of this science, and in truth, some alchemists are more sorcerers than craftsmen. I have known a few. Not myself, of course. I would never dabble to endanger my soul! No, not at all.” He touched his collar and adjusted it before he crossed himself. “It is just that there is much we have learned that cannot be understood by the simple laymen. And Nicholas Flamel has gained his own amount of fame through his skill and expertise … And one thing more.”
He motioned silence to Crispin before pushing him aside. He crept to the door, opened it a crack, and peered out to the street. Satisfied, he closed it again and threw the bolt. When he gestured for Crispin to draw closer, both Crispin and Jack stepped into the circle of his open arms.
“You see, Master Guest,” he said confidentially, “Nicholas Flamel has achieved the ultimate goal of all alchemists. He understands the transmutation of matter. He has worked out the science, he has transcended the planes of knowledge. In short, Master Guest…” He drew Crispin even closer. Stale wine breath gusted over Crispin’s cheek. “Master Flamel,” whispered the alchemist, “has discovered how to create the Philosopher’s Stone.”
10
Crispin rolled his eyes, disappointed. “You must be jesting.”
“No! No, not at all. He has gained fame far and wide for this remarkable achievement. Why, even pagan scholars from the East are said to travel over great distances merely to consult with him. And now you say he is on these shores! Well!” He rubbed his hands together. “I will beg an audience with him, naturally. Of course I will. Although, I doubt he will share his secrets with anyone other than his own apprentice. More’s the pity. But a man can try.”
“His apprentice is dead. Murdered.”
“Saint Luke!” He wrung his hands and wandered toward his fire, gaze lost in the flickering flames. “W-why did they slay him?”
“I wonder. If many others knew that Flamel made this Stone, then they might wish to have it for themselves.”
Jack smacked his forehead with his hand. “Stone, sir! The ransom demanded the Stone, not the broach.”
“So I am beginning to see.”
“But begging your pardon, sir…” Jack addressed the both of them. “What is this Philosopher’s Stone? Why is it valuable?”