It was Jack who found it.
“Oi! Master Crispin! Over here!”
Crispin and Flamel came running. Avelyn looked up and soon followed. On the London side, Jack pointed upward to the arch and to the right. “When did they carve this, I wonder, and escape the guards’ wrath?”
It was a good question, thought Crispin, examining the carving of the alpha, the aleph, the sign of Aries. They had not seen this one before. Who knew how many more symbols were carved over the city?
Avelyn was suddenly at his shoulder, staring up at the markings in the stone. He studied her face, proving his desperation by trying to glean something from her furious scrutiny of the gate. Crispin turned from her and laid his hand over the markings. He felt the rough edges where a steel implement had etched deeply. If this was where to begin, then what now?
He slid his hand down the wall from the carvings, the wet stone slick under his hand. It was as solid as the city itself, as solid as its walls. Yet before he dropped his hand away, his fingers slipped into a niche, a mere crevice between two stones … where he felt the edge of a parchment.
“God’s blood,” he whispered. Reaching farther, he closed his fingers on it and then pulled it forth. A folded scrap of parchment. He unfolded it and examined the writing, which looked like Hebrew sigils. Jews? How could they be involved?
Jack nearly ripped it from his hands. “Master Crispin! What have you found? Blind me! Could they all have parchments hidden somewhere near them?”
He stared at his apprentice in the falling light as his words sank in. Was that the reason for the markings? To hide clues?
Flamel took it from him and studied it.
“More Kabbalah?” asked Crispin, cringing at the thought.
“Perhaps,” he said. But then he held it up to the light. More quill scratch writing between the lines. Crispin snatched it back and held it up to the pale yellow sun.
He read aloud, translating as he did, “‘A bow o’r reaches, grass, water, grass. Unless one is willing, he shall not pass. From here to there, o’r wavering glass.’” Crispin turned it this way and that in the sun. “Grass, water, grass?”
Jack edged forward. “Grass and water. A river’s edge?”
“Not a river. Something over a river. A bridge.”
“London Bridge?”
Crispin turned the parchment end over end. “If there is a riddle by each of these symbols all over London, then we must follow each one to find … what?”
“The answer,” said Flamel.
“The answer to what?”
He looked up. His face seemed more lined than before, his eyes sagging with weariness and worry. “To what to do next.”
17
The bells rung for Vespers. She slumped on her chair. She had managed to get a little wine and bread at last later that morning, but now there would be no more. She had lost the toss of the dice and he had ticked his head with regret.
She knew what he wanted. He was a fool if he thought he would get it. But why treat her in this way unless he was mad? Yes, he was most likely mad. Circumstances had made him so, from those long-ago days. From the many things he’d said, all in that falsely cheerful way of his, she had pieced together the simple message that it had been this Lancaster’s fault. He blamed him. She tried to reckon it but could not come up with the logic and so kept silent. Better that way. For now, he played these games for her food and relief. But there was no way of knowing if he would become more violent.
“Your husband seems not to care for you.”
She stiffened at the sound of his voice in the doorway. His shadow approached, stretching across the floor. She had won herself a fire in yet another game of tables, so at least she was warmer and there was light, for there were no windows deep in this strange room. Was she even in England anymore? Her head was light from lack of food and the bit of wine she had consumed. But at least he had removed the blindfold and hadn’t even mentioned putting it back on her again.
She said nothing as he approached. He was trying to goad her.
“Did you hear me, Madame? He does not care for you as you had thought. For there is no rescue.”
“He will not give it to you.”
“Will he not? I think, then, that you are a poor bargaining chit. It might be best, then, to…” Suddenly his lips were against her ear, and she shrank back. “Dispose of you,” he whispered.
She tried not to shudder, to show her fear. He wanted that. She was no fool. But it was hard, so hard, when she was so tired and hungry, and her arms and shoulders ached from the position in which they had been tied for so long.
“I disposed of your apprentice when he got in the way, Madame. He was useless to me, in the end. Do you know what I did?”
She shook her head, unable to stop herself. She wanted to cover her ears but couldn’t. She recited the rosary instead, but it didn’t block out his voice, especially as close to her ear as it was.
“I put my hands around his slim white throat and slowly squeezed. Squeezed, until his choking breath began to slow. His eyes bugged. I was curious to see if they would pop out of his head.”
She sobbed, turning her face as far away from him as she could.
“Alas. They did not. His tongue protruded, though, with my thumb pushing hard on his windpipe. He stopped breathing. His eyes remained open, wide, seeing less and less. His lips became pale. And then … he was quite dead. And finally, I hung him up in your shop by his heel to confuse and confound. I wonder what your precious husband said to that.”
He dragged a stool from the table and set it before her. Sitting, he pondered her face, cocking his head one way, then the other. Reaching forward, he ran a finger down her cheek. “Still beautiful after all these years. Will he discard you as he had so many others? You mustn’t trust him, you know.”
“I trust him. It is you I do not trust.”
“Me? But Madame! You say this to me, of all people. No, never fear. I will not so easily dispose of you. I have a greater plan. A better one.” He caressed her cheek once more, a smile teasing his mouth. “Would you like to wash? I’m certain you would. It’s been days.”
She angled her head away from his touch. “No more games.”
“But they are such fun, don’t you agree? It’s different when so much is assigned to the winning or losing. When so much is at stake. I learned that lesson years ago. I’m certain that Nicholas never told you that.”
“Release me.”
“Not yet. Perhaps … not ever.”
“Oh, God! O merciful Father! Help your poor child!”
He jerked to his feet, kicking the stool aside. “That’s right. Pray! Pray, for all the good it will do you. We won’t play any more games tonight … and so you shall not wash.”
He grabbed his dagger and pulled it from its sheath. Breathing hard, he looked at her.
A strange calm overcame her. Was it to be over, then? “What will you do with that?” she said quietly.
He strode toward her until he was standing directly over her, still breathing hard, still brandishing the knife. The blade gleamed dully in the candlelight. He grabbed her by the hair and pulled back her head with a jerk. She wasn’t prepared for it and gave a little shriek before quieting. Her exposed throat rolled with expectation.
“What are you waiting for?” she whispered. She glared at him at first with anger in her eyes, anger at the waste of it all. But her emotions soon changed to regret. Prayers, not anger, were more apropos now. She would not go to her death with the sin of anger on her soul. Her thoughts were full of forgiveness. “Blessed Jesu deliver me,” she sighed up at him, before the blade swept down.