“I don’t trust her, sir.”
“What’s the matter, Tucker? Does she seem too wily for a servant?”
“Aye! I mean, no! Some servants are just as wily as they need to be.”
Crispin smiled and patted Jack’s shoulder. “Never fear. I’m rather fond of wily servants myself.”
Jack gusted a relieved laugh. “You do have your jests, don’t you,” he muttered. “Where shall we look for this preacher, Master Crispin?”
“We shall ask around. That’s a lot of ground to cover, but we might get lucky. And Jack, if you encounter him, do not engage him in any violence.”
“You take the fun out of everything, Master Crispin.” He smiled with a lopsided grin.
“Go on. Meet me at the Boar’s Tusk in about an hour’s time. I have a feeling I’ll be needing a drink about then.”
Crispin watched Jack walk away before he headed out alone along the Shambles until it became Newgate Market. He turned south on Old Dean’s Lane with the intention of checking outside the walls. This man might be preaching in London’s outskirts, along Holborn or Shoe Lane. He passed out of the walled part of the city at Ludgate, glancing again at the sigils inscribed on the stone of the arch that had begun their hunt.
While he walked, he began thinking of Flamel and the troubling words he had used that reminded him of Abbot Nicholas. You must forget what you think you know. Beware of what you find. Why had he chosen those exact words? Abbot Nicholas had used them, he was certain of it. Almost precisely a year ago as he lay dying. He had been speaking of the many relics that crossed Crispin’s path over and over again. But the Stone was not one of God’s relics. And yet … its power was reputed to transcend the ether. Was this not the Almighty’s territory? Was Man foolish to dabble in it, trespassing on Divine creation?
What did it mean? Forget what you think you know. What did he know? He knew, in this instance, that a man was killed and a threat was levied to another man’s wife, all for a ransom. But then, it hadn’t been all for a ransom, had it? They were dancing to the tune of one man, of which, so far, only he knew the rules. And Crispin thought that Henry might be involved, for a man in his position naturally played a game of cruel suspicions and backroom transactions. But was he involved?
Beware of what you find. That was a certainty. He did not want to find that Henry was too intimate with this game of abductions, murder, and threats. He did not want to find that he could be as cruel as his father, and yet he knew that this was most likely the case, given who he was.
What else was he to find? The wife? Alive, he hoped. But also the culprit. And once he knew who he was, would Crispin be glad that he found him?
He looked up at the street, watching men with wooden yokes fitted across their shoulders, balancing their wares from each end in bundles, making their way toward London proper. Crispin walked around them and their burdens, while several dogs yipped at one another, prancing and following at the heels of the men on their way back through the gated arch.
Crispin pricked his ears, listening for that telltale voice that rose easily above the crowd. But all he heard was the noise of wagons rattling over the street, of masters admonishing their apprentices, of women laughing, and of brooms sweeping.
He scouted the streets of Farringdon and stopped a man or two to ask if they had seen the preacher. All shook their heads, staring at his bruised face. He moved up to West Smithfield and saw much the same. At midday, he bought some cheese and a roasted egg from a goat girl resting beside her charges along the road. He ate as he crossed the stark, snow-whitened fields near St. Giles church, leaving fragments of eggshell behind him. Eventually, he made his way back through the walls at Cripplegate. No sign of the preacher, and when he asked of a woman tending geese, she had not seen the man either.
Crispin stood at the crossroads of Coleman and Lothbury and made a scoffing sound. This was insane. London was too big a city for two people to find one man.
And just as he decided that perhaps it was time to give up and go to the Boar’s Tusk, he heard a sound in the distance. A sound of many people. He hurried in that direction down Lothbury and came upon a crowd of people yelling at one of the king’s guards. A solitary soldier with a kettle helm and mail under his surcote, he was standing before a cistern and looking as if he would rather be anywhere else.
“For the last time,” said the guard with a roll of his eyes. He clenched his chapped hands over his spear shaft. “I’m not preventing you from getting your water. I’m merely guarding it. For your own sarding protection.”
“Guarding the water?” said a strident voice above the melee of shouting wives and fist-waving men. “Guarding God’s most precious gift to Man? And what does it need guarding from?”
Crispin strained up on his toes to see above the crowd, for that was the familiar voice he had been looking for. He pushed his way forward, ignoring the disgruntled grimaces that turned to look at him, and found his man, standing not too far from the flummoxed guard.
“Water from God’s Heaven is the purest, and will renew and rejuvenate. Why did He choose water to baptize, to cleanse, if it were not safe for us?”
The crowd began to quiet and listen to the preacher. Crispin finally got a good look at him. With coarse reddish hair, he stood tall, though he had a slight paunch to his middle. His clothes were not as fine as even a merchant’s, but neither were they patched or particularly worn. He surveyed the crowd with a confident air, sweeping his arm to encompass the cistern and the weary guard before it.
“‘But he that drinketh of the water that I shall give him, shall not thirst without end; but the water that I shall give him, shall be made in him a well of water, springing up into everlasting life.’ So says Holy Scripture. Who blocks this well from you? A sinner! Sent forth from sinners!”
The guard turned a squint on him. “Oi!” he cried, shaking a fist at him. “Who’s a sarding sinner?”
“‘What great troubles, many and evil, thou hast sent me! and then turned, thou hast granted me life, and hast brought me up again from the watery depths of the earth and hast brought me up again from the grave.’ Good people of London. You are being deceived. This man claims to be guarding your cistern, but he is following orders from above, from those who would despoil this city from its rightful governor. For it is not the king that prevents you from the water, but the work of these so-called commissioners who have invaded the city, lords who would usurp God’s anointed.”
“That’s enough of that!” shouted the guard, and with spear pointed toward Pickthorn, he advanced.
The preacher raised his chin at the man, seemingly unafraid. And soon Crispin saw why. Men in the crowd had surged forward to protect him, and he gave the guard a smile to show that he had the upper hand. But it wasn’t until he swept the crowd with his proud gaze that it fell on Crispin, and the recognition in his eyes had a most profound effect on him.
He bounded off the makeshift platform of barrels and shoved into the crowd, beating a hasty retreat away from Crispin.
Crispin dove headlong into the surging people, not afraid to elbow hard anyone who got in his way. Once he was free of the heaving throng, he hit the mud running.
Pickthorn was well ahead of him. The man looked over his shoulder once with wild eyes, then lowered his head to pick up speed.
No, you don’t, thought Crispin, feet hammering hard on the cobblestones and slipping when he hit a patch of snow or frozen mud.
Pickthorn rounded a corner, and when Crispin approached the same turn, he could see that the man was trapped by a flock of muddy sheep. The beasts bleated around him. By the mud and wet spots on the man’s clothes, Crispin could tell that he must have fallen and was trying desperately to make his way through.