“A man will have his revenge,” he said, thinking now that he’d like to take his own revenge on Piers. “He seemed also to take on many guises. Another alchemist, a preacher. He sounded like a Londoner to me.”
“He was from London as a child and often returned. Though once he was married he traveled less often. He made a name for himself in England, but that was not what he wanted. He wanted to be the prima alchemist of France, to have the king bestow honors on him as he had upon Nicholas. He felt in his heart he was a Frenchman, and to use the English in this plot was his greatest jest.”
“Do you have a clue as to where he is now?”
“No. He told me much, but he was also careful. I got the impression he had many hiding places within the city.”
“So he did, even to using the house of a man away on travels and pretending to be him.”
“So clever. So unafraid. So without scruples.” She bundled the cloak tightly about her. “A man like that can feel he can do anything, that he is entitled to do so. A man like that is the most dangerous of all.”
They said no more and moved up Fleet at last to the shop. Even as she leaned upon him, he felt her urge him forward. Crispin knocked on the door and he spied Jack for only a moment before Avelyn threw him aside. Perenelle seemed to lose the control she had carefully kept. “Ma chère! Je suis si contente de vous voir!”
Avelyn cried out and took her elbow, and Flamel was instantly at her side, enclosing her in his arms. The two of them rocked together, soft sobs escaping both of them.
“It was Piers,” she murmured, and he drew back, staring at her. “But your gallant Maître Guest saved me … and this.” She opened her hand to reveal the Stone.
“Ah!” he cried, folding his hand over hers, and the both of them clutched each other again, as well as the Stone. “Maître, Maître!” He looked with a tear-streaked face up at Crispin over the top of his wife’s head. “How … how can I ever thank you? What shall ever be enough?”
“It isn’t over, Master Flamel. He escaped me and I fear he may still do harm.”
“But you will find him. I know you will. And Thomas can now rest in peace. Come, Avelyn,” he said, signaling the girl. Avelyn was looking adoringly at Crispin when Flamel finally caught her attention. “Take your mistress and bathe and clothe her. See that she is comfortable.”
Avelyn nodded and took Perenelle’s hand, kissing it before she led the drooping woman away. Perenelle stopped, straightened, and removed Crispin’s cloak from her shoulders. She handed it to him and he took it, crushing it to his chest. “May our Lady bless you, Maître. May she bless all who hold you dear.”
He bowed low as she was led away. Jack looked on with stoic admiration. Flamel’s hands on Crispin’s sleeve brought him back to his attention. “You did it! You did it! You are a miracle.”
Crispin moved away from the man’s embrace to spin his cloak over his shoulders and step closer to the fire. He didn’t feel much like a miracle. He felt like a failure. He hadn’t captured Piers yet, let him escape. Though he supposed he was busy at the time.
But that also meant that Henry was still in danger.
Jack nudged Crispin’s elbow, offering ale, and sat beside Crispin, sipping his own. Crispin related to him how Piers was not only Bartholomew, but Robert Pickthorn.
“No! That cannot be,” he said with a snarl. “How could he have deceived us so!”
“He is a master at it. At disguise and guile. Perhaps he even uses his sorcery to do it. A false nose, wigs, false beards.”
“But all them people. How did he ever get away with it?”
“I’ve told you before, Jack. People see only what you force them to see. We saw him only in an alchemist’s shop as Bartholomew, and when we saw him as Pickthorn, he was fiery and bombastic, just as we expected to see. Change the voice a bit and add an accent, a stooped shoulder, and none will be the wiser. I’ve done it myself.”
“You never!”
“I have.”
Jack let out a breath. “He’s laughing at us.”
“Let him. He won’t be laughing when my dagger goes through him.”
“So what now? He’s still after Lord Derby.”
“Yes. That worries me. Henry is wise enough now not to follow any more anonymous missives, but what if Malemeyns put my name to it?”
Jack shot to his feet. “God’s blood, sir! He can’t do that!”
He stared at Jack anew and tried mightily not to smile at his apprentice’s use of Crispin’s favorite oath. “No, he certainly cannot be allowed to. But I don’t know where Henry lodges.”
“And just how is it the Tracker finds that out?”
“Right.” He got up and headed for the door. Abruptly, he stopped. “Jack, I want you to stay here.”
Jack slumped. “What! Again?”
“They need guarding, Jack. I fear that Malemeyns may try to return. And remember, he can disguise himself.”
Jack looked disappointed for only a moment before he pushed his shoulders back. “Aye, Master Crispin. I’ll stay. I’ll do my best. I’ll make you proud.”
“You already do.”
30
Of course Derby had estates in London. Lancaster castles they had aplenty, spread all over England and outside London’s precincts, but they had houses in London. The Savoy had been under slow reconstruction after the riots of Wat Tyler back in the fifth year of Richard’s reign, but he knew Henry wouldn’t be there. He wouldn’t be at any of them. If there was an encampment outside the city, that’s where he’d be.
With his hood up against the cold as well as for secrecy, Crispin hurried through the late afternoon streets. He was deeply disturbed by the fact of Oxford’s treachery. What had he hoped to gain by eliminating Henry? Did Oxford fear more than the commissioners’ impositions? Did he think Henry threatened the crown itself? Of course Oxford would do anything to defend Richard, for Richard kept him in riches, heaping upon him honors and titles. Duke of Ireland, justice of Chester, marquess of Dublin. Rumor had it that Oxford had even put aside his wife in order to marry one of the queen’s ladies. He thought he could commit any atrocity he wished, any foul exploit, and remain immune. Poison the cisterns and blame it on the French, as a distraction, no doubt. A distraction! Killing innocent lives just for that. Yes, there was great call indeed for Henry’s commissioners.
But worse. Crispin was no longer in any position to challenge him, to stop him. He had to rely on Henry to do that. Was the boy strong enough? Was his cadre of lords powerful enough to stop Richard and his men from these misdeeds? He hoped so, and he prayed that Lancaster would soon return from his mission in Spain. He could not come home soon enough!
After a time, Crispin passed through Bishopsgate and took the lonely road toward Spitalfields. He heard the sound of troops before he reached it over a rise. Men-at-arms strode the fields and tended to horses. Colorful pavilion tents crowded together like a market day. Banners with the arms of Henry’s lords whipped in the wind and Crispin headed toward the one with the arms of Lancaster, feeling distinctly vulnerable as heads turned toward him. The question now was, would he be admitted?
He strode up to the entrance of the encampment and to an assembly of men-at-arms. He bowed gravely. “Masters,” he said, “I would speak with his grace, Henry of Derby.”
No one spoke, and for a moment, Crispin wondered if anyone would. After all, who would come to such a camp without a horse, without a retinue?
One wary guard ventured forward, clutching the shaft of his poleaxe. “Who comes to see his grace?”
“Crispin Guest. With a matter of some urgency.”