The dagger fell from his grip and hurtled over the side to the ground below.
Piers cried out in anger and used both hands to grab Crispin’s dagger arm.
Crispin rolled them both uphill, back to the fiery hole now licking its flames upward through the tiles amid black curls of smoke.
Malemeyns pushed, knocking Crispin back. Piers was suddenly free and he skittered across the rooftop back toward the chimney. He crouched and grabbed loosened tiles, hurling them one after the other at Crispin’s head. Crispin ducked and dodged them, feeling them crack painfully across the forearm he held up for protection.
The missiles stopped, but Piers was suddenly standing above him, and though Crispin tried to scramble to his feet, he kept slipping on the slick tiles. Swinging a flaming faggot of wood broken off from one of the rafters, Piers approached.
“I’m done with you, Crispin Guest. Quite done.”
He swung at Crispin’s head, but Crispin managed to duck. He jumped up and jerked backward away from the flaming wood. Malemeyns swung again, gritting his teeth.
Crispin fell to one knee, dodging it by leaning to the side. He twisted and shoved his knife upward … right into Malemeyns’s gut. He jerked the blade higher, relishing the tearing of more flesh, doing as much damage as he could before withdrawing the knife.
Shocked, Piers looked down at the blood spilling from the wound. A portion of his entrails dangled free. “But…”
Panting, Crispin watched as the man’s skin paled and his blood gushed. Piers doubled over. “Forever doesn’t seem to be as long as it used to be,” said Crispin.
With surprise still etching his features, Piers fell forward into the hole in the roof, just as a burst of flame erupted and swallowed him up.
31
Days shifted into weeks. Perenelle recovered from her ordeal, and they found new lodgings in which to complete their work. Avelyn visited Crispin many more times, spending long nights there, but when he awoke in the morning, she was always gone.
By the end of November, Avelyn brought a message from Flamel, telling Crispin that they were sailing for France.
He met them at Queenhithe wharf. They would take a skiff to the sea, where they would pick up a ship to sail the channel.
Their luggage was there, being loaded by wherrymen. Crispin bowed to Perenelle. “I suppose I am surprised you stayed this long.”
“I wanted my wife fully recovered. And yet, being so late in the year, we may be waiting at Dover for some time anyway.”
Crispin turned to Avelyn. She was looking at him fondly. “I am sorry to see you go,” he said to her.
She smiled and signed to him.
He laughed and stilled her hands, holding them in his. “I have not yet mastered your language. Now I never shall.” He touched her face, trailing his fingers along her jaw until he took her chin and tilted it upward. He leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to her pliant lips. “I will miss you,” he whispered, and then he signed her name, making her smile.
“We shall not see you again, Maître Guest,” said the alchemist, moving between them. “How should we ever thank you enough? There is not enough gold in all the world. But here is a small token.” He offered a pouch, but Crispin did not take it.
“You already paid me, sir.”
“But you have earned more than that. Take it. It will be a cold winter in London, I fear.”
The news was still not good, and Crispin bowed to the wisdom of it. At least he and Jack would stay warm. Reluctantly, he cupped it in his palm. He was relieved that it felt like coins.
“Must you go? Must … Avelyn go?” He admitted, at least to himself, that he’d grown fond of her.
But Flamel, looking cheerful at last, shook his head and touched her long braid lovingly. “Oh, we couldn’t possibly leave her behind. She’s been with my family for years … and years.” He leaned toward Crispin and whispered, “You see, she was once my nursemaid.” He smiled and nodded before he turned to climb onto the boat, steadying it for Perenelle. He held her hand and would not let go until she was settled.
Crispin laughed. “You jest with me, sir. She’s far younger than you.”
Flamel cocked his head and smiled at Crispin. His eyes glittered mischievously. “Is she?”
Avelyn leapt onto the boat and turned to Crispin, giving him a wink.
The boat skimmed away from the dock, and they all waved back at him.
“Master,” said Jack at his elbow, “can that be true? Master Flamel did say that his grandfather had created a Philosopher’s Stone. Could she be-”
“Nonsense, Jack. Of course not.” Avelyn kept looking at him with a sly smile. “Let’s go home.” But even as they drew away, he turned back one last time to gaze at the young woman. She stood upon the deck at the railing, old eyes looking distantly ahead.
December arrived, and anxious over the tidings at court, Crispin drank too much at the Boar’s Tusk and listened, along with every other citizen in London, about Richard and his advisers and Henry of Lancaster’s commissioners. But it was never detailed enough, never full of the information he wanted to know. He wanted news of the commissioners. He wanted news of Henry.
But he did hear, along with everyone else, about the appeals of treason levied at the king’s closest advisers. Crispin had reluctantly sent Jack to loiter near the palace to get any news he could. The boy soon found himself a popular visitor to the Boar’s Tusk.
Jack sat by the fire, a beaker of ale in his hand. Crispin and Gilbert Langton, the alehouse owner, sat close to him as he sipped. “Just as you predicted, sir,” Jack said quietly, eyes darting here and there about the tavern. “I heard tell that Suffolk fled the country. And not only that, but the Archbishop Neville disguised himself and escaped back to his diocese at York.”
Crispin snorted. “They tested the wind and saw it was an ill one.”
“Aye, Master. A very ill one indeed. There was another. One of the king’s knights who was chief justice. I forgot his name-”
“Sir Robert Tresilian,” Crispin offered.
“Aye, that’s the one. Well, he went into hiding in Westminster. And the former lord mayor is said to remain in London.”
“That fool Brembre,” muttered Crispin. “He surely must believe no harm will come to him, and that London would be loyal to him.”
“You do not think that is so?” said Gilbert, pouring more wine into Crispin’s beaker.
“Surely you must sense it, Gilbert. The feeling in London is one of anger and betrayal. I fear they will not stand with Brembre. He is for the gallows for certain.”
Gilbert winced. Crispin knew he did not like such free talk. Even Crispin scanned the room immediately around them, but men seemed to be concerned in their own tight circles, probably discussing the same issues.
He turned to Jack. “What of Oxford?”
“Just as you feared, sir. Oxford retreated to his lands and is mustering an army.”
* * *
BY MID-DECEMBER, THE WORD had spread throughout London that Oxford would march on the city. The citizens hunkered down. The bitter cold kept most from the streets, but it was also the wait for a siege that made the lanes empty. Henry’s forces left the fields around London and set out for Oxfordshire while London cowered, waiting for news.
Crispin sat for hours by his window, staring through the crack in his shutter until Jack roused him with a touch to his shoulder to admonish him to eat his weak pottage.
At last, when the news came that Lord Henry had stopped Oxford’s army at Radcot Bridge, a collective sigh of relief came from the city. But Crispin knew it was far from over.