Death of an Alchemist (17 page)

And yet, Albern stubbornly ascribed to matters of morality with God in mind. He adhered to the old religion, though his belief nearly got him killed for resisting King Henry's changes. These days Albern caused no stir. He lived a life of demure experimentation. His wife made a meager pittance that kept them fed. But then, he had always relied on her to sustain them.

“Surely I do not have to create the entire elixir for it to do some good.”

“And which part of the elixir do you suppose would serve your purpose?”

“I was hoping you might advise me.”

Albern gave a dismissive snort and fixed Bianca with his pale gray eyes. “One cannot stop a process at some arbitrary point and hope that it does what you want. It takes months or years to learn the advantages, if there are any, of any one particular stage. This is a recipe for the elixir of life. If you create it, you create all the moral and spiritual consequences that go along with administering it to a person. You cannot give someone a little bit of immortality. You either create the elixir of life. Or you do not.”

Albern waited for her to speak, and when she did not, his response sounded condescending. “You have not fully considered the consequences.”

Bianca did not tell her father about John's illness, though she reeled from a feeling of desperation welling inside. She had to argue that creating the elixir was important to her without divulging the true reason behind wanting to create it.

But Albern had exposed a fault in reasoning that Bianca simply could not accept. She did not agree that creating the elixir was an all-or-nothing proposition.

“How can you assume there is no useful purpose in creating even a portion of the elixir? Where does it say that I must create the entire potion or I will have nothing of value? I am willing to take that chance. If I can create even one dose of syrup that might ease another's suffering, is it not worth trying?”

At this, Bianca's mother stopped hanging herbs and leveled a keen stare at her husband. “Listen to the girl's argument. It speaks of her ambition. Why deny her your expertise if others might gain from it? What do you fear?”

“Fear?” said Albern Goddard. “I fear nothing about this child. But I worry for her eternal soul. She must consider the consequences if she is to challenge God's will. This desire to alter God's intent is not natural. It is not for her to change the fate of any man.”

Bianca's mother stepped down off her stool. Her grave face and dark eyes pinned her husband from across the room. “Natural? What is natural about spending your life obsessing to project gold from lead? Is that God's will? I believe it serves God more to want to ease the suffering of the sick.”

Albern started to speak but thought better of it. If there was one thing he had learned in all his years, it was to avoid arguing with ignorant women. Instead he changed his tone. If his daughter did not care whether she lost her soul to eternal damnation, then why should he bother trying to save her?

Albern settled back on the bench. He looked at his wife and daughter. After taking a breath and blowing it out, he managed to keep his voice even. “Tell me what you wish to know.”

Bianca's face shed some of its worry and she flashed a brief smile at her mother. She leaned over her father's shoulder, peering at the text, and pointed. “Be labored so with heat both moist and temperate,” she read, “that is all white and purely made spiritual. Heaven upon earth must be reiterated, until the soul with the body be incorporated, that earth become all that before was heaven.”

Her father thought a moment and turned back a page and then another. He studied for a moment and returned to the text in question. “You must subject the dross that you have gotten up to now to sublimation. But you will fail unless you use a special instrument.” Albern shook his head. “You need a kerotakis.”

“Kerotakis,” echoed Bianca, thinking where she had heard the word. “Ferris Stannum showed me one.” She frowned. “Is it necessary to the process?”

“Only Stannum can answer that. But I would assume it is likely, if he has so written it.”

Bianca straightened. “Do you have one?”

“I do.”

“May I use it?”

“You may not.” This was one argument he had no intention of losing. He refused to lend his most fragile instruments to anyone. And that included his heathen daughter.

“I shall return it by tomorrow.”

“You will not. This is a process that will take you longer than an evening. If you want to dabble in the noble art, you must have the proper equipage. But more important, you must have the right destiny. And you do not possess it.”

“And you are the judge of that?”

“Have you spent years in single-minded pursuit? You create a salve here; you mix a concoction there. You have not shown the vital reverence my science requires. You will not succeed.”

Bianca gritted her teeth, avoiding an argument. She snapped the alchemy journal closed.

“I believe you have helped me more than you thought,” she said. She snatched away the book and returned it to her satchel, wadding up the linen cloth and stuffing it in on top. “It is always an education when I am with you, Father.” She hoped he felt the sharp prick of her intimation.

C
HAPTER
20

The unease Bianca felt earlier when crossing the bridge into London doubled on her return home to Southwark.

 

Earlier, the Rat Man had smelled her coming. He sensed her approach as he lingered under the drawbridge waiting for nightfall. His nose caught the whiff of alchemy carried on her person. His curiosity had been piqued when he saw the bearer of the book was different from before.

It was not true that the wraith showed himself only to those who knew how to look for him. That was a story perpetuated by those whose imaginations were overactive from too much drink. But the wraith did have a sense of when he might be seen. And he had a sense of who might see him. And drunks, more often than not, were the only ones around at such perverse hours.

The wraith was familiar with Bianca, the daughter of a disreputable alchemist. He knew her smell. He knew the feel of the air when she passed through it. He had watched her as a young girl collecting plants along the riverbank. And had seen her watch a man die in the early morning hours when she should have been at prayer.

Her curiosity intrigued him. There had been a time when his character was not unlike hers.

She was a lonely child. But perhaps she chose to be alone. Either way, she stood apart from others her age. A keen observer, he'd seen her sneak into the Tower on the morning of Catherine Howard's execution. It had been a private dispatch, but the girl managed to slip past guards unnoticed. And later, she managed to leave without their notice. He imagined the spectacle had made an impression on her. How could it not? He saw the result of that experience—her shunning of the affections of a wheaten-haired rascal who followed her like a smitten puppy.

What woman isn't changed by watching another executed? Especially a woman condemned to dying who had once been so dearly loved? The king had his reasons for seeing Catherine dead, reasons tremulously written in a letter and deposited anonymously where Henry would find it. The Rat Man snickered. Love—man's impetuous lunacy.

But now he sensed Bianca's desperation. He smelled that she was driven by love. She was older now and, unfortunately, had entered into love's most unpredictable folly. He wished he could advise her, tell her that love, like life, is ephemeral. She should not invest her heart in such transient pursuits. But communication was a privilege he had forfeited long ago. The Rat Man could only watch and observe. Just as Bianca had done.

 

The second source of Bianca's unease came not from under the bridge, but from the streets on which she walked.

She left her parents' rent on Lambeth Hill and felt her spine tingle once she started down Thames Street toward Paul's Wharf. Ahead stood St. Benet, its bells silent for the night. A few graves were marked in its yard, the stones leaning and the inscriptions worn from time. A lone oak stood guard, its leaves quivering in the slight breeze. Shadows darkened the ground where she stepped, spreading up the sides of buildings, swallowing her as she passed. She turned the corner abutting the churchyard and had taken no more than a couple of hurried steps toward Burley House when her suspicions that she was being followed were confirmed.

She felt a brazen tug on her satchel, and as she yanked back in resistance, the force of her weight was used against her. Whoever had wanted the satchel suddenly let go and she stumbled forward, falling on her side, clutching the bag against her body. She had not suffered from the fall and instinct told her she should not lie there long. She reached out to brace herself to stand and was instantly punished for that effort. Pain exploded in her hand as it was crushed by a well-heeled boot. She yelled, and with her good arm clung to the attacker's leg to prevent his driving his heel into her hand again.

Her shoulder lurched upward as her arm was pulled up by the strap. Bianca yowled at seeing the satchel disappear over her head.

To prevent further protest, her assailant swung the satchel. Bianca felt the impact to her head and toppled from its force. She lay in the dirt, stunned. The black night spun about, making her dizzy. It was easier to close her eyes.

Thoughts of retrieving the satchel retreated into a gathering muddle of memories jostling about inside her head. For now, whosoever wanted the journal could have it as far as she was concerned. Her head pounded. A piteous cry escaped her lips, sounding distant even to her. She rolled onto her back and tried to open her eyes.

If she had any sense left, she would not have been able to use it. Like a scene from a play she had seen in Pike Garden, a scoundrel launched himself through the air, using a low stone wall from which to catapult. Bianca heard the thud of feet against a chest. She heard a gasp of breath being knocked out of someone.

Bianca tried to focus on the brutish scrabbling beside her. Two men wrestled, their legs entwined almost like lovers. But there was no mistaking their intent. Arms flailed and legs bent, trying to find purchase against the compacted dirt of the road. Their bodies rolled into the building's shadow. The dull smack of punches and grunting was all she could hear. They snarled and growled, the language of animals—not men.

With effort, Bianca dragged herself in the opposite direction, distancing herself from the tangled fight, and sat against a building. She pulled her legs up to her chest, keeping completely hidden in shadow while the men continued their brawl.

Still dazed from the blow to her head, she laid her cheek against the stone building. The ground looked more comfortable. Bianca relented to its allure. She closed her eyes and the world faded away.

C
HAPTER
21

Barnabas Hughes did know something of alchemists. His medical practice familiarized him with apothecaries (whom he had come to rely on), herbalists (whom he regarded with some suspicion), and alchemists (whom he regarded with even greater suspicion). But Ferris Stannum had been different.

Ferris Stannum was so old that his devotion to and knowledge of the noble art were practically mythical. Stannum had perfected enough chemical methods to impress Hughes, whether he understood them or not. At least the physician was astute enough to realize that this chemistry, this dabbling in minerals, temperatures, and metals, might be beneficial. How? He could not say. Nor did he have any idea where all of this experimentation could lead.

While his opinion of alchemy was essentially one of dubious interest, a small portion of his mind remained open to its possibilities.

As his daughter's condition wavered, his desperation led him to ponder the dark science and its strange achievements. He wondered if Ferris Stannum had any remaining elixir of life. To his recollection, he thought it had been completely used. Even if Stannum had remaining elixir stashed in his room, how would he know how much to dispense? What was the correct balance? Was it like mercury, in that a little might help but more might kill? No, it was senseless to even consider the possibility.

Verity called out to him, her voice feeble yet so endearing that the sound of it made his throat catch. He savored its sweet lilt. He committed the sound to memory, forever imprinting it on his heart. How many more times might he hear her speak? Please, God, let this not be the last.

“My child,” he said, finding her hand and cradling it in his. He sat on the bed next to her.

She stirred slightly from his touch. Her lips curved into a smile that flickered and disappeared like the sun peeking through a bank of swiftly moving clouds. Her eyes opened slightly. “Papa,” she said. She settled back on her pillow.

“Rest, dear one. Do not exhaust yourself.” He held her hand until her breathing evened and the tiny creases of worry and pain relaxed from her brow. He laid her hand by her side.

He had considered it before. Possession of the journal was not a cure. He had no means by which to interpret its mysterious language. He knew of no apothecary who could even begin to deduce any of its meaning. But who could create the coveted elixir? Certainly not Thomas Plumbum. Hughes had agreed with Stannum's decision not to entrust his journal to that desperate mountebank. Plumbum could not be trusted.

Barnabas rose from the bed and winced. His limbs ached. He was not so young anymore. Holding his side, he went to the door and leaned against its jamb to gaze up at the night sky. Another gypsy night. He hoped for rain to match his mood and to quench his growing frustration.

How had the journal come into Bianca Goddard's possession? More important, what was she planning to do with it? Did she possess the ability, the knowledge, to create the elixir of life? It had been within his grasp. So close . . .

He knew about her father's reputation and ability. Years ago, Hughes had served at court when Albern Goddard had been in favor with the king. He had seen the alchemist impress His Majesty with his discoveries and explanations. Albern Goddard was a strange character. Since his fall from grace he avoided public scrutiny, rarely showing himself except when walking between his home and his decrepit room of alchemy. Without Bianca to fetch his ingredients, he relied on young boys to run his errands. Of all the alchemists Barnabas Hughes knew, Goddard was probably the one most able to interpret Ferris Stannum's journal.

Perhaps it was for the best that Albern's daughter was in possession of the coveted work.

Barnabas Hughes turned his head and observed Verity. Fortunately, she seemed at peace, for now. He closed his eyes, wishing to be spared life's senseless sorrows. Indeed, as he collapsed into a chair, he wished the world could be spared all senseless sorrows.

 

Thomas Plumbum stopped at the Royal Poke and ordered a pottle pot. He hoped he'd made a lasting impression on the loathsome coward. Plumbum straightened, assuring himself he had definitely trounced the gutless dastard and had chased him off.

A pretty maid of fair complexion and copper hair set the ale in front of him and collected her coin. He was weary enough to allow his gaze to fall upon the dewy shade of cleavage hovering at eye level. There his interest lingered happily while she collected empty tankards, exchanged tart words with a patron, then caught him nearly cross-eyed for a better look at her cleavage.

“I would say you need more than an ale tonight,” she said, straightening, ignoring his leer. She was used to such wanton ogling. “You're bleeding from a gash on the temple.”

Plumbum did not respond, but neither did he drag his eyes from her display. He took another sip, continuing to stare.

The maid scowled, gathering a fistful of empty tankards on one hip. “I know from where I have seen you. You're Plumbum, my father's friend. An alchemist.”

This got Thomas Plumbum's attention, and he jolted upright as if prodded by a hot poker. He scrutinized the girl's face. Ferris Stannum's daughter—Amice. The last he had seen her she seemed but a child.

He felt the unwanted attention of a table of men giving him black looks. Having it announced one is an alchemist does not particularly ensure a safe passage home.

Plumbum shook his head. “Nay, you have me mistaken for another,” he said. “I do not know your father.” Like Peter denying Jesus, he shirked and listened for a cock to crow.

Amice insisted, trying to shog his memory. “You hid at my father's when you had a band of men after you. Didn't the father of a young lad take exception with you? I remember you were perhaps overly partial to his son.”

“Nay, I am not that man. It is possible another may resemble me. But I am not he!” Plumbum glanced nervously at the table of inquisitive stares. “I do most thoroughly assure you.” Seeing no sympathy from his tablemates, he took on an indignant tone. “I am appalled at what you are implying. I do not have to sit here and be accused of heinous behavior.”

“Then what is it ye do?” asked one of the patrons. The man had the kind of intelligence, a perceptiveness, that set him apart.

One glance was enough to worry Plumbum at ever having his true nature painfully exposed. His lie had better be a good one. And he had better tell it as smoothly as he could. “I am a tailor,” he said, hiding his face behind a long drink of ale. Inwardly, he cringed at his lack of imagination.

The man's eyes worked their way down his person and up again. “A tailor, ye say?” The corner of his mouth lifted in a condescending smile. “By my measure, not a very good one.”

“I was recently set upon. Tangled in a scuff. My garb is a bit frayed.”

“Frayed? Sirrah, tattered is a better choice of word. A more shapeless and unsavory doublet I have not had the misfortune of seeing. Indeed, I have witnessed beggars more handsomely clad. It does not speak well of your vocation.”

“I would thank you not to judge. I have fallen on difficult times as late.”

“As late as the day ye were born?”

Amice snorted, expecting to be vindicated. She ignored the whistling and waving imbibers ready for refills.

Thomas Plumbum took another lengthy drink of ale, hoping by the time he set his tankard on the table, the man would be gone. Or at least would have lost interest in him.

“What might a tailor be in a scuffle about?” the man persisted to Plumbum's chagrin. “And why might a tailor be havin' his ale in this puny boozing ken?”

“Did you not hear? I have fallen on difficult times.”

“Aye, by the looks of ye, I say ye have certainly fallen. Ye got an eye swelling bigger than a bull's bollocks from the looks of it.” The men at the table roused with gusty accord, further encouraging the provocateur to grow more brazen. He held out a flap of Plumbum's torn sleeve. “Gentlemen, I ask what construct of fashion might this be?”

“I would offer he wears the garment of a Spaniard.”

“Nay,” said another, “methinks it is the new French fashion.” He batted his eyes and kissed the air, elbowing his neighbor. The table of men launched into jeering their horse-eating foe across the sea. For the moment, Plumbum was spared further harassment. The king's preparations to invade France were greatly despised by the commoners. Their taxes had increased and they were being enlisted to risk their lives for the glory of their peevish king.

The alchemist took advantage of this shift in attention and, as unobtrusively as he could, rose from the bench and sneaked toward the door.

But his exiting had not gone unnoticed. Amice watched with baleful eyes. She resented being made a liar and disappeared into the kitchen.

 

Still dazed and bleary, Bianca opened her eyes. At first she was completely baffled. With her cheek against the ground, she saw nothing but dirt and the legs of an abandoned shop stall across the way. She pushed herself to sitting, wincing from the pain in her hand, and leaned back against the stone building. After a few minutes of waiting for her head to clear, she was able to remember where she was and why.

Night had not yet given way to dawn. She figured that at least she had been lying in the street for only a few minutes. No night watchman called the time, but by the deep black sky overhead, she thought perhaps it was the small hours. She held up her hand and worked her fingers. Fortunately, they all moved as they should, but she expected her skin to be purple by the next day. She rubbed her cheekbone and opened her mouth, feeling her jaw. Her body ached a bit, but she was relieved she'd escaped with a minimum of hurt.

If she had not heard the faint cry of a baby and the distant clop of hooves, she would have wondered if the town was even inhabited. A visitor arriving at this neglected hour would think London abandoned. Bianca got to her feet and straightened her bodice, brushed the powdery dirt from her kirtle. Looking down toward the water, she wondered if she might still find a ferrier to take her across to Southwark. No doubt the bridge would be closed for curfew.

Her thoughts flew to John, and she worried how he was faring. Was he still sleeping or had he woken and discovered her gone? Would he even be aware of his surroundings? Just the thought of him alone and needing her help spurred her to action. She glanced around before heading to the river and caught sight of her satchel. It was pushed against the stone wall next to the building where she had lain.

She looked around and, seeing no other living soul, went to the bag. Was it not the reason for her being followed and attacked? Someone had tried to steal the satchel and had made sure she could not object to its being taken. Yet, there it was, in plain view.

Bianca had little recollection of what she had seen. Who had attacked her? And who had intervened? Cautiously she opened the satchel. She removed the linen cloth stuffed on top and found the journal underneath. Whoever wanted the satchel, or the journal, had not taken it. Bianca crammed the cloth back into the bag and tied the flap closed.

She glanced around. Was someone watching her? Watching to see that she took the satchel? Bianca slung it across her chest, trying to remember the person who had come to her aid. Why had he come to her defense and not stayed? Why leave the satchel? Perhaps he had no interest in it.

Her muffin cap lay nearby and she shook off the dirt and stuffed it in her pocket, keeping a watchful eye out. She headed for the water. This time, she gripped the bag with both hands and kept it in front of her. A night watchman called, “Two in the night and to all a good night.”

But perhaps she was wrong to think her rescuer had no interest in the satchel. Could he have intervened to make sure she kept it? A chill ran up her spine, and it wasn't from the night air.

The moon shimmered on the river, luminous silver, like flowing mercury. A lone ferrier answered her whistle. Soon she would be home.

 

Thomas Plumbum slipped into the night air, distancing himself from the Royal Poke and its atrocious clientele. He made a mental note to avoid the unsavory ken in the future. Perhaps if he had not been recognized by Ferris Stannum's daughter he might have gone unnoticed. He could have enjoyed his pottle pot in peace. The alchemist unbuttoned his doublet. It was too hot and too late to bother with appearance.

The gash on his temple oozed. Plumbum removed his cap and wiped the sweat trickling into the wound. He would soon be home and could tend to it then.

He turned a corner, and a mongrel drinking from a puddle of city filth decided the alchemist was more interesting and fell in pace beside him. Plumbum was in no mood for company. He reared back and kicked the dog in the side, launching it into the air. It landed, whimpering pathetically, and scrambled to be gone.

It was damnably dark this time of night. Lanterns had been extinguished; candles had burned out. The only means of illumination was the light of the stars and the Queen Moon sneering at him from behind St. Paul's Cathedral, refusing to rise above its roof and light his way.

London suffered from a disconcerting lack of respectable alehouses—essentially a contradiction in terms; there probably was no such establishment. Well, thought Plumbum bitterly, at least not an alehouse that he could afford.

He trudged on, avoiding the Crooked Cork and Jack Blade's territory. Ever wary, Thomas Plumbum hesitated, thinking he'd heard the squeak of leather behind him. He wheeled about, squinting into the inky night. It took a moment for his eyes to thoroughly focus on the street behind him.

“I know you are there,” he said, warning whoever followed him. He withdrew his dirk from its sheath and held it at the ready. “What do you want?” He slashed at the empty air. “If it is coin, I haven't got any.” The pottle pot from the Royal Poke had been no watered-down swill. It affected his vision and compromised his better judgment. Sober, he would never have conversed with a ruffian whom he could not even see.