Death of an Alchemist (19 page)

Should she take the risk of sublimating using her inferior alembics? Bianca set down the flask and went to John. She stood quietly by, following his breath, wondering how many he had left. How long could he stay in the deep sleep? Another day? Another hour? She didn't know. But she felt the press of time against her.

C
HAPTER
23

For what felt like the twentieth time in three hours, Joseph Tait unlaced his codpiece and strained to pass his water. He thought if he stood in his patch of lavender, the scent might relax him enough to help. Only a trickle dribbled from his pizzle, and most of that was blood. His entire body felt puny, and this included his knees. He braced an arm against the stone wall that separated his yard from his neighbor's.

If he did not pass the gravel in his bladder, he would surely die. Or his bladder would burst and then he would die. Neither outcome provided much solace. He'd never seen a physician manage the condition with any success. It was a circumstance left for God to decide.

Tired of fumbling about with his codpiece and hose, he removed the former's ties and threw the elaborate contrivance against the wall in frustration. It was better to let his member dangle than constantly lace and unlace the thing.

He'd suffered from stones before and had always passed them. But this one seemed damnably different. It felt the size of a bean and was probably spiked like a mace. Another wave of nausea cowed him and he vomited in the bergamot. Luckily he had abandoned his damask in favor of his shirt, which was soaked now from perspiration.

He attempted to straighten but thought better of it when another stabbing pain coursed through his back. Consumed with agony, he doubled over, holding his sides and taking tiny steps in an attempt to go back inside.

If he weren't so miserable he would curse. Instead, the condition made him cry. He barely got inside before he dropped to his knees and blubbered like a baby.

He wanted to shake his fist at his God, but he could barely lift it. “Take me now, damn you. I want to die.”

But, as it had been earlier in the night with Thomas Plumbum, God wasn't answering calls.

Joseph Tait would be forced to suffer.

And why shouldn't he?

Had he not caused untold misery to another? So it was that Joseph Tait wallowed in self-pity, and no one, including God, heard his anguished plea.

Another wave of pain and the usurer curled like a fetus fresh out of the womb. He whimpered and shook, tasted the salt of sweat coursing into his mouth.

Shouldn't the force of so much piss against the pebble push the confounded thing out? He knew nothing of his anatomy, but he'd seen how dams could be breached. The pressure of a river was too much for a single boulder. Was this not the same? Joseph Tait rolled onto his back as the latest wave of torture started to subside. He stared up at the ceiling, panting.

What made the whole affair more wretched was the sweltering heat. It had not cooled much from the height of day. He longed to drink but dared not add to his already inflated bladder. Instead, he clawed his way up the leg of his elegant table and staggered to his feet. A ewer filled with ale sat on the edge. With a weak arm he seized the flagon and poured it over his head. So what if it stank and was sticky? He lapped at the brew running down his face, hoping to quench his parched tongue and cool his feverish skin.

Tait had a brief respite before yet another contraction started. Woozy and exhausted, he wondered if childbirth was easier than passing pebbles. Perhaps this was man's punishment for causing women such trials.

But this cramp felt different from the others. He felt a great urge to aim his pipe at his pot. He spread his legs as much as he was able and pointed his bloody member at the jordan. With a great rush of excruciating pain and relief, his water gushed forth, spraying the pot and splattering the floor. Joseph Tait sighed in ecstasy. He felt as if he had just experienced the most sublime fuck of his entire life.

And indeed he
was
completely spent.

The pain he felt as he collapsed and hit the chair was nothing compared to what had come before.

C
HAPTER
24

The next morning, Bianca kissed John, hoping that when their lips touched, he would return the gesture. She would have sooner kissed a wall. His lips did not answer. He gave no clue that he even knew she was near.

Her hand went to her heart as if steadying it. John lay in bed, his chin tipped to the ceiling, his skin flushed. His breath was shallow, but at least it was even. Bianca pulled the sheet to his chin and left a mug of ale next to the bed.

“Watch over him,” she told the black tiger and gave its jaw a scratch.

Bianca found the rucksack and stuffed Stannum's journal into it. She would keep the book on her person rather than risk having it stolen while she was gone. Whoever wanted it seemed to know more about her than she knew of him—if even the book was what was wanted. At least with day's light she would have a better chance of keeping it.

She hoped she could secure the kerotakis from Amice for modest coin. Bianca regretted not buying the part when she had the opportunity, but at the time it had seemed more of a curiosity than a crucial piece of equipment.

The air was thick with humidity. The sky had lost its blue and was the color of mollusk shells. Rain would settle the dust that kicked up on the hem of her kirtle. Bianca longed for a change of season. A change in weather. The summer heat had been unremitting. Plants withered; people were short of temper.

From the dock at St. Mary Overie, a low-lying haze bathed the London skyline, masking the steeple of St. Paul's. The whole town seemed to bear the stultifying air with sullen resentment. Heat had a way of stretching time, of making it slow. Perhaps it was only one's doleful reaction that made it appear that way. Fortunately, Bianca did not have long to wait before a ferrier poled his skiff alongside the pier.

Bianca stepped aboard and had just settled when a man came running down the dock calling for them to wait. Dressed in a rough canvas jerkin of the country, he turned to yell at two children lagging behind, a small boy of around eight and his younger sister.

The father waved his arm, trying to hurry them along, but the two children ignored his impatient gestures, advancing at their own tentative pace. When the girl was within a few feet, he pulled her roughly toward him and lifted her into the boat. The boy shirked from his father's reach. Uncertain, the boy stepped back, gaping at the river as if he had never seen it before. The man swore. He lunged for the boy, but the child was quick. He escaped up the dock.

“Ach,” cried the ferrier, as the man gave chase. “ 'Od rabbit it! Does he expect me to sit all day while he runs after his bootless, ill-bred spawn?”

The little girl's eyes grew round with alarm and she started to scramble out of the boat, reaching for the dock and trying to pull herself up onto it. The ferrier had already lifted his pole and the skiff had begun to separate from the dock.

Bianca caught the girl by her middle and pulled her back in. “Now, child. That is not so wise.” Bianca sat her in her lap, speaking both to the girl and to the ferrier. “Wait, give him leave. He must be back. He cannot leave his daughter to strangers.”

“Paa!” said the boatman, looking up the length of the dock and not seeing either man or boy. “I've seen it before,” he said. “The man is overwhelmed and canno' take care of them. Heed my words. He will leave them on the streets to fend for themselves like abandoned dogs.”

“It is not for sure,” said Bianca. “Do you know the man's mind?”

The ferrier spat into the Thames. “It is double the fare if we leave without 'im, and you will have to pay it.”

“I should put her out now so she can wait for her father to return.”

“Nay, he will not. That is what I am telling ye,” said the ferrier. “It is a trick that a man of his sort plays. Find an unsuspecting, able woman and leave a child with her while running off for the other. It works artfully well most of the time.”

The girl began to cry, which only proved to further aggravate the boatman. Bianca expected he would put them both out. “Now, lass,” she said, rocking her. “Shh, do not waste your time crying. Here, here.” She wiped the girl's face with the sleeve of her blouse, turning the dust from the girl's travels into a dirty smear. “You must have been walking a long way.”

The girl responded with only a shuddering breath.

Bianca looked at the ferrier, who shook his head. “I am telling ye,” he said. He reached for a flask at his feet and took a long drink. He jammed the cork back into it. “Make up your mind. I am losing fares sitting here.”

Closing the monasteries had inflicted untold hardship on the poor and destitute of London. The sick and the disabled, the orphans, had nowhere to go. They wandered the streets, begging. And even this humiliating and barely sustainable labor required a license, for it was a punishable offense to beg without one. Orphans roamed the streets, some starving and some forming packs of mischief-makers. Because there was no organized system to collect alms or dispense charity, only the rich benefited from Henry's decision. They bought church property, dismantled chantries, and sold their stones.

It was poor luck that Bianca found herself in this predicament, and poor timing. She couldn't abandon the child on the other side, but she could not afford to linger in Southwark, waiting for the father to return. Time was precious.

“Well,” said the ferrier, “it looks to me like you have made yeself ward to the brat.” He stuck his pole in the water, turning the bow into the current. Bianca's choice had been made for her.

Bianca began to run through possible solutions. She might be able to leave the girl with her mother until she had a chance to tend to the matter. Her mother would not be pleased, but she wouldn't turn the girl out.

“Wait!”

Bianca turned to see the man running down the dock, hailing the ferrier. He carried the boy over his shoulder like a sack of grain and waved his arm.

“Turn back,” shouted Bianca. “He's returned.”

The ferrier lifted his pole out of the water and glanced over his shoulder. “Ye is daft if ever I seen it. He'll dump the child, then ye'll have two.”

“Either way, you'll get more fare.”

Encouraged by this idea, the ferrier looked at Bianca. “Al-rights,” he said. “I shall hold ye to it.” He jammed his pole into the still shallow river bottom and swung the bow about, returning to the pier.

The skiff bumped gently along the wharf and the man dropped the boy into the hull. For a breathless second, Bianca thought he would turn and leave. But, holding on to a bollard, he eased himself in beside the boy. “I was afraids I would find ye gone.” He settled on a seat and pulled his son next to him. “Sits still or I shall throw ye in,” he said into the boy's face. The boy sat beside him, sullen, avoiding Bianca's gaze by fixing his to the bottom of the boat.

Bianca felt the girl squirm and push out of her arms to scramble into the man's lap. From that vantage point, she stared solemnly across at Bianca, her eyes dark and accusatory.

“We thought you were abandoning her,” said Bianca to the father after they were on their way.

The man held her stare and said nothing. He turned his focus on the bridge as the ferrier pointed the skiff into the current. As for Bianca, she continued to study his inscrutable expression. She waited for a reply, hoping her disapproval might shame the man into better behavior. Eventually she looked over her shoulder at the ferrier, who grinned back at her cynically.

Bianca shifted the satchel, resting it on the seat. The bag caught the children's interest, but when Bianca met their eyes, their father shot them a disapproving glance, and they dropped their stares to their laps.

Other ferries trekked across the river from the opposite side, filled with men. There were far more skiffs heading to Southwark than to London. A bear-baiting was on the docket for later that day, and Bianca assumed they were getting an early start on the festivities.

When they reached the stairs near Three Cranes Lane, the tide was high enough to prevent an attack by the relentless sand flies. Bianca waited for the father and his two children to disembark before stepping out. She could have hurried past, dismissing their fate to the beleaguered father, but his general manner troubled her.

Carrying the girl upon his hip and taking hold of the young boy's hand, he struck a course up Thames Street. Bianca trailed behind, feigning interest in a stand of fruit and slowing to allow them to gain some distance ahead of her. The three moved at a creeping pace. Bianca was torn between abandoning this probably futile endeavor and striking out for Stannum's room of alchemy. Finally, she reasoned this was a waste of time and the father was probably stalling until she passed. She quickened her stride, and as she approached the slowly plodding family, the confusion on the father's face was impossible for her to ignore.

“You appear lost, sir,” she said, walking up and touching him on the arm. “I know this town's twisting lanes. Where are you going?” She realized she was exposing herself to another curt dismissal, but his expression softened.

“I seek St. Thomas Lane.”

“I can take you; it is on my way.” It was not. Bianca calculated the distance from Ivy Lane and Ferris Stannum's room of alchemy, where she hoped to find Amice. Though not overly far, St. Thomas was a detour and a delay nonetheless.

Bianca fell in step beside them. She hoped to learn his intentions, but the man carefully guarded every word. Apparently his wife had died and he was bringing the children to live with his sister. He fell into silence, and after they cut through alleys and plastered themselves against buildings to let carts pass, Bianca felt a tentative hand touch hers. She looked down into the little boy's soulful eyes peering up at her. She took his hand.

“Your sister lives on St. Thomas Lane?” asked Bianca.

“Aye,” said the man.

“What is her name?” Bianca asked. “Mayhap I know of her.”

“Likely you do not. She is just moved here,” he answered.

“There is no hiding if one lives in London,” said Bianca. “Someone always knows someone who knows another.”

But the man did not offer his sister's name. A silent rift grew between them. Bianca named a nearby ordinary where they could buy a reasonable meal if they needed. She was hoping to put him at ease, talking about food and offering a traveler such as he a native's advice. But the man only grunted in reply. Finally, he let go of the boy's hand and doffed his cap to Bianca. “Good day. This is where we part.”

“But I have not seen you to your sister's,” said Bianca. “Do you know where she lives on St. Thomas?”

“I can manage,” said the man. “Am I far?”

Bianca saw no use in arguing. She would make a point to visit St. Thomas Lane another time. She gave him directions.

“God give you a good day,” he said, taking hold of his son's hand and pulling him on.

Bianca watched them walk up the road. The little girl peeked at her from her father's shoulder. The boy kept glancing at her as his father hurried him along. She couldn't decide what the father's intentions were. Perhaps he mentioned a sister in order to put her off. She hoped the children would take to their aunt and that all would end well. Bianca sighed, knowing it was rare that anything ended well, especially the care of children.

Bianca turned in the direction of Ferris Stannum's alchemy room, cutting through back alleys to avoid the main thoroughfares as they grew congested. She hurried, making up for lost time, dipping under lines of laundry strung between buildings and maneuvering around dumped kitchen scraps slimy with rot and teeming with flies.

Emerging at one end of Ivy Lane, Bianca was surprised to see the neighborhood more alive with activity than she had ever seen it. The heat must have driven people out of their rents. The street clamored with voices heard from windows and doors that had been flung open. Passions roused and Bianca passed one tenement, listening to an accusation of adultery, and another, hearing evidence that it housed those possibly committing it.

Across from Goodwife Tenbrook's, the boy who had weaseled a penny from her sat on his mother's stoop. With his chin resting in his hands, he looked the portrait of boredom. At the sight of Bianca he trotted over.

“Ye be back?” He ran in front of her, skipping backward.

“So I am,” said Bianca. She stopped in front of Goodwife Tenbrook's rent. A heavy padlock hung from the latch.

“They put that on to keep folks out.”

Bianca stood back and peered up at the second story. “I don't suppose anyone is here.” The shutter had been nailed closed.

“Ye suppose right,” said the boy.

“Has anyone cleared out the old alchemist's room?”

“They did that yesterday. A man and a woman came and loaded a cart with all kinds of strange-shaped copper and crockery.”

“The old man's daughter?”

The boy shrugged and nodded. “I suppose.”

Bianca looked up the street and down it. Rather than go to the Royal Poke to find Amice, she figured she was closer to Thomas Plumbum's room of alchemy. She wondered if she should trust the man. She had wanted to ask him about Ferris Stannum's death and watch his face for signs of deceit. But visiting him served a more important need. She could scope his room of alchemy and steal his kerotakis.

The boy pulled on a board nailed across Ferris Stannum's small window. His thin fingers were of little use prizing it off.

“It's not worth trying,” said Bianca. “It's a new plank and they didn't spare any nails securing it.” She considered the little rascal, who seemed curious and exceptionally observant for his age. “You spend a lot of time sitting on your mother's stoop.”