The Alchemist's Daughter (7 page)

Kit said, “Is this the place?”

She nodded. “Just as I saw it in the crystal. But Kit, it much troubles me, to see with my own eyes what destruction has been wrought.”

“Had you but seen it in its glory,” said a quiet voice. Sidonie spun round.

He had crept up soft-shod behind them — a tall old man in a battered felt hat and shabby cloak. He must have been three score and ten at least, though still robust and upright. His face, framed by a tangled thicket of white hair, was windburnt and deeply lined.

“If you could have seen the Abbey as it once was — the sanctuary all a-glitter with gold and brass, the hangings of brocade and embroidered silk. The light through the windows casting all the colours of the rainbow over the high altars, the pillars of the nave lifting their arches up to heaven. All the lords and knights and ladies, the solemn procession of monks, the organ that played so sweetly you would swear you could hear flutes and cornets in it, and a river of plainsong winding its way to heaven.”

His voice rose and fell in a sombre and familiar rhythm.
It is a litany he is chanting
, Sidonie thought.
A requiem for
something precious that is lost forever.

“All gone now, despoiled,” the old man went on, as though reading her thought. “The lead stripped from the roofs, the carvings burned to melt it down. They took the gold from the altar, smashed the stained glass, carted away the very stones of the walls for road building. And then they set up a dye-house in the ruins, and moved in a company of Flemish weavers.”

“And you watched all this happen?” Kit sounded a little dubious.

“Aye, lad, this was my home they pillaged and destroyed, for I was an orphan and the fathers took me in as a lad of ten. I had a fine clear voice for the singing, then, and at matins and vespers I sang God's praises with the other boys. Like a choir of angels, we were. And this place was in my blood and bone — I stayed, and gave myself into the service of the Lord. and took joy in the humblest task in the service of the Abbey, which was the service of God.”

“You were a Brother,” said Sidonie.

“Aye, that I was. Until King Henry dispossessed us, and sent Thomas Cromwell and his minions to drive us out, and hanged our good Abbot Whiting from the top of the Tor, and fastened his head to the Abbey gate.”

“What then became of the monks?”

“Pensioned off for five pounds a year from the royal coffers. Some I dare say found livings as parish clergy. I made my own choice, for I would not take their money, nor would I renounce my faith to serve the New Religion. Nor did I wish to leave the only home I ever knew.”

“You stayed here? All these years?” asked Sidonie.

“Aye, I have a cottage nearby, with a kitchen garden. I do a little clerking for the village. Better here, than in a ditch or a hedgerow, with the wild rogues and the vagabonds and other masterless men.”

He stood gazing up at the gaunt ruin of the Abbey. A small wind had sprung up, with a hint of autumn in it. It toyed with his beard and blew his long white hair into his eyes. Absently he pushed it back. “I remember,” he said softly, “how I polished the golden candlesticks and chalices, and the brass on the tombs, and every stroke of the chamois was an offering to the Lord God in heaven. It fair broke my heart to see our treasures carried off, and the walls crumble, and the winter wind blow between the arches.”

“And yet . . . ” said Sidonie, looking around the derelict Abbey garden. Steeped in the hazy yellow light of evening, there was a pleasant kind of melancholy about it, and a hint of magic. She could almost imagine voices in the pillaged choir loft singing evensong; and the scent of sun-dried grass was as sweet as incense. “It seems a peaceful place,” she said.

“Aye, that it is,” the old man said. “No one comes here now. I'm left to myself, with only the birds in the trees and the hares in the grass for company. We keep our secrets. Now I am an old man, and will take those secrets to the grave. But I dream sometimes of the Abbey rebuilt and its treasures restored. When that day comes, when the true faith returns to England, then I know that peace and plenty will for a long time endure.”

He fell silent at last, as though lost in contemplation. Sidonie bade him a courteous goodnight, and received no answer. At last glance, in the fading light, he was gazing up at the broken tower atop the Tor, rapt and far-seeing as some ancient prophet.

As soon as they were out of earshot Kit remarked, “He may rhapsodize as he likes, but his true faith brought little enough peace to England.”

There was an edge of bitterness in his voice that made Sidonie turn to look at him. He said, “You have a gentle heart, Sidonie, and I can see his fine words have seduced you. But honest men and women aplenty died in Queen Mary's martyr fires, my own kinfolk among them.”

Sidonie was taken aback. “You never told me that.”

“No. My father never speaks of it. But our family has been Protestant since King Henry's time, and suffered greatly for it under Mary.” He shrugged and smiled at her, as though in apology for his tone. “So you see, I too have secrets.”

Sidonie felt they had stumbled onto dangerous ground, and made haste to change the subject. “As does the old monk, it seems. What do you suppose he meant?”

“Where your red powder is to be found, perhaps?”

Sidonie could not tell if Kit was speaking seriously, or not. “The thought occurred to me,” she said. “He has lived all his life in this place. Who better to have discovered its secrets?”

“And if true, he means to take the knowledge to the grave with him. Nay, Sidonie, I know you are loathe to look into that glass ball of yours, but that is what you came to do.”

Sidonie sighed. “Tomorrow,” she said. “The light is almost gone, and we have not found a place to sleep.”

“We could take shelter in the Abbey,” Kit suggested.

Sidonie felt a small shiver of unease run down her spine. She shook her head. “There are too many ghosts,” she told him, “not least the shade of the unfortunate abbot.”

In the end they found an outbuilding with its stone roof still intact. While there was still light enough to see they gathered grass and bracken for their beds, and filled their waterskins from a stream; then they shared a little bread and cheese from Kit's pack, wrapped themselves in their cloaks and fell instantly asleep.

In the clear morning sunshine the business of scrying frightened Sidonie less. She put her hand into her apron pocket and drew out the crystal, wrapped in its layers of felted cloth. Then, with Kit watching curiously, she spread the felt over a flat stone and set the crystal on it. Crouching to gaze into its centre, she let a question, and an image, take form in her mind.
Where is the hiding place of the Red
Lion?

She was quiet for a while, puzzling over the answering image that had appeared in the crystal's heart.

“It's of no avail,” she said finally, looking up. “The crystal speaks in symbols — cryptograms. Two circles linked, so as to make a third shape like an almond, or an eye — and the whole enclosed in a greater circle.”

Kit came to stand behind her, peering over her shoulder at the crystal. He could see nothing, only spangles of reflected light. “Perhaps that is clue enough,” Kit said. “This was an ancient place of worship — surely there will be holy symbols carved into its stones.”

They spent all that morning searching the Abbey, within and without, and examining one by one the tumbled stones that had fallen away from its walls and buttresses. They found a broken cross, some fragments of coloured glass, a stone plaque carved with the words “Jesus, Maria” in ancient letters; but nothing that resembled the image in the scrying glass.

“This is a fool's journey I have brought you on,” said Sidonie at last. Tired, hungry and thoroughly disheartened, she wiped her damp face with her apron and shook grey dust from the folds of her skirt. “Whatever was of value here, has long since been stolen.”

For answer Kit dug into his pack and handed her the end of a loaf and a chunk of cheese. “Eat,” he said. “It is not yet noon, and we have scarce begun to search.”

The overgrown gardens yielded no clue, nor did the derelict outbuildings. Then, behind the Abbey, they came upon a yew-shaded pathway that led up to the Tor.

At the foot of the Tor was a deep stone-lined well shaft, filled with water nearly to its brim.

“Stop a moment,” Sidonie said. “Let me get a drink.” She knelt by the well, scooped up water with her hands. Then paused in surprise. “Kit, what is wrong with the water? It looks tinged with blood.”

Kit crouched beside her, dipped a finger into the water, tasted it. He laughed. “Not blood, Sidonie — only minerals, which as my father could tell you, will do you no harm. There must be iron in the soil where the well-spring rises. Look, you can see the rust colour where the water has seeped into the ground.” Sidonie glanced down. Sure enough, all around the well, the earth was stained rusty-red.

She turned back to the well, still needing to quench her thirst. And as she turned, something — the flicker of an image in the corner of her eye — made her catch her breath, and she leaped to her feet, gripping Kit's arm. “Look there. Do you see?” How could she have failed to notice it before? Just beyond the well an ancient wind-bent yew leaned over the path. A symbol had been carved into its trunk, who knew how many centuries before, the knife-cuts raised with time like a healed scar.
Two circles
linked, so as to make a third shape like an almond, or an eye.

Sidonie bent down, scraped up a handful of soil, held it out to Kit. Her voice trembled with excitement. “Kit, this must be it. The red powder — the alchemical elixir — that Dee and Kelley found.”

“It's naught but a handful of dirt,” Kit said.

“But surely, the most sacred dirt in England. They do say this is where the Holy Grail is buried.”

“Some say,” said Kit.

Sidonie could hear the skepticism in his voice.

“My father said the red powder, the Red Lion, was made of fire and water; it was a stone, yet not a stone. A thing worthless, yet valuable beyond price. A thing unknown, yet known to everyone. Do you not see, Kit? The spring water that gushes through the well stains everything around it the colour of fire. The sand in this soil was once stone, and is no longer. Soil is known to everyone, and we think it worthless. But if one ounce of it can turn an ounce of mercury into gold . . . ”

“Certes, you have missed your calling,” Kit said solemnly. “You argue like a lawyer, Sidonie.”

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

From the hagg and hungrie goblin

That into raggs would rend ye

And the spirit that stands by the naked man

In the Book of Moones defend yee!

—Tom o' Bedlam's Song

On their homeward journey Kit and Sidonie travelled eastward as the crow flies across open fields, following footpaths and sheeptracks. Now and again they begged a ride on the back of a farmer's wagon. Just outside Salisbury, where their rough track crossed the high road, they stopped to rest, and were overtaken by a motley throng of peddlers and fortune tellers, minstrels and jugglers bound for the Salisbury market. A bear-ward led his mangy, listless animal on a chain; a family of gypsies pulled a cart piled high with their worldly goods.

Then came a straggling procession of beggars and vagrants, wandering friars, and discharged soldiers still in the faded remnants of their uniforms. Sidonie had taken her Euclid from her pocket, meaning to read awhile, but now she set it aside and watched the parade with lively interest. She had often enough seen sturdy beggars in Charing Cross, but none half so queer as these.

One man strode along bare-armed and bare-legged in a long patched cloak and high- heeled shoes, carrying a wooden dish and an iron-tipped staff. Sidonie could not help but stare at this apparition, for his limbs were covered with hideous, oozing sores. Behind him trailed a lean, hard-faced woman weighed down by a heavy pack. She had an assortment of needles and thread stuck in her cap, and as she walked she purled away at a long grubby length of knitting.

Soon after came a wayfarer with a wild-eyed frenzied look. His scrawny frame was barely covered with faded, filthy rags, and his long hair and beard had matted into clumps. Dozens of pins and nails sprouted from his sunburned arms. Approaching, he stepped off the road and stumbled towards Sidonie, clutching at her with claw-like hands. Sidonie shrank back against Kit. The beggar stared at her with mad, blind eyes. “Have you anything to give poor Tom?” he whined. “Alas, poor Tom, he is starved.”

For an uncertain moment Sidonie's hand moved towards their almost empty food pouch. “Nay, you must not feed him,” Kit whispered. “It's Tom o' Bedlam, he only plays at madness.” Hastily Sidonie clasped her hands in her lap and shook her head. She recalled what the old monk had said, when he saw them off with a jug of ale, some apples and hard cheese, and earnest words of advice. “The roads are infested with vagabonds and wild rogues. They will do no honest work, but practise their tricks on travellers to frighten them into emptying their purses.”