The Blackthorn Key (33 page)

“That wasn't
my
fault,” I said. “I didn't do anything!”

“Nonetheless, we believe this action is best for everyone. And, frankly, Mr. Rowe, we have nowhere to place you. No master is currently in need of a new apprentice. You understand.”

I looked around the room. A few of the apothecaries at the sides were watching me curiously. Most avoided my eyes.

The churning in my guts sank like a pit. I
did
understand. They were afraid. Anyone who took me in would look like they wanted whatever I knew about the Archangel's Fire. Oswyn's plot—and Lord Ashcombe's purge—had made me untouchable.

“Then . . . what's going to happen to Blackthorn?” I said.

“The shop will revert to Guild ownership,” Sir Edward said.

“What about Master Benedict's will?”

“We can't find his will.”

“That's because Oswyn stole it,” I said, my voice rising.

“We have no evidence of that,” Valentine said. “The compensation we're giving you is more than enough to—”

“I don't want your money!” I shouted. “I want my life back!”

Valentine turned red. He was about to say something more when the heavy door behind me creaked open. He looked past me in annoyance. “What?”

“Forgive me, Masters,” the clerk at the door said, wiping his brow. “There are two petitioners who wish to address the Council.” He glanced behind him anxiously. “One of them is Lord Ashcombe.”

Sir Edward glanced over at Valentine, who sat up in his chair, still bright red. “Very well.”

In strode the King's Warden. His bandages were gone. Over his missing eye, he wore a plain black patch. His cheek was still stitched together, loops of thread tracking an angry red line from underneath the patch to the corner of his mouth, twisting it sideways. His ruined hand was covered by a glove.

Behind him came an even bigger surprise. Isaac the bookseller walked carefully to stand before the Council, his wispy white hair waving as he moved. In his hand he carried a scroll of parchment. His cloudy eyes barely glanced at me as he took his place beside the King's Warden.

Sir Edward nodded. “Richard. And . . . Isaac, isn't it? Welcome. What can we do for you?”

“For me?” Lord Ashcombe said. “Nothing.” The slash on his cheek seemed to make his voice grate even more roughly than before. “I'm here on behalf of His Majesty, Charles the Second, by the Grace of God, King of England, Scotland, France, and Ireland, Defender of the Faith.”

The room had been quiet before. Now I couldn't hear even a whisper of breath.

“I see,” Sir Edward said. “How may we be of service to His Majesty?”

“The king wants it known that Christopher Rowe,
apprentice to the Apothecaries' Guild, is a true friend to the Crown. Further, His Majesty understands that Oswyn Colthurst's actions were not sanctioned by the Guild, and he reaffirms his close bond with you, who loyally supported him against Puritan traitors when he returned from France.”

Sir Edward nodded slowly. “We're grateful for His Majesty's trust.”

“The king also hopes that Christopher's new master will be as kind and as skilled in managing Christopher's property as the honorable Benedict Blackthorn.”

Valentine blinked. “Property?”

Isaac raised the scroll he carried. “If I may, Sir Edward?” He hobbled forward and handed the parchment to the Grand Master. “Over the past few months, Benedict became concerned for his safety. I know he registered a new will with the Apothecaries' Guild. He also left a copy with me.” Isaac smiled. “Just in case.”

Sir Edward read it aloud. “I do hereby leave all worldly possessions to my apprentice, Christopher Rowe of Blackthorn, to be administered by Hugh Coggshall until the day Christopher becomes a freeman of the city.”

My jaw dropped.

Valentine couldn't believe it either. “Let me see that.” He
snatched the scroll from Sir Edward's hands and scanned it. “How do we know this is legitimate?”

“It's properly witnessed.” Isaac pointed to the signatures at the bottom of the page.

“By Hugh Coggshall and Lord Henry Mortimer. Both of whom are dead.”

“His Majesty will affirm the will,” Lord Ashcombe said. “If that's necessary.”

Sir Edward shifted in his chair. “I'm certain we may accept this document as valid. Nevertheless, a problem remains. As Valentine has pointed out, Hugh is dead. His widow, who would legally become the new guardian, is not a Guild member and may not run an apothecary. And Christopher”—here he paused—“is still an apprentice.”

My heart leaped.

“His Majesty has considered that,” Lord Ashcombe said. “He offers to act as ward of the shop, holding the profits secure, until Christopher is of age. In the meantime, he agrees to pay a generous stipend to cover the wages of Christopher's new master.”

“And who will that be?” Sir Edward said.

Lord Ashcombe shrugged. “That's up to you. His Majesty would never interfere in Guild affairs.”

I didn't think Valentine could turn any redder. Sir Edward gave a wry smile.

“No,” he said. “Of course he wouldn't.”

•  •  •

I tilted my head back, closed my eyes, and let the sunshine warm my face.

“Christopher!”

Tom, beaming, ran through the traffic outside Apothecaries' Hall. He weaved around the mob of pigs that clogged the street and wrapped me in a bear hug.

“Ooof,” I said. He put me down. “How did you know I was here?”

“Isaac sent word to come,” he said. “What happened?”

I told him. He couldn't believe it either. “Your own shop?”

“Well, it's not mine yet, exactly. I'm still just an apprentice. I won't really get to own it for years.”

“You're getting a new master, then? Who is it?”

“I don't know.” Thinking about it made me nervous. I wondered if someone like Valentine—or worse, someone like Nathaniel Stubb—might take the position out of spite.

“Well, well.” Isaac stepped from the Hall's great doors,
his hand supported by Lord Ashcombe's arm. “The twin pillars of trouble.”

The King's Warden reached into his belt and pulled out something silver. “I believe this is yours,” he said to me. “Officially, now.”

He handed me my puzzle cube. I held it to my chest. “Thank you,” I said. “Thank you both.” I looked up at Lord Ashcombe. “I'm so grateful for what you did.”

He grunted. “You shouldn't be. I didn't win you any friends in there.”

“But . . . His Majesty said—”

“Oh, no one will act against you, not openly. Some will cozy up to you, try to win His Majesty's favor. Others will resent you and work to bring you down. It's also possible there are still some remaining in the Guild who sided with Oswyn. You'll have to be very careful about who you call a friend.”

I looked at Tom, who was trying to avoid the drove of squealing pigs, then at Isaac, who nodded. “Always sound advice, sadly,” Isaac said. He turned to Lord Ashcombe. “Do you mind if I speak to Christopher a moment, my lord?”

When Lord Ashcombe shook his head, Isaac put his hand on my shoulder and led me a few paces away. “We had
to bury Benedict while you were in the Tower,” he said quietly. “But I think it would be nice to have a private memorial. Just for those of us who loved him.”

I nodded, grateful. “I'd really like that.”

“Come see me tomorrow, then, and we'll arrange it.” Isaac smiled. “I have some stories I think you'll want to hear.”

He said farewell to all three of us, and began walking home. Thinking about my master's memorial made me wonder again about who my new master was going to be. After what the King's Warden had just told me, I had even more reason to be worried.

“Do you really think any of Oswyn's men are still out there, my lord?” I said.

“Men like that are always out there,” Lord Ashcombe said. “No matter who they follow. And you know Wat's still at large.”

I
didn't
know that. The news sent a chill down my spine. “But . . . your men went to get him while he was unconscious in the lab.”

“They did. But when they returned, Wat wasn't there.”

My eyes darted down the street. “Do you think he'll come back?”
For revenge
, I didn't say.

Lord Ashcombe shrugged. “More likely he's fled the city. It's not easy to stay hidden, missing half a face.” The King's Warden traced his fingers along his own brutal scar. “Which reminds me. Wat wasn't the only thing we returned to the lab for. Some of the papers survived the blast. His Majesty's apothecaries are going through them now.”

I swallowed. “Yes, my lord?”

“They can't seem to find the recipe for the Archangel's Fire.”

My face grew hot. “It was on the workbench,” I said. “Right by where Oswyn was standing. It . . . it might have been destroyed in the explosion.”

Lord Ashcombe studied me. “I seem to recall Wat saying it
wasn't
there.”

“Wat wasn't very smart.”

“No,” Lord Ashcombe said, his one eye narrowed. “I suppose he wasn't.”

Beside me, Tom shuffled from foot to foot.

“I'm sure you'll let me know if anything comes up,” Lord Ashcombe said.

I nodded. I didn't trust myself to speak.

“As for you, boy,” the King's Warden said to Tom, “you swing a mighty rolling pin.”

Now Tom turned red. “Th-thank you, my lord,” he stammered, not sure whether to be proud or embarrassed.

“Stop by the Tower if you'd like to learn a real weapon.”

Tom's eyes bulged. “Are you—you mean—a soldier? Me?”

“If you can pass the training.”

Tom stared at the pair of King's Men waiting for Lord Ashcombe. They looked back at him bemusedly. “Me?” Tom said again, flushed with pleasure.

“You'd be great at it,” I said. I turned to Lord Ashcombe. “You should see him fight a shop bear.”

Lord Ashcombe shook his head as he walked away. “I don't even want to know what that means.”

•  •  •

The sign still hung over the front door.
BLACKTHORN,
it said:
RELIEFS FOR ALL MANNER OF MALIGNANT HUMORS
. The wood needed a new coat of paint. I'd have to redo the unicorn horn, too, faded from years of London weather. Other than that, I wouldn't change a thing. I'd never change a thing.

The shop did need a good cleaning, though, and I didn't need to wait for my new master to know whose job
that
was. Tom helped get me started as soon as we got inside, sweeping straw that had spilled from the shredded stuffed animals. “Christopher?” he said.

“Yes?”

“That wasn't true, was it? What you said before. To Lord Ashcombe.” He stopped sweeping and leaned on the end of the broom. “The recipe for the Archangel's Fire wasn't really on the workbench.”

I shook my head. “I didn't want to leave it out for Oswyn to see.”

“What did you do with it, then?”

“I put it behind the ice vault. Before I went up to the garden, I greased it in a leather sheath and hid it in the back, under the bricks.”

His eyes widened. “So it's still there?”

“I don't know,” I said. “The ice will have melted by now. If water got through the grease, the ink will have run.” I looked out the window. “I honestly don't know.”

The Archangel's Fire. I'd been trying not to think about it. I'd been trying not to think about anything that happened that day. All I really wanted was my old life back. Days working next to Master Benedict, hearing the sound of his voice. Nights reading by the fire. This shop. Our home.

I looked around me. The shop was almost the same as when we'd fled from Stubb and Wat that terrible night. There was a patch of black where I'd started the fire, and
a few more footsteps through the scattered ingredients. I didn't even want to see the mess in the workshop. But the place was still standing. Maybe some of the ingredients, the equipment, could be salvaged. I could buy more goods to replace what was wrecked, too. Then everything could be back the way it was.

No
, I thought.
Not everything.

I looked behind the empty counter, where I'd hung my master's sash. My eyes stung.

I still miss you
, I said in my heart.
But I kept your secret. And I stopped your killers. Did I do all right? Are you proud of me?

Something tapped on the window.

I turned. Outside, on the sill, a plump salt-and-pepper-speckled pigeon paced back and forth. She bobbed her head, pecking her beak against the glass.

I ran to the front door and opened it. Bridget hopped down from the windowsill with a grand flapping of wings and marched inside.

She cooed at me. I scooped her up and held her against my cheek. I felt the softness of her feathers, the beating of her tiny heart. I turned so we could see our home, and called to him one last time.

Thank you, Master.

In Christopher's time, English spelling wasn't standardized. So, for example, it would be common to see “Clerkenwell Green” spelled “Clarkenwell Greene,” or “Clerkenwelle Grene,” or any other variation the writer might have thought correct. In this book, English names, titles, and places are spelled according to modern rules. (Many of the locations in this book still exist, by the way, so if you ever find yourself on the (no longer cobbled) streets of London, why not go discover some of Christopher's old stomping grounds?)

A further change has been made to the calendar. In 1665, England was still using the old Julian calendar (introduced in 46 BC by Roman general and statesman Julius Caesar)
while much of the rest of Europe had switched to the newer Gregorian calendar (introduced in AD 1582 by Pope Gregory XIII, and the calendar we still use today). Though nearly identical, there were two significant differences. First, in England, the Julian calendar year started on March 25, not January 1. Second, the way the Julian calendar added leap days meant that, since its inception, it had fallen behind the Gregorian calendar by ten days (e.g., the summer solstice on June 21 would have been on June 11, according to the Julian calendar).