The Blackthorn Key

The Blackthorn Key by Kevin Sands





A WARNING:

The recipes and remedies in this book were used by real apothecaries. There’s a reason we don’t see them anymore. Some are devious, some are dangerous, and a few are just plain deadly. So, as they say: Don’t try this at home. Seriously.





THURSDAY, MAY 28, 1665


Ascension Day





I FOUND IT.

Master Benedict said he wasn’t the least bit surprised. According to him, there were several times over the past three years when he was sure I’d finally discovered it. Yet it wasn’t until the day before my fourteenth birthday that it came to me so clearly, I thought God Himself had whispered in my ear.

My master believes occasions like this should be remembered. So, as he ordered, I’ve written down my formula. My master suggested the title.

The Stupidest Idea in the Universe By Christopher Rowe,

Apprentice to Master Benedict Blackthorn, Apothecary Method of manufacture:

Snoop through your master’s private notes. Find a recipe, its words locked behind a secret code, and decipher it. Next, steal the needed ingredients from your master’s stores. Finally—and this is the most important step—go to your best friend, a boy of stout character and poor judgment equal to your own, and speak these words: Let’s build a cannon.





CHAPTER


1


“LET’S BUILD A CANNON,” I said.

Tom wasn’t listening. He was deep in concentration, tongue pinched between his teeth, as he steeled himself for combat with the stuffed black bear that ruled the front corner of my master’s shop. Tom stripped off his linen shirt and flung it heroically across the antimony cups gleaming on the display table near the fire. From the oak shelf nearest to him, he snatched the glazed lid of an apothecary jar—Blackthorn’s Wart-Be-Gone, according to the scrawl on the label—and held it on guard, a miniature ceramic shield. In his right hand, the rolling pin wobbled threateningly.

Tom Bailey, son of William the Baker, was the finest fake soldier I’d ever seen. Though only two months older than me, he was already a foot taller, and built like a blacksmith, albeit a slightly pudgy one, due to a steady pilfering of his father’s pies. And in the safety of my master’s shop, away from the horrors of battle like death, pain, or even a mild scolding, Tom’s courage held no equal.

He glared at the inanimate bear. The floorboards creaked as he stepped within range of its wickedly curved claws. Tom shoved the curio cabinet aside, making the brass balances jingle. Then he hoisted his flour-dusted club in salute. The frozen beast roared back silently, inch-long teeth promising death. Or several minutes of tedious polishing, at least.

I sat on the counter at the back, legs dangling, and clicked leather heels against the carved cedar. I could be patient. You had to be, sometimes, with Tom, whose mind worked as it pleased.

“Think you can steal my sheep, Mr. Bear?” he said. “I’ll give you no quarter this day.” Suddenly, he stopped, rolling pin held outward in midlunge. I could almost see the clockwork cranking between his ears. “Wait. What?” He looked back at me, puzzled. “What did you say?”

“Let’s build a cannon,” I said.

“What does that mean?”

“Just what you think it means. You and me. Build a cannon. You know.” I spread my hands. “Boom?”

Tom frowned. “We can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because people can’t just build cannons, Christopher.” He said it like he was explaining why you shouldn’t eat fire to a small, dull child.

“But that’s where cannons come from,” I said. “People build them. You think God sends cannons down from heaven for Lent?”

“You know what I mean.”

I folded my arms. “I don’t understand why you’re not more excited about this.”

“Maybe that’s because you’re never the one on the pointy end of your schemes.”