Bonnie Hamre - Alchemist's Potion.pdf - Bonnie Hamre - SilverWitch

An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

www.ellorascave.com

Alchemist’s Potion

ISBN # 1-4199-0588-0

Edited by Briana St. James.

Cover art by Syneca.

Electronic book Publication: March 2006

This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written

permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is

purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

Warning:

The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. This story has been rated E

–rotic by a minimum of three independent reviewers.

Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (E-rotic),

and X (X-treme).

S- ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination.

E- rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word

count. In addition, some E-rated titles might contain fantasy material that some readers find objectionable,

such as bondage, submission, same sex encounters, forced seductions, and so forth. E-rated titles are the most

graphic titles we carry; it is common, for instance, for an author to use words such as “fucking”, “cock”,

“pussy”, and such within their work of literature.

X- treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Unlike E-rated titles,

stories designated with the letter X tend to contain controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.

A LCHEMIST ’ S P OTION

Bonnie Hamre

Chapter One

Spring 1403

Dorset, England

The fertile scents of spring wafted through the casement, teasing his senses with

memories of mirth, sunshine and youth. With the warming breeze came the mingled

scents of violet and rose, sweetened all the more with feminine laughter.

Julian of Wimborne Minster paused in his labors and cocked his good ear to the

sound. He nodded at the womanly tones of his chatelaine, Mistress Phillipa of

Wareham, a young widow of worth who had fallen on hard times and consented to

oversee his household. Bittles, his steward, had protested, but faced with the choice of

his steward’s mottled face or Mistress Phillipa’s comely countenance at table, was there

indeed any choice at all? Now that she was in charge, she saw to his needs with comfort

and regularity.

That is, all but one. Though he sought her company more often than not, nothing

could come of his want. He sighed. It was the way of men, to grow weak in flesh as the

body aged. An increase in wisdom seemed a poor substitute.

The laughing ceased. He looked up as the heavy wooden door to his chambers

swung open. Mistress Phillipa, named for the late queen, entered. Her wimple sat

lightly on her brow, her gown clung to her slender waist where the household keys

hung from her chain of office. A shaft of mellow sunlight from the casement fell across

her face, warming her cheeks. Julian felt blessed by the kindness of her smile.

Occasionally, he wondered why she was content to remain here when her status

entitled her to a more favored domicile, perhaps even a place at court. She was young

and fair. Surely, other men would welcome her presence. Why did she stay with him?

Aye, he pondered her reasons, then forgot them when a new experiment, a hint of

success turned his mind away from household matters. Until, as now, he saw her clearly

and wondered anew why she contented herself with an old man’s comfort.

“Do I disturb you, sir?”

She did indeed. As it seemed to do more often of late, his gaze lingered on her

comely breasts, firm and high under the snug fit of her gown. He’d dreamed he held her

full breasts in his hands, tasted them with his mouth and suckled his fill. Her womanly

graces had awakened a yearning for satisfaction and he suffered frustration unable to

achieve it.

“Will you not come out into the air?” The fragrance of his favorite roses drifted from

the full skirts of her cotehardie as she neared him, teasing him with memories of scented

oils and warm, willing flesh.

“It’s too fine a day to be cooped up with all these… ” Julian glanced her way as

Mistress Phillipa gestured at his sublimation vessels, earthenware bowls and the iron

pots holding strong acids. She smiled at him.

He paused as her warmth encased him. He forgot he was aged, responding as

would any man when a fetching woman smiled at him. Mistress Phillipa was more than

pleasing in appearance. She was fair of face, her cheeks and high brow unmarked by the

various poxes that blemished the skin of so many, wellborn or not. Evidently, the great

plague that ravaged the countryside thirteen years before had spared her. He had been

away on his travels then and had heard only about the ravages on his return.

Eyeing Mistress Phillipa, he wondered once more if her entire body was as fair as

her countenance. As it had before, his curiosity about her past life centered on her

marriage. Had her husband treated her well? She never spoke of him, but more than

once, Julian had spotted a pensive look on her face, a certain sadness to her mien that

troubled him. At other times, her light blue eyes held a hint of mischief, lightheartedness

to her nature that made him even more aware of his own increasingly dour self.

Once, the laughter in her eyes would have inspired his lusty rod and perhaps they’d

have shared an afternoon of bed sport. Although she never gave him any indication of

her intimate nature, he imagined her passionate and yielding. As would any man, he

wondered about her body beneath her modest and discreet clothing. She was slender

through the waist and trim in her hips, but were her breasts as promising as they

appeared? It had been a long time since he’d feasted on a woman’s tender breast, but he

could still remember how it pleasured him.

Once or twice, he’d glimpsed tendrils of chestnut hair escaping her wimple, and the

thought of it loose and full over her shoulders made heat coil in his belly. Sweat

dampened his palms even as his throat went dry. However, nothing could come from

his randy thoughts, not now when his fifty summers weighed heavily upon him.

Though he might have wished it, his limp member would have none of it. No more.

Memories of sultry women and unsated longings were now his lot.

His age-spotted hands trembled as he placed an elongated alembic on his cluttered

worktable. “I have work to do.”

“What is it you do here, sir?”

Julian turned to view the progress of the distillatory furnace before he answered her.

“If I were not subject to comings and goings through my private chambers,” he

grumbled, “I might find the Philosopher’s Stone more quickly.”

Mistress Phillipa looked about his chamber. “I’m sure you won’t find any rocks

here!”

Julian muttered under his breath. She mistook his meaning for a complaint about

her housekeeping. Sensing the quickest way to be rid of her questions and the

enticement of her figure was to give her an answer, he turned to face her. Sliding his

hands under the sleeves of his woolen gown, he searched for the simplest explanation.

“The Philosopher’s Stone is not a rock. It is a most mysterious substance known to

learned men such as myself, as the means by which gold travels from deep within the

bowels of the earth to the surface. Once I find it, the Stone will bring perfection to the

world, and health and eternal salvation to the alchemist. To me.”

She laughed. “Fool’s nonsense.”

“Women can’t be expected to understand the deeper wisdoms.” Annoyance that she’

d question his lifework sharpened his voice. “I am busy. Begone.”

She turned in a swirl of skirts. Julian forced his gaze away from the curve of her hips

and the plump, enticing swell of her bottom. He looked at his large hands. Heavily

veined, they trembled with palsy but once they’d have spanned her waist and taken his

mind off his studies. From the doorway, she tossed him a worried look. “You’d do

better to rest.”

“No time for that.” Once he achieved his Great Work, then he could sit by the fire

and rest his weary bones. Until then, every day was a search deeper into the riddle of

life. With his failing body, he had only a limited amount of time to complete his labors.

Unless he cleansed his thoughts and concentrated his efforts, he had no hope of

achieving his goals before death took him. He must make haste!

Even before the door closed behind her, Julian returned to his work. As always,

satisfaction with his chambers filled him. He had chosen well. After years of study and

travel to study the mystical properties of matter, he had consulted with the finest

alchemists in France and Italy, as well as with Master Chaucer before his death a few

years before. He had taken their combined advice and spared no expense to create a fine

place to continue his efforts.

His premises included a large room with furnaces for water-baths, ash-baths and

steam-baths, distillation and sublimation apparatus, a fireplace, reverberatory furnace

and large bellows. Another chamber contained assay furnaces and analytical balances,

some in finely carved cases, a gift from an Italian nobleman. His private alcove, where

he now worked, contained a philosophers’ furnace.

It was an arrangement worthy of the most sage alchemist and philosopher but Julian

was neither. It was his disappointment and humiliation that he had not yet been capable

of achieving any measure of success.

He sighed heavily. His failure was his own doing. It came from his weakness, from

his unchaste imaginings, witness how easily he’d entertained lustful thoughts about

Mistress Phillipa’s breasts and bottom. How could he expect to make gold from lead

and find the means to perfect the plant and animal world, when his own mind and body

were basely imperfect?

Julian shook his head to clear away those thoughts. His body might be weak but his

mind was still keen and treacherous. It tormented him with memories of the women he’

d known during his travels, the skills and sexual techniques he’d acquired together with

his alchemist’s tools and equipment. He’d sought wisdom at the courts of potentates

and sultans and learned the sensual arts from concubines and noble ladies alike but

what benefit that knowledge now? It did nothing but hinder his search.

It made no difference that his member was flaccid and disinterested. Until he

banished his physical desires and mastered his inner self, how could he expect to find

the Philosopher’s Stone?

He must make haste!

This conviction uppermost, he limped to his furnace and used his metal tongs to

withdraw the pot of heated aqua fortis . The contents of the pot bubbled noxiously but he

ignored the familiar odor and returned to the workbench where his filtering vessels and

ampulae waited.

Once he completed the task of separating the base metals into their elements, he

could turn to concocting his elixirs. Perhaps today he would find the way to the

Philosopher’s Stone. Buoyed by the thought, he lost attention for a moment and bumped

a flask sitting upright on the bench. His recoil nudged the iron pot.

He reached to stop the narrow-mouthed jar from falling to the floor. A drop from the

flask fell on his hand an instant before a gobbet from the pot joined it.

Julian felt cold, then searing heat. His skin sizzled and blistered in raw red bubbles.

He screamed and fell to the floor in agony, where his protesting limbs crumpled into his

body. Gasping for breath, he blew on his throbbing hand, clasped it within the other,

cradling it against his chest as first the pain, then the heat and cold again ebbed. He felt

blood coursing through his veins, then the absence of pain.

For a moment, he lay stunned, then cautiously and slowly, moved his hand away

from his body and stared.

It was not his hand!

In horror, he opened his mouth to scream but no sound emerged. He stared at the

hand. Attached to his wrist, it had to be his hand but it looked young, unlined and

strong. There were no burn marks, no swelling blisters, nothing to show that he had just

spilled boiling liquid on it. Instead, the skin was pale and firm, unmarked by spot or

wrinkle. He cautiously flexed his fingers expecting seared muscles to scream with pain.

Instead, his muscles obeyed instantaneously, without pain, closing into a tight fist,

something he had not been able to do for many months. He opened his hand, flexed

repeatedly, entranced by the play of muscle, sinew and bone.

Stumbling to his feet by using his new hand for balance, Julian tested the rest of his

aching body. He swung his arm, expecting it to move as freely as his fingers, yet it did

not. The joints of his elbow and shoulder creaked in protest. He grimaced and lowered

his arm. So, the restoration of his flesh extended only to his wrist, only as much as the

accidental mixture had reached.

There was a small amount left in the pot, almost none in the flask but a few spilled

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