Alchemist's Potion by Bonnie Hamre

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Alchemist's Potion
by Bonnie Hamre

From Ellora's Cave
Release Date To be Determined.

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 mingled lavender 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 Philippa of Wareham, a young widow of worth who had fallen on hard times and consented to oversee his household. Now that she was in charge, his needs were seen to 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 Philippa, named for the late queen but one who was barely fourteen when she came from Hainault to marry Edward, 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, pinkening her cheeks. Julian felt warmed by the kindness of her smile.
"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. He'd awakened yearning for satisfaction and 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 Philippa gestured at his sublimation vessels, earthenware bowls and the iron pots holding strong acids. She smiled at him.
Julian paused as her warmth encased him. He forgot he was aged, responding as would any man when a fetching woman smiled at him. Mistress Philippa 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, she'd been spared the great plague that ravaged the countryside thirteen years before, striking down young people, mostly boys. He had been away on his travels then, and had heard only about the ravages on his return. Eyeing Mistress Philippa, he wondered once more if her entire body was as fair as her countenance. Her light blue eyes held a hint of mischief, a 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. Now, 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."

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