CHAPTER 5
John and Meddybemps’s progress up Foster Lane had been slowed by the ruts in the road, and Bianca found the streetseller outside of Boisvert’s, emptying the wagon, hurriedly removing the alembics and cages of rats to get them out of sight. He tried to appear nonchalant, but the mere presence of a dray outside of a silversmith’s shop was difficult for neighbors to ignore. Gone was the hoped-for stealth of an early morning move.
As Bianca neared, Hobs burst out the door with John in heated pursuit. Ears pulled back and fur on end, the feline streaked past, a blur of black tiger stripes. A jar smashed on the cobbles inches from his hind legs.
“What ho! We’ve only just got here!” Bianca seized John’s arm and put herself in front of him.
“That cat is the bane of me. ’Tis a shame he’s immortal, for I’ll never be rid of the beast.” John scowled at Bianca. “And do not remind me that I must either leave or die first.”
“There is some truth in that.”
“Would you like to see what your cat has done?”
“Are you giving me a choice?”
John took Bianca’s hand and pulled her through the shop, up the back stairs to the living quarters. Equipment from her room of Medicinals and Physickes tottered haphazardly in front of her. Other than the room being empty of Boisvert’s fine belongings, his tapestries, his silver tureens, Bianca saw nothing worrisome.
Then she caught a whiff of it.
“Bollocks!” exclaimed Bianca.
“Exactly his problem,” said John.
The field of lavender of Boisvert’s cherished wall mural of Provence had been watered.
John pointed a finger at Bianca’s nose. “You have never witnessed Boisvert’s anger or had your ears filled with his French fury.” He stared at the mural and shook his head. “Bianca, you do not want to be the recipient of his displeasure.” He glared at her. “He is your cat, so this is your problem.”
Bianca did not disagree. Hobs had been the cat of her mentor, Ferris Stannum, and she felt responsible for his care. Stannum had met an unfortunate end, but his legacy lived on in Hobs. The esteemed alchemist had discovered the elixir of life—the purported potion of immortality. And he had fed it to Hobs. Whether the feline was immortal Bianca did not know. But so far, the cat had skirted disaster, and she did not care to test his privileged status—she had grown too fond of him.
Without a word, Bianca descended the stairs and passed Meddybemps carrying a crate. The streetseller had witnessed John’s chase and Bianca’s response and said nothing, preferring to let the two hash out their problems on their own. Their ongoing relationship provided him with an endless source of entertainment.
Outside, Bianca searched through the jars in the wagon. After a moment she found a bottle, uncorked it, and ran it under her nose.
Satisfied, she met an irritable John on the stairs. He had grown annoyed that she had just turned and left without an explanation. “What is that?” he said, eyeing the bottle.
“Ascerbis. It will subdue Hobs’s . . . contribution.” She sidled past, and John followed on her heels.
Meddybemps had just set down the crates and was squinting at the mural. He looked over when they walked in. “I’d rather spend the night on the hard brick forge than try to sleep in here,” he said.
“Meddy, would you like a cat? I promise he could make you money. Strangle him over and over again and he will spring back to life. People would never tire of watching. You could make your fortune!”
Without a word, Bianca uncorked the bottle and splashed it on the field of Provence.
“What are you doing?” said John, screwing up his face at the smell of vinegar. “What if it eats through the paint?”
“It isn’t strong enough.” Bianca found a ewer of water and dribbled it down the wall. She looked about for a rag to mop up the puddle.
“If this fails,” warned John, “we’ll be banned from this rent and we will have to sleep on the shop floor. We might have to resort to living in barrels behind the Tern’s Tempest.”
“We could move back to Southwark.” Bianca finished cleaning Hobs’s critique of the wall mural. She threw the rag in the forge to be burned later, while John and Meddybemps returned to unloading the dray. With a doleful look at her new surroundings, she occupied herself with emptying the wagon rather than stare at the stacked boxes and crates whose contents could not be used.
Meddybemps wished to be done unloading the wagon so that he could return it to Arthur Milbourne. As it was, he would be late to market, and his preferred spot near a popular tavern would be taken. He dreaded having to sell his amulets and Bianca’s salves next to a butcher. What with stray dogs being chased away by a knife-wielding meat seller, it never made for a good day of sales. Besides, the silence growing between Bianca and John made him uncomfortable. “You’ve not mentioned why a crowd was gathered outside of St. Vedast,” he said, hoping to distract the two.
“A woman was discovered in the side yard this morning. The back of her head was crushed. I want to finish here and return to St. Vedast. A mass is being said.”
“You didn’t know her,” said John irritably. “Why should you go?”
“I am curious.”
“Curious about what?” said John, spoiling for an argument.
Bianca didn’t answer. She loaded her arms with clothing and disappeared inside.
“John,” said Meddybemps, pulling him aside. “Why do you goad her so? Remember, she is practiced in poisons and such.”
“I am not goading her. She should not become involved in matters that are not her concern.”
“My boy, I am not a married man. And there is a reason for that. I prefer not to give up my independence. I will not be told by a woman what I should do. Bianca has some of that about her. Although she is a woman, she does not want to be told what to do. You should be grateful that she agreed to leave Southwark. For now, do not ask more of her. She is of a curious mind. Let that be.”
John grumbled and hoisted another crate of Bianca’s wares.
“Besides,” said Meddybemps, “she has already agreed to abandon her chemistries for the time being. What more would you have her do? Sit in front of the hearth with a distaff and spin thread all winter?”
“I could use a new smock; this one is becoming worn at the elbows.”
Part of John’s petulance stemmed from his awareness that Bianca had not embraced moving to Foster Lane. He had asked her to give up the one thing she loved perhaps even more than him—though he was loath to admit it. She had agreed to give up her chemistries and move because she had wanted to please him, and she knew she would know no peace from his constant badgering until she said yes. He’d used his recent illness with the sweating sickness as leverage, and he didn’t like Meddybemps’s reminding him that he was playing on Bianca’s guilt.
Bianca passed John on the stairs without speaking.
“We are nearly done,” she said to Meddybemps. She gathered an armload of blankets. “I suppose you need to return this wagon and can’t come with me to St. Vedast.”
“Not my choice of revelry, my prodigy. I’m afraid I might be smote dead within steps of the altar.”
“Then perhaps keep an ear open and let me know if you learn anything useful.”
John arrived and looked at them quizzically. “Have I missed something?” he asked.
Bianca brushed past and went inside.
“John, I will advise you true. Do not oppose her. She wants to go to St. Vedast, and you are antagonizing her unnecessarily.”
John removed the last crate. “Anon, Meddybemps. It was kind of you to help us move. But do not scold me in matters of marriage.”
* * *
St. Vedast stood as a relic of what it once was. The colorful biblical scenes that had graced the walls were now faded with grime; some had been washed with lime to subdue their brilliance and influence. Gone were the gold chalice and ciborium, replaced with humble pewter. The Virgin Mary and St. Joh
n no longer flanked the great crucifix, the rood, suspended from the crossbeam. Statues of saints that had once graced the interior had been removed, the candles extinguished, their pedestals empty, cobwebs stretching to the walls. The neglected church attracted a similarly forgotten clientele. Rather than be concerned with a woman’s self-murder or even the preservation of their own souls, the gathered saw an opportunity to gather at close quarters and gossip.
Bianca stood in the rear of the nave. She could barely hear Father Nelson’s words, only their soft echo bouncing around the cavernous interior.
Word spread quickly through the parish, and even John sauntered in, lured there by the number of people descending upon the church. Boisvert, the silversmith, attended, as did Odile Farendon, his betrothed. They nodded to Bianca and John before making their way toward the chancel. Odile impressed Bianca with her gracious acknowledgment when Boisvert pointed her out. A woman of higher station did not have to show interest in a woman of lower.
From where she stood, Bianca studied the congregation and made assumptions about her new neighborhood. Generally, the parishioners were simple folk. For a parish harboring several guilds, not least of which was the Goldsmiths’ Company, there were surprisingly few merchants or professionals in attendance. Those who did attend were obvious in their fine attire. Perhaps not all the guilds had heard of the young woman’s demise, but news of a dramatic death moves faster than a rat from light. The desire to milk scandal from the act should have attracted plenty—there being no social bounds for what was, essentially, human nature.
As Bianca leaned against a pillar, a cutpurse caught her eye. She, too, had been a thief in her youth, and she watched the boy deftly clip the strings of a lady’s pouch and sneak away with it.
Perhaps the wealthy preferred not to attend the decrepit church. Why should they stand in St. Vedast, with its cracked and missing windows through which the December wind blew? Bianca ran her eyes upward to the clerestory and saw a window replaced with a dingy oiled cloth tacked across. Few citizens of any wealth would want to worship in such a dreary place, and without their endowments the church’s upkeep was impossible. Such was a spiral that was difficult to overcome.
The priest finished his liturgy, and Bianca and John moved to the side as the congregation began to leave. Boisvert approached, and, though his face bore a somber expression, the solicitous manner in which he presented Odile Farendon showed his keen regard for her.
Odile and Bianca were of equal height and similar build. “My dear, I hope you shall grow fond of Foster Lane and enjoy living here. I understand that this move was a difficult decision for you.”
Bianca glanced at John, wondering what he had discussed with Boisvert.
Odile added, “We all make sacrifices in love, but in time, what first may have been difficult becomes acceptable. There is always the chance to learn from change.”
“My lady, your words are comforting as well as wise.” Bianca bowed her head. “I wish you every happiness in your upcoming marriage.”
“You and John will attend of course.”
Before Bianca could answer, Henry Lodge, the churchwarden, appeared opposite Lady Farendon. He ignored Boisvert and John, glanced at Bianca with apathy, then addressed Odile. “My lady, Oro Tand has asked that you not leave until he has spoken with you.”
Bianca followed Odile’s eyes to where Oro Tand, master warden of the Worshipful Company of Goldsmiths, was engaged in conversation. Tufts of white hair showed from under his black silk coif, on top of which he wore a murrey velvet flat cap. Lofty in manner but not so in height, Tand embodied the spirit of the metal that was his livelihood. His fingers were weighted with it. Around his neck hung a chain of office touting his high position and the considerable skill needed to create the intricate filigree of the medallion.
Odile acknowledged Lodge, who quickly turned on his heel. She continued her conversation with Bianca. “I have a velvet kirtle of carmine that would complement your pale complexion. I have not worn it in years, and it would please me if you wore it to our wedding.”
“You are kind,” said Bianca. She looked over at John, and her inclination to decline the offer was quashed by the wide grin on his face. Apparently he hoped she would accept. She had never worn the fine fabrics of a citizen. To do so was to overstep her bounds according to sumptuary law and could result in harsh fines. Loss of property, even loss of one’s life, could be the punishment for a merchant attempting to encroach on the privileges reserved for nobility. The same held true for those of lower birth. However, for this occasion and since John aspired to the profession, Bianca understood she had been invited to make an exception. In all honesty, she did wonder what it might be like to wear such a gown and pretend to be a citizen. She decided to make it an experiment. Not one with flasks belching plumes of smoke, but one where she would test how others might receive her.
“Come after the morrow, after your morning devotions.”
Bianca stiffened. She was about to inform Madame Farendon of her morning routine—which did not include morning devotions—when John accepted for her.
“Boisvert and Madame,” said a new arrival, insinuating himself into their group. “I wish you every happiness in your upcoming marriage.”
The man gave the impression of efficiency. His manner of speech was quick and direct, with little patience for pointless prattle. His forehead was a broad, pale landscape—more wide than tall, so that his square jaw made his head resemble a block sitting on his shoulders.
Boisvert made the introductions. James Croft, master of the Brown Bakers’ Guild, bowed. Though his guild was of lesser rank than the brotherhood of goldsmiths, the bakers’ influence could not be underestimated. Combined with the White Bakers, their numbers were greater than the Gold Guild’s. After all, bread was the stuff of life, while (it could be argued) gold was not.
“So grievously shortsighted,” said he. “If one chooses to commit one’s soul to hell, one should pick a church that can absorb the scrutiny. St. Vedast already struggles. Such a sinister act will certainly be the end of our parish.”
Odile spoke. “Master Croft, I share your concern for the continuing decline of St. Vedast. However, today we must turn our prayers to a young woman and her child. It is not certain that this was self-murder. And if it was, what great sorrow hounded her that she would act with such finality? It is a question we should think on.”
“What is there to ponder? A young woman was distraught to be with child. The shame of that was not worth the misery that her life would surely become. The circumstance is not one that can be remedied. Her self-murder is regrettable. But she could have chosen a different parish church to leap from.”
Bianca was momentarily stunned by the man’s callous remark. She could not remain politely silent. “Sir, have you never faced a difficult choice? Her act was one of desperation. If, indeed, it was her act. We do not know, sir, that she was not pushed or thrown from the belfry. In either event, we should be sympathetic.”
Croft cocked his head like a crow and studied Bianca. “We all face difficult choices in life. But I have worked hard to ensure that I may never face vexing decisions. It is a privilege that I have earned through planning and forethought.”
The discomfort of her toe being squashed beneath John’s foot momentarily distracted her. Bianca would have liked to have said more, but Oro Tand appeared beside Odile and spoke.
“Forgive my interruption. I believe we have some items to discuss regarding the wedding reception,” he said to her. “I merely wish to confirm our appointment for the day after the morrow.”
“Certainly,” said Odile. “There are only a few details left to arrange.”
Oro Tand addressed Boisvert. “Will you be accompanying the lady?”
“Mais non. I have other matters to attend.”
Bianca noticed a strained formality between the two men. They barely looked at each other. She also noticed Henry Lodge staring at Odile with a look of blatant disappro
val.
“Very well,” replied the master goldsmith. He paused, then added, “I know how fond you are of this church. I regret it is the scene of an unfortunate incident. St. Vedast can ill afford more difficulty. I hope this does not cast a pall over your happy occasion.”
Odile tucked her chin in agreement. “Unfortunately one cannot control where and when tragedies occur. It is my hope that the wedding shall go on as planned and that St. Vedast can be preserved. It was once a fine structure and I am partial to its French roots. It is the only church in London named after a French saint. A few of us would like to see it endure.” She squeezed Boisvert’s arm and the silversmith patted her hand.
Oro Tand’s eyes slid over to Boisvert and returned to Odile. “Indeed.”
CHAPTER 6
The moon glowed through the diamond-pane window, casting a beam of blue light across the bed. It was the first time Bianca had slept in a room in the winter where she could see the moon. As a girl in her parents’ rent, she had slept against a wall near the back of their living quarters. In Southwark, she had kept out winter’s cold with a wool blanket nailed over the single window. She thought the silvery orb beautiful, but her mind could not rest. A new home, no chemistries to think about, a young woman’s death, all conspired to keep her awake.
John blew soft snores at her pillow. She nuzzled close to him, but even his rhythmic breathing did not lull her to sleep. Hobs slept curled in a tight ball near her feet. She eased out of bed, careful not to rouse either of them.
After the mass at St. Vedast, she and John had spent the day arranging crates from her room of Medicinals and Physickes. They had stacked them in a corner away from the door, into a leaning tower filled with crockery, retorts, and jars. Bianca was not used to such a large living space and found its emptiness disconcerting. Her room in Southwark had been a jumble. John said the disarray mirrored her mind. It was true; she found some comfort in chaos. She thrived on the energy of confusion.
By comparison, the silence and orderliness of her new home felt lonely. She missed falling asleep to the burp of some liquid simmering in a water bath. She missed the fusty smell of herbs hanging from the rafters.
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