Death at St. Vedast

by Mary Lawrence

  The two descended the great stair, passing portraits of former masters of the Company. Odile stopped, at eye level with a painting of one in particular. The silk sash of red and white draped across the master’s chest and his proud posture told more about the man than the engraved plaque hanging beside him. The widow lifted her chin. “My dead husband,” she said, still gazing at his portrait. She offered no more comment.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Odile crossed the open entry hall toward a set of tall walnut doors. Bianca scurried ahead of her and opened them for the widow to enter. It was a high-ceilinged room with long tables rimming the perimeter. The rows of silver plates and goblets reflected a rare cloud break as sunlight entered from expansive arched windows. On the head table sat a silver urn filled with evergreen and holly, from which hung delicate silver cast icicles. Tiered holders awaited their candles, and Bianca could imagine the magical bounce of light off the polished silver surfaces. Odile ran her fingers lightly over the place settings as she strolled toward the head table. A few feet away she stopped to admire it.

  “What say you?” she said, her eyes fixed on the table.

  “I think I shall never see a more beautiful celebration.”

  “It is lovely, is it not?” Odile turned to Bianca, and the two of them gazed at the room with quiet awe. “I’ve spent my entire life hoping for the day when I would feel true happiness.” Odile smiled ruefully. “I did not expect my life to be nearly over before finding it.”

  “My lady, you have many happy years ahead of you,” said Bianca. “You and Boisvert have much to look forward to.”

  Odile looked up at the sun streaming through the windows, at the dust motes dancing in the light. “I suppose it is all in order. I see no fault with their preparations. Shall we leave?”

  As the pair made their way toward the entrance, they heard Oro Tand in loud discussion. They did not have to guess what the conversation was about. Two men in luxurious dress stood by; their taste in fabric and colors bespoke men well traveled and with an eye for fashion. Haberdashers. No other men dressed in cloth so richly dyed as to veer toward imperial purple—His Majesty’s right alone. Their gowns were lined in imported fur the likes of which Bianca had never seen.

  These men were about appearance—and flaunting it.

  “Sir, the lane is not solely our concern,” said the one with a perfectly trimmed beard and a doublet of leather elaborately constructed and stitched. “It is the responsibility of all who ply their trade upon it. We are three of the highest-ranked guilds, and as such we should uphold the standards for our trades as well as keep our address desirable. I challenge you to name a more riddled road in all of London.”

  “There is St. Peter’s Hill,” said Tand without hesitation.

  The leather-clad haberdasher tilted his head. “Besides that.”

  “It does you no benefit to press me, gentlemen. Our guild hasn’t the funds to contribute.”

  The second haberdasher, dressed in an indigo gown furred with marten, looked incredulous. “I find that difficult to imagine,” said he, gazing around the fine interior of the guildhall. His eyes dropped to the Turkey carpet on which they stood, and he took a step back, spreading his arms to present his proof. “Here lies some wealth. Sell a few rugs and you will not miss the cushion beneath your feet. A small sacrifice so that the king does not regard your guild unfavorably.”

  “It is not for me to make that decision.”

  “Bring it forward for discussion,” ordered the first haberdasher. Loath was he to treat the Gold Guild with more respect.

  The second visitor did not wait for Master Tand to reply. “The king will process down Foster Lane near the end of the month, the fifth day of Christmas. If the carrier should stumble into a rut and His Majesty tumbles out, shall I inform him the Gold Guild did not see fit to invest in repairing the road for him?”

  “And if that should happen when the king is in a black humor?” prodded the haberdasher with the impeccably trimmed beard. “Sir, I should not want to be you.”

  Odile and Bianca kept a respectful distance to allow the men to finish. Oro Tand noticed them and grew more wooden. “Gentlemen, I shall bring the matter forward at our next council. Perhaps someone may have a suggestion for raising adequate funds.” He left the haberdashers gaping after him and stalked past Bianca and Odile as if they were not there.

  “Madame Farendon,” said the haberdasher in the exotical furred gown. “My congratulations on your upcoming marriage.”

  His companion bowed respectfully. “Like your late husband, your betrothed has excellent taste in women.”

  “Lionel never would have shirked the guild’s responsibility for the common good,” said the first. “The Goldsmiths’ Company was in better hands when he was master.”

  Odile listened graciously, a thin smile tacked on her face.

  * * *

  Back at the Mayden Lane residence, Boisvert was juggling a flurry of deliveries. While he was allowing in two men hefting a crate of French wine between them, Odile’s wedding cloak arrived. Nico, her spaniel, was in a frenzy, yapping at the man who delivered it and nipping at the fox-fur lining.

  At the sight of Odile, Boisvert swiped the frantic canine off the floor and deposited him in her arms. “Do something with this creature,” he said, “before I go mad.” He took the cloak and started down the hall, calling for a servant, but Odile called him back after answering another knock at the door. “Il est de la guilde d’or.”

  A young apprentice from the Goldsmiths’ Company presented Odile with a beautifully carved box. “On behalf of the brotherhood,” he said, bowing solicitously.

  The two deliverymen, having deposited the wine, sidled past while Odile handed Nico to Boisvert, which pleased neither dog nor man. The spaniel squirmed free and started another round of hysterical barking.

  Not wishing to be underfoot, Bianca made overtures to leave.

  “Bianca, you mustn’t leave without your gown,” said Odile, reaching for her arm and summoning a maid in French.

  The young man from the Gold Guild accepted Odile’s compliments on the intricate design and elaborately cast clasp with inlaid garnets. She had opened the box and was admonishing Nico when her maid arrived carrying Bianca’s gown. Odile looked up. “Donnez-le lui,” she said, tipping her head toward Bianca. The servant passed the gown over to Bianca in front of Odile just as she reached into the box. “Mon Dieu! Je me suis piqué!” She withdrew her pricked finger and put it in her mouth. “It is lovely but dangerous.” She held open the box for Boisvert, who withdrew a gold filigree ouche with a center stone of cut peridot.

  “To match your lively green eyes, my lady,” said the apprentice.

  Boisvert’s brows danced as he examined the piece with a keen eye, then returned it to the box. “Shall you wear it at our wedding?”

  Bianca stretched her neck to look at the brooch. The question was barely out of Boisvert’s mouth when another knock came at the door. Another delivery of wine was ushered in. Behind these carters stood a young boy.

  “Madame Farendon,” said the lad, bowing. He held up a pax loaf wrapped in fine cloth. “Partake of this until you are wed, keeping the Heavenly Father in your heart and prayers.”

  Odile accepted the gift and crossed herself. “Thank Father Nelson for his concern.”

  “He has asked that I remind you of your appointment.”

  “Oui, of course,” said Odile. She covered the bread with the cloth. “I shall be there.”

  Bianca folded the dress twice over in order to keep it from dragging on the ground. “Odile, I shall see you anon. The next time we speak you shall be Odile Boisvert.”

  For a second Odile seemed astonished at the realization of it. “C’est vrai. I have been widowed so long that it will be strange.”

  Boisvert returned the brooch to the box. He took Odile’s finger from her mouth and pressed it to his lips to kiss. “Our marriage is a change of mutual choice, mon ami. This happiness would no
t have happened by chance.”

  Bianca observed Boisvert’s display of affection. She was momentarily surprised by the Frenchman’s overt adoration for his bride. She had never doubted the silversmith’s regard for John or, for that matter, herself, but he never spoke of his affection—it was simply understood. Boisvert saved his emotions for complaining about “les rosbiffs,” as he tartly preferred to call his British peers.

  As Bianca bid them well, yet another man appeared at the door to deliver a beaded headpiece. It was time for Bianca to wander home and run her cheek against the soft fur collar of her dress—while no one was looking.

  CHAPTER 11

  In the area of Middle Temple, there was a not-so-important building that stood in the majestic shadow of its esteemed counterpart. And in the less important building sat a less important solicitor. Try as he might, Benjamin Cornish would never garner the respect given a barrister. He had given up sitting for entrance to the Inns of Court. He would never be admitted into that exclusive club of erudite thinkers.

  He could have accepted his lesser title and done a respectable business preparing briefs and property transfers, drafting wills . . . if respect was all that he wanted, but the man had just enough intelligence to realize what he was missing.

  Benjamin Cornish, solicitor and snout-fair swigman of writs, sat in his heavily paneled office. Before him was the wealthy widow Odile Durand Farendon and her fat Frenchman fiancé, Boisvert. An embering hearth warmed the widow’s delicately lined face so that her skin looked dewy in its ambient glow. However, the light did not favor Boisvert’s sallow skin, and he looked jaundiced at best.

  Cornish sat back in his finely upholstered chair, which was stuffed with horsehair to cradle his perfectly formed buttocks. A lawyer spent much of his day on his arse, and the importance of a comfortable chair could not be emphasized enough. This chair, however, had seen its master sit through countless interviews, contracts, and letters, so that now a hole had been worn in the tapestry, and a nail—which should have been bent over, then padded—poked out, reminding him that he must get it repaired before his tender man parts were effectively skewered.

  “Madame Farendon,” Cornish began. “Thirteen years ago, you contested your late husband’s will. The king decided in your favor and you’ve enjoyed a sizable estate for the maintenance of your person.”

  “Monsieur Cornish, I am not here to discuss what was decided years ago. I wish to make out my last will and testament.”

  “It is usually not done until one’s imminent demise.”

  “And what if I should die before I expect to? I wish to leave St. Vedast an endowment upon my death, and I want to be sure that nothing will prevent it.”

  “I am certain your betrothed would see to the matter if that should happen. He must be of an agreeable mind, or else you would not marry him?” Cornish shot Boisvert a look—though a skeptical one.

  Odile’s face grew pink. “I am capable of handling my own affairs. I have successfully done so for twelve years. My former husband took care of his soul and did not care what happened to me once he quit this world. St. Botolph received a significant sum to say his obiits. The chancel priest has been happily praying for him for twelve years with those funds, and I expect he’ll ring the bell for another twenty. Certainly that is plenty of time for a decision to be made regarding his soul.”

  “We cannot assume to know God’s timetable,” replied Cornish.

  “Every anniversary of my late husband’s death I am reminded of the bastard by the dissonant clang of his chantry bells. I see no peace from the man for as long as I shall live.”

  Benjamin Cornish’s chin dropped. “Madame Farendon, your vitriol is unbecoming of a woman of your position. If you fear for your soul, such vocal disparagement is ill-advised.”

  “And does our Lord care what I say about a man who loved me not? Is it not better to say what I think? We are told that God prefers an honest heart over a deceptive one. After all, He does know all. He knows my mind, and even yours.”

  “For cert He is all-seeing and all-knowing.”

  “Clip your tongue if you like. Lawyers are practiced in the art of that, but I am not so inclined.”

  Disquieted by Odile’s candor, Boisvert intervened. “Monsieur Cornish, this subject is très difficile for Odile. You’ll excuse her state émotionnel.” He took Odile’s hand in his. “Mais you must understand that she wishes for her soul the same treatment that her husband secured for his.”

  “Certainly,” said Benjamin Cornish, leaning forward in his chair and flinching a little at doing so. To his knowledge, most funds for obiits had been seized by the king and his Court of Augmentations—but a few wealthy patrons, mostly slow to embrace the king’s religious supremacy, still wanted their souls spared the unpleasant tortures of a prolonged purgatory. And who was he to deny them? Obiits were quickly becoming a charming vestige of an earlier time, and loath was he to inform or even remind them of their futility. Who doesn’t want to save their soul? He expected the funds would end in the king’s coffers, but if Odile Farendon did not mention it, he certainly was not going to. Besides, the fee he’d collect for recording her will would go a long way toward reupholstering his favorite chair.

  “I shall write your will and testament and file it with the Commissary Court, Madame Farendon.” Cornish dipped a quill into a pot of ink, poised to begin. “Now, if you will inform me of your wishes.”

  Odile made allowances for the care and feeding of her soul. A substantial sum would go to St. Vedast, her beloved parish church. She also stipulated an inheritance for Boisvert in the event she should predecease him. The balance of her effects would go to the poor.

  “You have made no mention of the Worshipful Company of Goldsmiths.” Cornish thought he should mention it. Her late husband was once master, and certainly Boisvert was a member of the esteemed guild. The concession would go a long way in smoothing over past grievances between them.

  “Non. I shall not give money to a group of men who would use it to replenish their supply of Bordeaux.”

  “Your late husband was a respected leader of the guild. Your wealth is in some part due to his association with them.”

  “You are speaking once again of a matter that was settled years ago. If it was not in the guild’s heart to care for me, a member’s widow, then why should it be in mine to leave them a farthing? I had no choice but to contest my late husband’s will, or I would have been left destitute.”

  They locked eyes like two circling cats.

  Odile was not finished. “I understand, Monsieur Cornish, that you might yet represent some members of the guild, but I will remind you that I am here as your client, and it is your duty to serve my interest. You know my history. You know my connections. Do not assume that time has diminished those contacts. I could have gone elsewhere, but I chose you because of your familiarity with my situation.”

  Boisvert slid Cornish’s fee across the table.

  The lawyer resisted pouncing on the offered coins. He would have accepted half the fee now and half upon the delivery of the signed papers to the Commissary Court. But his clients were foreigners, and Frenchmen at that. They were trusting and naïve in a country of men blessed with superior wit. “I shall draw up the papers tonight, and you can pay me the other half when you sign them tomorrow.”

  “We’ve paid you your fee, trusting you’ll take care of this,” said Odile.

  “Oh.” The lawyer laughed—unconvincingly. “I see you have paid me in full.”

  Odile and Boisvert stared until the smile disappeared from his face.

  “Well, Monsieur Cornish,” said Odile, “I am grateful for your time. My conscience is at peace.” She placed her grip on the chair’s armrests, and as she rose her left hand clenched like the end of a shepherd’s hook. She cried out in pain from the unexpected spasm.

  Boisvert sprang to his feet. “Ma chérie!”

  Odile’s shoulder met her ear. Her body began to tremble, and she looked
down in horror at her hand as it tightened like an eagle’s claw.

  Benjamin Cornish watched Odile Farendon’s pleasing features twist into a harpy’s. Nay, not a harpy, thought he; her countenance looked more diabolical. An evil look splayed across her face, and her eyes were glazed and vacant.

  Boisvert gripped his beloved’s arm as her body continued to shake. She was rattling in a half stance. With effort, he managed to ease her back into the chair.

  Cornish hurried to a cabinet and poured a cup of wine. He glanced at the widow, drank it down, then poured another for Odile. Boisvert put the vessel against her lips and tipped the cup against her mouth. Perhaps a bit trickled down her throat, but her jaw was clenched and a large portion of the wine soaked her neckline.

  “Is the lady prone to these episodes?” Cornish asked. He had once seen something similar. A woman brought to court for casting evil on the owner of the Dew Drop Inn began trembling so violently that she fell to the ground. She wallowed about, frothing at the mouth. He wondered if Odile Farendon suffered from the same malady. But her tremors were not so severe. Odile remained seated, and she did not drool like the accused woman had.

  Then, as suddenly as the spasms began, they ceased. Odile Farendon calmed. Her contorted face smoothed, and now she merely looked confused.

  “I have never seen this,” said Boisvert. “I have known her for some time.”

  “Methinks your betrothed has not told you all of her secrets.”

  Boisvert straightened and faced the solicitor. “Monsieur, I have pledged my love to Odile. I will not renege on my promise to marry her.”

  Benjamin Cornish pitied the fool the way one might look upon a dog with three legs. What sort of life would the man have if he had to worry about his wife behaving thus? His advice, if the proud toad were to ask for it, would be to postpone their nuptials, indefinitely if need be. How difficult was it for a man to fall out of love with a woman? Not for all the money in the king’s coffers would he, Benjamin Cornish, expose himself to such unpredictable public humiliation. But, of course, he was not Boisvert. Nor did he know the mind of any Frenchman—thank providence for small favors.