Father Nelson reassured the couple, then barreled ahead with the ceremony. The murmuring died down as the priest continued.
The final blessing bestowed, the newlyweds turned to face the congregation. Bianca stared in disbelief.
Odile’s teeth were clenched in a spurious smile; her usually welcoming eyes looked glazed and unblinking. Dismayed by the transformation, the guests grew so quiet that Bianca could hear the priest take a gulp of wine.
No one uttered a word as the couple made their way down the aisle toward the rear of the church. Odile’s limp was more pronounced. In addition to her peculiar expression, she rested her frozen hand on top of Boisvert’s as if nothing were wrong. Their attempt to appear nonchalant looked anything but.
“Apparently marriage does not suit the lady,” quipped Oro Tand after the couple passed. “It usually takes years for a wife to become a gorgon, and longer for a husband to realize it. She’s saved Boisvert the honeymoon.”
Henry Lodge nodded. “Forsooth, Master Tand, I do agree.”
“My lord,” said Bianca, overhearing the two of them and directing her comment to the master of the Gold Guild. “I see cruelty comes easier to you than kindness. Perhaps you shall be rewarded some day for your quick tongue—in hell.”
Bianca made for the back of the church, leaving John to make amends. She did not trust herself to listen to Tand’s reply and remain cordial.
She was nearly to the font when John caught her arm. “Why must you set me at odds with Master Tand? Return and ask his forgiveness.”
“I shall not abide such a spiteful remark. He should not be indulged.”
“He’s the master of the Worshipful Company of Goldsmiths!”
“All the more reason to shame him into decency.”
“I shall someday go before him to become a guild member.”
“Then you should think on the company you want to keep.” Bianca stopped and looked for Boisvert and Odile. “Have they left?”
“Do not avoid this. I have worked years to finish my apprenticeship, and your galling remark shows a staggering lack of concern for me.”
“Think you on which remark was more galling.”
Silence. Just piercing stares.
John softened first—a sign of what he held most dear. “I doubt Odile and Boisvert want to greet their guests at the moment.”
Bianca glanced around, giving their contention a rest. “Where might they go? Is there a chamber where they may have gone?”
“They left, my lady,” piped a young lad standing near. “A carriage drove them away.”
* * *
The moment Oro Tand arrived at the Goldsmiths’ Hall, the head cook and entire kitchen staff surrounded him. Word about the wedding ceremony—more specifically, Odile’s sudden affliction—traveled quicker than he could walk it there. What to do about the dinner, what to do about the food, can we go home?
“Carry on,” ordered Tand. “The food will not keep and the guests will not wait to return another day. I regret that we have no couple to honor, but such are the circumstances.”
The kitchen staff groused and shuffled back to their ovens and custards, disappointed their larders would not benefit from an unexpected windfall. Tand, however, was relieved he did not have to feign hospitality to the witless couple. He’d had enough of Odile Farendon’s scrutinizing every detail of the dinner. No wonder her former husband, Lionel, never recovered from his last illness. Death was probably the only peace the man enjoyed in all the years they had been wed.
Tand stopped at the portrait of Odile’s deceased husband, moved to a prominent position next to the dining hall. “Sir Lionel, you would not have approved, my good friend. It is a sorry state when two Gallic thieves conspire to purloin an Englishman’s fortune.”
Presently, members of the Company and their wives began arriving from St. Vedast. Far be it from goldsmiths to forgo a sumptuous feast, even if their hosts are not present. The hall buzzed with conjecture and exclamations of shock and dismay about the wedding ceremony and the bride’s strange showing. Many attributed her behavior to the peculiarities of being French. Some thought she had a guilty heart and was being punished by God. “Evil spills over when it fills the heart,” one astute goldsmith reminded them.
When it looked as though the hall was full, Oro Tand raised his hand for quiet.
“Good e’en, gathered brethren and ladies. We are here to celebrate the union of our brother and his bride in holy matrimony. Unfortunately, they are absent, but I am certain that it would be Odile and Boisvert’s most ardent wish that we not postpone the merriment because of their delay. Instead, let us celebrate the couple and be all the merrier!” A blare of assents erupted from the menfolk. “Our pleasure making is done in their honor,” Tand continued. “And it is my . . . ahem . . . it is our fervent wish that the lady recover in rapid measure. So let us gather in the dining hall, where we shall enjoy our poisson and the wine shall flow like their Seine!”
As Tand watched the couples repair to the dining hall, Henry Lodge appeared at his side.
“The evening has taken an unexpected turn,” said Lodge.
“Indeed. But we shall endeavor to celebrate anyway. I learned long ago that puzzling over unforeseen mishaps does not benefit my health. Incidents transpire whether I ardently wish them to or not.” Tand glimpsed the sardonic grin on Lodge’s face and lowered his voice. “And what think you of this unexpected development, Master Lodge?”
Henry Lodge snapped to, as if he’d been caught. “Tand, I was only commenting that the incident was unusual.”
“As you wish,” said the master, remembering a young apprentice who was once wildly enamored with the lady. “You might consider yourself fortunate. It is likely that Boisvert did not expect wedded bliss would be thus.” He watched Lodge stalk away, the man trying to control his cheeks from coloring several shades of lady blush.
With a snort, Tand proceeded to the dining hall, where guests began finding their places and settled in. The master goldsmith poured himself a glass of French burgundy. There was much to celebrate tonight.
* * *
Father Nelson had never presided over such a disquieting wedding ceremony. From the moment he saw Odile hobbling down the aisle leaning against Boisvert, and the groom wearing a plastered grin on his face, Father Nelson knew he must ignore his misgivings and proceed as if nothing were amiss. He managed the liturgy and communion well enough, in spite of Odile’s slight trembling and difficulty with stating her consent. It was acceptable for a bride to show some emotion at the prospect of marriage, and he continued on, hurrying a little in order to be done. However, when it came time for them to exchange their rings, he could not conceal his horror at seeing Odile’s hand stiffen like a falcon’s talon and Boisvert jamming the ring onto her bent appendage. There was no hiding the difficulty, not with them carrying on, spewing foreign oaths. Eventually the ceremony drew to a close and Odile’s odd smile settled into a hideous expression.
Now he was expected to give a blessing at the Goldsmiths’ Hall. What would he find on arrival? Would Odile have recovered or would Boisvert force her to sit through the dinner looking as strange as a bird with fur? Though the wind blew through his thickest gown, causing him to shiver, he could not bring himself to walk any faster.
At the entrance to the great hall, he followed a young couple who also seemed to be laggards to the activities. The young man held the door for him, and Father Nelson noticed the ill fit of his sleeves, as if the fellow had outgrown his doublet. Still, it reassured him to see a well-mannered young couple. They even accompanied him to the dining hall, making niceties along the way.
None of them mentioned the wedding couple. He sensed that they, too, hoped to find the newlyweds more themselves at the wedding dinner. St. Vedast had been the recipient of a surge of misfortune, and he didn’t want to add Boisvert and Odile’s ceremony to the list. He hoped to end the evening on a peaceful note and retire to his quarters for a dram of burned wine
and a good night’s rest.
Father Nelson sighed, pondering the difficulty he’d experienced of late. The priesthood had provided him with an education and, at one time, a good source of income. Now he barely collected enough tithes and fees to subsist. But how else could he earn a living? Join the legion of pensioned clergy—and live on what? He did not think they were any better off. Instead, he watched, disheartened, as St. Vedast and his parish crumbled from within. Crumbling, too, was his desire to remain a priest.
* * *
It had been a cold walk up to Mayden Lane after the wedding ceremony. John’s and Bianca’s teeth chattered as they stood outside Odile’s residence. An aged servant had answered the door, leaving them outside while she fetched her master. They were just about to abandon their wait, thinking she had forgotten them, when Boisvert pushed his face through the slightly open door.
“Odile is recovered,” he said. “We will be at the dinner.” Without further comment, he curtly closed the door.
They arrived late and were surprised to see the priest from St. Vedast walking up the road toward the Goldsmiths’ Hall, also delayed. At the entrance, the priest reluctantly mounted the steps, as if a weight had been shackled to each ankle. The pair pretended nothing was amiss, though they could see that Father Nelson’s face remained strained despite their attempts to put him at ease.
They entered the guildhall together, then parted ways as Father Nelson went to find Master Tand.
“Boisvert wants us to sit at their table,” said John as they stepped into the dining hall.
“I’d rather sit a distance away,” said Bianca. “Then I can watch the guests, unnoticed.” She straightened her French hood, which wobbled disconcertingly every time she turned her head.
“I won’t abandon my master,” said John. “He has requested that we be near at hand.”
“In spite of Boisvert’s assurance, I don’t know how Odile will be recovered enough to attend.”
“You may be right, but Boisvert needs us. You can see the guests well enough from the head table. Probably it is a better seat for you to watch others.”
Bianca heard the concern in John’s voice. It would not do to argue the point. She followed him to the head table, and they sat near the end, facing the room of guests.
Most of the attendees were already seated, helping themselves to the bottles of wine amply provided. John reached for a burgundy and poured himself a hefty amount. He drank it down and poured himself another before offering to serve Bianca.
Around them, the room hummed with good cheer. Faces glowed in the candlelight; the silver candleholders and place settings glinted; the delicate icicles hanging from the holly with crimson berries sparkled. To Bianca, the room did appear magical. It was a shame Odile was not present to bask in its beauty.
While Bianca sipped her wine and looked out at the guests, John leaned back to talk with a goldsmith two seats away. She spied Oro Tand speaking with Father Nelson, and when the master goldsmith began sidling past tables, resting his hand on men’s shoulders, bending to speak, then genially greeting others, Bianca tensed with irritation at seeing him head their way.
Father Nelson followed the master goldsmith to the head table, stopping where the married couple would have sat. Unfortunately for Bianca, Oro Tand moved past the empty chairs of honor and settled himself on the other side of John. She reached for the burgundy and emptied the bottle into her goblet.
“Good even, John Grunt,” Tand said. His eyes glanced off Bianca, who was drinking her wine as if it were ale. “Your mentor is still missing. I trust you are as sorry as I that we have no guests of honor. What say you about his absence?”
“He will be here anon. Bianca and I just paid a visit to Mayden Lane. Odile is improved.”
“Ah! A relief to hear. ’Twould be a pity for them to miss such merriment.” Tand leaned close to John. “I see your wife is not waiting to celebrate.” He guffawed loudly and slapped John on the back.
Bianca felt a jab from John’s elbow and received a scowl when she looked over. She set down her goblet. “Master Tand,” she said.
“Mistress Grunt.” Tand relished saying her presumed surname, emphasizing its crude meaning.
“Sir, I am not a Grunt. I retain my maiden name.”
“You did not join your husband and his worthy clan?”
“I joined my husband, but I chose the name by which I am known.”
“A bold move for one of the fairer sex. Such a spirited wife can prove a challenge to a young liveryman. You must have a taste for danger, John.”
John smiled thinly, unable to think what to say. Agreeing with the master goldsmith or defending his wife—it was sure to end badly either way. Instead, Bianca answered for him.
“John is not easily cowed by challenges, Master Tand. Not all men can find their way out of a barrel into the apprenticeship of a silversmith.”
Oro Tand appeared puzzled. “A barrel, my lady? I follow you not.”
“You are unaware that John spent his youth living behind the Tern’s Tempest? It is a modest beginning, but one he had the wits to rise above.” Bianca took another sip of wine and smiled sweetly at the two of them.
“Is this spoken in truth, John Grunt?”
A flush found John’s cheeks. There was no use in denying his low birth. He tugged self-consciously at the cropped sleeves of his doublet and moved his arms under the table to hide the poor fit. But if John had learned anything surviving as a gamin, it was being adept at changing the focus from himself. “Look there; I believe Father Nelson is preparing to speak.”
The priest had his hand raised, trying to quiet the guests, but his attempts went mostly ignored. He stood too long before speaking, expecting the reverence and quiet of a church mass.
Oro Tand spoke. “It looks as though I must save a priest.” He rose from the table, and just his doing so immediately garnered the attention of the entire dining hall.
“Gentle ladies and brethren, a blessing for this special occasion.”
Father Nelson cleared his throat and opened his small prayer book, flipping through the pages. He bowed his head and, after a moment of silence pierced by nervous coughs from the guests, began his invocation. Halfway through, the crowd began to stir.
Thinking the attendees were losing patience, he sped his delivery. However, nothing a priest could say would pry the attention of a guildhall full of goldsmiths away from the sight at the back of the room.
Standing in the doorway were the French silversmith, Boisvert, and his bride, Odile.
No one said a word. No one offered a word of welcome. No one approached them in greeting or ushered them to their table. The collected merrymakers stared with their mouths agape.
Odile lifted her chin and looked round at her guests. Her earlier strangeness was gone, and her regal manner had returned. She hooked arms with her husband, and Boisvert escorted her down the center toward their place at the head table, Odile’s gait as smooth as the surface of a pond. The couple claimed their seats, untroubled by the silence and stares.
Father Nelson clamped his slack jaw, offered an “Amen,” and crossed himself.
“Father Nelson,” said Odile, acknowledging the priest.
“Madame.” Father Nelson’s eyes remained as round as King Harry’s belly.
Boisvert pulled out the chair for his bride.
They could have said nothing, just let the guild men and women squirm until someone dared speak. Perhaps it would have delighted the couple to see their peers agonize over what to do. But Boisvert reached for a bottle of wine, poured himself a glass, and swirled it under his nose. Finding the vintage acceptable, he poured a glass for Odile, then raised his goblet in toast.
“To the men and women of the guild . . . Odile and I wish you prosperity and good health. Let the celebration begin in earnest.” He polished off his wine and poured himself more.
Stunned by their wondrous entry, Oro Tand shook off his astonishment and followed with a toast of hi
s own. He intoned the usual sentiments of good wishes and good health, and the guild members offered “Hear, hears” and “well mets,” until everyone settled in good ease. Jollity resumed; the gibes and laughter became louder than before.
John leaned over to Bianca. “What say you of Odile’s sudden recovery? They act as if nothing happened.”
Bianca tore apart a manchet and buttered it with John’s knife. “It is unusual for a limp and spasms to disappear so quickly with no lingering effect. I wonder if she has the falling-down sickness.”
“If that is true, we had better never mention it.”
Bianca stuffed the bread into her mouth. “I’ll say nothing unless they ask.” She leaned forward and caught Odile’s eye, lifting her goblet to her hostess.
She sat back and took a sip of wine. “Let us hope her good health continues.”
Speculations were laid to rest as servants brought forth a course of roasted pig and stuffed sturgeon. The fish had been poached in vinegar and sprinkled with parsley and minced ginger. A fig sauce accompanied the pig, and each round of food was applauded and enthusiastically praised.
The bottles of wine kept coming; no one should suffer running out of grape juice at a French wedding. Bianca enjoyed herself in spite of Oro Tand sitting next to John. She amused herself with eating and watching the members of the guild stuff themselves, leaving her husband to rectify the goldsmith’s opinion of them.
Even Father Nelson imbibed. He sat on the other side of Boisvert and matched the groom goblet for goblet as only a priest can keep pace with a Frenchman.
As the dinner wore on, couples rose from their places and came forward to visit with the honored couple. Oro Tand intoned loudly how handsome the couple looked and expressed his delight that Odile wore the ouche from the guild. Even Henry Lodge bid the couple well, bowing low over the table to take Odile’s hand and kiss it. He nearly toppled Odile’s wine, but he was able to right the goblet before it spilled. His gesture surprised Bianca, as she had witnessed his and Oro Tand’s insults at the ceremony. Watching Lodge during dinner, she thought him a miserable man. His brief conversations with his tablemates looked strained, and he spent a good deal of time stonily watching Odile and her new husband.
Death at St. Vedast Page 10