Death at St. Vedast

by Mary Lawrence

  And the Queen Moon watched, as was her pleasure, cold and distant.

  CHAPTER 2

  If there was one benefit to sitting outside the Stone Gate in December, it was that the cold wind carried away the smell of rotting flesh and dispersed it somewhere over the Thames. Bianca gazed up at the display of heads on pikes and watched one miscreant swivel dangerously close to coming loose.

  “I should not like it if he lands in my lap.” Bianca rearranged a blanket over her knees as she sat on the narrow seat of a dray between her husband, John, and Meddybemps, their streetseller friend.

  “It cannot be much longer,” said Meddybemps, looking east at the faint, burnished glow on the horizon. He handed over the reins to John and hopped off the wagon to stand at the gate and holler for a guard.

  “He seems to think they will answer,” said John.

  “He is ever hopeful.” Bianca turned to tuck in the flapping corner of a blanket covering her wares. When one was moving alembics and the accoutrements of her science, it was best to travel at night, but since that was not an option, they made do with traveling just before dawn.

  Meddybemps bellowed into the arched entrance of London Bridge and rattled the iron portcullis, which refused to yield. After a moment, a guard toting a halberd ambled up to the bars. He glared at the streetseller.

  “It is day’s first light. Can you give us entrance to cross?”

  The guard looked past Meddybemps to the dray. “What is your hurry?” he asked suspiciously.

  “We want to start across the bridge before the road becomes clogged. Besides, it is not so pleasant waiting in this cold.”

  “It is no concern of mine if ye haven’t the sense to arrive after curfew ends.”

  “Man, look to the east. The sun is broaching the horizon.” Meddybemps tipped his chin in its direction. He stomped his feet to get his humours flowing and blew in his hands.

  The guard walked back through the gatehouse, disappeared from sight for a minute (presumably to confirm Meddybemps’s claim), and returned. “What’s that ye got in your wagon?”

  Meddybemps knew there was no use in leading the man astray. He could easily inspect the cart and prevent their passage. Delay would prove only more challenging for them. “We have the stuff of alchemy.”

  “Do ye, now?” The guard looked past the streetseller and eyed Bianca. “Which one of ye is the alchemist?”

  “He is.” Meddybemps waved an arm at John. He ignored John’s startled look and hoped the lad had enough sense to lie when asked. Not only did the streetseller wish to deflect attention off Bianca, but if he had called her an alchemist, he would have been subjected to another one of her diatribes explaining why she was most assuredly not an alchemist. He was not in the mood.

  Spending half the night obtaining a horse and dray had left him in a foul temper. Meddybemps was an inexperienced driver, and to entrust him with the means to a man’s livelihood required an act of faith. But the threat of ruin from unsavory gossip persuaded Arthur Milbourne to part with his conveyance—at least until noon.

  Not only did Meddybemps have to back the horse and cumbersome wagon down the narrow alley where Bianca had her room of Medicinals and Physickes, but he had to help Bianca and John load all of their belongings—including several cages of live rats—into the bed under dark of night. He’d nearly expired from the smell of chicken manure from her neighbor’s coop in Gull Hole, and the odor clung stubbornly to his clothes. Then the nonstop howling of Hobs, their cat, in a box behind the seat had rubbed his patience raw.

  “So’s the dabbler got any gold?” asked the guard, leaning in.

  “It’s a rare alchemist who can hold on to anything of worth,” replied Meddybemps.

  “That’s a sorry state. Then I guess the alchemist will have to wait a while more. It may be dawn fast upon us, but it will be a while ’til the curfew is lifted.”

  Meddybemps irritably tromped back to the wagon. “He needs some encouragement. Have you an incentive?”

  Bianca and John looked at each other and shrugged.

  “Perhaps we should offer him your immortal cat?” he suggested after Hobs voiced a particularly pathetic yowl.

  Bianca’s eyes flashed. “I think not!” She reached under the blanket and withdrew her purse. She searched through it and pulled out a half crown. “Offer him this.”

  “That’s more than I make in a month,” John protested. “You’ll have to do a keen business with your salves to make up for it.”

  “We’ll save that much in rent living at Boisvert’s. It will even out. Besides, my feet are nearly frozen.”

  Meddybemps didn’t wait for them to come to an agreement but strode back to the guard, holding up the coin.

  “Wells,” said the man, “that gets me interested.” He stuck his arm through the gate, but Meddybemps held the coin beyond his reach.

  “Either you are interested enough to give us leave or you are not. We’ve nothing more to offer.”

  The guard’s mouth turned up in a lopsided grin. He glanced around and, seeing no one to object, agreed. “Close enough.” He took the money and pocketed it. “Mind ye keep your counsel. I’ve a memory for faces.”

  Meddybemps hastened back to John and Bianca, his errant eye rolling with annoyance. The streetseller had an eye that could best be described as “loose.” At rest, its focus veered west, as if perpetually looking at his ear. “He would have had us sit until someone wanted out.”

  “Then it is coin well spent,” said Bianca.

  The squeal of chain and pulley broke the morning quiet as the iron bars lifted. Meddybemps urged the mare on. The wagon bumped up the cobbled ramp, and they rode under the Stone Gate.

  The three nodded to the guard as they passed, and he watched stoically as they lumbered by.

  The road across London Bridge was damnably narrow. If they had left later in the morning, it would have taken hours to reach the other side. There were no turnouts, only areas where two average-sized carts might squeeze past if they were perfectly aligned. Even this was fraught with difficulty, as jutting axle nuts could lock with a passing wagon and stall traffic until the two vehicles were maneuvered or rocked free.

  Overhangs and abutting buildings afforded little light to see by as they trundled along. Meddybemps was thankful the mare was unexcitable. He preferred her plodding pace to a more spirited and probably unmanageable animal. At least one part of this endeavor was going smoothly.

  “I’m certain you will like living in Boisvert’s rent,” said John. “Aldersgate is a short walk, and you can collect plants in Smithfield. Or you could walk along the city wall to Morefield.” It had been a week since Bianca had agreed, but John still felt the need to convince her that this move was to her benefit.

  “My only misgiving is where I shall set up my chemistries.” For Bianca, that was a major concern. She had entered into marriage with John eight months before and had nearly lost him to the sweating sickness only a couple of months later. He blamed his illness on the foul airs of her rent in Gull Hole in Southwark. Bianca was not so sure; the sweat seemed to pick its victims at random. It didn’t matter whether one lived in a crowded neighborhood near the Thames or on a country estate.

  “Perhaps if you limit your dabbling to a few unobtrusive decoctions until we figure out where you could work.”

  Bianca didn’t reply. “A few unobtrusive decoctions” meant anything that wouldn’t offend the French metalsmith’s sensibilities—meaning his nose.

  John’s acquaintance with Boisvert had begun several years ago with a kidney pie. John had lived the life of an orphan, sleeping in a barrel behind the Tern’s Tempest, surviving on table scraps from the tavern. One night, he watched from the safety of his dark drum while Boisvert insulted his attackers, then puked on them. The Frenchman was thoroughly trounced for the indiscretion.

  Once the Frenchman had been left for dead, John emerged from the cask to search the man’s pockets. The battered snail eater surprised John when he
opened his eyes and asked the boy to help him home. Always the opportunist, John saw his chance to pinch a few valuables once he helped the swaggering outlander inside his residence.

  However, it was not to be. The balding Frenchman had enough of his faculties about him that he declined John’s offer to see him to his bed, and once he’d stumbled over the threshold, he ungraciously slammed the door in the boy’s face.

  Nothing came of the incident except John’s growing dislike of all things French, until one day Boisvert sought John on Olde Fish Street Hill. He needed an apprentice, and if the boy could tolerate living in a proper rent, then he could use the help. “Of course, if you prefer a barrel,” he had told John, “we could move one into the alley behind the shop.”

  So John became Boisvert’s disciple, confidant, and surrogate family. His apprenticeship was nearing its end, and soon he would be able to set up shop on his own. But that required more money than he and Bianca had. When Boisvert announced he was marrying the wealthy widow Odile Farendon and would be moving into her home, John offered to look after the forge and adjoining rent.

  The arrangement made sense to Boisvert. Leaving a silver shop vacant was ill-advised no matter what safeguards were in place. The silversmith agreed on condition that Bianca forgo her chemistries. Boisvert claimed he did not want to incite his neighbors, but, in truth, he could not tolerate the thought of his immaculate rent being turned into a workshop for the dark art. Boisvert had seen Bianca’s domestic skills and did not want his walls, painted with murals of Provence, coated with soot and stink.

  John knew there was little chance that Bianca would completely abandon her work. He arranged a compromise, convincing Boisvert that not all of Bianca’s efforts resulted in smoke and chaos.

  Eventually, Bianca relented to John’s pleas and pondered how she might skirt Boisvert’s restrictions. Her room in Southwark was too far to travel to on a daily basis, especially in the winter. So, with regret, she abandoned the dilapidated rent. But as yet she had not thought of any way she might remain useful on Foster Lane. She envisioned long days of creating only simple infusions and balms. If she could not pursue her passion, how would she relieve her boredom? Her enthusiasm for the move remained subdued, and with every cheery reminder from John of how much she was going to like living there, Bianca grew more sullen.

  However, she did agree that the money they would save might be worth the upheaval. Certainly she could make a few decoctions to sell at market. Decoctions that were not offensive smelling, and it might keep her busy over the winter. But the long months of inclement weather were Bianca’s most productive. She tried not to dwell on how much she would miss her work.

  She reminded herself that marriage was a partnership and there were some advantages. Living alone with a cat and the trappings of what appeared to be an alchemy room looked suspiciously diabolical for a woman. Bianca was well aware that her interest in experimentation and chemistries could be misconstrued. Perhaps moving to London with her husband might temper any rumors that might be hop-frogging on the tongues of wary neighbors and malcontents. For the time being at least, she would put aside her own interests for the benefit of furthering John’s. However, she would keep an eye out for a discreet vacancy where she might be able to work her chemistries inconspicuously.

  At the other end of the bridge, a steady stream of pedestrians began to enter through the opened gate. The wagon squeezed past, and just as it merged onto Thames Street, a rooster announced the new day.

  “How do you find Boisvert’s betrothed?” asked Bianca, distracting herself from brooding. The courtship had been brief, and to John’s surprise the wedding announcement had been a sudden, unexpected outcome.

  “Odile Farendon is a generous woman. She is also blessed with wealth. I can think of no argument against his marrying her.”

  “I never thought Boisvert would marry anyone. He seemed content to advise you about love from a safe distance.” Bianca unwound her scarf and draped it over her head to keep her cap from blowing off. It was difficult to squash her thick waves flat enough to keep her coif on, even on a calm day.

  John sat on his hands to warm them. “I don’t expect he will ever stop advising me. It will be interesting to see how he manages.”

  “This is his first marriage?”

  “It is. For a man who loves his creature comforts, I would have thought matrimony a necessity for him.”

  “He only just met her?”

  “He has known her since his arrival from France. Odile’s first husband was master warden of the Goldsmiths’ Company and served as an alderman and lord mayor. Boisvert was admitted to the livery under Farendon’s appointment. Granted, Boisvert paid a healthy redemption for that privilege. He had no choice in the matter if he wanted to stay and work in London.”

  “I’m surprised the guild let him join,” said Meddybemps.

  “They admit a few ‘stranger brothers’ if they prove worthy. But the Company has its standards and does not readily admit foreigners.”

  “Worthy in the sense of being able to pay whatever fee they ask?” Meddybemps smirked.

  “It probably helped Boisvert that Lionel Farendon’s wife was French. I suppose he was more tolerant than most.”

  “And where is this home he has moved into?”

  “Around the corner on Mayden Lane.”

  “That is convenient for him,” said Bianca. “Boisvert will be breathing down our necks. No chance of me sneaking in an experiment without him knowing.”

  The cart bumped along, turning up Bread Street, and Bianca could not ignore the smell of loaves baking in ovens. She asked Meddybemps to stop and ran inside a shop, returning with a warm loaf for each of them. The three continued on, devouring their bread, until they jagged up Friday Street, where the strong scent of fish clashed with their breakfast.

  “Soon it will be broad daylight, and we won’t have the dark to hide us,” said Bianca. She gestured to the nag, who seemed to be slowing down. “Can you urge her on a little?”

  “Pinch its arse,” said John.

  “I may not know much about horses, but I know more than you. One does not pinch a horse’s ass to hurry it.” Meddybemps clicked his tongue and jostled the reins. The mare took a few spirited steps, then fell back to her lead-footed plod.

  “We shall get there when we do.” Bianca resumed munching on her loaf of bread. “At least we are making progress in the right direction.”

  Either in agreement or, more likely, in discontent, Hobs complained until they crossed Cheapside and turned onto Foster Lane. The sun still clung to the horizon, and the buildings blocked the eastern light, keeping the road cold and fairly dark. Frozen ruts pocked the lane, rattling the dray and nearly spilling its contents and its passengers. Meddybemps did his best to avoid the hazards, but only one side of the wagon could be saved at a time, and the opposite side would drop into the next trench.

  They had just gotten the back wheel free from a particularly troublesome rut when Bianca noticed a crowd gathered in the street up ahead. She shook John’s arm and pointed.

  “So much for getting you moved into Boisvert’s unnoticed,” he said.

  “Meddy, stop. I want down.”

  “Just as well,” said the streetseller. “Perhaps it will lighten the load.”

  “By about as much as a bird’s beak,” said John, smiling.

  Bianca hopped off the dray and started up the lane to Hobs’s yowling objection.

  CHAPTER 3

  Bianca wasn’t the only one sorry about leaving Gull Hole and Southwark. There was another who regretted their move as they rode across the bridge on their way to London. The smell of her, the smell of alchemy—its acrid tang stung his nose, and he looked up to follow the wagon’s wheels as they rolled across the drawbridge.

  Once an alchemist himself, the Rat Man knew the discipline’s allure. The bubbling concoctions, the dance of imperfect metals, the quickening heartbeat of anticipation. But years earlier, his chemistries, his exp
erimentation, had gone wrong. Horribly wrong.

  Like all alchemists, he desired to turn base metals into gold. But transmutation required reverence for the dark art and perfect technique. It was both a spiritual and a scientific pursuit. To create gold, one must first achieve perfection in attitude and knowledge—a nearly impossible task.

  In an alchemist’s world, there were only seven metals—gold, silver, iron, lead, tin, copper, and mercury. These metals had in common certain properties. Except for mercury, all could be cast, hammered, and shaped. Because of these common properties, alchemists believed that the metals must be composed of essentially the same ingredients. Ingredients whose proportions could be adjusted. Whether through fire, distillation, or putrefaction, a key existed that would unlock a metal’s transmutation. Every alchemist searched for that perfect combination, that perfect sequence. The ultimate goal was gold, the father of perfection.

  Why was gold desired above all else?

  Only gold resisted tarnish and corrosion. No other metal could withstand soil’s capacity for decomposition. One could bury a lump of gold, and a hundred years later it would still look as bright as the day of its interment. Gold was wrought from nature underground, and it took untold years to accomplish the task. Alchemists merely wished to create gold faster than nature did—they strived to bend it to their will.

  But to do so required the philosopher’s stone—the lapis philosophorum.

  The “stone” was the requisite agent of change. No one knew from what it was made or exactly how to make it. But if its seed were added to a base metal and the projection were performed correctly, the stone would transmute, would “correct” the metal and change it into gold.

  Just as gold was the embodiment of perfection of the tangible, material world, immortality was perfection of the living, spiritual realm. For some alchemists, discovering the elixir of immortality took precedence over transmuting base metals into gold. Of recent note, Ferris Stannum, an alchemist of great ability, had endeavored to create the fabled potion. Stannum had stopped shy of creating the “white stone,” the catalyst needed to transmute a metal into silver. Instead, he had created the white elixir—the foundation for the elixir of immortality. Perhaps, thought the Rat Man, he had even succeeded in creating the desired elixir. But Stannum had been murdered soon after his discovery. Such was his reward for his achievement.