CHAPTER 8
Father Nelson was startled from his contemplation when Henry Lodge approached his door. It could only be the churchwarden, as no one else had such a weighty step—surprising, given the man was as thin as a blade of grass.
“Enter,” he called when Lodge inquired.
“Father, I have a matter that requires your approval.”
Henry Lodge was a goldsmith and careful record keeper. In fact, the priest had never seen a more conscientious churchwarden. With Lodge keeping the books, no royal commissioner would dare question their accounts. But it was precisely his findings and attention to detail that worried the priest. He could no longer pretend there were enough funds to keep St. Vedast viable. Father Nelson laid a feather on the page of his prayer book and closed it.
“I have completed the accounts for the week. All is in order. Or as ordered as we may hope.” The churchwarden handed the papers to Father Nelson, who began to look them over. “However, sir, it has come to my attention that the tower bells need greasing.”
Father Nelson’s eyebrows rose, and he looked up at the warden. “The necessity of which is what?”
“The bells creak. Their axles are becoming brittle, and there is a crack. We can ill afford if one should break.”
“Another unfortunate repair that we haven’t the funds for. There is plenty of upkeep that we should address. You must add it to the list of others. As it is, we can barely keep candles lit on the altar. If you can think of a way we can lessen our expenditures, I welcome hearing it.”
Henry Lodge nodded. “As you wish. I shall be on my way, then.” He turned for the door, but Father Nelson called him back.
“Lodge,” said the priest. “What was James Croft speaking with you about?”
“He asked about the hosts. He wanted to know if we were receiving them gratis. I told him that we were. I told him such gifts are appreciated.”
“He took issue with this?”
“He demanded to know the name of our sanctioned bakery. I did not care for his accusatory tone, so I refused to tell him.”
“I would think he would appreciate our savings.”
“Croft is the newly appointed master of the Brown Bakers’ Guild. He is a strict adherent to precedent. I suppose he wants a record of such gifts for accounting purposes.”
“In order to wield another one of his guild’s penalties? I see their officers creeping about town toting their bread scales. It seems parish churches as well as guilds are feeling the pain of the king’s policies. Or shall I say the king’s preparations for war. I can scarce imagine who or what else might be left to garnish. The king taxes the guilds. The guilds tax their liverymen. The liverymen pass their cost on to the rest of us.” Father Nelson glanced at Lodge and sniffed.
Henry Lodge did not disagree.
“Still, he is a member of the parish and a wealthy one at that. Perhaps I should pay him a visit and smooth over the misunderstanding. Enlist his sympathy for our cause.”
The churchwarden listened. He’d already voiced his opinion of the man.
“Has Buxton buried that woman’s body yet?” asked the priest.
“I believe he is still digging the grave. The ground is frozen; it has been difficult. This will likely be the last burial he’ll be able to manage until spring.”
“Buxton knows she must lie north to south? I do not wish to provoke God’s disfavor.”
“I have ensured that his compass is true,” said the churchwarden.
Father Nelson felt the urge to explain himself. “I know some may disagree with her burial here. But I cannot in good conscience doom her to hell.” Father Nelson laid the papers in front of him and absently tapped his prayer book. “Her soul is for God to judge—not me.”
“I understand.” Lodge had heard the priest’s sentiment before but declined to remind him.
“These are dangerous times for a priest,” continued Father Nelson. “The king’s mind changes as often as he changes wives. So many clergy have been offered pensions and have taken them. There are no monasteries left,” he said, sitting up in his chair. The news still left him dismayed. “Every town and village in all of England has been affected.”
“You are fortunate to still have your parish.”
“Am I?” Father Nelson sounded doubtful. “I am not certain the burden of continuing is worth this effort.”
“As you said, Father, it is a difficult time. St. Vedast is not the only church in London that struggles with the taxes and changes. You might invoke your faith,” he said, then regretted being obvious. He quickly added, “Cromwell and his men carved Henry’s future, not God.”
Father Nelson could not soften his voice. He had to speak his mind, and Lodge was an obliging audience. “This instability, this disrespect for the old ways—it affects the parishioners. There is no reverence during mass. Their insolent chatter drowns my words.” The priest’s eyes became hard with resentment. “They complain that I dawdle and keep them from their breakfast.”
The churchwarden had seen it too.
“Why should they complain so?” continued Father Nelson. “Half of them leave after elevation anyway.” The corner of his mouth lifted, thinking of the sad reality. “If it weren’t for the occasional wedding and mortuarial fee, I would have starved by now.”
“But there are those who remain faithful to St. Vedast in spite of the changes.”
Father Nelson sat back in his chair. He closed his eyes and rubbed them, thinking of Odile Farendon. “Aye, that.” Besides her, there were few parishioners who secretly doubted the rumors of corruption Thomas Cromwell and others had instigated more than five years before.
Those with money and a concern for their afterlife made sure their souls were prayed for as soon as they died. It was not enough to repent on one’s deathbed. One must show through charitable works and penance their love for God.
If one were not charitable enough, then one was not penitent enough and one’s soul would suffer appropriate cleansing in a cruel purgatory. The vision of God and the bliss of heaven were reserved for those who truly loved Him. Heaven was for those who rejected their sins for God’s love—not for the fear of landing in hell.
Father Nelson leaned forward in his chair. “We have been dealt a mortal blow, Lodge. Henry’s campaign to denigrate purgatory has been our ruination.” His grave eyes flashed. “Men have always feared the pain of purgatory more than hell—as well they should.” As a priest, it was his duty to remind sinners that their transgressions would be matched by a suitable punishment there. And the church had profited from this fear.
“It is true, chantries and obiits are not what they once were.”
“The king disparages the practice but forgets his pockets bulge from their dismantling. It is only a matter of time before he forbids them altogether.”
“But Odile Farendon . . .” prompted the churchwarden. It was difficult for him to utter her name, but his curiosity sat on his shoulder and whispered in his ear. Propriety prevented him from directly asking after her business. Propriety kept the priest from divulging it.
Father Nelson inclined his head, inquisitively.
Awkwardness kicked Henry Lodge in the throat.
“Odile is a soul in pain,” said Father Nelson. “She suffers no less than the rest of us.” He didn’t ask what Lodge’s interest was in the matter. His steady gaze inquired for him.
The churchwarden had overstepped his bounds. He had indulged the priest in spilling his heart when he should have covered his ears. They both knew it. They both knew they held each other’s honor by a thread. Who would snip first?
* * *
Father Nelson watched the churchwarden retire into the hall. He listened to the man’s heavy footfall as it faded, then picked up the papers to study the accounts. The numbers, the letters, jumbled and he grew more dispirited the longer he looked at them.
If he could not convince the few parishioners with money to give charitably to St. Vedast, then what other m
eans of raising money were left to him? There were no relics in the church’s vault. St. Vedast was not buried beneath the flagstones. And even if either were true, he would not have been able to benefit from them. Not since Henry forbade the worship of relics and saints.
He could hope for a spate of marriages, baptisms, or mortuares. With winter came more deaths. Funerals always outnumbered marriages anyway. The only means to raise funds besides menial tithes, donations, and earned fees . . . was obiits.
So, while he was able, Father Nelson would . . . encourage . . . Odile Farendon’s guilty conscience for the good of her beloved church of St. Vedast.
And here Father Nelson sat, in a parish surrounded by guilds with more wealth than he could imagine. The Haberdashers’, Goldsmiths’, and Bakers’ Companies all had addresses in the direct vicinity of Foster Lane. Their lack of interest in the struggling church dismayed him. Surely, St. Vedast was not so undesirable that they would let it fall into ruin to blight their wealthy neighborhood. Father Nelson expelled a heavy breath. Apparently, indifference was the diet of the day.
Of course he did not wish death on anyone, but Odile Farendon’s guilty conscience presented him with an opportunity.
After all these years, she was still tortured by a troubled conscience. Well, thought Father Nelson, if she was filled with guilt, he could help unburden her soul.
CHAPTER 9
At Cheapside market, Bianca glimpsed Constable Patch and quickly paid for her head of cabbage, hoping to put some distance between herself and the skulking lawman. She had been giving thought to the nonsense rhyme spoken by the victim at St. Vedast.
“Goosey, goosey, gander, where shall I wander?” The last month of a woman’s pregnancy is her month of confinement—her gander month. Usually a woman stayed home to avoid flaunting her sexuality—her grotesque appearance—in public. Her husband often looked elsewhere for “gratification” and so “wandered” to find it. Was the woman distraught that her lover had betrayed her?
Bianca hurried past St. Mary-le-Bow, determined to slip behind Eleanor Cross. The monument was ignored by most and considered an inconvenient stone enormity standing in the way of carts and commerce. For Bianca, however, it would shield her from unwelcome notice.
She had just passed Bread Street, with Friday Street in her sights, when Patch appeared, having outmaneuvered her.
“Bianca Goddard,” he said, cutting across her path. Winded but obviously pleased with himself, he held his side and caught his breath. “When on some distant shore, old friends shall meet once more.”
“Friends?” said Bianca. “I would not go so far.”
“Nay?” Patch smiled, which looked more like a snivel. “Then acquaintances?”
“As you wish.”
Constable Patch puffed out his chest like an overblown rooster and tugged on his popingay blue doublet, with recently polished brass buttons to call attention to it, Bianca thought. She refrained from commenting.
It had been a few months since last she’d dealt with the beef-witted lawman. The time had passed too quickly now that she was face-to-face with him again. They had reached some level of respect, or perhaps at least understanding, but Bianca would always view the opportunistic ward with a healthy dose of caution.
Patch glanced down at the cabbage in her hand. “Ye do seem to favor cooking with smelly agents.” He pulled his scraggly chin hair. “Still dealing in potions and such?”
“Sirrah, I do not deal in potions.” She formed each word carefully so that he could not mistake her. “I create medicinals and physickes for the sick and ailing.”
“So ye say.” Constable Patch was not one to ignore a chance to be annoying. “Ye are a long way from Southwark. Are there no cabbages left in the borough?”
“I happen to be in this neighborhood,” said Bianca. More truly spoken than Patch realized.
Bianca was scheming how to be rid of Patch when shouts came from down the road, interrupting their chance meeting. “What ho!” she exclaimed, forgetting her wish to leave. “Is that a horse dragging a piece of fence?”
“Aye, a wattle with a baker perched on top,” said Constable Patch.
They stood aside as the horse and rider passed, parading a disgraced baker on a hurdle, his thighs lashed so that he could not escape his public humiliation. A loaf of bread hung from his neck, along with a placard that read, “Here sits Tom Pate, baker caught for adding weight.” He hollered and cursed, to the sport of onlookers, who threw rotten food and mocked him as he rode past.
“He’ll not bake sand into his loaves again,” said Patch, finding a rock, which he eagerly contributed. The rain of rotting vegetables was topped with a spoiled pompion splatting on the man’s crown.
“I shouldn’t think he’d ever want to bake again,” said Bianca.
Patch eyed the cabbage in Bianca’s hand. He looked as though he wanted to throw it, too. “So, ye is taking a cabbage to yer husband?”
“Constable Patch, it is cold and I would like to be on my way.”
“Ah, be on yer way. So’s it seems. And which direction is that—on yer way?”
Ignoring his question, Bianca started walking. She hoped Patch would leave off, but like a wart, he would not go away until he was ready. He trailed after, then caught up to her, his strides lengthening with self-importance.
“Ye must know of the unfortunate death on Foster Lane. Yer husband is a journeyman for Boisvert.”
“I have heard of it.” Bianca quickened her pace.
Patch gave Bianca a sidelong glance, then got in front of her, forcing her to stop. “They thinks it is self-murder; is that what ye think?”
“I do not think anything.” Bianca sidestepped him and continued on.
Constable Patch called after. “It is unlike you not to think anything, Bianca Goddard.”
She could have ignored him, but Bianca was, by nature, unable to resist asking a question when one crossed her mind. She turned to him. “I should like to know what you think first.”
A tricky smile flicked across the constable’s face. “Wells,” said Patch, catching up to her, “I been wonderin’ why a pretty lass would takes her life. A woman doesn’t become ripe with child on her own.”
Bianca tipped her head. “I hope you have more to offer than the obvious.”
“What I am saying is that there is a party to this story. A party to her conniption.”
“A party to her condition?”
Patch stared without a response. He seemed unaware that she was correcting his English.
“One might well assume that,” said Bianca.
“So’s I’m sayin’, we find the man, we find the murderer.”
“Constable Patch, there is no proof that the party committed the murder. True, there is more to this story than a body on the ground next to St. Vedast. But no one knows who she is.”
“I knows a piece ye might be interested in.”
“And that piece is?”
Patch glanced around, then leaned in. “She had a mark on her.”
Bianca shrugged. “She fell from a great height. How could she escape unscathed?”
“Naws,” said Constable Patch, exasperated. He calmed himself, then added, “She possessed a mark like that of a claw.”
“Constable Patch, I saw the woman. I looked at her. She had no mark of an animal on her.”
“Not true, not true!” said Patch.
“Did you see it with your own eyes? Because I have learned, and so should you, that rumors are not worth the breath it takes to utter them. Besides, I don’t recall you were anywhere near the incident.”
“I happened into the ward office when the coroner filed his report.” Constable Patch looked so pleased with himself, Bianca thought he might burst.
“And where did the coroner see this mark of a claw?”
“It was on her stomach—her womb.”
Bianca thought back to the coroner and constable attending the body. She remembered the coroner lifting the woman�
�s smock and peering under it, something she would not have done in the presence of a crowd that had been aghast at her for simply turning the woman onto her back.
“He made no comment at the time,” said Bianca.
“Do ye think him a fool? If he had said a word of such a mark, he would have incited a commotion. Such findings are better kept quiet.”
“What are you insinuating, Patch?”
“Insinuating? Nay, I do not insinuate. I assume.” Patch said this with wholehearted belief. “I think there is more to this death than is clear. Is it the mark of a devil? Is it a warning that she should die beside a church? Ye should think more on this one, Bianca Goddard.”
* * *
Sleet lashed Henry Lodge’s face, the ice stinging like crewel needles being hurled from the sky. The goldsmith trudged against the elements, bound for home and his shop on Watling Street. He had just come from the Goldsmiths’ Hall, and this “lashing” only heightened his downcast state. His day had been a disappointing one, a string of aggravations....
Undertaking the duties of churchwarden at St. Vedast had become a more discouraging endeavor with every passing day. With no funds to make necessary repairs—the most worrisome being in the belfry—his ability to effect change and improvement was snuffed, the life blown out of his efforts. Father Nelson did not seem to understand the import, or perhaps he simply did not care. Lodge’s frustration with the priest sat like an unwelcome guest at a table: One had to endure the meal with civility and patience until it was over.
If it were not enough to be chided for asking for repairs, there was the master of the Brown Bakers’ Guild, James Croft, taking exception to their saving money by accepting hosts at no cost. Lodge’s feet stomped heavily as he made his way home, and he envisioned Croft’s insipid face under every step. The man was a parishioner of St. Vedast. Could he not see the dire state the church was in?
At his shop, Henry Lodge withdrew a key and let himself into his well-equipped environs. His workshop did not lack for vessels, cruets, or molds. Before his furnace, his working stool and anvil were at the ready, a row of tools neatly hung on the wall. A fire must be laid in the furnace, but first he lit a lamp.
Death at St. Vedast Page 6
