Death at St. Vedast

by Mary Lawrence

  As the goldsmith laid a pile of twigs and wood, then tipped a hod of coal over it, he thought about Odile Farendon praying in the sanctuary. Age had only softened her features, not lessened her handsome appeal. He had thought taking the position as St. Vedast’s churchwarden might enamor her to him. With his wife now deceased and his daughter married, he was a man with only his industry and avocation to keep him occupied. He saw no reason why he should not pursue a lost dream.

  Lodge struck a flint and held it to the kindling, nursing a shy, smoldering twig to flame. He stood back, then gently pumped the bellows. It was not enough that Odile Farendon was to remarry, but now he had been commissioned to create an ouche for her.

  “No one can set stone in filigree as beautifully as you,” Oro Tand told him.

  The compliment about his skill should have swelled him with pride. Instead, it filled his veins with black bile.

  “Make one of those lovely filigree brooches—an ouche,” Tand had directed. The master goldsmith’s eyes caught his, and Lodge saw the man’s mouth work to conceal a vulpine smile. “Then set a stone in a center bevel.” The master went to a shelf and pushed his finger through a box of gems; the dull chatter of stones, their excess making them of frivolous worth.

  He picked out a peridot, pinching it between two fingers so the light from a candle could play off its glassy surface. “This should do,” said Master Tand, handing over the stone. “The lady’s eyes are of similar quality, are they not?”

  The greenish yellow gem was of exceptional clarity and flawless.

  “I do not recall the lady’s eyes,” he replied, hearing his voice tighten and resenting Tand for conjuring his distress. Peridot bequeathed prosperity and happiness to its bearer, and Lodge wondered if Oro Tand reveled in that irony. He dropped the stone into a velvet purse for safekeeping, feeling Tand’s eyes watching him.

  The gold master returned the box to the shelf. “I admit I was surprised by Odile’s betrothal to our stranger brother, Boisvert.” He pretended casual conversation. “She had been a widow so long, I assumed she must prefer it. Either that or she had exacting standards of a caliber no one could meet.” He tilted his head, pausing for a response. Getting none, he continued, “I suppose those of similar . . . ilk . . . take comfort in that familiarity. Such fellowship is difficult for a Briton to imitate.”

  Henry Lodge had never stood on even ground with Oro Tand. The elder smith had always assumed a more senior role in their acquaintance. That is not to say that the younger smith lacked in anything—except a few years of age. His talent and skill in all things metallurgy well exceeded those of his brother goldsmith. But in matters of administration, in matters of governance, Tand eclipsed Lodge.

  However, Henry Lodge believed himself the more principled of the two. This conscientious adherence to probity was a quality he expected of others, and when someone disappointed, he cut them from his life as easily as butter from a churn.

  He deferred to Oro Tand only because he had to. The man sat in position. If Lodge wanted to continue his livelihood, then he had better sheathe that knife. Even if it required swallowing Tand’s veiled remarks.

  Yet there was one other who, when he put his blade against her warm neck, could turn his mettle to brittle ice.

  He tossed the purse containing the peridot on the table. Well, it is done, thought Lodge, fetching his store of beeswax and pulling off a chunk. He would cast a mold for the brooch and he would create a piece that would rouse the praise of the bride and the envy of her silversmith groom.

  But as he sat warming the wax in his hand, Tand’s voice wormed into his thoughts....

  “Do you wonder why I have asked you to create a piece for Odile when others might have sufficed?” Tand had ventured.

  “You just commented that I excel in filigree.”

  “Oh, you do, Henry.”

  “Then that is where my curiosity ends.” He had turned away, not wishing to continue the line of inquiry.

  “It is important that the guild show Odile no lingering resentment.”

  Lodge’s palms had become damp at the mention of the past and “lingering resentment.” He wished Tand would not tread that ground. But he understood the insinuation and knew that the gold master wanted him to acknowledge his meaning. “Master Tand, I shall make an ouche that shall erase all trace of bitterness.” He refused to declare that his own remaining rancor would be appeased by the creation and presentation of a piece of jewelry.

  Tand watched him a moment. “I realize I have not given you much time to design and finish the piece,” he said. “But I should like it delivered as soon as we can manage.” He cast his keen eyes on Henry Lodge. “You understand me?”

  “Quite.”

  “We must do all we can to make the occasion memorable.”

  Henry Lodge squeezed the wax in his hand. “I shall cast a piece that will leave everyone in awe.”

  * * *

  That night, James Croft, master baker, found that kneading bread quieted his mind. He slapped the mound of dough, sending puffs of flour into the air that caught in his abundant brows. The day had been a trying one. Being master of the Brown Bakers’ Guild came with responsibilities. He had coveted the position for years. The election took place the Monday after St. Clement’s Day (St. Clement being the patron saint of bakers), and he had been confirmed by a resounding majority (no one else wanted the position). Only two weeks into his appointment, he was already residing over the Court of Halimote, dispensing punishments to a handful of bakers impudent enough to fob guild standards.

  He had ordered Terman Buckle’s oven pulled down for his third offense, this time shorting loaves in Dowgate Ward. Croft frowned at the dough and folded it over, pounding it with his fist.

  He wondered if the punishment for a second offense should instead be the punishment for the first. Setting a man in a pillory was easier than having him dragged through the streets on a hurdle with a loaf of bread hung from his neck. For that, one had to secure a horse and rider, then attach the wattle to the rear of the saddle. If it wasn’t set the correct distance, the horse shat on the man’s head. Croft tsked. Once around town should teach anyone a lesson.

  He hoped Tom Pate had learned his.

  Never had Croft heard such squawking from a grown man. He wanted to ban the baker from ever selling another loaf after he saw the public spectacle he made of himself. Not a favorable showing, as his petulance reflected poorly on the Brown Bakers’ Guild. The guild could ill afford embarrassment of any kind, but standards must be upheld. And the public should respect that the Brown Bakers’ Guild was doing its part to ensure the quality of their food.

  A baker should accept his punishment in silence, retaining as much dignity as possible. Unfortunately, bakers were, by nature, a robust lot. Hefting five-stone bags of flour and working in front of hot ovens made them physically strong, and they were not afraid to speak their minds. Such was the case with Tom Pate, yowling and cursing all the way.

  Croft plopped the dough on a set of scales near his oven. He knew the weight of unbaked dough that would bake into a perfect standard loaf. Rather than weigh the bread after baking, he preferred this method.

  After the punishments had been dispensed, there was more discussion regarding the sorry state of the guild’s treasury, caused by the increased demand for white bread....

  “Physicians tout refined flour as being more healthful,” said Under Warden Morys—a man with a straw cornucopia for an ear. He’d lost the real one snooping where he should not. “The merchants and nobility cry for more manchets.”

  “Manchets? One must eat twenty to sate an appetite. What is the sense in that?” the second warden asked.

  “Think they the little loaves look dainty on their tables,” responded Morys.

  Croft dug his fingers into the dough and ripped off a piece to adjust its weight on the scale.

  “What more shall I do?” he had asked. “I’ve sent an army of officers to enforce the standards. The fi
nes they’ve collected have helped cover the king’s latest taxes. It has helped to a point. . . .”

  No one disputed that the real problem lay in the dwindling demand for brown bread. Croft stared at the scale, then snatched the dough off and began rigorously working it again.

  William Pents. Master of the White Bakers’ Guild and, in James Croft’s mind, a traitor. Croft took the wad of dough by one end and smacked it on the board.

  The discussion at Halimote had centered on the white bread bakers’ efforts to ruin the brown bread bakers. When Third Warden Jones had reported that the White Bakers’ Guild was giving their boulted (the finely sifted flour) to sanctioned bakeries, no one believed him.

  “One cannot make money giving away flour!” Croft argued.

  “Nay,” said Jones. “The White Bakers’ Guild will win the favor of sanctioned bakeries all over London. They give away their flour, and when the bakeries are accustomed and glad to work with it, they will begin to collect their cost. At first they will collect a little less for their flour than we would collect. Then, over time . . .”

  “Over time, when we are gone—having been put out of our livelihood by them . . .”

  “They will raise their price. A clever, wheedlesome plan.”

  Croft rounded the loaf and put it aside to rise. He dunked a cloth in a bowl of water left for his dog and laid it on top of the dough. A cup of Spanish sack was his reward.

  Peeved that his own parish church might have been lured into this despicable scheme, he had visited St. Vedast to find out if they had been deceived by Pents’s plan. Churchwarden Lodge had been uncooperative.

  “Fool,” he said aloud. “How dare they indulge Pents and the white bakers?” He guzzled down his drink and wiped his lips on the back of his hand, getting a mouthful of flour. Croft wiped his hands on his apron.

  The churchwarden had declined to tell him who baked their hosts, as if it were a badge of honor to keep it a secret. “Well, you only made it slightly less convenient for me,” said Croft, pouring himself more sack.

  It was his good fortune that, as he was leaving church, a delivery boy from the sanctioned bakery had been arriving. When asked from where he hailed, the lad had no qualms telling him. He smiled, wondering if Lodge realized his secret had been discovered.

  “Lodge, you are a clay-brained fustilarian,” said Croft to his cup. “Goldsmiths are a pompous group of thieves.”

  Croft cleaned his board of excess flour, sweeping it into a bowl to be used later. His frustration with the tight-lipped Henry Lodge had been further aggravated when Father Nelson arrived at the guild to try to smooth over bruised feelings on the matter.

  Croft had not gone so far as to insult the priest to his face, but he’d explained to the man the consequences of accepting hosts made from boulted flour. “You think you are sparing St. Vedast an expense by accepting your hosts gratis,” he had told Father Nelson. “But you indulge the white bakers’ plan to ruin us—our brother bakers! Once we are gone, they are free to set a price to whatever they want.”

  At first, Father Nelson had been dismissive of his dire prediction. “The king will not allow it. There shall always be a need for brown bakers. Not everyone can afford the luxury of white bread. You have no cause to worry.” But after Croft threatened to leave the parish and take his support elsewhere, Father Nelson and he had come to terms. He had convinced Father Nelson of his cause.

  * * *

  Croft checked the dough and was pleased with its rise. Its surface yielded to his finger poke. Baking bread soothed his ragged nerves. It had been a difficult day defending the best interests of the Brown Bakers’ Guild. He tucked the corners of the cloth over the lump of dough as he would tuck a babe in a crib.

  CHAPTER 10

  A dog yapped inside Odile Farendon’s residence on Mayden Lane. In a moment, the door yawned open, revealing Boisvert holding a squirmy spaniel against his chest. “Bonjour, Bianca. Entrez.” He stepped aside, allowing her to pass, and shushed the creature into behaving.

  “Odile is expecting you.” He led her to an elegant chamber where the heiress sat near a brazier, embroidering. Colorful tapestries of greyhounds and hunters hung on one wall beside leaded-glass windows coated with frost. Because the room faced north, candlelight lacquered the walls in a warm, golden glow.

  “Bianca,” she said, looking up at their entrance. She laid down her stitching. “Come in, my dear. I’ve a gown for you. I am certain you will find it to your liking.” She reached for Bianca’s hand and led her to a walnut armoire carved in relief with a fleur-de-lis pattern. Bianca knew Odile meant well but found it presumptuous that she would assume to know Bianca’s taste. It was not that any particular fashion pleased Bianca more than another, but more that she never thought about gowns and French hoods, velvet or taffeta, pearl beads, pinked sleeves, and stuffing. Such apparel was above her station and she did not bother to dream of entering that world.

  Odile threw open the armoire door and riffled through several gowns, producing a carmine one of velvet with oversleeves in amber brocade. The center foreskirt was of the same contrasting material. A bodice of solid carmine velvet was worked with pearl beads into a delicate floral pattern. White coney fur trimmed the squared neckline.

  Bianca had never laid eyes on such an elaborate gown.

  “This is too fine for me,” she said, unable to take her eyes off it.

  “It is not,” responded Odile. “You have youth on your side, my dear. Why not indulge when you are given the opportunity?”

  “It is not my place to dress above myself.”

  “This is a gift to you. What harm could possibly come from dressing well? I have invited you to our wedding, and I expect you to be presentable.” Odile held out the sleeve and put it next to Bianca’s face. “Oui,” she said. “It complements your pale complexion. If your skin were pink, it would not suit you.” Odile smiled. “Mais ces yeux . . .” her voice trailed off. “You will accept this.” She thrust the gown into Bianca’s arms, then turned, dismissing any argument that sat on Bianca’s tongue.

  It was simpler to just accept Odile Farendon’s gift. “I shall try to prove myself worthy.”

  “There is nothing to prove,” said Odile with an air of finality. “Come, I want you to accompany me. Oro Tand is expecting me.”

  * * *

  It was a short stroll to the Goldsmiths’ Hall, home to the fraternity of both gold and silver artisans. The two women entered the building, a magnificent stone structure built in the style of a Roman temple. A liveryman took them up a lengthy staircase to await Master Tand’s arrival.

  Bianca sat in a heavily carved, cushioned chair near a hearth. She studied the surroundings, another richly appointed chamber, similar to Odile’s, but on a grander scale. Odile settled next to her and folded her hands in her lap.

  “Bianca, dear, you are quiet, but your eyes tell me you have much to say.”

  “Madame Farendon, I am simply not accustomed to these environs.”

  “If John becomes a liveryman, this will no longer be a novelty.”

  “Truth be told, I had not given it much thought.”

  “I sense a slight hesitation in your voice.”

  Bianca did not want to respond. Cavorting with men of wealth and their wives was nothing she had ever aspired to. She supposed that they were not unlike commoners in that they loved and laughed, endured life’s disappointments and joys. But she supposed they did not concern themselves with matters that she found important. How many silversmiths’ wives would know what an alembic was, much less know what to do with one?

  Odile Farendon gave Bianca a knowing sidelong glance. “I understand you have an interest in the noble art.”

  Bianca flared at the term and could not keep quiet. “When one says ‘the noble art,’ one is referring to alchemy. Alchemy is not my interest.”

  “Non?” said Odile, unaware that she had veered into dangerous waters. “John tells me you make potions.”

  Bianca cl
amped her mouth tight and waited until the innocent barb had lost its prick. “I do not call them potions, my lady.”

  “Well, what you call them is of no importance to me,” Odile said curtly. “We all have our little amusements.”

  The door swung open, and Oro Tand crossed the room without so much as a glance at either of them. “Madame Farendon,” he said, bowing, finally making eye contact with the widow. He settled in his chair, his rings and the gold chain of office around his neck glittering in the firelight. He looked suspiciously at Bianca through hazel eyes beneath half-lowered lids.

  “Master Tand,” said Odile. “This is Bianca. Her husband is an apprentice to Boisvert. I have asked her to accompany me today.”

  His gaze stuttered over Bianca’s common kirtle, and there was no mistaking what he thought of it and, by association, Bianca. Without acknowledging Odile’s way of introduction, he turned back to the widow. “We will be able to seat one hundred guests,” he said. “Some of the food preparations have already begun. If you would like to see the hall, it is being prepared for the celebration.”

  Bianca noted Tand’s terse, almost forced manner. She thought he must not like Odile Farendon, or perhaps he did not like something about the impending event. Odile took no notice. Or perhaps she did not care. The heiress explained how she wanted the courses presented and when. It was almost as if she expected a legion of Frenchmen to come and take over the preparation and serving. Oro Tand listened without comment, and when Madame Farendon stopped to breathe, he broke in.

  “Most assuredly, the details will be attended to. Now,” he said, rising from his chair, “you may visit the dining hall and take up matters with the steward, but I am unable to escort you.” He gestured toward the door, and Odile and Bianca stood. Again Oro Tand nodded to Madame Farendon and ignored Bianca.

  Once the door clicked shut behind them, Odile straightened her cape at the neck. “We are left on our own.”