Death at St. Vedast

by Mary Lawrence

  However, the lawyer was now faced with a bit of a conundrum. Was Odile of sound mind? Her testament could be called into question. Cornish tipped the bottle of wine to his lips and had another drink. For now, he would take the fee and write the will.

  But Cornish could not erase the sardonic smile on his face as he watched Boisvert speak soothingly to his beloved. The French could call you a greasy quat-sucking rascal in their flouncy tongue, and you would smile, thinking it a compliment.

  Eventually, Odile regained her strong carriage. She blinked out of her stupor and had no memory of her peculiar outburst. “Stop fretting over me,” she admonished Boisvert, pulling her hand out of his grip.

  Baffled by her quick recovery, the silversmith posed no further argument. His face flushed with embarrassment as Odile got to her feet as if nothing happened.

  “I believe our business here is fini. Come, mon prince,” said she.

  Benjamin Cornish followed the couple to his office door, discussing their return to sign the will and testament the next morning. “God keep you, Madame Farendon.” He nodded to Boisvert, marshaling what little respect he could for the man.

  Outside the door, they acknowledged Oro Tand, who was waiting on a bench.

  Cornish watched until they were far enough away not to hear, then motioned the master goldsmith into his office. “A marriage made in haste is seldom proof of love.”

  Oro Tand smiled. “I most certainly agree, my friend.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Flaked and faded lettering made it difficult to determine if this was Foley’s bakery. James Croft’s nose grazed the sign as he squinted at the remaining letters. After a moment he decided he had arrived at the sanctioned bakery that made St. Vedast’s hosts. With him was Third Warden Austin Jones. Over Jones’s shoulder hung a set of scales, clanging wildly, a cumbersome burden.

  According to the guild records, Foley had been inspected the month before. But Master Croft wanted to dissuade the baker from using white flour. And if Foley refused, Croft had the threat of inspection to help persuade him. He could easily find an infraction and impose some sort of penalty. These hypocrites must be scotched, and he had to start somewhere. Victory was best gotten by vigilance. And vigilance was best achieved when there was an element of surprise.

  They did not rap on the door and politely wait for Foley or his apprentice to open. Much can be hidden in the time it takes to answer a knock. Instead, Croft directed his third warden to try the door, and they entered unannounced. It was their right as inspectors to interrupt a shop’s business whenever they wanted to, for the purpose of ensuring the quality of a product that bore the guild’s coveted stamp.

  No one came round to greet them. A few loaves of standard brown bread lined the top shelves. They caught a fading whiff of resting dough. But there was no one to startle. No one to register a look of panic that accompanied the realization that the bakery was going to be inspected without warning.

  Disappointed, Master Croft called out. In a moment, the baker appeared from the back carrying a tray of perfectly baked manchets. He glanced at Master Croft and Third Warden Jones before sliding the contraband into a grooved rack to cool.

  “How now, Master Croft, Jones?”

  Croft, irked at the sight of Foley’s perky little buns, could barely contain his disdain. “I shall say ‘how’ after we conduct our inspection.”

  “It has not been a month since last we were scrutinized. Your officer found no evidence of misconduct.” Foley folded his brawny arms across his chest.

  “We are redoubling our efforts,” said Croft petulantly. “Take me to your kitchen.”

  Foley stared back at the master of his guild. “Very well,” he said after a moment. His arms stayed crossed as he led Croft and the third warden to his back kitchen.

  The room was a spacious workplace, with several windows allowing for light and the escape of heat. An oven with a large capacity made even Croft’s tightly clenched jaw loosen in awe. Neat piles of flour waited to be swept away by the apprentice’s broom, and the tables had been wiped down. A few loaves cooled nearby on a tray. It was these Master Croft directed his companion to weigh.

  Jones set the scales on the most level area of a workbench and removed his weights, lining them up on the board.

  Croft watched irritably as the warden weighed one of the loaves. “I see you are baking manchets,” he said to Foley.

  “Obviously I am. They are in great demand. I cannot make enough.”

  “So it is a profitable venture.”

  “That it is!” said Foley.

  “It is standard,” announced Jones. He removed the loaf from the scales and got another.

  James Croft eyed the loaves, looking for one that might be underweight. “Weigh this one,” he said, grabbing a loaf and thrusting it at the warden. “And where do you buy your flour?” Croft glanced at Foley but keenly watched his warden balance the weights. There was no room for error here.

  “Some I purchase through a miller north of town. The boulted flour I do not buy. It is gifted.”

  “Gifted,” said Croft, seizing the word. “And how long shall you receive this flour?”

  The baker shrugged, unconcerned. “For now I am baking wafers. If I have leftover flour, I bake manchets. They sell well.”

  “No miller can benefit from this.”

  “It is not the miller who gives me the flour.”

  “Ah! Then it is Pents?” said Croft, unable to control a rise in his voice.

  “It is standard,” said Jones, removing the loaf. He wrote down the weight.

  Croft ran his eyes around the kitchen. “Where are your books?” he demanded.

  Foley answered in a weary voice. “Master Croft, they are out front.”

  “Well, get them!”

  The baker sighed. He strolled off, and Croft stalked toward the bins of flour, lifting a lid to peer inside one. “Weigh every loaf. I want a thorough accounting of Foley’s business.”

  The master looked into the bin of wheaten flour, a mixture of boulted wheat and, from the looks and texture of it, barley. In a sense, one canceled the other. The sifted wheat was so fine as to be considered “white” by comparison. Barley and rye were for peasants and other inconsequential sorts. Over the years, “brown flour” had grown coarser, and many bakers added ground acorns, dried peas, even sand, to extend a bushel. The practice offset the increased cost of flour caused by the growing demand for the “white” ingredient. Croft took a pinch of flour and let it dissolve on his tongue. Any sand or grit would remain.

  Foley returned, toting two hefty logbooks.

  “Here, Master Croft.” He dropped them on the table next to the scales, purposely jarring the instrument and disrupting the perfect line of weights. Jones steadied the scales, then chased after the rolling weights.

  Croft slammed down the lid on the bin and crossed the room. He threw open the cover of the top logbook, rustling through the pages. Finding the accounting of the past week, he ran a finger down a page to the latest entry.

  “It says you received one bushel of white flour from Barrett. I happen to know Barrett is a grain dealer who sometimes works with Pents, master of the White Bakers’ Guild.”

  Foley neither confirmed nor denied Croft’s claim.

  “My question to you, Foley—where is your allegiance?”

  “Why should a man refuse a gift when it is offered? To do so is throwing good coin in the river.”

  “Because you harm the greater good. By accepting flour from Pents, you turn your back on the brotherhood.”

  “So you believe. But you cannot deny the increasing demand for boulted flour. Even physicians believe it is more healthful. If that is so, and I have heard many most wondrous claims proving that it is, then all of these inspections that you conjure to punish us are useless in stopping bakers from pleasing the people. It is only a matter of time, Master Croft. The Brown Bakers will be swallowed by the White.”

  James Croft could scarce beli
eve the man’s insolence. For a second he was at a loss for words. How dare he speak with such unbridled disdain to the master of his guild? He could have baker Foley put in the pillory. He had Jones as a witness. Croft looked over at the third warden, who was intently weighing and recording the available loaves, oblivious. Had he even heard this man’s impertinent blathering?

  “Foley, remember to whom you speak.”

  “I know well what I say and to whom I am saying it.”

  The man stood a full head taller and weighed at least three stone more than Croft. Unable to intimidate by size or rank, Croft impatiently waited for Jones to record the findings. He fervently wished for an underweight loaf so he could drag the man before Halimote. That would put an end to the baker’s self-righteous opinion of himself.

  “Master Croft,” said the third warden. “I am done with these loaves. They meet the standard assize.” He brought the ledger over for his master to examine.

  James Croft barely glanced at the findings. He tugged on his doublet beneath his gown and put on his cap. “Next time, see that your scale is properly calibrated.” He stormed out the door, leaving Jones to collect his scale and weights.

  * * *

  Henry Lodge stared at the bell of St. Vedast. Finished with calling the parishioners to mass, the sexton disappeared down the ladder of the belfry, leaving the churchwarden alone in the tower. Lodge had asked the sexton to gingercoddle the rope and leave off his customary vigor when pulling it. But once the bell began clanging, the servant’s enthusiasm grew and he ignored the churchwarden’s shouts to stop. The vibrations from the massive bell still hummed in Lodge’s ears as he walked around the platform inspecting the rigging. To his eye, the crack remained about the same; in a word—worrisome.

  Other churches had scrapped their chimes to pay the king’s taxes. What once was used to call men to prayer was recast into cannons that maimed and killed. Lodge did not want to see St. Vedast’s bell suffer a similar fate. Still, with no money to repair the bell’s axle, the fissure would continue to grow.

  Father Nelson placed his faith in God, as should any servant of the Lord. But to ignore the obvious, to ignore Lodge’s warning, showed a distressing lack of concern for the well-being of his church and its parishioners. What if the bell broke loose and crashed through the nave during mass? Such an incident would end Father Nelson’s tenure. It might even end his life. Lodge gazed down at the floor, dizzyingly far below. Perhaps he should insist that Father Nelson accompany him to the tower so he could show him the troublesome crack.

  Lodge pulled his fur-lined gown closed to the chill of the tower and went to the embrasure overlooking the roof. He leaned out to see the ground in the side yard and thought of the woman found with her head crushed, and he crossed himself.

  The wind blew through the tower; a crisp beech leaf rode its swirling tempest to the structure’s pinnacle, then floated down to the platform to rest by his feet. With the toe of his boot, he ground the dried leaf into a floor plank.

  Henry Lodge climbed down the belfry ladder and descended to the ground floor, his steps tapping in the hollow stone stairwell. He stood in the back of the nave, listening to Father Nelson’s liturgy. A man and woman standing at the rear of the congregation slipped behind a column, and the woman slipped her hand down the man’s hose.

  Perhaps they sought a silent ecstasy beyond the word of God. Lodge watched, wondering if anyone else noticed them. No one did. Or rather, no one seemed to care.

  He abandoned Father Nelson to his congregation of sinners and decided to work on the inventory. Working without the priest to interrupt suited the churchwarden. He wished to avoid another conversation like the last.

  Lodge removed his gown and laid it aside, retrieved the church ledger, and opened the garderobe of vestments. He counted the robes, remembering Father Nelson’s attire, and recorded his findings. Altar sticks and candles were also counted, reminding him that resources should be directed to Master Nimble for additional tapers. The wafers had been recently delivered, and he moved them to storage, placing them next to the wine.

  He was thumbing through the altar cloths and linen, when the sound of rustling material distracted him.

  “Good day, Henry,” said Odile Farendon when he turned. She stood in the door dressed in a fur cloak and a hat of ermine that softened the edge of her face. The cold had rouged her cheeks, so that for a second he saw her as she had been in her youth. His breath caught in his throat.

  “I am here to see Father Nelson.” She took a tentative step toward him, then, as if remembering the day before, stopped. She watched him as if he were a skittish squirrel. One sudden move and he might run.

  Lodge could not bear to be treated so. He lifted his chin, managing the bare minimum of cordiality. “You may wait for him,” he said, gesturing to a bench. “Mass will be over soon.”

  Odile hesitated, then crossed the room to sit. As she did, Lodge noticed a limp in her gait. She settled and met his stare. “Why do you look on me so?”

  The churchwarden flushed but did not let it stop him from asking, “Have you hurt your foot?”

  It was Odile’s turn to warm with awkwardness. “I have some stiffness of late. Perhaps I am not so young as I once was.”

  The memories of a time when she attended Anne Boleyn came flooding back. “Indeed, as we both once were,” said Henry Lodge. He silently cursed himself. He’d spent too many years trying to forget Odile Durand to indulge his memories about a past that was wasted and a future that would never be. When she had accepted Lionel Farendon’s marriage proposal, Lodge had realized that the depth of his love had never been matched by that of hers. She’d married for money. She’d married for prestige. She’d married for safety.

  Odile smiled. “I am told you created the ouche from the Goldsmiths’ Company. I’ve never seen a more beautiful piece.”

  Lodge did not respond, though he was pleased she recognized his exceptional skill.

  Her eyes held him with a familiarity that pained his heart. Her smile flickered uncertainly. “Years glide away and are lost forever.”

  He resisted telling her that he cared not a mote that she would end her life marrying a stranger brother. She was making a mistake marrying the French silversmith, a man who would always be less than an Englishman.

  “Time steals our youth and our joys,” he said. His bitterness bled like rust in water. “And leaves us with age and dirt.”

  Their eyes met in silent understanding. Odile said, “I regret that time has not smoothed the rift between us.”

  “It has not, Odile Durand.”

  With a curt bow, Henry Lodge left the widow sitting on the bench. His duty done, he wished to occupy himself with matters having nothing to do with St. Vedast or Odile Farendon.

  CHAPTER 13

  “The great whore wore yellow and black to her wedding also. It was a double celebration with Catherine of Aragon’s death, was it not?” said Oro Tand, eyeing the bride as she and Boisvert appeared at the back of the church.

  “That is true,” answered Henry Lodge.

  “How appropriate.”

  Tand’s words and priggish smile were not lost on Bianca, who was standing directly behind the two goldsmiths. She exchanged looks with John.

  “The French do have a flair for the dramatic,” added Tand. “And their women have no taste in men.”

  Lodge stood a little taller. “I heartily agree. Odile has chosen particularly poorly . . . again.”

  Odile looked resplendent in a yellow velvet gown with oversleeves of black brocade. A gold necklace shimmered at her throat. The ouche she’d received from the Gold Guild was pinned on her bodice. Her proud bearing, her relaxed face, contrasted with a hitch in her step as she and her betrothed walked toward the altar, her hand resting easily on top of Boisvert’s.

  The silversmith wore a black velvet doublet with black satin pinking and a gown trimmed in gray otter. But more noticeable than his handsome garb was the unpersuasive grin on his face.
Perhaps he was uncertain of his decision. The commitment to marry was more responsibility than he had ever undertaken before.

  With the excitement of Boisvert’s wedding, Bianca put aside her thoughts of the unfortunate death only three days before and focused on the celebration at hand. She and John were nearly unrecognizable in their elegant garb. A French hood perched on Bianca’s head, adorned with beaded biliments to match the brocade of the forepart of her gown. Her wavy locks bulged under the silk veil, as she did not have the skill or patience to successfully plait her hair to flatten it, nor did she have enough pins to keep the hood firmly in place. John wore a borrowed doublet of russet brown, simple, but acceptable to the occasion. It fit him well enough so that one might actually think it belonged to him—except the sleeves were too short.

  Arriving at the front of the nave, the widow Odile Farendon and silversmith Boisvert were greeted by Father Nelson, and their ceremony began. It didn’t take long for Bianca to grow bored. She soon relaxed in her new attire to almost look as though she belonged there. As the youngest attendees, John and Bianca drew the curious stares of more than a few.

  The bride and groom stated their consent, but the ritual of matrimony was a tedious affair. John tugged impatiently at his doublet sleeves, which ended just above his wrists, exposing a graceless expanse of white smock beneath. Folding back the cuff of the smock exaggerated the poor fit, and in frustration John decided there was nothing he could do to remedy the fashion misstep. He might have gone on fiddling with his sleeves and cuffs if a noise hadn’t disturbed his preoccupation.

  “Mon Dieu!” exclaimed Boisvert.

  The gathered began to whisper.

  “The ring will not go on her finger,” murmured Henry Lodge.

  “Shameful,” huffed Oro Tand. “What silversmith cannot properly size a woman’s finger?”

  Bianca stood on her toes and saw that Odile’s fingers had curled so that her hand took on the shape of a bird’s claw. She was unable to straighten her ring finger, and in distress Boisvert tried to shove the ring over the curved appendage. Both he and Odile were speaking rapid French. No one could mistake the sound of frustration in their voices.