“Fie, what is this?” he shouted, purple with cold and outrage. “The man must be got on charge of murder—not be murdered!” He looked round at the liverymen and spat in disgust. Seeing James Croft attached to the hurdle, dangling by a leg, Patch grabbed on to the shaft. “On count of three, we haul him up.”
Being hung upside down off London Bridge had gotten the master’s attention. He came to, a look of wild panic in his eyes. Croft managed to twist himself to sitting, but his bound hands were of little use. The signage and wafer mold still hung about his neck, the weight tiring him. Indeed, he fought against their drag toward the water. But the rope holding his one leg held him, just barely. It continued to fray—the strands stretching, then breaking one by one.
With a concerted effort, Patch and the bakers heaved on the hurdle. They got hold of one end and, hand over hand, slowly worked to land it on the deck of the bridge. James Croft attempted to hold himself up, gritting his teeth and grunting with struggle. The constable and bakers had gotten within inches of his proffered hands. Foley had knelt beside the railing and leaned out to grab his master’s hand and haul the hurdle onto the deck, when the final strand of rope holding Croft’s ankle snapped.
James Croft slipped, and his eyes widened with realization. His deliberate reticence disappeared. He screamed, his hands grappling as he became free and fell, tumbling toward the water. Like his company’s patron, St. Clements, who bore the weight of an anchor and was cast into the sea, the master baker hit the water and was pulled by the iron wafer mold down and under, never to be seen again.
CHAPTER 37
Two weeks later—
Bianca peered out the window at John and Meddybemps, who were covering the bed of the dray with blankets against a light, fluffy snow. She turned to Boisvert, who was sitting near the hearth with a bottle of cherished wine next to him. “John does not look pleased. I suppose you and I are more content,” she said.
“Oui. I should have been happier dead than spend another day in the filth of Newgate Prison. I think I shall never be free of the itch. Mais non, John must learn to accept that this rise to the brotherhood, it is not so quick.” Boisvert raised his goblet and tipped it toward Bianca. “He has his love—non? That should be reason enough for a man’s content.” His face clouded with sadness as he took a sip, then set the goblet down. “Life is short and love even shorter.”
Bianca could think of nothing to say to comfort Boisvert for his loss. It didn’t matter to the silversmith that his time with Odile had been so brief. What mattered to him was the breadth of that love—that his heart had been permanently etched and changed by it. And in the end, thought Bianca, isn’t that one of life’s greatest desires?
“Well,” said Boisvert. “I am sorry to send you back to Southwark.”
“Oh, I am not sorry.” Bianca crossed the room and sat on the bench. “I know John would rather live anywhere else, but I shall be glad to get back to my chemistries.”
One corner of Boisvert’s mouth turned up. “I suppose that is the passion—eh?” A dark eyebrow lifted as he considered her. “John must come to realize that he would be happier if the Bianca were happy.” He shrugged. “Well, I shall not move again. I suspect probate will settle in favor of the Crown.” He poured himself more wine. “It is just as well. What would I do with Odile’s wealth? Non.” He shook his head. “For you and I, life must return to calm.”
“Do you expect trouble from the Worshipful Company of Goldsmiths if the will does not benefit them?”
“Non. What more can they do to me? I have lost Odile. Let them ruin me, but I shall always have France.”
Downstairs, the door creaked open, then slammed. Meddybemps and John stomped the snow from their boots and started up the stairs. Hobs arrived first, running across the room and leaping onto the table. He butted heads with Bianca and tried the same with Boisvert but was met with an indifferent stare.
“We are packed,” said Meddybemps, coming to stand by the fire. “Milbourne expects his dray and nag returned by nightfall.” He took off his red cap and stuck it on the end of a poke, roasting it close to the fire, as if it were a chicken thigh.
“It speaks well of him to lend us his wagon a second time. And well of you to take us back to Southwark,” said Bianca.
Meddybemps turned his hat, warming it thoroughly. “So you think, and I ask that you leave it alone. But it is not kindness that convinced Milbourne.”
John helped himself to a sip of Boisvert’s wine. The silversmith did not object to sharing his bottle; he knew his apprentice was aggrieved at the thought of returning to their vacated quarters in Gull Hole. Such was the sacrifice of love, thought he.
Bianca did not press Meddybemps; she knew better than to ask for details of his “arrangements.” She was only thankful he could rescue them from Foster Lane and move them back across the river—the sooner done, the better. She found it auspicious that tenants had not moved into her former room of Medicinals and Physickes. Probably, no one would have the place. Of course, Hobs would be kept busy clearing away any uninvited guests, but Bianca was gladdened to be going “home.” Her mind whirred with thoughts of herbal combinations and concocted vapors.
Boisvert scratched his scalp. “Now that I am free, I shall plan a proper funeral procession for Odile,” he said. “That is my first order of affairs. Odile would have wanted a service at St. Vedast . . . mais . . .”
“I don’t know when it shall reopen,” said Bianca. “Mayhap plan the procession to stop outside and have prayers said.”
“Oui,” Boisvert tutted. “St. Vedast did not deserve this misery—this curse of infamy. People will remember what happened there.”
“I agree,” said John. “Its stones would be of greater use buried in the walls of new construction elsewhere. But it shall be a while before we know what the Crown has planned for the church.”
Meddybemps removed his cap from the end of the fire poke and plopped it on his head, the warmth turning his ears pink. “My dove, you did a formidable task ordering the strange events and making sense of them.”
“When I was talking to Patch, I remembered Ellen Forbish’s nonsense rhyme—‘Goosey, goosey, gander.’ One of the lines is ‘Met an old man who would not say his prayers. Took him by his left foot . . .’” Bianca looked round at them. “A man of French birth harboring resentment for the king’s religious supremacy fits the description of a left footer. A man resistant to saying his prayers in English instead of Latin.” She helped herself to a sip of wine from Boisvert’s bottle. “I wasn’t for cert, but I proceeded on logic. When faced with the unembellished truth, a man with a mote of conscience panics.”
“You have the gift of reason,” said Meddybemps like a proud father.
“I believe it to be my weapon, of sorts.” Bianca waggled her eyebrows.
“Take heed that it does not rob you of life’s greatest joys,” reminded Boisvert pointedly.
“What I do not know,” said Bianca, “and what I may never learn, is whether Oro Tand and the Gold Guild encouraged James Croft. A contested will might well have benefited them. Nor have I puzzled out whether Henry Lodge had Father Nelson removed for his protection or whether there was another reason.”
“Mayhap Lodge conspired with the Gold Guild to clear the way for contesting Odile’s will,” said Meddybemps.
“For cert, that rascally lawyer Benjamin Cornish knows,” said John.
Bianca agreed. “Well, a man’s future is built on his past intentions. I shall keep watching these men; more may later be revealed.”
John rose from the table. “We must go. Night will fall while we drumble on, bantering about other men’s thinking.”
With a final farewell to Boisvert, they headed down the stairs to the waiting dray. Bianca whisked Hobs from the downstairs windowsill and draped him over her shoulder, ready for the return to Southwark, where the smells were to a cat’s liking and the mice were plentiful.
They rode down Foster Lane, past shops, b
ouncing and being rattled by the still-unfixed ruts in the road. A few of the worst had been filled with dirt hauled in from Smithfield. Meddybemps did his best to steer clear of the chasms, taking them by St. Leonard, past St. Vedast—its door chained and padlocked. Bianca looked up at the great belfry and steeple, both intact, with no indication of missing bells, except for a conspicuous silence in the chorus of neighborhood chimes.
The bloodstains in the side yard where Ellen Forbish had met her end had been washed clean by the snow and wet. As they rode past, Bianca considered the woman’s circumstances. Forbish was a mere country maid—an obliging young woman from a village where travelers sat at trestles and told stories over tankards of ale. Who could dislike her? Perhaps it was the maid’s unfortunate state to wish for more. Those baubles and fascinations of London had enticed her away from the simple beauty of a village on a winding river of moderate breadth. Was it curiosity or boredom that lured her? Or was it the promise from a man whose deceit she never imagined?
Meddybemps turned the corner onto Cheapside and was met by the forward guard of the king’s progress, passing Eleanor Cross. The streetseller sighed. “I have no desire to be kept here while the king parades past. I’m turning around, and we shall skirt St. Paul’s.”
“I should like to see him,” said Bianca.
“Meddybemps must return the horse,” said John. “It is always a slow ride over the bridge. We cannot linger.”
“Then let me walk. Hobs and I shall meet you soon enough.” She looked at her husband’s annoyed face. “I know where to find you.” She smiled, and with a sigh, John relented.
“Mind that you remember your manners,” said Meddybemps, halting the horse and seeing Bianca down.
Despite the cold, dreary day, people stopped to watch the entourage and glimpse their king. Bianca remembered to curtsy and kept her head down as the king carrier passed, suspended between a horse before and aft and balanced by men who tended the chair to assure the king a comfortable ride. Scarlet drapes hung down to keep him warm, allowing Bianca only a glimpse when he pulled one aside and peeped out. She did not see his face for very long. When later asked to describe their sovereign, she could speak only of the lavish rings squeezing his fat fingers.
Bianca watched the progress turn onto Foster Lane, and she thought perhaps Henry might arrive at the Haberdashers’ Hall without mishap, despite the pitted road. She would never learn the outcome of that, but neither did it give her pause. The men in their guilds could have their position, their exclusive membership, their squabbles. She was content to have none of it. A chance to wear a fine gown for one night had brought little joy, but it had given her useful insight into the lives of merchants. She wished John did not aspire to join their ranks and wondered how she might manage the change once he did. If she had discovered one truth from this hiatus in experimenting, it was that she could not bear for an interruption to be permanent.
With Hobs still clinging to her shoulder, Bianca hurried toward the bridge, to Southwark, and to her room of Medicinals and Physickes.
* * *
There was one other who reveled in her return. He smelled the wagon’s approach, the flasks and alembics stained with chemistries, and his memories were taken back to a time when he, too, dabbled in the noble art. His experiments had corrupted his body horribly and had made him the receptacle of anguished souls, but with Bianca his hope was sparked. A chance for redemption, a chance for an end to his purgatory, rested in her ability. He knew it; he smelled it; he smelled her as she passed over the trestles of the bridge.
A book with the recipe for immortality lay in his skiff, next to the pile of dead vermin that sustained his grip on reality—or, rather, his reality. If he did not repay humanity in kind by dispatching the plague vectors when possible, he would lose his tenuous connection to life and be cast into hell’s steaming crypt. So he watched the rat population, the evil minions of the dark world, and killed them when he could.
Like James Croft, he believed his redemption was at hand. The wraith of the Thames, the Rat Man, would wait.
* * *
As Bianca hurried to catch up to Meddybemps and John, she thought of James Croft. How odd that he believed he would find forgiveness and protection from damnation by securing a church and restoring it to glory God. Apparently, he did not suffer from the pain of guilt in the manner of most people. His self-centered belief that his life had more value than Ellen Forbish’s and Odile Farendon’s had led to his misery. But had Croft sought salvation knowing he was to blame for Ellen Forbish’s death? Or had his desire for absolution started before that—with his single desire to save St. Vedast from the king’s reformed religion? Perhaps, she thought, morality is a personal matter and she would never understand the shades of evil in some men’s minds.
Bianca hailed John and Meddybemps just as they neared the grates of the drawbridge. Holding onto Hobs she ran to their waiting dray, and John held out his hand to help her up.
“I was beginning to think I’d have to spend the night alone in Gull Hole,” he said as Bianca settled next to him.
“Nay,” said Bianca. “I wouldn’t abandon you to enjoy that pleasure alone.”
GLOSSARY
Barm—foam formed on fermenting liquor
Bodge—bungler
Broderer—embroiderer
Caitiff—cowardly person
Citizen—urban elite; successful person of the middle class, merchant or professional
Clumperton—clown
Cobnuts—hazelnuts
Codso—spicy oath, perhaps “God’s own”
Coney—rabbit
Cozen—cheat
The crank—epilepsy
Cuds me—an oath
Cuffin—fellow
Cullion—base fellow
Doddypoll—idiot
Drumble—dawdle, waste time
French pox—syphilis
Fripperer—one who offers clothing for resale
Fustilarian—scoundrel
Gozelinge—pale yellow-green color
Groking—begging
Horse coper—farrier
Jackanape—bestial insult
Jade—worthless person
Jordan—chamber pot
Ken—tavern
Madding—provoking madness
Murrey—brownish purple color
Ordinary—eating establishment
Partlet—woman’s garment covering the neck and shoulders
Pattens—wood lifts for the bottom of shoes
Pompion—pumpkin
Quat—small boil
Spiffled—made-up word for “drunk”
Starlings—bridge supports
Swigman—peddler
Stranger brother—member of a guild who is foreign-born
Terce—third hour after dawn, a set time of prayer
Tosspot—drunkard
Trug—whore
AUTHOR’S NOTE
It is always a challenge shaping a story to fit perfectly within the bounds of historical accuracy. Necessities of plot and logistics don’t always play nicely with one another. For those who are troubled by my solecism, I hope that by admitting my guilt, I will be given a stay of execution.
The Bakers’ Hall was never in the vicinity of Foster Lane. It was located closer to the Thames, on Harp Lane. The Worshipful Companies of Haberdashers and Goldsmiths were indeed on or near Foster Lane. I had previously established that my character Boisvert kept his shop on Foster Lane, and for purposes of the story line, I moved the bakers up to Aldersgate Ward.
The bakers were at odds with one another during 1543, when this novel is set. By then, the Brown Bakers had dwindled in number and were more at the mercy of the White Bakers. The Master of the Worshipful Company of Bakers would have been a White Baker, not a Brown as I have written. For a thorough examination of the history of the Bakers’ Company, please refer to 1666 and All That by Gordon Phillips.
I wish to apologize to anyone offended by my parody of Hamlet’s
speech. Of course Shakespeare wrote this during Elizabeth’s reign, and its inclusion is a blatant anachronism. However, I enjoyed creating this scene and I ask the reader to remember that there is a fair amount of whimsy in this series.
I took liberties representing the “citizens” (the merchant and professional class). I simplified legal matters, guild politics, and positions of authority in both the guilds and the church. Do not doubt that I read or consulted references. Working under a deadline required me to make choices. Details stymied me on more than one occasion. In the hopes of completing the work and having the parts come together to create a satisfying mystery, I had to cut and carve, then accept that I did the best I could.
A few more words about general topics: Suicide, or self-murder, during Tudor times was considered a mortal sin, and the church penalized suicides by denying them burial in consecrated ground. It was considered a sin of despair and was the one sin that automatically denied a person God’s grace. It was also thought that the devil drove people to kill themselves. In Death at St. Vedast, the priest allows the young woman who had possibly committed suicide to be buried in the church’s graveyard. This might not be historically accurate, but I wanted to present the priest as being compassionate at that juncture.
Yeast as we know it was a mystery in the sixteenth century. The average person knew that if one set out a bowl of flour and water, eventually the mixture would start to bubble. They called this occurrence “God’s goodness” or “Godisgoode,” believing that “it cometh of the grete grace of God.” They also realized that barm, the foam created in brewing ale, leavened dough in a similar fashion.
For symptoms of ergotism, I read The Day of St. Anthony’s Fire by John G. Fuller. The account of the small French village of Pont-Saint-Esprit was helpful and disturbing. The mycotoxins produced from the fungus ergot can cause a range of effects, among them hallucinations, convulsions, and gangrene. A side note: LSD is derived from ergot, and there is speculation that some of the women accused of being witches in Salem may have been victims of the disease.
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