The Alchemist's Daughter (27 page)

C
HAPTER
44

The sun warmed Bianca’s face as she headed across London Bridge for the first time in nearly a month. Spring had arrived and laid to rest the quibbling days of late winter. Dangling catkins caught the breeze on a hazel bush, and the iridescent yellow of ranunculus peeked from softening patches of earth. She was glad for the approach of the vernal equinox, and with it the promise of longer days.

She’d spent her time healing in her room of Medicinals and Physickes, sleeping long and dreaming up new combinations of herbs to try. She drank fennel tea and let John bring her cheese and bread from market. He’d showered her with attention and care and proven himself indispensable to her recuperation. Now she was feeling strong and confident and had grown bored cooped up in her rent with stills and jars of concoctions her only company.

She’d not seen Banes since Barke House burned. John and Boisvert had given him a place to stay until he knew what to do. It hadn’t been long before he’d left Southwark for lands east of London. Bianca wondered how he would survive highways overrun with padders and runagates, but she imagined Banes would never fall fool to anyone ever again. Still, she hoped he fared well.

“He’s gone to find his mother,” Meddybemps had said. “Mrs. Beldam sent her to live with nuns in France. A purported nattering simpleton she was, says Maude. Mrs. Beldam did herself a favor sending her away.”

“Does Banes know she is of light wit?”

“Does it matter?” said Meddybemps. “I’m sure he seeks the truth whatever comes with it. Wouldn’t you?”

Bianca knew she would have done the same.

Now, as she crossed into London and passed the leering fortress of the White Tower, she turned her thoughts to a time when she had spent her mornings scouring the banks of the river outside its walls, searching for plants to study and stash in her pocket. It was along these banks she had first met Jolyn. Bianca paused to sweep her eyes along the river and recalled her friend’s laugh. She could remember it clear as a bell. And, like the tinkle of a bell, it cheered her.

“I shall always remember your laugh,” she whispered. Then, as if Jolyn had heard, Bianca saw her friend look up from raking mud and smile. Bianca stared, daring not to look away. She was so pleased that she did not wonder whether this was her imagination or an apparition. But it was impossible not to blink, and when she did, Jolyn was gone.

Bianca tried to conjure again the vision of her friend but could not. And so, tucking away the memory, she continued on and turned up Lambeth Hill.

Not much had changed. The same timber-frame rents lined the street, their daub an earthy sorrel, with gray and brown oak crossbeams adding a bit of decorative strength. The upper stories leaned precariously over the lane, with their thatch roofs smelling somewhat musty, though they’d experienced several sun-drenched days, as witnessed by the chalky film of dirt riding her shoe.

Goodwife Templeton shooed a goose out her door and stopped long enough to stare suspiciously at Bianca walking up the lane. When Bianca neared, the old woman cleared her throat and spat the phlegm over her shoulder. “ ’Aven’t seen ye ’bouts since the twelfth of never,” she said.

“I live in Southwark now.”

“Phaa, I’d ask ye whys, but then, knowin’ ye queer family, I cans just as rightly guess.”

“Are my parents well?” Bianca asked. She might as well prepare herself by asking a neighbor’s opinion.

“As well as right, I suppose,” she answered. “I don’t hear clamoring or smell peculiar odors emanatin’ from withins. So I hazard they is behavin’ their persons.”

“Well, I am glad you approve of my parents’ performance.”

The irritable woman pinched her mouth and squinted with distrust as Bianca passed.

As she neared the old rent, Bianca squelched her rising guilt. She’d asked her mother to live with her in Southwark and leave behind the machinations of her father, but she had declined. Bianca had never understood her mother’s loyalty to a man who cared not a fig in return. Perhaps she would never understand.

Bianca supposed her own practical nature, although some might call it cold, was learned from her father, who never put anyone above his dogged pursuit of the philosopher’s stone. Couldn’t the same be said of her? She grimaced at the notion of it.

And so she resolved to balance her attention between those she loved and her obsession with dabbling in medicinals. She would start by visiting her mother, whether her father was home or not.

She stopped outside the door of her parents’ rent and found it more weathered than the last time she’d visited. The wood had grayed, and moss clung near its bottom, forming a soft green mat. She lifted her hand to knock. Would she tell her mother about what she’d been through? She didn’t think so. Sometimes love is about knowing when to stay silent. But would she tell her mother about John and her marrying?

A mother deserves to know.

C
HAPTER
45

The
Cristofur
departed as she had come, without fanfare. The ship avoided a long quarantine thanks to the venal inclinations of a certain customs officer. There could be no avoiding some time spent in quarantine once it had been enacted. But witnessing the bonfire of bodies alongside the ship’s hull had waylaid his worst fears. He wrote an amendment to the customhouse docket certifying payment in full of duty owed by Chudderly Shipping in regards to the
Cristofur
(which it was). Compliance of said party to dispose of undesirable contents in the ship’s hull (meaning bodies and rats), he did attest. However, the customs agent knew nothing of Wynders’s other murky secrets lurking in the Chudderly warehouse. Nor did he trouble to find out. The stores of so many shipping companies in the warren of warehouses lining the Thames were not his concern. Let the tax inspectors deal with that.

And when the customs officer later heard of the demise of Wynders, agent for Chudderly Shipping, he breathed a sigh of relief. For if only one man is left standing, a bribe cannot bite.

The crew did have to wait before disembarking. This was to please the medical authority of His Majesty’s council. The crew obliged without fractious grumbling so long as they could look over the sides and see the wood of a pier on one side of them. And the captain’s allowance of a few bawds in the dark of night effectively quelled their mutinous dispositions.

If authorities had needed further proof of the
Cristofur
’s clean bill of health, the Rat Man could have given it. After Wynders’s demise, the Rat Man diligently kept watch over the ship for further infestation of furry elements until she prepared to sail and pulled anchor.

Ravenous vermin had infiltrated the streets, causing some outbreak of illness, which the Rat Man, in his infinite wisdom, knew was related. The Black Death was ever present in small numbers, but depending on the season and circumstances, it often resolved without panic and widespread infection. And so what could have raged . . . did not.

Bills of mortality were not posted, street fires to purge the air of pestilent stink were infrequent, and the incessant bell ringing of plague carts to collect corpses was not heard. The wraith of the Thames could continue his vigilance comfortable that this time the scourge had been averted.

He watched the
Cristofur
drift away from the pier, entrusting her fate to the river’s ebbing tide. Who knew what the great force of the sea would impart on her uncertain future? Perhaps a tempest or scurvy might challenge her crew? Fate and nature were undoubtedly fickle. The Rat Man chuckled.

Non est ad astra mollis e terris via.
There is no easy way from the earth to the stars.

Possessing the collective wisdom of thousands of souls, the specter knew one thing for certain as he watched the
Cristofur
fade out of sight: London would forever struggle, but she would forever endure.

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

It is my pleasure to thank the many people who helped bring this book to life and who have supported my writing over the years.

My eternal thanks to:

Claire McNeely, friend and reader who never fails to lift my spirits and offer sage advice. Linda Stevens, Marjorie Gilbert, and Anne Brudevold for slogging through numerous writing projects.

Andrea Jones, for her friendship, hand holding, and wonderful eye for story and editing.

Ali Bothwell Mancini, who wasn’t afraid to tell me to cut or add.

The amazing crew at Kensington.

Mary Beth Constant, for both exasperating and impressing me with her attention to detail. She succeeded in making me appear smarter than I am.

Alison Picard, whose persistence inspired me to keep writing. Despite years of rejections, she still believed.

My family and friends who politely refrained from telling me that maybe I should find another dream.

The felines in my life who kept me company. Am I so weird that I thank my cats? Indeed, I am!

David, for never doubting and never complaining.

Fred Tribuzzo and John Scognamiglio for saying, Yes!

A
UTHOR’S
N
OTE

The Bianca Goddard Mysteries take place in London during the 1540s in the final years of Henry VIII’s reign. His legacy as king can be characterized as extraordinary not only in the religious changes that shaped future England, but also in the political intrigues that defined his tenure.

In 1543, Henry was fifty-two years old, obese, and in failing health. At the time of Book 1,
The Alchemist’s Daughter,
he is courting Katherine Parr, his sixth and final wife. That summer, Henry made plans for an invasion of France scheduled for the following year.

The citizens of Tudor England dealt with poverty, war, greed, and the whims of a petulant monarch. It is in this world that Bianca must survive. And while Bianca rarely involves herself in matters of political intrigue, its effects are felt every day in the lives of the general population.

The Bianca Goddard Series focuses on the commoners of Tudor London and how they navigated Henry’s strange and brutal policies. In many ways, their existence echoes our own—the focus is on a government controlled by the elite few, but the more interesting story, in my opinion, is about the common man.

I tried to capture the feeling of the time, and I apologize if my attempts at merging period words and syntax fall short of smooth readability. If when the reader sees “ye” and pronounces it more like the “ye” in “yellow,” it will flow easier. It is an ongoing dilemma deciding how to approach dialogue from this time period. I could ignore the obvious or sprinkle it in; either way, I am sure to offend someone.

Several words were taken from a glossary of Thomas Dekker’s works, and some, I simply made up.

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Copyright © 2015 by Mary Lawrence

 

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eISBN-13: 978-1-61773-711-4
eISBN-10: 1-61773-711-9
First Kensington Electronic Edition: May 2015

ISBN: 978-1-6177-3710-7