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Authors: Mary Lawrence
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the way. John thrashed, pulling a sheet over his nose to filter the awful stink. This lasted half a minute, until he grew too warm and threw it off.
Beside him, Bianca slept soundly. She was bothered by neither the smells nor the oppressive heat. Her dreams were soft, filled with visions of herbs and flowers, the combinations stoking her subconscious with ideas for remedies she would pursue later, when she woke.
John propped himself on one elbow and stared at herâwilling her to wake and hear his complaints. But she turned away from him, a serene smile on her lips.
Restless, John sat on the side of the bed. He twisted his hair into a bun and stabbed it in place with a metal stirring rod from Biancaâs wares. The room had not cooled. No breeze found their door. He went to open it wider, catching sight of the crescent moon hanging in the sky like a silver hook. Even the trill of a nightingale did not soothe his foul temper. John leaned against the jamb. They had been married for a few months now, and still he had not convinced Bianca to move. Nor had he convinced her to take his surname. She would rather stay a Goddard than be called a Grunt. Though, John had to admit, Grunt was an appalling last name.
What would it take to get her to leave this dreary hovel? John shook his head, thinking how stubborn she could be.
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He remembered back to when it was rumored the kingâs fourth wife, Anne of Cleves, was to process through Bishopsgate, and even though it was a cold day in January, Bianca positioned herself within sight of the expected entourage and waited hours in the wind. It wasnât even certain, but a rumor passed from eager tongue to ear. She endured without complaint the sharp pelts of sleet on her face, hoping for a glimpse of the new queen. John had told her no woman was worth waiting for, especially if one must suffer physical pain in the process. But Bianca had shown remarkable tenacity, and even though her feet were numb and would take hours to thaw, she got her glimpse and was pleased.
In another year or so he would be done with his apprenticeship. His mentor, the French metallurgist Boisvert, would suggest where John might set up smithing. John wished to stay in London, with its ample supply of merchants and courtiers with deep purses. He could do a fine business catering to those with the means to pay him. But he would not be so brash as to compete directly with Boisvert. He owed his livelihood to the petulant Frenchman.
Boisvert had rescued him from living in a barrel behind the Ternâs Tempest tavern. He had been nothing but an abandoned waif living off his wits and kitchen scraps. If Boisvert hadnât taken him in, he might have ended with one less finger, or hand, for all of his thieving.
But the smells of Biancaâs room of Medicinals and Physickes were not the only reason that John wished to move. There was hardly room to sit, and the board was always littered with the bowls and equipment from her experiments. The shelves were lined not with staples of food, but with jars of herbs and powders for her salves. And in the corner was the constant hiss of rats in cages stacked one atop the other.
Still, he could not convince Bianca to find a larger, better-ventilated rent in which to live and work.
John sighed as he headed back to the bed. â La nuit porte conseil, â he mused, sitting on the edge and listening to Biancaâs relaxed breathing. âAnd a pillow is my best advisor.â
C HAPTER 6
The next day, Bianca expected to find Ferris Stannum busy at work. Instead, she found Ferris Stannum busy being dead. She had hoped to spend more time with the brilliant alchemist, learning more about his methods, tapping his store of knowledge. Instead, she arrived to find him stiff on his pallet, surrounded by an ineffectual clutch of onlookers discussing his demise.
âWell nows,â said Constable Patch, surprised to see the young woman at yet another scene of
Beside him, Bianca slept soundly. She was bothered by neither the smells nor the oppressive heat. Her dreams were soft, filled with visions of herbs and flowers, the combinations stoking her subconscious with ideas for remedies she would pursue later, when she woke.
John propped himself on one elbow and stared at herâwilling her to wake and hear his complaints. But she turned away from him, a serene smile on her lips.
Restless, John sat on the side of the bed. He twisted his hair into a bun and stabbed it in place with a metal stirring rod from Biancaâs wares. The room had not cooled. No breeze found their door. He went to open it wider, catching sight of the crescent moon hanging in the sky like a silver hook. Even the trill of a nightingale did not soothe his foul temper. John leaned against the jamb. They had been married for a few months now, and still he had not convinced Bianca to move. Nor had he convinced her to take his surname. She would rather stay a Goddard than be called a Grunt. Though, John had to admit, Grunt was an appalling last name.
What would it take to get her to leave this dreary hovel? John shook his head, thinking how stubborn she could be.
Â
He remembered back to when it was rumored the kingâs fourth wife, Anne of Cleves, was to process through Bishopsgate, and even though it was a cold day in January, Bianca positioned herself within sight of the expected entourage and waited hours in the wind. It wasnât even certain, but a rumor passed from eager tongue to ear. She endured without complaint the sharp pelts of sleet on her face, hoping for a glimpse of the new queen. John had told her no woman was worth waiting for, especially if one must suffer physical pain in the process. But Bianca had shown remarkable tenacity, and even though her feet were numb and would take hours to thaw, she got her glimpse and was pleased.
In another year or so he would be done with his apprenticeship. His mentor, the French metallurgist Boisvert, would suggest where John might set up smithing. John wished to stay in London, with its ample supply of merchants and courtiers with deep purses. He could do a fine business catering to those with the means to pay him. But he would not be so brash as to compete directly with Boisvert. He owed his livelihood to the petulant Frenchman.
Boisvert had rescued him from living in a barrel behind the Ternâs Tempest tavern. He had been nothing but an abandoned waif living off his wits and kitchen scraps. If Boisvert hadnât taken him in, he might have ended with one less finger, or hand, for all of his thieving.
But the smells of Biancaâs room of Medicinals and Physickes were not the only reason that John wished to move. There was hardly room to sit, and the board was always littered with the bowls and equipment from her experiments. The shelves were lined not with staples of food, but with jars of herbs and powders for her salves. And in the corner was the constant hiss of rats in cages stacked one atop the other.
Still, he could not convince Bianca to find a larger, better-ventilated rent in which to live and work.
John sighed as he headed back to the bed. â La nuit porte conseil, â he mused, sitting on the edge and listening to Biancaâs relaxed breathing. âAnd a pillow is my best advisor.â
C HAPTER 6
The next day, Bianca expected to find Ferris Stannum busy at work. Instead, she found Ferris Stannum busy being dead. She had hoped to spend more time with the brilliant alchemist, learning more about his methods, tapping his store of knowledge. Instead, she arrived to find him stiff on his pallet, surrounded by an ineffectual clutch of onlookers discussing his demise.
âWell nows,â said Constable Patch, surprised to see the young woman at yet another scene of
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