The Apothecary Rose (13 page)

'Bird-eye is come again, eh?'

'You were cleaning the wound of a cat?'

'Little Kate's Bessy. All the world to her, that cat.
Cut would fester and abscess. Magda could help.' She leaned down to listen to the animal, then straightened.
'And thy business this time?'

Owen had resolved to get right to the point. 'Six
years ago you sold an arm to Sir Oswald Fitzwilliam,
the Archbishop's ward.'

Magda's eyes narrowed. 'Whence didst thou hear
this?'

'Fitzwilliam told the Abbot just before he died.'

'And the Abbot believed him? The lying scoundrel?
Aye. The Archbishop's pup.' She spat into the fire.

'You know that Fitzwilliam is dead?'

'Aye.'

'And he might have been poisoned.'

Magda let go with a barking laugh and sat down hard on a bench by the fire. 'Magda poisoned the pup to take
back the arm? Is that what thou think'st?' She wiped
her eyes on her skirt. 'If thou think'st to be ferreting
out a murder, thou art working with half a wit.'

'Tell me about the arm.'

She squinted at him. 'Why should Magda tell thee
aught?'

'A scandal could ruin your son's standing with the
Archdeacon.'

'The Abbot would tell?'

'Only if it seems we ought to.'

She rubbed her chin. 'Thou art the Archbishop's man.'

'I am interested in FitzWilliam's death.'

She shrugged. The pup was a flea. A pest. Not so
evil to bring death on him.' She gestured to Owen to
sit down.

Owen sat carefully on the edge of a stool. 'You
don't think his enemies might want him dead?'

She laughed. 'Pup got caught. Time and again. Folk
did not take him seriously.'

Tell me about the arm.'

Magda snorted. 'Came with one of his little lady
loves, quick with child. Caught Magda in surgery,
removing a rotten arm. Would have killed the man.
Pup asked could he have it. Magda ignored him and
put it out in her pit. Gave the pup's lady a potion to rid herself of his quickening seed. Next morning the arm was gone from the pit.' She shrugged. 'Was Magda to
run after the pup? Rotten thing. Stank. Magda won
dered. 'Twas Potter told her that churchmen pay for
such offal. Put it in a jewelled casket. Folk pray to it.'
She laughed. 'Pray to the rotten arm of a tinker. Magda
liked that. She let it be.'

'If the Archdeacon had heard of this and misunder
stood, your son's post might have been in jeopardy.'

'Potter learns much from his mother. Much that
takes him to folks' doors to demand payment for their
sins. Tis not an arrangement Archdeacon Anselm is
likely to give up, eh?'

'So your son felt no threat?'

'Nay. Nor did the pup yelp.' She shook her head.
' 'Tis a foolish, dangerous business, summoning. Potter
is a fool.'

The small patient on the table whimpered. Magda
went to see to her. 'Bessy, girl, ye be coming along.
Rest.' Gently she stroked the cat's head between the
ears, comforting her, soothing her. In a few minutes
the cat quieted.

Magda poured herself something out of a jug, came
back to sit. 'Magda does not offer thee drink. Thou
wouldst not take it, eh?'

Owen smiled. She surprised him. He had expected an underworld figure, a renegade, a cutthroat, a liar.
But she was a skilled healer at peace with herself and
content with her lot, it seemed.

'Why is Potter a Summoner?'

Magda shrugged. 'Greedy. Thinks to buy a comfortable
perch in his Heaven.' She shrugged again. 'A good lad.
Misguided.'

'Fitzwilliam brought a woman to you before Christ
mas?'

'Aye. Another greedy one.'

'Was it his child?'

'Aye, 'twas the pup's child. Lord March is not as
he should be.'

Remembering the revealing leggings, Owen found that an interesting piece of information. 'How do you know?'

Magda shook her head. 'Thou art a stranger to York
and know'st not the company thou find'st thyself in.
Magda Digby, the Riverwoman, is known far and wide. Lord March's mother came to Magda for a charm. And
again before the betrothal. No good. 'Twas not meant
to be fixed. He might sire a monster. Some such evil.'

'Can you tell me anything about Fitzwilliam that
would help me understand why he died?'

Magda rose, wiped her hands in her skirts. 'Magda
told thee about the rotten arm. Tis enough to keep
my Potter content.' She opened the door for him to
depart.

A Contract

He felt much as he had when he first woke in
camp with the eye bandaged. He'd kept trying to blink the left eye to bring that side of the tent in
focus. The feeling had persisted. Maddening. Even now
he had walked back to the muddy bank and blinked to
bring into focus the turbulent water to his right, the huts clustered against the abbey wall to his left. But the huts disappeared until he moved his head.

That was the remedy, dissatisfying as it was. That
was what he needed to do with Fitzwilliam's death.
Turn his head. He'd been searching for the man's
enemies, the enemies of a rogue. Everyone agreed Fitzwilliam had many enemies, but no one could name
one who might be angry enough to have killed him, and taken pains to do it cleverly. That person might
still surface. But what other enemies might Fitzwilliam have had? Ned had implied that Fitzwilliam was a spy. Perhaps York was not the place for Owen to look. Per
haps Lancaster's household was where he should be.
Fitzwilliam had been a spy for Lancaster son of the
King, and the ward of Thoresby, King's Chancellor. Now there was a different angle. Perhaps Fitzwilliam
had been murdered not by his own enemies, but by
those of his lord or his guardian. John of Gaunt, Duke of
Lancaster, had many enemies. And the Lord Chancellor of England and Archbishop of York surely would have
made enemies on his precipitous climb.

Owen resolved to give that possibility more thought.

But now he must hurry to the house of the Master
of the Merchants' Guild, Camden Thorpe.

Camden Thorpe looked up through his bushy eyebrows at the one-eyed stranger. He was surprised by the man's
appearance. He'd expected someone younger, though
the Archbishop had written that the man was Captain of Archers to the old Duke of Lancaster. Still. He'd hoped for someone who looked more trainable.

'The Archbishop recommends you as apprentice at the Wilton apothecary. You are aware of this?'

'I am, and I'm most willing.' The tone of voice
matched the words.

Thorpe pulled at his beard while he considered
the idea. Though Lucie Wilton had not requested it,
Camden thought she could use a pair of strong arms
around the place. That garden took a lot of work. Spring
was coming, and there would be digging and planting
and hauling. And this Owen knew something about the
business already. He could be trusted to watch the shop
for brief periods while she saw to her husband. Such
a queer business, Nicholas Wilton's illness. Camden
had never seen a man struck so hard, so suddenly, and
go on living. It must be Mistress Wilton's excellent
care. He'd noted how drawn and thin she looked. Not
getting rest
_;
that woman. Probably spending the night beside her ailing husband, dozing in a chair, afraid to miss his call, and working hard all day to keep up the
shop and garden. He motioned towards the patch. 'You
must wear that?'

The Welshman touched the offending patch. 'Aye,
though it works against me, I know. But as you can
see' - he lifted the patch, revealing a puckered lid that
would not quite close - 'the alternative is not pretty.'

Camden sighed. 'Poor devil. You must have suffered
with that wound.'

'I had a taste of Hell with it, aye.'

He looked to have been popular with the women
before the scarring, for he was handsome otherwise
in a dark, rakish way. His Mary would call the man
handsome but for the patch. It would turn a woman's
eye elsewhere, to be sure. No one likely to gossip about
him and Mistress Wilton. All in all, he might just be the solution.

'I've been sore pressed to find a way to honour
Wilton's request for an apprentice, you see. Sorely
pressed. Trouble was, a parent or guardian would
take it as an insult, my apprenticing their boy to
an apprentice, don't you see. For, capable as Mistress
Lucie Wilton is, she's still not a master, though with
a few more months of handling the shop alone she
could make journeyman. I mean to put it to the guild
members. Even so, it's a better recommendation for a boy to have apprenticed to a master apothecary, don't
you see.'

Owen shrugged. 'My situation is different.'

'Well, that it is. That it is.' Camden scratched his
nose and considered the man. The one eye had a bit
of devil in it, to be sure. But it faced him directly
with no twitching or sliding away. He could see no
harm in him. 'Knowing my reservations, you are still interested?'

'Yes.'

Thorpe gave the beard one last tug, slapped his
thighs. 'And you are your own man, I daresay. Well.
This makes all the difference. All the difference.'

'There is one question, Master Thorpe.'

'Ask away.'

'Archdeacon Anselm referred to Mistress Wilton's
questionable background. What did he mean?'

The Archdeacon, devil take him. Would he never
give up on his vendetta? 'Questionable? Pah. Old
gossip. Nothing to it. To my way of thinking, Mistress
Wilton has a most respectable background. Daughter of Sir Robert D'Arby of Freythorpe Hadden.' Well, now.
Camden saw that that got the Welshman interested.

Owen sat up. 'A knight's daughter?'

All men are climbers. Give them a connection with
aristocracy, and they perk right up. Never fails. 'I know what the Archdeacon's thinking. Her mother
was French. Young, beautiful. When she died, mis
carriage, the child not his, Sir Robert put Lucie in
a convent and went off on pilgrimage. Started much
gossip, of course. But Lucie Wilton should not be
damned for her mother's sins.'

'How does the daughter come to be married to
a merchant?'

Thorpe shrugged. 'Wilton visited Lucie at the con
vent. Fell in love. It was the aunt gave permission -D'Arby was still in the Holy Land. The girl likely saw
it as her escape. In any case, her background should
give you no trouble.'

'But how did he come to visit his future wife at
the convent?'

'You're uncommon interested in Mistress Wilton.'
Maybe Camden should be worried.

'An apprentice works side by side with his master.
It sounds as if Mistress Wilton would be my master as
much as he. I'd like to know something about her.'

Thorpe thought about that. It seemed a reasoned
argument, all in all. 'Lady D'Arby - Mistress Wilton's
mother - was a great friend of Nicholas's. Fascinated
by the garden, she was. Nicholas helped her repair the
maze at Freythorpe Hadden.'

'Then Nicholas Wilton is much older than his wife?'

'Aye, but not so much as some.' Thorpe stood up.
'And now you know as much as you need, Owen
Archer.'

They set out for the apothecary. A light snow fell,
a wet snow that melted as it touched the ground.
Owen wondered what Lucie Wilton's reaction would
be to the Guildmaster's proposal. She'd not much liked
the look of him yesterday.

Mistress Wilton glanced up from a ledger, saw
Thorpe, smiled, wiped her hands on her apron, held
out her hand.

'Master Thorpe.'

'I have good news for you, Mistress Wilton.' He shook her hand and stepped aside to bring Owen
forward.

Lucie started, then nodded to him. 'Master Archer.
How is the eye?'

'Better today, Mistress Wilton. I am grateful for
your skill’

'Might we go round back and talk?' Camden Thorpe
suggested. Lucie led them through a beaded curtain to
the kitchen.

'What is the good news?'

Camden rubbed his hands over the fire, then settled
himself at the trestle table nearby. 'What would you say to trying out Master Archer as an apprentice?'

'What?'

At least she expressed disbelief rather than distaste,
Owen thought.

Camden Thorpe hurried on. 'I know he's not what
you expected. But consider it. He's got experience
gardening and measuring out medicines, though he's
had no formal training in either. And he writes a good
hand. He could help with the books.'

Lucie Wilton flushed. She glanced over at Owen, back to Thorpe. 'Master Thorpe, don't play me for a
fool.' Her eyes flashed. 'He's a grown man. Hardly an
apprentice. You mean to bring him in to replace me’

Camden looked distressed. 'But he is an apprentice, I assure you.'

'I expected a boy.'

'Well, now, that's been the problem, don't you
see. A boy who aspires to being a master apothecary
does not wish to start as apprentice to an appren
tice, however competent he - or she - may be. But
I've told Owen the situation and he still wants the
post.'

'Why?'

'I've lost the heart for soldiering.'

'He comes with a letter of introduction from the
Archbishop.'

She looked Owen up and down. 'It's a lot of drudgery,
Master Archer.'

'It would be a good situation for me, Mistress
Wilton. I am not likely to be offered many appren
ticeships. Folks see me, patch on my eye, former
soldier, and expect trouble. A boy is more tracta
ble, they think. They're wrong. I've seen the world,
don't care for it. Want to find a quiet spot and
mind my own business. I am not ambitious. What
do I care whether I apprentice to your husband or
to you?'

Thorpe nodded with enthusiasm. 'To sweeten the
offer, I'll add Tildy Tompkins to help you in the
kitchen during the day. A gift from the Guild for an
ailing member. We do owe it to you and Nicholas.'

'And where will Owen stay?'

Owen grinned at her use of his given name. Already
she thought of him as her apprentice.

'He'll eat his meals with you, but keep his lodgings
at the York.'

'Then I'll have to pay him.'

'I have some money,' Owen said. 'I can keep myself’

'That might not be necessary.' Lucie rose. 'Let
me see if Nicholas is up to seeing you.'

Grey hair, grey eyes, grey skin. Nicholas Wilton did
not fake his illness. The little room was shuttered tight and lit by two spirit lamps that made it smell
all the more like a sickroom. Owen hoped Lucie did
not spend much time up here.

Nicholas nodded at them. 'I am' - he frowned,
closed his eyes - 'most grateful, C-amden.'

Camden Thorpe hurried over to the invalid and took
his hand. 'The Lord be thanked, you've recovered your
speech, my friend.'

Nicholas squeezed his hand. Tears stood in his
pale eyes.

Camden gestured for Owen to come forward. 'This
is Owen Archer. I'm confident he'll be a great help to
you both.'

Owen took the fragile hand in his. A racing pulse.
Damp palms. In his experience, a dying man's palm
was dry unless he burned with fever. Nicholas Wilton
was frightened. Of death? Of the Guildmaster? Of Owen?

While Owen stared into his tankard, considering the
events of the day, Digby slithered onto the bench across
from him. He did not look friendly.

'What do you mean, questioning my mother?' Digby
demanded.

'A good evening to you, too.'

'I mean to know what you're up to.'