The Apothecary Rose (16 page)

Digby's face lit up. 'I swear.'

They both leaned forward. 'His name was Sir Geoffrey
Montaigne.'

'Montaigne’ Digby whispered. 'Geoffrey Montaigne.
Now that stirs a memory somewhere.'

'I hoped it might.'

Owen had also hoped Digby would leave with
the information, but instead he sat there frowning
into his ale.

Oh, well. Owen settled back to consider what Digby
had told him. Nicholas Wilton had mixed a physick for
Montaigne, then fallen ill himself. Digby was witness
to that. Owen sat up.

'What was your business at the abbey that night?'

Digby's eyes slid to Owen's, then away. I'm Summoner. My business is everywhere.'

Owen could tell Digby was lying. It was encouraging
that he could tell. So maybe the rest was true. 'A clever
answer. What are you hiding?'

'I've offered you my help.'

'Then you should tell me all you know.'

'I don't want you getting the wrong ideas.'

'You were there for suspect reasons?'

'I was waiting for the Archdeacon. I had to speak
with him.'

'He was at the abbey?'

'He dined with the Abbot that night.'

'The night Nicholas Wilton, the Archdeacon's old
friend, collapsed outside the abbey? The night before
he resumed his friendship with Nicholas Wilton?'

Digby looked worried. 'It's not how it sounds. I'm
sure of it.' He shook his head. 'Montaigne. Geoffrey
Montaigne.' He grew quiet again.

If Owen believed Digby, he might have the answer
to why he had not got far. He'd been looking at it all wrong, focusing on Fitzwilliam and what he'd been up
to right before his death. But if the trouble had begun
with Montaigne's death, not Fitzwilliam's . . . Perhaps there was something much more intriguing being hidden than the death of the Archbishop's ward. And the pilgrim Montaigne was the key to it, not Fitzwilliam.
Could that be?

What did he know about the man? Montaigne, considered a virtuous, chivalrous knight by all who knew him, had come to York to atone for a past sin,
and the journey brought on a recurrence of camp fever.
Such fever can kill, and the long ride had opened a
recent wound, which had weakened him, making it
even likelier that the fever would kill him. The
Infirmarian thought Montaigne had known he might
die at the abbey.

But Brother Wulfstan was uncomfortable. He might
feel responsible for Montaigne's dying in his infirma
ry, but Owen did not think so. The monk would not
have survived as Infirmarian if he blamed himself for
every death in the abbey, no more than a captain could
function if he blamed himself for the loss of men in
battle. You taught them what you knew, and then it
was up to them and God. Wulfstan would have done all
he could.

Still, Wulfstan was uncomfortable. According to
Digby, after Wulfstan had exhausted all his knowl
edge, he had gone to Nicholas Wilton for help. And Nicholas Wilton had collapsed outside the infirmary
after delivering the medicine he had mixed specifically
for Montaigne. While the Archdeacon was dining with
the Abbot and Digby was lurking around outside.
Thorny.

Poisoning can look like a fever. But if the man
was near death, why bother?

Because waiting was hard. Especially when one's life
hung in the balance.
Be patient.
Owen had drummed
that into his new archers.
Do not rush. Wait for the
best moment to let fly the arrow. Do not let fear or
desperation loosen
your
grip too soon. Nothing is
changed by your panic, only your ability to reason.
But some forget the lesson when tested in battle.

If Montaigne had been poisoned, it was because someone had panicked. He would have died anyway, but perhaps more slowly. Owen could see the how. If Brother Wulfstan did not sense trouble, he would not
examine the physick. And that was what made Digby's suspicion plausible. Brother Wulfstan would not have
gone to Nicholas Wilton for help if he had suspected
him of wanting to poison the patient. So when the
physick had not worked, Wulfstan had taken it as a
sign that the Lord wanted Montaigne now. The monk
would accept that. It was Church doctrine.

That was, perhaps, the how.

But the why? Owen stared at Digby, who was
nodding to himself with a pleased look on his face.

'So?'

I've placed Montaigne. Lady D'Arby's lover, he
was. Folk said 'twas his babe killed her.'

The name sounded familiar, but he could not place it at once. 'Lady D'Arby?'

'Your Mistress Wilton's mother. You might speak
with 'em up at Freythorpe Hadden. Dame Phillippa
and Sir Robert.'

'He was the lover of Mistress Wilton's mother?'

Digby nodded. 'The beautiful Amelie. Sir Robert's
war prize.'

'And Montaigne's baby killed her? So there was
a scandal?'

'Lots of talk, but no action taken. She died. Mon
taigne disappeared. Lord D'Arby went on pilgrimage to the Holy Land.'

'Who is Dame Phillippa?'

'Sir Robert's sister. Looks after him.'

'Where is Freythorpe Hadden?'

'South of here. Ask your new mistress.' Digby
drained his tankard, rose, extended his hand to Owen.

Owen cupped his hands around his drink. 'Unwise
for us to look friendly, Summoner.'

Digby shrugged and walked away.

Knots

Owen thought of the wizened old man lying in
the sickroom. Nicholas hardly seemed strong enough
to hatch such a plot and see it through.

And then Owen had an awful thought. He tried
to discard it, but he could not. Lucie Wilton could
have prepared the physick. She was knowledgeable.
She could concoct a poison as well as her husband
could. Digby had said Wilton delivered the physick
to the abbey, but the Summoner could not know who
had prepared it.

Perhaps Lucie Wilton. She might have reason to
hate Montaigne. She had a marked antipathy towards soldiers. Owen had assumed it was her father, sending
her to the convent and going off when the mother died.
But perhaps it was Montaigne. And though Montaigne
had not identified himself, that might not matter.
Children noticed much. Lucie might have seen him,
recognised him from the past. Owen must find out
if she had been to the abbey while Montaigne was
there. The possibility sent pain across the blind eye. He rubbed beneath the patch.

There was no escaping it. Lucie Wilton might be
guilty. Her being a beautiful young woman should not
cloud his judgement. He knew full well that a woman could be as ruthless as a man. It was not the jongleur
who had blinded him.

But what a sickening suspicion. It was an ugly, unredeemed world that could make Lucie Wilton betray her calling to heal and use her God-given skill to
murder.

And yet suspecting Nicholas Wilton of the same
crime had not made Owen sick at heart. He disgusted himself. He was smitten by Lucie Wilton,
and was allowing it to colour his judgement. It was
not impossible that Lucie might avenge her mother's ignoble death in such a way. Given her training as an
apothecary, it was the likeliest way for her to strike
back.

Of course, all this assumed Digby was right, that
Montaigne had been poisoned. But where did that
leave Fitzwilliam?

It was still possible that Digby was wrong. The evi
dence lay in the grave of Montaigne. All the evidence
lay in the grave of an unknown pilgrim. Were such
graves marked? What words would the monks of St. Mary's speak over the grave of an unknown pilgrim?
How would they mark it? A gentle pilgrim who met
his end on such-and-such a day in the thirty-sixth year of the reign of King Edward the Third of England?

The grave was where his clues lay. Owen flipped over
on his left side, sending a shooting pain through his
shoulder. With a curse he rolled back on his right side.

What unpleasant tasks this sleuthing necessitated
- tussling with Lord March, opening a grave. And to
disturb consecrated ground was a sacrilege. Would God
blame him for it? No point in worrying about that
yet. He might not have an opportunity to find out.
Abbot Campian would probably refuse to co-operate.
And Thoresby might reject evidence got in such a
way. Owen did not like this prying into people's lives.
It made him no different from the Summoner.

Next morning, Owen sought out Digby. He discovered
him standing in the shadows near the marketplace, watching a maid and a soldier who stood at the edge
of the stalls, their heads bent close together, speaking
in hushed voices.

'Looking for sinners?' Owen asked Digby.

The soldier glanced over at them, whispered some
thing to the maid.

Digby backed farther into shadow and put a finger
to his lips.

The couple parted, the maid wandering over to
a stall, the soldier hailing a comrade.

'I have a mission for you, my friend,' Owen said,
grinning.

Digby gave him a disgusted look. 'So we're friends
now, are we?'

'You've made it rather plain we're meeting at the tavern.'

'Have I caused trouble for you?'

'I hope not. Time will tell.'

'Well, you've ruined my morning. What do you
want?'
Wulfstan smiled at Henry's attempts to tie the rag
around the monk's head. Michaelo had one of his headaches this morning, and Wulfstan thought to use
the opportunity to teach Henry the treatment the
monk responded to best. Feverfew steeped in a warm
cup of wine, to mask the bitterness of the herb, then
a cloth soaked in minted water bound around his head.
Wulfstan suspected that Michaelo enjoyed the extra
wine and the chance to sit and dream while the cure took effect, but it seemed a harmless vice. It was not
as if he appeared every week with his complaint. Twice
a month, and not at regular intervals, so it might be a
legitimate complaint. At worst a moderate vice.

Henry had done well with the feverfew-and-wine
concoction, and the soaking of the cloth. But his
fingers were all thumbs with a knot.

'No fisher folk in your family, I see’ Wulfstan said.

'I have never been out on the water, Brother Wulf
stan. Nor tied a knot. Am I very stupid?'

'I do not think the tying of knots renders one intel
ligent, Henry. You will learn.' Wulfstan showed him
again. Henry tried once more. 'Better. Much better, God
be praised.' Wulfstan undid the loose, partial knot and
handed the cloth to Henry. 'Soak this once more and
give it another try.'

Brother Michaelo was wondrously patient through all this, quietly sipping the wine and humming. The
wine obviously worked its magic. Indeed, that must be the key to Michaelo, Wulfstan thought, he loved
his wine. He thanked the Lord that Michaelo had not
been apprenticed to him in the infirmary.

Henry's next attempt at the knot was interrupted
by Brother Sebastian's breathless entrance. 'Summoner
Digby to see you, Brother Wulfstan.'

Digby's name burned in the Infirmarian's stomach.

'The Abbot said to show him back here. Is it safe?'
Sebastian, a healthy man, associated the infirmary with
bloodlettings and death.

'Quite safe,' Wulfstan assured him, though he wished
he could say otherwise and deter the Summoner. Merciful Mother, let Digby not bring bad news this time.
'Show him in.'

Wulfstan looked down at Henry's work. 'Why, Hen
ry, that will hold well.'

'Tie up a boat like that, and the first wave would
sweep it downriver’

Brother Wulfstan recognised Digby's voice. 'Brother
Michaelo's head is in no danger of being swept away’
Wulfstan said, angry that the man undid his praise.

Brother Michaelo sniffed and opened his eyes. 'What
smells of river water? It cannot be the cloth?'

Wulfstan pulled Digby away. Henry assured
Michaelo that he had soaked the cloth in well water.
The Summoner followed Wulfstan to the small hearth
at the other end of the room.

'Forgive me for interrupting your work.'

Wulfstan closed his eyes and hardened himself for
bad news. 'What is your news, Summoner?'

'No news. A question, if it is not too much trouble. It is for the diocesan records.'

'My Abbot would be more appropriate in a question
of records.'

'Forgive me, I thought you would be the one to
ask. You see, it is about the pilgrim who died in your
infirmary - in this very room - the night of the first
snow.'

Deus juva me.
Wulfstan's old legs threatened to
collapse. 'I forget myself. Sit down by the fire and
rest yourself.' He sat likewise, gratefully, gripping his
knees through the coarse wool of his habit to keep
them from knocking. 'The pilgrim. Yes. What is the
question?'

'Did you bury him on the abbey grounds?'

Wulfstan pondered the question. Or what it implied. Why would the Archdeacon care where someone had
been buried? To be sure he had been buried? Wulfstan
had heard there was a brisk trade in bodies for relics.
Surely the Archdeacon had no cause to suspect the
monks of St. Mary's of trafficking in false relics.
No. More likely they questioned the cause of the
pilgrims' deaths. They hoped to dig up the body
here in York and have Master Saurian examine it.
Wulfstan had heard of such things - digging up the
dead. But surely the Archbishop would not desecrate consecrated ground in such a way? Merciful Mother.
Wulfstan was not sure whether anything could be told
three months later. But if the poison were evident . . .
They would blame him. Dear God. And he would have
no choice but to point his finger at Nicholas Wilton.
And Lucie would lose her security. And he the infir
mary, for - as Lucie had wisely pointed out - how
could Abbot Campian trust him not to make such a
mistake again? They would declare him too old to be competent.

'Brother Wulfstan?' Digby leaned forward, frowning.
'It requires a simple yes or no.'

True. And he could not think of any reason not
to answer. 'My thoughts are on Brother Michaelo this
morning, Summoner. Yes. We buried the gentle knight
on the abbey grounds, as he had requested’

'Ah. Then he made a behest to the abbey?'

Wulfstan nodded. 'The Abbot can tell you the
amount.'

'And what name did you inscribe on the stone?'

The question puzzled Wulfstan. 'No name, just
"A Pilgrim," as he had wished.'

'But the behest. From whom will that be collected?'

'He brought it with him. Spoils of war, he said.
Truly, these are not questions for an Infirmarian.'

The Summoner rose. 'You have been most helpful’

Wulfstan showed him to the door, where Sebastian
waited to accompany him out.

The Summoner caught the door as it was about
to close on him. 'But surely he told you his name. Or there was something in his possessions that identified
him?'

Wulfstan shook his head. 'I can vouch for that
myself. He never said, and there was nothing to
suggest who he was.'

'Did he have any visitors while he was here?'

'None.'

'No one from the city?'

'No one at all, Summoner Digby.'

The Summoner shrugged and left.

Wulfstan went back to his instruction, but his
mind was in turmoil. The Archdeacon must have
sent Digby. But why? What was he getting at? Perhaps
the minster collected a portion of such behests. Such
matters were none of his business. Yet he had told
the Summoner about it. Surely Digby had not come to the Infirmarian for information like that. Unless
the Abbot had denied that the abbey received a behest
in order to keep the money at St. Mary's, where there
were always more expenses than money. The orchard
wall needed mending, an exquisite chasuble had been
torn beyond repair, and dry rot had weakened several
of the tables in the refectory. But would his Abbot lie?
Wulfstan doubted it. He had never known the Abbot
to hide behind a lie. Indeed, Wulfstan devoutly hoped
he was not wrong about his superior. He had always
held him up as a model of men.

Whether the pilgrim was buried at the abbey and
what his name was, those were the Summoner's
questions, now Wulfstan thought of it. His name. A
missing person, perhaps? That was it. But if someone was travelling in disguise, he would not go by his own
name. And Digby had not asked for a description. In
any case, the pilgrim had seemed such an honest man.