The Apothecary Rose (2 page)

Nicholas looked down at the floor and said noth
ing. It seemed to Wulfstan that his friend avoided
meeting his eyes. Perhaps things were not so well
between them. 'So you will prepare a special mix
ture?'

Nicholas clapped his hands, back to business. 'And
you must hasten back to your patient and ply him with
mint to bring on a good sweat.'

'I left Henry with sufficient instructions’ Wulfstan protested, but seeing Nicholas's odd temper, he took
his leave.

A bitter cold return journey it was. Nicholas was right. The first snow made up for its tardiness.

At dusk, as Wulfstan nodded by the pilgrim's sickbed,
he was wakened by a tap on his shoulder. Nicholas
Wilton at last. But something was amiss with the
apothecary. Wulfstan rubbed his eyes and squinted
at the man. Nicholas's eyes were too large in his pale face, as if he'd had a shock.

'You do not look well, Nicholas. You should have
sent someone else with the medicine’

The patient moaned. His eyes flickered.

Nicholas drew Wulfstan aside. 'He looks worse
than I expected’ he whispered. Ah, Wulfstan thought,
that explained the expression on the apothecary's face.

'You must dose him at once!’ Nicholas said. 'Hurry. A
dram in boiling water. I'll sit with him.'

Wulfstan hastened to the fire.

Apparently the pilgrim woke, for Wulfstan heard
him cry out, then Nicholas's voice murmuring some
comfort. The sick man cried out again. Wulfstan was
not surprised. The gentle knight burned with fever. Delirium was to be expected.

He tested the water, impatient for it to boil. The
pilgrim sobbed, At last the water boiled. Wulfstan
measured with care, said a prayer over it, stirred well,
and hurried with it to the sickbed.

To his surprise, Nicholas was gone. He had left
the pilgrim alone. 'How odd to leave without a word’ Wulfstan muttered.

'Murderer’ the pilgrim hissed. 'Poisoner.' His face was red and slick with sweat.

'Calm yourself, my friend’ Wulfstan said. 'This
emotion does you no good.'

The pilgrim's breathing was tortured. He thrashed from side to side, his eyes wild.

Wulfstan had all he could do to calm him, whispering
reassurances. 'Fever visions, my friend. Visitations of
Lucifer to break your will. Pay them no heed.'

At last the man's eyes cleared, 'He was a nightmare?'

'Yes, yes. There are no murderers here.' That was
true enough. Wulfstan held the cup up to the man's
pale lips. 'Now drink this down. Rest is what you
need. A healing slumber.'

The watery, frightened eyes moved to the cup,
then back to Wulfstan. 'You prepared it?'

'With my own hands, my friend. Now drink.'

He did so. 'Then he is dead. I did kill him’ he
whispered. The dreadful thought seemed to calm him.
Soon, warm and drowsy, the pilgrim drifted into sleep.

But shortly after Compline he began to moan, then
woke in a sweat, complaining of pains in his arms and legs. Perhaps Wulfstan had been wrong to call it camp
fever. But his friend had not exhibited these symptoms
before. Wulfstan tried to soothe his limbs with cloths
soaked in witch hazel, but the pain persisted.

He summoned Henry. Together they prepared poul
tices and wrapped the pilgrim's limbs. Nothing helped.
Wulfstan was at his wits' end. He had done his best.
No one could fault his efforts. The Lord knew how deeply he felt the pilgrim's suffering. He considered
sending for Master Saurian, the physician who tended
the monks when they were ill, but he had been little help when the pilgrim fell ill, and it was late, and
Wulfstan feared Saurian would simply say God's will
be done. Of course God's will be done. Wulfstan did
not have to drag Saurian out in the middle of the
night to be told that. But God's will was not always clear to man.

The pilgrim's breathing became laboured. He gasped
for air. Henry brought pillows to prop up the sick man's
head and help him breathe.

It was a long night. The wind found every chink
in the infirmary, and moaned at the door. The hearth
smoked and made the Infirmarian's already teary eyes
bum. Once, when Wulfstan bent over the pilgrim to blot his brow, the man grabbed his habit and pulled
him close, whispering, 'He has poisoned me. I did not
kill him. I did not avenge her.' Then he sank back on
the pallet in a swoon.

'It is the fever that burns within you, my friend,'
Wulfstan said aloud, in case the pilgrim could hear
and be comforted. 'You would be worse without the
medicine.' The man did not stir.

How unfortunate that the pilgrim mistook for a
murderer the man who had come to save him. A murderer the pilgrim thought he'd killed. Was that
why he had been so certain Nicholas Wilton was dead?
He had tried to kill him ? Gentle Mary and all the saints,
no wonder Nicholas took alarm. But as Wulfstan kept
watch over the suffering pilgrim, he convinced himself
that it was all fever dreams. He could not imagine the
gentle pilgrim attacking Nicholas Wilton.

Wulfstan watched in the smoky darkness. His heart
sank as the pilgrim's faint stretched on and on. His breathing was shallow, with now and then an explos
ive gasp, as if he could not get enough air. Wulfstan
propped him up higher and prayed. Henry returned from Lauds and knelt with him.

But for all their care, the pilgrim's shallow breathing ceased at dawn.

Heartsick, Wulfstan retired to the chapel to pray
for his friend's soul.

Henry came to Wulfstan as he nodded over his
prayers. Archdeacon Anselm's Summoner, Potter
Digby, wished to speak with him.

Wulfstan could not imagine what Digby might want
with him. It was a Summoner's dreadful duty to
investigate rumours of sinners who'd broken dioc
esan law, and to summon those he judged guilty
to the Archbishop's consistory court to be fined. For
this he earned a commission. And for this Digby was
disliked among the townspeople, who knew he waited
to catch them in marital infidelities, marriage being a
sacrament and infidelities his most lucrative charges.
The lay clergy seldom had much money to pay for
their sins. Many said it was the Summoner's unholy
diligence that kept the stonemasons and glaziers busy
on the cathedral. Wulfstan thought it a pity that the
beautiful minster should be linked to such greed. In
truth, he disliked Potter Digby with a sinful energy. As
Wulfstan followed Henry to the cloister, he wondered
what unpleasantness brought the man to him.

Potter Digby, it turned out, was on private business.
He'd found Nicholas Wilton in a faint near the abbey
gate the night before and hailed a passing cart to carry
him home. Wilton was in such a state he did not recognise his own wife. Digby thought Mistress Wilton
would appreciate Brother Wulfstan's presence.

'Nicholas? How strange.' Wulfstan thought back
on Nicholas's abrupt departure. 'He did behave oddly
last night. But you must forgive me. I have been up
all night. I lost a patient and friend. I cannot come. I
would be no good to them.'

'Wilton is bad. His wife is frightened.' Digby shrug
ged. 'But perhaps Master Saurian -'

'Saurian? He'll be no comfort to Mistress Wilton.' Wulfstan wavered. Though trembling with fatigue and a long fast, he could not abandon gentle Lucie Wilton
to the cold Master Saurian.

'Then whom do you suggest, Brother Wulfstan?'

The Infirmarian shrugged. 'I will ask my Abbot's
permission.'

Once more Wulfstan braved the snow, his old bones
chilled and aching. It did not matter. He could not leave
Lucie Wilton alone at such a time.

He need not have worried. Bess Merchet, proprietress of the York Tavern, around the corner from
Wilton's apothecary, met him at the kitchen door.
Wulfstan was pleased to see her competent bulk in the doorway. She was a sensible woman, regardless
of the brandywine on her breath, and a good friend to
Lucie.

'She'll be that pleased to see you, Brother Wulfstan.'

Bess hustled him in and set a cup of something hot in
his hands. 'Drink that up and catch your breath. I'll
see how things stand up above.' She disappeared up
the stairs.

Wulfstan sniffed at the mixture of brandywine and
herbs, then decided it would do him a world of good.
It soon settled his heart back in its caging and dulled
the pain of loss.

Upstairs, one look at Nicholas told Wulfstan that he might soon suffer the loss of another friend. 'Merciful
Mother, what has happened to you?' Wulfstan knelt beside Nicholas's bed, taking the man's hands, which
lay limp upon the covers, and trying to rub warmth
into them. Nicholas stared ahead, moving his lips but
making no sound.

'He has been like this all night.' Lucie sat on the
other side of the bed, dabbing at her husband's tears.
Shadows beneath her eyes bespoke a night as terrible
as Wulfstan's. 'He left here yesterday afternoon as you
saw him, clear-witted and healthy enough to work in the garden, cold as it was, and returned crippled and
bereft of speech, tormented by some horror I cannot
know and so cannot comfort him.' She bit her lip.
There was no time for tears.

Wulfstan's heart overflowed with pity for her. He
knew his own pain over the pilgrim. How much greater
must hers be, seeing her husband like this. He must
find a way to help. He tucked Nicholas's hands under
the covers and drew Lucie away from the sickbed. Tell
me everything you can.'

She could tell him little, only that Digby had helped Nicholas inside, for he seemed unable to support him
self on his right leg. The right arm also seemed useless.
And he'd made no sound but down in the throat. She
clenched her hands and looked desperate for comfort.

But Wulfstan could give little. 'It sounds to be a
palsy. Whether it be temporary or permanent, only
time will tell. It is in God's hands. Perhaps if I knew
what caused it.' He thought of Nicholas's behaviour
as he questioned Wulfstan about the pilgrim, and later
when Nicholas had glimpsed the pilgrim's state. 'He
was agitated when he left the infirmary. Perhaps in
the dark he fell. A blow to the head could cause such
a palsy. Or to the spine. An extreme shock.'

'A shock.' Lucie glanced at Nicholas, then bent
her head away from him so that only Wulfstan could
hear. 'Could it be the pilgrim?' She asked it in a soft, tense voice.

Wulfstan remembered the dying man's accusations.
But he had no proof. And now that the man was dead
he could see no reason to frighten Lucie. 'My patient's
appearance disturbed Nicholas, to be sure. He said he'd
not expected the man to be so ill. But that is not shock enough.' He looked at Lucie's bowed head. 'What is it,
my child? What do you fear?'

'It was Archdeacon Anselm's visit this morning.'

'Anselm? Came here?'

'They have not spoken in years. Since before we
were married. It is odd that he should come today.
There he stood in the doorway, so early, before any
customers. He'd already heard that Nicholas was taken
ill. He expressed concern, for all the world a worried
friend. After so many years. He did not come when
our Martin died’ Their only child. Dead of the plague
before he ever walked.

Something in this disturbed Wulfstan. For last night
he had been visited by the Archdeacon. At the time he
had given it little thought. The Archdeacon was to dine
with Abbot Campian. Before supper he had stopped in
the infirmary, curious whether it had changed since
he was last bled there. Anselm had been schooled at
St. Mary's. Last evening he had been pleasant enough,
asking after Brother Wulfstan's health, telling Henry
how frightened he had been of Wulfstan, who had been
broad in the chest in his younger years. Anselm had asked about the pilgrim, the only patient. It seemed a mere politeness.