The Apothecary Rose (21 page)

Owen nodded.

Tom shook his head. 'Sounds to me like you've
made a mess of it.'

After Tildy had gone to her little closet for the
night and Bess had returned to the inn, Lucie sat by
Nicholas, listening to his laboured breathing, search
ing her memory for some concoction she might yet
try to soothe him. It was the struggle for breath, she
was certain, that weakened him. He got no rest. How
could he rest, when every breath was such a struggle?
How could he heal if he did not rest? ‘
cannot live
with this.
Did he know what he had done? Had he
deliberately - No. She would not let herself even think
that.

Bess thought Nicholas was dying. That was why
she had talked so much tonight about Will and Peter,
her late husbands. She wanted Lucie to be prepared. To
know that life would go on. To begin to look around for
Nicholas's replacement. And who better than Owen
Archer? Dear Bess. If only life were that simple.

Owen Archer. The enigma. But Lucie admitted he
was a hard worker. He never complained. No job was
too humble. And he needed instructions only once.
He always remembered. And that voice. The way he
played the lute. He did not have the soul of a soldier.
Perhaps he really had taken the loss of his eye as a
sign to turn to a more godly life. He had given her no cause to distrust him. His only fault was the way he
made her feel. He could not help that. That was her own sinfulness. It was because Nicholas had been ill
so long.

Well. Nicholas was not dying. Lucie would not let
him. So she would have to keep fighting her feelings
for Owen. But it did not mean she had to be uncivil.

She would try to be more pleasant with him.

Lucie must have drowsed at last when a commo
tion outside drowned out Nicholas's gasping breaths and roused her. She went to the window. Across the
way was a sight terrifying to a city dweller. Fire. Smoke
billowed from the upper floor of the inn. Sweet Jesus. Bess and Tom - did they know? Were they awake?
Something large plummeted from the window and
landed with a thud in the snow below. It seemed to be
smouldering. A torch followed, hitting the snow with
a smoky hiss. Then faces appeared in the window. A
boy ran out into the yard. Lucie hurried outside, her
heart pounding.

She called to the boy.

'What is on fire?'

'The top room. Captain Archer's.' The boy nodded
toward the smouldering heap on the ground behind
him. ' 'Tis his pallet.'

Lucie clutched the fence. No.
Not Owen. Please
God.
'And Master Archer?' Her throat was so tight
the boy could not hear her. She asked again.

'He weren't in his room. Lucky, eh?'

'Was anyone hurt?'

'No one's I could see.'

Lucie thanked him and walked away while she
still could. Her legs were feeling untrustworthy.

Back in the house she sat down in the kitchen,
not wanting to return to Nicholas just yet.

Her reaction to the news that it was Owen's room on fire shocked her. Sweet Mary, it was as if - No.
Not as if. She would not lie to herself. She was in
love with Owen. She had thought herself so strong.
Strong indeed. Falling in love with a one-eyed soldier.
A handsome scoundrel had been Bess's first impression of him. A favourite with the ladies. Lucie could
not believe it. A soldier. Trained to kill. And he had trained others to kill. Soldiers belonged to a brother
hood of death. It made them unfit for life. Her own
father was a cold, unfeeling man. He had pushed her
from him the moment her mother's back was turned
by death. Only a simple child fell in love with a soldier.

But Owen did not seem like her father. He was
more like Geof, her mother's fair-haired knight.

Owen said he had done with soldiering.

A ruse. A posture by which he meant to win
her. She must remember he had been a soldier.

But her body remembered how he had caught her.
He had perhaps saved her life.

Because he had been watching in the dark at the
foot of the stairs. What of that? What was his purpose? His purpose still might be to wrest the apothecary from
her when Nicholas was gone. All he needed was to
reveal a scandal. And it was there for him to find.
The ordinance said nothing about a second chance.
Said nothing for exceptions due to illness. He could
ruin them with such a small piece of information.

She had lost her wits, to think such things of
him and love him at the same time.

Lucie lay her head down on her arms and tried to
calm herself, tried to tell herself that he was only an apprentice, that she had worried for him as she would
for anyone with whom she spent so much time, that
she could not possibly love him, that she must not love
him. Her life was in turmoil enough without that.

Anselm lay prostrate before the altar, trembling with
fear. If he were to die at this moment, he would burn
forever in the fires of Hell. He had murdered twice
now. He, who had rejected the life of the sword, had
taken two lives in as many nights. He felt calm about
the second, the burning of the one-eyed devil. He was
quite sure that in sending Owen Archer to the fires of
Hell he was carrying out God's will. And though Arch
er was Thoresby's man, Anselm was not afraid. The
Archbishop would have no reason to connect Anselm
with Archer's death.

All in all, Anselm was content with his dispatching
of Archer. But Digby's death was different.

'Sweet Saviour,' Anselm whispered, 'I am your-'
he hesitated, uncertain how to proceed. He could
not think how to pray, what to pray for. He had
killed Potter Digby. No amount of prayer, no mat
ter how heartfelt, would change that. Anselm had
murdered his Summoner, the man who had worked
hard for him, brought him far in his goal to complete
the Hatfield chapel, never cheated him. Anselm had
murdered Digby because of a rumour. Because he had
suspected Digby of changing his allegiance. Because he
had feared the man would accuse Nicholas Wilton in public, so that Anselm could not ignore it, would be
forced to condemn his friend, his dearest friend.

But killing Digby was a mistake. Anselm had known
that even as he walked from the river. Digby had not
betrayed him. He had told Anselm of his suspicion.
He had presented the facts to Anselm and would have accepted Anselm's decision. As always. So why had Anselm murdered him? What devil had taken hold of
him and twisted his reasoning, pushed him to such an
act? 'Sweet Saviour, forgive me.
Mea culpa, mea culpa,
mea maxima culpa.'

Perhaps this had been God's will? Perhaps Digby
would have told someone else? Would have betrayed
Nicholas? And God meant for Anselm to protect
Nicholas. It was for that purpose that God had brought
Anselm and Nicholas together at the abbey school.

Ever since Anselm had first seen Nicholas, he had
understood that his own role was to protect him.
Brilliant, humble, beautiful and fragile as an angel. Of
course Nicholas was one of God's special sons. Destined
to sit beside God through all eternity.

And Anselm had been called to protect him.

Anselm knew all about the need for protection.
His father had used the manor as a training camp for
young soldiers. Anselm had disappointed his father, he was quiet and studious, slender as a girl, his father said
with disgust. Only his mother had fussed over him.
His older brother was like his father. His sister was
a horsewoman. Anselm was his mother's comfort.

And then she pushed him away to dally with one
of the young men. Pushed him out. Fool that he was, he sulked around the stables and came to his father's
attention. His father put him in training. Wrestling.
Swordplay. Archery. His performance was hopeless.
The young men laughed. His father was humiliated.
One night, after too much wine, he dragged the boy out of his soft bed and gave him to his men. 'That's
what comes of boys who hide behind women's skirts.'

The next morning, in pain and ashamed, Anselm
hid. Eventually his mother asked for him. He told
the tale, ashamed though he was, for he felt certain she would sympathise, somehow intercede for him.
But she waved away his horror. 'It is the way of men,
my weakling. I cannot protect you from the world.'

He tried to explain the pain, the horror.

She laughed. 'And do you think it is any different
for me, you little fool? Watch next time your father
comes to my bed. Watch.'

He did. His father beat her’ and then used her
with such fury that she screamed in pain. Afterwards
she wept, crumpled in a little ball.

Anselm came to her, tried to comfort her. The
stench of his father was strong in the room.

He vowed to kill his father next time he came to
her. Anselm watched. But it was the young soldier his
mother fancied who came next. And she shamelessly
showed herself to him, pulled him to her, urged him on. They were rutting animals.

When the man left, Anselm crept in with her. There
was the smell of sex all over her. Anselm pressed his
head to her breast. She pushed him away.

'I saw.'

'Little sneak. Get out!'

'You told me to watch.'

'That once. Only then.'

'Let me love you as he did.'

'Dear God!' She sat up, pulling the covers around
her. 'Your father is right. You are unnatural.'

He saw loathing in her eyes. She, who had loved
him. The only one who had ever loved him. There
was some mistake. He reached for her.

She yelled for her maid. The heartless bitch. She
coddled and caressed him as long as it amused her,
and when she had made him totally dependent on her love, she discarded him. He lunged for her and tried to
scratch her eyes out. He was pulled away and sent out
to the soldiers. They had their fun with him until he
found a protector.

Oh yes, he understood the need for a protector.

And then he'd been packed off to St. Mary's. And his
turn had come to protect. And he was good at it. The
Lord knew he had done his best. Even his father might
be proud. And that bitch. She would have learned to
fear him.

But had he gone too far? Could he be wrong about God's purpose? He could no longer remember the sign
with which God had shown him his path in life. That frightened him.

Poor Digby. Anselm was sorry for that. He wished
he had not had to kill Digby.

A Piece
of the Puzzle

The priest's heart was not in the words he spoke over
the coffin. He acknowledged the need for Summoners,
spoke of God's grace in pulling Digby up so far from
his beginnings, out of the vermin city and into the
minster. Saying this, the priest cast uneasy glances at
Magda Digby, who stood on the other side, glaring at
the small group of mourners. Across the church stood
Archdeacon Anselm's clerk, representing the Archdeacon. Near Owen was Jehannes, representing the
Archbishop. Widow Cartwright, draped in black, stood directly in front of the pulpit. Perhaps ten more, mostly
the white-haired women who attend every service in
a parish, made up the congregation. Their responses
echoed hollowly in the stony space.

Out among the graves, the river mist cast a proper
pall over the mourners. The priest said a few words, dropped dirt on the grave, and withdrew. To a warm
breakfast, no doubt. The others departed, all but Magda
Digby, who knelt by the gaping hole to drop dried
leaves, twigs, flowers on the coffin. She whispered as
she worked.

Owen watched, filled with a heaviness he could
not account for. He'd made a mess of it. That must
be what bothered him. He'd been clumsy, obvious.
Though unpleasant, he could live with that. What
he could not abide was that his ineptitude had cost a
man's life. Even in war, one despised the manoeuvre
that cost more lives than necessary. But Digby was
no soldier. This was not war. No one should have to
die here for Owen's mistakes. He'd been wrong to use
Digby. Wrong. Lazy. Arrogant. He had considered the
man a thing to be used. A Summoner. Already dirty.
Already guilty.

Magda, one gnarled hand pressed to her lower back,
one on the muddy ground, struggled to rise. Owen
offered her his hand. Dark, shadowed eyes peered at
him.

'Thank ye. Magda knows about thee. Potter ex
plained. Thou'rt Thoresby's man, just as Magda said.'

Owen looked around, worried that someone might
hear. He saw no one, but the mist could deceive. 'I am
Wilton's apprentice,' he said loud enough to reach all
ears.

'Oh, aye’ She chewed on her gums, considered
him. 'Magda's lad helped thee. Potter judged thee a
good man.' She nodded, patted Owen on the shoulder, and shuffled away.

'I am sorry about his death’ Owen said to her
retreating back.

She glanced back over her rounded shoulder. 'Thee
and me. The others care not a whit.' She chewed
air, shrugged. Totter should've stayed on the river
with Magda. She named him for the craft she meant
him for. Summoners are dead men’ She hitched up
her cloak and shuffled off into the mist.

As he watched Magda disappear, he considered her
words. She believed the Archdeacon's interest in her
son was to blame for his death. The Archdeacon.
He'd tried to get rid of Owen. Had he rid himself
of his Summoner when he found out the man was
asking questions about Montaigne? Could Owen have
prevented his death if he'd told him that Wulfstan had
gone to the Archdeacon? Owen prayed that was not
so.

Archbishop Thoresby, Lord Chancellor of England,
leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. 'You were
wise to come to me about this, Campian. It would not do to share your Infirmarian's concern with others. Or
yours’

'I knew of your interest in Fitzwilliam's death. But
the Summoner questioning Brother Wulfstan. That
disturbed me’

'You say Archer knew of the Summoner's visit’

'He did’

'I question his choice of assistant’ '

 
'He did not say he had sent Digby’

Thoresby bowed his head a moment, thinking. He
either trusted Archer or he did not; he could not
support him piecemeal. 'You might encourage Brother
Wulfstan to speak with my man.'

'He distrusts the Welshman.'

Thoresby raised an eyebrow. 'Perhaps the Infirm
arian shows better judgement than the Archbishop.'

They smiled at his little joke.

'I will encourage Brother Wulfstan.'

'It is interesting that Anselm's Summoner would
express such interest in Montaigne. And no questions
about my ward?'

'Nothing about Fitzwilliam.'

The Archbishop closed his eyes again. It disturbed
him that he had forgotten the knight's connection
with Lady D'Arby. This was an intricate knot he was untying. All because of the rascal Fitzwilliam. How
odd if his ward had been an innocent victim. Much
was odd in this matter. The Summoner had involved
himself. Why? And now he, too, was dead. Questioned
the Infirmarian, dined with the Archdeacon, and then
drowned. A man who had grown up on the river,
drowned. Thoresby did not like it. It meant trouble
for the minster.

'Why does Brother Wulfstan distrust Archer?'

The Abbot winced apologetically. 'I confess I have no idea. He keeps to himself. We are quiet men. It is
the rule.'

'Tell me this - has my man Archer visited the
infirmary?'

'Yes. He carried a letter from Master Roglio, the
old Duke's physician.'

'Roglio is also my physician.'

Campian flushed, realising the implication that had
escaped him until now. 'And yours. I am quite an
innocent in these matters, Your Grace. But of course
your ward died in Wulfstan's care.'

'I do not think your Infirmarian is a murderer,
Campian. Perhaps not as sharp as he once was, but
no killer.'

Campian wiped his brow. 'God be thanked. He is my
oldest friend.' He sipped his wine. His hand trembled.
'But then you knew Archer visited -'

'He told me nothing of the visit, so I wondered.
Wulfstan's distrust might simply reflect his own feel
ings of guilt, his suspicion that Archer was invest
igating the deaths.'

Campian nodded. Then, in a tentative voice, with
his eyes averted, he said, 'There is another matter,
Your Grace.'

Mon Dieu,
another little scandal?

'These questions about Montaigne's grave. You would not mean to exhume him?'

'Why should we do that?'

'To look for signs of poisoning?'

What now? Had they sold the body for relics?
Thoresby did not know Campian as well as he should.
The Abbot had been in place when Thoresby rose
to Archbishop. Campian was not one of Thoresby's
men. He seemed forthright, but Thoresby knew many
accomplished actors. He did not want any chance of
scandal. 'I do not believe even Roglio knows enough
about these fleshy shells to pronounce a cause of death
without qualifying every step in his analysis. It is the
soul that reveals the man. The deed.'

Campian wiped his brow again. 'I am much relieved.
The peace of St. Mary's has been disrupted too much
already. The two deaths did not go unnoticed. Some of
my boys were ordered home. Several of the older broth
ers have become reluctant to use Wulfstan's balms for
their aching joints. Many dread the spring bloodletting more than usual. Poor Wulfstan knows this and is distraught. It seems only Brother Michaelo still frequents
the infirmary.'

'Michaelo? I do not know him.'

'A pretty young man. Lazy. Always devising ways
to escape work. Which reminds me of another item.
Michaelo was in the infirmary when the Summoner came to speak with Wulfstan, And later that day he
asked permission to visit the Archdeacon on family
business. His family has donated considerable sums
for the Hatfield chapel. They seek the King's favour.'

Michaelo. A link. 'A pretty young man, you say?'

Campian sighed. 'I suspect that Anselm has failed
in his resolve to give that up.'

'I never believed he would give it up, Campian. I did not choose him for his virtue.' Thoresby rose. 'I
am increasingly uncomfortable about all this. I must consider what to do.'

Campian rose also. 'I will leave you to it, Your
Grace. If I can be of any assistance, please let me know.'

'Meanwhile, allow Archer to question Brother Wulf
stan.'

Abbot Campian bowed, said, 'Your Grace,' and took
his leave.

For a long while Thoresby stood at his window trying
various connections. Then he summoned Jehannes. 'It is time to invite Archer for a cup of wine. Tonight,
Jehannes. Before I dine.'

Owen was halfway to the apothecary when the messenger from St. Mary's caught up with him.

'God be with you.' The boy pressed his palms together
and bobbed his head, then peered up at Owen. 'Captain Archer?'

'A fair guess. How many one-eyed men are there
in York?'

The boy screwed up his face, reckoning. 'Seven
I know of. Nay. Cowley lacks both. But -'

Owen waved him quiet. ' Tis no matter. What
is your message?'

The Abbot says you may speak with Brother Wulf
stan this morning, Captain.'

Abbot Campian greeted Owen solemnly. 'His Grace
tells me to trust you. I have encouraged Brother
Wulfstan to confide in you. You may go to him.'

Owen thanked him. 'One question. Does Brother
Wulfstan know the identity of the first pilgrim?'

Campian nodded. 'I told him after the Summoner
left. I thought that might be what Archdeacon Anselm
had sent Digby to find out. I told Brother Wulfstan to
tell the Archdeacon his name.'

Owen groaned. 'And did he?'

'No.' The Abbot's expression was bemused. 'Brother
Wulfstan disobeyed me. Not that he lied to the Arch
deacon. Wulfstan is incapable of lying. He has always
been so. The Archdeacon did not ask him the name
directly.'

'God be thanked,' Owen said, and headed for the infir
mary, tucking that bit of information away. Wulfstan
was a bad liar, but not above misdirection. And anoth
er interesting fact. Wulfstan had known the pilgrim's
name by the time he spoke with Lucie Wilton, but
he had evaded her questions also. Even Lucie Wilton.
They shared a secret. But not all secrets.

The novice Henry sat at a table, studying a manu
script. Brother Wulfstan dozed by the fire.

'He is tired,' Henry whispered when Owen entered.
'Can you see him another day?'

'No, I cannot.'

Henry went over and woke Wulfstan with a gen
tleness that Owen found touching.

Wulfstan's sleepy eyes slowly focused on Owen.
'Oh. Yes. Abbot Campian said you were to come.'

'Could we speak alone?'

Henry looked at Wulfstan, who nodded. 'Go meditate
on what you have read this morning. We will discuss
it this afternoon.'

The young man rolled up the manuscript and tucked
it away, then left.