The Apothecary Rose (28 page)

Owen rubbed the cheek below his patch. 'She is
so quick to offend. I never know what will set her
off.'

'You argued?'

'Every conversation is an argument.'

'She has a lot on her mind. A great deal of trouble and responsibility. You could help more, you know.'

'How?'

'Confide in her as you have in me. Let her know why you're here, what you know.'

'I cannot.'

'Prepare her for the fact that you won't always
be here.'

'It's best she knows nothing.'

'So you think she knows nothing, do you?'

He straightened up at that. 'What have you told her?'

'Me? Nothing. But she has eyes and ears.'

He thought about that. Remembered her at the
top of the stairs. 'The Archdeacon and Master Wilton.
She's listened to their conversations?'

Bess shrugged. 'And what if she has?'

'It's dangerous, Bess.'

She rolled her eyes. 'You think I don't know?'

'What has she heard’ Bess?'

'I can't be telling you. She'd know.'

'I won't tell her.'

Bess shook her head. 'She'd know. You must confide
in her. For her safety, Owen. You must.'

'I cannot.'

'Why, for Heaven's sake?'

'How do I know I can trust her?'

'What do you think she'll do? Tell Nicholas?'

He stared into his beer.

'That's ridiculous. You must trust her. Let her
know she can trust you. She'll walk into danger
if you don't. She's about to do it.'

'Is this why she's sent for her Aunt Phillippa?'

'What do you think? That she's suddenly decided
to depend on her family?'

'Perhaps. With Nicholas on his deathbed.'

'You're a fool, Owen Archer. I was that worried
about her this morning, I had Kit's little brother fol
low her. She went to the abbey to see the Infirmarian. She's getting ideas. Ideas about the night the pilgrim
died. And she's poking around, trying to find out what
happened. Potter Digby did that and wound up in the
Ouse. What do you think of her chances of survival?'

'I told you. The Archdeacon is being sent away.'

'Ah. So it's he threw Digby in, eh?'

'I didn't say that.'

Talk to her. It's too dangerous to leave her in
ignorance’

'So why didn't you tell her everything?'

Bess pulled herself up, indignant. 'I swore to you
that I wouldn't, didn't I? What do you think I am?'

'She went to the abbey today? Why?'

Bess rose. 'I've done my part. It's up to you now.'
She moved off among the tables.

'Damnable woman’ Owen muttered. The eye was pulling and aching. He took his ale up to his room.

Lucie sat at the table by the garden window, staring
down at the record book. MD. That was who she must talk to. She had to find a way to see Magda Digby. It
was not so simple as finding the time to go. She needed a guide. A young woman had drowned last spring when
she lost her footing going down below the abbey wall.
That was probably how the Summoner had fallen into the Ouse.

She looked over at Nicholas, who lay with his
back to her. His breathing was too irregular for him to
be asleep. He had turned that way when she'd tried to
talk with him about her mother. 'Why is she sudden
ly not to be mentioned, Nicholas? We always talked about her. It's been a comfort to me to talk about her
with you.'

'I cannot.' And he'd turned away from her.

How much easier it would be if he would answer
her questions. 'I know that Geoffrey Montaigne wound
ed you after my mother died.' She watched his spine
stiffen, but he did not turn, he did not speak. Damn
him.

So Lucie sat, staring down at the record book, at once
angry with Nicholas and frightened by his behaviour.
He had changed so much. Was it just the illness? No.
That would make him more tender, more confiding.
His behaviour was that of a man with something to
hide. A guilty man. She was more and more convinced
that he had poisoned Geoffrey Montaigne. But why? She
needed to know what had been between them.

It had been a long day. At last even her worries
could not keep her awake. She was nodding over the book when something hit the wall behind her. She sat
up straight, listening. Again, stones against the outside wall. She got up, looked down into the yard. Someone
in black, hooded. Brother Wulfstan? When he saw her, he moved quickly away, to the back of the garden. Too
quickly for the old monk. Lucie lit the oil lamp and went downstairs, got her cloak, went outside. Some
thing flickered in the dark garden. Again. The potting
shed. A fire. Her heart raced. Someone had seen it and
tried to rouse her. Thank God. She put the lamp back
inside and grabbed a bucket instead. To the well. She
drew up the bucket, filled the one she carried, and
lugged it to the shed. The fire was inside, at the back
of the shed. She would have to go in to douse it. The door was open. Perhaps the person who'd warned her
was already at work on the blaze.

'Are you in there?' she called at the door. She looked
in, but could not see through the smoke. She stepped
in. She would heave the bucket at the far corner and
run out for more water. But from the shadows an arm
wrenched the bucket from her hands and threw it out
the door. 'Idiot!' Lucie cried. She wiped her eyes and
focused on the moon-pale face of the Archdeacon. 'That
was water for the fire, for pity's sake.' She turned to
retrieve the bucket and go for more water.

He grabbed her. 'Burn, she-devil. Succubus. Whore
of Babylon. Burn.' He laughed, then threw her over
towards the blaze and rushed out of the shed, closing
the door behind him.

Lucie screamed and rolled away from the burning
corner. Her hem had caught fire. She beat at it with
her hand.

Once up in his room, Owen pulled off the patch and
rubbed in some salve. He lay down on the pallet, but he knew he wouldn't sleep. Maybe a walk. He got up,
looked out the window. The stars glimmered in a clear
sky. It was the first clear night he'd seen in York. He
stared at the stars, trying to remember Gaspare's names
for them. Now there was someone he'd like to talk to right now. Gaspare always made sense out of things.

A movement down below caught Owen's attention. Down in the Wiltons' garden. Someone ran past the
kitchen door, which stood open, a lamp flickering on
the floor just inside. Who was out in the garden? Could
it be Tildy? The figure ran towards the street. Too tall
for Tildy. Then he noticed the glow. Dear God.

'Fire!' Owen yelled as he raced downstairs and
through the tavern. Tom and several customers took
off after him. Tom yelled for someone to get the extra
buckets in the stable. Owen had the first bucket up out
of the well by the time Tom arrived with another. They
set to work on the back of the shed-

But where was Lucie? Surely the lamp and the
open door were a sign that she'd come out to fight
the fire. Owen went round to the door of the shed.
A bucket was upended in front of it. He pushed on
the door. It would not budge. He put a shoulder to
it and broke it down. She lay just inside, coughing
weakly. He gathered her in his arms and hurried for
the house.

One hand was blistered, a corner of her skirt singed,
and she had a cut on the side of her head where
she must have fallen. Bess arrived with a flagon of
brandywine. Owen lifted Lucie's head and Bess poured a little brandywine down her parched throat. Lucie
coughed it up and pushed Bess away, but Bess forced
more down her. This time it stayed down.

'Not bad. She'll be fine’ Bess said with relief.
She helped Lucie sit up.

'Who was it, Lucie?' Owen asked. 'I saw someone
running from the garden. Did you see who it was?'

'I thought he-' A coughing fit shook her. She
took the cup of brandywine Bess handed her and
drank without argument. 'I thought someone had
seen the fire and had come to warn me. He threw
stones against the house. I did not see the fire until I
went outside. He was in the shed. He threw me down
and cursed me.'

'Who?' Owen asked.

'The Archdeacon.'

Bess and Owen exchanged looks. Hers clearly ac
cused him of not protecting Lucie.

A banging began on the floor above. Lucie put
down the cup. That's Nicholas. I must go to him.'

'No. I'll go to him’ Bess said. Then I'll see that
they take care of the shed. You've much to talk about,
I think.'

Owen realised how badly Lucie had been shaken
when she did not argue, just slumped back in the
chair. Bess nodded and left. Lucie's hands trembled
as she picked up the cup. 'He meant to kill me’ she
whispered, as if trying out the words. Her head was
lowered, her eyes staring at the floor.

Owen cursed himself. Magda had said Lucie might
be in danger, and now she'd almost been killed. He
should have watched the house. He'd been so caught up in suspecting her - and he'd been wrong. Almost fatally
wrong. He had not really made an effort to protect. 'It's
all right. Anselm's being sent away tomorrow.'

Lucie looked up at him. 'How do you know -'
Her eyes widened. 'Sweet Jesus.'

He put his hand up and discovered he'd forgotten
his patch. Damnation. He turned away.

'No’ she said. 'Please. Forgive me. I'd never seen
it uncovered.'

'I am sorry I frightened you’

'No. I have seen much worse.' He still did not
face her. 'Please, Owen. Don't turn away from me.
Nicholas turned from me tonight. Did he know what
the Archdeacon planned?'

The despair in her voice touched Owen. He knelt before her and took her hands. 'I cannot believe that
Master Nicholas could bear to have you hurt.'

She touched the puckered lid gently, the eyebrow,
the scar beneath the eye. 'Bess says I can trust you. And now you've saved my life.' She studied his face.
'I need your help, Owen.'

Plain T
ruth

'Nicholas wanted me to give Lucie the eyewash
cup and medicine.' Bess's voice, 'Here it is.' She came
through, holding the items high, as if proud of her find.
She set them down on a table by Lucie. 'See you use
these now.'

'Did you tell Nicholas who lit the fire?' Lucie asked.

Bess straightened up, hands on hips. She gave Lucie an impatient look. 'I did not. If you want him to know,
it's for you to tell him. All he knows is there was a
fire in the potting shed, you got trapped inside, Owen rescued you.'

Lucie was relieved. Thank you, Bess’

' 'Course, he's no fool. He knows you were upstairs,
and fires don't start themselves.' Bess shrugged. 'But
he asked only after you. How you were. If you were
injured.'

'How is he?'

'He had me give him a tisane to help him lie
easy. The one he takes before he sleeps.'

'He's being sensible.' Lucie noticed that Bess had
the lines around her mouth that she got when she
was worried. 'I will be fine, Bess, just as I'm sure you
told Nicholas. Would you like something to drink?'

'Nay. Must be going. Fires make the customers
thirsty. Tom will have his hands full. You'll stay
and watch out tonight, Owen?'

'I will.'

Lucie noted that Bess and Owen exchanged some
sort of wordless message. 'You two seem cosy.'

Bess laughed. 'Comes of sharing a bottle of brandy-
wine or a tankard of ale every night. You two should
try it. Fare thee well, now.'

Owen stood in the doorway chuckling as Bess left.
'She has plans for us, I think.'

Lucie stiffened. She had almost confided in him.
How could she have forgotten her first impression,
a rogue. 'I did not mean I needed you
that
way.'

His smile faded quickly enough with that. 'I did
not mean that I think that. It's Bess. She makes no
secret of her fondness for pairing off the world.'

He found everything funny. Lucie had been about
to tell him that her husband had murdered someone.
He would have laughed at that, too, perhaps. 'You find
this amusing.' She was so angry with him she wanted to cry. But she would not. He would surely find that
amusing, too.

'What did I say to anger you ?' He sat down beside her.

The eyelid, puckered and red, was lifted toward her, a vulnerable counterpoint to the good eye. She
noticed that the eyelashes were as long, silky, and
dark as those on the good eye. How beautiful he
must have been. How it must pain him to see himself now. 'Perhaps I am too quick to take offence tonight’
she said, rubbing her eyes. She'd been exhausted even before the fire.

'Wash your eyes. Our talk can wait.'

I'm simply tired, Owen. I'm always tired these
days. Let's talk while we're at peace.'

'Your eyes look red. You might have a cinder. Rinse
your eyes first, then we'll talk.'

He exasperated her. 'Why do you always question
my judgement?'

'I'm worried about you.'

She could see the concern in his face, hear it in his
voice. 'I am fine, Owen. I do not need to be bullied to
take care of myself.'

'Bullied? I worry about you, and you call it bully
ing? Is it because I'm a soldier? Did I forfeit all human
feeling when I took up arms for my King?'

Lucie dropped her head to her hands. It was impos
sible for them to talk.

'Now I'm doing it, eh?' Owen sighed. 'Can we try
again?'

Lucie raised her head.

He touched her hand. 'I want to help. I do not
mean to bully you. Tell me what I can do.'

'I would not burden you with it, but I'm fright
ened, Owen. What happened tonight is just a small
part of something that I need to understand, or I
might lose everything. Though I might lose every
thing anyway. The shop, this house, the respect of the
people - everything. That is not comforting to hear, I
know.'

'I am not worried about myself.'

'Well, you should be. An apprentice often goes down
with his master.'

'Why might you lose everything?'

'It is very complicated.' She wished it were easier
to explain. She was so tired. 'It began the day Nicholas
fell ill. Brother Wulfstan came for a physick that
afternoon, and as he told Nicholas about the patient
- Nicholas began to behave like a stranger. His
questions were inappropriate. And afterward, while he
worked in the shop, he was so secretive. He has been so ever since. It is not just the illness. I know the difference between melancholy and secretiveness. That
night the Summoner brought him home. The next
day the Archdeacon came to see him. Two people
who had not set foot in our home since our marriage. And Nicholas can give me no better explanation than
that the Summoner happened to be at the abbey, and the Archdeacon is concerned for him.'

'Master Nicholas has been secretive? Is that what
troubles you?'

'I wish it were only that. Nicholas has been good
to me. I owe him much. But if he did what I fear he
did . ,.' She could not say the words. 'The Nicholas I
thought I knew could not have done it.'

'What do you think he did, Lucie?'

She stared down into the cup, trying to form the
words. 'I think . . .' She took a deep breath. 'I think
that Nicholas wilfully poisoned Geoffrey Montaigne,
the pilgrim who died at St. Mary's. Geof, who was my
mother's lover, tried to kill Nicholas years ago. When
my mother died. I do not know why. Nor do I know
why, after all these years, Nicholas struck back. But
he did. You are apprenticed to a murderer.'

'You say he has been secretive, yet he confessed
this to you?'

'No. I have found out by listening at doors, reading
old shop records’ Owen was frowning at her as if trying to read her face. But he did not look surprised. 'You are
not shocked?'

He shook his head.

She clutched the cup so tightly with her blistered
hand that her palm stung worse than before. She took
a drink and put the cup aside.

'Say something.'

'I know Nicholas poisoned Montaigne.'

It was the last thing she had expected to hear. Owen knew? How could he know, unless he had
been involved? How could he have been involved
when Geoffrey had died before Owen arrived in York?
'Why do I have this feeling that you are also about to
turn into a stranger?'

Owen did not answer at once. He spent a while
staring into the fire. She could tell by the tension in
his face, his whole body, that he was struggling with something.

'Is it so hard for you to tell the truth?'

'You always think the worst of me. All right, then,
I will tell you the truth. It is not the wisest thing to
do right now. You need my help, and it may make you
refuse it. But I will not lie to you any more.'

His words did not make her feel triumphant.

'I am here under false pretences, as you have sus
pected all along. His Grace the Archbishop sent me to York to inquire into the death of his ward, Sir Oswald
Fitzwilliam’

The cut of his clothes, the cost of a private room
at the York, his implausible humility in going from
Captain of Archers to an apprentice, it all fit now.
'How much better for me if my first impression was wrong.' Lucie felt terribly alone.

Owen reached for her hands. She shrank away from
him.

'I knew nothing about you when I agreed to come
here’ he said. 'His Grace knew of your need and wrote
a letter recommending me to Camden Thorpe.'

'Why? Why us?'

'You had need of an apprentice, and it was a job I could do. I had to have an occupation so I might stay
here without arousing suspicion.'

'Was the Guildmaster in on the deception?'

'No. He took some coaxing.'

'How do I know whether to believe you?'

'You have my word.'

'For what that may be worth.' She reached for the
brandvwine, then changed her mind. It would only make it harder to think clearly.

Owen looked pained. What on earth did he have
to feel pained about?

'How could you think I could trust you after this?'

'I knew the risk of telling you this tonight. I knew
you might never trust me, once you knew how I came
to be here. But you should trust me, Lucie. You need
to. I can protect you.'

'From whom?'

'Archdeacon Anselm, for a start’

How was she to judge? He sounded sincere, but
did she just want to believe him? Of course she did.
So her judgement was clouded. 'So you connected
Fitzwilliam's death to Montaigne's and somehow discovered that my husband had poisoned Geoffrey?'

'Yes. Digby set me on the right track, though I did
not believe him at first. The Archbishop was so certain
that his ward's enemies had caught up with him.'

'It would have been far better had you told me
this sooner. Why did you wait so long?'

'Because - I would have told you sooner, Lucie.
I never wanted to lie to you.'

'Why now?'

He hesitated. Lucie steeled herself for another un
pleasant revelation. 'Until tonight I thought you might
have poisoned Montaigne.'

She felt it like a blow. It was the sort of thing Owen
might say with a laugh, but he was not laughing. Not even smiling. He looked apologetic. All this time she
had flattered herself that Owen respected her work and
even cared for her, and the truth was he thought her a
murderer. 'Why would I have murdered him? And how
could I? I did not know who the pilgrim was!'

'If you had known, what would you have done?'

'I would have gone to him. He was good to me,
Owen. He took the shadows from Maman's eyes.' Lucie
fought tears, failed, wiped at them impatiently, furious
that her own body betrayed her. 'I would sooner murder Sir Robert.' A foolish thing to say. 'So the Archdeacon's
attack was my good fortune? It exonerated me?'

'Lucie, please. Montaigne was your mother's lover. He had brought shame to your family. You could as
easily have poisoned him as Nicholas. And, to my mind, with more reason.'

She had never considered how it might look to
others. The reasoning was sound. Lucie could not
argue with it. It frightened her.

'I am happier than you can know that you are
innocent,' Owen said softly.

Lucie did not want to pursue his feelings. 'So what
have you discovered? Obviously you don't know why
Nicholas poisoned a dying man, or you would not have
suspected me until now.' She would express her worst
fear. 'Were Nicholas and my mother lovers?'

At least Owen had the courtesy to look embarrassed.
'Lovers? I believe not, but I cannot know for certain. I
do not understand it all that well.'

'Just tell me what you know.'

'It is an unpleasant story, Lucie.'

'I do not imagine that murder is ever ennobling.'

'Magda Digby thinks that Nicholas did it to keep
Montaigne quiet, so that you would not lose your
standing with the Guild when your husband dies. That,
at least, is noble.'