The Apothecary Rose (30 page)

Wulfstan's tongue moved the heavy liquid around
in his mouth so that he might taste all the nuances.
Delicate combinations. Yet there was a false note.
Something that did not belong. The Pridiam concoc
tion was better balanced. Pity Michaelo's family added
so much of the offensive plant. An odd, powdery taste.

'Something is not to your liking?'

Michaelo's dark eyes swam before Wulfstan. 'Dizzy.'
He sank back against the wall, his hand on his heart,
which pounded against his hand. Slow and strong. Diz
zy. Powdery taste. 'Too much foxglove.' He shook his
head. The room tilted.

The bells chimed for Compline. Henry waited in the
cloister for Brother Wulfstan. If there had been a patient
in the infirmary, he would have relieved Wulfstan for
the service. But when there were no patients they
attended service together. Oddly, the kitchen workers
beat Wulfstan this evening. The Infirmarian had been
acting distracted. Perhaps he was unwell. It would be
like him to hide it. Henry went after him. The silly
Michaelo darted past, from the direction of the infir
mary.

So Michaelo had delayed Wulfstan with another
headache. Henry ducked into the infirmary to see
if he could help.

'Henry?' Feeble, faint, he could just hear his name.
Henry turned round and round. Merciful Mother, Wulfstan lay on a cot, clutching at his heart.

Henry dropped to his knees beside him, felt his
brow. A cold sweat. 'What has happened?'

Wulfstan lifted his head to speak, choked, leaned off
the cot to vomit. Henry went for towels and a basin.
Wulfstan lay back on the cot while Henry cleaned him.
Then Henry helped him sit up a bit.

'Do you know what it is?'

'Foxglove. In drink’

'What drink?'

'Mic-' He closed his eyes. Shivered, then bent
double. Henry smelled the diarrhoea.

Dizziness, slow, pounding heartbeat, vomiting and
diarrhoea. Foxglove poisoning.

'Michaelo gave you something to drink?'

Wulfstan nodded.

It would have to be a strong dose. 'Where are
the cups?'

Wulfstan pointed a shaking finger at a small table. Henry smelled the little cup. It had been rinsed. He
looked around for the water. Saw a damp spot by the
garden door. Brother Wulfstan had been in no condition
to rinse out the cups and take the water to the garden. And lazy Brother Michaelo was not so fastidious.

Unless he wanted no one to examine the evidence.

Wulfstan began to choke again, and Henry hurried
over.

Dear God, what was he to do? To call for help was no use. All the brothers were at the evening service. Wulfstan might choke if Henry left him to find help.
And he must clean him. The poor man could not be left to lie in his own excrement.

But Michaelo might escape.

Amelie D'Arby

Nicholas Wilton had murdered Geoffrey Montaigne. It was difficult to accept. Phillippa had never imagined
Nicholas Wilton capable of harming anyone. That is
why she had been able to forgive him for Amelie's
death. She thought of the frail man up in the sickroom.
His illness was the clue to understanding it all. What
he had done was killing him. He was a good man who
had been driven to commit a sin he could not live with.
Phillippa could not believe anything else of him. And
she had to convince Lucie of that. Lucie had to realise
that if Nicholas had indeed committed murder, he had
done it to save himself. Or to save Lucie.

Phillippa turned back to Lucie and Owen, who sat
quietly, waiting for her to rejoin them. Lucie stroked
the cat, who had curled up in her lap as if she sensed
Lucie needed comforting. Blessed Mary and all the saints, with her husband dying upstairs and her past
revealed as a knot of lies and half-truths, the child did
need comforting. The best comfort Phillippa could give
Lucie now was to tell her everything.

'When you were little, you had a cat much like
that one. You called her Melisende, the queen of
Jerusalem’

'This one is also Melisende’ Lucie said. 'She is
as stubborn and beautiful as the other.'

Phillippa was glad. 'So you do not remember only
the sorrow. That is good.'

'My memories of Freythorpe before my mother died
are good memories, Aunt.'

Phillippa nodded. 'Then perhaps what I say will
count for something. I want you to understand Nicholas. You must not condemn him, Lucie. Or
your mother. I will tell you what you need to know’
Phillippa sat down, poured herself a generous measure
of brandywine, and took a mouthful of it before she
began. 'You must first understand Amelie. She was
only seventeen. Given away to a stranger who took her
far from her family, her country’ Phillippa shrugged.
'But it's the way things are done. Daughters are chat
tel. And then they say we cry too much. As if we
had no cause’ She looked at Lucie. 'I vowed it would
not happen to you. You must believe that I permitted this marriage only because you agreed to it - indeed,
seemed set on it - and it gave you the chance to become
your own woman’

Lucie said nothing,

Phillippa sighed, took a sip of her brandywine.
'Amelie clung to me, pathetically relieved, when
I spoke court French to her. Other than Geoffrey
Montaigne, a young squire in my brother's company
who had been very kind to her - more than kind, I
could see - she had had no one to talk to, no one
in whom to confide her fears. I need not tell you,
Lucie, that your father was no comfort. That is what he's spent these years repenting, of course. She never should have been brought here, so far from her home.
A war prize, Robert called Amelie, Can you imagine?'
Phillippa looked at Owen. 'I'm sure you've no trouble
imagining that, being Lancaster's Captain of Archers all those years.'

'He's not like Sir Robert,' Lucie said in a quiet
voice. 'Let him be.' To Owen, Lucie said, 'You must
not blame Aunt Phillippa for her discourtesy. She has
known little pleasure with men.' Owen swallowed the retort he'd prepared.

Dame Phillippa merely shrugged. 'I want you to
understand Amelie's - Lady D'Arby's - unhappiness.
My dear brother was angry when a year passed and the
marriage bed produced no son - or daughter. And he
made his anger known. Poor Amelie. Robert's behav
iour made matters worse. You see, her monthly flux had stopped, I'm sure from unhappiness and fear and
loneliness and whatnot. I told Robert it was his own
doing, that from such fear as she had for him there could come little good, but of course he could not believe me. His pride could not accept that he might
be to blame. Men are so arrogant about their seed.
Amelie was to blame. He had to believe that. And
he convinced her. She brooded over it. She wanted nothing more than to have a child, a babe to love. She
was ripe for all sorts of nonsense. That was when her
maid took her to Magda Digby.

'Poor child. She had hope, but the concoction ran
out and still no monthly courses. Amelie asked me
about the herbs in my garden. I began to show her. And
I'm afraid I told her of Nicholas's garden, and that they
were of an age, and he already hard at work learning
his trade. His garden was a masterwork of plants that
would yield common and exotic medicines. I never
thought . . .' Phillippa shook her head.

'Much of what I tell you now was got from Nicholas
himself. He came to me and told me all before he asked
for your hand. I think he wanted to be refused. He
sought penance.'

'For her death?' Lucie asked.

Phillippa waved the question away. 'But I liked
him. Now, after I tell you all this you may say, "Silly
old fool, how could you like him after knowing what
he'd done?" And to that I say, "How could I not?" He
did all with the best -'

'Aunt Phillippa, please get on with it!' Lucie said.

'Well.' Phillippa straightened up. 'So.' She brushed
an imaginary crumb off her skirt. 'Amelie came here, sought out Nicholas, saying she wished to see the garden. Nicholas was a charming young man. Gentle, not
strong. But that raven hair and those piercing blue eyes.
Like hers, but with a different mood. Where Nicholas was angelic, Amelie was tragic. There was something in her eyes.' Phillippa paused, thinking of those eyes.

Owen glanced at Lucie and saw that the sad memory
held her, too.

Phillippa sighed and shook herself. 'Do you know,
but for that difference they looked like brother and
sister. But the difference was so marked. I can imagine them there in that lovely garden, bent over the creeping
thymes while he ticks off the names - she leaning over
to brush the mounds with a fingertip, sniffing, praising,
and he blushing all the while. She had that French way
about her that men find disarming. He adored her, it
was plain’

Lucie flushed at the comment. Owen was uneasy
at the direction of this tale. Not that it did not
seem the most natural consequence in the world,
but what would this mean for Lucie? What had pos
sessed Nicholas to marry the daughter of the woman
he adored?

'On that first visit Amelie asked Nicholas for cut
tings of angelica, pennyroyal, and madder. He asked
why. She told him she wished to begin a garden. To
show Robert she meant to play the proper lady of
the manor. He suggested prettier plants - lavender,
santolina, poppies, mother of thyme. No, no, she
wanted just what she asked for. He argued that angelica
archangelica was an ungainly plant, a huge seed head,
no flower. She told him that at the monastery of San Martin they strewed angelica on the floors and were
delivered from a visitation of the Devil.

'He grew bold, hoping to show off his knowledge. "You fear that the Devil prevents you from bearing a child?" She blushed, but met his eyes, rewarding him
with just that look of admiration he'd hoped for. She
plainly thought he could read her mind. Merciful Heav
en, it must have been her maid put such a foolish idea
into her head.' Phillippa looked down into the fire. 'Or
perhaps I was foolish not to see that she was, indeed, bedevilled.' She shook her head and her eyes returned
to Lucie.

'Nicholas proudly explained how he had guessed.
Pennyroyal and madder were to bring on her monthly
flux in case it was not the Devil who prevented it. He
asked why the Devil would do this to her. Amelie
said she deserved to be cursed. She did not love her husband, which was a great sin. "But you wish to have
his child?" "Oh, but it is most important. I am no one
if I do not have his child. If I disappoint him, he will
cast me aside."

'The poor boy. He was outraged. He must protect her. Save her from Sir Robert. How could he refuse
her? But it would take too long to begin the plants.
So Nicholas gave Amelie the prepared medicines — he
sneaked them out, knowing full well he should not do
this without his father's advice. Nicholas swore that he gave her careful instructions. He told me that Amelie's
eyes shone when he brought the medicines to her, and
he felt like a king.' Phillippa nodded to Owen. 'You've
only to look at her daughter to understand. Though
Lucie's soul is different - she has my backbone. Amelie
would be alive now if she'd our blood in her’

'Did no one in your family ever die in childbirth?'
Lucie demanded.

Her aunt closed her eyes, drew back into herself.
'Your mother's death was unnecessary,' she said softly.
'It was not God's choice.'

'You do go the long way round’ Owen said.

'I want you to understand, that is why. You must
understand. The garden enchanted Amelie. She and
Nicholas became friends. Because she was content, by
midsummer Amelie was with child.' Phillippa looked
up and noticed discomfort in both faces. 'Sir Robert's child, you understand. Nothing of that sort ever passed
between Nicholas and Amelie.'

'Merciful Mother,' Lucie whispered, crossing herself.

Owen hated this eavesdropping. He was not cut
out for it. He yearned for a practice field. A battle.
The slaughter of strangers seemed easier on the stom
ach than this prying. Dearest Lucie. What must she
be going through? And this slow, opinionated woman
dragged it out.

'It was a difficult birth. Magda Digby helped. We
walked Amelie all night. She was in such pain, even
the birthing chair was agony on her skin. But a magic
lit her face when she was delivered of a healthy girl.
Magda said it was a good thing Amelie was pleased
with you, for she doubted she would have another
after such a difficult birth. I disagreed.

'But Sir Robert had heard Magda's prediction. A
brother will always listen to a stranger before his
own sister.' Phillippa sniffed at Owen's warning look. She would choose her own pace. 'Within months my brother was off to London to resume his service with
King Edward. My brother, the old fool.' She leaned
over and took Lucie's hand. 'You know, I feared that
Sir Robert would neglect you. A daughter is important
only in helping with the young ones who come after,
and in creating alliances through marriage. But Robert would win more support in King Edward's service than
he'd gain by marrying you into a noble family. And
Magda said there would be no more young ones. I
swore then that 1 would watch over you. See that
you had a chance at happiness.'

'Surely Mamam also would watch over me?'

Phillippa patted Lucie's hand. 'If she were not such
a child herself.' She sighed.

Abbot Campian, noting the absence of Wulfstan and
his assistant in the refectory, sent Sebastian to inquire.
It was like Wulfstan to forget to ask for assistance. Campian was not surprised to see the novice Henry
return. Sent by Wulfstan to make his excuses as usual,
he guessed.

But Henry made no excuses. He looked distraught
and spoke with breathless haste. 'Brother Wulfstan
has been poisoned. I had to stay with him. Brother
Michaelo. You must confront him. He gave him a
drink that contained a large dose of foxglove.'