The Apothecary Rose (32 page)

'She died in Robert's arms. He looked so lost and
frightened. "What has happened here?" he asked me.
What could I do? I told him.

'He was stricken by the betrayal. Geoffrey had been Robert's squire when he brought Amelie to York. He'd watched over Amelie on the crossing. Robert realised
he'd brought them together.

'He asked me to leave him. He did not want me to
see him weep. I went out to the garden. Geoffrey found
me out there. He'd waited for Amelie in the maze for hours. Dear God, all the evenings she'd checked there
to see if he'd returned. And this one. If she'd gone out
there.' Phillippa's voice broke. She stared at the fire.

Lucie still clasped her hands tightly. 'When Cook
fell asleep,' Lucie said, 'I sneaked down the ladder and
found Sir Robert holding Maman and moaning. There was blood all over both of them. Maman's pretty gown
was soaked. I touched her face. It felt wrong. Cold. Like
a statue - not like Maman's face. And her hands were
cold. I thought it was because they dangled down near
the floor. I tried rubbing them. Sir Robert shooed me
away. Like a dog. As if I had no right there. He did not
tell me she was dead. Just shooed me away. I knew
from the blood someone had been hurt. I thought he'd
stabbed her. I thought he'd found out about Geof and hurt her so she would not see him any more. I hated
him.'

'But I told you Robert was not the cause of her
death’ Phillippa said.

'You told me the baby killed her. And Sir Robert
was her husband, so I thought it was his baby. Even
when they whispered at the convent, I was sure they
were wrong. Sir Robert hated her, and he killed her with his baby.'

Her aunt sighed. 'Geoffrey blamed Nicholas. He went
for him, woke him in the night, beat him senseless,
stabbed him, and left him for dead. Paul Wilton found his son on the shop floor. He did not want
any gossip. He went for Magda Digby, knowing she
would nurse Nicholas without comment. He had Arch
deacon Anselm administer the last rites, knowing that he would not betray Nicholas. Between Anselm and Magda, Paul learned what had happened.

'He and the Archdeacon called on us at Freythorpe.
Asked us what we meant to do about Nicholas's
role in Amelie's death. My brother surprised us all
by blaming himself for what had happened. He had
already sent a messenger to the King to resign his
post. He would go on pilgrimage to atone. He was
a broken man. Nicholas, too. Geoffrey had disappeared,
thinking he'd murdered Nicholas. Amelie was dead. It
was too horrible. When Robert told me to take Lucie
to the convent, I thought it best for her. To get away
from the cursed house.'

'Why in Heaven's name did you let her marry
Nicholas?' Owen asked.

'Have I not made it clear? He made a youthful
mistake. I could not condemn him for the rest of his
life.'

'But for Lucie he was a reminder of all this.'

'No’ Lucie said. 'I knew nothing of his part in
it. To me he was from the good times, when Maman
was well, when I was loved. And he promised a life of
purpose.' She got up and opened the door, breathing in
the chill night air. Phillippa and Owen watched her.
After a while, Lucie quietly shut the door and turned
back to them. 'But you were wrong to deceive me, Aunt
Phillippa. And so was he.'

'You would never have accepted him if you knew.'

'Perhaps that would have been best.'

'No. He ensured a future for you, as I hoped he
would, I wanted you to be free of the fears that bedev
illed your mother. To marry in your class would have
condemned you to the same life, fearing that you'd
lose your husband's respect if you did not bear a son
and heir. A second son for good measure. Fearing that
should he do something treasonous or criminal you
would lose everything, through no fault of your own.
Fearing that he might die too soon and leave you as
I was left, without a home, with no standing, always
beholden. And to whom would you go for help? Once
Robert was gone, you would have no home. You would
be a ward of the court. Any money left you would be
used up, and you would be sold to the highest bidder. That is the way.' Phillippa rose, caught herself as she
wobbled with weariness. 'I saw Nicholas as a godsend’
She touched a trembling hand to her forehead.

Lucie helped her aunt to bed. As Lucie was leaving,
Phillippa said, 'Do you see, Lucie? Nicholas is a good
man.'

'He is still a murderer, Aunt Phillippa. Thrice over.'

Obsession

Anselm offered up the discomfort as penance for
his sin of pride, his boldness in playing God by deciding
who was to live and who to die. His Archbishop needed
him, Thoresby was too great a man to be subjected to
this journey, and Anselm would not complain.

In fact, his lord the Archbishop honoured Anselm in no small way by entrusting him with this mission. The benefice he was to negotiate in Durham would bring a
great sum to the cathedral fund. The negotiation must
be handled with care. Sir John Dalwylie might change
his mind, bequeath the money elsewhere, and they
would be left with nothing. It was for Anselm to
impress on him the importance of the cathedral, the
faith and thanksgiving it embodied, the indulgences it
would gain for those who contributed.

His companion would be tucked away in a monas
tery nearby. Brandon could not be trusted to say the
right thing. Or to be silent. He would be a liability in
such delicate proceedings.

It puzzled Anselm that Abbot Campian had assigned
Brandon to be his companion rather than Michaelo,
who was shrewd and well spoken. Anselm had asked
for Michaelo. He would be useful, the second son of
an old, landed family. He had aristocratic sensibilities,
which would stand him in good stead with Sir John. Campian said that Michaelo had not wished to go, had
begged to stay in York because of his delicate health.

He was delicate. Like Nicholas. Dearest Nicholas.
What Anselm would not give to see him as he had
been. To stand with him in his garden. Taste this,
crush this between your fingers, smell the essence,
look at the colours, is this not God's munificence in
miniature? Can we not see the glory of His creation
in this garden? Nicholas was so full of love for God's creation.

Delicate, sensitive, soulful Nicholas. What might he have become, had he stayed at St. Mary's, pro
tected from the world? He would have outshone
the doddering Wulfstan. He would have created his
beautiful garden within the abbey walls, safe from
the temptations of the French whore. All the evil with which she'd poisoned Nicholas's life would have been
directed elsewhere. He never would have met Amelie
D'Arby. Her child would never have lured him into
her lair. Lured him and sucked all life from him, all
beauty, all grace. Poor Nicholas lay now in that tiny,
stinking room like a fly sucked dry and tucked away
in the web for future consumption. Succubus. Evil,
wicked woman. Anselm was glad he had given her a
taste of her eternity last night. Now she was burning in the truly terrible fire, the eternal fire. The potting shed had been nothing to that.

Anselm.
The name was whispered in his ear. The
sweet breath caressed his neck. Anselm turned to see
his love. But Nicholas was not with him on the moors.
It was the wind teasing him. Anselm pulled his icy,
rain-heavy cloak up tighter around his neck.
Anselm.
Anselm.
A plaintive cry.
Why aie you not here} Can
you have left me when I most needed you!

Nicholas was dying. That must be the meaning of the
phantom cry. He was dying, with Anselm far away on
the road to Durham. Anselm had deserted his love. He
had left him alone and terrified of what was to come.
Fearful of Hell. Nicholas was afraid that God would not
understand what he'd done, what he'd had to do, that God would not forgive him the murders that Amelie
D'Arby had made necessary. Darling, gentle Nicholas
was afraid because that witch had shattered his peace
of mind with sweet words, downcast eyes. Bewitched
him and led him into sin. It was not Nicholas's fault. God would know that.

But Anselm must be there to remind him. Nicholas
must not die in fear. In terror.

Brandon paused suddenly and signalled Anselm to
stop. The whites of the clod's eyes shone in the moonlight. 'Horsemen behind us -'

Anselm listened, but he heard only the wind. 'Non
sense. You —'

Brandon hissed at him to be quiet.

Anselm closed his eyes and listened beyond the wind. And there, more a feeling from the earth than
a sound, were hoofbeats. It must be a messenger from
York. Riding after them to tell them that Nicholas was
dying and had asked for Anselm, could not die without
Anselm at his side, would accept absolution only from
him.

'Come. We must gallop’ Brandon cried.

'No. It is a messenger sent to call us back.'

'It's no messenger. Not with so many horses. Surely
it's Highlanders. Our only hope is to run before they've
seen us. Come on.' Brandon took off.

Anselm shook his head. Young fool. But as the
sound of Brandon's horse faded, Anselm heard that
the lad was right. It was more than one horse. And
the Archbishop would consider Anselm's mission far
more important than his old friend's absolution. This
was no messenger after them. Anselm spurred his
horse after Brandon. But Nicholas was dying, he was
certain of that. The farther Anselm travelled, the more
impossible it was to be at his dear Nicholas's death
bed.

And then the Highlanders were upon him. Their
hoofbeats shook the ground beneath Anselm. Their
weapons gleamed in the shimmering darkness. Their
inhuman cries terrified his horse. It screamed and
reared, throwing Anselm, then bringing a shod hoof down on his forehead. All was dark.

Nicholas pressed on Anselm's head.
Wake. Wake,
Anselm,
Anselm tried to brush away his friend's
hand. The pain. Nicholas must not realise his strength. Anselm fought to open his eyes, but Nicholas pressed
on the lids. 'Why?' Anselm moaned. 'What have I done
that you should torture me like this?'

‘ was
frightened. The Creator came for me, and
I was frightened. I could not wake you.

Anselm fought harder to open his eyes. It was night.
Wind moaned in his ears, rain cooled his throbbing
forehead. He remembered.

He touched his right hand to his forehead. He
thought he did. But the fingers had no feeling, although
the hand throbbed. With the other hand he felt the
forehead. Torn, abraded, and swollen. He tried the
right hand again. The fingers did not respond as they
should. He felt nothing in them. He pulled himself
up to a sitting position, ignoring a hot pain in his stomach, and let the wet darkness spin around him.
When it stopped, he stood up, wobbly on his legs,
but they seemed uninjured. He walked a few feet,
stumbled over some yielding lump, and fell. It was
his horse, sticky with blood, dead. Anselm knelt and
retched violently.

Anselm.

Anselm had forgotten. Nicholas was dying. He must
get to him. But without his horse, what could he do? He began to walk.

Lucie sat in front of the kitchen hearth, the cat
Melisende on her lap. Owen sat across from her,
but said nothing. She appreciated his silence.

She was trying to understand Nicholas. He swore
that he loved her. Phillippa believed that. Believed that
all he had done, he had done for Lucie. To ensure her
future. To ensure that she would not live with the fear
that had plagued her mother, that had eventually killed
Amelie. Dame Phillippa understood all that. She had
lived with that same fear. Of displacement. Of being
nobody. Having no home.

It was that fear that had driven her mother to
take her own life. If Sir Robert had discovered she
was to have another man's child, he would have cast her out.

Would he? Lucie did not know. She hardly knew
her father. It felt strange to think of Sir Robert without
hatred.

So if Nicholas was not to blame, and her mother
was not to blame, who was? Someone had to be. God
would not plan such an end for her mother. Someone
had transgressed. Disturbed the balance of nature. That
person was to blame.

How different Lucie's life might have been, had
her mother lived.

How different her life would have been without
Nicholas. He had been good to her. He had taught her
to be useful. She was respected in York for her skill,
not for her marriage. But all that would be taken away
now.

Lucie looked up at Owen. 'When you tell all this
to the Archbishop, what will he do?'

Melisende jerked awake with a fretful growl, pricked
up her ears, dug in her hind claws, and pounced at
something skittering across the floor.

Owen rubbed the scar on his cheek. 'I don't know, Lucie. I'm sitting here trying to think of a way not to
tell him.'

'You must not compound the guilt, Owen. You
must tell him. Your loyalty must be to him.' Lucie
went upstairs to Nicholas.

Owen watched Melisende toying with the mouse
she'd cornered. He felt as helpless as the mouse. How
could he avoid telling Thoresby what he'd learned?

Anselm stumbled along the pale ribbon of road, ass
uring Nicholas that he was on his way. The pain in
his forehead dulled as he walked. It was the hand that
brought the most agony. He tore a strip of cloth from
his tattered cloak and wrapped the hand as best he
could, then tucked it in his left sleeve. That helped.
He did not consider the possibility that he would not
make it back to York.

Lucie found Nicholas in a pitiful state, moaning
and whimpering. She knelt beside him, praying that
God might ease the pain, release Nicholas from his
suffering. She imagined he dreamed of judgement, the dread moment when God would call him to account for
her mother, Montaigne, and Fitzwilliam.

Once, Nicholas cried out and clutched her hand
tight. Lucie kissed him and whispered words of com
fort, hoping that he could hear. Later his eyelids
fluttered, then opened.

'I forgive you, Nicholas,' Lucie said. 'Rest in peace.'

He looked at her and whispered her name. Then,
with a violent shudder, he died.

Dead. Lucie's heart stopped, her mind went blank. A numbing cold began in her fingertips and crept up her arms. She hugged her arms to her body. Nicholas was dead. She stood up, walked to the window. The garden
window. She imagined him out there, his tattered hat,
smudges on his face. In the summer, freckles sprinkled his nose and cheeks. 'No. No more,' she whispered. 'He
is gone.'

Now she wept. Gentle Nicholas. She knelt back down beside him. She had loved him, he had been
good to her, a gentle husband, always concerned for
her welfare, her happiness. His pale blue eyes, which
had followed her about lovingly, stared now at nothing.

She hesitated to close them, knowing that she
saw them for the last time, those strange, beautiful
eyes. Memories held her there, drew her down into the
blue depths, her mother and she in his garden, his first
visit to the convent, his hesitant, humble proposal of
marriage, his patient training, how he had beamed at
the birth of their son, how he had wept at Martin's
death. All that they had shared she would remember
alone now. Alone. She searched the familiar eyes, but
his soul had departed, the flicker of life was gone. She
closed them.