The Apothecary Rose

Thirteen

Brother Michaelo glided into the room. 'Your Summoner paid a visit to old woolly-head today while I was taking my cure.'

'I know.'

The young man's eyes widened, an alert look unusual for him. 'You have another friend at St. Mary's?'

'How charming for you to be jealous, Michaelo. But it was the Infirmarian himself who told me. The old fool worried why he'd been singled out. He's going to slip, Michaelo. I cannot have that.'

Michaelo shrugged and yawned. 'Why you fuss over Nicholas Wilton, that worn-out man, I cannot understand. An apothecary. A merchant, really.' He sighed and slumped down in a chair.

'He was as fair as you once, my young buck.'

'But now he's palsied.'

'Youth makes you cruel.'

'I doubt that you'll worry over me when I'm old and palsied,'

'I will be long dead.'

'But would you? Worry over me?'

Anselm looked away. Of course not. Michaelo came to him out of greed, not love. Anselm was Michaelo's chance of escape from the abbey. It had been different with Nicholas, He had loved Anselm. Until the Abbot frightened him. And even afterwards, there had been a tenderness. There would never be anyone like Nicholas. There could never be. But Anselm needed Michaelo's loyalty. 'Of course I would worry over you, Michaelo. You mean very much to me.'

Michaelo stretched contentedly and stood up. 'Am I to do something about old woolly-head?'

'He does worry me.'

'And what do I get in return?'

'A word in the Archbishop's ear. About how useful you might be to him as Lord Chancellor's secretary. That is what you want, is it not? To see the court?' Michaelo was suited to that life. He would go quietly mad at the abbey, where he felt trapped, where his only recreation was the Infirmarian's wine.

Michaelo glowed. 'What about the fishy one?'

'I'll deal with my Summoner.'

'He's been seen with the one-eyed Welshman. At the York Tavern. And elsewhere.'

Anselm pretended not to be surprised. 'Digby is a scoundrel.'

'He's quite handsome, the Welshman.'

Anselm ignored the comment. Michaelo was too lazy to be promiscuous. But not so lazy that he would not take care of Wulfstan. He knew better than to disappoint Anselm. He could not afford to have Anselm telling Abbot Campian or Archbishop Thoresby of Michaelo's petty thievery and the bribes he paid to escape work. Such behaviour would not recommend him for the post he desired.

'The abbey is an unhealthy place this winter, my young buck. Take care that you do not catch a chill yourself.'

Michaelo pouted. 'You grow tired of me.'

'Not at all, Michaelo. I am concerned about your welfare.'

Michaelo took his leave.

Anselm paced his room. Digby had betrayed him. Potter Digby, raised up from the slime by Anselm, set in the path of grace. Meeting Owen Archer in that bitch's tavern. Plotting with him. Against the man who had brought him out of the vermin city and certain damnation with that witch of a mother. Cur. Ungrateful monster.

Brother Wulfstan made his way back from the Wiltons' in a daze.

Gentle Geoffrey had been Lady D'Arby's lover. The man who seemed an innocent. When Wulfstan had heard of the adulterous affair, he had imagined a rakish knight. A Fitzwilliam. An Owen Archer. Glib, clever, careless of the feelings of his fellow man. But Geoffrey was nothing of the sort. He was God-fearing, kind, well spoken, considerate. How could Geoffrey have betrayed Sir Robert D'Arby, the man he had served? Were Wulfstan a farmer instead of a monk, would it be clear to him? He had never dreamed that Geoffrey had lain with the woman he remembered with such tenderness. A married woman. That must be the sin that had brought Geoffrey here to make his peace with the Lord.

But he had also spoken of killing someone. Wulfstan had thought nothing of that. The man had been a soldier. He'd mistaken poor Nicholas for someone else. Or had he?

Nicholas Wilton is Master? Son of old Paul? No, it cannot be. You are mistaken. Nicholas Wilton is dead these fifteen years.

Geoffrey had been almost angry, insisting on it.

Wulfstan had told Nicholas that.

Dear God in Heaven. Sweet Mary and all the saints.

But why would Geoffrey have tried to kill Nicholas? Jealousy? Nicholas and Lady D'Arby had been friends.

Wulfstan went to the chapel. My dearest Lord, he prayed, kneeling on the cold stones, help me to understand. Tell me what I should do.

He stared at the statue of Mary, Mother of God, the Virgin Mother. He knelt there he knew not how long, his thoughts in turmoil. It did not make sense. And what of the Archdeacon? He had been Nicholas's friend at the abbey school. More than a friend. If Geoffrey had tried to kill Nicholas, and Anselrn knew of that … It was too much for Wulfstan to contemplate.

He picked himself up off the damp stone, brushed off his habit, and went to seek out Abbot Campian.

Owen asked Lucie if he might go out after Vespers. It was time for another talk with Wulfstan. If he let the old monk think too long about Digby's visit’ he might talk to the wrong people. Whoever they might be. And he must discover the secret Wulfstan shared with Lucie.

Owen did not look forward to the interrogation. His questions would upset the old monk. He did not enjoy hounding Wulfstan, But better to upset him than let him walk into a trap.

Abbot Campian was puzzled. 'You are Brother Wulfstan's second visitor today. Has this anything to do with Summoner Digby's earlier visit?'

'I know of his visit.'

That is intriguing. The Archdeacon did not.' Campian's usually calm eyes were troubled. The Summoner's questions regarded Sir Geoffrey Montaigne. I presume you know who he was?'

'Yes, I do.'

'And your inquiry into Fitzwilliam's death has led you to question Montaigne's?'

With so little information Campian had put together the truth. It was plain to Owen why the man had achieved the position of Abbot. 'It is essential that you keep my secret.'

'And to Brother Wulfstan? What do I say to him? He was alarmed by the Summoner's visit. Now you return. He is an old man. The deaths in the infirmary distressed him deeply. Especially Montaigne's.'

'When I have learned from him what I need to know, I will tell him my purpose’

The Abbot bowed his head for a few breaths, then looked up. Owen read calm resolve in Campian's eyes. Tomorrow the Archbishop arrives. I intend to speak with him about this.'

'May I talk to Brother Wulfstan?'

'Not until I speak with His Grace.'

'Come with me to speak with the Archbishop's secretary, Jehannes. You will hear that His Grace would wish me to do this.'

The Abbot did not blink. 'I will speak with His Grace tomorrow.'

Digby dressed himself with care and made sure to tell his landlady, Widow Cartwright, that he would dine this evening with the Archdeacon.

'He must be pleased with you to extend such an honour.' The widow considered whom she ought to tell first. News of the Summoner was always eagerly received. All folk liked to keep track of his career. Good times for Digby meant trouble for someone. It was good to know when to watch your back.

Digby hurried to the minster yard over frozen mud and slippery cobbles. As dusk descended, the sun-thawed streets refroze and a mist rose up from the iced puddles, mingling with the damp river air. Digby was chilled through his wool cloak by the time he arrived at the Archdeacon's chambers.

While warming himself before the fire, Digby drank down a goblet of mulled wine and poured himself another. He felt aglow by the time they sat to eat, and looked forward to a pleasant evening. The Archdeacon seemed in an expansive mood, speaking of the minster windows and Digby's critical role in raising funds. They toasted their successful partnership and cut into an excellent roast. Perhaps it was the wine which the Archdeacon encouraged him to enjoy, or perhaps the praise, that loosened Digby's tongue. He chatted about this and that, working his way into a confiding mood, and at last he brought up the one blemish that troubled his otherwise perfect contentment — that he suspected Wilton of poisoning the pilgrim at the abbey and was reluctant to bring him to justice because of the Archdeacon's friendship with the apothecary. Of course Digby stopped short of accusing the Archdeacon of protecting his friend. Indeed, he apologised for shocking him with such an idea. But people changed over time, got caught up in situations that twisted their thinking and led them astray.

Anselm looked puzzled. 'You make a serious accusation, Digby. My friend led astray. Indeed it might happen as you say. But Nicholas. I have seen no hint of evil in him.' The Archdeacon twisted his goblet round and round in his hands. 'But as my Summoner you have always judged with a fair reasoning. Perhaps you might enlighten me.'

The praise, even more than the wine, buoyed his spirits. Digby gave him all the details he had put together. Except, again, his suspicion that Anselm wished to cover up for Nicholas. For he was certain now, as he sat across from the man and saw his quiet, pious countenance, that Anselm could not be guilty of such a thing.

Anselm put down his cup and nodded when Digby concluded. 'I thank you for discussing this with me. And so honestly. I will consider this tonight, Digby, and give you my decision tomorrow.'

Throughout the rest of the meal, Digby sensed that the Archdeacon was distracted, which was no surprise. He would not be much of a friend, were he to take such a suggestion calmly. Digby took his leave directly after the savoury with a warm feeling of having done the right thing.

But as he made his way home, the damp, icy air began to sober him. And as he sobered he grew afraid, thinking about what he had done, thinking of the rather quiet manner in which the Archdeacon had received the accusation of his friend. He had frowned, but he had not exclaimed. He had shown no surprise.

And it came to Digby that he had been unwise to blurt it out. He began to tremble. He knew it was partly the after effects of the wine that jangled his nerves, but he was afraid, and too troubled to go directly to bed. So, icy though it was, with a soft snow falling, he headed down Lop Lane, then Footless Lane, past St. Leonard's Hospital, to Lendal Tower. The smell and the rush of the river often calmed him.

He stood on the walkway beside the tower, looking down at the rushing water, the river swollen from the beginning of the thaw, and tried to let the familiar sound soothe him. But the movement beneath him made him dizzy and fluttered his stomach. When he closed his eyes, the rushing water was there, but now spinning in a whirlpool. He tasted bile, and his head pounded. Too much wine. Oh, sweet Jesus and all the saints, he was drunk as a lord.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. 'Are you unwell, my friend?'

Digby recognised the voice with a shiver of shame and fear. He took a great gulp of air and grasped the rough stones of the tower before he opened his eyes.

'I am afraid my hospitality was overmuch’ Anselm said. The wine has made you unwell.'

It was too dark to see the Archdeacon's face, but something in his voice frightened Digby. Oh, he meant to sound sympathetic, apologetic, but there was a chilly edge to it. Perhaps it was just disapproval.

'Forgive me. I have been foolish. .' Digby's tongue felt thick and woolly. He was terribly thirsty.

The Archdeacon put a protective arm around Digby. 'Come. I will help you home.'

'I can manage.'

The Archdeacon patted him. 'Please. Let me perform my Christian duty’ He began to lead Digby, one arm at his back, a hand at his elbow. The walkway was indeed slippery. Digby was grateful for the Archdeacon's support. He forgot why he had been afraid. They came to the end of the walk and the Archdeacon paused, facing the snowy bank that fell away down beneath them, from bright snow to shadow to the glitter of the rushing Ouse. The water was deep here.

'God's greatness manifest, is it not, Digby?'

The drop-off and the motion of the water brought on another wave of dizziness. Digby turned his back to the river. 'I must get home.'

'Home. Yes. What is it they call your mother? The Riverwoman? Yes. The river. That is really your home, is it not, my friend?' Digby wondered why the Archdeacon went on so. It was a simple matter. He must get home. But the Archdeacon kept talking. 'Even on a night such as this, you had to stop here, listen to its singing. What does she say to you, Digby? What does the river whisper to you?'

Digby shook his head and leaned against the Archdeacon, burying his head in the coarse wool cloak.

'Do you turn your back on her, Digby? Foolish man.' The voice roughened. 'Never turn your back on a woman. You must see the eyes. Look into their depths. See the treachery. Yes, you look away and she sounds comforting, she murmurs to you, but turn, Digby, and look. Look deep, Digby. See her treachery.'

Strong hands turned Digby around. He clutched for the cloak, but there was only air. The silvery, rushing Ouse dizzied him. He cried out.

A hand went over his mouth, his feet were kicked out from under him, and he was lifted, swung back. No, dear God, no! Digby swung forward, out over the bank, and fell, first through the icy air, then slipping down the snowy bank, hidden rocks tearing at him. So cold, so horribly cold, the snow burned on his cut hands as he tried to grasp a rock, a bush, anything to stop him. The thunder of the river warned him of its nearness. The water rose up to clutch him, embrace him. He fought back up to the cold, but the drink and the pain weakened him. He kept sinking into the warmer depths, which were comforting, soothing. No. This was madness. He had to get a breath, must not breathe down here. He struggled up. His head came crack against something. Had he dived by mistake? He changed direction, but it felt wrong. He panicked. What was up, what down, he could not tell. His chest was being crushed. I am dead, he thought. He has killed me. A great sob rose up from his soul, and he gave himself up to the river.