The Apothecary Rose

Fifteen

Tom's words haunted Owen the next morning. Made a mess of it. Aye, he'd done that. Owen walked through the awakening city to Holy Trinity Church. Overnight the wind had changed, bringing warmer air that had turned the refrozen streets to slush. He slogged through the icy mush, which seeped through his boots and made his feet ache with cold. Chill mist clung to his face and neck. Wretched North Country. How much colder must Digby have been, plunging into the rushing waters of the Ouse. Owen shivered and stepped into the candle-lit church. It smelled of beeswax, smoke, but, most of all, of damp stone. The flickering candle flames bothered his eye. He moved off to the side, into the darkness.

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 explained. 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 Infirmarian 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 feelings of guilt, his suspicion that Archer was investigating 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 brothers 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 Wulfstan.'

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 Wulfstan 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 Archdeacon. 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 infirmary, tucking that bit of information away. Wulfstan was a bad liar, but not above misdirection. And another 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 manuscript. 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 gentleness 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.

'He is a good boy.'

Owen sat down across from the old monk. 'Forgive me for being abrupt, but you must know why I am here, so I see no point in games.'

Wulfstan assumed a cool, almost hostile expression. 'It is you who have played with me. You are the Archbishop's man. You might have said so.'

'I hoped I need not say anything. Did your Abbot warn you to keep your silence about this?'

'I need no warning.'

The old monk's hostility disappointed Owen, but he could not blame Wulfstan. He would feel the same. Best to get the worst behind him. 'The matter is this. I believe that Geoffrey Montaigne was poisoned. And perhaps Sir Oswald Fitzwilliam.'

Wulfstan looked down at his sandals, but Owen could see the sweat on his forehead.

'I am not accusing you, Brother Wulfstan. I believe someone used you. I suspect that you discovered the treachery and are worried that someone will blame you.'

Wulfstan said nothing.

'If you tell me what you know, it may save St. Mary's from more disruption’

The Infirmarian looked up with frightened eyes. 'What sort of disruption?'

'Exhuming Montaigne's body.'

'No. Sweet Heaven, no. Please. Do not disturb Geoffrey.'

'I would rather not. Will you tell me what you know?'

'I thought the Archbishop wanted to know about Fitzwilliam's death.'

1 think the two deaths are connected.'

Wulfstan sighed and gazed down at his hands.

'Who are you trying to protect?'

The old monk got up and poked at the fire. 'My Abbot wishes me to co-operate. But it is hard.' He fussed with the fire. 'Who is to know what you learn?'

'That would depend on what I uncover, eh? Perhaps I need tell no one but His Grace.'

'And you will not disturb Geoffrey?'

'No’

Wulfstan returned to his seat. He clasped his hands tight and bowed his head. 'I am certain that it was an accident.'

'What was?'

'I did not discover it until after Fitzwilliam — I had no idea that the physick was deadly.' He lifted frightened eyes to Owen. 'He was already ill, you see. He must have been.'

'Nicholas Wilton?'

Wulfstan closed his eyes. Nodded once.

'Tell me exactly what happened.'

With much wringing of hands, Wulfstan told him the story. Most of the story. He did not mention Nicholas's odd questions when Wulfstan had gone for the medicine. Nor did he mention having spoken with Lucie Wilton about his discovery.

What Owen did hear was a revelation to him. 'You thought nothing when Montaigne called him a murderer?'

'He was delirious with fever. I am accustomed to discounting things said in such a state.'

Owen got up and paced for a few minutes, thinking about what he had learned. Wulfstan sat with his hands in his sleeves, gazing at the fire. His face betrayed him, sweaty, flushed. He had not told all he knew. Owen was not surprised. He had not expected it to be easy.

'What did you do when you discovered how much aconite was in the physick?'

'I disposed of it.'

'Where?'

'I — ' Wulfstan closed his eyes. Obviously he searched for a safe response. 'I had it burned’

'You had your novice burn it?'

'I — No.' The monk could not lie. Owen counted on that. He just had to be patient.

'Then who?'

'A friend’

'So someone else knows of this?'

'They will speak to no one’

'You are still playing games with me’

The flush deepened. 'You know that you need not exhume Geoffrey. You know what killed him. Is that not enough?'

'Are you certain that the dose of aconite in the physick was an accident?'

'How could it have been otherwise? I did not know the pilgrim's name then, so I could not have told Nicholas Wilton’ But Nicholas asked those questions. He knew for whom he prepared it. 'He had not been to the abbey while Geoffrey was here, so how could he know? And why would he poison a stranger?' Sweat dripped down Wulfstan's back, making him squirm. What if he protected a murderer? What about that? Lucie Wilton was innocent. He must protect her. But what of Nicholas's questions? And the palsy. Might it have been brought on by the shock of seeing his victim, the weight of his intended sin pressing on his heart?

'I asked if you were certain that it was an accident, Brother Wulfstan.'

Wulfstan dabbed his forehead. Shifted on the bench. Closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands. Owen could hear him murmuring to himself. The arrow had struck the target, he was certain.

At last Wulfstan sat up and looked Owen in the eye. Owen read fear in his flushed face. 'One cannot see into another's heart. I have always found Nicholas an excellent apothecary and a good man. But I confess I do not know what to think about that day. He asked questions about the patient, questions that I did not think' — he frowned, searching for just the right word — 'that had nothing to do with diagnosing the man's condition’

Owen led Wulfstan through the questions gently, until it was clear that Nicholas Wilton had heard enough to guess who the pilgrim was. 'Forgive me for putting you through this. I do not like hounding you.'

Wulfstan nodded. Tears shone in his eyes.

'Tell me this. Can you be certain that the physick you tested was the one Nicholas made up?'

Wulfstan sighed. 'I am certain.'

'No one could have switched them on you?'

'I marked it with care.'

'And you would have noticed if it had been switched?'

Wulfstan slouched, defeated. 'I think I would have. I suppose I cannot be certain’

It is unfortunate that you did not keep it’

'I wanted to be rid of it. I was frightened who else might unwittingly take it’

'So others have access to the physicks?'

'No one else has permission. But if something were to happen to me — '

'Who burned it?'

'I told you. A friend’

'Here at the abbey?'

The eyes flickered this way and that. 'No’

'In the city somewhere?'

Wulfstan lifted his chin resolutely. He would not betray an innocent. 'I did not see where it was burned. I cannot know for certain where it was burned’ He took a deep breath.

Owen wondered who it was the old monk protected with such stubborn loyalty. Who might inspire such heroic silence? In whom might the old monk have felt comfortable confiding his discovery?

And then it came to Owen. The one in whom Wilton had confided his most recent discomfort. The one with whom he shared a secret.

'You told Mistress Wilton about your discovery’

Wulfstan bowed his head and made the sign of the cross. He struggled against the desire to curse the one-eyed monster.

'You felt she should know. So that the error might not be repeated’

Still, not a word from the old monk.

'I must know who knows’ Owen said gently. 'You see, if the murderer is not Nicholas, if the murderer is loose, anyone who might give evidence is in danger. I am warning you. I must warn your friend’

Wulfstan looked up, his eyes uncertain. 'In danger?'

'In a situation such as this, knowledge is dangerous.'

'Deus juva me, I had not thought of that.'

'Was it Mistress Wilton?'

'Now that I know, I can warn my friend.'

'Think. I am working in Wilton's shop. If I know that Mistress Wilton is in danger, I can protect her.'

He could, Wulfstan thought. This broad-shouldered man could be Lucie's protector. And what could Wulfstan do? How was he to protect her? 'Yes, I told Lucie Wilton so that she might watch over Nicholas. And I had her burn the physick.'

'It must have been a difficult thing to tell her.'

'I did not like doing it.'

'She must have been shocked.'

'Lucie Wilton is a courageous woman. She took it calmly. Understood at once why I told her.'

'She did not cry or wring her hands?'

'That is not her way.'

'You must have been relieved. You would not have much experience with a woman's faint.'

'I would not have told her if I thought she would be silly about it.'

'So she was not at all shocked?'

Wulfstan frowned. The question led in an uncomfortable direction. 'I do not think she would let me see if she were shocked.'

'Does Mistress Wilton know the identity of the pilgrim?'

'No.'

'Are you certain of that?'

Wulfstan shrugged. 'As certain as a soul can be about another.'

'He was her mother's lover. Did you know?'

Brother Wulfstan blushed. 'I realised that’

'And no one in Mistress Wilton's family, her husband or her father, knew of Montaigne's presence at the abbey?'

Wulfstan shook his head. 'I do not see how they would.'

Enough. 'I am sorry to have put you through this. Mistress Wilton is most fortunate to have you as a friend, Brother Wulfstan. I will pry no further.' Owen rose. 'I thank you for this information. I will use it only to discover the truth.'

Brother Wulfstan thanked him and followed him to the door.

'Remember. Be watchful. Trust no one.'

'Not even Abbot Campian?'

'No.'

'Or Lucie Wilton?'

Especially not her. 'Keep it simple to remember. Trust no one. And when I know the truth of the matter, I will tell you that you can let down your guard.'

'You will watch over Lucie Wilton?'

'I promise you’

Wulfstan believed Owen. But it did not make him feel any less a traitor. He knelt down in front of his little altar to the Blessed Mother and prayed.