The Apothecary Rose

Sixteen

The wind carried the scent of the river. Owen slogged through the snow and ice, his heart heavy. Wulfstan had wished to protect Lucie Wilton. Owen wished to protect Lucie Wilton. Nicholas most likely wished to protect her, too — she was his wife. Everyone wished to protect lovely, gentle Lucie. But what if behind that facade she laughed at all of them and used her power over them as a protection? Could it be that Lucie had overheard the details about the pilgrim and taken revenge? That was the question that weighed on his heart. Had she mixed the physick and given it to Nicholas to deliver?

Lucie was with a customer when Owen got to the shop. He nodded to her and went into the kitchen. The serving girl scrubbed the stones in front of the hearth under Bess Merchet's critical eye.

'Say good morning to Owen, Tildy.'

Enormous eyes in a pale, thin face, pretty but for a wine-red birthmark on the left cheek. She started to rise.

'No need for that’ Bess said. 'Just say hello.'

'Mornin', Master Owen.' Directed down to his feet in a breathy, trembling voice.

'Not "Master," Tildy. He's an apprentice.'

Owen grinned. 'Good morning, Tildy. I can see you're busy. I'll try to stay out from underfoot.'

Tildy smiled gratefully.

Bess sniffed.

Tildy hunched her shoulders, expecting a blow. When it didn't come, she bent over her work, scrubbing with enough energy to dissolve the stone.

'Perhaps I should look in on the Master’ Owen suggested.

Bess clucked at the flying water, sighed, shook her head at Owen. 'No need. The Archdeacon is with him.'

Lucie called to Owen from the doorway. 'Watch the shop for me, Owen. I must see to Nicholas.'

He went into the shop, glad to escape Bess's watchful eye. Now that he'd confided in the Merchets, he was nervous to be around them in company, worried one of them would slip and reveal his true purpose. And Bess had a discomforting way of watching him, as if she knew his sins, knew him for a scoundrel. He pitied Tildy.

Lucie, frightened but determined, crept up the stairs. Pushing her wimple to one side, she leaned against the door.

'He was a dying man, Nicholas.'

'Montaigne and now Digby. Oh, Anselm, where will it end?'

'You are upsetting yourself, Nicholas. Forget about them.'

'You are so cold.'

'Is your memory so short? Geoffrey Montaigne once attacked you and left you for dead.'

'When he saw me that night. Oh, Anselm. His face.'

Lucie choked back an exclamation. Geoffrey Montaigne. Her mother's knight. She sank down on the top step. Geoffrey Montaigne and Nicholas? What in Heaven's name did they have between them? And why mention Geoffrey now? He had disappeared when her mother died.

She leaned back against the door. Someone wept. It must be Nicholas. She could not imagine Anselm weeping. That monster would undo all her nursing. Anselm was murmuring something.

'I — Don't. I am fine’ Nicholas said. 'Just — I must — there are things I must say.'

Montaigne and now Digby. What was the connection? Lucie sat in the dark, trying to make sense of it. Geoffrey Montaigne once attacked you and left you for dead. Wulfstan had told Nicholas that the pilgrim could not believe he was Master Apothecary because he thought Nicholas was dead. And the pilgrim had fought in France with her father. That must be it. The pilgrim was Geoffrey Montaigne. Dear God in Heaven. What did it mean? Why had he and Nicholas fought? Why had she not heard of this?

'You must not harm her, Anselm.'

'We do not speak of her.'

'Anselm, you must promise me.'

'They have destroyed you, Nicholas. First her mother, now her. She-devils.'

Lucie was stunned by the venom in the Archdeacon's voice.

'Lucie is a good woman.'

'She has blinded you. And now she's down there with her one-eyed lover, waiting for your death.'

Monster. Lucie wanted to run in there and scratch out his eyes. No, Nicholas. Don't listen to him.

'It is you who are blind, Anselm.' Nicholas's voice sounded weak. She should go to him. But if Anselm suspected she'd overheard — Dear God, he spoke with such hate. She felt as if he could see through the door and follow her with his eyes, with his cold, inhuman eyes. She fled to the kitchen.

Tildy looked up as Lucie leaned against the doorway, out of breath. 'Mistress Wilton!'

'Lucie, what is it?' Bess was quick to her side.

She shook her head. 'Nothing. I was — ' She shook her head. 'I must get back to work.'

'Nonsense. Just look at you.'

'It's nothing, Bess. Please.' She hurried through the shop door.

Owen also wondered when he saw her. Her wimple was pushed askew. Hair tumbled out at the temples and curled damply on her cheeks. 'You need not have hurried.'

'I want some jars off the top shelf. It will be easier if I can hand them down to you.' She was breathless.

'Perhaps you should sit down a moment.'

She surprised him by sinking down on the bench behind the counter. Shadows marred the pale skin beneath her eyes. Guilt, or worry over Nicholas's illness? Owen hoped worry and overwork. She rubbed one of her elbows as if weary to the bone.

'Can I get you something?'

She shook her head, 'just help me with the jars.'

'Let me climb’ Owen offered.

Lucie sighed. 'If we're to work together, you must stop debating my orders and just accept them. Can you do that?' She tucked her hair in, yanked the wimple straight.

'I thought — '

She stood up. 'I know what you thought. A woman should not climb ladders or lift heavy jars. If you watched a woman clean house, you'd see what nonsense that is.'

She was angry. Perhaps Bess had not told her where he'd gone. 'I went to Digby's funeral.'

Lucie nodded. 'You've a right. Bess told me about your mishap last night, knocking over the candle.'

'You see why I gave up soldiering.'

She shook her head. 'I've watched you work. The eye does not trip you up. Was it because of Digby? His death disturbed you?'

Her eyes were so clear. Honest. He did not want to lie to her. 'Death in peace is different from death in war. When many die each day, the heart hardens to the news. But Digby did not expect to die.'

She regarded him, trying to take in the answer. Montaigne and now Digby. She shook her head. Must put that out of her mind. 'Once again you surprise me, Owen Archer. Perhaps a man can change his nature. I would like to think that.'

'What was my nature before?'

'That of a soldier.'

'And what is the nature of a soldier, I ask you? Do you think that I chose to be one? That I had a taste for killing? That I wanted to kill and be killed for my King? I did not choose that. I was chosen by the King's men because of my skill with the bow.'

'And when you developed that skill, did you not see where it would lead?'

'No. It was a game, like any other a child plays. I was good at it, so it became my favourite game. And so I became even better.'

She turned away from him. 'There is work to do.'

'Why are you like this? Why can I do nothing to please you?'

'You are not here to please me.'

'Of course I am. I'm your apprentice. Your opinion is everything to me.'

Everything to me. The words echoed between them. Lucie looked at him, startled out of her anger. He wanted to grab her stubborn shoulders and shake her. You are everything to me.

She looked away, brushed some dust from her apron. 'My approval of your work is all you need worry about. So let us get down to it.'

Owen gave up the fight and followed her to the ladder, staying at its foot and saying not a word when the weight of the clay jars made him wonder how she could trust her balance under such a load. Once she stumbled and he grabbed her around the waist. Such a slender waist. He felt her hold her breath. She glanced down at him, for just a second, with an odd, frightened look, then resumed her work.

As she returned to ground level she said, 'Again I must thank you for catching me. I would have fallen’

He just nodded, fearing he would say the wrong thing.

'Nicholas wants to see you after his midday meal. He has some books for you to study.'

'I look forward to that. I understand the Archdeacon is with him now.'

Lucie was quiet while she measured chamomile onto a slip of parchment. Owen noticed a set look to her mouth. Her hand trembled slightly.

'His visits bother you?' Owen asked.

'They agitate Nicholas. It cannot be good for him’ She handed him the jar of chamomile. 'You can put this back’

While Owen was up on the ladder, a boy entered the shop. It was the stable boy from the inn by Micklegate. A horse was lamed and could not be spared at the moment.

Lucie asked questions, which the boy answered carefully. Owen knew horses. And the treatment Lucie recommended was exactly what he would have chosen.

He watched her prepare the mixture. Practised and sure of herself. In skill he suspected she was as capable of mixing an effective poison as her husband. But did she have the stomach?

'Not to worry, Jenkins’ she said, watching the boy's pacing out of the corner of her eye. 'This salve will keep her going.' She covered the jar and set it on the counter, holding out her hand for payment. The boy counted out the coins, relieved when she corrected him from short-changing himself.

'Much obliged, Mistress Wilton.' He flushed in the glow of her smile. Owen knew just how he felt.

'And don't give up on her, Jenkins’ Lucie said, handing him the jar. 'This will give her a chance to heal.'

The boy looked doubtful.

'Not all lamed horses need to be destroyed. Just give her time.' Lucie leaned over and patted the top of the jar he held close to his greasy tunic. 'That's my husband's special blend.'

'They say he's poorly.'

'He is that, Jenkins. But his medicine's as good as ever.'

The boy nodded and shuffled quickly from the shop.

'You'll notice I insisted on payment before I handed over the physick’ Lucie said. 'Jack Cobb has to pay his bills immediately. Most folk are trustworthy — or deserving of charity. But Jack Cobb puts bills off, hoping merchants will forget them. A rich, selfish man. He doesn't get away with that here’

A strong-willed woman. Certain of her judgement. If she believed that a man deserved punishment for her mother's death, would she just as coolly see to the punishment?

'I will remember about Jack Cobb. Are there others who do not — '

Lucie had turned suddenly to the doorway from the kitchen as the Archdeacon came through. Owen, who had not heard Anselm's steps on the stairway, realised that Lucie must have been listening for them. Which meant she was more anxious about the visit than he'd guessed.

'How is he?' Lucie asked.

'He is tired, so I thought it best I leave’ Anselm noticed Owen in the corner. 'Good day to you both’

Lucie wiped her hands on her apron. 'Owen can show you out, Archdeacon’ She hurried from the room. Owen heard her light step on the stairway.

'I can show myself out,' Anselm said. And did so.

After a midday meal served shyly by Tildy, who then sat down to join them, Lucie led Owen up to the sickroom. Nicholas lay propped against pillows, several small bound books on the covers beside him.

'Lucie is — pleased with you’ Nicholas struggled with the words, groping for them, breathless and beaded with sweat after a sentence. 'But I fear Anselm is right. We are wrong to keep you to your contract’

'What are you saying?' Lucie knelt beside Nicholas to dab his sweaty face with a sweet-scented cloth.

'Apprentice to an apprentice’ Nicholas shook his head. 'Not good for him’

Lucie's colour rose. 'Nonsense. Where else would he have access to books such as yours? Not to mention the garden. He's apprenticed to the most successful apothecary in the North Country.' Her eyes snapped with indignation.

'Lucie, my love-' Nicholas reached for her hand — 'a Master in Durham has need of him.'

Owen felt like an eavesdropper. He reminded them of his presence. '1 chose my situation. All is as it should be’

Nicholas shook his head. 'It is not a good post for him. Anselm is right.'

Lucie closed her eyes against Nicholas's pleading look. 'You wanted to give Owen something to study.'

'Lucie’

She leaned down to him. 'Must I remind you of our agreement, Nicholas? I am in charge of the shop while you are unwell. I make the decisions’

The apothecary looked down at his hands and shook his head.

Like a child, Owen thought. One who has been naughty and is doing his penance.

'Good’ Lucie moved away and gestured for Owen to go over to Nicholas.

The apothecary's hands shook as he showed Owen the books, the critical passages. He stank. Not just of the sickroom, but of fear. A smell a soldier knows well.

'You should heed the Archdeacon’ Nicholas whispered to Owen when Lucie had left the room.

'He does not want me here, that is plain’ Owen looked into the sick man's eyes. Rheumy, red-rimmed. Fear added a disturbing intensity. 'Why, Master Nicholas? Why does the Archdeacon want me gone?'

'Anselm watches over my soul’

'I can scarcely believe I endanger your soul’

Nicholas said nothing, his watery eyes flicking here and there, pausing on anything but Owen's watchful face.

'I am just what you need here. You know that.'

'Anselm, sees it otherwise’

'Why?'

'I am selfish to use you in such a way.'

'Nonsense. I came of my own free will. I am content. This is exactly where I want to be.'

Nicholas took a deep, shuddering breath and closed his eyes. 'Potter Digby. You knew him?'

'A little. Why?'

'He should not have died. None of them should have died.'

'None of them?' Here at last, a confession? Owen leaned closer. 'What do you mean?'

Nicholas's eyes opened wide. 'I — ' He shook his head. Tears welled up, ran down his fevered cheeks. 'Protect her.' His head fell back on the pillow. He struggled for air, his bony hands clawing his throat. Owen called for Lucie.

She ran up the stairs. 'Merciful Mother.' Nicholas twisted and turned on the bed, fighting to breathe. The smell of sweat and urine filled the room. Lucie knelt down and grabbed one of the clawlike hands.

'Nicholas, love. What do you need?' He moaned and pressed her hand to his chest. 'Your chest? Is the pain there?'

The watery eyes fluttered. 'Breathing. Mandragora.'

Lucie sat back, frightened. 'You need something so strong?'

Nicholas drew a great, shuddering breath. 'A pinch. In the milk. You know.'

Lucie hesitated. But when he doubled up, she turned to Owen.

'Watch him. If his eyes start to roll or he begins to choke, call me at once.'

Nicholas calmed. But just as Owen thought how much better he seemed, Nicholas threw his head back and arched in a paroxysm of pain.

Lucie, back with the physick, brought the small table with the spirit lamp over beside Owen. 'Watch me’ she said in a tight voice. Her eyes reflected her husband's pain. 'See that I do exactly as 1 say.'

Owen watched.

Lucie held up a tiny silver bowl, smaller than a thimble. 'Powdered mandrake root, just this measure, no more.' Her hands trembled as she dipped the bowl into a heavy crock on which was painted a root in the shape of a man. Owen steadied it for her. She poured the thimble's contents into a larger bowl. 'Dried milk of poppy, this amount’ She lifted a larger measure, and Owen tilted the second crock for her, on which was painted a delicately pleated flower. 'Boiling water to two fingers beneath the edge.' Her voice was calmer now. She poured the water. 'And mix well over the lamp, then cool, still mixing, until I can keep my hand against the bowl for three breaths. I must not scald my patient's gullet.'

'Can I mix it for you? I'm sure Master Nicholas would rather you held his hand.'

Lucie nodded and changed places with Owen. With her apron she dried the sweat from Nicholas's face. 'Peace, Nicholas, you'll soon sleep without pain.'

Owen stirred the liquid and followed her instructions under Lucie's watchful eye. When she'd seen him keep his hand to the bowl for three breaths, she nodded and he handed it to her, then lifted Nicholas's head, holding him while he coughed up phlegm and fought to catch his breath. When Nicholas was quiet, Lucie helped him drink. Within a few minutes the moaning ceased.

'Bless you’ Nicholas said. The effort to speak cost him a cough. He winced with pain.

'No more talk, Nicholas, my love. Sleep now.'

Owen lowered him to the bed.

'Do you need a priest?' the Archdeacon asked from the doorway.

'Anselm!' Nicholas gasped and clutched at his heart.

In two strides, Owen was at the door.

Lucie dropped to her knees beside Nicholas, whose eyes were wide with terror. 'I did not call him back, Nicholas.' She held him close to her, trying to calm him.

'My master is in need of rest, Archdeacon’ Owen said, pushing Anselm out the door with him. 'Your prayers are appreciated, but they'd be best said elsewhere.' He closed the door firmly behind them.

'Anselm is mad, Lucie’ Nicholas whispered, clutching her hand. 'Stay away from him.'

'I will, my love. Now rest. You must rest.' She smoothed his brow and watched with relief as the milk of poppy quieted him. 'And I will keep him away from you. He is killing you.'

On the stairs, the Archdeacon demanded, 'What happened?' As if he had a right to know.

Owen led him down to the shop without a word. Once there, he said in what he hoped was a controlled, emotionless voice, 'Nicholas Wilton is in much pain. Your visits do not calm him. You must let him rest.'

Anselm glared at Owen. 'You overstep your place, Owen Archer. You are not the master of this house.'

'If you are his friend, leave him in peace. He had a spell, requiring mandragora to relieve the pain. He must sleep now.'

The Archdeacon's face changed. The eyes warmed to honest concern. So he did care about Nicholas. 'Mandragora. Then he is worse.'

'I think so.'

'I did not know. Of course I will leave and let him rest. He must get well. You must do everything possible to make him better.' Anselm paused with his hand on the door. 'I do not like trusting him to you, Archer. A Summoner stands apart from the people. He must, in order to impart a fair judgement. To befriend a Summoner is the act of someone buying favours.'

'You suspect me?'

'I merely warn you.'

'I will get no favours from him.'

'God rest his soul.'

'You show an unusual interest in my welfare.'

'You are apprenticed to my friend. I do not want you to bring dishonour upon his house.'

'I will not.'

'See that you do not.' The Archdeacon swept out of the shop.

He had not said what was on his mind, of that Owen was certain. But that he was worried for Nicholas was clear. Worried and angry.

After the evening meal, Owen perused Nicholas's books. Lucie mended and Tildy shelled beans. Lucie spoke softly to Tildy of the morrow's work.

Now and again Lucie would look up with anxious care, as if her eyes could see through the floorboards to the sickroom. Owen could not help but wonder what that old, dying man had to offer her. He could not even give her a living child. What made the lovely Lucie so loyal to Nicholas Wilton? Was it that he had killed for her?

Or that he had delivered the poison for her? But if he was merely the unwitting messenger, what had caused his collapse? A poison with a delayed effect?

One poisoning. Two poisonings. One meant to kill, the other to silence. Had she poisoned Nicholas to silence him?

Owen looked up from the book he'd been pretending to read. Lucie was listening to Tildy repeat the ingredients of tomorrow's soup pot. '. . after the barley boils, that bit o' pork from yesterday, winter savoury, salt, a stalk of fennel..'

'Not fennel, Tildy, lovage.' The voice soft, the manner gentle. She tucked a wisp of hair back into Tildy's kerchief. The girl smiled. Lucie patted her hand. 'You're a good girl, Tildy. You're a big help to me.'

Such a woman did not injure her husband and kill her mother's lover. How had such thoughts come to him? He watched as Lucie showed Tildy which pot to use, where the spices were kept, how to interpret the labels. She was patient and thorough with the girl, as she was with him.

He tried to imagine her, in her patient, thorough way, planning the poison, how it would be delivered. Thinking about her lovely mother, the babe that had killed her, how Lucie was then sent off to the convent, and now she'd heard that the man was back, that he was dying at the abbey, that Nicholas had been asked to make a physick to save the man's life. Gently she would offer to mix the medicine. Or to wrap it while Nicholas dressed warmly for the walk. A few extra pinches of aconite, and it was ready. Who would notice?

One poisoning to kill, the other to silence. Fitzwilliam an accident. And then, when Brother Wulfstan discovered the deed, she agreed to burn the rest of the poison and keep quiet. How tidy.

Could she have done that to Nicholas? Was that why she was so solicitous? Guilt?

I’ll say good night, then, Owen’ Tildy said, standing over him with her candle. He was startled by her nearness. He hoped his head had been bent over the books.

'Good night, Tildy.'

When Tildy was gone, Lucie said, 'Something bothers you.'

So much for his subtlety. 'It is so much to learn. I hope that I don't fool myself, thinking I can learn it so late. I'm no child. Not the usual age of an apprentice.'

'You are doing well. You have no need to worry.'

He wished she were not suddenly kind to him. He must take the opportunity of being alone with her to find out what she knew. What she would admit to. He must approach it slowly. She must not guess his purpose. 'It is very different here from the camps. Childhood illnesses, pregnant women, the very old — I saw nothing of this before. There it was mostly wounds and camp fever.'

She did not react as he had hoped, relaxed and ready to talk shop. Her face reddened. 'I hope you do not find the work here tedious.'

Dear God, he could not even make small talk with her. 'Not at all. I have already learned so much. Master Nicholas has a unique mind. They do say he has an excellent physick for camp fever. We experimented with many mixtures. What does he use?'

She yanked at a tangled thread and cursed as it snapped. 'We are not in a camp.'

'But surely there are men in York who contracted the fever as soldiers. It recurs. That's the curse of it.'

'Nicholas has not discussed it with me.' Her tone closed the subject.

Owen let it go. It was enough for now to know she found the topic disturbing. He went back to his reading.

After a while he noticed that Lucie stared into the fire, her mending forgotten on her lap. The firelight shone on tears spilling down her cheeks.

He closed the book and went to her. 'What is it? Can I help?'

She shook her head. Her shoulders trembled as she worked to compose herself.

When she seemed calmer, Owen asked, 'It was unusual for Master Nicholas to ask for mandragora?'

'He prescribes mandrake root only when the danger of an overdose is outweighed by the pain. He is in great pain.' She wiped her eyes. 'Thank you for your help this afternoon.'

'I was glad I could do something for you.'

'His condition frightened me. All I could think of was that he might die. One mismeasure of mandrake.' She looked down at her hands. 'What we do. We possess the power of life and death.'

'Better than a soldier, who holds only the power of death’

'No.' She touched his hand. 'No, listen to me. You must never forget that about what we do. We could as easily kill as heal.' Her eyes held his.

What was she telling him? 'But the amount of mandragora you gave the master was safe.'

'Yes, of course’ She pressed his hand, then withdrew hers with an embarrassed blush. 'I am not myself.'

'This cannot be easy for you’

'Perhaps you should go’

'Whatever you wish’

'I wish none of this had happened. I wish — ' Her voice broke. She ducked her head, dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her apron.

Owen took her cold hands in his and kissed them.

'Owen — ' Her eyes were soft, not angry.

He put his hands on her shoulders, drew her to him, and kissed her. Her lips were warm. She responded. A warm, urgent kiss. Then pushed him away. She looked down at her hands, her face flushed.

'Know this, know this always, Lucie Wilton’ Owen whispered, not trusting his voice, 'I will do anything I can to help you. I cannot do otherwise. I will not press myself on you. But if you have need of me, I will do whatever you ask.'

'You should not say such things.' She still did not look at him. 'You do not know us.'

'I cannot help what I feel.'

'You must go now.'

Owen kissed her hands again, then hurried away, out into the fog, feeling foolish, angry with himself, and yet relieved. She had not withdrawn her hands. She was not angry. She had kissed him with the same hunger he felt. Lucie Wilton did not find him, one-eyed and starting over again like a boy, repulsive. He had held her, kissed her, and said to her what he had ached to say ever since he'd first seen her. And she had not pulled away. He felt lightheaded. Triumphant.

And disgusted with himself. For against all reason he had fallen in love with a woman who might be a murderer. Whose crime he was honour-bound to expose. She had the knowledge to poison Montaigne. She had said as much tonight. We could as easily kill as heal. And perhaps she had a motive. Or a motive to persuade her husband to commit the sin, which was worse than committing it herself. She would condemn Nicholas to Hell with her.

And that other sin he had thought of. Could she have brought on Nicholas's illness? He thought about them together, up in that stuffy room. Her tender nursing. No. To carry that off would require a most devious mind. He could not believe that of her. He would not.

And Anselm. Where did he fit into the scheme? Why was he so threatened by Owen's presence in his friend's shop?

Owen tried to concentrate on that question. But his mind turned back to Lucie. Twice today he had held her. She was beautiful. Responsive. Dear God, let her not be a murderer.

Anselm closed his eyes and swung the knotted thongs against his bare back, again, again, mortifying the flesh, offering it to his Saviour in return for Nicholas's deliverance from the evil that surrounded him. Nicholas must live. He must live long enough to recognise the error of his life and come back to Anselm, his protector. He must understand. God had given Anselm this task. Why could Nicholas not understand? What had they done to him? Anselm beat himself until his body was on fire with divine light. He would succeed. The Lord smiled on him.