The Apothecary Rose

Twenty — three

The reins were so wet they felt slimy in Anselm's fingers. But the unpleasant feeling did not last. The rain and cold numbed his extremities as the evening wore on. With every movement of his body he discovered a chill wetness. He shivered. He felt warmth only where his legs touched his sweating beast. His companion, Brandon, a burly novice from the border country, plodded on ahead, apparently unaffected by being soaked to the bone.

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 monastery 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, protected 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. 'Nonsense. 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 deathbed.

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, assuring 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 comfort, 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.

She should go down, tell Owen, send Tildy for Bess. No need for a priest, Anselm had already given him the last rites. There was nothing to do but prepare the body for burial, wrap it in a shroud. Bess would send her stable boy to Cutter's for the coffin.

Lucie would have liked to bury Nicholas in his garden — it was there he had been happiest — but it was not possible. He must be buried in hallowed ground. She must get up, go downstairs, take care of the details. But she lingered, feeling close to him even though his eyes were closed and his soul had passed on, knowing that once she left Nicholas's side, he would be truly, completely gone.

This evening her feelings for him had been confused. She had felt betrayed. Her mother had been poisoned by the man in whom Lucie had placed all her trust. All her hope for the future. The father of her only child. That brief joy, so sharp and pure. Nicholas had acted irresponsibly and handed her mother her death. He had sought out the advice of his former lover, someone bound to be jealous of Nicholas's feeling for Amelie D'Arby.

It was the Archdeacon Lucie should hate. She had lashed out at Nicholas, but it was Anselm she should hate. Anselm.

He must pay for all this pain.

Owen cursed as the shop bell rang. He needed to think. But he could not ignore the bell. No one came to them at this time of the evening except with an emergency. Melisende guarded her catch and watched Owen as he walked past her.

'God be with you.' A young monk, flushed, out of breath, eyes shining with troubled excitement. 'I must speak with Mistress Wilton’ Brother Sebastian from the abbey.

'There is illness in the household. Mistress Wilton watches over her husband.'

The young monk bowed. 'My Abbot sends me to warn you that Brother Wulfstan has been poisoned.'

Owen was surprised. Brother Wulfstan attacked, even with Anselm out of the way? 'Is he dead?'

The Lord spared him. But he is ill. And the Abbot worries that Mistress Wilton is in danger. He wants you to take the Wiltons to Freythorpe Hadden. They should be safe there with Sir Robert and his retainers.'

'An odd choice. It would be easier to set up a defence in familiar territory. Why Freythorpe Hadden?'

Brother Sebastian shrugged. 'I am just a messenger.'

Such messengers often knew far more than the players. 'Think. What could be his reasoning?'

'Perhaps he feels York is dangerous. Enemies could be anywhere. It was one of our brethren who tried to poison the Infirmarian. Brother Michaelo, acting for the Archdeacon. Perhaps my Abbot suspects he has more agents.' Sebastian frowned, fearful he had said too much. 'But I am only a messenger.'

'And where is the Archdeacon now?'

'On the road to Durham.'

'And if Anselm doubles back,' Lucie asked from the doorway, 'and finds us.gone, will he not think to go to my father's house?'

Brother Sebastian bowed to her. 'God be with you, Mistress Wilton. My Abbot is concerned for you. He says Owen Archer and Sir Robert's retainers can better protect you at Freythorpe’

'Owen can protect me here. My husband has just died. I want to bury him here, among the people who loved him.'

'Nicholas is dead?' Owen went over to her.

Lucie held herself stiffly, as if any softening would undo her. Her face was pale, making her eyes look huge in her face. 'Please thank Abbot Campian for his warning and his concern. Tell him that we will be watchful.' Lucie excused herself and went back up the stairs.

Brother Sebastian gave Owen a worried look. 'My Abbot will not like it.'

Owen considered him. 'Did Brother Michaelo say that the Archdeacon meant to kill Mistress Wilton?'

'I do not know.'

'I understand the Archdeacon was sent to Durham. Surely not alone?'

'Brandon, a novice, accompanies him.'

'And who else?'

'Just Brandon.'

'That is all? One novice?'

Sebastian looked uncomfortable. 'Brandon is strong’

Owen laughed in disbelief. He was surrounded by fools. 'One strong man is no match for the Highlanders on the road.'

Brother Sebastian shrugged.

Owen patted him on the shoulder. 'I know none of this is your doing. I do not mean to badger you. But you must see that I cannot argue with Mistress Wilton on the night of her husband's death. I am afraid you must tell your Abbot what she said.'

The messenger gone, Owen climbed the steps. Lucie sat beside Nicholas, studying him with a faraway look.

'I sent Brother Sebastian on his way.'

Lucie shook herself, rubbed her forehead. 'I will not bury Nicholas at Freythorpe Hadden’ she said.

'Why not?'

'That place brought only sorrow to both of us. I wish I could bury him in his garden. But certainly not at Freythorpe. Sir Robert pushed me away. There is no love there for me or Nicholas.'

'But it was your home.'

She gave him a strange look. 'You chose not to return to the place where you were a boy. Perhaps you were right.'

Owen could think of no response to that. 'What can I do to help you?'

'Aunt Phillippa must sleep. Ask Bess to come help me prepare Nicholas for burial.'

Owen took her hands in his. 'Your aunt is not the only one who needs sleep.'

'I cannot sleep.'

'Lucie, think what you've been through the past two nights. The fire. Now Nicholas.'

'I will prepare him. Then keep vigil.'

'Let someone else keep vigil.'

'No. I will do it. I killed him. I will keep the vigil.'

Owen's heart sank. Killed him? Had they come full circle? Was she the murderer after all? Had Nicholas been killed by a slow poison so he would never recover enough to remember and possibly accuse her?

Lucie laughed, a brittle, chilling little laugh. 'You are shocked that I killed my husband.'

'I'm confused. How did you kill him?'

Even lacking sleep and in the first stages of mourning, Lucie could look at him with those eyes of hers and make him feel that she could see into his soul. 'I'm not a poisoner, if that's what you're thinking.' Spoken without anger. She sounded merely tired. 'I told him that his friend had tried to kill me. I blamed him for my mother's death. When he tried to tell me that he had killed Montaigne for me, I turned away from him. And then 1 went downstairs. I should have been with him.' Gently she smoothed the grizzled hair back from Nicholas's forehead.

'He was already dying, Lucie.'

She kept her eyes on her husband. 'I was wrong to blame him. All of this has been the fruit of the Archdeacon's unholy love for Nicholas, a mean, suffocating love. It is Anselm who will burn in Hell for all this, not my Nicholas.'

'Think about this tomorrow.'

Lucie was not listening. 'I came and found Nicholas whimpering in his sleep. I tried to comfort him. I told him I forgave him. But I don't know if he heard.'

'I am sure he did.'

'You say that because you want me calm. Then you can persuade me to take him to Freythorpe.'

'That's not true, Lucie.'

'Go fetch Bess.'

Owen, seeing she would not be comforted, went for Bess.