The Apothecary Rose

Eight

Owen spent the evening in a corner seat of the York Tavern, watching out for Summoner Digby. He was certain the man would storm in to demand what business Owen had with his mother. But he did not come.

Bess joined him for a drink late in the evening. She settled down across from him, saluted him with a tankard of ale. 'I think I deserve this.' She sipped, smiled her satisfaction. 'He's got the touch, my Tom. 'Tis usually the women who brew the finest ale, but my Tom's the exception to the rule.' She took another long drink. 'So how are you finding the folk of York?'

'I've not met many. The Archdeacon seems to have taken offence at my connection with the Archbishop. It seemed his sole purpose in seeing me. To find out my business at the minster.'

'Anselm's an unpleasant sort. A good man in his way. He's raised a deal of money for the Hatfield Chapel at the minster. That reflects well on us all. I must give him that. When the King comes to the dedication, he'll bring with him a large company. Good for business.'

Owen was tempted to mention the Archdeacon's allusion to Mistress Wilton's background, but he did not yet want Bess to know that he had his eye on a job with the Wiltons. He was not sure how Bess would respond. 'As for other folk in York, I've met some of the monks at St. Mary's. They seem a pleasant lot.'

'Monks.' Bess shook her head, making her cap ribbons tremble. 'Hiding away from the world. Pampered little boys, if you ask me. No wonder they're pleasant.' She sipped her ale. 'You've been up to the abbey, then?'

'I had a letter of introduction to Brother Wulfstan, the Infirmarian. I thought he might know of someone in need of a gardener or a surgeon's assistant. An apothecary's assistant. That sort of work.'

She studied him over the rim of her tankard. 'And did he know of any such opportunities?' she asked quietly.

Owen had walked right into it. There seemed no way around it. 'He mentioned the Wiltons.'

Bess bristled. 'I'm sure he did.'

'The poor man had an unfortunate winter.'

'Wilton?'

'No. Brother Wulfstan’

Bess frowned, confused.

'The two pilgrims who died in his infirmary?'

'Oh.' She shrugged. 'I suppose you could see that as Brother Wulfstan's misfortune. It certainly was the talk for a while. Folk feared the plague. It could happen again. Just that quickly. One day life as usual, next day all your neighbours sickening.' Bess sighed. 'Doesn't bear thinking about.'

'Did you know either of the men?'

'Second one was the notorious Fitzwilliam. Aye. He stayed here once or twice. I had to watch him with the help. A little too eager to plant his seed, that young man.'

'He had a reputation down south, too.'

'That's right. You would have known him.'

1 heard of him. We never met’

Bess shook her head. 'A man like him, wasting all his opportunities.' She shook herself. 'Listen to me. Gossiping about the dead, a man I hardly knew. So what's your next step?'

Owen could not think how to lead back to Fitzwilliam. 'I hope to speak with a few guildmasters. See what they suggest. The Archbishop's secretary sent out some letters.'

Bess nodded. 'You'll soon find something, an enterprising man like yourself.' Bess drained her cup and rose, dusting off her apron. 'Thanks for the company. I must get back to work.'

Owen smiled to himself as he watched her move away, efficiently cleaning away empty cups and wiping off tables as she went. She'd got the information she wanted while seeming to have a pleasant chat. A professional interrogator. He would do well to study her technique.

Bess handed Owen a message when he came downstairs the next morning. 'A messenger from the minster brought it first thing.' She gave him a conspiratorial wink. 'The Archdeacon won't like this, eh?'

Owen read it while Kit set some bread and cheese and his morning ale in front of him. Jehannes wanted to see him at once. Owen ate quickly and set off for the minster.

Jehannes greeted him with an apology for the curt note. 'I had to make sure you came here first. I must warn you, Archer, be careful with your questioning.'

'Someone has complained?'

'Abbot Campian. He wants to know if His Grace sent you to inquire into the death of Fitzwilliam.'

A sharp pain shot across Owen's left eye. 'I am not meant for this sort of work’

'Is anyone ever meant for the work he does?'

'I do not wish to disappoint the Archbishop.'

'I told the Abbot that you are asking a few questions in exchange for the Archbishop's help in finding you a means of support.'

'Clever. Thank you.'

Jehannes nodded.

'Is he angry?'

Jehannes considered the question. 'More a matter of feeling slighted. We should have trusted him. He says you are free to return and discuss the matter with him.'

'I will do that.'

'And he entices you with some information about Fitzwilliam. Some business he had, or might have had, with Magda Digby.'

Owen perked up. I'll go there directly.' He rose.

'Have you met the Summoner's mother yet?'

Owen nodded. 'A shrewd one, Magda Digby. I came out of that interview feeling a fool.'

Jehannes smiled. 'Good luck with her. One more thing. Guildmaster Thorpe will see you at midday. He wants to talk with you about the Wilton apprenticeship.'

Owen left with a full morning before him. If the Abbot's lead seemed at all worthwhile, he meant to visit Magda Digby before midday. It would be nice to have that out of his way when he met Mistress Wilton again.

Abbot Campian offered him a cup of ale. To fortify yourself. I expect you will be off to visit Magda Digby. You should have trusted me, you know.' He flicked an invisible mote of dust off the table, folded his hands neatly before him, then looked up at Owen.

'I apologise’ Owen said. 'I am clumsy at this sort of thing.'

'You've undertaken a thankless task. But I suppose the interest of John Thoresby is worth it.' The fingers fluttered slightly. They were the cleanest hands Owen had ever seen.

'I mean to begin again’ Owen explained. 'I need the Archbishop's help. Will you tell anyone else that I am his man?'

'Only if necessary.' Abbot Campian's eyes were dark pools of calm water, Owen believed him. 'Of course this is all a waste of time. Sir Oswald Fitzwilliam was ill. He died, despite my Infirmarian’s best efforts and our prayers. It was his time.'

His manner made it difficult, even rude, to disagree. But Owen must do what he must do. 'The Archbishop wants to be certain.'

The fingers fluttered. 'One can never be certain.'

'No.'

They were silent for a while. Owen sipped the ale and let the Abbot's calm work on him. Finally, Campian spoke. 'Fitzwilliam spent his last days in the infirmary, under the watchful eyes of Brother Wulfstan and the novice Henry. I cannot see how anyone might have got to the man.'

'He went to the infirmary because he was already ill.'

The eyebrows lifted. 'Ah. So you think a poison that had a delayed reaction — '

'I am not to think anything, just to collect facts.'

'You've come to hear about Fitzwilliam and Magda Digby?'

'Yes’

'It is probably nothing.'

'I must know. Please’

'I tell you this in confidence. No one else living knows about the connection with the Riverwoman but the Digbys themselves.'

'But if I should have to tell the Archbishop?'

The fingers lifted and fell. 'That would be unfortunate. But I wish to co-operate.'

'I will tell the Archbishop only if I must.'

The Abbot nodded. 'I believe you.' He looked up at the ceiling, collecting his thoughts, then back to Owen. 'I make it a practice to keep the reasons for a pilgrim's penance to myself. Sometimes they choose to share their troubles with others, but usually I am the only one to know. It is not a confession, you understand. I break no sacred bond of silence in telling you.'

'I understand.'

The Devil inspires men in a variety of evil. You have heard of the trafficking in bodies for relics?'

'I have heard rumours of such things.'

Fitzwilliam's second visit to us followed his attempt to sell an arm for quite a large sum of money to the wrong person. Needless to say, had he been anyone else — '

'But then the Archbishop knows of this.'

'He does not know whence came the arm.'

'And you do?'

'Fitzwilliam confided in me. On this last visit. He told me that people are wrong about Magda Digby. That she is a healer and a good woman. She had just got him out of a difficulty.'

'Why was he telling you this?'

'He wanted to know how he might make reparations for a sin that he had coerced her into committing.'

'He coerced her into selling him the arm?'

The Abbot bowed his head and closed his eyes. Owen waited. 'I do not know how the incident might be connected with his death. I cannot see how she might have got to him. But perhaps she is one person who wanted him silenced.'

'Or the Summoner himself.'

'Or her son, yes.'

'Do you tell me this to ruin the Digbys?'

The soft eyes opened wide in alarm. 'No. Deus juva me. I hope that you need not tell the Archbishop. But if you find a connection with Fitzwilliam's death — ' He looked down at his immaculate hands. Softly he said, 'I do hope you will tell the Archbishop that I was co-operative’

'Why?'

'I am not his man. I became Abbot in the time of his predecessor. He does not know me. Has no allegiance to me.'

'How long ago was this incident with the arm?'

'Six years.'

'The woman might not even remember it. She would not have known who Fitzwilliam was.'

'But her son would. It was about the time he became Summoner. I'm sure he worried that if word got out, he would be ruined.'

'What did you tell Fitzwilliam?'

'Tell him?'

'How to make amends with the Riverwoman.'

'I told him to pray tor her soul.' The eyes regarded Owen calmly. This the Abbot was sure of. Prayer was the answer to the world's ills. Sufficient prayer.

As Owen left the peace of the Abbot's presence, he felt grateful to the man for his co-operation. It was plain he had found it embarrassing. The upside-down sea serpent greeted Owen alone. The Riverwoman was not outside the hut this time. Owen knocked. Heard a grunt. Took it as permission to enter. When he walked into the dry, hot, smoky room and his eye adjusted to the level of light, Owen thought he had walked into some satanic ceremony. A cat lay strapped to a table by the fire, breathing rapidly but not stirring, as Magda leaned over it with a small, sharp knife. She did not look up at the intruder, but hissed, 'Quiet.' She made some superficial cuts at the edge of a gaping wound, then put the knife down and picked up a needle and thread. While Owen watched in queasy wonder, she sewed up the wound and then turned to him, wiping her bloody hands on her skirts.

'Bird-eye is come again, eh?'

'You were cleaning the wound of a cat?'

'Little Kate's Bessy. All the world to her, that cat. Cut would fester and abscess. Magda could help.' She leaned down to listen to the animal, then straightened. 'And thy business this time?'

Owen had resolved to get right to the point. 'Six years ago you sold an arm to Sir Oswald Fitzwilliam, the Archbishop's ward.'

Magda's eyes narrowed. 'Whence didst thou hear this?'

'Fitzwilliam told the Abbot just before he died.'

'And the Abbot believed him? The lying scoundrel? Aye. The Archbishop's pup.' She spat into the fire.

'You know that Fitzwilliam is dead?'

'Aye.'

'And he might have been poisoned.'

Magda let go with a barking laugh and sat down hard on a bench by the fire. 'Magda poisoned the pup to take back the arm? Is that what thou think'st?' She wiped her eyes on her skirt. 'If thou think'st to be ferreting out a murder, thou art working with half a wit.'

'Tell me about the arm.'

She squinted at him. 'Why should Magda tell thee aught?'

'A scandal could ruin your son's standing with the Archdeacon.'

'The Abbot would tell?'

'Only if it seems we ought to.'

She rubbed her chin. 'Thou art the Archbishop's man.'

'I am interested in FitzWilliam's death.'

She shrugged. The pup was a flea. A pest. Not so evil to bring death on him.' She gestured to Owen to sit down.

Owen sat carefully on the edge of a stool. 'You don't think his enemies might want him dead?'

She laughed. 'Pup got caught. Time and again. Folk did not take him seriously.'

Tell me about the arm.'

Magda snorted. 'Came with one of his little lady loves, quick with child. Caught Magda in surgery, removing a rotten arm. Would have killed the man. Pup asked could he have it. Magda ignored him and put it out in her pit. Gave the pup's lady a potion to rid herself of his quickening seed. Next morning the arm was gone from the pit.' She shrugged. 'Was Magda to run after the pup? Rotten thing. Stank. Magda wondered. 'Twas Potter told her that churchmen pay for such offal. Put it in a jewelled casket. Folk pray to it.' She laughed. 'Pray to the rotten arm of a tinker. Magda liked that. She let it be.'

'If the Archdeacon had heard of this and misunderstood, your son's post might have been in jeopardy.'

'Potter learns much from his mother. Much that takes him to folks' doors to demand payment for their sins. Tis not an arrangement Archdeacon Anselm is likely to give up, eh?'

'So your son felt no threat?'

'Nay. Nor did the pup yelp.' She shook her head. ' 'Tis a foolish, dangerous business, summoning. Potter is a fool.'

The small patient on the table whimpered. Magda went to see to her. 'Bessy, girl, ye be coming along. Rest.' Gently she stroked the cat's head between the ears, comforting her, soothing her. In a few minutes the cat quieted.

Magda poured herself something out of a jug, came back to sit. 'Magda does not offer thee drink. Thou wouldst not take it, eh?'

Owen smiled. She surprised him. He had expected an underworld figure, a renegade, a cutthroat, a liar. But she was a skilled healer at peace with herself and content with her lot, it seemed.

'Why is Potter a Summoner?'

Magda shrugged. 'Greedy. Thinks to buy a comfortable perch in his Heaven.' She shrugged again. 'A good lad. Misguided.'

'Fitzwilliam brought a woman to you before Christmas?'

'Aye. Another greedy one.'

'Was it his child?'

'Aye, 'twas the pup's child. Lord March is not as he should be.'

Remembering the revealing leggings, Owen found that an interesting piece of information. 'How do you know?'

Magda shook her head. 'Thou art a stranger to York and know'st not the company thou find'st thyself in. Magda Digby, the Riverwoman, is known far and wide. Lord March's mother came to Magda for a charm. And again before the betrothal. No good. 'Twas not meant to be fixed. He might sire a monster. Some such evil.'

'Can you tell me anything about Fitzwilliam that would help me understand why he died?'

Magda rose, wiped her hands in her skirts. 'Magda told thee about the rotten arm. Tis enough to keep my Potter content.' She opened the door for him to depart.