The Apothecary Rose

Nine

Grey clouds and an icy wind threatened snow. Owen stood behind Magda Digby's hut, staring down at the river. The chill was a shock after the hot, dry hut, but he hoped it would clear his head. He must think. Surely he had learned something in two days of questioning, something to shed light on FitzWilliam's death. Something he had heard must be significant. If only he could think it through.

He felt much as he had when he first woke in camp with the eye bandaged. He'd kept trying to blink the left eye to bring that side of the tent in focus. The feeling had persisted. Maddening. Even now he had walked back to the muddy bank and blinked to bring into focus the turbulent water to his right, the huts clustered against the abbey wall to his left. But the huts disappeared until he moved his head.

That was the remedy, dissatisfying as it was. That was what he needed to do with Fitzwilliam's death. Turn his head. He'd been searching for the man's enemies, the enemies of a rogue. Everyone agreed Fitzwilliam had many enemies, but no one could name one who might be angry enough to have killed him, and taken pains to do it cleverly. That person might still surface. But what other enemies might Fitzwilliam have had? Ned had implied that Fitzwilliam was a spy. Perhaps York was not the place for Owen to look. Perhaps Lancaster's household was where he should be. Fitzwilliam had been a spy for Lancaster son of the King, and the ward of Thoresby, King's Chancellor. Now there was a different angle. Perhaps Fitzwilliam had been murdered not by his own enemies, but by those of his lord or his guardian. John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, had many enemies. And the Lord Chancellor of England and Archbishop of York surely would have made enemies on his precipitous climb.

Owen resolved to give that possibility more thought.

But now he must hurry to the house of the Master of the Merchants' Guild, Camden Thorpe.

Camden Thorpe looked up through his bushy eyebrows at the one-eyed stranger. He was surprised by the man's appearance. He'd expected someone younger, though the Archbishop had written that the man was Captain of Archers to the old Duke of Lancaster. Still. He'd hoped for someone who looked more trainable.

'The Archbishop recommends you as apprentice at the Wilton apothecary. You are aware of this?'

'I am, and I'm most willing.' The tone of voice matched the words.

Thorpe pulled at his beard while he considered the idea. Though Lucie Wilton had not requested it, Camden thought she could use a pair of strong arms around the place. That garden took a lot of work. Spring was coming, and there would be digging and planting and hauling. And this Owen knew something about the business already. He could be trusted to watch the shop for brief periods while she saw to her husband. Such a queer business, Nicholas Wilton's illness. Camden had never seen a man struck so hard, so suddenly, and go on living. It must be Mistress Wilton's excellent care. He'd noted how drawn and thin she looked. Not getting rest_; that woman. Probably spending the night beside her ailing husband, dozing in a chair, afraid to miss his call, and working hard all day to keep up the shop and garden. He motioned towards the patch. 'You must wear that?'

The Welshman touched the offending patch. 'Aye, though it works against me, I know. But as you can see' — he lifted the patch, revealing a puckered lid that would not quite close — 'the alternative is not pretty.'

Camden sighed. 'Poor devil. You must have suffered with that wound.'

'I had a taste of Hell with it, aye.'

He looked to have been popular with the women before the scarring, for he was handsome otherwise in a dark, rakish way. His Mary would call the man handsome but for the patch. It would turn a woman's eye elsewhere, to be sure. No one likely to gossip about him and Mistress Wilton. All in all, he might just be the solution.

'I've been sore pressed to find a way to honour Wilton's request for an apprentice, you see. Sorely pressed. Trouble was, a parent or guardian would take it as an insult, my apprenticing their boy to an apprentice, don't you see. For, capable as Mistress Lucie Wilton is, she's still not a master, though with a few more months of handling the shop alone she could make journeyman. I mean to put it to the guild members. Even so, it's a better recommendation for a boy to have apprenticed to a master apothecary, don't you see.'

Owen shrugged. 'My situation is different.'

'Well, that it is. That it is.' Camden scratched his nose and considered the man. The one eye had a bit of devil in it, to be sure. But it faced him directly with no twitching or sliding away. He could see no harm in him. 'Knowing my reservations, you are still interested?'

'Yes.'

Thorpe gave the beard one last tug, slapped his thighs. 'And you are your own man, I daresay. Well. This makes all the difference. All the difference.'

'There is one question, Master Thorpe.'

'Ask away.'

'Archdeacon Anselm referred to Mistress Wilton's questionable background. What did he mean?'

The Archdeacon, devil take him. Would he never give up on his vendetta? 'Questionable? Pah. Old gossip. Nothing to it. To my way of thinking, Mistress Wilton has a most respectable background. Daughter of Sir Robert D'Arby of Freythorpe Hadden.' Well, now. Camden saw that that got the Welshman interested.

Owen sat up. 'A knight's daughter?'

All men are climbers. Give them a connection with aristocracy, and they perk right up. Never fails. 'I know what the Archdeacon's thinking. Her mother was French. Young, beautiful. When she died, miscarriage, the child not his, Sir Robert put Lucie in a convent and went off on pilgrimage. Started much gossip, of course. But Lucie Wilton should not be damned for her mother's sins.'

'How does the daughter come to be married to a merchant?'

Thorpe shrugged. 'Wilton visited Lucie at the convent. Fell in love. It was the aunt gave permission — D'Arby was still in the Holy Land. The girl likely saw it as her escape. In any case, her background should give you no trouble.'

'But how did he come to visit his future wife at the convent?'

'You're uncommon interested in Mistress Wilton.' Maybe Camden should be worried.

'An apprentice works side by side with his master. It sounds as if Mistress Wilton would be my master as much as he. I'd like to know something about her.'

Thorpe thought about that. It seemed a reasoned argument, all in all. 'Lady D'Arby — Mistress Wilton's mother — was a great friend of Nicholas's. Fascinated by the garden, she was. Nicholas helped her repair the maze at Freythorpe Hadden.'

'Then Nicholas Wilton is much older than his wife?'

'Aye, but not so much as some.' Thorpe stood up. 'And now you know as much as you need, Owen Archer.'

They set out for the apothecary. A light snow fell, a wet snow that melted as it touched the ground. Owen wondered what Lucie Wilton's reaction would be to the Guildmaster's proposal. She'd not much liked the look of him yesterday.

Mistress Wilton glanced up from a ledger, saw Thorpe, smiled, wiped her hands on her apron, held out her hand.

'Master Thorpe.'

'I have good news for you, Mistress Wilton.' He shook her hand and stepped aside to bring Owen forward.

Lucie started, then nodded to him. 'Master Archer. How is the eye?'

'Better today, Mistress Wilton. I am grateful for your skill’

'Might we go round back and talk?' Camden Thorpe suggested. Lucie led them through a beaded curtain to the kitchen.

'What is the good news?'

Camden rubbed his hands over the fire, then settled himself at the trestle table nearby. 'What would you say to trying out Master Archer as an apprentice?'

'What?'

At least she expressed disbelief rather than distaste, Owen thought.

Camden Thorpe hurried on. 'I know he's not what you expected. But consider it. He's got experience gardening and measuring out medicines, though he's had no formal training in either. And he writes a good hand. He could help with the books.'

Lucie Wilton flushed. She glanced over at Owen, back to Thorpe. 'Master Thorpe, don't play me for a fool.' Her eyes flashed. 'He's a grown man. Hardly an apprentice. You mean to bring him in to replace me’

Camden looked distressed. 'But he is an apprentice, I assure you.'

'I expected a boy.'

'Well, now, that's been the problem, don't you see. A boy who aspires to being a master apothecary does not wish to start as apprentice to an apprentice, however competent he — or she — may be. But I've told Owen the situation and he still wants the post.'

'Why?'

'I've lost the heart for soldiering.'

'He comes with a letter of introduction from the Archbishop.'

She looked Owen up and down. 'It's a lot of drudgery, Master Archer.'

'It would be a good situation for me, Mistress Wilton. I am not likely to be offered many apprenticeships. Folks see me, patch on my eye, former soldier, and expect trouble. A boy is more tractable, they think. They're wrong. I've seen the world, don't care for it. Want to find a quiet spot and mind my own business. I am not ambitious. What do I care whether I apprentice to your husband or to you?'

Thorpe nodded with enthusiasm. 'To sweeten the offer, I'll add Tildy Tompkins to help you in the kitchen during the day. A gift from the Guild for an ailing member. We do owe it to you and Nicholas.'

'And where will Owen stay?'

Owen grinned at her use of his given name. Already she thought of him as her apprentice.

'He'll eat his meals with you, but keep his lodgings at the York.'

'Then I'll have to pay him.'

'I have some money,' Owen said. 'I can keep myself’

'That might not be necessary.' Lucie rose. 'Let me see if Nicholas is up to seeing you.'

Grey hair, grey eyes, grey skin. Nicholas Wilton did not fake his illness. The little room was shuttered tight and lit by two spirit lamps that made it smell all the more like a sickroom. Owen hoped Lucie did not spend much time up here.

Nicholas nodded at them. 'I am' — he frowned, closed his eyes — 'most grateful, C-amden.'

Camden Thorpe hurried over to the invalid and took his hand. 'The Lord be thanked, you've recovered your speech, my friend.'

Nicholas squeezed his hand. Tears stood in his pale eyes.

Camden gestured for Owen to come forward. 'This is Owen Archer. I'm confident he'll be a great help to you both.'

Owen took the fragile hand in his. A racing pulse. Damp palms. In his experience, a dying man's palm was dry unless he burned with fever. Nicholas Wilton was frightened. Of death? Of the Guildmaster? Of Owen?

While Owen stared into his tankard, considering the events of the day, Digby slithered onto the bench across from him. He did not look friendly.

'What do you mean, questioning my mother?' Digby demanded.

'A good evening to you, too.'

'I mean to know what you're up to.'

'Goodwife Digby cleared up the business.'

'What business do you have questioning her?'

Owen shrugged. 'I'm a curious man.'

'She says you work for the Archbishop. Is he concerned about Fitzwilliam's death?'

'Should he be?'

'She said Abbot Campian told you about the arm. Why would he do that? What does he have against the Digbys?'

'What could the Abbot have against you?'

'I mean to know.'

'You must have felt threatened by the theft of the arm.'

Digby shrugged. ' Tis known the poor use her as a surgeon. The connection could be made. How could she prove she'd gotten no money for it? But I was appointed Summoner shortly. Looked like Fitzwilliam had kept his peace.'

'You never thought to make sure he kept quiet?'

Digby squinted at Owen. 'What do you mean? That I'd kill him? Shut him up for good? Are you accusing me?' His voice kept rising. Heads turned, then turned quickly away, remembering who sat there.

Owen shrugged. 'Becoming Summoner meant much to you. I've been to your mother's house, I can imagine being desperate to get away.'

Digby shook his head as if amazed by what he heard. 'A daft way to start out as Summoner, murdering the Archbishop's ward.'

Put that way, it was a laughable suspicion. Owen gave up the line of questioning. It led nowhere. 'The Abbot told me that Fitzwilliam repented what he had done. Realised he could have caused your mother much trouble. And he respected her.'

Digby's face reddened. 'He said that?'

'Aye. So you've nothing to fear from that old business, I think. Would you like a drink?'

'Nay.' Digby sat a moment, concentrating on turning his faded cap round and round in his hands.

'Sure you won't have that drink?'

Digby shook his head, then slipped away, looking confused.

Lucie woke as Nicholas's writing fell to the floor with a crash of paper and pen. She caught the inkpot as it began to slide. Nicholas jerked awake. 'I am a burden,'

'You are tired. Camden Thorpe's visit exhausted you.'

'I am glad of help for you, Lucie.'

She touched his hand, his face, smiled for him. 'I am glad, too. Now rest. Your notes can wait.'

He gripped her hand. 'I must finish. Write it all down. The garden. My mixtures.'

'There is time.' She gently prised loose his hand, smoothed the hair from his forehead.

He sighed. 'You are too good for me.'

'Nonsense.' She kissed his forehead and he closed his eyes. She turned down the lamp and slid in beside him. Tonight she would allow herself the luxury of sleeping in the bed. Nicholas was calm enough.

But it was not like before. Nicholas did not turn and gather Lucie in his arms. Even if he had, it would not feel the same. Lucie did not feel the solace here that she had before. In this bed she had felt protected from the world. No longer. Her future security depended on secrecy. At first it had seemed a small thing. But lately she wondered. Was it that simple? She wished she knew just what had befallen Nicholas at the abbey that night. Whom had he seen? How had the Summoner come to be there? Was the Archdeacon's interest merely a friend's concern? If so, why did it frighten Nicholas?

She smelled danger everywhere. Even the apprentice. She could not even appreciate Guildmaster Thorpe's granting her request.

Instead she wondered what the Welshman was after. Oh, he would be a welcome help, she'd no doubt about that. But what was in it for him? To begin a new life, he said. Perhaps. Her first suspicion had been that he and the Guildmaster planned to wrest the apothecary from her, to help her until Nicholas died, all the while learning the books, the customers, the flow of trade, and then take it from her when he died, saying she was too inexperienced, a woman after all, the daughter of a sinful Frenchwoman. That was why the nuns had tormented her. So well behaved the other girls thought her a prig, she'd been watched constantly for signs of sinfulness because the nuns knew her mother had had a lover, that it was her sin that had killed her. Day in and day out they'd followed her, watched her, listened to her every word, raking through all her words and deeds for seeds of her mother's character.

Once she'd become so sick of it she'd plotted an escape. Her one friend was Sister Doltrice, the Herbalist and Infirmarian, for Lucie's mother had passed on to her daughter a love of gardens and much lore of healing plants. Sister Doltrice did not keep a hawk eye on her. So after breakfast one day, Lucie complained of stomach cramps. She clutched her stomach and let tears trickle down her cheeks. Sister Winifrith hurried her to the infirmary.

The plan was to creep out after Sister Doltrice had tucked her in for the night, slip out the garden door and down through the cluster of sheds and outbuildings to the part of the wall that had crumbled beneath the weight of a falling tree.

While she waited in the infirmary for nightfall, Lucie sipped the minty tisane that her friend had prepared for her tummy, and drowsed in the warm room as Sister Dotrice puttered with her chores. In the early evening the nun declared Lucie's colour better and let her sit up a little, keeping her occupied with stories of her large family and their busy farm up near Helmsley, a farm cradled between heathery hills beside the cool clear water of Trilicum Beck. They were merry tales, full of silliness and love, and Lucie lost herself in them, gradually nodding off and slipping down into the soft bed, where her sweet dreams kept her until dawn.

As she'd left for her morning lessons, she'd turned and asked Sister Doltrice why the other sisters were so hard on her.

'Because of your mother, child. Because they do not understand that your mother was very young and frightened by the wildness of the North Country and found her solace in a gentle man who loved her and made her smile.'

'Can't you tell them to stop?'

She snorted. 'And let them wonder how I could understand such a thing?'

Lucie looked into the Infirmarian's face and saw what a beauty she'd been — still was, in a comfortable sort of way — and realised what she was saying.

Sister Doltrice took her hand. 'And now we have shared secrets that we must swear never to reveal to a soul.'

'What secret do you have from me?'

That your tummy aches when you need a day of Doltrice's minty concoctions and endless stories. Much better than running away, don't you agree?'

'You knew?'

The Infirmarian knelt down and took Lucie in her arms. She was warm and smelled of flowers and herbs. 'To be a good healer, one must read the heart as well as bodily wastes.'

'It's our secret?'

'Our secret, little one. And you're always welcome.'

Lucie had trusted Sister Doltrice as she'd trusted no one since her mother died. Only Nicholas would later earn such trust.

And the apprentice? She thought not. She'd once asked Sister Doltrice how to tell whether a stranger was trustworthy. 'Look them in the eye and ask them,' she'd said.

Lucie had been disappointed with that answer, which seemed no answer at all.

She still thought it silly. And unwise. For one who asks such a question reveals that she has need of discretion. And she did not want the Welshman to get

curious. Especially with his connection to the Archbishop and the Archdeacon, She wished there were a way to refuse him as her apprentice. But she needed help. Who knew how long the Guildmaster would take to replace him? And to refuse the Guildmaster's offer when she had made such a fuss about needing help would arouse suspicion.