The Apothecary Rose

Ten

Nicholas Wilton disturbed Owen's sleep. The man's condition struck him as more than a palsy, It was not that Owen could point to this or that and say this was what was not right about Wilton's condition, that a palsy would not cause the hair to turn grey, the flesh to wrinkle, or the palms to sweat. A palsy might do all that. His suspicion was all in his gut and too vague to be useful.

At dawn he dressed and headed for the Wiltons' garden. His breath smoked in the fiosty air. His boots crunched on the snow. He made his way along the paths and through the holly hedge to the woodpile. In the shed beside it he found an axe. He took off his tunic. Though chilly now, he intended to work up a good sweat. He would want his tunic dry when he cooled down. A habit from his old life on campaign. With the single mindedness he'd used in archery, he attacked the woodpile, pretending it was the Breton jongleur. Ungrateful wretch. He hacked at him. ‘ fought for your life. Another blow. ‘ risked the ridicule of my comrades. He hacked. You and your gypsy. Another. She unmanned me. Crack. Breton bastard.

At first his injured shoulder was painfully stiff, but as his muscles warmed, it loosened up and he rediscovered the satisfaction of physical labour. His mind calmed and cleared. His movements became rhythmic and fluid.

A cough interrupted him.

'You begin the day with remarkable energy.' Lucie Wilton handed him a cloth. 'You'll want to dry off and get dressed. There's a warm breakfast in the kitchen.'

It was plain she'd heard him and hurried out to investigate, thinking him an intruder. Her hair was loose, covered only by a shawl. The pale morning sun caught red-gold strands and caused them to shimmer with life. Dear God, how he would love to touch that hair. Yet even as she stood here, radiant and vulnerable in the morning light, he was aware of a bristly guardedness with which she maintained a cautious distance.

He remembered the cloth in his hand. And suddenly he felt how the cold penetrated. And he was uncomfortable standing before her, stripped to the waist. He dried himself quickly and donned his shirt.

'You've cut enough wood to last a fortnight’ she said. 'And all on an empty stomach. You'll win me over yet, Owen Archer’ Teasing words, such as his sisters might have used with him.

But she'd misunderstood him. He had not cut this stack of firewood to impress her. '1 needed to move’ he said. It sounded ridiculous.

Lucie Wilton nodded, not interested enough to note the awkward comment, and led the way back through the snowy garden.

While he ate, she quizzed him on his experience and his knowledge of medicines and gardens. His answers appeared to satisfy her. Her questions impressed him. She was indeed ready to graduate from apprentice to journeyman, if he was any judge. She was quick, like Gaspare. She absorbed information and used it at once, asking questions off his answers. It was plain she knew more than Owen did about both medicines and gardens. Far more.

The questions dwindled and she grew quiet, staring down at her hands on the table. And then those cool, level eyes lifted to his. 'I can believe that you might be through with soldiering and want to learn a trade. But why in York? Why not in Wales, close to your family? You speak of your mother and the land with affection.'

Why indeed? He explained that the old Duke had asked Thoresby to assist Owen in entering a trade. But it sounded hollow and rehearsed to his ears. Surely it must to hers.

Lucie Wilton sighed, got up, busied herself at the hearth. She looked proud and noble standing there, though her dress was simple, with darned spots, most of them unravelling. An impatient seamstress. He wondered why she had not arranged for help before. Wilton's business could certainly support such help. The room was substantial for a merchant's kitchen, beams, shelves, trestle table, and chairs of oak. The crockery on the shelves was simple but well fired. Little of it appeared to be used. Most was covered in dust, hi fact it was easy to see what took precedence in this house. From the beams, herbs hung to dry and shed their debris unchecked, so that dried flowers and leaves mingled with the dust on the shelves and were crushed underfoot, starring the packed dirt floor. Odd, when the shop was as dust-free as was humanly possible.

Lucie sat down again. Her mouth was set in an angry line. 'Soldiers are a cold, unnatural lot.'

It was not at all what he'd expected her to say. He had to think about where their conversation had left off. I'm condemned for not returning to Wales?'

'You are a free man, with funds enough to keep a private room at an inn. Funds enough to let your people see that their prayers were answered, that you are alive. Did it not occur to you to see them before you took up your new life?' Angry tears stood in her eyes. The emotion brought colour to her face.

Apparently aware of how readable she was at that moment, Lucie looked down, flicked invisible crumbs from the table.

Owen could think of no answer to her outburst. To be honest, he'd never considered his family. They'd been part of his boyhood. Wales was the past. But he did not say that. He said nothing for a moment, wondering about the source of this attack. A possibility occurred to him. 'Your father was a soldier, I hear.'

She stiffened, eyes cold.

He'd guessed the source, but it was a misstep, for sure. 'I do not mean to pry.' It seemed as though prying was all he did these days.

She did not warm to his apology. 'You'll begin the day by sweeping the shop doorway and lighting the lamps. Then you can stack the firewood outside the kitchen door. Later I'll show you around — '

A rush of cold air sucked the warmth out of the kitchen as Bess Merchet opened the outside door. 'I thought I might find you here.' Her cheeks were rosy. She paused to catch her breath, her eyes taking in the remains of breakfast. 'You're off to an early start, the two of you. And so's the Summoner. He's just been to the inn to say the Archdeacon wants to see you, Owen Archer. I sent Digby off with the promise I'd tell you at once.'

Owen glanced at Lucie.

She looked pale, but said calmly, 'Get the shop ready before you go.'

The Archdeacon smiled. An unpleasant experience on his face, but a smile nonetheless. 'I suspect you thought yesterday's promise mere courtesy, Archer. But God has granted me the grace to fulfil my promise in one day. I have heard this morning of an apothecary in Durham who needs an apprentice.' Anselm sat back, elbows on the arms of his thronelike chair, his fingertips meeting in a satisfied steeple_;

Owen had not foreseen this turn. He did not respond at once as he thought how best to relay the bad news.

The Archdeacon chuckled. 'I see that I have, indeed, surprised you.'

Owen decided to act simple. 'Oh aye, that you have, Archdeacon. As you said yourself, posts such as that are rare. And I took that to heart yesterday and — well, I signed a contract with Master Nicholas Wilton.'

The steeple crumbled as the Archdeacon's hands descended to the arms of his chair, which he clenched with enough strength to turn his knuckles the colour of bleached bone. 'You did what?'

'You see, I decided I'd best settle for whatever I could get, apprenticing to an apprentice though it is, else I might starve before I heard of another post.'

'You — ' The Archdeacon checked himself. 'Most unfortunate.' Anger tightened his throat.

Owen stood up. 'I'm grateful to you.'

Anselm's eyes burned into Owen's, then glided away. He nodded.

' 'Tis a binding contract — ' Owen said.

'Go.' Anselm breathed the word as if expelling poison.

Owen obeyed, hurrying away before he made matters worse. He paused in the minster yard, committing the Archdeacon's reactions to memory. It was to be expected that Anselm would be annoyed to have wasted his time on Owen. But why had he done so in the first place? In case it might please Thoresby? Perhaps. But Owen could not think of a way Anselm could have sent queries to Durham and received a reply in the house between their two conversations. That made it very likely a bogus post. To what end? With the hope that Owen would be attacked by Highlanders on the road? And eliminated. Anselm's anger, then, had more to do with Owen's working for Nicholas Wilton than with Anselm's having wasted his time. And his anger had made him reckless. Owen did not like that.

Owen sat across from Lucie and ate his meal in silence. Once she caught him watching her, and he quickly looked down at the stew in his bowl. She had an uncanny effect on him, as if he'd taken up the role of little brother. It irritated him, and yet when he met that grave, level gaze, instead of confronting her he looked away, confused, as now.

They'd managed to pass the day in peaceful co-operation. He'd learned the lay of the household, shop, and garden. Much impressed he was, too.

He finished his meal before Lucie did, and got up to stoke the fire.

'Don't build it up so late,' she said.

'It will go out in the night.'

'I want it to. I mean to clean the hearth first thing in the morning.'

Then you'll have to rebuild the fire.'

' Tis always so when I clean the hearth.' She looked at him as if he were simple.

'When will you have time to do it?'

'Before dawn.'

'How will you know when to rise?'

Til sleep beside it. When the fire dies, I'll wake with the cold.'

'Let me do it.'

'No, this I do myself.'

'Then the serving girl.' She was to come the next day,

'No.'

'Why is it so important that you have a clean hearth?'

'Because I want it clean.'

'I'd like to help.'

'You'll have enough to do. Besides, what could you know about cleaning a hearth?'

'A man learns many things on campaign.'

'There are no hearths on campaign.'

She exhausted him. 'You'd be right about that.' He caught her watching him with a puzzled frown.

It was her turn to look away. 'It's odd for a soldier to offer such help’ she said.

'I was not always a soldier, I helped my mother as a lad.'

'Did your mother teach you to clean a hearth?'

'Aye. She did that. And many other things besides. Didn't yours?'

'My mother died when I was young' Lucie said.

'And then it was the sisters.'

'Yes.' Her guard came up. 'Who told you that?'

'Camden Thorpe. I asked a few questions. Natural curiosity. He said that your mother was fond of Nicholas's garden.'

'It reminded her of home.' There was a breathless tension in her voice. He trod on dangerous ground.

He tried to make her comfortable. 'My mother believed that tending a garden was the highest form of devotion to the Lord. She made all her children work in the garden’

It worked. She met his gaze. 'And did it bring you closer to God?' she asked.

He tried a smile on her. 'It showed me what a lot of work He'd made for us.'

The corners of her mouth twitched. So she had a sense of humour. 'Well, then, you can see the work ahead of you.' She went back to the fire, quiet for a while. 'And did your soldiering teach you anything?'

'That I loved to make an arrow sing through the air and hit its target straight and true, but that war is not confined to the armies who fight it’

He'd spied a lute in the corner. Now he picked it up. Lucie started as the strings hummed with the motion. About to reprimand him, she was silenced by his gentle, sure touch on the strings. He brought the lute to life with a doleful tune and began to sing. He'd been told by many a woman that he had a beautiful voice. Lucie did not want him to see that it affected her. Though tired and aching to sit for a while, she got up and tidied the kitchen while he sang. She tried not to look at him. He lost himself in the song, letting the story move him.

The music rose to a shivering cry and stopped.

They were both quiet, lost in the echo of the music. The fire crackled and hissed. A branch scraped against the house.

Lucie shivered. 'What a beautiful language’

'Breton. I learned it from a jongleur,' Owen said. 'It is close to the language of my country. Though at first I did not understand all the words, I understood the heart of it’

Lucie sat down tentatively, acutely aware of how little she knew this man with whom she was to share her days. 'What is the song about?'

'Across Brittany are great cairns — they call them dolmens — built with stones so immense only giants would have moved them. They are said to be the graves of the old ones, the people who came before. In one of these lives a gentlewoman who has vowed to save her people from the routiers of King Edward.'

'Routiers,' Lucie whispered.

Owen thought she was asking for a definition. 'Soldiers our noble King strands across the Channel without pay. The people say there are hundreds of them roaming the countryside, raping and looting. Perhaps they exaggerate’

'My mother told me about them.'

'Your mother was French?' He had seen she did not respond well to his knowing about her.

Lucie nodded. 'There are hundreds of routiers.'

'They are the scourge of the French.'

'My mother said that war was the scourge’

'Aye. Well, she would think so. It is different for us here, on an island. Our wars are fought on foreign soil. When our King is victorious, those who return come with booty. When our King is defeated, those few who return come with empty hands. But in France, whether the French king wins or no, the people suffer. The soldiers on either side burn their villages and towns to starve the enemy. It makes no difference to a homeless, starving child whether he starves for his own king or another's’

Lucie watched him, seeming to see him for the first time. 'You do not speak like a soldier.'

He shrugged.

'How does this woman save her people?'

'Acting the part of a defenceless gentlewoman lost in the forest, she lures the routiers, then surprises them with traps she has laid, and with her skill wielding a knife. She tells them she has lost all and wishes to join them. To prove herself, she will lead them to a noble house at the edge of the wood, where much treasure and wine are to be found. She has prepared an ambush. That is the part all Bretons know. What follows changes with each song. This one tells of her compassion for a routier who stands apart from his fellows, troubled by what he has become. As the company approaches the hiding men, the gentlewoman is moved to spare him. Calling to him, she leads him away from the party to a circle of standing stones on a hill. As the cries of his fellows reach them, he is incensed by what she has done. "You are free to choose death," she tells him. "Say it is your choice, and I will set my men against you. Or look into your heart and admit you have no stomach for slaughter without honour’"

'Which does he choose?'

'The song does not say.'

Lucie looked disappointed. 'Is it a true story?'

'I do not know.'

'It cannot be. Else the jongleur would have been betraying the saviour of his people by singing the song.'

'Perhaps that is why he sang it in his own tongue.'

'You understood it. Many of your archers would be Welsh, too.'

'And like me they keep their peace.'

'And the others. Did no one ask you what it meant?'

'I told them it was "Aucassin et Nicolette" in Breton.'

'You protected him?'

Owen sighed. 'And in return for my protection, he blinded me. Or rather his leman did.'

Lucie reached across the table and touched the scar. 'Why did his leman blind you?'

'She was protecting him.'

'From you? I don't understand.'

He told her the story. 'I was a fool. And for my pains I must begin again, find a new path in life. I was already disgusted with soldiering.' He'd said it so many times it felt true. 'But what they did to me I cannot forgive. They betrayed me when I'd done everything to help them.'

Lucie watched him a few minutes more, 'You feel crippled without the eye. But you do not seem crippled to others. I don't suppose it helps to know that.'

'Kind words. I thank you for them. But you cannot imagine what it is like to lose half your sight.'

'No, I cannot.' She stood up. 'I must take Nicholas his supper, then sleep for a while.'

'You won't let me help?'

'Not with this.'

Owen saw that she meant it, and wandered back to the inn in a thoughtful mood.

Bess called to him as he entered the tavern. 'You've a visitor’ She nodded toward the back corner. 'It's been a long time since Guildmaster Thorpe gave us custom. You're good for business, Owen Archer.'

Few heads turned, no conversations died as Owen passed among the tables. That was a good sign. He'd been accepted as a regular. He was pleased.

But his pleasure faded when he saw the Guildmaster's expression. The man's round, comfortable face was creased with worry. 'Archdeacon Anselm made a fuss about your appointment. Wanted to see the letter Jehannes sent. Asked all sorts of questions. Alluded to your not being who you say you are. It's worrisome, it is.'.

Owen told him about the apprenticeship in Durham.

Camden Thorpe pulled at his beard. 'Now isn't that queer? He never said a word about that to me. On the contrary. He sounded as if he suspected you of being some sort of outlaw, lying low for a time.'

'I wonder how Archbishop Thoresby would take the implications of that?'

Thorpe frowned, unsure of Owen's meaning.

'The letter of introduction?'

'Oh, aye.' The Guildmaster smiled. 'The Archdeacon is confused, isn't he?'

Owen managed to reassure Camden Thorpe all was well, but he was not at all certain that was so. The Archdeacon exhibited an odd concern over Owen's apprenticeship. He obviously saw through his guise. But how much did he guess, and why did it disturb the Archdeacon to the extent that he would risk making a fool of himself with the Guildmaster? In Owen's mind, that spoke of a desperate man. And such men were dangerous.

But why the Archdeacon?

Lucie dreamed she ran through the maze at Freythorpe Hadden, stumbling now and then, breathless with laughter. She feared he would catch up. And she feared he would not. She tingled with the expectation of his hands around her waist, pulling her to him, kissing her neck-

She woke shivering. The fire had gone out. Yet her face was hot. She'd dreamed of Owen Archer. She must be mad.

Anselm paced. He'd underestimated Archer. He'd moved much faster than Anselm had thought possible. Archer must be Archbishop Thoresby's man. Thoresby had sent Archer, had arranged for him to insinuate himself into the Wilton household. To inquire into the death of the Archbishop's ward. Of course Thoresby would. How stupid of Anselm not to have predicted that. Considering Fitzwilliam's character, of course the Archbishop would suspect murder. Damn Fitzwilliam. Damn Brother Wulfstan, that bumbling monk. If Fitzwilliam had not died, no one would have cared about the other. But now John Thorpe, the most powerful man in York, was involved.

How odd that the Archbishop should care about a ward who brought him only trouble. Anselm's own father would care not a fig if Anselm died in mysterious circumstances. He would make no inquiries. He would forget the death in no time. He whose son had risen in the Church to the rank of Archdeacon of York. It was not just that Anselm was the second son, marked for the Church. His father had rejected him because he had no taste for violence. Once Anselm had shown his colours, he could do nothing to win his father's respect, much less his love. But the Archbishop, a mere guardian, wanted to know how the odious Fitzwilliam had died, a young man who had aspired to break all the commandments as often as possible.

What a lucky fellow, Oswald Fitzwilliam. Doubtless he had been sheltered as a youth, and hence his appetite for sin. Man craves the unknown. The mysterious. Anselm had learned early about sins of the flesh. All curiosity had been wrung from him by the slime his father trained as soldiers, the curs among whom his whore of a mother had thrown him. The quiet virtue expected at the abbey school had been a welcome relief.