The Apothecary Rose

Eleven

Long after the Guildmaster had gone home to his bed, Owen sat in the corner, vaguely aware of murmuring voices, the sour smells of ale, wine, and unwashed bodies, the draught that wrapped around his legs when a customer opened the door to the street. He rubbed the scar on his cheek and stared down at the tavern floor, thinking. Not of Fitzwilliam, but about his home. It was difficult, like peering through a mist, to remember. And so long ago, so much had happened — to them as well as to him, no doubt. Life was difficult in the village. Every journey sent one up mountains and through forests, in and out of every season except summer. Work broke the back and the spirit. There were no physicians like Roglio, or even apothecaries like Wilton. Folks had their remedies — his mother had many — but mostly they soothed rather than cured. Illness and injury meant death more often than not. Would Lucie believe him if he told her that the reason he had not returned was that he could not bear to find them all dead? His mother, her smile, her voice, her spirit, rotting underground, feeding the roots of the oak and ash, feeding the worms. And his sisters — Angie with her snapping eyes, Gwen with her slow, dreamy ways — so many young women died birthing. He crossed himself.

Lucie Wilton had sent him into black thoughts with her anger. Working for her was not easy on his heart.

Better to think on the death of FitzWilliam. That was what he'd come to York to investigate. The faster he answered the Archbishop's questions, the sooner he might leave. And leave he must. He was losing his heart to a woman who would never care for him, even if Nicholas died. She had rejected Owen before she ever knew him. Unfair, but, there being no one to complain to, he must accept it.

Accept it. Owen looked up, caught Tom's eye, lifted his tankard.

Tom ambled over. 'You're looking gloomy, Master Archer’ he said. 'Bad news from Guildmaster?'

'Nothing to do with him. Missing the old days.'

Tom frowned with sympathy. 'Aye. Captain of Archers, Not many rise so high.'

'Fortune smiled on you when he gave you a living you could keep into old age, Tom. And a bonny wife.'

Tom's face brightened. 'Aye. The Lord's been good to me.' He nodded and moved on among his customers with his pitcher of fine ale,

Owen took a long drink, appreciating the oiliness of the brew in his mouth. Tom Merchet was an artisan of great skill. His an brought comfort to his fellow man. A far cry from Owen's lost art — killing, maiming. Perhaps his apprenticeship would be his redemption.

He imagined himself and Lucie working side by side, like Tom and Bess. Running a tavern. Lucie would lend a different character to the place. Bess was saucy. The men met her eye boldly, called out to her. And she gave as good as she got. But men would lower their eyes to Lucie, like boys addressing their best friend's mother. Their voices would soften. And he-

Pah. Owen could not imagine her married to him. Murdering oaf. One-eyed, clumsy -

He slammed his tankard down on the table. His neighbours glanced up with curiosity. When they saw his apologetic flush, they shook their heads and went back to their business.

But they were soon interested in the Summoner's appearance. He stopped at the counter, then wound his way through the customers with his tankard in hand. He sat down at Owen's table.

His arrival did not help Owen's mood. Hoping rudeness would discourage the Summoner, Owen looked not at him but down at his ale. 'Don't tell me the Archdeacon wants to see me again?'

'Not as such.'

Owen nodded without looking up.

Digby fidgeted. He'd meant to intrigue Owen with his reply. He leaned closer. 'He wants me to follow you. Find out who sent you and why.'

Owen glanced up. 'Is the Archdeacon always so wary of strangers?'

'Nay.'

'Why me?'

Digby grinned. 'He didn't say. But I know. He thinks the Archbishop sent you to look into the death of Fitzwilliam.'

'And how do you know the Archdeacon thinks that?'

'Because I think so, too.' Digby took a long drink. He had gained confidence since last night.

'Surely the Archdeacon did not mean for you to tell me?'

Digby laughed. 'Course not.'

'So why are you telling me this?'

'Because I want to know what you want to know.'

'You mean if I was sent to York by the Archbishop to inquire into the death of Fitzwilliam?'

'Aye’

'Now what, might I ask, is there to question? They say the man died of a winter chill.'

Digby snorted. An unpleasant sound. 'Not Fitzwilliam. He wasn't that sick’

'You knew him?'

'Aye. I knew him well. An easy source of revenue for the minster fund. Muck clung to him like cobwebs to a cat’

'Stealing the arm from your mother's pit was not his worst offence?'

'Pah. That was nothing’

'You think he was murdered?'

'Aye. That's how it always is with his sort’

'In the abbey infirmary?'

That's where he died’

'One of the brothers?'

'Not likely. But perhaps. They're not all saints’ — 'Like the Archdeacon’

Digby snorted again. 'Him least of all. They're all born with original sin, same as you and me’

Him least of all. A tantalising comment.

'What you're saying is that both you and the Archdeacon think this Fitzwilliam was murdered, and that I'm here to find the murderer. You hope I find him, but the Archdeacon doesn't. Is that right?'

Digby grinned.

'Odd that you would work at cross purposes to your employer.'

Digby looked down at his tankard. 'I don't feel good about it.'

'Why are you so interested?'

Digby frowned at Owen as if he couldn't believe the question. 'I'm a Summoner. Tis my duty to bring sinners to justice. Someone commited a murder on hallowed ground. I mean to find out who.'

'But the Archdeacon doesn't care?'

'He's protecting someone.'

'Who?'

Digby looked away. 'Don't know enough to make an accusation. Don't know the connection.' He met Owen's eye with a solemn resolve. 'But let me give you something to think on. They talk of two deaths. Nay. Two murders.' He lingered on the last word.

Owen considered it. 'You mean the first one, with no name?'

Digby winked. 'Think on't. Honest men don't refuse to give their names. Involved in one of Fitzwilliam's shady deals, I suspect.'

'This gets interesting. But what's to make me believe it was murder? What do you know?'

Digby drank down the rest of his ale. 'Thirsty work, this talk.'

Owen caught Bess's eye. She poured another drink for the Summoner. 'Put it on my bill, Bess.'

She grinned. 'Takes more than a drink to bribe the Summoner, Master Archer.'

Digby bristled.

'It's just to afford me his company for a while longer,' Owen said.

Bess shrugged and moved away among the tables.

Owen noted Digby's irritation. 'I thought you had a thick skin.'

'I don't mind them resenting me for snooping. That's natural. But I'm not corrupt. The Archdeacon wouldn't keep me if I were.'

'You speak well of him. But you think he's covering up for a murderer. Make up your mind.'

'Everyone has a weakness. Something or someone that they'd risk everything for.'

'And his is?'

Digby glanced around, leaned closer. 'Nicholas Wilton.'

Owen did not like that answer. 'What do you mean?'

'Old friends. Went to school together.'

'The abbey school?'

'Aye. You know the sort. Always in trouble together. Each quick to come to the other's defence. But they fought over something ten years ago. Didn't speak to each other all that time. And then, the day after Wilton collapsed, the Archdeacon showed up at the shop. A regular visitor now. You'll see him now you're apprenticed there.' There was a funny light in Digby's eyes.

Owen ignored it. 'And the Archdeacon sends you to check in on his friend when he's not able to?'

Digby shook his head. 'He knows naught of my visits. Nor should he. I'm being honest with you.'

Their eyes met. Owen nodded. 'I believe you are. What's your game, that's what I'm wondering. Why do you visit the shop?'

Digby grinned. 'To see if Mistress Wilton's nervous to see me.'

'Anyone would be.'

'I mean more nervous than usual.'

'And is she?'

'I make the lovely Mistress Wilton very uneasy indeed.'

Owen wanted to wipe the sly smile off Digby's face with his fist, but he controlled himself.

'You said the Archdeacon was covering up for someone, implying Nicholas Wilton. And Mistress Wilton knows something, too. So you think Nicholas Wilton killed the two men?'

Digby shrugged. 'It all adds up to that, hard though it be to believe. You see, I was there, wasn't I, the night Nicholas Wilton took the physick to the abbey.'

Owen sat up. Took the physick?'

Digby preened with the attention. 'For the first pilgrim. He had camp fever. Everyone knows Nicholas Wilton has a secret concoction that is particularly effective for it. Brother Wulfstan went for some. I met him on the way. He returned without it. Wilton was bringing it later, he said. Had to make it up special.'

'You believe he poisoned the pilgrim?'

That's what I'm saying.'

'Why?'

Digby sighed. 'I don't know. Wilton's not the sort to make trouble. So I reckon there's something we don't know, something the stranger did to him, say. Not knowing who the man was, I can't figure it.' He leaned even closer. 'But I'll tell you this. I saw Wilton come from the abbey that night. Man looked like he was caving in, that's what he looked like. Then he began to twitch and jerk, and then he fell down in a faint.'

'What did you do?'

'Hurried to the infirmary for Brother Wulfstan, but he had his hands full with the pilgrim. Man was flailing around and yelling. So I went back out to see to Wilton. I couldn't rouse him, even with snow on his neck. Hailed a farmer passing on a donkey cart and took Wilton home in it.'

Owen looked long at the man. 'So what is your weakness?'

Digby grinned. 'I'm no fool to tell that, Master Archer.' He took a drink. Sat back. 'Told you more than you dreamed I knew, didn't I? Seems you owe me something in return.'

Here it came. 'What do you want?'

'As I said, I want to make sure a sinner confesses and does penance.'

Owen wondered why it was so difficult to believe the man took his position seriously. Took pride in ferreting out sinners. His appearance was against him, for certain. But so was Owen's, Odd thing was, having met the man's mother, Owen wanted to trust Potter Digby. Maybe it was time to trust his instincts. Thinking had not got him far. 'How about the first pilgrim's name? If I tell you that, will you tell me what you find out with the information?'

Digby's face lit up. 'I swear.'

They both leaned forward. 'His name was Sir Geoffrey Montaigne.'

'Montaigne’ Digby whispered. 'Geoffrey Montaigne. Now that stirs a memory somewhere.'

'I hoped it might.'

Owen had also hoped Digby would leave with the information, but instead he sat there frowning into his ale.

Oh, well. Owen settled back to consider what Digby had told him. Nicholas Wilton had mixed a physick for Montaigne, then fallen ill himself. Digby was witness to that. Owen sat up.

'What was your business at the abbey that night?'

Digby's eyes slid to Owen's, then away. I'm Summoner. My business is everywhere.'

Owen could tell Digby was lying. It was encouraging that he could tell. So maybe the rest was true. 'A clever answer. What are you hiding?'

'I've offered you my help.'

'Then you should tell me all you know.'

'I don't want you getting the wrong ideas.'

'You were there for suspect reasons?'

'I was waiting for the Archdeacon. I had to speak with him.'

'He was at the abbey?'

'He dined with the Abbot that night.'

'The night Nicholas Wilton, the Archdeacon's old friend, collapsed outside the abbey? The night before he resumed his friendship with Nicholas Wilton?'

Digby looked worried. 'It's not how it sounds. I'm sure of it.' He shook his head. 'Montaigne. Geoffrey Montaigne.' He grew quiet again.

If Owen believed Digby, he might have the answer to why he had not got far. He'd been looking at it all wrong, focusing on Fitzwilliam and what he'd been up to right before his death. But if the trouble had begun with Montaigne's death, not Fitzwilliam's. . Perhaps there was something much more intriguing being hidden than the death of the Archbishop's ward. And the pilgrim Montaigne was the key to it, not Fitzwilliam. Could that be?

What did he know about the man? Montaigne, considered a virtuous, chivalrous knight by all who knew him, had come to York to atone for a past sin, and the journey brought on a recurrence of camp fever. Such fever can kill, and the long ride had opened a recent wound, which had weakened him, making it even likelier that the fever would kill him. The Infirmarian thought Montaigne had known he might die at the abbey.

But Brother Wulfstan was uncomfortable. He might feel responsible for Montaigne's dying in his infirmary, but Owen did not think so. The monk would not have survived as Infirmarian if he blamed himself for every death in the abbey, no more than a captain could function if he blamed himself for the loss of men in battle. You taught them what you knew, and then it was up to them and God. Wulfstan would have done all he could.

Still, Wulfstan was uncomfortable. According to Digby, after Wulfstan had exhausted all his knowledge, he had gone to Nicholas Wilton for help. And Nicholas Wilton had collapsed outside the infirmary after delivering the medicine he had mixed specifically for Montaigne. While the Archdeacon was dining with the Abbot and Digby was lurking around outside. Thorny.

Poisoning can look like a fever. But if the man was near death, why bother?

Because waiting was hard. Especially when one's life hung in the balance. Be patient. Owen had drummed that into his new archers. Do not rush. Wait for the best moment to let fly the arrow. Do not let fear or desperation loosen your grip too soon. Nothing is changed by your panic, only your ability to reason. But some forget the lesson when tested in battle.

If Montaigne had been poisoned, it was because someone had panicked. He would have died anyway, but perhaps more slowly. Owen could see the how. If Brother Wulfstan did not sense trouble, he would not examine the physick. And that was what made Digby's suspicion plausible. Brother Wulfstan would not have gone to Nicholas Wilton for help if he had suspected him of wanting to poison the patient. So when the physick had not worked, Wulfstan had taken it as a sign that the Lord wanted Montaigne now. The monk would accept that. It was Church doctrine.

That was, perhaps, the how.

But the why? Owen stared at Digby, who was nodding to himself with a pleased look on his face.

'So?'

I've placed Montaigne. Lady D'Arby's lover, he was. Folk said 'twas his babe killed her.'

The name sounded familiar, but he could not place it at once. 'Lady D'Arby?'

'Your Mistress Wilton's mother. You might speak with 'em up at Freythorpe Hadden. Dame Phillippa and Sir Robert.'

'He was the lover of Mistress Wilton's mother?'

Digby nodded. 'The beautiful Amelie. Sir Robert's war prize.'

'And Montaigne's baby killed her? So there was a scandal?'

'Lots of talk, but no action taken. She died. Montaigne disappeared. Lord D'Arby went on pilgrimage to the Holy Land.'

'Who is Dame Phillippa?'

'Sir Robert's sister. Looks after him.'

'Where is Freythorpe Hadden?'

'South of here. Ask your new mistress.' Digby drained his tankard, rose, extended his hand to Owen.

Owen cupped his hands around his drink. 'Unwise for us to look friendly, Summoner.'

Digby shrugged and walked away.Leaving Owen in an even worse mood than he'd found him in. Montaigne was the lover of Lucie's mother. Owen did not like that at all.