The Apothecary Rose

Twelve

Owen lay awake, bothered by all that Digby had told him. Montaigne and Amelie, Lady D'Arby. There had been a scandal. As Lucie's husband, Nicholas Wilton might have wished to avenge his wife's family's shame. But surely that was an old story. On the other hand, Montaigne's return to York would reopen old wounds.

Owen thought of the wizened old man lying in the sickroom. Nicholas hardly seemed strong enough to hatch such a plot and see it through.

And then Owen had an awful thought. He tried to discard it, but he could not. Lucie Wilton could have prepared the physick. She was knowledgeable. She could concoct a poison as well as her husband could. Digby had said Wilton delivered the physick to the abbey, but the Summoner could not know who had prepared it.

Perhaps Lucie Wilton. She might have reason to hate Montaigne. She had a marked antipathy towards soldiers. Owen had assumed it was her father, sending her to the convent and going off when the mother died. But perhaps it was Montaigne. And though Montaigne had not identified himself, that might not matter. Children noticed much. Lucie might have seen him, recognised him from the past. Owen must find out if she had been to the abbey while Montaigne was there. The possibility sent pain across the blind eye. He rubbed beneath the patch.

There was no escaping it. Lucie Wilton might be guilty. Her being a beautiful young woman should not cloud his judgement. He knew full well that a woman could be as ruthless as a man. It was not the jongleur who had blinded him.

But what a sickening suspicion. It was an ugly, unredeemed world that could make Lucie Wilton betray her calling to heal and use her God-given skill to murder.

And yet suspecting Nicholas Wilton of the same crime had not made Owen sick at heart. He disgusted himself. He was smitten by Lucie Wilton, and was allowing it to colour his judgement. It was not impossible that Lucie might avenge her mother's ignoble death in such a way. Given her training as an apothecary, it was the likeliest way for her to strike back.

Of course, all this assumed Digby was right, that Montaigne had been poisoned. But where did that leave Fitzwilliam?

It was still possible that Digby was wrong. The evidence lay in the grave of Montaigne. All the evidence lay in the grave of an unknown pilgrim. Were such graves marked? What words would the monks of St. Mary's speak over the grave of an unknown pilgrim? How would they mark it? A gentle pilgrim who met his end on such-and-such a day in the thirty-sixth year of the reign of King Edward the Third of England?

The grave was where his clues lay. Owen flipped over on his left side, sending a shooting pain through his shoulder. With a curse he rolled back on his right side.

What unpleasant tasks this sleuthing necessitated — tussling with Lord March, opening a grave. And to disturb consecrated ground was a sacrilege. Would God blame him for it? No point in worrying about that yet. He might not have an opportunity to find out. Abbot Campian would probably refuse to co-operate. And Thoresby might reject evidence got in such a way. Owen did not like this prying into people's lives. It made him no different from the Summoner.

Next morning, Owen sought out Digby. He discovered him standing in the shadows near the marketplace, watching a maid and a soldier who stood at the edge of the stalls, their heads bent close together, speaking in hushed voices.

'Looking for sinners?' Owen asked Digby.

The soldier glanced over at them, whispered something to the maid.

Digby backed farther into shadow and put a finger to his lips.

The couple parted, the maid wandering over to a stall, the soldier hailing a comrade.

'I have a mission for you, my friend,' Owen said, grinning.

Digby gave him a disgusted look. 'So we're friends now, are we?'

'You've made it rather plain we're meeting at the tavern.'

'Have I caused trouble for you?'

'I hope not. Time will tell.'

'Well, you've ruined my morning. What do you want?' Wulfstan smiled at Henry's attempts to tie the rag around the monk's head. Michaelo had one of his headaches this morning, and Wulfstan thought to use the opportunity to teach Henry the treatment the monk responded to best. Feverfew steeped in a warm cup of wine, to mask the bitterness of the herb, then a cloth soaked in minted water bound around his head. Wulfstan suspected that Michaelo enjoyed the extra wine and the chance to sit and dream while the cure took effect, but it seemed a harmless vice. It was not as if he appeared every week with his complaint. Twice a month, and not at regular intervals, so it might be a legitimate complaint. At worst a moderate vice.

Henry had done well with the feverfew-and-wine concoction, and the soaking of the cloth. But his fingers were all thumbs with a knot.

'No fisher folk in your family, I see’ Wulfstan said.

'I have never been out on the water, Brother Wulfstan. Nor tied a knot. Am I very stupid?'

'I do not think the tying of knots renders one intelligent, Henry. You will learn.' Wulfstan showed him again. Henry tried once more. 'Better. Much better, God be praised.' Wulfstan undid the loose, partial knot and handed the cloth to Henry. 'Soak this once more and give it another try.'

Brother Michaelo was wondrously patient through all this, quietly sipping the wine and humming. The wine obviously worked its magic. Indeed, that must be the key to Michaelo, Wulfstan thought, he loved his wine. He thanked the Lord that Michaelo had not been apprenticed to him in the infirmary.

Henry's next attempt at the knot was interrupted by Brother Sebastian's breathless entrance. 'Summoner Digby to see you, Brother Wulfstan.'

Digby's name burned in the Infirmarian's stomach.

'The Abbot said to show him back here. Is it safe?' Sebastian, a healthy man, associated the infirmary with bloodlettings and death.

'Quite safe,' Wulfstan assured him, though he wished he could say otherwise and deter the Summoner. Merciful Mother, let Digby not bring bad news this time. 'Show him in.'

Wulfstan looked down at Henry's work. 'Why, Henry, that will hold well.'

'Tie up a boat like that, and the first wave would sweep it downriver’

Brother Wulfstan recognised Digby's voice. 'Brother Michaelo's head is in no danger of being swept away’ Wulfstan said, angry that the man undid his praise.

Brother Michaelo sniffed and opened his eyes. 'What smells of river water? It cannot be the cloth?'

Wulfstan pulled Digby away. Henry assured Michaelo that he had soaked the cloth in well water. The Summoner followed Wulfstan to the small hearth at the other end of the room.

'Forgive me for interrupting your work.'

Wulfstan closed his eyes and hardened himself for bad news. 'What is your news, Summoner?'

'No news. A question, if it is not too much trouble. It is for the diocesan records.'

'My Abbot would be more appropriate in a question of records.'

'Forgive me, I thought you would be the one to ask. You see, it is about the pilgrim who died in your infirmary — in this very room — the night of the first snow.'

Deus juva me. Wulfstan's old legs threatened to collapse. 'I forget myself. Sit down by the fire and rest yourself.' He sat likewise, gratefully, gripping his knees through the coarse wool of his habit to keep them from knocking. 'The pilgrim. Yes. What is the question?'

'Did you bury him on the abbey grounds?'

Wulfstan pondered the question. Or what it implied. Why would the Archdeacon care where someone had been buried? To be sure he had been buried? Wulfstan had heard there was a brisk trade in bodies for relics. Surely the Archdeacon had no cause to suspect the monks of St. Mary's of trafficking in false relics. No. More likely they questioned the cause of the pilgrims' deaths. They hoped to dig up the body here in York and have Master Saurian examine it. Wulfstan had heard of such things — digging up the dead. But surely the Archbishop would not desecrate consecrated ground in such a way? Merciful Mother. Wulfstan was not sure whether anything could be told three months later. But if the poison were evident. . They would blame him. Dear God. And he would have no choice but to point his finger at Nicholas Wilton. And Lucie would lose her security. And he the infirmary, for — as Lucie had wisely pointed out — how could Abbot Campian trust him not to make such a mistake again? They would declare him too old to be competent.

'Brother Wulfstan?' Digby leaned forward, frowning. 'It requires a simple yes or no.'

True. And he could not think of any reason not to answer. 'My thoughts are on Brother Michaelo this morning, Summoner. Yes. We buried the gentle knight on the abbey grounds, as he had requested’

'Ah. Then he made a behest to the abbey?'

Wulfstan nodded. 'The Abbot can tell you the amount.'

'And what name did you inscribe on the stone?'

The question puzzled Wulfstan. 'No name, just "A Pilgrim," as he had wished.'

'But the behest. From whom will that be collected?'

'He brought it with him. Spoils of war, he said. Truly, these are not questions for an Infirmarian.'

The Summoner rose. 'You have been most helpful’

Wulfstan showed him to the door, where Sebastian waited to accompany him out.

The Summoner caught the door as it was about to close on him. 'But surely he told you his name. Or there was something in his possessions that identified him?'

Wulfstan shook his head. 'I can vouch for that myself. He never said, and there was nothing to suggest who he was.'

'Did he have any visitors while he was here?'

'None.'

'No one from the city?'

'No one at all, Summoner Digby.'

The Summoner shrugged and left.

Wulfstan went back to his instruction, but his mind was in turmoil. The Archdeacon must have sent Digby. But why? What was he getting at? Perhaps the minster collected a portion of such behests. Such matters were none of his business. Yet he had told the Summoner about it. Surely Digby had not come to the Infirmarian for information like that. Unless the Abbot had denied that the abbey received a behest in order to keep the money at St. Mary's, where there were always more expenses than money. The orchard wall needed mending, an exquisite chasuble had been torn beyond repair, and dry rot had weakened several of the tables in the refectory. But would his Abbot lie? Wulfstan doubted it. He had never known the Abbot to hide behind a lie. Indeed, Wulfstan devoutly hoped he was not wrong about his superior. He had always held him up as a model of men.

Whether the pilgrim was buried at the abbey and what his name was, those were the Summoner's questions, now Wulfstan thought of it. His name. A missing person, perhaps? That was it. But if someone was travelling in disguise, he would not go by his own name. And Digby had not asked for a description. In any case, the pilgrim had seemed such an honest man.

'Brother Wulfstan, you've cut yourself.' Henry lifted the knife from Wulfstan's hand and dabbed at the blood welling from a cut on the hand beneath it.

Wulfstan stared at his own red blood for moments before seeing it. 'Oh my.' He'd been chopping parsley for a morning tonic. Chopped right into his hand and never noticed, no more than any of his other aches and pains. He crossed himself and said a prayer of thanksgiving. It might have been much worse. 'Well, there you see the danger of daydreaming while working with sharp instruments, God be praised’ He made light of it to lessen dear Henry's concern.

'Let me wash it out for you,' the novice offered.

Wulfstan accepted his ministrations, then went to ask the Abbot for permission to go into town.

'Does it have to do with the Summoner's visit?' Abbot Campian asked.

Wulfstan could withhold facts, but he could not lie. 'Yes. I wish to know why Archdeacon Anselm sent him to me. He did ask for me?'

The Abbot nodded. 'I wondered about that, too. What did he want?'

Wulfstan told him.

The Abbot sighed. 'Most unfortunate. Had he asked me, I could have told him the pilgrim's name. Montaigne. Sir Geoffrey Montaigne. I suspect that the Archdeacon wants to strike him from his list of infidelities, now that both parties are dead.'

Wulfstan shook his head. 'I do not understand.'

'Just give the Archdeacon the name, Wulfstan, and that will be an end to it.'

Wulfstan turned to go.

'Surely you do not mean to go out in sandals, Brother Wulfstan?'

The Infirmarian looked down at his dusty toes. He'd put on his cloak and forgotten his boots. 'Of course. I was in such a hurry.'

Abbot Campian put a hand on Wulfstan's shoulder and looked deep into his eyes. 'Are you up to such an errand, my old friend?'

'Oh, quite. Of course. I was simply rushed.' Wulfstan scurried back to his cell. Perhaps all this trouble was God telling him that he was, indeed, too old to be trusted with the lives of the monks of St. Mary's.

But his memory was intact. Sir Geoffrey Montaigne. He would remember that.

A warm sun had already turned the snow on the streets to slush, and it was not yet midday. The icy wetness penetrated the leather of Wulfstan's old boots. His feet were frozen by the time he stood in the hall waiting to see the Archdeacon.

'Brother Wulfstan.' The Archdeacon smiled as the Infirmarian was shown into his chamber. 'How can I help you?'

How to begin? Wulfstan felt unprepared. He'd spent the entire walk fretting over his cold feet and chanting the pilgrim's name so he would not forget it. 'I — ' When in doubt, trust to the truth. 'About the Summoner's visit today, I — well, you can imagine how disturbing a soul finds a visit from the Summoner. And his questions. They were so odd. I wondered, as did my Abbot, what was the purpose of asking them of me?' There. He had forced it all out.

Archdeacon Anselm picked up a parchment, set it down, pushed an ink pot a little farther to his left, touched his brow, then, at last, said, 'This is the first I have heard of my Summoner visiting you, Brother Wulfstan. But perhaps I simply do not connect you with one of his inquiries. If you told me what he'd asked — '

'It was about the pilgrim who died at the abbey just before Christmas. He asked had the pilgrim been buried at the abbey, and what was his name.'

Anselm leaned towards him, far more interested than he had been at first. Wulfstan did not know whether to be pleased or not. 'And what were your answers?'

'He has not told you?'

'Not yet. As I said, I did not know of his visit.'

'Oh. Yes.'

'Your answers, Brother Wulfstan?'

'The pilgrim was buried at the abbey, as he'd requested. But the pilgrim's name I could not give him.'

'And he did not say why he asked these things?'

Wulfstan shook his head. He noticed that the Archdeacon shared Brother Michaelo's habit of flaring his nostrils when he thought. Like a horse. An odd habit for humans. 'So you did not send him to quiz me?'

'I assure you I did not, Brother Wulfstan, and I apologise for any discomfort his visit may have caused you’

'Strange.' And now Wulfstan wondered whether he must tell the Archdeacon the name of the pilgrim. After all, he said he had not sent Digby, so it must be the Summoner who wanted to know, not the Archdeacon. Wulfstan had a queer feeling in his stomach about this whole business. A protective feeling towards his dead friend. Geoffrey. His friend had not wanted his name known. But Abbot Campian had told him to give the Archdeacon the name.

The Archdeacon rose, and so did Wulfstan.

'You said you could not give him the pilgrim's name’ the Archdeacon said as he led Wulfstan to the door. 'You mean that you did not know it?'

Oh dear. Could he disobey? 'No, Archdeacon, I did not know the pilgrim's name.' Which was true. He had not at the time.

'Anonymous to the grave.'

Wulfstan nodded, his heart in his mouth.

Out on the street, he felt weak and lightheaded. And cold. His joints and his extremities ached. He thought of Lucie Wilton's cosy hearth fire. The apothecary was closer at this point than the abbey. And he did feel dizzy and chilled. He decided to pay her a visit, ask after Nicholas.

He had not foreseen that the apprentice would be minding the shop. 'I–I came to see Mistress Wilton. To ask after Nicholas. I was out and — '

Owen nodded. 'Mistress Wilton is in the kitchen. She will welcome your company, 1 am sure.'

Brother Wulfstan went back.

Lucie sat by the fire, darning. 'What a pleasant surprise.' Then her smile turned to a concerned frown. 'What is the matter, Brother Wulfstan? You look as if you've had a fright.'

He had not meant to mention it. But her solicitous manner made him want to confide in her. After all, they were in this together, in a sense, 'Summoner Digby paid me a visit today. Asked questions about the pilgrim who died the night Nicholas took ill.'

Lucie sat him down and poured him a cup of wine, adding spices and heating it with a hot poker. 'Now’ she said, handing him the cup and resuming her seat, 'tell me what he wanted.'

'He wanted to know if I had known the name of the pilgrim, if he'd had any visitors, where he was buried. It must mean he suspects that a sin was committed. That is the Summoner's business.'

Lucie looked thoughtful. 'But such questions are not to the point, are they?'

'I don't know why he asked them. And why he asked them of me. The Archdeacon could not tell me.'

'The Archdeacon? You spoke with him, too?'

'I went to him. My Abbot thought it best. That is why I am out in the city. But the Archdeacon seemed to know nothing of the visit.'

'And were you able to tell Digby the pilgrim's name?'

Again, forced so close to a lie. 'I — no. I could not tell him.'

Lucie studied his face. 'You would have told him had you known, wouldn't you?'

'Charity is difficult for me with a man such as Summoner Digby.'

'You would lie?'

Wulfstan flushed. 'Not that. I would try to — avoid telling him.'

'And is that what you did? Avoid it? Do you really know who the pilgrim was?'

If he said yes, the next question would naturally be the pilgrim's name. Again, the old monk was loath to reveal his friend's identity. And what good would it do Lucie to know for whom Nicholas had mixed the fatal physick? 'I could not tell Digby, that is the truth.' Narrowly, but it was the truth.

Lucie seemed satisfied. She picked up her darning. 'Some unfinished business, perhaps. We have nothing to worry about, my friend. He would have no way of discovering our secret. Drink your wine. Let it warm you.'

Wulfstan sipped it. It warmed him most pleasantly. He sipped again, sat back, and let himself relax. Of course Lucie was right. They had shared their secret with no one else.

As he sat by the fire watching Lucie's lovely face bent over the darning, Wulfstan noted how much like her mother she looked now. The hair was not raven like Amelie's, and the mouth was firmer, the chin squarer, but — Geoffrey Montaigne. He remembered now. Lady D'Arby's lover. It had been such a scandal, even Wulfstan had heard about it. The beautiful Amelie, Lady D'Arby, and the fair young knight who had guarded her on the Channel crossing. She had been with child by him when she died. Sir Robert had been in Calais too long for it to be his. Geoffrey Montaigne.

'Mon Dieu’ he whispered. Lady D'Arby had been Geoffrey's only love.

Lucie looked up, frowned. 'What is it?'

Wulfstan flushed. Shook his head. Thank heaven he had not told her the name. He should not stir up bad memories for her. Indeed, who knew how much an eight-year-old had been told. He knew little about the raising of children. 'It is nothing.'

'You did not look as if it were nothing.'

'It was simply — I thought how much you look like your mother. The way you held your head just then.'

It was Lucie's turn to flush. 'I am not half so beautiful as my mother.'

Saint Paul said that it was unwise to flatter women. That they put too much stock in appearance. But poor Lucie had so little joy these days. 'I think you are more beautiful than your mother.'

Lucie gave him a perplexed smile. 'Brother Wulfstan. You are flattering me’

'I am a silly old man, my dear Lucie. But I know beauty when I see it.' He rose, fumbling with his sleeves to hide his flushed face. 'And now I must hurry back for Vespers.'

She took his hand. Thank you for coming.' 'I am glad you could take the time for me.' He nodded to Owen as he went out through the shop. Wulfstan felt Owen's eye on him all the way out the door. That man did not belong as an apprentice in Lucie Wilton's shop. Wulfstan did not like to think of him there, with that predatory eye fixed on her innocent beauty. An apprentice should be a young man. A boy. An innocent.

From the shadow of the neighbouring house's second storey, Digby watched Wulfstan leave the shop. Then he went in.

Owen held up his hand to keep Digby quiet while he listened to Lucie's movements in the kitchen. She was speaking with Tildy, the new serving girl. She would not overhear them. He nodded. 'So what did you learn?'

'I might ask you the same. I just watched him leave the shop’

'He spoke with Lucie about your visit’

'Why did he come here?'

'You tell me’ Owen fixed his eye on Digby until the man flushed.

'He seemed disturbed,' Digby said, 'very disturbed by my questions about Montaigne's grave. But he knew nothing about who Montaigne was. And according to him, the man had no visitors’

'So we still don't know what makes the good Infirmarian so nervous. Did you believe him?'

'Aye. He's an innocent, for all his age. Takes his vows seriously.'

'Montaigne's grave is at the abbey?'

Digby gave him a worried look. 'I won't disturb a consecrated grave.'

'I would not ask that of you. Thank you, Digby. You're a good man.'

When Digby left, Owen paced the shop. He would have no way of discovering our secret. Holy Mother in Heaven. And yet it seemed she did not know the pilgrim's identity. Could it be a code between them? In case they were overheard? Or might they have some other secret? Sweet Jesus, let her be innocent.

But she had a secret. One shared with Wulfstan. One that Wulfstan feared the Summoner might discover. And it had something to do with Montaigne's death. That did not sound innocent.