The Apothecary Rose

Fourteen

The in-between time as the earth warmed gradually to spring always brought on much illness. The shop was busy, and Lucie was glad of Owen's help. She could leave him while she sat for a while with Nicholas, knowing that Owen would come for her if he was uncertain how to proceed.

This morning she had used this new freedom to creep up the stairs after the Archdeacon and eavesdrop on his conversation with Nicholas. It was a sneaky, distasteful thing to do, but she must somehow discover what was between them. Why the Archdeacon visited. Nicholas did not wish to speak of it, and she was afraid that if she pried too much, he would grow secretive.

She did not hear the beginning. And what she heard did not clarify much. But it did frighten her.

'-but what has he to do with it?' Nicholas asked in a querulous voice. 'You said no one knew. You promised me.'

'He is a slippery creature, Nicholas’

'He must not — '

'Shush, Nicholas, shush’ A quiet moment. Lucie held her breath, fearful of being discovered in the sudden silence. Her head was against the door, her wimple pushed aside so she might hear. 'You have nothing to fear,' Anselm finally said. 'He will learn nothing, tell no one. I promise you.'

'How? You say he is slippery.' Lucie did not like the pitch of Nicholas's voice. He had improved a little. This would set him back. She yearned to interrupt them, but she could not.

'I have' — the Archdeacon paused — 'set him on a new path. Something that will consume his time.'

A long silence.

'I cannot live with this,' Nicholas suddenly cried.

'You would have done better to come to me.' The Archdeacon's voice was cold. 'But it is done.' His voice softened. 'Rest now, Nicholas. I will leave you. I must not weary you.'

With that, Lucie turned to go. She took one step down and saw, there in the gloom at the bottom of the stairs, Owen, silently watching her. Dear God. Behind her, footsteps approached the door. Her heart raced. She feared Anselm far more than she feared Owen Archer. She stepped down, in her panic forgetting to lift her skirts, and tripped on her hem. She felt herself begin to fall. Foolish. Stupid. Strong arms caught her. Owen scooped her up and carried her down to the kitchen. Tildy was scrubbing the table. Her eyes opened wide at the sight of her mistress in the arms of the apprentice. Owen set Lucie down quickly.

'Mistress Wilton tripped on the ladder in the shop, Tildy. Make sure she sits still for a while, and get her something to drink’

'Oh dear. Oh yes. Sir. Ma'am.' She led Lucie over to the bench by the fire, and helped her readjust her wimple.

Owen returned to the shop. The Archdeacon stood in the doorway, dabbing his face. When he became aware of Owen's presence, he nodded and departed.

Lucie welcomed the shawl that Tildy draped over her shoulders, and the warmed ale. Her hands shook as she lifted the cup to her lips. Tildy exclaimed over the torn hern and sat down right there to mend it. While Tildy worked, Lucie tried to forget the feeling of Owen's arms catching her, picking her up. The smell of him. The warmth.

Why had he been standing there? How long had he been there? Those were the important facts to find out. Not how it felt to be in his arms.

And then the conversation between the Archdeacon and Nicholas. Who was slippery? What could Nicholas not live with? Her spying had gained her nothing but a fright and an embarrassing tumble into Owen's arms.

'There’ Tildy said, rising and nodding at the patched hem. ' 'Tisn't pretty, but it won't trip you again.' She blushed at Lucie's thanks and shuffled back to her scrubbing.

Lucie took a deep breath and went into the shop. Owen was with a customer, so she waited, fussing with jars and spoons, trying not to look at him. When at last they were alone she asked, 'Had you come looking for me? Was there a problem?'

'Aye. A question about Alice de Wythe's unguent.'

'I heard Nicholas raise his voice. I did not want the Archdeacon upsetting him.'

'I'm sorry I frightened you.'

'I owe you thanks for breaking my fall. My hem — Her face grew hot under his regard. The one eye seemed to see right through her. 'What was the question?'

He started, then grinned. 'A safer subject, to be sure.' She wanted to slap him for his insolence, but he wiped the grin off his face and got down to business without another comment.

Not that the incident was forgotten. Throughout the day she caught him watching her with an intensity that made her uneasy. Not the shy, cautious watching that meant attraction, but a wary watchfulness. He was not fooled by her explanation of why she'd been standing there, her head against the door. Or perhaps her own fear coloured her judgement. But he was wondering. Oh yes, he must be wondering why she would eavesdrop on her husband and a visitor. She must be more careful.

And yet it was not just she that seemed to distract Owen that day. When he took his eyes off her movements it was to watch the shop door, as if he expected a visitor.

At last she asked, 'Did someone promise to come today? You watch the door as if your anxious eye might make the person appear.'

'I — no, I expect no one.'

Owen paced his room that evening, trying to forget the feel of Lucie in his arms, her heart beating against his chest, her arms around his neck. All evening down in the tavern he'd caught himself thinking about her. The scent of her hair, her slenderness. More to the point, he should be thinking of a way to find out what she had been doing there, obviously listening in on her husband's conversation with the Archdeacon. Did she suspect something? Or was she worried that they knew something?

Today had been hell on earth, trying not to think of her and waiting for permission to question Wulfstan. Owen was worried about the monk. He should have told the Abbot that he was concerned. Perhaps that would have gained him an audience.

And this evening Owen had waited for Digby down in the tavern, but the man had not appeared. It was irksome, his not coming. Owen needed to tell him that Brother Wulfstan had told the Archdeacon of his visit. And he needed to make sure he knew all that Digby and Wulfstan had said before he spoke with the Infirmarian.

He tried to stop pacing, but it was agony to sit still. It was not an unreasonable hour. Digby might yet appear. Perhaps Owen had given up too soon. But he'd found the wait tedious. Bess was too busy to talk with him, and Tom was not a conversationalist.

Besides, all the sitting had made Owen restless. He felt a dull ache in his lower back from sitting too long on hard wood benches. Even a saddle was better for the muscles. He would take a walk in the direction of Digby's rooms, now there was an idea. If the house was dark, he would walk on by. But if not, he would see if the Summoner might talk with him. Then he would rest easier.

The snow on the streets had refrozen in icy ridges. Fresh snow fell, stinging his face and blinding him as the flakes thawed on his warm eyelashes and dripped into his eye. Owen cursed, blinking away the moisture. He knew he would have the same problem if he had both eyes. He knew what bothered him was the lack of a second line of defence to put to work when one eye failed. He might stumble in that moment of blindness and crash down upon the frozen ground. It did not help to know what bothered him. Pah. He'd become an old man, plagued by fears.

Few people were about. Perhaps the hour was less reasonable than he'd thought. He doubted he'd find Digby's landlady still up. Well, he'd needed the walk.

He came upon the house, which was well lit on the lower floor. The front door gaped wide. A small cluster of folk stood across the street, watching the house. Some raggedy children lurked by the door.

The light from the house glinted in the eyes of the watchers as they considered him and then stepped farther back into the shadows. The children moved away from the door as he knocked.

'She won't hear you’ observed a boy, his feet wrapped in rags, matted hair dusted with snow. 'She's crying over the body.'

'Whose body?' asked Owen.

The children ran away.

Owen entered the small shop where Widow Cartwright did fancy sewing. Two men stood in the doorway to the back room. Beyond them, a woman wailed in the rhythmic chant of a mourner.

As Owen entered the room, the men hushed and stood back from the doorway.

The black-clad mourner was visible through the doorway now, bent double, hands to head. Owen moved towards her. A body lay on a trestle table, pallid and swollen. Digby. The stench of death already overwhelmed the man's characteristic fishy odour. Someone had placed coins on his eyes.

In a corner sat Widow Cartwright, weeping noisily. The mourner was Magda Digby. Owen spoke her name. She did not hear. He touched her shoulder. Her wailing chant faded. Slowly, as one rousing herself from sleep, she unfolded herself and turned eyes on him so red and swollen that he doubted she could see. But he was wrong.

'Bird-eye. Look at my son. River took him. The river.' She squinted at Owen as if she expected him to explain. Her eyes moved over his face, then came to rest on the hand that lay on her shoulder. She put her rough hand over it. 'Thou art good to come.'

'I mourn with you, Goodwife Digby. He was a friend.'

'Magda will remember thy kindness.'

'Why did they bring him here?'

Totter wanted Christian burial, not his mother's way. So Magda brought him here. Anselm will bury Potter as he wished. Tis his duty. But he would not from the Riverwoman's house. Nay. Such as Anselm think 'tis cursed. He could not come. So Magda came here. She does her part. No one will deny a mother's sorrow.'

She nodded, then folded herself up once more and resumed her wailing.

Owen backed out of the room. The two men watched him.

'How did he die? Did he drown?'

One of the men pulled himself up, thrust out his chest. 'And who be you to ask?' he demanded.

'I was a friend.'

The other sniffed. 'Friend of Summoner?' He spat in the corner. 'And I be King of France.'

'Who is in charge here?'

'Archdeacon Anselm’ said the first one. 'We're waitin' for him.'

The other stepped closer, peering up into Owen's face. 'You're Wilton's apprentice. They do say you sat with Summoner in tavern — ' His eyes stopped on something in the front doorway, behind Owen.

'What are you doing here?'

Owen recognised the cold voice of the Archdeacon. He faced him. Anselm was not someone to have at his back. 'Where did this happen? When?'

'He was fished out of the river this evening.' Anselm's voice was calm for someone who had come to visit the dead.

'But he was accustomed to the river.'

'Accustomed, yes. Overconfident, perhaps. What do you think, Owen Archer? And how do you happen to be here?'

'He says he was Summoner's friend,' said the man who had spat in the corner.

'Indeed?' The Archdeacon's voice softened, grew oily. 'An odd choice of a friend. Guaranteed to make a stranger suspect.'

'I did not know any better. Rome is but a quiet presence in my country. We have no Summoners’ There seemed no reason to linger.

'I will leave you to your business.' He took a step towards the door.

The Archdeacon stepped aside.

Owen's legs felt heavy, tired. Something should be said. Some kind words about Digby, who had befriended him. Odious the man might have been, but he had believed he served God in his weasel-like way. Owen paused next to Anselm. 'I would like to be one of the pall bearers.'

The Archdeacon's nostrils flared, an eyebrow lifted. 'We will bury him without ceremony. He was of humble origins’

'When will you bury him?'

'Tomorrow morning.'

'Where?'

'At Holy Trinity off Goodramgate.'

Owen left, resolved to rise early and attend the funeral.

Back up in his room at the inn, Owen shed his boots and leaned back on the bed. Pain pulsed through his head in giddying waves. He rubbed his temples, hard, harder, too hard. He put his head in his hands. When he closed his eye he saw Digby lying on the table. Heavy with river water. A fleshy sack of river water. The coins glittering on his eyes.

Owen felt responsible. Digby had thought he was doing the work of the Lord. As Owen had thought of his own mission for the Archbishop. They were not so different. He had sent Digby to sleuth for him, and Digby was dead. A coincidence? Or did Owen's new occupation make him obsessive about plots and motives? He was too tired to know.

But just how reliable had Digby been? He'd guessed wrong about Montaigne being in league with Fitzwilliam; the Archbishop would have mentioned a connection between them. And could Owen credit Digby's suggestion about the relationship between Wilton and the Archdeacon — that Wilton was Anselm's weakness? To a soldier the implication was clear. But an Archdeacon? What about Montaigne and Lady D'Arby? Was it likely that was true?

Sharp pains coursed across Owen's blind eye, making his head ache. Perhaps that was why his thoughts were such a muddle. He needed sleep. A good rest often calmed the eye. He still had some brandywine from Thoresby's London cellars. But he was tired of drinking from flasks. Tired of living like a soldier on campaign, travelling light, ready to move. He was no longer a soldier. He wanted a cup for his brandywine. He went downstairs in search of one, taking the flask with him.

A light drew him into the kitchen. Bess Merchet sat at a small table near the hearth. On the table were a jug, a cup, and a small lamp. One hand on the cup, Bess stared at the embers in the hearth.

Owen paused in the doorway. A line between Bess's brows suggested that she, too, found her thoughts holding off sleep. She lifted the cup to her lips, sipped, put it down, then cocked her head, as if just now she'd heard him. She turned, nodded to him. 'Obliging of you to appear just now, Owen Archer.'

He thought it an odd greeting. 'I came for a cup.' He held out the flask. 'The last of the Lord Chancellor's fine brandywine. I thought it would help me sleep.'

Bess grinned and held up the jug before her. 'I wonder if it's as good as the Archbishop's.' She nodded to the bench across from her. 'Get a cup from the board to your right.'

After they'd established that Thoresby kept a slightly better cellar as Archbishop than as Lord Chancellor, and sat back, warm and companionable, Owen asked, 'You were thinking about me?'

Bess frowned, sipped from her cup. 'I was over at the Wiltons' this evening, after hours. I'm worried about Lucie. Got home, couldn't sleep for worryin' about her. Came down to think. I do my best thinking over a jug of brandywine. I must decide what to do, you see, for I cannot rest easy in my bed until I know you mean her no harm.'

'Lucie Wilton?'

'Aye.'

'You would warn her against me?'

'She's accepted you, I know. What's done is done. But I want answers, Owen Archer. You arrived well informed. What are you up to?'

'I have told you’

'How'd you come to know about Lucie needing help?'

'Jehannes told me — the Archbishop's secretary. There is nothing mysterious or underhanded in that. When I arrived, he said the Archbishop had written a letter of introduction to Camden Thorpe — my late master had asked the Archbishop to assist me in finding a post.'

'You're sniffing about, that's what I say. Asking questions. Something to do with the minster.'

Owen grinned. 'You followed me.'

'No, I never. But the Archdeacon sends for you. The Archbishop provides for you. I'm not simple.'

'I had a small behest from my late lord. Administered by the Archbishop. I visited the Archbishop's secretary first thing to arrange for the payment. Anselm did not like that.'

Bess sniffed. 'True, no doubt. But not the whole truth. Not by half.'

She was a formidable opponent. With bow and arrow Owen might better her, even with one eye. But he could not best her with words. Bess would sniff and scratch around every word, gesture, deed. He had to watch himself.

'I cannot think how to assure you that I mean your friend no harm.'

'You can't.' She leaned forward. 'But be warned, Owen Archer. Your charm does not blind Bess Merchet. You bring the Wiltons trouble, and I throw you out. And worse.' She sat back, smiling grimly, satisfied that she had made her threat.

Owen believed her. And it was quite possible that she would have the opportunity to carry out her threat. The Wiltons looked terribly guilty.

Unless Digby's death had been no accident. Poisoning was one thing, but he could not imagine either Wilton throwing Digby in the river.

'You are close to Lucie Wilton.'

'Poor chit. She's not had an easy time of it, daughter of a knight though she may be. My own Mary had more love and security. When her father died, I made sure my next husband was the sort who would love her as his own.'

Tom's a good man.'

'Not Tom. Peter. Tom's my third.' Owen could not help but grin. He could well believe she would outlive a pair of husbands. She would probably outlive Tom, too. Bess sipped her brandywine. 'I've tried to be a mother and friend to Lucie.' She sighed into her cup, then looked up at Owen. 'But what keeps you awake? You went up early tonight.'

'And went out. Walking. I'm accustomed to a more active life.'

Bess sniffed. 'You seem plenty active to me. I've seen you at the woodpile.'

'I happened to pass the house where Digby boards. Something was up. Too well lit, folk crowded around.'

Bess sat up. Trouble at Widow Cartwright's? I warned her not to board that man. He's a slimy creature. No good will come of him.'

'Certainly that possibility is past. He's dead. Drowned. They dragged him out of the river tonight.'

Bess crossed herself. 'Why didn't you tell me that straightway? You let me say an unkindness about the dead.' She shivered and crossed herself again. 'You might have saved me that.'

'Forgive me.'

Bess took a drink. Sighed. Gave Owen a good, long look. 'Are you bothered by his death?'

'I am.'

That's why you needed the brandywine?'

'Aye.'

She shook her head. ‘Troubled by the Summoner's death. Odd for a soldier’

'Aye. You would think a soldier saw too much death to let it trouble him. But Digby meant to be a good man. He believed he was doing God's work. And I-'

Bess suddenly sat forward, alert, sniffing the air.

'Fire!' someone yelled.

Bess jumped up, knocking over her cup. 'That's Tom.'

Owen followed her through the dark tavern. He could smell the smoke.

Tom met them coming down, reeled back, shocked.

'What is it, Tom? Where?'

He nodded to Owen. 'His room. Blessed Mary full of grace, I thought you were a dead man, Master Archer.'

Owen hurried up. Smoke billowed out of the room. Owen's pallet smouldered. Flames licked at the wall beside it. Owen managed to get the pallet to the window and toss it out. Better char something out there than inside, where people slept. He tossed the greasy torch that had started the blaze out after it. He'd look at it in the morning light.

Tom huffed in with a bucket of water. Bess rushed in with blankets.

In a moment the fire was out.

'I was afraid you were trouble’ Bess muttered.

Tom scratched his bristly cheek as he stared at the damage.

Bess sighed. 'It will take a day to tidy this up and air it out. Owen can sleep in one of the other rooms tonight.'

'I doubt I'll get much sleep.'

Tom nodded. 'Doubt you will.'

Bess turned, fixed her eyes on Owen. 'Do you know who did this?'

He shook his head. 'Who knew which room was mine?'

'Aye, that's the question.' Tom scratched his head. 'Me and wife. Kit. Stable boy, he has his nose in everything’ He shrugged. 'Some guests, mayhap. Hard to say. Folk have eyes.'

By now the other guests had crowded about on the landing below, demanding news.

'Best to keep this quiet’ Owen said. 'Say I tripped with a candle. Likely enough with one eye’

Tom frowned, glanced over at Bess.

'Go tell them, Tom. Just as he said’

Tom thought about it, nodded, and went down to tell the tale.

Owen gathered his things, which had been on the opposite end of the small room.

Back in the doorway he looked down at the soggy, blackened floorboards, the scorched wall, 'It did not burn long’

Bess was quiet. Owen turned so he could see her with his good eye. Arms folded across her chest, she glared at him. 'I've a mind to send you packing, but it would look bad for business. I think you'd agree you owe it to us to tell the truth. What you're doing here. What you're after’

Smoke lingered in the room. Owen's eye burned. That made him uncomfortable. 'In your room. Can we talk in there?'

Bess led the way. Tom, who'd calmed the other guests, was close behind.

It was a large, airy room, with a feather bed at one end, a table piled with record books at the other. Owen dropped his things inside the door and crossed over to the table. Tom and Bess joined him. He studied their faces. Honest, both of them. And decent to let him stay. He did not for a moment believe that it was just for business. He decided to tell them the truth.

Bess grunted with satisfaction when he told her his mission. 'I knew it. Didn't I say he was more than he seemed, Tom?'

'Oh, aye.' Tom blinked, fighting sleep.

'And now Potter Digby's found belly-up in the Ouse, and someone puts a torch to your bed.' Bess's eyes shone with excitement.

Tom came alert. 'Digby? That fishy scoundrel drowned?'

They found him tonight.'

'He was snooping for you?'

Owen nodded.

Tom shook his head. 'Sounds to me like you've made a mess of it.'

After Tildy had gone to her little closet for the night and Bess had returned to the inn, Lucie sat by Nicholas, listening to his laboured breathing, searching her memory for some concoction she might yet try to soothe him. It was the struggle for breath, she was certain, that weakened him. He got no rest. How could he rest, when every breath was such a struggle? How could he heal if he did not rest? ‘ cannot live with this. Did he know what he had done? Had he deliberately — No. She would not let herself even think that.

Bess thought Nicholas was dying. That was why she had talked so much tonight about Will and Peter, her late husbands. She wanted Lucie to be prepared. To know that life would go on. To begin to look around for Nicholas's replacement. And who better than Owen Archer? Dear Bess. If only life were that simple.

Owen Archer. The enigma. But Lucie admitted he was a hard worker. He never complained. No job was too humble. And he needed instructions only once. He always remembered. And that voice. The way he played the lute. He did not have the soul of a soldier. Perhaps he really had taken the loss of his eye as a sign to turn to a more godly life. He had given her no cause to distrust him. His only fault was the way he made her feel. He could not help that. That was her own sinfulness. It was because Nicholas had been ill so long.

Well. Nicholas was not dying. Lucie would not let him. So she would have to keep fighting her feelings for Owen. But it did not mean she had to be uncivil.

She would try to be more pleasant with him.

Lucie must have drowsed at last when a commotion outside drowned out Nicholas's gasping breaths and roused her. She went to the window. Across the way was a sight terrifying to a city dweller. Fire. Smoke billowed from the upper floor of the inn. Sweet Jesus. Bess and Tom — did they know? Were they awake? Something large plummeted from the window and landed with a thud in the snow below. It seemed to be smouldering. A torch followed, hitting the snow with a smoky hiss. Then faces appeared in the window. A boy ran out into the yard. Lucie hurried outside, her heart pounding.

She called to the boy.

'What is on fire?'

'The top room. Captain Archer's.' The boy nodded toward the smouldering heap on the ground behind him. ' 'Tis his pallet.'

Lucie clutched the fence. No. Not Owen. Please God. 'And Master Archer?' Her throat was so tight the boy could not hear her. She asked again.

'He weren't in his room. Lucky, eh?'

'Was anyone hurt?'

'No one's I could see.'

Lucie thanked him and walked away while she still could. Her legs were feeling untrustworthy.

Back in the house she sat down in the kitchen, not wanting to return to Nicholas just yet.

Her reaction to the news that it was Owen's room on fire shocked her. Sweet Mary, it was as if — No. Not as if. She would not lie to herself. She was in love with Owen. She had thought herself so strong. Strong indeed. Falling in love with a one-eyed soldier. A handsome scoundrel had been Bess's first impression of him. A favourite with the ladies. Lucie could not believe it. A soldier. Trained to kill. And he had trained others to kill. Soldiers belonged to a brotherhood of death. It made them unfit for life. Her own father was a cold, unfeeling man. He had pushed her from him the moment her mother's back was turned by death. Only a simple child fell in love with a soldier.

But Owen did not seem like her father. He was more like Geof, her mother's fair-haired knight.

Owen said he had done with soldiering.

A ruse. A posture by which he meant to win her. She must remember he had been a soldier.

But her body remembered how he had caught her. He had perhaps saved her life.

Because he had been watching in the dark at the foot of the stairs. What of that? What was his purpose? His purpose still might be to wrest the apothecary from her when Nicholas was gone. All he needed was to reveal a scandal. And it was there for him to find. The ordinance said nothing about a second chance. Said nothing for exceptions due to illness. He could ruin them with such a small piece of information.

She had lost her wits, to think such things of him and love him at the same time.

Lucie lay her head down on her arms and tried to calm herself, tried to tell herself that he was only an apprentice, that she had worried for him as she would for anyone with whom she spent so much time, that she could not possibly love him, that she must not love him. Her life was in turmoil enough without that.

Anselm lay prostrate before the altar, trembling with fear. If he were to die at this moment, he would burn forever in the fires of Hell. He had murdered twice now. He, who had rejected the life of the sword, had taken two lives in as many nights. He felt calm about the second, the burning of the one-eyed devil. He was quite sure that in sending Owen Archer to the fires of Hell he was carrying out God's will. And though Archer was Thoresby's man, Anselm was not afraid. The Archbishop would have no reason to connect Anselm with Archer's death.

All in all, Anselm was content with his dispatching of Archer. But Digby's death was different.

'Sweet Saviour,' Anselm whispered, 'I am your-' he hesitated, uncertain how to proceed. He could not think how to pray, what to pray for. He had killed Potter Digby. No amount of prayer, no matter how heartfelt, would change that. Anselm had murdered his Summoner, the man who had worked hard for him, brought him far in his goal to complete the Hatfield chapel, never cheated him. Anselm had murdered Digby because of a rumour. Because he had suspected Digby of changing his allegiance. Because he had feared the man would accuse Nicholas Wilton in public, so that Anselm could not ignore it, would be forced to condemn his friend, his dearest friend.

But killing Digby was a mistake. Anselm had known that even as he walked from the river. Digby had not betrayed him. He had told Anselm of his suspicion. He had presented the facts to Anselm and would have accepted Anselm's decision. As always. So why had Anselm murdered him? What devil had taken hold of him and twisted his reasoning, pushed him to such an act? 'Sweet Saviour, forgive me. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.'

Perhaps this had been God's will? Perhaps Digby would have told someone else? Would have betrayed Nicholas? And God meant for Anselm to protect Nicholas. It was for that purpose that God had brought Anselm and Nicholas together at the abbey school.

Ever since Anselm had first seen Nicholas, he had understood that his own role was to protect him. Brilliant, humble, beautiful and fragile as an angel. Of course Nicholas was one of God's special sons. Destined to sit beside God through all eternity.

And Anselm had been called to protect him.

Anselm knew all about the need for protection. His father had used the manor as a training camp for young soldiers. Anselm had disappointed his father, he was quiet and studious, slender as a girl, his father said with disgust. Only his mother had fussed over him. His older brother was like his father. His sister was a horsewoman. Anselm was his mother's comfort.

And then she pushed him away to dally with one of the young men. Pushed him out. Fool that he was, he sulked around the stables and came to his father's attention. His father put him in training. Wrestling. Swordplay. Archery. His performance was hopeless. The young men laughed. His father was humiliated. One night, after too much wine, he dragged the boy out of his soft bed and gave him to his men. 'That's what comes of boys who hide behind women's skirts.'

The next morning, in pain and ashamed, Anselm hid. Eventually his mother asked for him. He told the tale, ashamed though he was, for he felt certain she would sympathise, somehow intercede for him. But she waved away his horror. 'It is the way of men, my weakling. I cannot protect you from the world.'

He tried to explain the pain, the horror.

She laughed. 'And do you think it is any different for me, you little fool? Watch next time your father comes to my bed. Watch.'

He did. His father beat her’ and then used her with such fury that she screamed in pain. Afterwards she wept, crumpled in a little ball.

Anselm came to her, tried to comfort her. The stench of his father was strong in the room.

He vowed to kill his father next time he came to her. Anselm watched. But it was the young soldier his mother fancied who came next. And she shamelessly showed herself to him, pulled him to her, urged him on. They were rutting animals.

When the man left, Anselm crept in with her. There was the smell of sex all over her. Anselm pressed his head to her breast. She pushed him away.

'I saw.'

'Little sneak. Get out!'

'You told me to watch.'

'That once. Only then.'

'Let me love you as he did.'

'Dear God!' She sat up, pulling the covers around her. 'Your father is right. You are unnatural.'

He saw loathing in her eyes. She, who had loved him. The only one who had ever loved him. There was some mistake. He reached for her.

She yelled for her maid. The heartless bitch. She coddled and caressed him as long as it amused her, and when she had made him totally dependent on her love, she discarded him. He lunged for her and tried to scratch her eyes out. He was pulled away and sent out to the soldiers. They had their fun with him until he found a protector.

Oh yes, he understood the need for a protector.

And then he'd been packed off to St. Mary's. And his turn had come to protect. And he was good at it. The Lord knew he had done his best. Even his father might be proud. And that bitch. She would have learned to fear him.

But had he gone too far? Could he be wrong about God's purpose? He could no longer remember the sign with which God had shown him his path in life. That frightened him.

Poor Digby. Anselm was sorry for that. He wished he had not had to kill Digby.