The Apothecary Rose

One

Master Roglio took great pains folding his astrological charts and tucking away the tools e had used to examine the eye. Owen noted a tremor in the physician's hands, the tensed shoulders of a man holding his breath, eyes that would not meet his. Master Roglio stank of fear. Owen glanced at the Duke of Lancaster, who glowered in the corner. An old man, but Lancaster's power was 'second only to King Edward's. Displeasing him was a dangerous business.

It would be Christian to wait with his question, but Owen had waited three months for this moment, and he could wait no longer. The flesh heals, but the eye remains dark. You see no change, eh, Physician?'

Roglio's eyes slid to the old Duke, who sat forward, interested. Roglio raised both shoulders in an eloquent shrug. 'God may yet work a miracle.'

'But you cannot,' the old Duke said with a snarl.

Roglio met the Duke's steely gaze. 'No, my lord.' He managed not to flinch.

The flesh healed, but the eye remained dark. One eye.

God had created man with two for a purpose, no doubt. And blinded Owen in one. A purpose to that as well, no doubt.

Owen had made good use of two. Lancaster's prize archer, he had trained the others, drilled them, risen to captain. An achievement for a Welshman. No animal escaped his arrows. Nor man. He'd taken care to kill only for food or in obedience to his liege lord. And all for the honour and glory of God.

Christian charity had robbed him of all that. A jongleur and his leman. Bretons. More independent than the Welsh, Owen had thought. They had no reason to spy for the French. The leman helped her shy;self, flirting with the men. The soldiers would make good use of her. But the jongleur was doomed. The men did not find him entertaining. Only Owen understood the Breton songs, and only with effort. The language was a bastard mix of Cornish and French. The men grew restive. Killing the jongleur, now that would be better sport. Owen argued to release him. And won.

Two nights later, the jongleur slipped into camp and slit the throats of the best prisoners, those who would cost the French nobility most in ransoms. Owen caught him. Ungrateful bastard. You were shown mercy. The leman crept up from behind. Owen spun round. A thrust meant for his neck opened the left eye instead. Roaring, he plunged the sword into her gut, retrieved it, and, turning round, did not see the jongleur on his left until he'd sliced into Owen's shoulder. Calling on the bowman's muscles that gave him enough strength to wield a broadsword with one hand, Owen sliced through the jongleur's shoulder and down beneath the neck. Once the Bretons lay in pools of their own blood, Owen slipped to the ground in a hellfire of pain. His last soldierly deed.

Now what?

Everything must be learned over again. He'd not bothered till now, thinking the half-blind state tempo shy;rary. A passing discomfort, like all his wounds. When an unseen obstacle tripped him up, he shrugged it off, a small penance for his many sins, a lesson in humility. Not an easy lesson. Familiar objects looked foreign. The world appeared lopsided. When he blinked, it winked out.

Owen learned the value of two eyes. With two, a mote in one had not blinded him. It was a mere discomfort. Now it rendered him as helpless as a babe in arms.

Complete darkness. He knew it possible. Death, too, was possible.

It changed everything.

The old Duke argued that Owen's loss of sight did not render him useless — an archer aimed with one eye shut. And the strength would return to his shoulder with work. But Owen saw his blinding as the result of his own faulty judgement and the shoulder wound as the inevitable result of his blinding. A one-eyed man was vulnerable. He would endanger those with whom he fought.

Lancaster let him be for a time, then surprised him. 'You are a natural mimic, Owen Archer. In my service you have mannered yourself a knight. Your accent is rough, but the marcher lords carry the accents of their borders. And better than a lordling, you are a free man. No one owns you, you have no family honour to defend, you do not seek power through secret alli shy;ances. I can trust you. With a little education I might use you well as my eyes and my ears. What say you?'

Owen turned his head like a bird to study his lord with his good eye. Lancaster possessed a strange humour and was adept at maintaining a level voice, devoid of emotion. But at this moment the old Duke's gaze was level, lacking amusement.

'I would be your spy?'

The old Duke grinned. 'Yet another virtue. A blunt thrust to the heart of things.'

'A spy with one eye would seem almost as useless as a one-eyed archer, my lord.' Best that he say it. Someone would.

'Not to mention how conspicuous you are with your leather patch and angry scar.' The old Duke chuckled, enjoying the moment. 'Your unlikeliness becomes a disguise’

'An interesting line of reasoning’ Owen said.

The old Duke threw back his head and roared with laughter. 'Spoken with a lordling's delicacy. Excellent’ A sudden sobering. Lancaster leaned for shy;ward. 'My son-in-law called me a master tactician. And that I am, Owen Archer. Power is not held by attending the King and fighting battles. I need trustworthy spies. You were of great value as Captain of Archers. You can be of greater value as my eyes and ears. But you must know the players and the plots. You must read well both men and their letters. Will you apply yourself to the learning of this?'

A spy worked alone. Owen's incompleteness would endanger no one but himself. It appealed to him. 'Aye, my lord. Gladly’

God was merciful in His designs. Owen spent the night in chapel giving thanks. He might yet prove useful.

Two years later Owen stood in the back of Westminster Abbey church, part of the old Duke's funeral retinue.

God had lifted him up to strike him down once more. He could not expect that the old Duke had arranged for his future. If the dukedom had passed on to Lancaster's own son, perhaps that might have been. But the old Duke had only daughters. The new Duke of Lancaster, John of Gaunt, was a son-in-law, husband to the old Duke's daughter Blanche, and he was the son of King Edward, which made him a powerful lord in his own right. He could hardly be expected to employ a one-eyed Welsh spy. Owen had thought much on his future the last few days. He had some money earned in the Duke's service. His best plan so far was to arrange passage to the continent and on to Italy. Many princes, much intrigue. Someone would find him useful.

He worked on his aim until his good eye blurred with fatigue and his arms and shoulders twitched. Still a sure shot, almost as strong as before. But vulnerable on the left. He worked on spinning from a crouch, and strengthened his neck so he could turn sharp.

And then John Thoresby, Lord Chancellor of England and Archbishop of York, sent to Kenilworth for him, Thoresby was in London seeing to the King's business. Owen was to join him there.

Owen accepted the proffered cup and tasted the wine. He had not tasted better, even at the old Duke's table. The Lord Chancellor and Archbishop of York treated him nobly. Owen could not think what he might want.

John Thoresby leaned back in his chair. He sipped his wine with quiet pleasure. A fire crackled beside them in the hearth that warmed the private anteroom. Tapestries caught the firelight and lent the warmth of their vivid colours to the room.

With his one eye, Owen could not look at the tapestries without being obvious. It required turning the head this way and that, especially for those on the left. There was only one solution. Be obvious. Praise the man by praising his possessions. He turned his head, letting his one eye span the room. A boar hunt began to the left of the door and continued around the room, finishing with a feast in the great hall, where the beast's head was presented to the victor. The separate tapestries formed a complete set, designed for this room, for the fit was perfect. 'The tapestries are exquisite. Norman work, I think. The close weave, the deep green. Norman for certain’

John Thoresby smiled. 'Not all your time in Nor shy;mandy was spent on the battlefield, I see’

'Nor yours in negotiations’ Owen grinned. He must not seem cowed by the honour of sharing wine in the Lord Chancellor's chambers.

'You are a bold Welshman, Owen Archer. And adaptable. When the old Duke asked that I take you into my service, I thought his mind muddled with pain. He did not die with ease, as you may know’

Owen nodded. Lancaster had died in agony. Master Roglio said the old Duke's own flesh devoured itself from within so that he could at the end consume nothing but water, which exited his body as a bloody flux. Owen was moved that in the midst of his agony his lord had remembered him.

'He trained you to listen, observe, and retain’ Thoresby watched Owen over the rim of his cup. 'Is that correct?'

'Yes, my lord’

'So much trust might have overwhelmed an ordinary archer’ Thoresby kept his eyes steady on Owen.

The Archbishop was easy in himself. Honesty would be Owen's best ploy. 'I lost the sight in one eye, which I thought was death to me. My lord's trust lifted me up from despair. He gave me purpose when I thought I had none. I owed him my life’

'Owed him’ Thoresby nodded. 'And you owe me nothing. I merely consider honouring an old comrade's request’

'You might have ignored it, and only God would be the wiser’

Thoresby cocked an eyebrow. A grin danced on his lips. 'The Archbishop of York would deceive a man on his deathbed?'

'If he judged that it were better for the soul in his care’

Thoresby put down his cup and leaned forward, hands on knees. The Archbishop's ring shone on his finger. The chain of Chancellor glittered in the firelight. 'You make me smile, Owen Archer. You make me think I can trust you’

'As Archbishop or Lord Chancellor?'

'Both. The matter concerns York. And two knights of the realm, dead before their times, in St. Mary's Abbey. Do you know the abbey?'

Owen shook his head.

'Good. I want someone who can be objective. Make inquiries, note the facts, report them to me’ The Archbishop poured himself more wine and gestured for Owen to do the same. 'We serve ourselves. I wished to have no ears but ours this evening’

Owen poured himself more wine and sat back to hear the story.

'I must tell you that the new Duke of Lancaster is interested in you. You might do well with Gaunt. It would be a secure future — more so than with me. Mine are elected positions; he is the son of the King, and Duke of Lancaster for life. I tell you this because you might have cause to speak with him. The second knight in this matter was one of Gaunt's men’

Owen considered this wrinkle. Gaunt was dangerous, noted for his treachery. Owen could well imagine the sort of work Gaunt would give him. To serve him would be an honour, but it would not be honourable. Not to Owen. Surely God had not raised him up from the ashes for such work.

'I am flattered that two such powerful men offer me employment, and I thank you for giving me the opportunity to choose. But I prefer to serve the Arch shy;bishop and Lord Chancellor. I am better suited to your service.'

Thoresby cocked his head to one side. 'Not ambi shy;tious, I see. You are a freak in the circles in which you dance at present. Beware.' His look was serious, almost concerned.

A shower of pain rushed across Owen's blind eye, hundreds of needle pricks, hot and sharp. He'd taken to accepting these attacks as warnings, someone walking on his grave. 'I am a cautious man who knows his place, my lord.'

'I think you are, Owen Archer. Indeed.' Thoresby rose, poked the fire for a moment, returned to his seat.

Owen put down the wine. He wanted a clear head.

Thoresby, too, set aside his cup. 'The puzzle begins thus. Sir Geoffrey Montaigne, late of the Black Prince's retinue, makes a pilgrimage to York to atone for some past sin. We do not know what sin, for while in the service of the Prince, Montaigne's behaviour was beyond reproach. Something in his past, perhaps. Before joining the Prince's army he fought under Sir Robert D'Arby of Freythorpe Hadden, a short ride from York. Montaigne's choice of St. Mary's at York for his pilgrimage suggests that his sin was linked to his time in D'Arby's service. So. He arrives in York shortly before Christmas and within a few weeks falls ill of camp fever — the ride north jarred open an old wound, which weakened him, causing a recurrence of the fever he'd suffered in France — all this according to the abbey Infirmarian, Broth shy;er Wulfstan — and within three days Montaigne is dead.'

Thoresby paused.

Owen saw nothing odd in the story. 'Camp fever is often fatal.'

'Indeed. I understand that after you were wounded you assisted the camp doctor. You treated many cases of fever?'

'Many cases.'

'Master Worthington praised your compassion.'

'I'd had the fever myself but a year before. I knew what they suffered.'

The Archbishop nodded. 'Montaigne's death would have gone unremarked but for another death at the abbey within a month. Sir Oswald Fitzwilliam of Lincoln, a familiar face at the abbey, making retreats for sins that were only too easily guessed at by all who knew him. Shortly after Twelfthnight he falls ill with a winter fever. It worsens. He sweats profusely, com shy;plains of pain in his limbs, has fainting spells, fever visions, and within a few days he is dead. A similar death to Montaigne's.'

'A similar death? But it does not sound like camp fever.'

'Towards the end, Montaigne was much the same.'

'The Infirmarian poisoned these men?'

'I think not. Too obvious.' Thoresby took up his cup and drank.

'Forgive me, Your Grace, but how do you come into this?'

The Archbishop sighed. 'Fitzwilliam was my ward until he came of age. An embarrassing failure for me. He grew to he a greedy, sly creature. I used all the weight of my offices to get him into Gaunt's service. I did not make friends in doing so. I assume my ward was poisoned. And though I do not pretend to mourn him, I should know his murderer.'

'And Montaigne?'

'Ah. As far as I can determine, a God-fearing man with no enemies. Perhaps his death is unrelated.' The Archbishop leaned back and closed his eyes. 'But I think not. The deaths were too similar.' He looked up at Owen. 'Poisoned by mistake?' He shrugged. 'Or was he merely better at burying his business than Fitzwilliam?' He smiled. 'And here's an interesting item. Montaigne did not give his name at St. Mary's. He called himself a pilgrim. Humble and plain. Or sly?'

An interesting puzzle. Owen liked the prospect. 'What inquiries have you made so far?'

'A few questions, enough to discover that Abbot Campian thinks they both died of natural causes. Hopes they did, is more like it. He fears we'll wrong shy;ly accuse his Infirmarian, Brother Wulfstan. And the Archdeacon of York assures me that if there had been a hint of trouble his Summoner would know of it. I hand it to you, Owen Archer. Disregard them. Begin at the beginning’

'In what guise shall I present myself in York?'

'I think that something as close to the truth as possible will suit the situation. Present yourself as a soldier who has lost his taste for killing and wishes to begin afresh. You are looking for honest work in the city, with a small behest from your late lord to support you in the meantime. My secretary, Jehannes, will doubtless come up with something before you arrive in York. You will of course have all the funds you need. You will go to Jehannes when you arrive, and whenever you have need of anything. The Archdeacon of York would normally arrange all this, but I would rather he not know about your purpose.'

'You suspect him?'

Thoresby smiled. 'I suspect everyone at this point.'

'Everyone but Jehannes

Thoresby nodded.

'And after I complete this task, what then?'

'We will see.'

Owen left with mixed feelings. No need to take ship to Italy. He had an interesting puzzle to solve. But it was a mental challenge, not at all a physical one. Fishing for clues, catching people in lies. Not his best talents. It bothered him a little. What bothered him more was presenting himself as one who had lost his taste for killing. Did the Archbishop think that true? It was not. Given a just cause, he would kill again. He had not lost his nerve. Did the Archbishop think him a coward? His face grew hot.

But no. The Archbishop would not hire a coward. He must push that thought from his mind. Doubts would keep him from doing his best. And he must succeed. Success would secure his future in England. God still watched over him.