The Apothecary Rose

Twenty-one

Anselm's clerk jumped up when the Archdeacon arrived to see to some business before he said Mass. 'His Grace the Archbishop is waiting to see you.'

'His Grace?'

'He said to come at once.'

'At his house or in his chambers?'

'His chambers.'

Anselm hurried away. It was not often these days that he was summoned to the Archbishop. He wondered whether the Archbishop would have learned about the fire. Unlikely. The only witness was dead. And if the Archbishop did learn of it — might he not approve? They were, after all, the shepherds of the flock. And he had eliminated a she-wolf who threatened one of their dearest lambs.

Jehannes showed him into the Archbishop's chamber.

John Thoresby did not rise to greet Anselm, but motioned him to a chair in front of the table where he had been examining documents.

'Your Grace. I am honoured to — '

'I did not call you here to exchange pleasantries. I need you to go on a mission for me.'

So it had nothing to do with the fire. 'Out of the city, Your Grace?'

'To Durham.'

It was an honour to be needed by the Archbishop. But Durham. That was impossible right now. He must be near Nicholas in his time of need. 'Forgive me, Your Grace, A good friend is ill. On his deathbed, I fear. I hate to leave him right now.'

'Nicholas Wilton, is it?'

The guess surprised Anselm. And flattered him. That the Archbishop would bother to learn so much about him. 'He is my oldest friend. And so alone now.'

'I know of your friendship. I understand that this is a difficult time for you to be apart from him. But he is hardly alone. Wilton is in good hands, and I need you in Durham. Sir John Dalwylie is contemplating a gift to the minster fund. A considerable gift. We must pay him respect and encourage him with an account of similar gifts. I entrust you with this mission, Archdeacon. It is an honour. Are you going to make me regret my faith in you?'

'No, Your Grace. It is an honour. I am most grateful. But could it not wait?'

'No, it cannot. I need you to leave today. As soon as you can ready yourself.'

'I say Mass — '

'I have seen to that.'

Anselm bowed. He knew when not to pursue his excuses any further. 'I will not fail you, Your Grace.'

'Good.' Thoresby rose. 'You will instruct your clerk on any business you might expect in the next five or six days. Jehannes will explain the mission and provide you with letters of introduction.'

When Anselm came out of the Archbishop's chamber, the intrusive Owen Archer was conversing with Jehannes. They spoke too softly for Anselm to hear the matter of their speech, and they broke off as soon as they became aware of him.

'Archdeacon’ Jehannes said. 'Please, sit down while I announce Captain Archer to His Grace.' Jehannes slipped into the other room.

Anselm felt the cursed man's eye on him. 'You are out betimes, Archer.'

'I had a sleepless night.'

Anselm noted the man had a most malevolent look in the one eye. Perhaps the Lord had blinded him in the other as punishment for that bold look.

'Trouble sleeping? You have been unwell?'

'No’

Jehannes returned. 'His Grace will see you at once, Captain Archer.'

Thoresby stood as Owen entered the room. 'Jehannes tells me there was a fire.'

'Your Archdeacon was eager to send Mistress Wilton to her final reward, Your Grace. Had I not been at the window, had I not tried the door to the shed, Anselm would have succeeded.'

'You are certain it was he?'

'Mistress Wilton is certain.'

Thoresby nodded, sifted through the papers, chose one, read it over, took a pen, and signed it with a flourish. 'I have just signed his death warrant, Archer. You need not worry about his return.'

'When does he leave?'

'At once.'

'I must get back to the shop, then. To make sure that he does not stop to say his farewells.'

'He will not, Archer’ 'I will make sure of that.'

The moment Lucie entered the room she knew something was not right. Something about her husband's inert body. She opened the shutters to get more light, her fingers clumsy with panic. Saliva dribbled from Nicholas's mouth. His breathing was shallow and uneven.

'Nicholas, can you hear me?'

He did not respond.

She felt his pulse. It was weak and erratic. 'Jesu mercy’ Another attack. She had wanted to give him pain. But not this.

When Bess came over to see how Lucie was recovering from the night's scare, she was puzzled to find her friend sitting at the foot of the bed, staring at Nicholas. 'What is it, Lucie?'

'Nicholas had another attack. He's dying, Bess’ 'Oh’ child’ Bess sat down beside Lucie and smoothed her hair from her face. 'He's been dying all this time, love. It's best you accept that and look to yourself. There's nothing any of us can do to save him’ Lucie's skin was ice cold. 'For heaven's sake, child’ Bess threw a shawl over Lucie's shoulders and led her over to the table.

'I've killed him, Bess’ 'And how did you do that, for pity's sake?' 'I told him it was the Archdeacon who caught me in the shed. I told him what he'd called me, what he'd said. I told him what I told you, my suspicions’ Lucie looked up at Bess, her eyes red from the fire and no sleep. 'I wanted to cause him pain. I brought on the attack’

'Oh yes, of course. And how about the night at the abbey? Did you bring that on, too? Nonsense. The man has something on his conscience, and it's killing him. It's nothing to do with you. How is your hand? Let me see.' Lucie winced as Bess unwrapped it. 'You should know better than to let it dry out like that, Lucie. Why does your training fail you when you are the patient, eh?'

Lucie's thoughts were elsewhere. 'You knew Owen was not who he said he was, didn't you?'

Bess started to deny it, then thought better of it. 'I did not know until the night his room caught fire. Then he owed it to us to tell us why someone was trying to kill him.'

'The fire wasn't an accident?'

'No more than the fire last night, child.'

Bess had never seen Lucie's eyes so dead, her posture so defeated. 'Did you sleep at all?'

Lucie shook her head.

'You and Owen talked?'

'Yes. I suppose you know all of it?'

'I doubt it. But no matter. I would not put you through it again so soon just to enlighten me’

Downstairs, the shop bell rang.

'I must go down’ Lucie said with weary resignation.

Bess hugged her. 'I'll sit with Nicholas — though much good it will do.'

Dame Phillippa arrived at midday. She was not the bent, white-haired old woman Owen had expected. Dame Phillippa was tall and straight-backed and walked with a healthy stride. Her eyes were deep-set and knowing. Her wimple was snow white and her simple dress and veil spotless. She gave Owen a firm handshake, looked around the kitchen, and frowned. 'As I thought, Lucie needed to call for me long ago, but tried to carry it all on her shoulders.'

'That is not why I sent for you, Aunt,' Lucie said from the shop doorway. She hesitated, then crossed over quickly to her aunt and took her hands in hers. 'You are good to come, Aunt Phillippa.'

Phillippa gave her a hug, then stood back and studied her niece, the bandaged hand, the red eyes. There is more to this than your husband's illness, I can see,'

'Let me show you where you can put your things.'

Phillippa followed Lucie up the stairs. She noted the second pallet. 'I did not bring a servant’

'It's for me. I was going to sleep in here with you. But Nicholas took a turn last night. He is much worse.'

'He is dying?'

Lucie nodded.

'That is why you sent for me?'

That is part of it. We must talk, Aunt Phillippa.'

Her aunt nodded. There is trouble here. I can smell it. Tell me, Lucie.'

Tonight. I must get down to the shop now.'

Her aunt shrugged. 'I will watch over Nicholas.' She took off her cloak and hung it on a peg.

That would be kind. Bess Merchet is sitting with him now. I'm sure she cannot spend the day up there.'

'Bess Merchet?'

The owner of the York Tavern. Next door.'

'She works for you?'

'No, Aunt Phillippa. She is my dearest friend.'

The eyebrows lifted slightly. 'Do you ever find it difficult? This is not the life you were born to.'

'I am finding this life most difficult at the moment, Aunt Phillippa, but it has nothing to do with my station. We will talk this evening.' Lucie hurried away before she began something she had no time to finish.

News of the fire the night before brought more customers than usual to the shop, hoping for details. Lucie and Owen worked until Phillippa called them for the evening meal.

Phillippa had brought a game pie and a delicately seasoned soup of winter vegetables and barley. Lucie and Owen ate silently.

As Owen pushed himself from the table, Lucie suggested that they sit by the fire with brandywine. 'And Aunt Phillippa will tell us about Nicholas, Geoffrey Montaigne, and my mother.'

Dame Phillippa looked confused. 'Whatever for?'

'I need to understand why Nicholas poisoned Geoffrey Montaigne at Christmastide.'

Dame Phillippa looked from one to the other. 'Blessed Mary, Mother of God,' she whispered, crossing herself. 'Will that sorrow never cease?'

Wulfstan squinted toward the open door. It was difficult to make out faces at a distance when he'd been doing close work for any length of time. He recognised the graceful movement of the hand on the door. 'Brother Michaelo. Another headache so soon?'

'No, my saviour. I would like to share something with you. In appreciation for all you have done for me. A liqueur for which my family is known in Normandy. My mother sends just a few drops, for fear more would be a temptation to the messenger. I do not offend you by offering spirits?'

'Not at all, Michaelo. They aid digestion admirably, which is a blessing at my age. Please. Sit down.'

Wulfstan fetched two small cups.

Michaelo's dark eyes shone with a lustre that Wulfstan did not see when the monk had one of his headaches. They were moonlit pools in his pale, slender face.

'It is pleasant to see my patients when they are well.'

Michaelo smiled as he poured. He gave Wulfstan twice the amount he poured himself. Even so, it was very little. He held up his cup. Wulfstan lifted his.

'To Brother Wulfstan, in whose hands resides the healing touch of Our Saviour.'

What a pleasant young man. Wulfstan flushed with pleasure and sipped. An odd assortment of flavours confused his palate.

'Oh my. Now there is a talent. To mix so many herbs. The monks do something like this at Pridiam. Twenty-six herbs, I think.' He took another sip.

Michaelo's eyes shone. 'I knew that you could appreciate it, knowing the ingredients as you do.' He touched the cup to his lips.

Wulfstan's tongue moved the heavy liquid around in his mouth so that he might taste all the nuances. Delicate combinations. Yet there was a false note. Something that did not belong. The Pridiam concoction was better balanced. Pity Michaelo's family added so much of the offensive plant. An odd, powdery taste.

'Something is not to your liking?'

Michaelo's dark eyes swam before Wulfstan. 'Dizzy.' He sank back against the wall, his hand on his heart, which pounded against his hand. Slow and strong. Dizzy. Powdery taste. 'Too much foxglove.' He shook his head. The room tilted.

The bells chimed for Compline. Henry waited in the cloister for Brother Wulfstan. If there had been a patient in the infirmary, he would have relieved Wulfstan for the service. But when there were no patients they attended service together. Oddly, the kitchen workers beat Wulfstan this evening. The Infirmarian had been acting distracted. Perhaps he was unwell. It would be like him to hide it. Henry went after him. The silly Michaelo darted past, from the direction of the infirmary.

So Michaelo had delayed Wulfstan with another headache. Henry ducked into the infirmary to see if he could help.

'Henry?' Feeble, faint, he could just hear his name. Henry turned round and round. Merciful Mother, Wulfstan lay on a cot, clutching at his heart.

Henry dropped to his knees beside him, felt his brow. A cold sweat. 'What has happened?'

Wulfstan lifted his head to speak, choked, leaned off the cot to vomit. Henry went for towels and a basin. Wulfstan lay back on the cot while Henry cleaned him. Then Henry helped him sit up a bit.

'Do you know what it is?'

'Foxglove. In drink’

'What drink?'

'Mic-' He closed his eyes. Shivered, then bent double. Henry smelled the diarrhoea.

Dizziness, slow, pounding heartbeat, vomiting and diarrhoea. Foxglove poisoning.

'Michaelo gave you something to drink?'

Wulfstan nodded.

It would have to be a strong dose. 'Where are the cups?'

Wulfstan pointed a shaking finger at a small table. Henry smelled the little cup. It had been rinsed. He looked around for the water. Saw a damp spot by the garden door. Brother Wulfstan had been in no condition to rinse out the cups and take the water to the garden. And lazy Brother Michaelo was not so fastidious.

Unless he wanted no one to examine the evidence.

Wulfstan began to choke again, and Henry hurried over.

Dear God, what was he to do? To call for help was no use. All the brothers were at the evening service. Wulfstan might choke if Henry left him to find help. And he must clean him. The poor man could not be left to lie in his own excrement.

But Michaelo might escape.