The Apothecary Rose

Twenty-two

Dame Phillippa stood in the kitchen doorway watching the icy rain, silver threads in the darkness. The air was different from the air at Freythorpe. Here the spicy fragrance of the moors was muted by the damp river air. Perhaps she had been wrong to let Lucie come here. Not just because of the air. No, that was a minor worry compared with what Lucie and the apprentice had just told her.

Nicholas Wilton had murdered Geoffrey Montaigne. It was difficult to accept. Phillippa had never imagined Nicholas Wilton capable of harming anyone. That is why she had been able to forgive him for Amelie's death. She thought of the frail man up in the sickroom. His illness was the clue to understanding it all. What he had done was killing him. He was a good man who had been driven to commit a sin he could not live with. Phillippa could not believe anything else of him. And she had to convince Lucie of that. Lucie had to realise that if Nicholas had indeed committed murder, he had done it to save himself. Or to save Lucie.

Phillippa turned back to Lucie and Owen, who sat quietly, waiting for her to rejoin them. Lucie stroked the cat, who had curled up in her lap as if she sensed Lucie needed comforting. Blessed Mary and all the saints, with her husband dying upstairs and her past revealed as a knot of lies and half-truths, the child did need comforting. The best comfort Phillippa could give Lucie now was to tell her everything.

'When you were little, you had a cat much like that one. You called her Melisende, the queen of Jerusalem’

'This one is also Melisende’ Lucie said. 'She is as stubborn and beautiful as the other.'

Phillippa was glad. 'So you do not remember only the sorrow. That is good.'

'My memories of Freythorpe before my mother died are good memories, Aunt.'

Phillippa nodded. 'Then perhaps what I say will count for something. I want you to understand Nicholas. You must not condemn him, Lucie. Or your mother. I will tell you what you need to know’ Phillippa sat down, poured herself a generous measure of brandywine, and took a mouthful of it before she began. 'You must first understand Amelie. She was only seventeen. Given away to a stranger who took her far from her family, her country’ Phillippa shrugged. 'But it's the way things are done. Daughters are chattel. And then they say we cry too much. As if we had no cause’ She looked at Lucie. 'I vowed it would not happen to you. You must believe that I permitted this marriage only because you agreed to it — indeed, seemed set on it — and it gave you the chance to become your own woman’

Lucie said nothing,

Phillippa sighed, took a sip of her brandywine. 'Amelie clung to me, pathetically relieved, when I spoke court French to her. Other than Geoffrey Montaigne, a young squire in my brother's company who had been very kind to her — more than kind, I could see — she had had no one to talk to, no one in whom to confide her fears. I need not tell you, Lucie, that your father was no comfort. That is what he's spent these years repenting, of course. She never should have been brought here, so far from her home. A war prize, Robert called Amelie, Can you imagine?' Phillippa looked at Owen. 'I'm sure you've no trouble imagining that, being Lancaster's Captain of Archers all those years.'

'He's not like Sir Robert,' Lucie said in a quiet voice. 'Let him be.' To Owen, Lucie said, 'You must not blame Aunt Phillippa for her discourtesy. She has known little pleasure with men.' Owen swallowed the retort he'd prepared.

Dame Phillippa merely shrugged. 'I want you to understand Amelie's — Lady D'Arby's — unhappiness. My dear brother was angry when a year passed and the marriage bed produced no son — or daughter. And he made his anger known. Poor Amelie. Robert's behaviour made matters worse. You see, her monthly flux had stopped, I'm sure from unhappiness and fear and loneliness and whatnot. I told Robert it was his own doing, that from such fear as she had for him there could come little good, but of course he could not believe me. His pride could not accept that he might be to blame. Men are so arrogant about their seed. Amelie was to blame. He had to believe that. And he convinced her. She brooded over it. She wanted nothing more than to have a child, a babe to love. She was ripe for all sorts of nonsense. That was when her maid took her to Magda Digby.

'Poor child. She had hope, but the concoction ran out and still no monthly courses. Amelie asked me about the herbs in my garden. I began to show her. And I'm afraid I told her of Nicholas's garden, and that they were of an age, and he already hard at work learning his trade. His garden was a masterwork of plants that would yield common and exotic medicines. I never thought. .' Phillippa shook her head.

'Much of what I tell you now was got from Nicholas himself. He came to me and told me all before he asked for your hand. I think he wanted to be refused. He sought penance.'

'For her death?' Lucie asked.

Phillippa waved the question away. 'But I liked him. Now, after I tell you all this you may say, "Silly old fool, how could you like him after knowing what he'd done?" And to that I say, "How could I not?" He did all with the best — '

'Aunt Phillippa, please get on with it!' Lucie said.

'Well.' Phillippa straightened up. 'So.' She brushed an imaginary crumb off her skirt. 'Amelie came here, sought out Nicholas, saying she wished to see the garden. Nicholas was a charming young man. Gentle, not strong. But that raven hair and those piercing blue eyes. Like hers, but with a different mood. Where Nicholas was angelic, Amelie was tragic. There was something in her eyes.' Phillippa paused, thinking of those eyes.

Owen glanced at Lucie and saw that the sad memory held her, too.

Phillippa sighed and shook herself. 'Do you know, but for that difference they looked like brother and sister. But the difference was so marked. I can imagine them there in that lovely garden, bent over the creeping thymes while he ticks off the names — she leaning over to brush the mounds with a fingertip, sniffing, praising, and he blushing all the while. She had that French way about her that men find disarming. He adored her, it was plain’

Lucie flushed at the comment. Owen was uneasy at the direction of this tale. Not that it did not seem the most natural consequence in the world, but what would this mean for Lucie? What had possessed Nicholas to marry the daughter of the woman he adored?

'On that first visit Amelie asked Nicholas for cuttings of angelica, pennyroyal, and madder. He asked why. She told him she wished to begin a garden. To show Robert she meant to play the proper lady of the manor. He suggested prettier plants — lavender, santolina, poppies, mother of thyme. No, no, she wanted just what she asked for. He argued that angelica archangelica was an ungainly plant, a huge seed head, no flower. She told him that at the monastery of San Martin they strewed angelica on the floors and were delivered from a visitation of the Devil.

'He grew bold, hoping to show off his knowledge. "You fear that the Devil prevents you from bearing a child?" She blushed, but met his eyes, rewarding him with just that look of admiration he'd hoped for. She plainly thought he could read her mind. Merciful Heaven, it must have been her maid put such a foolish idea into her head.' Phillippa looked down into the fire. 'Or perhaps I was foolish not to see that she was, indeed, bedevilled.' She shook her head and her eyes returned to Lucie.

'Nicholas proudly explained how he had guessed. Pennyroyal and madder were to bring on her monthly flux in case it was not the Devil who prevented it. He asked why the Devil would do this to her. Amelie said she deserved to be cursed. She did not love her husband, which was a great sin. "But you wish to have his child?" "Oh, but it is most important. I am no one if I do not have his child. If I disappoint him, he will cast me aside."

'The poor boy. He was outraged. He must protect her. Save her from Sir Robert. How could he refuse her? But it would take too long to begin the plants. So Nicholas gave Amelie the prepared medicines — he sneaked them out, knowing full well he should not do this without his father's advice. Nicholas swore that he gave her careful instructions. He told me that Amelie's eyes shone when he brought the medicines to her, and he felt like a king.' Phillippa nodded to Owen. 'You've only to look at her daughter to understand. Though Lucie's soul is different — she has my backbone. Amelie would be alive now if she'd our blood in her’

'Did no one in your family ever die in childbirth?' Lucie demanded.

Her aunt closed her eyes, drew back into herself. 'Your mother's death was unnecessary,' she said softly. 'It was not God's choice.'

'You do go the long way round’ Owen said.

'I want you to understand, that is why. You must understand. The garden enchanted Amelie. She and Nicholas became friends. Because she was content, by midsummer Amelie was with child.' Phillippa looked up and noticed discomfort in both faces. 'Sir Robert's child, you understand. Nothing of that sort ever passed between Nicholas and Amelie.'

'Merciful Mother,' Lucie whispered, crossing herself.

Owen hated this eavesdropping. He was not cut out for it. He yearned for a practice field. A battle. The slaughter of strangers seemed easier on the stomach than this prying. Dearest Lucie. What must she be going through? And this slow, opinionated woman dragged it out.

'It was a difficult birth. Magda Digby helped. We walked Amelie all night. She was in such pain, even the birthing chair was agony on her skin. But a magic lit her face when she was delivered of a healthy girl. Magda said it was a good thing Amelie was pleased with you, for she doubted she would have another after such a difficult birth. I disagreed.

'But Sir Robert had heard Magda's prediction. A brother will always listen to a stranger before his own sister.' Phillippa sniffed at Owen's warning look. She would choose her own pace. 'Within months my brother was off to London to resume his service with King Edward. My brother, the old fool.' She leaned over and took Lucie's hand. 'You know, I feared that Sir Robert would neglect you. A daughter is important only in helping with the young ones who come after, and in creating alliances through marriage. But Robert would win more support in King Edward's service than he'd gain by marrying you into a noble family. And Magda said there would be no more young ones. I swore then that 1 would watch over you. See that you had a chance at happiness.'

'Surely Mamam also would watch over me?'

Phillippa patted Lucie's hand. 'If she were not such a child herself.' She sighed.

Abbot Campian, noting the absence of Wulfstan and his assistant in the refectory, sent Sebastian to inquire. It was like Wulfstan to forget to ask for assistance. Campian was not surprised to see the novice Henry return. Sent by Wulfstan to make his excuses as usual, he guessed.

But Henry made no excuses. He looked distraught and spoke with breathless haste. 'Brother Wulfstan has been poisoned. I had to stay with him. Brother Michaelo. You must confront him. He gave him a drink that contained a large dose of foxglove.'

His old friend. Dear Lord, not his old friend. 'Where is Wulfstan now?'

"In the infirmary. I left Sebastian with him. Told him not to let anyone in but you or me.'

'Good. Good.' The Abbot scribbled something, went to the door, and called for his secretary, Brother Anthony. Take this to Jehannes, the Archbishop's secretary. He will know what to do. As you leave, tell the porter to look out for Brother Michaelo. He must not leave the abbey.'

Anthony left without a word.

Melisende leapt off Lucie's lap to investigate a movement in the corner of the kitchen. Lucie got up, checked the soup that simmered for tomorrow, sat back down. 'In my wedding chest I found a herbal with my mother's mother's name on it. I could not remember the book. Or Maman giving it to me.'

Phillippa shook her head. 'Nicholas never showed it to you? How like a man not to realise what it would mean to you. Amelie presented it to Nicholas when he became a journeyman. Her mother had given it to her. It was wondrously illustrated and bound in soft leather. She had it by heart and thought he might enjoy it.'

'It sounds as though they had a pleasant life, those two’ Owen noted.

'Ah. But then trouble appeared. Amelie changed. Her feet skimmed the earth. Her eyes sparkled. She spent hours in the maze, but without Nicholas. It was Lucie, seven years old and very curious, who told me her mother had a friend in there with her, a fair-haired prince.'

Lucie looked horrified. 'I betrayed her.'

Phillippa rolled her eyes. 'Nonsense. You simply understood me better than your mother did. My brother was a lout. If this man could bring Amelie such joy, I saw no harm in him, none at all. And if that shocks you, so be it.

'So I told Amelie I wished to meet the young man. And I did. Oh, but he was handsome. Blond, tall, courtly. I could find no fault with him. And he had come for her. He'd found a patron in Milan and meant to take her with him. No one would know she was not his wife.

'That gave me a start. Milan! I'd heard tales of the soldiers in service with the Italian nobles who fight endless wars among themselves. Such a soldier did not bring with him a wife and child. I reasoned with them. But they had answers to all my protests. Lucie would go to a convent there. After all, her mother had been educated in a convent.

'But in France, I reminded her, where they spoke her language. Shared her customs. "Oh, but they will speak French. All educated people speak French." She was such an innocent. I reminded her that Italy was nothing like Lucie's home. Sunny and warm. The voices soft and slippery. A child is frightened by such change. And then to be apart from her mother. Oh, dear God, what was she thinking?' Phillippa paused a moment to calm herself. 'But she was decided. And once Amelie decided, God and all His angels could not change her mind. It was her undoing’ Tears glittered in Phillippa's eyes. She watched Lucie, but it was plain she saw Amelie sitting there before the fire.

Phillippa shook herself. 'I digress. As you can imagine, Nicholas now saw little of Amelie. But at summer's end, Geoffrey went off to arrange his life in Milan, and Amelie once more sought Nicholas's company. She was jealous of the time he spent in the shop and out in the garden. His father had opened his purse for Nicholas, encouraging him to send far and wide for seeds of exotic strains. The lad was torn between pleasing his father and indulging Amelie. To his credit, his work usually won.

'Which made it all the harder for me. I had all I could do to keep my patience with her that winter. She paced the great hall, snapping at you, poor child, for the slightest thing, picked at her food, complained about everything.

'In spring, Geoffrey returned. He went to Nicholas and thanked him for being a friend to Amelie. And he assured Nicholas and me that he'd arranged a home for Amelie, though Lucie was still to be put in a convent for a time. Oh, my love, my heart went out to you. An Italian convent. Geoffrey swore that the sisters knew French, that they were quite civilised. He asked Nicholas and me to be Amelie's support for a while longer. He must go to his family in Lincolnshire to make his farewells and settle his affairs. The calm before the storm.

'Amelie's mood darkened, but so gradually that she was completely caught up in it before I could see what was happening. She grew secretive. I learned from Nicholas that she'd come to him one morning, earlier than usual, alone, frightened. She was with child. She wanted him to help her. He did not understand. For so long she had wished for this very news. She said Geoffrey would not take her with him if she was pregnant.

'Nicholas urged against drastic measures. She might conceal it long enough. But it was July, and already the swell of her stomach was noticeable. And Geoffrey had been delayed. He could not leave before Michaelmas. Two months. She said that she had quickened with child because at last she was happy. So it would happen again. Later. When it would not mean the death of all her joy. She begged Nicholas for something that would pass the child from her. He was frightened. He knew that it was a mortal sin and that it would be dangerous for her. She had such a difficult time with Lucie's birth, and now she was distressed, her humours in turmoil. In such a state, already weak, a medicine could quickly become a poison. He refused.

'She fell to her knees, begging him, weeping and threatening to dose herself with rue from my garden. Fell to her knees and wept. He was almost undone. He begged for some time to pray over his decision.

'He went to his old friend Anselm to ask his advice. Anselm advised Nicholas that Amelie would get what she desired from someone, so if he was concerned about her, it ought to be him. He was the best apothecary in Yorkshire. He would one day be a master apothecary. He was the son of a master.'

Lucie could see Anselm's motivation. 'The Archdeacon hoped it would kill her. He was jealous of her. And if Nicholas was guilty, he would struggle to forget her. Then Anselm might have another chance.'

Phillippa shrugged. 'I knew nothing of their relationship. I only knew that Nicholas respected Anselm's opinion and trusted him to keep the matter to himself. Since Anselm's counsel was to give Amelie what she wanted, Nicholas did so. He mixed her a potion of rue, juniper, tansy, and wormwood, the dosage low enough to ensure that it would work gradually and could not poison her. As much as mortal man can ensure such things. He told me what he'd given her, what was the safe dosage. No one of the ingredients could be guaranteed to abort the child, but it was a rare case in which none of these worked. I thought it clever, but my heart misgave me. I watched her like a hawk, making sure she took the smallest dosage morning and night. She was careful. It seemed he'd impressed on her the importance of following his instructions. Like a fool, I eased my supervision.

'September arrived, and still Geoffrey did not appear. Amelie did not look well. Her hands flew as she spoke, she jumped at the smallest sound, her eyes were too large in her head, and shadowed, as if she slept little.

'I thought it was the news from Calais. Robert wrote that King Philip had at last brought a great army to save the people of Calais, then ordered the army's retreat a few days later, without battle. Behind the city walls a great wail rose up. A year besieged, and now they knew themselves abandoned. Joyous for us, not so for Amelie. They were still her people.'

'I served with men who were at Calais,' Owen said. 'It was a terrible time. When they opened the gates, there were no dogs, no animals but a few goats and cows for milking. All the rest had been slaughtered to fill the empty bellies. So many had died. It was a barren, silent city.'

Lucie wiped her eyes. 'Maman's convent had been raided by Edward's army. That is why she was at home when Sir Robert brought her father back and demanded ransom. She had been hidden by a sister in the flour bin in the larder. A soldier dragged one of her classmates in there, raped her, and slit her throat, right there in front of Maman. She could not scream, she could not move enough to hide her eyes for fear he'd discover her. She could just watch’

'She'd had her share of grief, to be sure’ Phillippa said. 'And the news that Calais had fallen to King Edward's army sent her into hysterics. My brother had sent word that as soon as the city fell, he would return to Freythorpe, What if he should arrive before Geoffrey? Merciful Mother. I kept asking her if she was certain the child had not yet passed. She was so thin, I doubted that so little flesh could nurture a growing child. She swore it had not passed. I warned her that as soon as she could, she must stop the physick. Every day she grew weaker. She fluttered like a caged bird, and her eyes were haunted.

'And then Robert arrived, full of himself, blind to her condition. King Edward had made him aide to the governor of Calais. He meant to take Amelie back with him. I saw that he hoped returning to France would make her happy. Happy enough to bear the son he wanted. And I suddenly realised how he must love her. To make the difficult Channel crossing and travel six days at a gallop to reach her, only to return with her in a short time. He was not a young man. And there was no question he must return quickly. The governor needed him then most of all.

'And I had helped her betray him. Holy Mother, 1 had encouraged Amelie in her unfaithfulness to my own brother, who loved her and was her lawful husband. I had been caught up in a romantic dream. Certainly he was a lout, he had no grace, no gentleness. He'd been bred to fight, later to lead men into battle. No one had taught him to be a husband. But he meant to try. He meant to give her what he believed she yearned for. Her country, her people.

'And then it all fell apart.' Phillippa wiped her forehead with a trembling hand. Lucie gripped her own hands so tight her knuckles showed white.

'Amelie looked very ill when she came to dinner. I wanted her to lie down, but she insisted that if she played up to Robert's homecoming he would notice nothing. He was not so blind as that. He asked her forgiveness for bringing her to Yorkshire. Said he had not understood how difficult it would be for her. She sat straight, eating little, staring down at her plate or at her husband's hands. Her wimple was damp at the temples. Her colour was bad. Grey. Robert ate and drank with enthusiasm. He thought her pallor, her trembling hands, must be her usual state. He looked forward to changing all that with the voyage to Calais.

'Suddenly she gave a cry and stumbled from her chair. Robert and I both jumped up. She clutched her stomach. He caught her as she fell. She haemorrhaged. Lucie, my love, you screamed at the blood soaking your father's arm, your mother's dress. I grabbed you and hurried you to your parents' chamber and yelled for Cook to stay with you.

'Amelie had overdosed, thinking to rid herself of the evidence of her unfaithfulness as quickly as possible, before Robert noticed. A toxic dose. She said she felt nothing in her hands and feet. They were like ice. She was terrified. I do not believe she meant to kill herself.'

'But Nicholas had warned her’ Lucie said. 'And so had you.'

The arrogance of youth. She thought it might kill a weaker person, but not her. I think if she'd meant to kill herself she would have taken all that was left. To make sure of the job. But she left much of it.

'She died in Robert's arms. He looked so lost and frightened. "What has happened here?" he asked me. What could I do? I told him.

'He was stricken by the betrayal. Geoffrey had been Robert's squire when he brought Amelie to York. He'd watched over Amelie on the crossing. Robert realised he'd brought them together.

'He asked me to leave him. He did not want me to see him weep. I went out to the garden. Geoffrey found me out there. He'd waited for Amelie in the maze for hours. Dear God, all the evenings she'd checked there to see if he'd returned. And this one. If she'd gone out there.' Phillippa's voice broke. She stared at the fire.

Lucie still clasped her hands tightly. 'When Cook fell asleep,' Lucie said, 'I sneaked down the ladder and found Sir Robert holding Maman and moaning. There was blood all over both of them. Maman's pretty gown was soaked. I touched her face. It felt wrong. Cold. Like a statue — not like Maman's face. And her hands were cold. I thought it was because they dangled down near the floor. I tried rubbing them. Sir Robert shooed me away. Like a dog. As if I had no right there. He did not tell me she was dead. Just shooed me away. I knew from the blood someone had been hurt. I thought he'd stabbed her. I thought he'd found out about Geof and hurt her so she would not see him any more. I hated him.'

'But I told you Robert was not the cause of her death’ Phillippa said.

'You told me the baby killed her. And Sir Robert was her husband, so I thought it was his baby. Even when they whispered at the convent, I was sure they were wrong. Sir Robert hated her, and he killed her with his baby.'

Her aunt sighed. 'Geoffrey blamed Nicholas. He went for him, woke him in the night, beat him senseless, stabbed him, and left him for dead. Paul Wilton found his son on the shop floor. He did not want any gossip. He went for Magda Digby, knowing she would nurse Nicholas without comment. He had Archdeacon Anselm administer the last rites, knowing that he would not betray Nicholas. Between Anselm and Magda, Paul learned what had happened.

'He and the Archdeacon called on us at Freythorpe. Asked us what we meant to do about Nicholas's role in Amelie's death. My brother surprised us all by blaming himself for what had happened. He had already sent a messenger to the King to resign his post. He would go on pilgrimage to atone. He was a broken man. Nicholas, too. Geoffrey had disappeared, thinking he'd murdered Nicholas. Amelie was dead. It was too horrible. When Robert told me to take Lucie to the convent, I thought it best for her. To get away from the cursed house.'

'Why in Heaven's name did you let her marry Nicholas?' Owen asked.

'Have I not made it clear? He made a youthful mistake. I could not condemn him for the rest of his life.'

'But for Lucie he was a reminder of all this.'

'No’ Lucie said. 'I knew nothing of his part in it. To me he was from the good times, when Maman was well, when I was loved. And he promised a life of purpose.' She got up and opened the door, breathing in the chill night air. Phillippa and Owen watched her. After a while, Lucie quietly shut the door and turned back to them. 'But you were wrong to deceive me, Aunt Phillippa. And so was he.'

'You would never have accepted him if you knew.'

'Perhaps that would have been best.'

'No. He ensured a future for you, as I hoped he would, I wanted you to be free of the fears that bedevilled your mother. To marry in your class would have condemned you to the same life, fearing that you'd lose your husband's respect if you did not bear a son and heir. A second son for good measure. Fearing that should he do something treasonous or criminal you would lose everything, through no fault of your own. Fearing that he might die too soon and leave you as I was left, without a home, with no standing, always beholden. And to whom would you go for help? Once Robert was gone, you would have no home. You would be a ward of the court. Any money left you would be used up, and you would be sold to the highest bidder. That is the way.' Phillippa rose, caught herself as she wobbled with weariness. 'I saw Nicholas as a godsend’ She touched a trembling hand to her forehead.

Lucie helped her aunt to bed. As Lucie was leaving, Phillippa said, 'Do you see, Lucie? Nicholas is a good man.'

'He is still a murderer, Aunt Phillippa. Thrice over.'