The Apothecary Rose

Twenty-four

A cart came up behind Anselm, rumbling and squeaking. It was a farmer's cart. It trundled by, then stopped. The farmer looked back, took in the priest's garb and its state, tipped a greasy cap. 'What is this, the thieves don't even respect the cloth now? Have you been overtaken, Father? Lost your horse?'

Anselm dragged himself to the man, steadied himself against a wheel. 'We were attacked. My companion is dead. I must get to Wilton's apothecary in York, by the minster. Can you get me there?'

That I can. I be heading there for market. The Lord is good to put me in the way of helping one of his priests. I'm sinner enough to need the indulgence it should get me.'

Anselm soon lay among baskets and sacks, comforted by this sign of God's grace.

Bess shooed Lucie down to the kitchen after they had prepared Nicholas's body. Then she set a cup of brandywine in front of her friend, saying, 'I'll send the stable boy for Father William at first light.' He was their parish priest.

Lucie nodded. She stared somewhere beyond her hands, her eyes unfocused. Bess and Owen exchanged looks.

The shop bell jingled.

'Who in God's creation?' Bess went to see, scurried back with a flush to her face. 'My Lord the Archbishop’ she announced, her cap ribbons aflutter.

Thoresby strode into the room even as Bess spoke, making the sign of the cross to bless the house.

'Mistress Wilton’ he said, taking Lucie's hand, 'your husband was respected in York. Nicholas Wilton was a fine apothecary. He will be missed.'

Thank you, Your Grace.'

'You must forgive me for intruding on your mourning. But circumstances force my hand. It is most unfortunate.' He nodded to Owen, glanced at Bess. She excused herself to go sit with Nicholas.

Lucie took a sip of the brandywine. Her hands trembled. 'Please sit down, Your Grace’ she said quietly.

1 will not stay long. I meant simply to assure you that I have arranged everything. Two of my men will bring a cart and a coffin shortly. At dawn, I and four of my men will accompany you to Freythorpe Hadden.'

'You need not concern yourself with us, Your Grace. The Wiltons have served your purpose.'

'What are you talking about?'

'I know that Owen is your man. I suppose I am to be grateful that you allowed me to have his services for a time.'

He paused, but only for a moment. 'Mistress Wilton, this is not the time for injured pride. I am trying to prevent my Archdeacon or his young men from causing any more distress’

Lucie rose, flushed and trembling with anger. 'I do not mean to sound ungrateful, My Lord Thoresby, but I cannot accept your gift, I do not intend to bury my husband at Freythorpe Hadden. That is not where he belongs.'

Thoresby stood. 'I chose a bad time, I can see. Forgive me, Mistress Wilton.' He signalled for Owen to follow him out the kitchen door. Lucie eyed Owen darkly as he passed.

Out in the wet garden, Thoresby dropped the pleasant courtesy. 'Damnable woman. Does she think we play a game, Archer? Does she not know how precarious her position is?' He pulled up his hood.

'I am not sure what Mistress Wilton thinks at the moment, Your Grace. Last night Anselm trapped her in a burning shed. Tonight she lost her husband. Now you suggest that she bury her husband where she had never thought to bury him. And she wonders whether she can trust me. Whether she can count on me. You must not judge her by her words or actions tonight.'

Owen felt Thoresby's eyes on him. 'Mistress Wilton is more than an employer to you, that I can see. What does she know of all this?'

'She knows everything.'

'And what is "everything"?'

'That Montaigne held Nicholas responsible for Amelie D'Arby's death so many years ago. Montaigne was her lover. She died aborting his child with an overdose of a potion concocted by Nicholas. Montaigne tried to kill Nicholas the night she died. He thought he had succeeded. His return threatened Nicholas. He feared Montaigne would discover he was still alive and try again to kill him — or ruin his name, which would ruin all he'd tried to do for Lucie. So Nicholas poisoned him with the physick that was later used in ignorance on Fitzwilliam.'

'I might have guessed a woman was involved. We can be such fools over them.' Thoresby was quiet a moment. 'Did Mistress Wilton have a hand in the poisoning?'

'No. She did not even know the identity of the pilgrim Nicholas had mixed the physick for. And because her husband fell ill the very night he committed the deed, she did not learn of the poison soon enough to save Fitzwilliam.' Owen could make out an unpleasant grin on Thoresby's face. He had denied it too quickly.

'You would not tell me if she were guilty.'

'My first allegiance is to you, Your Grace.'

Thoresby chuckled. 'I think not. But it is possible she is innocent. So I choose to accept your explanation.' He shook his head. The Lord's purpose in this mystifies me. Fitzwilliam deserved punishment, but not by the hands that meted it out. And now my Archdeacon seems possessed by the Devil himself. He influenced Brother Michaelo. Who else? You must persuade Mistress Wilton to accept my plan.'

'She is not easy to influence’

'It's time you discovered how to move her, then.' He said it with a chilling firmness, with finality. Thoresby departed, leaving a cold silence in his wake. Then Owen heard his horse trot off into the night.

Bess looked up as Lucie sank down on the stool by the door. 'So, what ordeal does our lord the Archbishop mean to put you through so soon after you've been widowed?'

Lucie did not answer at once. Bess noted the shadows under her eyes and the deepened creases from nose to mouth, signs of little sleep and much worry. 'Men never know when to be still.'

Lucie sighed. 'There may be trouble here. They want me to leave at dawn. The Archdeacon has gone mad, it seems. But the Archbishop is being kind, Bess. He is sending men and a cart with me to Freythorpe Hadden. And he will come with us to say the requiem.'

'Travel to Freythorpe? In your state? With no sleep?'

'The Highlanders rarely strike so early in the day’

'But you've had no rest, my girl.'

'I'll rest later. Aunt Phillippa will see to that.'

'Oh, aye, as she's seen to you in the past. I've no confidence in her seeing-to.'

'I could use a cup of your brandywine to see me on the road.'

'You're trying to get rid of me?'

'It would warm me, Bess. And one of the blankets you use in the cart.' But Lucie did not look at Bess. Her eyes were on her husband, silent and already strange in his shroud.

Twice widowed herself, Bess could see that Lucie needed time alone before all the fuss began over the funeral. 'Well, you could use some warming. I'll fetch what you ask if you sit yourself down by the window and rest awhile.'

Lucie promised to rest.

Bess huffed away. As she passed the shop door, she heard Owen speaking with Tildy. Satisfied that the two would hear Lucie if she needed anything, Bess hurried out the kitchen door to fetch whatever she might think of to ease the strain of Lucie's journey.

Lucie came to with her head resting on Nicholas's arm in the dark room. She would not have believed she could fall asleep with her husband just dead. Such weariness frightened her. It muddled wits, caused mistakes. She shook herself and went to the window, opening it wide to let the chill air revive her. Nicholas was past caring about drafts. The breeze stung her face and worked like a slap, awakening her to the awful reality. Her husband had been taken from her. His kind eyes were forever closed.

And already the men around her tried to wrest Her power from her. Tell her where she might bury her husband. What right had they to interfere? They claimed it was for her protection. But what could the Archbishop of York and Lord Chancellor of England care about her safety? All courtesy demanded was that he warn her. Perhaps suggest a means of protection. But not demand. Not prepare the way.

Thoresby and Campian protected themselves. She knew things they would prefer to have hidden. She might talk. And the folk of York would be only too glad to listen to her.

But that would gain her nothing. Folk would be intrigued by the tale of Anselm, Nicholas, and Amelie. Entertained. They would take the story home to their hearths and while away many a cold night whispering of it. But why would she betray herself? She had nothing to gain from it and much to lose. It was a story of bad judgement. It would reflect on her. An apothecary with poor judgement would not inspire confidence.

She had no cause to tell the tale, and the Archbishop should know that. She would speak with him tomorrow. Today. It must be close to dawn, though the rain kept the sky dark.

As she stared out into the wet darkness, the door opened behind her. She imagined Bess looking in, worrying over ber, and smiled to herself despite her fears.

Bess would be pleased to see her taking air. Stealthy footsteps crossed to the bed. A moan.

'I am too late? Oh, Nicholas, you are too cruel. Why did you not wait for me? You call me and then you do not wait. I have crossed through Hell this night to come to your side.'

Lucie shivered. It was the Archdeacon, the architect of all her sorrow. Owen must have gone to sleep. And Bess. Lucie could count on no one.

The man's breath wheezed and rattled like that of one wounded or very ill. 'I heard you, Nicholas. I heard. They tried to stop me. But I got away. Beautiful Nicholas. They closed your eyes. They did not want me to see them again.'

Lucie groped her way to the little table, holding her breath for fear she would kick something on the way. She felt for the little spirit lamp, turned up the wick. A bright flame flared out.

Anselm gasped as he was discovered and shielded his eyes with a twisted, swollen hand. Nicholas lay across his lap, peeled from his winding sheet. The Archdeacon looked hideous. Blood trickled down his forehead. He reeked of blood and the sweat of fever. A dark red stain spread across the winding sheet on his lap. He gave up shielding his eyes to hold Nicholas tighter, clutching his pale nakedness. 'I burned you. How did your spirit get free? Get thee hence, she-devil!'

'This is my house, you monster. And Nicholas was my husband.' Lucie moved closer.

Anselm bared his teeth and growled at her like a wounded cat, crushing Nicholas to him.

It was the stuff of nightmares. One dead, the other mad with pain and grief and looking as much a corpse as the dead man. The madman muttered something in Latin, prised open Nicholas's right eyelid with his swollen, twisted finger, and bent to kiss him on the mouth.

'In the name of Heaven, leave him alone’ Lucie trembled with rage.

Anselm lifted his eyes to Lucie. 'Heaven? What do you know of Heaven, she-devil?' He stroked Nicholas's hair, his stomach, his thigh, watching Lucie, enjoying her discomfort.

'Stop that!' she hissed. She tried to calm herself, to think of what she might use as a weapon. She remembered the knife she used for bandages. It was on the table beside the bed.

'I have a right to say my farewells.' Anselm bent to kiss Nicholas again. 'He loved me. I protected him.'

'Love?' Lucie edged closer. 'Nicholas feared you. He said you were mad. Evil.'

Anselm screeched and put Nicholas down with trembling arms.

Lucie grabbed the knife and held it behind her, backing away.

Anselm reared up. 'You are the spawn of the evil that poisoned the soul of my Nicholas’ he cried. 'Nicholas loved me. It was a pure, innocent love. And then she turned him away. Amelie D'Arby. The French whore’

'And so you tricked innocent Nicholas into killing her’

Anselm grinned. 'It happened just as I prayed it would’

'You coward. You had your beloved commit the sin for you. So Nicholas will burn for it. Not you’

'She will burn. Not my Nicholas. She died horribly. Haemorrhaging, life gushing from her. Such pain. Such fear. And she was unshriven, did you know that? Unshriven. She burns in Hell now, my little she-wolf. Do you think of her there? Writhing in the eternal fire?'

Lucie slashed out at his face with the knife. But she was inexperienced. She opened the side of his face, not his eye.

Anselm shrieked and lunged for the knife.

Lucie kicked at him’ but her skirts hampered her.

He knocked the knife out of her hand.

She grabbed a chair and rammed his side with it. He tottered’ but came back at her almost at once. He was bleeding from the stomach, the side of his face, his forehead. She could not imagine where he got the strength to continue.

He grabbed her. Got her neck in his hands. One hand pressed into her. The other did nothing. Lucie twisted in the direction of the bad hand. He drove her head against the wall. The impact stunned her and her knees buckled beneath her. Anselm yanked her up and slammed her head against the wall again. She screamed as she felt her knees go out completely. He grabbed her up and pressed her against the wall, the good hand round her throat.

Footsteps came pounding up the stairs. Dear God, give me the strength to kill him. For my mother. For my husband, Lucie prayed. She dug her nails into Anselm's hand. He rammed his head against hers. Her ears rang. She could taste his sweat and blood.

'Stay back, Dame Phillippa’ Owen called from outside the door. 'Stay out of the way.' The door crashed open.

Anselm hissed and clutched Lucie to him. Owen tore her out of the Archdeacon's broken hand. She crawled towards the knife.

Anselm, howling in anger and pain, lunged for Owen, who turned, caught him in his powerful arms, and threw him against the wall. Anselm hit it with a sickening sound of breaking bone and slumped to the floor, his head sinking down on his shoulder at an unnatural angle. Phillippa screamed.

Owen hurried to Lucie.

She knelt with the knife raised, staring at the broken body of the Archdeacon. 'You have killed him?' A touch of breathlessness. Disbelief. 'He was mine to kill. Mine.'

Owen knelt beside her, touched her chin, gently turned her face towards him. 'You put up a good fight, Lucie. He is dead now. He can hurt no more of your family.'

She twisted her head to look back at Anselm. 'He uncovered Nicholas. Kissed him and — '

'Let me take you downstairs’ Owen said gently.

'He — ' Lucie pulled away from Owen and struggled to stand by herself. 'He snarled and snapped like a wounded animal. I did not — He did not seem human. And the way he held Nicholas, I — ' she took a step towards Nicholas, his naked corpse lying on the sheet fouled by Anselm's blood. She put her hand to her mouth. 'The way he held him. Touched him. Taunting me. I — Nicholas died fearing him. And that monster held him there when Nicholas could not fight him.' Her body trembled.

'Lucie?' Owen touched her arm.

She backed away, went to stand over her husband's body, hugging her elbows to her sides, the knife trembling in her hands. 'My God. Even in death the man clutched at him. Such a terrible, suffocating love. More hate than love. What was my husband's sin, that he should suffer so long?' She lifted the bloodstained sheet. 'What right had he? What right?' All the blood. Her mother's gown had been heavy with blood, the skirt pooling on the rushes, so wet and cold. Her skin so smooth and cold. Owen went to her. 'Let me take you down to the kitchen.'

Lucie shook her head. 'Bess will have a clean sheet. She will have a clean sheet.'

A door opened down below. Footsteps crossed the kitchen, mounted the stairs. Voices murmured on the landing.

Bess stepped through the doorway. 'Merciful Mother,' she whispered at the sight of Nicholas's nakedness against the bloody sheet. 'What happened?' Her eyes searched the room, took in Lucie's blood-smeared face, the bloodstains on Owen's shirt, and rested on the body of the Archdeacon. 'Holy Mary, Mother of God,' she breathed, leaning down to him, then turning away as she caught the stench of his ordeal. 'You cannot have done all this?' She looked Owen in the eye.

'He was wounded already.'

Their voices seemed to wake Lucie. She dropped the knife. It clattered on the floor.

'Lucie?' Bess said. She dabbed at the blood on her friend's face.

'The brandywine and blanket won't be necessary now’ Lucie said.

Bess looked at Owen. 'It's the Archdeacon's blood on the winding sheet?'

Owen nodded. 'Aye’

Bess was quiet a moment. 'The Archbishop's men are here with the coffin. Phillippa and I will wrap Anselm in his own filth and get a clean sheet for Nicholas.' She nodded to herself, turned to leave. Then turned back. 'And you two must deal with the Archbishop's men.'

Lucie had begun to shiver uncontrollably. Owen caught up her hands. They were like ice. He held them. 'I don't know what to do.' Lucie stared at her hands in his, her eyes wide with the numbness that Owen had seen time and again in his men when they had fought too long on a battlefield with the dead all about them, slipping on the blood and entrails of their comrades and their enemies, and suddenly it all became too much, their minds and hearts could deal with no more. 'I don't know what to do,' Lucie whispered.

'For the moment we must go downstairs,' Owen said, and led her by the hand.

The Archbishop's men rose, and Owen motioned them to sit back down. 'Mistress Wilton needs brandy-wine. I could use some, too.'