The Apothecary Rose

Twenty-six

Bess sat on the bench in Owen's room, watching him assemble his belongings to take to St. Mary's. ' Tis a good thing to do, pray and think, after what's happened. You have a head on those broad shoulders, Owen Archer.' He had told her everything. Even his hope for the future. 'And when you get back, Lucie may be ready to think about you in a different light.'

1 cannot hope for that so soon, Bess. But you're a good friend to say it.' Owen put his pack down beside Bess, lifted her to her feet, and hugged her hard.

'My.' Bess took a step backward, flustered. 'If she doesn't look forward to that, my friend Lucie is not near as smart as she seems.'

'Look after her, Bess.' Owen hoisted his pack.

'The room will be waiting for you,' Bess called to his departing back. But would Lucie Wilton, she wondered. The young woman had a mind of her own, and a stubborn will. Bess could not predict her reaction

to Owen's plan.

Lucie rose to get more mulled wine for the Archbishop. He waved her down. 'I cannot stay longer. You are satisfied with the terms?'

She examined the paper with what seemed inordinate care, but he wondered how much of that was show. Her pale, drawn face spoke of her grief and her ordeal. The bruises were dark against her white wimple. It was too soon after her husband's death and her confrontation with Anselm to bargain for her future. And that was precisely why he had chosen the day after the funeral. No time to stew over it, begin to question any of it. She would have what she wanted as long as she vowed to remain silent. That was where he wanted her.

'I am happy with it. What does Guildmaster Thorpe say?'

'He intended you to take over the shop. He need not know that his plan would have been blocked had you refused to co-operate.'

Lucie studied Thoresby's face far longer than he found comfortable. 'I think I am right in trusting you,' she said. 'I hope I do not find I was a fool.'

'As long as you keep your side of the bargain, all will be well.'

'And what of Owen Archer?'

'He is disillusioned by his service in the Church. He means to find honest work.'

'Can you let him do that?'

'It depends. Has he said anything to you?'

She shook her head. 'We will talk when he returns from the abbey.'

'Ah, yes. He is praying over it.' Thoresby rose.

Lucie rose. 'Your Grace, his eye. Could he still be Captain of Archers with one eye?'

Odd question to ask him. 'Certainly. An archer closes one eye to aim. The sighting is not the same, but the old Duke said Archer had almost attained his old accuracy’

'So why did he leave that life?'

'He did not trust himself any more’

'That is what he says. But what do you think, Your Grace?'

Thoresby smiled. He liked her. 'I believe him. And I think he was done with killing. He lost that eye because he saved someone's life who did not find his life anything to be grateful for. Archer is an innocent. Was. I think he has learned something in my service.'

'He saved my life.'

'It's fortunate that Archer still has the reflexes of a soldier, if not the heart. God be with you, Mistress Wilton’

'You will not punish him for your Archdeacon's death?'

Another odd question. 'I did not become Archbishop of York and Lord Chancellor of England by being a fool, Mistress Wilton’

Lucie sat long into the evening. Melisende came in, drank some water, napped in Lucie's lap, Tildy put food before Lucie and took it away cold, Bess looked in and decided to leave her in peace, the cat left for her night revels, and at last, cold and stiff in all her joints, Lucie dragged herself up to bed, where she buried her head and wept.

Owen tossed on his cot, holding his ears. But still he heard the bells, felt them vibrate through his body. Damnable bells.

A timid knock. 'Pilgrim Archer. It is time for the Night Office’

Owen sat up, realising why the bells had sounded so loud. He was at St. Mary's. He groped for his eye patch, put it on, and opened the door of his cell.

A novice bowed to him. 'Follow me.'

The bells stopped. In the echoing silence, his and many other sandalled feet whispered along the dimly lit stone corridors. The black-robed company filed into the candlelit chapel and flowed into the rows of seats, all without speech, with few even looking up. The novice led Owen to his place. He looked round at his companions, most with their hoods up, heads bowed, no one bristling with resentment, no one jostling for a better seat. All these men moving with humility and quiet obedience. It filled Owen with a sense of peace. In this he could see the appeal of monastic life. As they began to chant the office, he felt lighthearted.

Until his eye rested on Brother Wulfstan. Gentle Wulfstan. Since the attempted poisoning, there was a vague cast to the old Infirmarian's eye, as though his thoughts were fixed on the next life. Owen wondered how long Michaelo's poison would linger in Wulfstan's body, and whether the novice Henry had thought to bleed the old monk.

Owen's feeling of peace was gone.

After he had broken his fast the next morning, Owen wandered to the infirmary to speak with Henry. But he found Wulfstan alone at his worktable, dripping various essential oils into a salve paste. As each oil touched the warm paste, it released its intense perfume. Owen understood why the old monk stood near a slightly opened window.

'May we speak?' Owen asked. He was not sure how closely they followed the Rule of Saint Benedict here.

Wulfstan motioned Owen to a seat near him. 'The infirmary is necessarily an exception — and, as our Saviour knows only too well, I have grown lax in my vow of silence over the years.'

This morning the old monk's eyes looked clear. 'You seem much recovered’ Owen said.

Wulfstan thought a moment, then nodded. 'A bad business. Who would have thought Michaelo would do such a thing?' He gave a little laugh. 1 find it quite miraculous that he had the energy.'

The laughter surprised Owen. 'You have forgiven him?'

Wulfstan shrugged. 'He has confessed and performed penance.' He squinted while he measured another drop. 'And if in his heart he truly repents, the Lord God will forgive him. I can do no less.'

'And Nicholas Wilton. Do you forgive him?'

Wulfstan sighed, wiped off his hands, sank down beside Owen. 'That is more difficult. He used me to poison my friend. Abbot Campian explained that it was because Nicholas feared Montaigne. But he need not have done, of that I am certain. Geoffrey had come to make his peace with God. He would not have put his soul in peril. He would not have attacked the Wiltons’ Wulfstan brushed tears from his eyes.

'I am sorry for the pain this has caused you’

The Infirmarian studied Owen's face. 'I believe you. I did not like you at first’

'I know’

'You knew too much for a stranger. Asked too many questions.' The old monk shook his head. 'Poor Lucie. Will the story be told? Will she lose all that Nicholas tried to give her?'

'The Archbishop has no desire to publicise a scandal involving his late Archdeacon. But whether he will let Mistress Wilton keep the shop, I do not know’, 'You do not approve of the Archbishop's silence?'

'I am pleased for Mistress Wilton. And for you. But the people have been misled about Anselm.'

Wulfstan shrugged. 'He was a benighted soul. As are we all, more or less. Let him rest in peace.'

Owen was quiet.

'What will you do now?' Wulfstan asked.

'I would like to continue as Mistress Wilton's apprentice.'

Wulfstan sighed. '1 see’ Owen would bide his time, work his charm, ask for her hand. And who could blame him?

Early one morning two weeks after the funeral, Lucie woke to a fresh scent that reminded her of spring. She smiled when she turned towards the garden window and saw the quince branches she had brought in two days ago. The warmth in the room had coaxed them into bloom. A good omen on her first waking in this bed alone. She had dreaded this first night. She had put it off, sleeping in the smaller room with her Aunt Phillippa while they aired out this room and scrubbed away the illness and death.

Philiippa had left the day before, with misgivings. 'I should not leave you so soon. You have not even tried a night in the room they died in. Some people find it frightening. Though Heaven knows, others must have died here before Nicholas and Anselm. It is knowing it. Having seen Nicholas here in his shroud — '

'Please, Aunt Phillippa.' Her constant chatter would drive Lucie mad. 'You have been here when I needed you most. I can tell you're worrying about Sir Robert and Freythorpe. A fortnight is long enough to be gone.'

Phillippa sighed. 'You do seem to have things under control.' She looked round the tidy kitchen with satisfaction.

Lucie smiled. It was Phillippa and Tildy, not she herself, who had thoroughly cleaned the house. 'I am sure that Tildy will keep this room clean now you've trained her.'

Phillippa straightened a bench. 'She's a good girl. Your Guildmaster has done right by you.'

'And the Archbishop’

'Hmpf. It was in his own interest to keep silent about the matter. I would not waste too much gratitude on him, child.'

'Will you tell Sir Robert about Nicholas and Geoffrey?'

'I have prayed over that. I fear it might send Robert off on another pilgrimage. But I think he ought to be told. Who knows? A sense of the circle closing might wake him up to the world again. He might even think to come see his daughter’

Lucie thought of that this morning, and did not know how she felt about the prospect. She had banished Sir Robert from her thoughts fifteen years ago. And before that he had been more of an ogre than a parent.

But the thought of him and Aunt Phillippa at Freythorpe Hadden, thinking of her, made her feel less alone.

She had never been so alone. As a child she had slept with her mother or her aunt. At the convent she had shared a room with other girls. And then she had come to Nicholas's bed. Suddenly she was all alone. And would be so indefinitely.

Dreary thoughts. Perhaps Phillippa had gone too soon. But Owen was to return from St. Mary's today.

Owen. The thought of his return cheered her. Silly. She could hardly expect him to keep up the ruse of apprenticing to her. Some pilgrim to the abbey may have offered him a post already. He might not even stop in to say good-bye.

More dreary thoughts. Even the quince blossoms could not cheer her. Lucie scooped Melisende up from the foot of the bed and cuddled her. The cat had been sleeping peacefully. Now she opened an eye to see why she had been disturbed. And, seeing her mistress's teary face bent over her, applied a rough tongue to the tears.

'I thought if I had the shop I would be quite content,' Lucie whispered into Melisende's warm fur, 'but I had not thought what it would be like all alone.' She put the cat down and got out of bed. The best antidote for this sort of mood is hard work’

She had just poked the fire to life and started breakfast when Owen came in with a load of wood.

Lucie's heart skipped a beat. 'I hardly expected you so early.' She turned away from Owen to hide the relief on her face.

'I am sure there is much to be done.'

'I have managed.'

He stacked the wood by the hearth while she prepared the porridge.

They ate for a while in silence. Lucie tried to think how to ask Owen what his plans were, why he was here.

Owen broke the silence first. 'Jehannes is to be the new Archdeacon of York.'

'Is that good?'

'I think he is an excellent man.'

Lucie nodded, staring at her bowl.

'And Michaelo is replacing Jehannes’ Owen said.

'That does not seem such a wise choice’

'I would agree with you there. The Archbishop says that Michaelo feels he has been given a second chance at Heaven, and that will make him loyal’ Owen's tone said the Archbishop was a fool.

Lucie was surprised. 'You do not care for the Arch-bishop?'

'No,' Owen looked angry. 'Michaelo's family bought him.'

At the moment Lucie did not want her trust in the Archbishop undermined, so she changed the subject, 'Did you while away all your time at the abbey in gossip? Were you not to decide what to do with yourself now?'

Owen looked guarded. 'Has the Archbishop spoken with you?'

'Yes. I am to have the shop for my silence. And you? Has he spoken to you?'

'He told you nothing else?'

'What else was there to tell?'

'Anything about me?'

'He said you wanted to find honest work’

'That is all?'

'Yes, Owen. What did you think?'

'I want to remain here. As your apprentice.'

Her eyes opened wide, then her face lit in a grin. 'You are joking’

'No’

'I cannot imagine you being content with that’

'I can imagine it’

'You are running away from life’

'From my old life, yes’

'You will itch for action’

'Then I will go out in the garden and work up a sweat. Chop wood. Dig holes. Move trees’

Lucie laughed.

Owen was disappointed. He'd been a fool to hope. He should have known she would not agree. 'You still think of me as a soldier. You have condemned me to that life forever’

'I'm sorry.'

'People can change, but you'll never believe it. Where would you be if Nicholas had assumed you could be happy only as lady of the manor? Would you have liked spending the rest of your life in a convent?'

Lucie blushed. 'Someone else might have asked for my hand.'

There he went, insulting her. Jesus Lord, he had an unlucky tongue. 'That is not the point. I have told you more times than I can count that I am finished with soldiering. Why won't you believe it?'

'Why should I believe anything you say? You insinuated yourself into my household with a lie. You sneaked around and lied about what you were doing. Oh, surely, now you say that you want to be my apprentice, but how do I know that you're not still in the Archbishop's employ? Keeping an eye on me, perhaps? Just in case Widow Wilton was a poisoner after all?' She was shouting at him, as if her voice were a whip with which to hurt him for hurting her.

Owen stood up. 'I never wanted to lie to you.'

'Nevertheless, you did.'

'I also saved your life.'

Lucie bit her tongue.

'I'm a fool to keep trying to make you believe me. You rejected me the moment you saw me.' Owen walked towards the door.

'Please sit down, Owen. I don't mean to argue with you whenever we speak.'

He turned. 'Perhaps it's a sign that my apprenticeship is a bad idea.'

'What would the Archbishop think of this plan?'

Owen realised that she was stalling. She did not want him to walk out the door. All right. He would see where this led. He returned to the table. 'I told him what I planned. He did not object.'

'He did not tell me.'

'I thought he would.'

Lucie picked up the dishes, wiped off the table, then sat down across from him again. 'Aunt Phillippa left yesterday. I could use help. At least until the Guildmaster can find another apprentice.'

'Try me out.'

She sighed. 'I have to, don't I? I signed a contract. The Guildmaster witnessed it.'

'When I lied, I forfeited any right to hold you to the contract.'

'You have been far more helpful than an ordinary apprentice.'

And he continued to be, on through the spring. At first Lucie watched him, wondering why he stayed, and if perhaps the Archbishop had actually planted him there to watch her. But Owen stuck with his work all day, accompanied her to Mass on Sundays, and, according to Bess, met with no suspicious drinking companions at the tavern. Unless he did not sleep, Owen had no time to work for anyone but her. So Lucie relaxed. She let him work on his own more, and accepted his suggestions when she agreed with them. There even came an evening — it would have been Nicholas's birthday — when Lucie needed company and invited Owen to stay after the meal and sing to her. As before, his voice moved her. Cheered her. She realised how fond she'd grown of his crooked smile, the birdlike way he moved his head to see everything with the one eye, even the way he argued with her when she was being stubborn. She liked having him here in front of the hearth with her at the end of the day.

She did not confide any of this to Bess.

The Breton jongleur haunted Owen's dreams. The wild-eyed man crept towards him from the shadows. His leman crept up behind. Again and again Owen caught her arm as she reached for his eye and yanked the arm behind her. At dawn his comrades congratulated him on the corpse. And he was whole. He was Captain of Archers. Across the Channel his wife waited in his bed, dreaming of him, longing for his return. He could see her there, her white skin, her silky hair spilling down her naked breasts. .

Owen woke in a sweat, as he had many nights through the spring. He slipped out of the York and walked. Walked fast. Walked until the tenderness of the dream, the joy, was sweated out of him, cleared from his head. It would not do to dream of Lucie Wilton as his wife. She had shown no such inclination. But this night he could not shake the feeling of tenderness. He returned to Davygate still disturbed. He opened the gate beside the shop and went back to the garden. There was a pit for compost to dig. He stripped to the waist and worked in the moonlight.

Lucie woke at the sound of the gate, terrified. It was too late to be Owen or Bess. The intruder passed under the window, and then silence. She held her breath. Then she heard someone shovelling, far back in the garden. She threw on a shawl and picked up the walking stick Owen had cut and shaped for Nicholas.

The full moon lit up the garden. Lucie kept to the shadows, tracking the intruder. But it was no intruder. Worse, perhaps. It was Owen, stripped to the waist, sweat shining on his back and arms. The muscles in his back flexed and rippled as he worked. Geof had once told her that archers had to be very strong to make an arrow fly all the way to the enemy. She remembered the feeling of Owen's arms around her. He was as unlike Nicholas as a man could be. She wondered if those muscles were hot to the touch when he worked like that. God forgive me for such thoughts. She should go back inside. But she could not take her eyes off Owen. Moon-mad, both of them. He for digging a hole in the middle of the night, she for staring at him. She shivered, although her body was uncomfortably warm.

Owen sensed he was being watched. He looked around, saw her. Dear Lord, all his work to put her out of his mind, and there she stood in her shift, her hair tumbling down around her slender shoulders. 'You should not come out here like that.'

'I thought you were an intruder.'

'All the more reason.'

'What are you doing?' She stepped closer. He smelled of sweat and rich earth.

Owen stabbed the shovel into the pile and used it to climb out, staying on the side of the hole farthest from her. 'I could not sleep.'

'Something troubles you?'

He thought of some innocent lies, but it was no use dissembling with her. She obviously had no idea how he felt about her, to let him see her like this. 'Lucie, our arrangement is not working. I was a fool to think I could work so close to you and not want you.' He wiped himself down with his shirt.

'You dreamt of me?'

'Aye. A scoundrel, eh?' If he made light of it, perhaps she would not notice how he was trembling on this warm night.

Lucie stepped around the pit to him, coming so close he could see the moon in her eyes, feel the heat of her body. 'You're shivering’ she whispered, and opening her shawl, she pulled him to her, wrapping them together, and pressed herself to him. It felt good to touch flesh. And when he put his arms around her, she felt the life in him, the warmth. She kissed him.

'Do you know what you're doing, Lucie?'

'I dreamt of you once. It frightened me.'

'Why?'

'I don't know. I never dreamt such dreams about Nicholas.'

Their bodies moved against each other.

He pressed her to him, delighting in the scent of her. 'I cannot trust myself, Lucie.'

Nor could she trust herself. Perhaps she was wrong. She thought of running, but the empty room and cold bed were uninviting, and he was warm and alive and he wanted her. 'Kiss me.'

They slipped to the ground entangled in each other and made love, Lucie with a passion unlike anything she had experienced with Nicholas, Owen with a tenderness he had never before known.

They woke chilled by the dew.

1 love you, Lucie,' Owen whispered, kissing her.

She propped herself up on one arm and looked at him. 'Did you really think I might have poisoned Geof for my family's honour?'

'Why bring that up now?'

'I want to know.'

'You were strong and proud. I thought it possible.' She looked beautiful with her damp hair clinging to her face.

'You are certain now that I was innocent?'

He smiled. 'Innocent in that instance, yes. But you are still strong and proud. I cannot say what you might be capable of.'

'Soldiers prefer their women meek and obedient.'

Then 'tis a good thing I'm no soldier, eh?'

She brushed his hair off his forehead and touched his cheek gently. 'I think I could love you, Owen.'

Could. Merciful Mother. 'You could not lie, just for this moment, and say you love me?'

Lucie gave him that damnable level gaze. 'That would not be a good way to begin.'

Instead of arguing, he gathered her to him and held her close. She clung to him. And he thought perhaps he had not been a fool to save the jongleur. Perhaps the blinding was God's way of leading him to Lucie.

'We will marry’ Lucie said at breakfast. 'And you will remain my apprentice.'

'Have you decided you love me, then?'

She smiled. 'I think I will.'

'I will have to work at convincing you that life is sweeter when I'm about, I see.'

Her eyes softened. 'You have made a good beginning.' She bent to pet Melisende.

When Lucie straightened up, Owen reached across the table and took her hand. 'I mean to make you love me.'

Lucie looked at Owen, and already his scarred face was dear to her. 'I think you just might, Owen Archer.'

Bess found them in the shop, working side by side. Something about the way they moved together told her what had happened. She hurried back to the York Tavern for a pitcher of the Archbishop's brandywine.

'What's that for, then?' Tom asked. It was but midday,

'Lucie and Owen. Just as I told you it would be.' 'Well, then, Bess, so you were right. Patch and all.' 'That eye was never his problem, Tom. I don't even know why you would think it.'