The Apothecary Rose

Two

Owen headed back to Kenilworth the next morning. Gaunt had come to the castle for Christmas and would remain there with his retinue while the roads were too muddy for wagons top-heavy with household items. Owen hoped that of his old comrades-in-arms who had remained in Gaunt's service, someone would have known Fitzwilliam. He was not certain, for he had divorced himself from his old friends when he became a spy, wanting nothing to remind him of the old times.

He arrived late in the day, in time to find his friends resting from a day of training the young recruits. Bertold, who had succeeded him as Captain of Archers, greeted him warmly. With him were Lief, Gaspare, and Ned. The five had fought together in France. It was Bertold and Lief who had found Owen bleeding and delirious with pain near the corpses of the jongleur and his leman.

The four archers sat around a smoking brazier in Bertold's quarters, a small but private room that was one of the rewards for attaining the status of captain in Lancaster's company, enjoying another luxury, a small cask of ale.

'Being Captain's changed you not a whit.' Owen tugged at Bertold's shaggy black hair, pulled back with a greasy leather thong, though it curled wildly about his scarred face wherever it could escape.

'No need to put on airs to train archers,' Bertold said. ' Tis not the place for lordlings.'

'True enough,' Owen said.

Doe-eyed Ned lifted his tankard to salute Owen. 'You'll never look a lordling with that patch.'

'Aye. But the ladies like it.'

Laughing, Gaspare made room on the bench beside him. He knew the weakness women had for the right scars. Tall, handsome, broad in the shoulders, he'd seduced many a young woman by asking her to kiss the scar that ran from his ear to his lips, where the knife had left a permanent crease, and then asking if they would like to see where the wound continued on his chest. 'You can't be getting much of a chance to try out the ladies sitting at the higher tables. Those ladies are after rank.'

'They wed rank. I said nothing about wedding.'

They all laughed.

'So you're not hungering for the life of a soldier?' Gaspare asked.

The question was like a blow, but Owen chose to ignore it. 'How are the new recruits?'

'Soft as always,' Bertold growled.

Lief, a huge man from the North Country, frowned at a reed he was hollowing out. Owen looked at Lief's large, thick fingers and was newly amazed at the delicacy with which the man used them. 'They come along a bit slower than when you had the training of them. No Welsh fairy tales to inspire them.' Lief kept his eyes on his work, but Owen could see the smile beneath the red beard.

Bertold handed Owen a tankard. 'You're looking in need of this.'

Owen accepted it with thirsty gratitude and drained it in one gulp. His friends cheered and slapped him on the back.

'So. You may talk fancy, but you still drink like one of us. Do you bring us good news?' Bertold asked in a more serious tone. 'I'd welcome you to take back this thankless burden. I never asked to be Captain of Archers.'

'Sorry, old friend. I'm to leave on a mission to the North Country, and I'd a mind to see my old comrades before I started.'

Lief blew into the reed, clearing out the dust, held it up to the firelight, squinted into it, then leaned close to Owen, lowering his voice. 'So what's Gaunt's business up north, then? Highlanders, is it?'

'It's not for him,' Owen said. 'For the Lord Chancellor and Archbishop of York.'

Thoresby?' Gaspare sounded surprised.

'Aye.'

Bertold shook his head. 'Churchmen are queer ones to ferret out. How come you to be working for him?'

'The old Duke recommended me to His Grace.'

Ned studied him thoughtfully. The eye's no better?'

Owen shook his head. 'Nor is it likely to be.'

'You could still be Captain of Archers,' Bertold said quickly.

'I haven't changed my mind about that. Nor will I.'

Bertold shrugged.

'I did also have news for any of his old mates about Sir Oswald Fitzwilliam. Do you know who they might be?'

Bertold frowned. 'News about Fitzwilliam?'

'Aye.'

'What's the bastard got into now?' Lief snarled.

'He's dead.'

Ned leaned forward. 'Oh, aye? And who do we thank for that?'

'I couldn't say. Camp fever. Bad case of it struck him down at St. Mary's Abbey in York.'

'Pah.' Lief spat into the rushes at his feet. 'And when was he near a camp, I'd like to know?'

'He'd seen no action?'

Ned laughed. 'Depends on what kind you mean. He'd had his fill of hand-to-hand from sticking his nose where it wasn't wanted.'

'A spy?'

They all grew quiet.

'I take no offence. I had little time for spies when I was one of you.'

Bertold slapped him on the knee. 'You'll ever be one of us.'

Owen held up his tankard. 'Then pour me another.'

They proceeded to get bleary-eyed while they talked.

'And so Fitzwilliam's dead, is he?' Ned said, coming back round to Owen's news.

That's what I heard.'

Lief spat again into the rushes. 'And good riddance.'

'You had trouble with him?'

'Trouble? Pah. Nothing he touched but didn't turn to trouble.'

Ned kicked Lief's boot. 'Still sore over fair Alice?'

'Hmpf. That whore. I'm better off without her. She would have knifed me in my sleep some night. The type.'

Gaspare leaned over to Owen. 'Was going to marry her, see. Till he smelled that whore's son in her bed.'

Lief got to his feet with a roar, making as if to smash Gaspare's head with his fist. Bertold pushed him back down on the bench.

'Silly girl. She'd have been better off with Lief.'

'Fitzwilliam married her?'

'Married?' Bertold grinned. 'He's the ward of your new lord. But then you'd know that. Why would he be wanting to marry the likes of Alice, a kitchen maid?'

'Ah.'

'I've known worse than him.' Gaspare shrugged. 'But how'd you come to know him, Captain? He came after you'd gone up the table.'

'I heard of him at Thoresby's table. As you say, His Grace's ward.'

'What was he doing at an abbey?' Lief asked.

They say he'd gone on pilgrimage to York.'

'Aye,' said Gaspare. 'He left before Christmastide. Before we left the Savoy.'

'That long ago? He arrived in York much later.'

Ned shook his head. 'Only a fool such as he would travel north in winter.'

'Aye,' said Bertold. 'The Duchess called Lord March mad for travelling that route to fetch his lady.'

'Now there could lie a story,' Ned said. 'Fitzwilliam knew Lord March's lady well. He heads north to see her, the husband follows. Are you sure it was camp fever killed him?'

' Tis the story I heard. But I know nothing of this lady. He was to see her on his way?'

Ned shrugged. 'Who's to say? Lord March has a holding south of York. At Christmastide the Duchess named his lady, Jocelyn, to be part of her household. So he hied himself north to fetch her straightaway, though the Duchess said 'twas a cruel thing to make her travel through the freezing mud, that she could come at Easter. But he'd have none of that, greedy bastard. The stipend doesn't begin until she's in residence, you see. He was loath to lose pay while she dallied up north until Eastertide.'

Gaspare snorted. 'Daily's the right word for what she's about, from what I hear.'

Owen felt hopeful. If it proved so easy as this, that Fitzwilliam had gone north, stopped with this Lady Jocelyn, and been seriously wounded by her jealous lord, then his investigation might be concluded with no need to spend February on the road north. 'So this Lady Jocelyn is now at Kenilworth?'

'Aye,' Gaspare said. 'You'll see her sitting high with the other ladies-in-waiting this evening. And Lord March holding forth nearby.'

Lady Jocelyn stared off into the ether with a bored expression while a companion chattered on about the weather. Owen would have chosen the pleasant-faced companion over Fitzwilliam's mistress. Lady Jocelyn had a charming, childlike face, rounded and dimpled and dotted with a rosebud mouth, but her eyes were flinty. She regarded him as he approached, calculating his worth to her, Owen guessed. The tiny mouth smiled.

'My Lady Jocelyn.' He bowed to her.

She put a hand to her bosom, her dress fashionably low, revealing much, and averted her eyes momentarily, but they returned to regard him with a predatory attention. 'You are a guest of the Duke?'

'A retainer of the old Duke, here to collect my belongings. I am now in the household of the Lord Chancellor.'

That lit a small spark in the eyes. A member of a powerful household. 'Your name, sir?'

'Owen Archer, my lady.'

'You sought a word with me?'

'I have a message for you from' — Owen looked at the companion, then back to Jocelyn — 'an old acquaintance.'

A faint flush. 'I am afraid my duties consume my days, from tending to my lady's wardrobe to walking her lapdog in midmorning, out beyond the rose garden. That alone takes up most of the morning till the noon meal.'

'Then it is that activity I must praise for putting such enchanting roses in your cheeks, though it keeps you so busy. Perhaps I will have the good fortune to see you on one of your walks. I often walk out to be alone with my thoughts.' Owen bowed to her, then to her companion, 'My ladies’ and withdrew.

Bertold called to him as he moved to go out into the night. 'Share a tankard with us.'

Owen shook his head, knowing that they would get maudlin about the old days and drink until they could barely stumble back to their cots. He would wake on the morrow with the devil's hammer pounding in his head and a mouth as dry as the sands of Hell. He did not wish to meet with the Lady Jocelyn in such state.

'I can sit no more, my friend. I must walk off the journey so I can sleep lying still tonight.'

'A word to a friend, then. Watch yourself with Lady Jocelyn. Lord March is ambitious. He will look the other way if his lady plays with the powerful, but not with a servant of the household, no matter how well you speak.'

Bertold had tossed out the right bait. As Owen sat down with his friend, he sent up a silent prayer that he could glean what he needed from Bertold this night and get away before the past came pouring over him in a great wave of ale. Already his head ached from the earlier tankards.

'The lady's a bit round in the face and dull-witted for your tastes, I would ha' thought,' said Bertold.

'And where is this Lord March I'm to be wary of?'

Bertold nodded his head towards the table to the left of the Duke's high table. 'The bald one with the mouth.'

Lord March was the focus of attention at the table, leaning across it to yell, red-faced, at a smirking companion. He was a tall, lanky man in the latest fashion, sleeves so wide their ends were lost in the rushes at his feet, leggings so tight it was plain for all to see that his argument not only engrossed but aroused him.

'He looks a character.'

'At the moment he's favoured by the right people, so I for one would not cross him.'

'Gaunt favours him?'

'He has a canny mind for contracts.'

'I'll watch my step.'

The morning sun was hot on Owen's face, though the air was sharp and a brisk wind got under his clothes to chill what the sun could not reach. The scar on his face burned and tugged in the cold, dry air, and the need to squint in the brightness made it worse. He'd a mind to return to the pallet he'd made up in Bertold's room and waste the day away in sleep, but he had his job, he must follow it through. As he passed along the beds of the kitchen garden, Owen sensed eyes on him, but the only person in sight was an old servant raking the path. Owen paused several times to break off a sprig and smell the familiar herbs. He favoured spicy, tangy herbs. His mother had fed them a mash of rosemary and sage in winter to keep their blood hot. She'd prepared it in a wooden bowl that carried the scent of the mash year round.

A long time since he'd thought about that. Odd how the scent of a plant could make him feel as if he could reach out and touch his mother's face. Her smooth, soft skin. Her coarse, curly hair, like his, only silver and bronze. Ten years or more since he'd seen her. Her hair would be all silver now, or white. Her cheeks and eyes sunken. She would look old and weary. But he was quite sure she was still alive. He would know if she had died, if his mother's strong spirit had passed from this world. Wouldn't he? Best not to dwell on it.

The paths of the rose garden were wider than those of the kitchen garden, and edged with river rocks. Here the Duchess would stroll with her maidens and sit on a sunny spring day. The paths twined among themselves and met at an urn that was empty now but for a few dry leaves that skittered in jagged circles within the bowl. In the beds, the brown twigs that would fill out and bloom in summer were heaped with straw. A smell of decay hung in the air. Depressing. He hurried through.

The holly hedge that bordered the rose garden was a welcome goal, its dark green leaves shining and bristling like men at arms awaiting battle. Or were the bright red berries spots of blood? Were they standing at attention at the end of the slaughter, hoping that their lord would notice their many wounds and give them leave to take ship home? Owen shook off the thought. What a gloom this winter garden laid over his soul. Or was it last night's ale?

As Owen passed under the holly arch, he again sensed eyes at his back. And again, spinning round, he saw nothing.

A long way ahead of him, on a pathway between pruned fruit trees, Lady Jocelyn led a dog so pampered that its belly cleaned the path beneath it as it waddled along. It was clear that the dog wished to maintain a much slower pace than the lady permitted, for she tugged at the jewelled leash every few steps. Lady Jocelyn was headed for the maze. Owen hurried, not wanting to lose her. He'd been in the maze only once, and that had convinced him that one walked in a maze only with someone who knew it well. His approach alerted the dog. It pricked up its ears and began to yap, digging its paws into the dirt of the path. Lady Jocelyn glanced back, gave a little wave when she saw Owen, and then inexplicably picked up the yapping dog and hurried into the maze.

Owen halted, perplexed. Had she for some reason changed her mind about granting an interview? Had he misunderstood? Had she misunderstood? His scar was pulling, and the chill made standing still unpleasant. Sleeping off the aftershocks of the ale seemed a better idea all he time. But should he give up so easily? Perhaps he would walk to the entrance of the maze and call her name. If she did not answer, he would turn round and indulge himself.

As he approached, the dog resumed its yapping, farther and farther into the maze. Lady Jocelyn was not waiting for him at the entrance. He almost turned back. What good was it to call to her? He would hardly be heard over the yapping dog. But he must question the lady sometime.

Owen stepped through the sentinel yews and came face to face with the angry eyes of Lord March. He looked much larger in his fur-lined cloak and draped fur hat.

'Are you following Lady March?' he demanded. His voice had a most impressive resonance.

'Following? It was not my purpose, Lord March, but seeing her tugging at the little beast, I thought I might lend a hand.'

The face was getting closer. Owen did not like its colour. Too red for reason. 'You would follow a young woman into the privacy of the maze unchaperoned?'

Owen wanted to laugh. The dog would hardly allow for much dalliance. But he groped instead for a calming comment. It was at such times that he cursed himself for not pursuing his original plan, connecting himself to an Italian noble as a mercenary. That life would not have involved verbal duels. Perhaps humility was what Lord March desired. Owen made a little bow. 'Forgive me. I see how it appeared to you. I did not mean to insult Lady Jocelyn's virtue in any way.'

Lord March grew redder. His beady eyes were now so close to Owen's face that he could see the red trails of last night's brandywine. 'You spoke with her at table last night.'

Dear God, here it came. The truth just might get him out of this if it weren't about Lady Jocelyn's dead lover. Owen thought quickly. 'Last night. Aye. To be honest, it was that I wanted to apologize for. You see, my mates dared me to seek a word with her, the lovely new lady-in-waiting. They fortified me with ale and sent me off with the lie that she was unmarried. She soon set me straight about that. This morning I feel a fool.'

'So you thought to dally with my lady, did you?'

A fist met Owen's face. He couldn't believe it. Lord March had come out here for a brawl? His punch had grazed Owen's chin. Now he seemed to be aiming for his patch. Owen caught the arm that was raised to him and punched Lord March in the mouth. That set him back long enough to give Owen a chance to feel his jaw and reassure himself that any bruising would be hidden by his beard. He disliked the idea of travelling with signs of a recent brawl. One did not get good service at the inn with bruises and an eye patch. Lord March turned back for another go. Owen grabbed the man's arms and was embarrassed by how easily he held him still.

'I do not wish to continue this, my lord. I assure you that you have no cause to fight me. I have not injured your name in any way.'

The beady eyes smouldered with resentment. What cursed luck. Owen had hoped to learn enough about Fitzwilliam in this company that he might satisfy Thoresby without journeying north. Now he would have to leave without much to go on, for surely he had sufficiently insulted Lord March with his superior strength that the man would make it his business to get Owen killed. Or at least seriously injured.

'You are Thoresby's man, I hear,' Lord March said. 'Get you back to London and away from my lady, or I'll have you torn limb from limb.'

Owen gingerly let go the man's arms and backed up a few steps, bowed, and tried once more to explain. But it only evinced a howl of rage from the obviously mad Lord March.

Now what? If Owen turned and walked away, the ridiculous man might attack him with a weapon. Lord March did not seem rational enough to care whether he attacked from behind or not. But standing here was no good. And backing all the way to the rose garden seemed unwise.

Owen need not have concerned himself. Lord March decided the next step by lunging at Owen with a knife. Well aimed, too, for a vulnerable spot. His left shoulder.

'Damn you!' Owen cried, kicking the knife out of March's hand and punching him below the belt with all the fury that he felt for the lunatic bastard who'd reopened the wound he'd worked so hard to heal. As Lord March doubled over in pain, Owen drove another fist into the man's jaw. Lord March fell back and lay on the path, bleeding from the mouth. Most likely he'd bitten his tongue.

Owen tossed the knife into the yew hedge and strode angrily away, keeping a tight grip on his wounded shoulder to stem the bleeding.