The Apothecary Rose

Four

The journey from Kenilworth to York was as unpleasant as a Channel crossing. Owen thought on the pilgrims dead at the abbey and found it easy to dismiss their deaths as the result of travelling to this godforsaken country in winter. By day, the damp north wind howled in his ears, battered his face, chilled him through his warmest clothes. By night, wolves added their hungry cries to the wind's demon voice. The journey would have gone more pleasantly as part of a company of soldiers. Or at least in the company of Bertold, Lief, Ned, and Gaspare. As often as that thought arose, Owen fought it. His soldiering days were over. He must forget that life.

Owen arrived in York weary, cold, and predisposed to hate the city. He entered from the south, through Micklegate Bar, across Ouse Bridge with its stench of fishmongers and public privy, through King's Square and up Petergate, making first for the minster to present himself to Thoresby's cleric. The city was a warren of narrow streets darkened by jutting second storeys, stinking of night waste and garbage, much like London and Calais. He wondered how so many fools could be coerced into living in this crowded place, huddled up against the north wind that howled off the moors.

But the minster impressed him. It would be a great cathedral when finished. He stood back and gazed upward, imagining the spires that would crown the two square towers at the front. At least the Yorkshiremen knew how to give thanks to the Lord for seeing them through the long winter.

A dour-faced cleric led Owen to the Archbishop's chambers, after attempts to direct him failed. Neither could understand the other's accent. As Owen entered the chambers, an odd character slithered past. Short, wiry, with olive skin and lank hair, sly, watery eyes, heavy-lidded. A fishy odour lingered after he'd slipped out the door. Not the sort one expected to find in the Archbishop's chambers.

It was a relief to find Jehannes, the Archbishop's clerk, a pleasant-faced young man with a quiet, watchful air. 'His Grace will be pleased you've arrived safely. The Scots are a plague to the winter traveller up here.'

'I met few fools out on the road but the thieves in the forest.'

A little smile. 'Your accent will worry the folk who think all who speak oddly are Scots brigands. I see why Canon Guthrum watched you so closely.'

'His Grace forgot to warn me of that. I will try to smooth out my speech.'

Jehannes placed two documents on the table. One bore the Archbishop's seal, the other a seal Owen did not recognise. The cleric pushed the latter towards Owen. 'Master Roglio provides you with a letter of introduction to the Abbot of St. Mary's. The Infirmarian admires Roglio. This might loosen his tongue.'

'So you know of my purpose here?'

A slight nod. 'I do not envy you your task. You will not find it easy to wrest information out of Yorkshiremen. Even the city variety.'

'And the other document?'

'An introduction to the Master of the Merchant's Guild, Camden Thorpe. I will send it tomorrow. There might be a position for you at Wilton's apothecary, off St. Helen's Square. Close to the minster and the abbey.'

'A position?'

'Your disguise. The apothecary was taken ill at Christmastide. Confined to bed with a palsy. His Grace thought you might assist Mistress Wilton. Your experience with the camp doctor makes you credible in such a post.'

Owen liked the prospect. 'How will I know the Guildmaster's response?'

'I will send word to your lodgings.'

Owen perked up. 'Lodgings. Now that's a subject I've thought long on. A hot meal and a warm bed. Where might these lodgings be?'

Jehannes looked apologetic. 'I'm afraid I am not certain. His Grace thinks it unwise to put you up here, even for the first night. You do not want to be associated with any authority, you see. I suggest you see Bess Merchet at the York Tavern. It's next to Wilton's apothecary. If she has no room to spare, trust her to find you some place where you'll be able to sleep without a weapon at hand.'

'A friendly city, is it?'

'Not for strangers. And certainly not for someone with an odd speech.'

'You do not make me eager to meet the folk of York.'

'It does not help to be overconfident.'

'I noticed a singular character exiting.'

The cleric thought back to his last visitor. Totter Digby, Archdeacon Anselm's Summoner.'

The match tickled Owen. Summoner was the job of a weasel, and Potter Digby looked like nothing so much as that sly creature. 'He looks like he was bred for the job.'

Jehannes covered up a laugh with a cough. 'I understand I am to provide you with any additional funds.'

Hint taken, Owen completed his business without further attempts at gossip, but as he crossed to the door he paused. The name Digby. Could it be a coincidence? 'How would I find the midwife they call the Riverwoman?' He would keep the name out of it for now.

Jehannes looked surprised. 'What business could you have with her? Have you a woman in distress?'

Owen shook his head. 'Fitzwilliam had business with her shortly before he arrived at St. Mary's.'

'Ah.' Jehannes nodded. 'You'll find a footpath that leads down to the river on the far side of St. Mary's. I would go in daylight.'

'Oh?'

'Slippery, down there by the river.'

'The footing or the folk?'

Jehannes allowed himself a smile. 'Both.'

'So while I'm watching my step, how do I find this woman?'

'Her shack is out on a grassy rock in the mud flat. When the river rises, she has her own island.'

'Does she have a name?'

'Magda Digby. The Summoner's mother.'

'Interesting.'

'They are an interesting family, yes.'

As Owen stepped outside, a sound to his left made him pause, breath held. He turned, ready for an attack. With his good eye he glimpsed a man slipping around the corner of the building. A fishy smell lingered behind. Owen grinned. Seemed he'd kindled the weasel's curiosity.

The York Tavern provided a good living to Bess Merchet and her husband, Tom. The clientele had improved since Bess took over the running of the tavern eight years ago, when she came there as a wife. She beat out the vermin, human and otherwise, and scrubbed and repaired until the inn was clean and respectable. Right away Tom saw her worth and handed over the reins, and the tavern with its modest set of inn rooms flourished.

The stranger came as Bess stirred the last bit of seasoning into the stew she'd made for her neighbours.

Well now, she thought as he stood in the doorway deciding whether to enter, there's a story to him, and a good one, I'll wager. Tall, broad-shouldered, a soldier of some sort. Leather leggings and vest, good boots, a heavy cloak thrown back over one shoulder. He did not come begging, not this one, though the leather patch over the left eye and the scar running across the cheek might make it tough for him to go a-soldiering now. She liked his dark curls and gold earring. There was a bit of devil in him.

'So, stranger, will you be coming in or do you mean to let all the heat escape into the square?'

He laughed and closed the door behind him. 'Would you be Goodwife Merchet?'

West Country speech. A handicap, but a strong will and a quick wit could rise above that.

'I am Bess Merchet, proprietress. What can I do for you?' She wiped her plump hands on her apron and adjusted her ribboned cap.

'I need a room. I was told at the minster to try here first. I'd find no better in York.'

Bess cocked her head to one side. 'Is your business with the minster?'

'My business is to find work before my money runs out. But not to fear, my good woman, I've a tidy sum tucked away, enough to pay for your best room. The Archbishop himself will vouch for that. It was he distributed my late lord's behests.'

My good woman indeed. As if the ability to pay were all that mattered to an innkeeper. But the Archbishop. Well now. 'What sort of work? You don't look like one trained to a trade or used to a plough.'

'You would be right there. I was a soldier until I lost the use of this eye.' He touched the patch. 'So. Would you be having a room?'

'Not so fast. Bess Merchet makes her decisions in good time.' He looked surprised. Used to obedient women. But that was his soldiering. He seemed a decent sort, all in all. 'Who was your liege lord?'

'The late Duke of Lancaster.'

'Ah. Ousted by Gaunt the upstart, eh?' A source of good stories. She liked that. Good for business in the tavern. Tell me now, is the Duchess Blanche as beautiful as the ballads say?'

'Oh, aye. And you'd be hard put to find a gentler, more courteous lady in all King Edward's realm.'

'So why doesn't the Archbishop find you work?'

He gave her his most dazzling smile. 'I promise you I can pay my way.'

So he thought he'd turn her head with a smile? Lovely it was, but she was no more fool than he. 'You don't want to answer that question?'

He let the smile fade. 'I have been the puppet of great men long enough. I envy folk like you who can plan ahead, know what's coming.'

Bess sniffed. As if folk had control over their lives.

'As far as anyone can,' he added.

More sensitive than she'd guessed. A good sign. 'So what kind of work can you do?'

'I'm strong and good with plants. It would suit me to be a gardener. And I know a bit about medicines. I assisted the camp doctor after my injury.'

Bess stiffened. She was not one to believe in coincidence. It was no accident brought this Welshman to her door, the very man her neighbours needed. Who had put him on to Lucie's trouble?

'You sound the sort of helper an apothecary would find useful.'

'I thought I would talk with some of the guild-masters.'

'You've not talked with someone already?'

'I thought it best to find lodgings first.'

A cautious man. 'What is your name, Welshman?'

His eye widened, surprised. A grin slowly spread across his face. A sincere grin. 'You've a good ear.'

'Your speech is no challenge.'

'I've been warned the folk here might mistake me for a Highlander.'

'Not Bess Merchet.'

Owen pulled the glove off his right hand and extended his hand in friendship. 'Owen Archer's the name.'

Bess shook his hand. Warm, dry, no fear in the hand he proffered. And a strong grip. Well, an archer. He would be strong.

'Now about that room?'

Bess took a deep breath. Common sense told her this man could be trouble, but the handshake won her. And he did look travel-weary. She nodded, decided. 'I've got a room.' She led him up the stairs.

Two pallets, a window, and space to walk — a comfortable room. Even a chest in which to store his pack, and some hooks on which to hang wet outer clothes. Bess stood back to let him take a look.

The dark eye swept the room, then paused at the doorway.

'Across the hall. That's a private room?'

That fool Kit must have left the door open when she finished cleaning. 'It is. But it's not available.'

'I'll pay better than your usual price for it.'

There he went with the money again. Bess shook her head. 'That would not make up for the loss of business. I save it for a regular customer. Otherwise only for short stays in between. What would I do with you when he returns on Monday next?'

'I'll pay double for this room to keep it private.'

Bess frowned. She didn't like folk who threw away their money. Besides, it wasn't right to waste a bed.

'A private room is a rare commodity, Owen Archer. How came you to be so keen on it?'

He said nothing.

She read discomfort in his face. It intrigued her.

'You aren't looking for a place to hide?'

'No.'

She waited, hands on hips. A cart rattled by in the street below. A cat padded down the hallway.

Owen grinned. 'You would make a good interrogator.'

Bess waited.

'It's simple. It's the eye and my years of training as a soldier. Someone sneaks up on my left.' He spun round. Bess pressed back against the wall. He thrust with an imaginary sword.

'Merciful Mother.' Bess crossed herself.

He retreated, sheathed the invisible sword. 'I do not trust myself if I'm awakened suddenly.'

'I'll have no trouble here’ she warned.

'I will not wittingly cause you trouble.' His voice was level. He looked straight at her with the good eye.

Bess smoothed her apron, patted her ribboned cap, suppressed a smile. Oh, to be ten years younger and of a slightly better class. 'There is a small room, upstairs in the back. I keep it for family visits. It's plain. But it has a window that looks out on the Wiltons' garden.'

The apothecary's garden. Perfect. 'I should not put your family out.'

Bess heard courtesy rather than honesty in Owen's voice. He wanted the room, her family be damned. It rang true. The thought of the extra revenue pleased her. Her husband, Tom, needed a new pair of boots and she had to purchase a donkey for the cart — Flick was getting long in the tooth.

'Don't worry yourself about my children. Their visits are few and far between. And they grew up in a farmhouse — my second husband, Peter, God rest his soul, farmed near Scarborough. They're used to making do. Let me show you the room.'

She apologised for the creaky ladder up to the third floor. She and Tom didn't mind it, but the archer might be used to better.

'I grew up sharing the floor with goats,' he assured her.

'Well, you'll not have to do that here.' She pushed open the low door. He bent over to step in, straightened up inside, stretched his arms overhead. His fingers just brushed the ceiling. He walked over to the window, pushed it open, leaned out, turned with a smile.

'This will suit me, Goodwife Merchet.'

She liked the curl his accent made in her name.

She quoted a rate just slightly more than for the

double room below.

'More than fair. I'll give you a fortnight's fee today.' Bess ran down the list of house rules and left him

to settle himself. She must get that stew over to Lucie.

She resolved not to tell Lucie about Owen just yet. Wait

to see if the handshake proved reliable.

Exhausted, Lucie Wilton nodded off as she sat in the corner of the bedchamber, her head coming to rest on the shop accounts. The room was tiny and close, and Lucie had not slept well since her husband fell ill. Even now, her nap was interrupted by Nicholas's muttering. But it was good he woke her. She had not meant to sleep. She had closed the shop for the midday meal and a chance to go over the accounts. Things tallied well. They had lost no customers to Nicholas's illness. In fact, the books reflected business as usual.

Even the inventory. Nicholas always kept meticulous records of the medicines they dispensed, so that he might improve the efficiency of the garden. He still had to trade for some roots and barks, and buy some of the minerals and gemstones — ground pearl and emerald were popular with some of their wealthier clients — but they got most of the herbs they used from their own garden.

Lucie had taken pains to spread out the fatal dose of aconite in the records, a pinch in this physick, a pinch in that, over a week's time. The books would arouse no suspicion.

But she worried how long she could keep up her pace. She rubbed the back of her neck, sat up slowly, every muscle aching. It was too much, the shop, the household, the garden. She had asked the Guildmaster for an apprentice. Being an apprentice herself, she knew it was unlikely he would agree. He'd been much too courteous to say that to her face, but she knew how it worked. What was sincere was his praise for her work. Not one customer had been turned away since Nicholas took to his bed.

But Lucie paid for it with a weariness that she could no longer ignore. Bess, bless her heart, was only too happy to mother her. She already took care of most of the meals. And she'd taken an armload of mending this morning. No doubt she would clean the house if given a chance. Lucie had given up the fight with dust — a fine layer lay over everything in the house, upstairs and down. But not the shop. That was pristine. She neglected nothing about the shop. Nicholas was proud of her. She was proud of herself. It was one thing to be an apprentice, quite another to be in charge. She enjoyed it, revelled in it, but also feared it. Every minute of every day, with every grain she measured out, she was aware of the trust the people of York placed in her. She held the power of life and death. One slip, one mismeasure could kill. She double- and triple-checked everything, focusing her attention completely on the task at hand.

But she could not keep up such diligence without more sleep. She must sleep. She must have help. If not an apprentice, at least a serving girl.

'Lucie. Are you sleeping at the table?'

She jerked alert and winced as pain radiated from head to neck to arm. But it was good to have Nicholas alert, speaking, knowing her again. His speech was slurred, as if his mouth did not work quite right yet, but understandable. And when the pale eyes lit on her, they saw her, not some phantom, as they had on those first horrible nights.

He had asked if the pilgrim was up and about yet. She had told him that even his physick could not save the man. Nicholas had crossed himself and bowed his head. Lucie prayed she never had to tell him the complete truth.