The Apothecary Rose

Five

Up in his room, Owen sat down on the stool beneath the window and ripped off his patch to massage the scar tissue around the eye. He rubbed hard. The skin was tight from the cold ride north, and needlepricks of pain shot through the eye itself from time to time. Five days he'd travelled, through freezing rain and snow. Only fools travelled north in mid-February. He searched through his pack for the salve that eased the tightness. He had only enough for one day. A natural purpose for visiting the apothecary.

He bided his time, shaking out his extra shirt and leggings, easing his feet out of his boots for a bit. They stank. He stank. He must ask about the public baths. When he saw no one at any windows opposite, nor down below, he leaned out the window and studied the apothecary's garden. Tidy, laid out in an unusual fashion. More variety than in most such. It looked like a monastery garden. Behind a holly hedge, what must be a potting shed. He could just see the back of the house. A door that led into the garden, one window below, two above. A modest but comfortable house.

Down below, Bess Merchet bellowed an order. Owen grinned. She could be useful to him. And he liked her. Sharp-witted, bold, comely for the mother of grown children — bright red hair, a round but compact body — and a nice sense of humour. Little could get past her. She must know all the gossip worth knowing.

He put on his boots and patch and went downstairs with his salve pot and money pouch.

'You'll be hungry,' was Bess's greeting. She motioned to him to sit down at a trestle table. 'Kit! A trencher and stew. And some of the new ale.'

A man came through the back door, carrying a bucket. He nodded to Owen. 'Tom Merchet.' Younger than Bess by a few years, burly, with friendly eyes. 'You'll be Master Archer.'

'Aye. Call me Owen, if you will. I trust I'll be with you awhile.'

Tom put down the bucket and went over to fill a tankard with ale. Setting it down in front of Owen, he stood back, arms folded. 'Go on. Taste ale. See if it's not better than any in London.'

Owen took a good long drink, then set the tankard down with a hearty thud. He nodded, smiled. 'I'd heard tales of York Tavern ale, but none did it justice.' He meant it.

Tom nodded and went out.

A young woman brought the food. Bess followed close behind. 'Go on now, Kit, have your meal in the back.' The girl scuttled out.

Owen ate the stew with relish. All the while Bess hovered nearby, moving benches, fussing with cobwebs. He finished, downed the rest of the ale, and pushed the bench away from the table.

'You've made a fast friend, praising his ale so high’ Bess said.

'I like to give praise where it's due. I've never had better inn fare. The stew was fit for a lord's table. Archers, even captains of archers, do not often partake of such fare.'

The herbs and some of the vegetables are from the Wilton garden. Nicholas has always been generous with me.'

'He's the apothecary?'

'Aye. Round the corner on Davygate.'

'A good apothecary?'

Bess sniffed. 'The best in the North Country.'

Owen noted the qualifier. Not the kingdom, but the North Country. Not an exaggerator. She did not claim there were none better even in London.

'I need a salve for the eye.'

A mischievous grin lit Bess's face. 'They'll fix you up.'

'Why do you smile?'

Bess shrugged. ' 'Tis nothing. I think of a dozen things at once.'

The sly gleam in her eye made Owen uneasy. He had to be careful. 'Now let me give you the fortnight's rent before I explore the city.'

Bess tucked the money in her apron pocket and smiled to herself. It would not be a bad thing for Lucie to encounter a charming rogue. Have an adventure while her ageing, ailing husband was abed. It would warm Lucie's blood, fortify her for the times ahead. Bess knew that Lucie Wilton would catch Owen Archer's eye. She was fair, straight-backed, slender, with clear blue eyes and an engaging smile — a smile seen too seldom these days.

Owen reminded Bess of her first husband, Will, a clerk in Scarborough with an eye for the girls. Bess had snared Will with her coppery curls and bold tongue. It was Will had taught her to read and write. Bright Will. Handsome Will.

Bess knew what it was like to nurse a dying husband and fear for the future. She had buried two husbands, both beloved. The fathers of her children. Poor Lucie did not even have the comfort of children.

Owen Archer might be just the man to lift Lucie's spirits.

But the timing of his arrival disturbed Bess. He suited the Wiltons' needs too well.

Owen did not mean to chat with the apothecary, merely to meet him and get a sense of the man. The door of the apothecary was ajar.

A woman stood behind the counter, measuring powder into a pouch for a customer who paced back and forth, complaining about the weather. The customer was well dressed, though his speech had the rough edges of the North Country. Most likely a merchant. He did not seem at all put out about being helped by a young woman whom Owen assumed to be the apothecary's daughter.

The woman glanced up at Owen. Looked again, with a hint of uneasiness. He was sorry for that, for she was a comely young woman, fine-featured and with clear eyes. But he could imagine what she saw. A scarred stranger in road-dusted leather. Trouble. And perhaps she was right. He waited until the merchant had departed, then approached the counter. She studied him evenly, her eyes pausing on the scar that spread out from beneath the patch across his cheekbone.

'Is the Master about?'

She bristled. 'Not at the moment. What can I do for you?'

Stupid. He knew the Master was bedridden. And the question had gotten him off to a bad start with her. 'Do you have a salve of boneset and comfrey? My scar tightens and draws with the winter wind.'

She reached over the counter and touched his cheek.

He grinned, delighted. 'You have a gentle touch.'

She withdrew her hand as if he'd burned her. 'It is obviously difficult for you, but you must think of me as an apothecary.' Her eyes smouldered, her voice chilled.

Cheeky daughter, to call herself an apothecary. 'Forgive me. I found your touch disconcerting.'

'Sweet words — '

'I did ask your forgiveness.'

She nodded. 'Honey and calendula. They are the best softeners. Ask any court lady.'

'Softening. Aye. That's what it's needing. But something also to soothe the fire that returns now and again. To the scar, that is.' He grinned.

She did not. Her blue eyes had a granite glint to them.

He withdrew the grin, coughed. 'Sorry again.'

'I can add something to cool the skin.' She cocked her head to one side, still with the even gaze. 'Your speech has an odd music. You are not from the North Country.'

'Wales is my mother country. And the scar was got in the King's service.'

'A soldier?'

He could see that displeased her. He was not doing at all well.

'No more. I've seen the error of my ways.' He beamed his most disarming smile.

'You are fortunate’ Spoken without a hint of being charmed.

'It is my excuse for being clumsy with women.' York women in particular.

She smiled — politely — and stepped away to mix the salve. Owen watched her, noting how fluid were her movements, how graceful and sure. Her hair was tucked up in a clean white kerchief, baring a long, slender neck. He wished he had two eyes to feast on her.

She bristled as she turned back to him. 'Have I grown horns?'

He reddened, realising how he'd stared. But surely she recognised adoration. He refused to apologise. He'd done nothing to offend her. But he did change the subject. 'I noticed the garden gate.' He gestured towards the door. 'Do you keep bees?'

'Bees?'

'For the honey in the salve.'

'No. No hives. I would like to, but I've no time to tend them with my husband ill. We get our honey from the abbey. St. Mary's. You are a gardener?'

Her husband? Surely this was not Mistress Wilton. 'I was a gardener in another lifetime.'

She looked puzzled. What clear blue eyes she had. How they bored into his soul.

'When I was a boy in Wales.'

'Ah. You are a long way from home.'

'A long way indeed.' He loved those eyes.

She cleared her throat and nodded towards the pot he clutched.

'Oh. Aye.' He handed it to her.

With a flattened spoon she measured out the salve. Exactly one measure.

'You've a practised eye.'

'Five years as my husband's apprentice’ she said with quiet pride.

There it was again. Then you must be Mistress Wilton.' She nodded. How disappointing. Married, and to the man he hoped would employ him. He offered his hand. 'Owen Archer. I am staying at the York, so we'll be neighbours for a while.'

She hesitated, then shook his hand. A firm, warm shake. 'We're pleased to have your trade, Master Archer. The Merchets will take good care of you.'

'You said your husband is ill?'

Her face closed up. She handed him his salve. 'Be sparing of this. It is a strong medicine.'

He regretted the question. 'I will be careful.'

The shop bell jingled. As the fair Mistress Wilton looked beyond him to the doorway, the colour drained from her face.

Owen turned to see what wretch disturbed her. The Summoner, Potter Digby. Owen had acquired a second shadow.

Mistress Wilton did not move. Owen picked up the salve pot. 'I've been using what I had twice daily. Is that appropriate for the new mixture?'

The blue eyes moved, focused on him. Colour returned to the cheeks. 'Twice daily? It must bother you very much. How long since you were wounded?'

'Three years.'

The Summoner stepped up to the counter on Owen's left side. His blind side. Sneaking wretch. Owen controlled himself. With a slow, casual air he rested his right elbow on the counter and turned to look at Digby.

The Summoner nodded at Owen, then said to Mistress Wilton, 'I inquire after the health of Master Wilton. God grant he is better?'

'He improves with each day, Master Summoner. Thank you for your good wishes.'

Owen noted that as much as he had irritated her, she had not sounded nearly so cold as this. He hoped she never used such a tone with him.

Digby seemed oblivious. 'I remember Master Wilton in my prayers.'

'We are most grateful.'

No, they weren't. At least she wasn't, that was plain.

'God be with you.' The Summoner bowed slightly and slithered out the door.

A riddle. A visit from the Summoner would be welcome by few, but Mistress Wilton's reaction was beyond distaste. It seemed she and the Summoner had old business. Owen tucked the incident away to digest later.

Mistress Wilton held on to the countertop, her knuckles white. She closed her eyes. Opened them. Seemed surprised to see Owen still there. He hated himself for bringing that shadow with him into the shop.

'An unpleasant character,' Owen said.

'They say he is good at his job.'

'Why should a Summoner smell of fish?'

'It's his mother. She lives on the river.'

'Oh, aye. A midwife, I think.'

Mistress Wilton tensed. 'Why would a stranger know about her?'

Damn his tongue. 'I encountered the Summoner earlier. I was told he was the son of the Riverwoman.'

Mistress Wilton nodded.

'But the fishy smell. Surely he does not live with her? As Summoner he would live close to the minster?'

'Yes, he lives in the city. But, being unwed, he has his mother see to his clothes.' Mistress Wilton glanced at the beaded curtain in the doorway behind her. 'I must check on Master Wilton.'

'Of course. Thank you for the salve, Mistress Wilton.' Owen put a shilling on the counter. 'Will this cover it?'

'That would pay for six such pots, Master Archer. Two pennies will suffice.'

He put out the appropriate change. 'I hope your husband truly does improve with each day.'

She smiled a wan smile. There was a sadness about Mistress Wilton that he found intriguing.

Outside, Owen paused at the gate that led around back to the garden. If all went well, he would be spending his days near the fair Mistress Wilton. He would exercise all his charm on the Guildmaster to make that so.

Owen returned to the inn to ask directions to the public baths. He expected to need a bath more than ever after his visit with Magda Digby.

Alone again in the shop, Lucie fought against trembling hands and fears that threatened to distract her from her work. A life was in her hands. Alice Baker's sleeping draught must not be too strong. Lucie must stay clear-headed. But why had the Summoner come? Did he know something? The Summoner could destroy them. Would Archdeacon Anselm allow that? Surely he loved Nicholas too much for that. And Potter Digby was too much a toady to antagonise the Archdeacon. At least she prayed that he was. How wretched to be grateful about the Archdeacon's unnatural love for her husband.

Enough of this. Brother Wulfstan had nothing to gain by telling anyone but her. The Summoner could not know. Nor could the Archdeacon. She forced her thoughts away from her troubles and finished the draught, labelled it. As she put it aside, her hand brushed the honey pot, still down on the counter from mixing the stranger's salve. Reaching to set the pot back on the shelf, Lucie remembered how her skin had tingled as she'd taken it down, feeling his dark eye on her. She had felt the heat of his gaze right through the tightly woven wool of her dress. She had never felt so aware of her own flesh. Thank God he'd kept the other eye covered.

Lucie blushed at her thoughts. Blessed Mary and all the saints, she was a married woman. And this Owen Archer had insulted her. He'd treated her as if she were a silly girl. As if she didn't belong behind the counter. Nicholas had never treated her that way.

Jehannes was right about the mud. While Owen planned his strategy, he watched several people slip and slide down the bank beyond St. Mary's water tower. Then he was rewarded for his wait. A woman with a babe in arms managed the descent without mishap, walking on a path that was not immediately apparent. It zigzagged down the slope among rocks and scrubby bushes a bit away from the tower. Took longer than the other, slippery path, but Owen was not as surefooted as he'd once been. He did not relish tumbling down the slope. So he marked the woman's route and followed it as faithfully as possible. It was slow going with the one eye. He had to sweep his good eye back and forth along the path before him. But at last he stepped down onto the riverbank. Down there the mud had frozen into ridges in places, was soggy in others. Owen understood why people walked past him with their heads down, keeping their eyes on their footing. It was cold enough without a dip in the mud. Owen felt the damp down here by the river through all his leather clothes and his new boots. Surely no one would ever choose to live down here.

He looked round for the house on the rise in the mud. What he saw were rickety compositions of driftwood, mud, and twigs. Close to the abbey walls the hovels crowded together, then thinned upriver. Then he saw it, an odd structure, its roof a boat turned upside down so that a carved sea serpent on the prow peered down at a strange angle. By the door sat a woman swathed in rags of many colours, all mud-bedimmed, whittling at what looked like a mandrake root. This must be the Riverwoman.

Owen had come up with a reason to speak with her on his walk down here, but seeing her with the knife in her hand gave him second thoughts. He considered retracing his steps and returning another day, when he'd prepared a better introduction. But it was too late, she had glanced up and now fixed a keen eye on him.

'Goodwife Digby?' Owen asked, removing his cap.

'Goodwife.' She nodded and laughed, a queer, barking sound. Her lungs were probably affected by the river damp. 'Naught call me that but want favours. Hast thou a favour to beg, Bird-eye?'

Owen was momentarily taken aback by her blunt reference to his affliction. But why should he expect courtesy in such a place? 'Aye, so I do come seeking a favour.'

'Lost thine eye in the wars, eh?'

She'd played right into his hands. 'Not lost. There's still an eye beneath this patch.'

'And thou wouldst know whether Magda can make thee see again?'

He nodded.

She rose with some huffing and muttering, stuck the knife in a pouch tied around her middle, and motioned him inside with the hand that still held the root. A welcome, though smoky, fire greeted him. He had to stoop to avoid the roots and plants hanging from the rafters.

'You can dry these down here by the river?'

'The fire keeps it dry. Good for roots, good for bones. It will cost thee for Magda to look at the eye, even if she can do nothing.'

He put a silver coin on a table by the fire. 'That's for looking. I'll pay in gold for healing.'

She looked him up and down. 'Thou art well set up. Good clothes, plenty coin. Why come to Magda's sort?'

'A lady friend recommended you. You helped her.'

Magda shrugged. 'A midwife. Has naught to do with eyes.'

'Then I have wasted your time.'

'Nay.' She motioned him over to the fire. 'Let Magda see.'

He sat down so his head might be level with hers, lifted the patch, and leaned back.

She bent over him, smelling richly of river and earth. Her hands were grimy. But her touch was gentle. She examined the eye, then stood back with a sigh. The light's gone from it, though very near wasn't. Thou hast done well to keep the scar from drawing too much. Thou hast done all that can be done.'

Her words brought him down so hard Owen realised he had begun to believe his story, that he had come with hope that she might help him regain his sight. What a fool he was. Why would this grimy, smelly hag know more than Master Roglio?

She sniffed. 'Thou art angry. Tis always the way. And now thou wilt feel Magda is a little to blame for thy blinding. Aye. 'Tis always the way.' She snatched up the silver piece.

'You did not ask my name. Or the name of the woman who told me of you.'

' 'Tis better not to know the names.'

'She found you through a friend of mine.'

The hag squinted at him in the smoky room. 'It's information he seeks, not healing. Magda hears the truth in the voice. Soft, nice voice. Charming Welsh rogue. Arthur's kin, no doubt thou thinkst.' She laughed. 'Get thee gone, Bird-eye. Magda does not need thy kind.'

'I did come for the eye. I have lost my captaincy because of it.'

She looked him up and down again, felt his shoulders. 'Strong Welshman. Thou art an archer, yes?'

'Was.'

'Captain of Archers. Thou'st climbed far. Go back to pulling at the bow, Captain Archer. 'Tis only thy pride keeps thee away. Not as quick and sure as thou mightst have been. Now leave. Magda has charms to carve for folk in need of her.'

While Bess waited at the baker's ovens for the night's bread, she considered Owen Archer. He was a man with a mission, no doubt about it. He had that quiet, still look to him, like a cat standing at the edge of a strange garden, sniffing out the danger, sizing up the competition, eye gliding this way and that, nice and easy, don't want to scare the prey. He might be one-eyed, but she doubted much got past him.

So what was his real business in York? He meant to be here long enough that he needed the cover of employment. He'd been a soldier, an archer, a knave with that earring and his good looks, she'd wager. He was Welsh. He knew something of gardens and medicinal plants. And he could read. That was the odd piece of information stuck on the rest. That and his clothes. New clothes, costlier than an out-of-work soldier could afford. But the scar wasn't new. Two years, maybe three years he'd had it. So what had he done since he quit soldiering? Learned to read? Assisted a surgeon? And what in that could bring him here?

He was connected to the Archbishop somehow.

Soldier. Minster. Bess let those two pieces tumble about in her head while she fussed with the loaves. Kit could not be trusted with more than one light basket, she was too busy gawking to watch her step, so Bess had to carry two fully loaded ones. Between the weight of the baskets and Kit's pokiness, it was dusk before they got back to the inn, and Tom was aflutter, setting up for the evening.

'Who's been in while I was gone?' she asked Tom over a cup of ale. It was their custom to fortify themselves for the busy hours ahead.

'Summoner Digby, asking about Owen Archer. Told him he should speak with gentleman himself. Master Archer would be down here for ale sometime, he could be sure.'

Bess wished she'd been here. 'What did Digby say?'

Tom shrugged. 'Just wanted to know if we'd taken in a one-eyed stranger. I asked why he wanted to know. It it was Summoner business. He said maybe, he weren't at liberty to say. Pah.' Tom spat into the fire. 'Putting on airs. Man stinks of fish. Where's he sleep, I ask you?'

Bess closed her eyes, feeling the heat of the ale and the hearth fire after her afternoon out in the chill. So Owen might have business with Archdeacon Anselm. Most of the Archdeacon's time was spent collecting money to complete the minster.

'And that's all?'

'Aye, he left directly.'

'Anyone else?'

'Owen Archer himself came in and left again. Asked about baths. Road dirt. Told him he'd get fever, taking unnecessary baths. Now Digby, he could use one.'

'Did he go off to the baths, then?' Bess asked, impatient to know all of it.

'I gave directions. He went out.' Tom put down his cup and leaned close to Bess. 'Here now, wife. What you be thinking about this Owen Archer?'

Bess checked that they were alone. 'I think he's looking for someone or something. Something to do with the minster, I suspect. Maybe some soldier's money didn't make it to the minster coffers?' She shrugged. 'I don't know.'

Tom grinned. 'I know my Bess. You'll have it all figured soon enough.'