The Apothecary Rose

Six

Archdeacon Anselm smiled at Jehannes to mask his distaste. The young man did not know his place. He was but the Archbishop's secretary, while Anselm was the Archdeacon of York. But Jehannes had a way of making it clear — oh, quite politely, Anselm could not quote a single discourteous word — of making him feel unimportant, an intruder in the day of a busy, important man.

'You had a visit from a one-eyed stranger,' Anselm began.

Jehannes put aside the letter he'd been studying and folded his hands, giving Anselm his full attention. 'I see your Summoner noted him in passing.'

Arrogant boy. The hint of sarcasm in his voice. The smug set to his full, indelicate lips. 'The stranger's clothes were those of a minor courtier. An emissary from my Lord Thoresby? Is he to visit York soon?'

Jehannes did not move a muscle. His eyes rested on Anselm with insolent calm and unfriendliness. 'You have pressing business with His Grace?'

As if the Archdeacon were to be screened — Anselm controlled himself. 'The Hatfield window. He was to discuss the details with the King.' There. He was involved in financing York's tribute of sympathy to the King on the death of his young son, William of Hatfield. And the King was to choose the subject of the stained glass.

Jehannes reached for a sheet of parchment and his pen. 'I will be happy to write a letter — '

Anselm caught his breath. 'I am capable of penning my own,' he said with his teeth clenched.

Jehannes nodded. 'Indeed.' He put down the pen. 'Well, then, to answer your question, I've no word of an impending visit from His Grace.'

Damn the man. He meant to force Anselm to ask the identity of the stranger. Anselm did not have to stoop to that. He had his own means.

Clean and well fed, Owen might be content to sit in the corner with a tankard of Tom's ale, listening to the idle talk around him. But the camaraderie put him in mind of better times, evenings spent with his men, comparing injuries, teasing new recruits, bragging about their prowess in arms and bed. His upper back, hands, and forearms would be stiff from the bow and trembling with fatigue as he lifted his tankard, but his soul would be at peace after a day of hard work. Bone-weary, calm, at ease with his companions. That was contentment.

Not this. Owen sat tensed, ready for trouble to creep up on his blind side, nervous with energy unspent, irritated by random stabs of sharp, hot pain in his left eye. No one knew him here. He was no longer Captain of Archers, admired by many, challenged by none. No one cared that for him it was as easy to lift a man off his feet as it was to scoop up the cat in the corner. It mattered not a whit if he drank himself under the table.

He hated this life. He was no good at it. He'd blundered with the hag today. She knew now that he had come to York fishing for information. He'd almost made it worse. He had almost mentioned Fitzwilliam. It was thanks to her he had not. He could not afford such mistakes.

The door opened and voices hushed, folk shifted on the wood benches as Summoner Digby entered the tavern. Dear God, what must it do to a man's soul to be so greeted? Owen almost pitied Digby. At least it pulled him out of his own self-pity. Owen straightened up. He could not get drunk tonight. He had work to do.

The Summoner noticed him. Owen nodded, unsmiling. He knew the Summoner had quizzed Tom about him. It was unlikely Digby had yet spoken with his mother. He would not know yet that Owen had been to see her. Digby called his order to Merchet, then came over to Owen's corner. Along the way, no one called to him, invited him to join them.

'Our paths cross for the third time today’ the Summoner said.

'The fourth time. Though perhaps you did not see me as I left the minster. You were in the shadows.'

The Summoner's expression did not change. He extended his hand. 'Potter Digby.'

Owen sat back against the wall, arms crossed. 'Aye, I know. Anselm's Summoner.' He did not take the extended hand. 'Owen Archer.'

Digby sat down opposite Owen, taking no offence at the rebuke. Thick-skinned.

'I don't take to strangers who approach me on my blind side.'

Digby shrugged. 'In my trade we develop unpleasant habits. It's best to unnerve the sinner. Drive him to confess.' Digby grinned. An odd grin, limited to his mouth.

'You must do quite well for yourself.'

Digby's grin spread to his eyes. 'I do. And for the minster coffers.'

The candour interested Owen. Digby was not the abject toady he'd expected.

Tom arrived with Digby's ale. 'Aye, now. Told you he'd be here.' He leaned towards Owen. 'You'll want to watch yourself with this one, Master Archer. It's an ill wind blows him in anyone's path.' Though he smiled and winked as he hurried away, it was clear to Owen that Tom meant what he said.

Owen studied his companion. The hand that lifted the tankard was steady. The ill will of his fellow men was nothing to the Summoner.

'Don't you miss the days when you had friends in the city?'

Digby put down his tankard, half empty, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. 'Friends?' He sniffed. 'I have the friend I need in the Archdeacon. But for him I'd live in the shacks beyond the abbey walls. Vermin city, they call it. How many men make it from there through the gates of the city?'

Not many. Owen was duly impressed. 'How did you come to the attention of the Archdeacon?'

A sly smile. 'I gave him information that brought him a tidy sum for the new chapel in the minster.'

'What sort of information?'

'Never mind that.' Digby downed his ale and rose. 'Archdeacon Anselm wants to talk with you. Can I tell him you will come to his chambers tomorrow?'

Bess, topping a tankard at the next table, held her breath.

'Archdeacon Anselm?' So it was the Archdeacon who had set Digby on him. 'I would be honoured.'

As the door closed behind the Summoner, voices rose in volume and warmed.

Bess came over with a pitcher of ale. Owen put his hand over his tankard, but not before Bess saw that he'd hardly touched it.

'One does for me these days.' He nodded towards the door. 'Did you hear?'

'Some of it. I daresay you've fired Digby's imagination and he's filled the Archdeacon with ideas. You be sure to disappoint him.'

Later, when Tom lit his way up to the attic room, Owen asked about the Archdeacon.

Tom shrugged. 'Some think him a saint. Maybe he is. Most like saints be a bloodless lot — more's the pity.' Tom shook his head. 'But he's a fair man. You've nothing to fear from him if you've nothing to hide.'

Tom lit a taper in Owen's window, then left.

Owen sank down on the pallet and pulled off the eye patch. He stared at the flickering flame. A slight blurring of the image. His pulse quickened. Was it his left eye trying to see? He put his hand over it. Damn. Just the ale blurring his good eye. The second time today he had expected a miracle. He was being a fool. He dug out the salve pot. Sniffed. Calendula and honey. And something else. The honey masked it. He took some on his finger and applied it. Warmth, tingling, then numbness. Monkshood. Must be careful with this. Aconite could kill.