The Apothecary Rose

Seven

With Roglio's letter in hand, Owen headed for the abbey the next day. A fresh dusting of snow made the cobbles slippery. He was not altogether disappointed when the smooth stones gave way to mud at the abbey gate. Mud might be dirty, but on it he was less likely to lose his footing. It disgusted him that he even thought of that. The loss of his eye had made him a mincing old man.

Roglio's letter gained Owen access to the Abbot, who assured him that Brother Wulfstan would be most gratified to hear that the Archbishop's physician remembered him.

Unbeknownst to the Abbot, Wulfstan was not at all pleased to hear of the visitor. He did not wish to see anyone. He wanted to be left in peace to wrangle with the devil that threatened to rob him of his salvation.

It had begun with the pilgrim. Since the evening of the day the pilgrim fell ill, Wulfstan had known no peace.

It was not because the pilgrim had fallen ill. Many came in such a state. An intimation of mortality turned even the most hardened brigand's thoughts towards God. Perhaps if Wulfstan had not tried to save him. Perhaps that was the error that unbalanced his life. He should have let his friend die peacefully, without fuss. Instead, in his pride, Wulfstan had set out to save him. The man had touched his heart. Wulfstan had not believed the Lord meant his friend to die — else why guide him here, to an Infirmarian with much skill and experience?

What an arrogant old fool he'd been. It pained Wulfstan to think of it. He'd trudged through the snow, warmed by the joy of saving one of God's creatures — and gaining personal glory.

He'd paid little heed to Nicholas's distraction that day, though later he remembered and recognised the signs. How could Wulfstan know that the man was ill and would that very night be stricken with a palsy that would rob him of speech for days and send him to his bed, from which he still had not risen? Nicholas had looked hale and hearty. But the questions he'd asked, his sudden temper, they had pointed to a feverish brain.

And the pilgrim's symptoms after receiving the phy-sick — Merciful Mother, they were so obvious to him now. But then they had puzzled him. He'd assumed he'd misread the signs, that all along his friend had suffered something quite different from camp fever, and that Nicholas recognised that when he arrived and was dismayed. He had perhaps prepared the wrong remedy.

Oh, but the truth was much worse than that. Much worse.

Like a fool, Wulfstan had watched over the dying man, massaging his limbs to ease his pain, helping him sit up to catch his breath. He'd prayed over him, sad that such a gentle knight should take his leave of life in agony.

And then Wulfstan had saved what was left of the physick and administered it to Fitzwilliam, the Archbishop's ward. And watched death come with suffocation and painful limbs, just as it had come for the pilgrim.

Only then had Wulfstan examined the physick. Only then. Such an old fool. What he'd found had broken his heart. A mortal dose of aconite. And he'd administered it. Wulfstan had killed the two men by trying to save them.

Aconite. Monkshood. Wolfbane. In small doses it relieves pain, induces sweating, reduces inflammation. In larger doses it brings terrible pain to the limbs, fainting, a sense of suffocation, and at last death. It was not unusual for a physick to contain aconite. But so much. For Nicholas to make such a gross mistake. Wulfstan had never found cause to mistrust the concoctions of Nicholas Wilton, or those of his father before him. It had not occurred to him to test the physick. But, dear God, it would have been so easy. On the skin it causes a warm, tingling sensation, followed by numbness. When at last he'd tested the physick, his hand was numb through the night.

It was the darkest moment of Wulfstan's life. Never had he thought on the power that he held over men's lives. He could kill. He had killed by his negligence.

Old fool. The apothecary's brain must already have been addled when he prepared the mixture. After all, Nicholas had collapsed just outside the infirmary, only moments after delivering the physick.

Only moments after the pilgrim had called him a murderer. This it was that troubled Wulfstan. For the physick contained such a large dose of aconite. Prepared specifically for the pilgrim. Never had he known Nicholas to err so in preparing a physick. He might misdiagnose. And no measurements were ever perfect. But this was such a gross error, so easily detected by anyone who touched it.

And that was why he feared it had not been an error. That Nicholas had meant to prepare a poison. That he'd meant to kill the pilgrim, the man who'd called him murderer, who'd hoped Nicholas was dead, who'd been so certain he'd killed him ten years before.

Wulfstan's suspicion sickened him. For surely it was his own guilt he sought to erase by blaming another. Nicholas Wilton could not mean to murder the pilgrim. He did not even know his name.

But Nicholas had asked many questions about the man. Questions that had nothing to do with a diagnosis. And Wulfstan had told him all he knew. Perhaps enough.

No. Nicholas was a good man. It was unthinkable. Besides, what was his motive? Nicholas had everything a layman could want. He was a master apothecary, his shop patronised by the wealthiest citizens of York, married to a beautiful, gentle woman who worked beside him. His only sorrow was his lack of children,

Wulfstan had been taught that his goodness, his innocence, was the source of his skill with medicines. God granted him this most wonderful occupation because he'd shown himself worthy.

But he was no longer innocent. Through his negligence he had murdered two men. And he had chosen to tell no one. No one must know that the men had not died natural deaths. The gossip might ruin the Wiltons and, God forgive him, Abbot Campian's faith in him. He could not do it. Not to Lucie Wilton. Not to himself. He would not destroy her life after she'd been given another chance. And for himself, he knew he would be most diligent from this day forward.

So had he resolved to tell no one of his suspicion but Lucie Wilton. She needed to watch Nicholas. He'd dreaded telling her. But she'd taken it with remarkable calm.

Wulfstan trusted Lucie. But he was tormented by his own guilt in the deaths, his own carelessness.

And in this state, he did not welcome company. Yet he could hardly turn away one who carried a message from the Archbishop's physician.

When Owen entered the infirmary, Wulfstan looked up from his worktable, but his eyes did not meet Owen's.

Owen handed him the letter.

The monk's hands trembled as he broke the seal and read. He had a soft, kind face, red-cheeked and full. But Owen could see anxiety in the pale eyes. It was gone when he looked up from the note.

'Master Roglio. May the Lord bless him for remembering me. I did very little. A physick for the Archbishop.' Wulfstan frowned. 'I can't remember what exactly. I had all but the mandrake. Don't grow it here, you see. It is the devil's weed.' He rubbed the white bristles on his chin, wandering in memory.

'The Archbishop needed a painkiller?'

Pale eyes looked up, anxious once more. 'You know something of the craft, I see. Yes, mandragora for pain.'

It did not surprise Owen that the monk would be touchy. Two men had died in his care. But he'd hoped the man would be comfortable talking of what he knew. 'I am surprised you insisted on mandrake. Surely you grow monkshood — aconite?'

The monk blanched. 'Of course. But Master Roglio said the Archbishop's humours were too sanguine. Aconite would overheat him. So I sent to Wilton — he has a fine garden, most complete — for the powdered root and mixed the physick myself. Yes, that's how it went. And for so little Master Roglio remembers me’

'Master Wilton.' Owen nodded. 'I've met his wife. She mixed a salve for my eye.'

'Nicholas Wilton is fortunate in Lucie. She is quite competent.'

'I've no doubt. Her mixture was an improvement over what I'd gotten in Warwick.'

'You are in good hands.'

'My room at the York overlooks Wilton's garden. Do you often do business with him?'

Shoulders tensed. 'From time to time.' The monk bent to his work.

Owen glanced around the room. Bright and warm, perfumed by the physicks mixed at the monk's work-table and stored in pots and jars on the shelves above. The rushes on the floor were fresh and dry. At the moment there were no patients in the cots against the far wall.

'The brothers of St. Mary's are a robust lot, I see.'

'No more than usual. The spring bloodletting is coming up. It is always quiet before.'

'No one wants to face the leeches too often.'

Wulfstan gave him a slight smile. 'You are a student of human nature.'

'As Captain of Archers I needed to be.' Owen decided to take the plunge. 'I am glad to see that this winter's bout of illness has passed over.'

The red cheeks blotched. A nervous hand disturbed the pile of orris-root powder. A cloud rose up to Wulfstan's face- He sneezed into his sleeve, wiping his eyes. Coming out from behind the table, he sat down by Owen. 'How do you know of the illness here?¹

Owen shrugged. 'I listened to the gossip at the tavern last night, didn't 1? It is the way to learn about a city. Folk make note of two deaths, similar symptoms, within a month. One death means little. It was his time. But two deaths could mean three, four, a dozen’

Wulfstan rubbed the bridge of his nose, eyes closed, a tired, troubled man. 'Enough time has gone by that they know not to worry.' He shook his head. 'In any case, two deaths mean only that it was time for both of them. God in His goodness called both as pilgrims, in states of grace. Two such acts reveal His boundless benevolence.'

Owen shrugged. 'I presumed their deaths followed from travelling north in winter. I found it a difficult march, and I'm in good health.'

The light from the garden window lit the sweat on the monk's face. 'Of course that, too, is true. The first pilgrim was in no condition to travel. I think he knew that death might come for him here.'

Owen noted emotion in the old monk's voice. 'You knew him well?'

Wulfstan bowed his head and closed his eyes for a moment before he answered. 'We became friends while I treated him.'

'That was the most difficult part for me in the camps. To lose a friend who was under my care.'

Wulfstan stared silently at the far wall, his eyes wet.

'Did it fall to you to inform his kin?' Owen asked gently.

That would be Abbot Campian's place. But as far as I know he came as a nameless pilgrim, an everyman.'

'He did not speak of his home to you?'

'He'd been a soldier for so long, I doubt he remembered his home.'

Owen nodded. 'That is a state I can well understand.'

'You are thoughtful for a soldier’

'I have a wound that changed my life.'

Wulfstan glanced at the patch with a sympathetic look.

'And the other pilgrim who died? Fitzwilliam. Did he, too, arrive ill?'

Wulfstan shook his head. 'A dissolute life caught up with him.' Then he looked hard at Owen. 'How did you know his name?'

'They spoke it last night. It was that caught my attention. He was in Lancaster's service, too. I was at Kenilworth when news of his death arrived.'

The monk tensed. 'What did they say of it?'

'That his enemies had been cheated out of killing him. Forgive me. I have brought up a subject that disturbs you.'

Wulfstan took a deep breath. 'It is not good for the abbey, the death of two pilgrims.'

'We heard only of Fitzwilliam's. And we assumed he'd been left for dead on the road by one of his enemies.'

Wulfstan bowed his head.

'He was a rogue’ Owen said. 'There was always talk of him’

'He had a wayward soul. Born under a dark star. That's what the folk around here would say of him’

'Did you know him well?'

'I knew of him. He spent much time here. But until this time he had managed to stay out of my infirmary’

'You did not like him’

'I did not know him’ Wulfstan's voice had an edge that warned he was at the end of his patience.

'Forgive me. I did not come here intending to pry.'

'No matter.'

Owen looked out at the medicinal garden. Lavender and santolina edged the beds, whose snowy blankets would be dark earth dotted with green shoots in a month.

He felt the Infirmarian's eyes on him,

'Master Roglio said I must make a study of the two great medicinal gardens in York — yours and Master Wilton's. I thought the medicinal garden at Kenilworth magnificent. Twice the size of this. But Roglio said it offered far less variety’

'We have a long tradition at St. Mary's. But the Wilton garden is the work of one man — Nicholas Wilton. It is his pride and joy. His masterwork, in fact. It was I the Guildmaster brought in to judge Nicholas's worthiness to be raised to Master Apothecary. I had no idea a layman would have access to the books he must have consulted. But I think he was already planning this when he was a student here.'

'He went to the abbey school?'

The guard went up again.

Owen wondered what Wulfstan feared he would ask.

'You must excuse me’ Wulfstan said. 'I have much work to do.' He rose.

Owen stood also. 'I am sorry to take your time. I look forward to seeing your garden in spring.'

Wulfstan frowned. 'You intend to be here so long?'

'I have come seeking work.' Owen touched the patch. 'One-eyed men do not make good soldiers, in my way of thinking,'

The eyes were sympathetic. 'Master Roglio could do nothing?'

Owen shook his head.

'Pity. If anyone could, it would be him. What sort of work do you seek?'

Owen glanced around the room, 'I know it is unusual for someone my age, but I hope to apprentice to an apothecary or surgeon.'

Wulfstan frowned. 'From soldier to healer is a great leap. But if God calls you, He will provide a way.'

Owen noted how the monk glanced back at his work. 'I have taken enough of your time.' He took his leave.

He did not feel much enlightened. What had he learned? That Brother Wulfstan was troubled by the deaths at the abbey and nervous about something. He did not like questions about the deaths or about Nicholas Wilton. Perhaps that meant nothing, but Owen would think about it. And the Infirmarian stuck to the story that Fitzwilliam had died of an illness. But then if the man was murdered in Wulfstan's infirmary, it would look bad for the monk, so he was unlikely to admit it.

An unprofitable interview, all in all. Owen decided to take the opportunity to ask some of the other monks what they knew about Fitzwilliam. He gestured to a young monk hurrying past.

'I was hoping to speak with some who might remember a cousin of mine, Sir Oswald Fitzwilliam?'

The fresh-faced monk looked Owen up and down, then grinned. 'You are of a different sort than your cousin, sir-?'

'Archer. Owen Archer.' He extended his hand.

The young monk gave a slight bow, but did not bring forth his hand from his sleeve. 'I am Brother Jonas. I remember your cousin. He was a' — Jonas averted his eyes for a moment, thinking — 'he was a character. His death must have been unexpected.'

'How he met his death surprised me. With his tendency to collect enemies, I expected he'd meet a violent end.'

The eyebrows rose. 'I had heard he was one for the ladies. With those tight leggings and short tunics, his intentions were obvious. But that is the worst I had heard of him.'

'Was he well liked here?'

'He was not disliked.' The monk glanced around, then pushed his hands farther into his sleeves. 'I must go about my business now. Shall I show you out?'

'No need.' Owen nodded to him and continued up the corridor, then out into the cloister walk. There he met another, older monk. 'God be with you.'

'And with you, my son’ the old monk whispered.

'Forgive me for disturbing your meditation, but I wondered if you were one of the brothers who helped my cousin, Oswald Fitzwilliam. He spoke with affection and gratitude about the peace he found here.'

The old monk's gaunt face registered mild surprise. He shook his head. 'I can take no credit for your cousin. I have no business with the pilgrims to the abbey.' He rose stiffly, made the sign of the cross in blessing, and shuffled off.

'I knew Fitzwilliam,' a voice said behind Owen.

Owen turned. A chubby monk with bright eyes and a cheery smile stood rocking back and forth, hands tucked in his sleeves. 'I am Brother Celadine, the Cellarer.'

'Of course. He would have sought you out.'

'Do you have permission to speak with us about your cousin?'

The question surprised Owen. Brother Celadine had begun in a friendly mode. 'I do not have permission as such. I came with a letter of introduction to Brother Wulfstan. But I thought as long as I was here — '

'You were close to your cousin?'

'I remember good times.'

Celadine nodded. 'Most of the brothers tolerated Fitzwilliam because he was the Archbishop's ward. But I was fond of him. It is not easy being ward of a powerful man such as His Grace. Fitzwilliam was watched. His every transgression was noted. He was bound to rebel. But I don't think he was at heart an evil man. Oh, I had no delusions that he would go forth and sin no more, but he tried to be better.'

'How did you come to know him so well?'

Celadine chuckled. 'I once caught him in the cellars. Partaking of more than was his portion.'

'And he repented?'

'He did not repeat the offence.'

'How did he seem this last time?'

The monk looked out at the cloister garden, thinking. 'Quieter than usual. Pale. I think he was ill when he arrived.'

'Was something bothering him, do you think?'

'He never came here by choice.'

A door opened at the end of the cloister walk.

The Cellarer glanced over at the door with an anxious look. 'I must be about my business,' he said abruptly, 'God be with you.'

Owen turned to see Abbot Campian approaching with a determined stride. The frown on the Abbot's face told Owen the game was up.

'I gave you permission to speak with Brother Wulfstan. Now I hear you are interrupting the brothers' meditations to ask questions about Sir Oswald Fitzwilliam, You take advantage of my hospitality, Captain Archer.'

'Forgive me. I thought as I was here — '

'St. Mary's is a place of meditation and prayer.'

'I apologise for my transgression.'

'I will have Brother Sebastian show you out.' Campian motioned a young monk from the shadows. Owen humbly followed the young monk to the front gate. 'Is your Abbot very angry with me?'

Brother Sebastian smiled. 'Not angry. He demands order. He expects all to obey the rules.'

'He is fortunate to have a world well ordered.' 'We are fortunate to have him as our Abbot.' Owen took his leave with a feeling of frustration. He had learned nothing about Fitzwilliam that would explain his death. In fact, the brothers of St. Mary's seemed to find it reasonable that the man died of a winter cold. Owen wondered for the first time whether Thoresby had sent him on a fool's errand.

Perhaps he would learn more from his visit to the Archdeacon.

An ascetic, Owen thought, as Anselm gestured to him to be seated. Tall, gaunt, dun-coloured even to the eyes. A chill to the voice that ensured distance.

'I understand you visited the Archbishop's secretary yesterday.'

So this was a territorial matter. Owen relaxed. Thoresby had rehearsed him on this.

'His Grace the Archbishop does a favour for the late Henry, Duke of Lancaster, in providing me with a letter of introduction and the funds my late lord meant me to have. He had me transact the business with Jehannes because it is as Lord Chancellor that he does this favour for the late Duke.'

'A letter of introduction? What is your business in York?'

'I seek employment.'

The cold eyes looked him over. 'What did you do for the late Duke?'

'I was Captain of Archers.'

'The present Duke did not wish to keep you on?'

'I am finished with soldiering. I want to learn a trade, apprentice to a master.'

Anselm's nostrils flared. 'A Captain of Archers content now to become a humble apprentice?'

'It is God's wish that I begin again. I have faith that the loss of my eye was God's sign that I am done with killing. That I am meant to serve Him in another way.'

'What do you have in mind?'

'I would like to apprentice to an apothecary.'

'From killer to healer?' The voice was amused, but the eyes still cold.

'I assisted the camp physician, measuring out medicines and such.'

'I fear there are seldom such apprenticeships available in York. Besides, an archer is not likely to read and write.'

'I can do both. The late Duke saw to it that I might be gainfully employed.'

'Remarkable.' He made the word an insult.

'And God has this very day shown me His purpose. I've heard of Master Nicholas Wilton's situation.'

The Archdeacon came alert at the name.

I've a strong back for gardening, and the experience dispensing physicks.'

'Apprentice to Nicholas Wilton?' Anselm rose.

'It is the perfect situation.'

The Archdeacon shook his head. 'You are wrong. You would be trained by his wife. It is ill-advised to be trained by a woman. And one of questionable background.'

'I've heard nothing ill of Mistress Wilton.'

The Archdeacon sniffed. 'You will. Besides. There would be talk. You are a single man of marriageable age, Mistress Wilton is young and fair, her husband is bedridden. You see the problem’

'I shall board elsewhere.'

The Archdeacon bowed to that. 'I see that you are eager to find a position. I admire that. But 1 advise you to stay away from this one. I will do what I can — and my influence is considerable, I assure you — to find you a post. Perhaps not in York, but I assume you are willing to go elsewhere?'

'That is kind of you.'

The Archdeacon inclined his head slightly. 'Not at all, Captain Archer.'

Anselm had encountered men like Owen Archer before, with his honeyed tongue, lustrous curls, and large, liquid, long-lashed eye. Such men carried part of the rib meant for Eve. They were evil, cunning. Attractive to women because the witches recognised themselves in him. This man had been called by Lucie Wilton. Of that, Anselm was certain. Lucie was her mother's spawn. And Bess Merchet aided her. What power must come from that union. Neither woman dropped her gaze in humility when he approached. Bold, unnatural women. Wicked.

And Owen Archer in league with them. He must be watched.

Bess sat on a stool behind the counter, chatting with Lucie between customers. She took pity on her friend, so tied down with the shop, with Nicholas, and with the house that she never got out into the town to gossip.

'What do you think of Owen Archer?' Bess asked. He had told her he'd been to the shop and met Mistress Wilton. Bess noted with interest the blush that coloured her pretty friend's face.

'I am not in the habit of giving opinions on my customers’ Lucie said, avoiding Bess's eyes.

Bess snorted, 'just as I thought.'

'What is that supposed to mean?' Lucie met her friend's eyes, challenging her.

'He charmed you.'

Lucie's cheeks flamed. 'He did not. If you must know, he was rude. He took me for a serving girl. Thought he could turn my head with pretty words.'

Bess winced. She had not taken Lucie's stubbornness into account when she imagined an innocent romance. Oh, dear. Well, perhaps it was for the best. 'Maybe he is a knave. Archdeacon Anselm sent for him. He's been to see him.'

'How do you know that?'

'I heard Owen Archer and Potter Digby talking at the tavern last night.' Bess didn't like the tightness in Lucie's voice. Or how the becoming blush had suddenly faded. That worries you?' Bess asked.

'Why should I feel anything at all about the matter? I hardly know the man.' Lucie turned sharply and knocked a clay cup off the counter. It split in two as it hit the rushes. Tears filled Lucie's eyes and spilled down her cheeks.

'Lucie, love, what's wrong?'

Lucie shook her head. 'I'm tired. Please go, Bess.'

'You need help in this shop.'

'Tell that to Guildmaster Thorpe.'

'Why don't you close up early today?'

'Just leave me alone, Bess. Please.'

Lucie sank down on the stool Bess had vacated and hugged her arms to herself. She did not believe in coincidences. Ever since the night Nicholas was brought home by Digby_’ the Summoner and the Archdeacon had spied on them. Digby had never brought his custom to her before. His mother was a midwife. She doctored him when he fell ill. But suddenly he was a regular customer. And then yesterday he encountered Owen Archer in her shop and by evening the Archdeacon had sent for him. Was Archdeacon Anselm questioning all her customers? He frightened her. And he frightened Nicholas. Her husband denied it. 'He comes as a friend, Lucie. You must not be concerned with his visits.' But she knew her husband's moods, illness or no, and he was agitated after the Archdeacon's visits. He did not care for Anselm any more than Lucie did.