The Apothecary Rose

The

Apothecary

Rose

A MEDIEVAL MYSTERY

Candace
Robb

MANDARIN

A Mandarin Paperback

THE APOTHECARY ROSE

First published in Great Britain 1994
by William Heinemann Ltd and Mandarin Paperbacks imprints of Reed International Books Ltd
Michelin House, 81 Fulham Road, London sw^ 6RB
and Auckland, Melbourne, Singapore and Toronto

Reprinted 1994 (three times), 1995 (five times),
1996 (three times), 1997

Copyright © 1993 by Candace M. Robb
The author has asserted her moral rights

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
isbn
o 7493 1883 x

Printed and bound in Great Britain

by Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berkshire

This book is sold subject to the condition
that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which
it is published and without a similar condition
including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
    
ix

GLOSSARY
    
Xiii

PROLOGUE
    
I

1
         
A One-Eyed Spy
  
25

2
         
Entering the Maze
  
36

3
         
The Rogue and the Lady
  
49

4
         
The North Country
  
55

5
         
The Apothecary Rose
  
67

6
         
Summoning
  
82

7
         
Men of the Cloth
  
87

8
         
Magda Digby, the Riverwoman
  
104

9
         
A Contract
  
115

10
                    
Thorns
  
128

11
                    
Digby's Deal
   
141

12
                    
Knots
  
152

13
                    
Digby's Weakness
  
167

14
                    
Purgatory
  
177

15
                    
A Piece of the Puzzle
  
198

16
                    
Mandrake Root
  
212

17
                    
An Accounting
  
230

18
                    
Lucie Joins the Dance
  
240

19
                    
Bess Intervenes
  
256

20
         
Plain Truth
  
270

21
                    
The Gift
  
281

22
                    
Amelie D'Arby
  
291

23
                    
Obsession
  
308

24
                    
Confrontations
  
320

25
         
Aftermath
  
332

To
Gen, who first got me to England;

to Jacqui, the apothecary; and

to Charlie, who always makes it so.

'The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne,

Th'assay so hard, so sharp the conquerynge,

The dredful joye, alwey that slit so yerne...

Geoffrey Chaucer, 'The Parlement of Foules'

I
thank Lisa Healy for her long-term faith in me and a crucial
editing; Paul Zibton for the map, sanity lattes, and a critical
reading; Christie Andersen for allowing me the time to write this book; Liz Armstrong for making all my medieval litera
ture courses a joy; Paula Moreschi for keeping mind and body
sound through it all; Evan Marshall for turning bad news into
good news; Michael Denneny and Keith Kahla for making me
feel welcome at St. Martin's; the staffs of the University of
York's Borthwick Institute and the Morrell Library; the York Archaeological Trust; Dr Tom Lockwood, chairman of the
English Department at the University of Washington; and most of all, Charles Robb for providing time, computer
resources, food, drink, criticism, enthusiasm, travel arrange
ments, and organisation, for outfitting me for exploring ruins
in Yorkshire in a very cold December, and for insisting that a
house is not a home without two spoiled cats.

Archdeacon
 
        

Each diocese was divided into two or more
archdeaconries; the archdeacons were
appointed by the archbishop or bishop and
carried out most of his duties.

Jongleur
              

A minstrel who sang, juggled, tumbled; French term, but widely
 
used in an England where Norman French was just fading from prevalence.

Leman
                  

Mistress; another French term widely used in medieval England.

Minster
                

A cathedral originally founded as a monastery(in the fourteenth century the minster was being rebuilt for the second time); to this day, York's cathedral of St. Peter is called York Minster.

Summoner
            

An assistant to an archdeacon who cited people to the archbishop's or bishop's consistory court, which was held once a month. The court was staffed by the bishop's officials and lawyers and had jurisdiction over the diocesan clergy and the morals, wills and marriages of the laity. The salary of a summoner was commission on fines levied by consistory courts - petty graft formed a large part of his income. More commonly called an 'apparitor,' but I use the term Chaucer used to call to mind the Canterbury pilgrim he so vividly described.

Prologue

_B
rother Wulfstan checked the colour of his patient's eyes, tasted his sweat. The physick had only weakened the man. The Infirmarian feared he might lose this pilgrim. Trembling with disappointment, Wulfstan sat himself down at his worktable to think through the problem.

The pilgrim had arrived pale and hollow-cheeked
at St. Mary's Abbey. Released from the Black Prince's
service because of wounds and a bout with camp fever,
the man had resolved to come on pilgrimage to York,
his wounds making him more aware of his mortality
than any sermon ever had. He'd endured a rough Chan
nel crossing and a long ride north that had reopened
his wounds. Wulfstan had stopped the bleeding with
periwinkle, but the recurrence of the fever caught him
ill prepared. The Infirmarian had little experience with
the ailments of soldiers, having lived in the cloistered
peace of St. Mary's since childhood. He rarely ventured
farther from the abbey than York Minster or Nicholas
Wilton's apothecary, both within a short walk.

For two days and a night Wulfstan mixed physicks,
applied plasters, and prayed. At last, exhausted and sick
at heart, he thought of Nicholas Wilton. It was a sign
of his hysteria that Wulfstan had not thought of the apothecary before - Nicholas had worked a wondrous
cure on a guest of the Archbishop who'd been near
death with camp fever. He would know what to do.
Wulfstan breathed three Aves in thanksgiving as his
spirits soared. God had shown the way.

The Infirmarian instructed his novice, Henry, to
keep the pilgrim's lips moist and to prepare a mint
tisane for him to sip if he roused. Then Wulfstan hur
ried through the cloister to ask the Abbot's permission
to go into the city. He brushed at the powder and bits of
dried herbs on his habit. Abbot Campian was a fastidi
ous man. He believed that a tidy appearance bespoke a
tidy mind. Wulfstan knew the Abbot could hardly dis
agree with his mission, but he found comfort in rules,
as the Abbot did in tidiness. Wulfstan believed that if
he obeyed and did his best, he could not fail to win a
place, though humble, in the heavenly chorus. To be
at peace in the arms of the Lord for all eternity. He
could imagine no better fate. And rules showed him
the way to that eternal contentment.

With his Abbot's permission, Wulfstan stepped out
into the December afternoon. Bah. It had begun to
snow. All through November and into December he'd awaited the first snow, and it came now, when he had an urgent errand. If he'd been a superstitious peasant,
he would have suspected the fates were against him
today. But he fortified himself with the conviction that
as God had seen him through all the small troubles of
his life, surely He could not mean to desert Wulfstan
at this late date.

The Infirmarian pulled up his cowl and headed into the wind as fast as he could, blinking and puffing, out the Abbey gates and onto the cobbled street, into the bustle of York. The cacophony of the city startled Wulfstan out of his single-minded hurry. He became aware of a stitch in his side. His heart hammered. Such signs of frailty frightened him. He was behaving like a fool. He was too old to move so quickly, especially on cobbles made slippery with the first snow. Holding his side, he paused at the crossroads for a passing cart. The snow came down thick now, great, fluffy flakes that stung as they melted on his flushed cheeks. Overheat and then chill. You're an idiot, Wulfstan. He turned down Davygate, trying to moderate his speed. But Wilton's shop was just past the next crossing. He was so close to his goal. He picked up his pace again, propelled forward by fear of losing his patient.

Wulfstan had grown fond of the pilgrim in a short time. The man was a soft-spoken, gentle knight who identified himself only as a pilgrim wishing to pray,
meditate, make his peace with God. He carried with
him an old sorrow, the love of a woman who belonged to someone else. He spoke of her as the gentlest, most beautiful woman, whose purgatory on earth was to be tied to an old man who gave her no joy. 'What would she think of me now, eh, my friend?' His eyes would
mist over. 'But she is gone.' The pilgrim came daily
to the infirmary to have Wulfstan change his band
ages. During these visits he had discovered the herb
garden, how its beauty comforted the heart, even in
winter. 'She found solace in a garden much like this’
Many a day the pilgrim lingered there while Wulfstan
puttered in the beds. He said little, observing the monastic rule of speaking only when necessary. He
was ever ready to assist with carrying or fetching,
sensitive to Wulfstan's old bones. Wulfstan enjoyed
the man's quiet companionship and appreciated his help, though he knew accepting it was sinful indul
gence.

So he had taken it hard when the pilgrim collapsed
in chapel. The man had been keeping a vigil that night in memory of his love. Brother Sebastian found him in a swoon on the cold stone floor at Lauds. Thanks be to
God for the night office, or the pilgrim might have lain
there till dawn and caught a mortal chill.

Even so, he was very ill. Wulfstan hurried. By the time he pushed open Wilton's shop door, the
old monk was panting and bent double, clutching his
side. The dimness of the shop and his own weakness blinded him momentarily; he could not see if anyone
was in the shop. 'God's peace be with you,' he gasped.
No answer. 'Nicholas? Lucie?'

The beaded curtain in the kitchen doorway rattled
as someone stepped through. 'Brother Wulfstan!' Lucie
Wilton lifted the hinged counter and took Wulfstan's
hand. 'You look dreadful.' She smelled of the outdoors.
'Your hands are like ice.'

He straightened up with caution. 'You've been in
the garden.' His breathless, shaky voice surprised him.
He'd pushed himself even further than he'd thought.

'We wanted to cover the roses with straw before the
snow.' Lucie Wilton held a spirit lamp up to his face.
He blinked in the light. 'Come back by the kitchen
fire. Your cheeks are aflame. You'll burst your heart
hurrying so.'

Wulfstan followed her behind the counter and
through to the kitchen, where he accepted a bench
beside the fire with humble gratitude. Old age and
shortness of breath made impossible the polite habit
of protesting against kindness. In the cheery kitchen
he smiled on Mistress Wilton, who brightened his
heart with beauty, gentleness, courtesy. She would
have made her father proud at court, he was certain.
Sir Robert was an old fool.

She handed him a cup of warmed wine. 'Now what
brings you out in the snow? And in such haste?'
He told her the purpose of his errand.
'Camp fever. You are tending a soldier?'
'No longer a soldier. With his grey beard and sad
eyes, I think those days are over for him.' Wulfstan
glanced away from the kind concern in her face to
the door that opened onto the garden. 'I hate to steal
Nicholas from his roses. Do you perhaps know the
proper mixture?'

'Nicholas has not yet tested me on it.' 'I hate to be a bother, but the man is so very ill.'
Lucie patted him on the shoulder. 'Rest here while
I fetch my husband.'

Lucie was apprenticed to her husband, a situation
not unusual. Wives commonly learned their husbands'
trades by working beside them. But Lucie's appren
ticeship had been formally arranged by Nicholas to ensure her future. Being sixteen years her senior, and of delicate health, he worried about her comfort after
he passed on.

Another man might have looked on her fair face
and reasoned that she would remarry. And in Lucie's
case, perhaps marry better, closer to her original sta
tion in life. For Lucie was the daughter of Sir Robert D'Arby of Freythorpe Hadden,- she might have married
a minor lord. Had her mother not died when Lucie
was young, it would almost certainly have been so.
But with the death of the fair Amelie, Sir Robert had
become singularly uninterested in his only child's lot
in life. He'd sent her off to a convent, where Nicholas
had discovered her and vowed to free her into a life
more suited to her character. Wulfstan liked Nicholas
Wilton for what he had done for Lucie. In the long run
the apothecary would be a better inheritance than the
settlement she might receive as a lord's widow, and it
made her independent.

Nicholas came in, wiping his hands and shaking
his head. 'The snow was long in coming this year, but how it falls now!' His thin face glowed with the cold, and his pale eyes shone. The apothecary's garden was
his passion.

'Have you finished with the roses?' Wulfstan asked.
Gardening was the bond between them. And the lore of
healing plants.

'Almost.' Nicholas sat down with the sigh of a
pleasantly tired man. 'Lucie tells me you have a
pilgrim with camp fever.'

'That is so. He's bad, Nicholas. Weak and shivering.'

'How long since his last bout with it?'

'Five months.'

More questions followed, the apothecary frowning and nodding. 'Was he clear-headed when he arrived?'

'Most lucid. While I tended his wounds he some
times asked about the folk in York. He once fought beside Sir Robert in a French campaign.'

Lucie looked up at that with a steely expression.
She had little affection for her father.

'Now there was an odd thing’ Wulfstan said. 'He
was upset with me when I said you had become Master
in your father's place, Nicholas. He insisted that you
had died.'

'Died?' Nicholas whispered.

Lucie crossed herself.

Later, Wulfstan was to remember that it was then
that Nicholas's manner changed. He began to ask
questions that, to Wulfstan's mind, had little to do
with a diagnosis - the soldier's name, his appearance,
his age, his purpose in coming to St. Mary's, if he'd
had visitors.

Wulfstan had few answers. The pilgrim had wished to remain nameless; he'd made no mention of home or
family; he was grey-haired, tall, with a soldier's bearing
even in his illness. No visitors, though he knew the
folk at Freythorpe Hadden. And, apparently, knew of Nicholas. 'But surely this is unimportant?' The apoth
ecary wasted precious time.

Lucie Wilton touched her husband's arm. He jumped
as if her touch had burned him. 'Brother Wulfstan must
hurry back to his patient’ she said, regarding her husband with a worried look.

Nicholas got up and began to pace. After an
uncomfortable silence in which Wulfstan began to fear Nicholas was at a loss for a proper physick, the apoth
ecary turned with an odd sigh. 'My usual mixture will
not suffice. Go back to your patient, Brother Wulfstan. I
will follow with the physick before the day is out.' He
looked distracted, not meeting Wulfstan's eyes.

Wulfstan was disappointed. More delay. 'It is not
a simple case, then? Is it the wound that complicates
it?'

'It is never simple with camp fever.'

Wulfstan crossed himself.

Lucie put a comforting hand on his shoulder. 'Is
it very serious, Nicholas?'

'I cannot say,' he snapped. Then, thinking better of it,
he bent and kissed her gently on the forehead. 'There's
no need for you to stay, Lucie.' His voice caressed her.
'And no need to worry. You might finish up the last
rose bed if you hurry.'

'I thought I might learn something by watching

you prepare the mixture.'

Nicholas took her hand. 'I will review it with you
later, my love. But the snow will not wait.' His eyes
were affectionate, gentle, almost melancholy.

Without further argument, Lucie donned her mantle
and went out the garden door.

Wulfstan sighed.

'She is a treasure’ Nicholas said.

Wulfstan agreed. 'You are both blessed in your
contentment.'