The Apothecary Rose (10 page)

Summoning

'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, un
smiling. 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.

Men of
the Cloth

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 Wulf
stan 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 suf
fered 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 inflamma
tion. 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 diagno
sis. 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 medi
cines. God granted him this most wonderful occupation
because he'd shown himself worthy.

But he was no longer innocent. Through his negli
gence 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 remem
bering me. I did very little. A physick for the Arch
bishop.' 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 remem
bered 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.