The Apothecary Rose (11 page)

'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 remem
ber 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 affec
tion 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, think
ing. '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 anx
ious 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 Wulf
stan. Now I hear you are interrupting the brothers'
meditations to ask questions about Sir Oswald Fitz
william, 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 dis
tance.

'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 con
tent 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 medi
cines and such.'

'I fear there are seldom such apprenticeships avail
able 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 pur
pose. 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?'