The Apothecary Rose (15 page)

He tried a smile on her. 'It showed me what a
lot of work He'd made for us.'

The corners of her mouth twitched. So she had a
sense of humour. 'Well, then, you can see the work
ahead of you.' She went back to the fire, quiet for a
while. 'And did your soldiering teach you anything?'

'That I loved to make an arrow sing through the air
and hit its target straight and true, but that war is not
confined to the armies who fight it’

He'd spied a lute in the corner. Now he picked
it up. Lucie started as the strings hummed with the
motion. About to reprimand him, she was silenced by
his gentle, sure touch on the strings. He brought the
lute to life with a doleful tune and began to sing. He'd
been told by many a woman that he had a beautiful
voice. Lucie did not want him to see that it affected
her. Though tired and aching to sit for a while, she got
up and tidied the kitchen while he sang. She tried not to look at him. He lost himself in the song, letting the
story move him.

The music rose to a shivering cry and stopped.

They were both quiet, lost in the echo of the music.
The fire crackled and hissed. A branch scraped against
the house.

Lucie shivered. 'What a beautiful language’

'Breton. I learned it from a jongleur,' Owen said.
'It is close to the language of my country. Though at
first I did not understand all the words, I understood
the heart of it’

Lucie sat down tentatively, acutely aware of how little she knew this man with whom she was to share her days. 'What is the song about?'

'Across Brittany are great cairns - they call them
dolmens - built with stones so immense only giants
would have moved them. They are said to be the graves
of the old ones, the people who came before. In one of
these lives a gentlewoman who has vowed to save her people from the routiers of King Edward.'

'Routiers,' Lucie whispered.

Owen thought she was asking for a definition. 'Soldiers our noble King strands across the Channel without pay. The people say there are hundreds of them roaming the countryside, raping and looting. Perhaps
they exaggerate’

'My mother told me about them.'

'Your mother was French?' He had seen she did
not respond well to his knowing about her.

Lucie nodded. 'There are hundreds of routiers.'

'They are the scourge of the French.'

'My mother said that war was the scourge’

'Aye. Well, she would think so. It is different for us
here, on an island. Our wars are fought on foreign soil.
When our King is victorious, those who return come
with booty. When our King is defeated, those few who
return come with empty hands. But in France, whether the French king wins or no, the people suffer. The soldiers on either side burn their villages and towns to
starve the enemy. It makes no difference to a homeless,
starving child whether he starves for his own king or
another's’

Lucie watched him, seeming to see him for the
first time. 'You do not speak like a soldier.'

He shrugged.

'How does this woman save her people?'

'Acting the part of a defenceless gentlewoman lost
in the forest, she lures the routiers, then surprises them
with traps she has laid, and with her skill wielding a
knife. She tells them she has lost all and wishes to
join them. To prove herself, she will lead them to a
noble house at the edge of the wood, where much
treasure and wine are to be found. She has prepared
an ambush. That is the part all Bretons know. What
follows changes with each song. This one tells of her
compassion for a routier who stands apart from his fel
lows, troubled by what he has become. As the company
approaches the hiding men, the gentlewoman is moved
to spare him. Calling to him, she leads him away from
the party to a circle of standing stones on a hill. As
the cries of his fellows reach them, he is incensed by
what she has done. "You are free to choose death," she
tells him. "Say it is your choice, and I will set my men
against you. Or look into your heart and admit you
have no stomach for slaughter without honour’"

'Which does he choose?'

'The song does not say.'

Lucie looked disappointed. 'Is it a true story?'

'I do not know.'

'It cannot be. Else the jongleur would have been
betraying the saviour of his people by singing the song.'

'Perhaps that is why he sang it in his own tongue.'

'You understood it. Many of your archers would
be Welsh, too.'

'And like me they keep their peace.'

'And the others. Did no one ask you what it meant?'

'I told them it was "Aucassin et Nicolette" in Bret
on.'

'You protected him?'

Owen sighed. 'And in return for my protection,
he blinded me. Or rather his leman did.'

Lucie reached across the table and touched the scar.
'Why did his leman blind you?'

'She was protecting him.'

'From you? I don't understand.'

He told her the story. 'I was a fool. And for my pains
I must begin again, find a new path in life. I was already
disgusted with soldiering.' He'd said it so many times
it felt true. 'But what they did to me I cannot forgive. They betrayed me when I'd done everything to help
them.'

Lucie watched him a few minutes more, 'You feel
crippled without the eye. But you do not seem crippled
to others. I don't suppose it helps to know that.'

'Kind words. I thank you for them. But you cannot
imagine what it is like to lose half your sight.'

'No, I cannot.' She stood up. 'I must take Nicholas his supper, then sleep for a while.'

'You won't let me help?'

'Not with this.'

Owen saw that she meant it, and wandered back
to the inn in a thoughtful mood.

Bess called to him as he entered the tavern. 'You've
a visitor’ She nodded toward the back corner. 'It's been a long time since Guildmaster Thorpe gave us custom.
You're good for business, Owen Archer.'

Few heads turned, no conversations died as Owen
passed among the tables. That was a good sign. He'd
been accepted as a regular. He was pleased.

But his pleasure faded when he saw the Guildmaster's
expression. The man's round, comfortable face was
creased with worry. 'Archdeacon Anselm made a fuss
about your appointment. Wanted to see the letter
Jehannes sent. Asked all sorts of questions. Alluded to
your not being who you say you are. It's worrisome, it
is.' .

Owen told him about the apprenticeship in Durham.

Camden Thorpe pulled at his beard. 'Now isn't that queer? He never said a word about that to me. On the
contrary. He sounded as if he suspected you of being
some sort of outlaw, lying low for a time.'

'I wonder how Archbishop Thoresby would take
the implications of that?'

Thorpe frowned, unsure of Owen's meaning.

'The letter of introduction?'

'Oh, aye.' The Guildmaster smiled. 'The Archdeacon
is confused, isn't he?'

Owen managed to reassure Camden Thorpe all was
well, but he was not at all certain that was so. The
Archdeacon exhibited an odd concern over Owen's
apprenticeship. He obviously saw through his guise.
But how much did he guess, and why did it disturb the
Archdeacon to the extent that he would risk making a
fool of himself with the Guildmaster? In Owen's mind,
that spoke of a desperate man. And such men were
dangerous.

But why the Archdeacon?

Lucie dreamed she ran through the maze at Freythorpe
Hadden, stumbling now and then, breathless with
laughter. She feared he would catch up. And she feared
he would not. She tingled with the expectation of his
hands around her waist, pulling her to him, kissing her
neck-

She woke shivering. The fire had gone out. Yet
her face was hot. She'd dreamed of Owen Archer.
She must be mad.

Anselm paced. He'd underestimated Archer. He'd
moved much faster than Anselm had thought possible.
Archer must be Archbishop Thoresby's man. Thoresby
had sent Archer, had arranged for him to insinuate
himself into the Wilton household. To inquire into
the death of the Archbishop's ward. Of course
Thoresby would. How stupid of Anselm not to have predicted that. Considering Fitzwilliam's character, of
course the Archbishop would suspect murder. Damn
Fitzwilliam. Damn Brother Wulfstan, that bumbling
monk. If Fitzwilliam had not died, no one would have cared about the other. But now John Thorpe, the most
powerful man in York, was involved.

How odd that the Archbishop should care about a ward who brought him only trouble. Anselm's own
father would care not a fig if Anselm died in mysterious
circumstances. He would make no inquiries. He would forget the death in no time. He whose son had risen in the Church to the rank of Archdeacon of York. It was
not just that Anselm was the second son, marked for
the Church. His father had rejected him because he
had no taste for violence. Once Anselm had shown
his colours, he could do nothing to win his father's
respect, much less his love. But the Archbishop, a mere
guardian, wanted to know how the odious Fitzwilliam
had died, a young man who had aspired to break all the
commandments as often as possible.

What a lucky fellow, Oswald Fitzwilliam. Doubtless
he had been sheltered as a youth, and hence his appe
tite for sin. Man craves the unknown. The mysterious. Anselm had learned early about sins of the flesh. All
curiosity had been wrung from him by the slime his
father trained as soldiers, the curs among whom his whore of a mother had thrown him. The quiet virtue
expected at the abbey school had been a welcome relief.

Digby's
Deal

_L
ong after the Guildmaster had gone home to his
bed, Owen sat in the corner, vaguely aware of
murmuring voices, the sour smells of ale, wine,
and unwashed bodies, the draught that wrapped around his legs when a customer opened the door to the street.
He rubbed the scar on his cheek and stared down at
the tavern floor, thinking. Not of Fitzwilliam, but
about his home. It was difficult, like peering through
a mist, to remember. And so long ago, so much had
happened - to them as well as to him, no doubt. Life
was difficult in the village. Every journey sent one up
mountains and through forests, in and out of every
season except summer. Work broke the back and the
spirit. There were no physicians like Roglio, or even
apothecaries like Wilton. Folks had their remedies -
his mother had many - but mostly they soothed rather than cured. Illness and injury meant death more often than not. Would Lucie believe him if he told her that the reason he had not returned was that he could not
bear to find them all dead? His mother, her smile, her
voice, her spirit, rotting underground, feeding the roots
of the oak and ash, feeding the worms. And his sisters - Angie with her snapping eyes, Gwen with her slow,
dreamy ways - so many young women died birthing.
He crossed himself.

Lucie Wilton had sent him into black thoughts
with her anger. Working for her was not easy on his heart.

Better to think on the death of FitzWilliam. That
was what he'd come to York to investigate. The faster
he answered the Archbishop's questions, the sooner
he might leave. And leave he must. He was losing
his heart to a woman who would never care for him, even if Nicholas died. She had rejected Owen before
she ever knew him. Unfair, but, there being no one
to complain to, he must accept it.

Accept it. Owen looked up, caught Tom's eye, lifted
his tankard.

Tom ambled over. 'You're looking gloomy, Master
Archer’ he said. 'Bad news from Guildmaster?'

'Nothing to do with him. Missing the old days.'

Tom frowned with sympathy. 'Aye. Captain of Arch
ers, Not many rise so high.'

'Fortune smiled on you when he gave you a living
you could keep into old age, Tom. And a bonny
wife.'

Tom's face brightened. 'Aye. The Lord's been good
to me.' He nodded and moved on among his customers
with his pitcher of fine ale,

Owen took a long drink, appreciating the oiliness
of the brew in his mouth. Tom Merchet was an
artisan of great skill. His an brought comfort to
his fellow man. A far cry from Owen's lost art -
killing, maiming. Perhaps his apprenticeship would
be his redemption.

He imagined himself and Lucie working side by
side, like Tom and Bess. Running a tavern. Lucie would lend a different character to the place. Bess
was saucy. The men met her eye boldly, called out to
her. And she gave as good as she got. But men would
lower their eyes to Lucie, like boys addressing their
best friend's mother. Their voices would soften. And
he-

Pah. Owen could not imagine her married to him. Murdering oaf. One-eyed, clumsy -

He slammed his tankard down on the table. His
neighbours glanced up with curiosity. When they saw
his apologetic flush, they shook their heads and went
back to their business.

But they were soon interested in the Summoner's
appearance. He stopped at the counter, then wound
his way through the customers with his tankard in
hand. He sat down at Owen's table.

His arrival did not help Owen's mood. Hoping rude
ness would discourage the Summoner, Owen looked
not at him but down at his ale. 'Don't tell me the
Archdeacon wants to see me again?'

'Not as such.'

Owen nodded without looking up.

Digby fidgeted. He'd meant to intrigue Owen with
his reply. He leaned closer. 'He wants me to follow you. Find out who sent you and why.'

Owen glanced up. 'Is the Archdeacon always so
wary of strangers?'

'Nay.'

'Why me?'

Digby grinned. 'He didn't say. But I know. He thinks
the Archbishop sent you to look into the death of Fitzwilliam.'

'And how do you know the Archdeacon thinks
that?'

'Because I think so, too.' Digby took a long drink.
He had gained confidence since last night.

'Surely the Archdeacon did not mean for you to
tell me?'

Digby laughed. 'Course not.'

'So why are you telling me this?'

'Because I want to know what you want to know.'

'You mean if I was sent to York by the Archbishop
to inquire into the death of Fitzwilliam?'

'Aye’

'Now what, might I ask, is there to question? They
say the man died of a winter chill.'

Digby snorted. An unpleasant sound. 'Not Fitz
william. He wasn't that sick’

'You knew him?'

'Aye. I knew him well. An easy source of revenue
for the minster fund. Muck clung to him like cobwebs
to a cat’

'Stealing the arm from your mother's pit was not
his worst offence?'

'Pah. That was nothing’

'You think he was murdered?'

'Aye. That's how it always is with his sort’

'In the abbey infirmary?'

That's where he died’

'One of the brothers?'

'Not likely. But perhaps. They're not all saints’
- 'Like the Archdeacon’

Digby snorted again. 'Him least of all. They're
all born with original sin, same as you and me’

Him least of all.
A tantalising comment.

'What you're saying is that both you and the Arch
deacon think this Fitzwilliam was murdered, and that
I'm here to find the murderer. You hope I find him, but
the Archdeacon doesn't. Is that right?'

Digby grinned.

'Odd that you would work at cross purposes to
your employer.'

Digby looked down at his tankard. 'I don't feel
good about it.'

'Why are you so interested?'

Digby frowned at Owen as if he couldn't believe
the question. 'I'm a Summoner. Tis my duty to bring
sinners to justice. Someone commited a murder on
hallowed ground. I mean to find out who.'

'But the Archdeacon doesn't care?'

'He's protecting someone.'

'Who?'

Digby looked away. 'Don't know enough to make
an accusation. Don't know the connection.' He met
Owen's eye with a solemn resolve. 'But let me give
you something to think on. They talk of two deaths.
Nay. Two murders.' He lingered on the last word.

Owen considered it. 'You mean the first one, with
no name?'

Digby winked. 'Think on't. Honest men don't refuse
to give their names. Involved in one of Fitzwilliam's
shady deals, I suspect.'

'This gets interesting. But what's to make me believe
it was murder? What do you know?'

Digby drank down the rest of his ale. 'Thirsty
work, this talk.'

Owen caught Bess's eye. She poured another drink
for the Summoner. 'Put it on my bill, Bess.'

She grinned. 'Takes more than a drink to bribe
the Summoner, Master Archer.'

Digby bristled.

'It's just to afford me his company for a while
longer,' Owen said.

Bess shrugged and moved away among the tables.

Owen noted Digby's irritation. 'I thought you had
a thick skin.'

'I don't mind them resenting me for snooping.
That's natural. But I'm not corrupt. The Archdeacon wouldn't keep me if I were.'

'You speak well of him. But you think he's covering
up for a murderer. Make up your mind.'

'Everyone has a weakness. Something or someone
that they'd risk everything for.'

'And his is?'

Digby glanced around, leaned closer. 'Nicholas Wil
ton.'

Owen did not like that answer. 'What do you mean?'

'Old friends. Went to school together.'

'The abbey school?'

'Aye. You know the sort. Always in trouble togeth
er. Each quick to come to the other's defence. But
they fought over something ten years ago. Didn't
speak to each other all that time. And then, the day
after Wilton collapsed, the Archdeacon showed up at the shop. A regular visitor now. You'll see him now
you're apprenticed there.' There was a funny light in
Digby's eyes.

Owen ignored it. 'And the Archdeacon sends you
to check in on his friend when he's not able to?'

Digby shook his head. 'He knows naught of my
visits. Nor should he. I'm being honest with you.'

Their eyes met. Owen nodded. 'I believe you are.
What's your game, that's what I'm wondering. Why
do you visit the shop?'

Digby grinned. 'To see if Mistress Wilton's nervous
to see me.'

'Anyone would be.'

'I mean more nervous than usual.'

'And is she?'

'I make the lovely Mistress Wilton very uneasy
indeed.'

Owen wanted to wipe the sly smile off Digby's
face with his fist, but he controlled himself.

'You said the Archdeacon was covering up for some
one, implying Nicholas Wilton. And Mistress Wilton knows something, too. So you think Nicholas Wilton
killed the two men?'

Digby shrugged. 'It all adds up to that, hard though
it be to believe. You see, I was there, wasn't I, the night
Nicholas Wilton took the physick to the abbey.'

Owen sat up. Took the physick?'

Digby preened with the attention. 'For the first
pilgrim. He had camp fever. Everyone knows Nicholas
Wilton has a secret concoction that is particularly
effective for it. Brother Wulfstan went for some. I
met him on the way. He returned without it. Wilton
was bringing it later, he said. Had to make it up spe
cial.'

'You believe he poisoned the pilgrim?'

That's what I'm saying.'

'Why?'

Digby sighed. 'I don't know. Wilton's not the sort
to make trouble. So I reckon there's something we
don't know, something the stranger did to him, say.
Not knowing who the man was, I can't figure it.' He
leaned even closer. 'But I'll tell you this. I saw Wilton
come from the abbey that night. Man looked like he
was caving in, that's what he looked like. Then he
began to twitch and jerk, and then he fell down in a
faint.'

'What did you do?'

'Hurried to the infirmary for Brother Wulfstan, but
he had his hands full with the pilgrim. Man was
flailing around and yelling. So I went back out to
see to Wilton. I couldn't rouse him, even with snow
on his neck. Hailed a farmer passing on a donkey cart
and took Wilton home in it.'

Owen looked long at the man. 'So what is your
weakness?'

Digby grinned. 'I'm no fool to tell that, Master
Archer.' He took a drink. Sat back. 'Told you more
than you dreamed I knew, didn't I? Seems you owe me something in return.'

Here it came. 'What do you want?'

'As I said, I want to make sure a sinner confesses
and does penance.'

Owen wondered why it was so difficult to believe
the man took his position seriously. Took pride in
ferreting out sinners. His appearance was against him,
for certain. But so was Owen's, Odd thing was, having
met the man's mother, Owen wanted to trust Potter
Digby. Maybe it was time to trust his instincts. Think
ing had not got him far. 'How about the first pilgrim's
name? If I tell you that, will you tell me what you
find out with the information?'