The Apothecary Rose (19 page)

Digby recognised the voice with a shiver of shame
and fear. He took a great gulp of air and grasped the
rough stones of the tower before he opened his eyes.

'I am afraid my hospitality was overmuch’ Anselm
said. The wine has made you unwell.'

It was too dark to see the Archdeacon's face, but
something in his voice frightened Digby. Oh, he meant
to sound sympathetic, apologetic, but there was a chil
ly edge to it. Perhaps it was just disapproval.

'Forgive me. I have been foolish . . .' Digby's tongue
felt thick and woolly. He was terribly thirsty.

The Archdeacon put a protective arm around Digby.
'Come. I will help you home.'

'I can manage.'

The Archdeacon patted him. 'Please. Let me per
form my Christian duty’ He began to lead Digby,
one arm at his back, a hand at his elbow. The walk
way was indeed slippery. Digby was grateful for the
Archdeacon's support. He forgot why he had been
afraid. They came to the end of the walk and the Archdeacon paused, facing the snowy bank that fell
away down beneath them, from bright snow to shadow
to the glitter of the rushing Ouse. The water was deep
here.

'God's greatness manifest, is it not, Digby?'

The drop-off and the motion of the water brought
on another wave of dizziness. Digby turned his back to the river. 'I must get home.'

'Home. Yes. What is it they call your mother? The
Riverwoman? Yes. The river. That is really your home,
is it not, my friend?' Digby wondered why the Arch
deacon went on so. It was a simple matter. He must get home. But the Archdeacon kept talking. 'Even on
a night such as this, you had to stop here, listen to its
singing. What does she say to you, Digby? What does
the river whisper to you?'

Digby shook his head and leaned against the Arch
deacon, burying his head in the coarse wool cloak.

'Do you turn your back on her, Digby? Foolish
man.' The voice roughened. 'Never turn your back on a woman. You must see the eyes. Look into their depths. See the treachery. Yes, you look away and she sounds
comforting, she murmurs to you, but turn, Digby, and
look. Look deep, Digby. See her treachery.'

Strong hands turned Digby around. He clutched for the cloak, but there was only air. The silvery, rushing Ouse dizzied him. He cried out.

A hand went over his mouth, his feet were kicked out from under him, and he was lifted, swung back. No, dear God, no! Digby swung forward, out over the bank, and fell, first through the icy air, then slipping down the snowy bank, hidden rocks tearing at him. So cold, so horribly cold, the snow burned on his cut hands as he tried to grasp a rock, a bush, anything to stop him. The thunder of the river warned him of its nearness. The water rose up to clutch him, embrace him. He fought back up to the cold, but the drink and the pain weakened him. He kept sinking into the warmer depths, which were comforting, soothing. No. This was madness. He had to get a breath, must not breathe down here. He struggled up. His head came crack against something. Had he dived by mistake? He changed direction, but it felt wrong. He panicked. What was up, what down, he could not tell. His chest was being crushed. I am dead, he thought. He has killed me. A great sob rose up from his soul, and he gave himself up to the river.

Purgatory

This morning she had used this new freedom to
creep up the stairs after the Archdeacon and eavesdrop
on his conversation with Nicholas. It was a sneaky,
distasteful thing to do, but she must somehow dis
cover what was between them. Why the Archdeacon
visited. Nicholas did not wish to speak of it, and she
was afraid that if she pried too much, he would grow
secretive.

She did not hear the beginning. And what she heard
did not clarify much. But it did frighten her.

'-but what has he to do with it?' Nicholas asked
in a querulous voice. 'You said no one knew. You
promised me.'

'He is a slippery creature, Nicholas’

'He must not -'

'Shush, Nicholas, shush’ A quiet moment. Lucie
held her breath, fearful of being discovered in the
sudden silence. Her head was against the door, her
wimple pushed aside so she might hear. 'You have nothing to fear,' Anselm finally said. 'He will learn
nothing, tell no one. I promise you.'

'How? You say he is slippery.' Lucie did not like
the pitch of Nicholas's voice. He had improved a lit
tle. This would set him back. She yearned to interrupt
them, but she could not.

'I have' - the Archdeacon paused - 'set him on
a new path. Something that will consume his time.'

A long silence.

'I cannot live with this,' Nicholas suddenly
cried.

'You would have done better to come to me.' The
Archdeacon's voice was cold. 'But it is done.' His voice
softened. 'Rest now, Nicholas. I will leave you. I must
not weary you.'

With that, Lucie turned to go. She took one step
down and saw, there in the gloom at the bottom
of the stairs, Owen, silently watching her. Dear God.
Behind her, footsteps approached the door. Her heart
raced. She feared Anselm far more than she feared
Owen Archer. She stepped down, in her panic for
getting to lift her skirts, and tripped on her hem.
She felt herself begin to fall.
Foolish. Stupid.
Strong arms caught her. Owen scooped her up and carried her
down to the kitchen. Tildy was scrubbing the table. Her eyes opened wide at the sight of her mistress in
the arms of the apprentice. Owen set Lucie down
quickly.

'Mistress Wilton tripped on the ladder in the shop, Tildy. Make sure she sits still for a while, and get her
something to drink’

'Oh dear. Oh yes. Sir. Ma'am.' She led Lucie over
to the bench by the fire, and helped her readjust her wimple.

Owen returned to the shop. The Archdeacon stood
in the doorway, dabbing his face. When he became
aware of Owen's presence, he nodded and departed.

Lucie welcomed the shawl that Tildy draped over her shoulders, and the warmed ale. Her hands shook
as she lifted the cup to her lips. Tildy exclaimed over
the torn hern and sat down right there to mend it.
While Tildy worked, Lucie tried to forget the feeling of
Owen's arms catching her, picking her up. The smell
of him. The warmth.

Why had he been standing there? How long had
he been there? Those were the important facts to find
out. Not how it felt to be in his arms.

And then the conversation between the Archdeacon
and Nicholas.
Who
was slippery?
What
could Nicholas not live with? Her spying had gained her nothing but a
fright and an embarrassing tumble into Owen's arms.

'There’ Tildy said, rising and nodding at the patched
hem. ' 'Tisn't pretty, but it won't trip you again.' She
blushed at Lucie's thanks and shuffled back to her
scrubbing.

Lucie took a deep breath and went into the shop.
Owen was with a customer, so she waited, fussing with
jars and spoons, trying not to look at him. When at last they were alone she asked, 'Had you come looking for
me? Was there a problem?'

'Aye. A question about Alice de Wythe's unguent.'

'I heard Nicholas raise his voice. I did not want
the Archdeacon upsetting him.'

'I'm sorry I frightened you.'

'I owe you thanks for breaking my fall. My hem -
Her face grew hot under his regard. The one eye seemed
to see right through her. 'What was the question?'

He started, then grinned. 'A safer subject, to be sure.'
She wanted to slap him for his insolence, but he wiped the grin off his face and got down to business without
another comment.

Not that the incident was forgotten. Throughout the
day she caught him watching her with an intensity that
made her uneasy. Not the shy, cautious watching that
meant attraction, but a wary watchfulness. He was not
fooled by her explanation of why she'd been standing
there, her head against the door. Or perhaps her own
fear coloured her judgement. But he was wondering.
Oh yes, he must be wondering why she would eaves
drop on her husband and a visitor. She must be more
careful.

And yet it was not just she that seemed to distract Owen that day. When he took his eyes off her movements it was to watch the shop door, as if he expected a visitor.

At last she asked, 'Did someone promise to come
today? You watch the door as if your anxious eye
might make the person appear.'

'I - no, I expect no one.'

Owen paced his room that evening, trying to forget
the feel of Lucie in his arms, her heart beating against his chest, her arms around his neck. All evening down
in the tavern he'd caught himself thinking about her.
The scent of her hair, her slenderness. More to the
point, he should be thinking of a way to find out
what she had been doing there, obviously listening in
on her husband's conversation with the Archdeacon.
Did she suspect something? Or was she worried that
they knew something?

Today had been hell on earth, trying not to think of
her and waiting for permission to question Wulfstan.
Owen was worried about the monk. He should have told the Abbot that he was concerned. Perhaps that would have gained him an audience.

And this evening Owen had waited for Digby down
in the tavern, but the man had not appeared. It was
irksome, his not coming. Owen needed to tell him
that Brother Wulfstan had told the Archdeacon of his
visit. And he needed to make sure he knew all that
Digby and Wulfstan had said before he spoke with the Infirmarian.

He tried to stop pacing, but it was agony to sit
still. It was not an unreasonable hour. Digby might
yet appear. Perhaps Owen had given up too soon. But
he'd found the wait tedious. Bess was too busy to talk
with him, and Tom was not a conversationalist.

Besides, all the sitting had made Owen restless.
He felt a dull ache in his lower back from sitting
too long on hard wood benches. Even a saddle was better for the muscles. He would take a walk in the
direction of Digby's rooms, now there was an idea. If
the house was dark, he would walk on by. But if not, he would see if the Summoner might talk with him. Then he would rest easier.

The snow on the streets had refrozen in icy ridges.
Fresh snow fell, stinging his face and blinding him as
the flakes thawed on his warm eyelashes and dripped
into his eye. Owen cursed, blinking away the mois
ture. He knew he would have the same problem if he
had both eyes. He knew what bothered him was the
lack of a second line of defence to put to work when
one eye failed. He might stumble in that moment of blindness and crash down upon the frozen ground. It
did not help to know what bothered him. Pah. He'd become an old man, plagued by fears.

Few people were about. Perhaps the hour was less
reasonable than he'd thought. He doubted he'd find Digby's landlady still up. Well, he'd needed the walk.

He came upon the house, which was well lit on
the lower floor. The front door gaped wide. A small cluster of folk stood across the street, watching the
house. Some raggedy children lurked by the door.

The light from the house glinted in the eyes of the
watchers as they considered him and then stepped far
ther back into the shadows. The children moved away
from the door as he knocked.

'She won't hear you’ observed a boy, his feet
wrapped in rags, matted hair dusted with snow. 'She's
crying over the body.'

'Whose body?' asked Owen.

The children ran away.

Owen entered the small shop where Widow Cart
wright did fancy sewing. Two men stood in the
doorway to the back room. Beyond them, a woman
wailed in the rhythmic chant of a mourner.

As Owen entered the room, the men hushed and
stood back from the doorway.

The black-clad mourner was visible through the
doorway now, bent double, hands to head. Owen
moved towards her. A body lay on a trestle table,
pallid and swollen. Digby. The stench of death already
overwhelmed the man's characteristic fishy odour.
Someone had placed coins on his eyes.

In a corner sat Widow Cartwright, weeping noisily.
The mourner was Magda Digby. Owen spoke her name.
She did not hear. He touched her shoulder. Her wailing chant faded. Slowly, as one rousing herself from sleep,
she unfolded herself and turned eyes on him so red
and swollen that he doubted she could see. But he
was wrong.

'Bird-eye. Look at my son. River took him. The
river.' She squinted at Owen as if she expected him
to explain. Her eyes moved over his face, then came to rest on the hand that lay on her shoulder. She put her rough hand over it. 'Thou art good to come.'

'I mourn with you, Goodwife Digby. He was a friend.'

'Magda will remember thy kindness.'

'Why did they bring him here?'

Totter wanted Christian burial, not his mother's
way. So Magda brought him here. Anselm will bury
Potter as he wished. Tis his duty. But he would not
from the Riverwoman's house. Nay. Such as Anselm
think 'tis cursed. He could not come. So Magda came
here. She does her part. No one will deny a mother's
sorrow.'

She nodded, then folded herself up once more and
resumed her wailing.

Owen backed out of the room. The two men watched
him.

'How did he die? Did he drown?'

One of the men pulled himself up, thrust out
his chest. 'And who be you to ask?' he demanded.

'I was a friend.'

The other sniffed. 'Friend of Summoner?' He spat
in the corner. 'And I be King of France.'

'Who is in charge here?'

'Archdeacon Anselm’ said the first one. 'We're
waitin' for him.'

The other stepped closer, peering up into Owen's
face. 'You're Wilton's apprentice. They do say you
sat with Summoner in tavern -' His eyes stopped on
something in the front doorway, behind Owen.

'What are you doing here?'

Owen recognised the cold voice of the Archdeacon.
He faced him. Anselm was not someone to have at his
back. 'Where did this happen? When?'

'He was fished out of the river this evening.'
Anselm's voice was calm for someone who had come to visit the dead.

'But he was accustomed to the river.'

'Accustomed, yes. Overconfident, perhaps. What do
you think, Owen Archer? And how do you happen to
be here?'

'He says he was Summoner's friend,' said the man who had spat in the corner.