The Apothecary Rose (20 page)

'Indeed?' The Archdeacon's voice softened, grew
oily. 'An odd choice of a friend. Guaranteed to make
a stranger suspect.'

'I did not know any better. Rome is but a quiet
presence in my country. We have no Summoners’
There seemed no reason to linger.

'I will leave you
to your business.' He took a step towards the door.

The Archdeacon stepped aside.

Owen's legs felt heavy, tired. Something should
be said. Some kind words about Digby, who had
befriended him. Odious the man might have been,
but he had believed he served God in his weasel-like
way. Owen paused next to Anselm. 'I would like to
be one of the pall bearers.'

The Archdeacon's nostrils flared, an eyebrow lifted.
'We will bury him without ceremony. He was of hum
ble origins’

'When will you bury him?'

'Tomorrow morning.'

'Where?'

'At Holy Trinity off Goodramgate.'

Owen left, resolved to rise early and attend the
funeral.

Back up in his room at the inn, Owen shed his boots
and leaned back on the bed. Pain pulsed through his
head in giddying waves. He rubbed his temples, hard,
harder, too hard. He put his head in his hands. When
he closed his eye he saw Digby lying on the table.
Heavy with river water. A fleshy sack of river water.
The coins glittering on his eyes.

Owen felt responsible. Digby had thought he was
doing the work of the Lord. As Owen had thought
of his own mission for the Archbishop. They were
not so different. He had sent Digby to sleuth for him,
and Digby was dead. A coincidence? Or did Owen's
new occupation make him obsessive about plots and
motives? He was too tired to know.

But just how reliable had Digby been? He'd guessed
wrong about Montaigne being in league with Fitz
william; the Archbishop would have mentioned a
connection between them. And could Owen credit
Digby's suggestion about the relationship between Wil
ton and the Archdeacon - that Wilton was Anselm's
weakness? To a soldier the implication was clear.
But an Archdeacon? What about Montaigne and Lady
D'Arby? Was it likely that was true?

Sharp pains coursed across Owen's blind eye, making
his head ache. Perhaps that was why his thoughts
were such a muddle. He needed sleep. A good rest
often calmed the eye. He still had some brandywine
from Thoresby's London cellars. But he was tired of
drinking from flasks. Tired of living like a soldier on campaign, travelling light, ready to move. He was no longer a soldier. He wanted a cup for his brandywine.
He went downstairs in search of one, taking the flask
with him.

A light drew him into the kitchen. Bess Merchet
sat at a small table near the hearth. On the table were
a jug, a cup, and a small lamp. One hand on the cup,
Bess stared at the embers in the hearth.

Owen paused in the doorway. A line between Bess's
brows suggested that she, too, found her thoughts hold
ing off sleep. She lifted the cup to her lips, sipped, put it
down, then cocked her head, as if just now she'd heard
him. She turned, nodded to him. 'Obliging of you to
appear just now, Owen Archer.'

He thought it an odd greeting. 'I came for a cup.' He
held out the flask. 'The last of the Lord Chancellor's
fine brandywine. I thought it would help me sleep.'

Bess grinned and held up the jug before her. 'I wonder if it's as good as the Archbishop's.' She nodded to
the bench across from her. 'Get a cup from the board to
your right.'

After they'd established that Thoresby kept a slight
ly better cellar as Archbishop than as Lord Chancellor,
and sat back, warm and companionable, Owen asked,
'You were thinking about me?'

Bess frowned, sipped from her cup. 'I was over at the
Wiltons' this evening, after hours. I'm worried about
Lucie. Got home, couldn't sleep for worryin' about her.
Came down to think. I do my best thinking over a jug
of brandywine. I must decide what to do, you see, for I
cannot rest easy in my bed until I know you mean her
no harm.'

'Lucie Wilton?'

'Aye.'

'You would warn her against me?'

'She's accepted you, I know. What's done is done.
But I want answers, Owen Archer. You arrived well
informed. What are you up to?'

'I have told you’

'How'd you come to know about Lucie needing
help?'

'Jehannes told me - the Archbishop's secretary.
There is nothing mysterious or underhanded in that.
When I arrived, he said the Archbishop had written
a letter of introduction to Camden Thorpe - my late
master had asked the Archbishop to assist me in find
ing a post.'

'You're sniffing about, that's what I say. Asking
questions. Something to do with the minster.'

Owen grinned. 'You followed me.'

'No, I never. But the Archdeacon sends for you.
The Archbishop provides for you. I'm not simple.'

'I had a small behest from my late lord. Administered
by the Archbishop. I visited the Archbishop's secretary
first thing to arrange for the payment. Anselm did not
like that.'

Bess sniffed. 'True, no doubt. But not the whole truth. Not by half.'

She was a formidable opponent. With bow and
arrow Owen might better her, even with one eye.
But he could not best her with words. Bess would
sniff and scratch around every word, gesture, deed.
He had to watch himself.

'I cannot think how to assure you that I mean
your friend no harm.'

'You can't.' She leaned forward. 'But be warned,
Owen Archer. Your charm does not blind Bess Mer
chet. You bring the Wiltons trouble, and I throw you
out. And worse.' She sat back, smiling grimly, satisfied
that she had made her threat.

Owen believed her. And it was quite possible that
she would have the opportunity to carry out her threat.
The Wiltons looked terribly guilty.

Unless Digby's death had been no accident. Poi
soning was one thing, but he could not imagine either
Wilton throwing Digby in the river.

'You are close to Lucie Wilton.'

'Poor chit. She's not had an easy time of it, daughter
of a knight though she may be. My own Mary had more
love and security. When her father died, I made sure
my next husband was the sort who would love her as
his own.'

Tom's a good man.'

'Not Tom. Peter. Tom's my third.' Owen could
not help but grin. He could well believe she would
outlive a pair of husbands. She would probably outlive Tom, too. Bess sipped her brandywine. 'I've tried to be a mother and friend to Lucie.' She sighed into her cup, then looked up at Owen. 'But what keeps you awake?
You went up early tonight.'

'And went out. Walking. I'm accustomed to a more active life.'

Bess sniffed. 'You seem plenty active to me. I've
seen you at the woodpile.'

'I happened to pass the house where Digby boards.
Something was up. Too well lit, folk crowded around.'

Bess sat up. Trouble at Widow Cartwright's? I
warned her not to board that man. He's a slimy
creature. No good will come of him.'

'Certainly that possibility is past. He's dead.
Drowned. They dragged him out of the river tonight.'

Bess crossed herself. 'Why didn't you tell me that
straightway? You let me say an unkindness about the dead.' She shivered and crossed herself again. 'You
might have saved me that.'

'Forgive me.'

Bess took a drink. Sighed. Gave Owen a good, long
look. 'Are you bothered by his death?'

'I am.'

That's why you needed the brandywine?'

'Aye.'

She shook her head. ‘Troubled by the Summoner's
death. Odd for a soldier’

'Aye. You would think a soldier saw too much
death to let it trouble him. But Digby meant to be a
good man. He believed he was doing God's work. And
I-'

Bess suddenly sat forward, alert, sniffing the air.

'Fire!' someone yelled.

Bess jumped up, knocking over her cup. 'That's
Tom.'

Owen followed her through the dark tavern. He
could smell the smoke.

Tom met them coming down, reeled back, shocked.

'What is it, Tom? Where?'

He nodded to Owen. 'His room. Blessed Mary full of
grace, I thought you were a dead man, Master Archer.'

Owen hurried up. Smoke billowed out of the room.
Owen's pallet smouldered. Flames licked at the wall beside it. Owen managed to get the pallet to the win
dow and toss it out. Better char something out there
than inside, where people slept. He tossed the greasy
torch that had started the blaze out after it. He'd look
at it in the morning light.

Tom huffed in with a bucket of water. Bess rushed
in with blankets.

In a moment the fire was out.

'I was afraid you were trouble’ Bess muttered.

Tom scratched his bristly cheek as he stared at
the damage.

Bess sighed. 'It will take a day to tidy this up and air it
out. Owen can sleep in one of the other rooms tonight.'

'I doubt I'll get much sleep.'

Tom nodded. 'Doubt you will.'

Bess turned, fixed her eyes on Owen. 'Do you
know who did this?'

He shook his head. 'Who knew which room was
mine?'

'Aye, that's the question.' Tom scratched his head. 'Me and wife. Kit. Stable boy, he has his nose in
everything’ He shrugged. 'Some guests, mayhap. Hard
to say. Folk have eyes.'

By now the other guests had crowded about on
the landing below, demanding news.

'Best to keep this quiet’ Owen said. 'Say I tripped
with a candle. Likely enough with one eye’

Tom frowned, glanced over at Bess.

'Go tell them, Tom. Just as he said’

Tom thought about it, nodded, and went down
to tell the tale.

Owen gathered his things, which had been on the
opposite end of the small room.

Back in the doorway he looked down at the soggy,
blackened floorboards, the scorched wall, 'It did not
burn long’

Bess was quiet. Owen turned so he could see her
with his good eye. Arms folded across her chest, she glared at him. 'I've a mind to send you packing, but it would look bad for business. I think you'd agree you
owe it to us to tell the truth. What you're doing here.
What you're after’

Smoke lingered in the room. Owen's eye burned.
That made him uncomfortable. 'In your room. Can
we talk in there?'

Bess led the way. Tom, who'd calmed the other
guests, was close behind.

It was a large, airy room, with a feather bed at one
end, a table piled with record books at the other. Owen
dropped his things inside the door and crossed over to
the table. Tom and Bess joined him. He studied their
faces. Honest, both of them. And decent to let him
stay. He did not for a moment believe that it was just
for business. He decided to tell them the truth.

Bess grunted with satisfaction when he told her his mission. 'I knew it. Didn't I say he was more than he
seemed, Tom?'

'Oh, aye.' Tom blinked, fighting sleep.

'And now Potter Digby's found belly-up in the
Ouse, and someone puts a torch to your bed.' Bess's eyes shone with excitement.

Tom came alert. 'Digby? That fishy scoundrel
drowned?'

They found him tonight.'

'He was snooping for you?'