The Apothecary Rose (23 page)

'How is he?' Lucie asked.

'He is tired, so I thought it best I leave’ Anselm
noticed Owen in the corner. 'Good day to you both’

Lucie wiped her hands on her apron. 'Owen can
show you out, Archdeacon’ She hurried from the
room. Owen heard her light step on the stairway.

'I can show myself out,' Anselm said. And did so.

After a midday meal served shyly by Tildy, who
then sat down to join them, Lucie led Owen up to
the sickroom. Nicholas lay propped against pillows,
several small bound books on the covers beside him.

'Lucie is - pleased with you’ Nicholas struggled
with the words, groping for them, breathless and
beaded with sweat after a sentence. 'But I fear Anselm
is right. We are wrong to keep you to your contract’

'What are you saying?' Lucie knelt beside Nicholas
to dab his sweaty face with a sweet-scented cloth.

'Apprentice to an apprentice’ Nicholas shook his
head. 'Not good for him’

Lucie's colour rose. 'Nonsense. Where else would
he have access to books such as yours? Not to mention
the garden. He's apprenticed to the most successful apothecary in the North Country.' Her eyes snapped
with indignation.

'Lucie, my love-' Nicholas reached for her hand
- 'a Master in Durham has need of him.'

Owen felt like an eavesdropper. He reminded them
of his presence. '1 chose my situation. All is as it should
be’

Nicholas shook his head. 'It is not a good post
for him. Anselm is right.'

Lucie closed her eyes against Nicholas's pleading look. 'You wanted to give Owen something to study.'

'Lucie’

She leaned down to him. 'Must I remind you of
our agreement, Nicholas? I am in charge of the shop
while you are unwell. I make the decisions’

The apothecary looked down at his hands and shook
his head.

Like a child, Owen thought. One who has been
naughty and is doing his penance.

'Good’ Lucie moved away and gestured for Owen
to go over to Nicholas.

The apothecary's hands shook as he showed Owen
the books, the critical passages. He stank. Not just of
the sickroom, but of fear. A smell a soldier knows
well.

'You should heed the Archdeacon’ Nicholas whis
pered to Owen when Lucie had left the room.

'He does not want me here, that is plain’ Owen
looked into the sick man's eyes. Rheumy, red-rimmed. Fear added a disturbing intensity. 'Why, Master Nich
olas? Why does the Archdeacon want me gone?'

'Anselm watches over my soul’

'I can scarcely believe I endanger your soul’

Nicholas said nothing, his watery eyes flicking here
and there, pausing on anything but Owen's watchful
face.

'I am just what you need here. You know that.'

'Anselm ,. . sees it otherwise’

'Why?'

'I am selfish to use you in such a way.'

'Nonsense. I came of my own free will. I am
content. This is exactly where I want to be.'

Nicholas took a deep, shuddering breath and closed
his eyes. 'Potter Digby. You knew him?'

'A little. Why?'

'He should not have died. None of them should
have died.'

'None of them?' Here at last, a confession? Owen
leaned closer. 'What do you mean?'

Nicholas's eyes opened wide. 'I -' He shook his head. Tears welled up, ran down his fevered cheeks. 'Protect
her.' His head fell back on the pillow. He struggled for
air, his bony hands clawing his throat. Owen called for
Lucie.

She ran up the stairs. 'Merciful Mother.' Nicholas
twisted and turned on the bed, fighting to breathe. The
smell of sweat and urine filled the room. Lucie knelt
down and grabbed one of the clawlike hands.

'Nicholas, love. What do you need?' He moaned
and pressed her hand to his chest. 'Your chest? Is
the pain there?'

The watery eyes fluttered. 'Breathing. Mandra
gora.'

Lucie sat back, frightened. 'You need something
so strong?'

Nicholas drew a great, shuddering breath. 'A pinch.
In the milk. You know.'

Lucie hesitated. But when he doubled up, she turned
to Owen.

'Watch him. If his eyes start to roll or he begins
to choke, call me at once.'

Nicholas calmed. But just as Owen thought how
much better he seemed, Nicholas threw his head back
and arched in a paroxysm of pain.

Lucie, back with the physick, brought the small
table with the spirit lamp over beside Owen. 'Watch
me’ she said in a tight voice. Her eyes reflected her
husband's pain. 'See that I do exactly as 1 say.'

Owen watched.

Lucie held up a tiny silver bowl, smaller than a
thimble. 'Powdered mandrake root, just this measure, no more.' Her hands trembled as she dipped the bowl into a heavy crock on which was painted a root in the shape of a man. Owen steadied it for her. She poured
the thimble's contents into a larger bowl. 'Dried milk
of poppy, this amount’ She lifted a larger measure, and
Owen tilted the second crock for her, on which was painted a delicately pleated flower. 'Boiling water to two fingers beneath the edge.' Her voice was calmer
now. She poured the water. 'And mix well over the
lamp, then cool, still mixing, until I can keep my hand against the bowl for three breaths. I must not scald my
patient's gullet.'

'Can I mix it for you? I'm sure Master Nicholas
would rather you held his hand.'

Lucie nodded and changed places with Owen. With
her apron she dried the sweat from Nicholas's face.
'Peace, Nicholas, you'll soon sleep without pain.'

Owen stirred the liquid and followed her instruc
tions under Lucie's watchful eye. When she'd seen him keep his hand to the bowl for three breaths, she nodded
and he handed it to her, then lifted Nicholas's head, holding him while he coughed up phlegm and fought
to catch his breath. When Nicholas was quiet, Lucie
helped him drink. Within a few minutes the moaning
ceased.

'Bless you’ Nicholas said. The effort to speak cost
him a cough. He winced with pain.

'No more talk, Nicholas, my love. Sleep now.'

Owen lowered him to the bed.

'Do you need a priest?' the Archdeacon asked from
the doorway.

'Anselm!' Nicholas gasped and clutched at his heart.

In two strides, Owen was at the door.

Lucie dropped to her knees beside Nicholas, whose eyes were wide with terror. 'I did not call him back,
Nicholas.' She held him close to her, trying to calm
him.

'My master is in need of rest, Archdeacon’ Owen
said, pushing Anselm out the door with him. 'Your prayers are appreciated, but they'd be best said else
where.' He closed the door firmly behind them.

'Anselm is mad, Lucie’ Nicholas whispered, clutch
ing her hand. 'Stay away from him.'

'I will, my love. Now rest. You must rest.' She
smoothed his brow and watched with relief as the
milk of poppy quieted him. 'And I will keep him
away from you. He is killing you.'

On the stairs, the Archdeacon demanded, 'What
happened?' As if he had a right to know.

Owen led him down to the shop without a word.
Once there, he said in what he hoped was a controlled,
emotionless voice, 'Nicholas Wilton is in much pain.
Your visits do not calm him. You must let him rest.'

Anselm glared at Owen. 'You overstep your place,
Owen Archer. You are not the master of this house.'

'If you are his friend, leave him in peace. He had
a spell, requiring mandragora to relieve the pain. He
must sleep now.'

The Archdeacon's face changed. The eyes warmed
to honest concern. So he did care about Nicholas. 'Mandragora. Then he is worse.'

'I think so.'

'I did not know. Of course I will leave and let
him rest. He must get well. You must do everything
possible to make him better.' Anselm paused with his
hand on the door. 'I do not like trusting him to you,
Archer. A Summoner stands apart from the people. He
must, in order to impart a fair judgement. To befriend
a Summoner is the act of someone buying favours.'

'You suspect me?'

'I merely warn you.'

'I will get no favours from him.'

'God rest his soul.'

'You show an unusual interest in my welfare.'

'You are apprenticed to my friend. I do not want
you to bring dishonour upon his house.'

'I will not.'

'See that you do not.' The Archdeacon swept out
of the shop.

He had not said what was on his mind, of that Owen was certain. But that he was worried for Nicholas was clear. Worried and angry.

After the evening meal, Owen perused Nicholas's
books. Lucie mended and Tildy shelled beans. Lucie
spoke softly to Tildy of the morrow's work.

Now and again Lucie would look up with anxious
care, as if her eyes could see through the floorboards to
the sickroom. Owen could not help but wonder what
that old, dying man had to offer her. He could not even give her a living child. What made the lovely Lucie so
loyal to Nicholas Wilton? Was it that he had killed for
her?

Or that he had delivered the poison for her? But
if he was merely the unwitting messenger, what had
caused his collapse? A poison with a delayed effect?

One poisoning. Two poisonings. One meant to kill,
the other to silence. Had she poisoned Nicholas to
silence him?

Owen looked up from the book he'd been pretending
to read. Lucie was listening to Tildy repeat the ingredi
ents of tomorrow's soup pot. '. . . after the barley boils,
that bit o' pork from yesterday, winter savoury, salt, a
stalk of fennel. ..'

'Not fennel, Tildy, lovage.' The voice soft, the
manner gentle. She tucked a wisp of hair back into
Tildy's kerchief. The girl smiled. Lucie patted her
hand. 'You're a good girl, Tildy. You're a big help to
me.'

Such a woman did not injure her husband and kill
her mother's lover. How had such thoughts come to
him? He watched as Lucie showed Tildy which pot to
use, where the spices were kept, how to interpret the
labels. She was patient and thorough with the girl, as
she was with him.

He tried to imagine her, in her patient, thorough
way, planning the poison, how it would be delivered.
Thinking about her lovely mother, the babe that had
killed her, how Lucie was then sent off to the con
vent, and now she'd heard that the man was back,
that he was dying at the abbey, that Nicholas had
been asked to make a physick to save the man's life.
Gently she would offer to mix the medicine. Or to wrap
it while Nicholas dressed warmly for the walk. A few
extra pinches of aconite, and it was ready. Who would
notice?

One poisoning to kill, the other to silence. Fitz
william an accident. And then, when Brother Wulfstan
discovered the deed, she agreed to burn the rest of the
poison and keep quiet. How tidy.

Could she have done that to Nicholas? Was that
why she was so solicitous? Guilt?

I’ll say good night, then, Owen’ Tildy said, stand
ing over him with her candle. He was startled by
her nearness. He hoped his head had been bent over
the books.

'Good night, Tildy.'

When Tildy was gone, Lucie said, 'Something both
ers you.'

So much for his subtlety. 'It is so much to learn. I
hope that I don't fool myself, thinking I can learn it so
late. I'm no child. Not the usual age of an apprentice.'