The Apothecary Rose (24 page)

'You are doing well. You have no need to worry.'

He wished she were not suddenly kind to him.
He must take the opportunity of being alone with
her to find out what she knew. What she would admit
to. He must approach it slowly. She must not guess
his purpose. 'It is very different here from the camps.
Childhood illnesses, pregnant women, the very old - I
saw nothing of this before. There it was mostly wounds
and camp fever.'

She did not react as he had hoped, relaxed and
ready to talk shop. Her face reddened. 'I hope you
do not find the work here tedious.'

Dear God, he could not even make small talk with
her. 'Not at all. I have already learned so much. Mas
ter Nicholas has a unique mind. They do say he has
an excellent physick for camp fever. We experimented
with many mixtures. What does he use?'

She yanked at a tangled thread and cursed as it
snapped. 'We are not in a camp.'

'But surely there are men in York who contracted
the fever as soldiers. It recurs. That's the curse of it.'

'Nicholas has not discussed it with me.' Her tone
closed the subject.

Owen let it go. It was enough for now to know
she found the topic disturbing. He went back to his
reading.

After a while he noticed that Lucie stared into the
fire, her mending forgotten on her lap. The firelight
shone on tears spilling down her cheeks.

He closed the book and went to her. 'What is
it? Can I help?'

She shook her head. Her shoulders trembled as
she worked to compose herself.

When she seemed calmer, Owen asked, 'It was
unusual for Master Nicholas to ask for mandragora?'

'He prescribes mandrake root only when the danger
of an overdose is outweighed by the pain. He is in great
pain.' She wiped her eyes. 'Thank you for your help this
afternoon.'

'I was glad I could do something for you.'

'His condition frightened me. All I could think of
was that he might die. One mismeasure of mandrake.'
She looked down at her hands. 'What we do. We possess
the power of life and death.'

'Better than a soldier, who holds only the power
of death’

'No.' She touched his hand. 'No, listen to me. You
must never forget that about what we do. We could as
easily kill as heal.' Her eyes held his.

What was she telling him? 'But the amount of mandragora you gave the master was safe.'

'Yes, of course’ She pressed his hand, then withdrew
hers with an embarrassed blush. 'I am not myself.'

'This cannot be easy for you’

'Perhaps you should go’

'Whatever you wish’

'I wish none of this had happened. I wish -' Her
voice broke. She ducked her head, dabbed at her eyes
with the corner of her apron.

Owen took her cold hands in his and kissed them.

'Owen -' Her eyes were soft, not angry.

He put his hands on her shoulders, drew her to him,
and kissed her. Her lips were warm. She responded. A
warm, urgent kiss. Then pushed him away. She looked
down at her hands, her face flushed.

'Know this, know this always, Lucie Wilton’ Owen whispered, not trusting his voice, 'I will do anything I can to help you. I cannot do otherwise. I will not press
myself on you. But if you have need of me, I will do
whatever you ask.'

'You should not say such things.' She still did
not look at him. 'You do not know us.'

'I cannot help what I feel.'

'You must go now.'

Owen kissed her hands again, then hurried away,
out into the fog, feeling foolish, angry with himself,
and yet relieved. She had not withdrawn her hands.
She was not angry. She had kissed him with the
same hunger he felt. Lucie Wilton did not find him,
one-eyed and starting over again like a boy, repulsive.
He had held her, kissed her, and said to her what he
had ached to say ever since he'd first seen her. And
she had not pulled away. He felt lightheaded. Trium
phant.

And disgusted with himself. For against all reason
he had fallen in love with a woman who might be
a murderer. Whose crime he was honour-bound to
expose. She had the knowledge to poison Montaigne.
She had said as much tonight.
We could as easily kill
as heal.
And perhaps she had a motive. Or a motive to
persuade her husband to commit the sin, which was
worse than committing it herself. She would condemn
Nicholas to Hell with her.

And that other sin he had thought of. Could she have
brought on Nicholas's illness? He thought about them
together, up in that stuffy room. Her tender nursing. No. To carry that off would require a most devious
mind. He could not believe that of her. He would
not.

And Anselm. Where did he fit into the scheme?
Why was he so threatened by Owen's presence in his
friend's shop?

Owen tried to concentrate on that question. But
his mind turned back to Lucie. Twice today he had
held her. She was beautiful. Responsive. Dear God, let
her not be a murderer.

Anselm closed his eyes and swung the knotted thongs
against his bare back, again, again, mortifying the flesh,
offering it to his Saviour in return for Nicholas's deliv
erance from the evil that surrounded him. Nicholas
must live. He must live long enough to recognise
the error of his life and come back to Anselm, his
protector. He must understand. God had given Anselm
this task. Why could Nicholas not understand? What had they done to him? Anselm beat himself until his
body was on fire with divine light. He would succeed.
The Lord smiled on him.

An Accounting

Bess was waiting for him, hands on hips, impatient.
'So there you are at last.'

'I hope no visitor awaits me tonight, Bess. I have
no energy for conversation.'

She looked him up and down. 'I can see you've
lost some spark. But the Archbishop's secretary came
for you. You are wanted at the minster.'

'It is late.'

'He said whenever you came in.'

Perhaps it was a good sign. Perhaps the Archbishop
wished him to give up the inquiry. And wished to give up on him. Then Owen could settle in as apprentice to
Lucie Wilton. And when Nicholas died -

Jehannes answered the door. The Archbishop was
comfortably enthroned beside the fire. Owen could not
imagine Thoresby doubting anything. His life was set,
his goals clear. Men such as he, highly placed, did not
see their lives whittled away piece by piece, a limb,
an eye, a stomach wound that prevented them from
eating properly. Only if they were foolhardy did they
put themselves in vulnerable situations. They might be
murdered, but their attackers would make sure it was
successful. Death was a clean end. Of course Thoresby
was comfortable. He would never stand here wondering
whether his fate had been decided, what was to be next for him.

'Well, Owen Archer. I judge it about time we discussed your progress.'

With no warning, of course. Left him alone to hang
himself, then suddenly demanded a report. On a whim,
no doubt. Still, perhaps it would lead to his freedom.
'Your Grace. I confess I have no definite answer to how
Fitzwilliam died. Only new questions.'

Thoresby motioned Owen to the seat across from
him, with his good eye facing away from the fire. At
least he had been that considerate. Or Jehannes had set it up that way.

Jehannes handed Owen a goblet of wine. Owen
lifted it towards Thoresby, then drank. 'This is most
welcome, Your Grace. My day has been unpleasant. It
began with a funeral and ended at the sickbed of my
dying employer.' Owen downed the wine with relish.

Thoresby smiled. It was not as friendly a smile as
Owen might have wished. Thoresby must suspect him
of something, had heard something not to his liking.
This was not the time to be evasive.

'You said you had new questions?' Thoresby's voice
was silky. Dangerous.

Owen set his cup beside him, sat forward. 'To be
brief, I have lost the man who was assisting me in
my investigation. Digby the Summoner. He drowned.
Not by accident, I think.'

Eyebrows lifted, but they did not fool Owen. The Archbishop's eyes expressed no surprise. 'Why the
Summoner?' Thoresby asked. 'Why would you trust the man least trusted in all York?'

'He offered his services to me in exchange for infor
mation. I had no reason to distrust him.'

'His being a Summoner was enough for most men.'

Owen shrugged. 'I'm a Welshman. I struggle against
the current by nature.' He grinned.

Thoresby returned a ghost of a smile. 'This infor
mation you gave Digby, did he find it useful?'

Not good. 'A poor choice of words, Your Grace. He,
too, was interested in the deaths at the abbey. He
wished to help. I told him the identity of the first
man. He was able to tell me why the man came to York’

'And that was useful to you?'

'I think it will be.' Owen picked up his cup, which Jehannes had unobtrusively refilled, and sipped the
wine, trying to think how he might modify the story
to protect Lucie Wilton. But Thoresby's expression
hurried him into the truth. 'Digby, you see, was at
the abbey the night Montaigne died.'

Now the eyes were surprised.

'He found Nicholas Wilton in a swoon outside the
infirmary. Wilton had just delivered a physick for
Montaigne.' He paused. 'It would have been helpful
had you told me of Montaigne's connection with the late Lady D'Arby’

Thoresby regarded Owen coolly. 'I did not think it
important in the investigation of Fitzwilliam's death.'

'Digby thought it important. He thought it was
all connected. He just didn't know how.'

'Curious that Digby would be interested.'

'Digby was a curious man’

'If he told you this much, most likely he told you
why’ Thoresby said. 'It appears that he trusted you’

The Archbishop's eyes moved over Owen's face as
if the truth that he tried to hold back were written
there.

How cool, Owen thought. How secure in his world.

'I am not sure you will find it plausible,' Owen said.

'Try it out’

Owen took a deep breath. 'Digby suspected Archdeacon Anselm of protecting Nicholas Wilton. It dis
turbed him that the Archdeacon might be implicated
in a murder.'

Thoresby closed his eyes. When he opened them, he
did not look at Owen, but rather frowned into the fire.
'That connection again. But what had Wilton done that
Anselm should need to protect him?'

Owen wished he could get up and pace. He was in
way over his head. The Archbishop obviously knew
of the closeness of Anselm and Nicholas. He had no
idea what else the Archbishop knew. He might know
everything already. Owen wished this were a duel with
swords. Better yet, a sweaty wrestling match. He did
not know where he stood.

'What had Wilton done, Archer?' Thoresby asked
quietly.

'Digby thought he had poisoned Geoffrey Montaigne.
His wife's mother's lover.'

The Archbishop considered the fire for a moment,
then sighed and put down his cup. 'So he thought,
and presumably you think too, that Wilton poisoned Montaigne for his wife, who wanted to avenge her
family's honour, and the guilt is killing him?'

'I do not think Mistress Wilton knows the pilgrim's
identity.'

Thoresby regarded him closely. 'Do you fancy Mis
tress Wilton?'

Owen's stomach turned. He felt like the cat in
the corner, unable to read this man from a different
world, who had complete control of his destiny. 'She
is my employer, Your Grace.'

'Indeed. But also beautiful and soon to be widowed.'

'You doubt my judgement. But hear me out. There
is an additional twist. Your Archdeacon. Although
they had once been close, Anselm had not spoken to
Nicholas Wilton for years. The morning after Nicholas took to his bed, the Archdeacon appeared, expressing much concern. He visits Nicholas regularly now, even
though his visits disturb Nicholas - so much so that
today it nearly killed him.'

Thoresby silently took that in. Then he shifted in
his chair. 'All intriguing, Owen Archer, but I employed
you to inquire into the death of my ward Fitzwilliam.'

'The two deaths are connected, Your Grace, I am
certain of that. And I think that Fitzwilliam's death was the accident, not Montaigne's.'

'A poison made for Montaigne given to Fitzwilliam?'

Owen nodded.

'And Digby suspected this?'

'And is now dead.'

'Nicholas Wilton could hardly have killed Digby.'

'Perhaps the Archdeacon?'

Thoresby considered Owen with a grave expression.
'Is that what you believe?' he asked at last.

'It fits with Digby's suspicions. And a clumsy
attempt on his part to rid himself of me.'

'Oh?'

He told him of Anselm's claim to have arranged, in less than a day, an apprenticeship for him in Durham.
'He hoped I might not return, I think.'

'Interesting. What do you know of Anselm?'

'Very little. What should I know?'

Thoresby smiled at the question. 'You are a bold
Welshman. The old Duke chose his men well.' He
nodded to Jehannes, who filled his cup, and freshened
Owen's. The Lord Chancellor's chain of office glittered
in the firelight as Thoresby toyed with it. He nodded
to himself, picked up the cup, tasted the wine, nodded
again.

'Do you know the duties of an Archdeacon, Owen?'

'Primarily fiscal, are they not?'

Thoresby nodded. 'As Archdeacon of York, Anselm
must raise money for the cathedral building. You can see that it is not finished. A long, expensive process,
this expression of York's devotion to the Lord. And
the King. The Hatfield chapel is close to the King's
heart.' He sipped. Thus the paradox of the position.
The Archdeacon must be a cleric and yet worldly -
not usually a virtue in a man of the cloth.'

Owen nodded, but he wondered where Thoresby
was leading.

Thoresby chuckled. 'Your one eye is quite expres
sive. You think I wander. Too much wine, perhaps.' He put down his cup. 'You would be wrong to think that, my friend. John Thoresby never wanders’

'I would not make the mistake of thinking that,
Your Grace.'

'I chose Anselm - and it has proven to be a wise
choice - because he did not show great piety. A good scholar, a persuasive speaker, with a solemn air about
him - the pinched face, the gauntness - but poorly
suited to an abbey. He has a weakness for young men,
you see.'

'I had heard that he and Nicholas were good friends
at the abbey school.'

Thoresby smiled. 'You see Nicholas at the end of
his life, on his deathbed. But he was a handsome young
man - in a delicate way. Magnificent blue eyes. And he
was a listener.' Thoresby shook his head, 'Anselm was
smitten. There was a scandal. Not because two boys
were discovered in bed together. A common occurrence
in abbey schools - you must be used to it in the army.
But Anselm was Abbot Gerard's prize novice. Gerard was
grooming Anselm for high office in the Church. He was
furious. And anger opened his eyes. He saw the signs of Anselm's nature, realised that it was his protege's
doing, that young Nicholas had merely been flattered
- and flustered, no doubt - by the attention of the
older boy. And perhaps comforted to share a bed with another. Anselm was harshly reprimanded. He became
rather an ascetic. But Gerard knew it was a mask.'

'He offered Anselm to you as Archdeacon to get
him away from novices?'

'It was Anselm's request. To be removed from
temptation.'

'Admirable.'

'You smirk as you say that. But Anselm is a fine
man. I have had no cause for complaint. Or did not
till now. It was his misfortune to be a second son,
bound for the Church. Had he been a layman, his
nature would not have mattered. Oh, he might have
found it unpleasant siring his sons, but as long as
he saw to that in an acceptable space of years, he
would have been free to pursue his pleasures where
he would. You must pity Anselm. The Church was
not his choice.'