The Apothecary Rose (25 page)

'It is difficult for me to pity a man who tried
to trick me into a dangerous, perhaps fatal journey.'

'I find it hard to believe he would be so
...
clumsy.'

Not that he would not do it. Owen said nothing
for a few minutes, absorbing that. 'I take it the
Archdeacon never got over his passion for Nicholas
Wilton?'

'They were great friends. I think no more than
that on Wilton's part. But that ended with the death
of Lady D'Arby.'

Owen sat up. This was more what he wished to
hear. 'Why?'

Thoresby shrugged. 'He did not like Nicholas's
friendship with Lady D'Arby. But why they fought
after she died, I do not know.'

'I wish I had known all this when I began.'

'I hardly imagined my ward had been poisoned
by accident. He had so many enemies.'

The two men regarded each other for a moment.

'Do you have any proof?' Thoresby asked.

'Not exactly. I have Brother Wulfstan's word that
he gave your ward the physick made for Montaigne. After the second death, and only then, Wulfstan tested
the medicine and discovered too much monkshood.
Enough to kill. Looking back, he realised that their
deaths had been similar, with all the symptoms ex
pected of poisoning by monkshood.'

'He is certain of this?'

'Yes.'

'Why did he not tell anyone of his discovery?'

'It was too late to save them.'

'Where is the physick now?'

'Burned. So that no more harm could come of it.'

'Belated caution’ Thoresby sighed. 'Did Brother Wulfstan confront Nicholas Wilton with his discov
ery?'

'The man is dying, Your Grace.'

'So he did not.' Thoresby seemed irritated by this turn. 'Have you said anything to Wilton?'

'No. Do you wish to pursue this further?'

Thoresby sat back, gazing up at the ceiling, his
hands pressed together, lips pursed. 'It is difficult for me to accept, when I was expecting a clear case of
revenge and my ward to be the intended victim. It
is the motive that eludes me. Too weak. Not good enough for me, Owen Archer. Let us see this to the
finish, shall we?'

Owen nodded, rose to leave, then hesitated, frown
ing. 'I might wish to exhume Montaigne's body.'

To what purpose?'

'To look for signs of poisoning. Since Wulfstan
destroyed the physick.'

'I think not, Archer. I want no more upset at
the abbey’

Withholding information, tying his hands, what did the man want of him? 'Then what would you suggest,
Your Grace?'

'Look to the living for your answers, Archer. You
have uncovered quite a complicated knot. Now unravel
it.'
Lucie sat by Nicholas, turning the few facts she
had around in her mind. If Nicholas were not so
ill, she might mention Geoffrey, see his reaction. But
he was so weakened by today's attack. And if what
she suspected was true, if his poisoning Geoffrey was
no accident, it might kill him to know that she knew.
But what could drive Nicholas to murder?

She was frightened.

She-devils. She and who? Her mother? What could
the Archdeacon have against them? Of what vileness
did he suspect them?

But of course. Her mother with Geoffrey, and - he
had accused her of it today - she and Owen. But it wasn't true.

And why would Geoffrey have attacked Nicholas?

She must know more. Geoffrey Montaigne, her moth
er, Nicholas, Archdeacon Anselm, Potter Digby. What
connected them? Who might know? It must go back to her mother's time.

Her Aunt Phillippa. Of course. She would send for
her in the morning. She would say Nicholas was dying
and she needed her aunt's support. And she did. The
house would feel much safer with her Aunt Phillippa in it.

Lucie Joins th
e Dance

The shop records. Lucie had not thought of them
till now. The Archdeacon had said Geoffrey had attacked
Nicholas and left him for dead. Then Nicholas had
been wounded. Perhaps she could find a reference
to it in the records. Her father-in-law had been as
meticulous as Nicholas in recording all transactions.
Might there not be an entry in the log for dressing a
wound, for a salve to quicken the healing?

She sat up, waking Melisende, who hissed and moved
with slow dignity to Lucie's feet and began circling
in preparation for lying down in a new spot. Lucie
disturbed her once more as she pulled her feet up and out onto the cold floor. The old shop records
were kept up here in their bedchamber, in a heavy
oak chest beneath the front window. She lit the oil lamp from the spirit lamp, wrapped a shawl around
her shoulders, and went over to the chest.

It was Lucie's wedding chest, and her mother's before
her. Out of this chest Lucie had pulled mementos of
childhood and later when she carried Martin. How
happy she had been. God had smiled down on her,
allowing her joy. And in his short life Martin had given
her much joy. Through him she had remembered her
own girlhood, had seen her own mother, with her dark hair and pale eyes, bent over the chest, bringing out
treasures, many of them gifts from Geof, her handsome
knight. He had brought Lucie presents, too. A carved
doll with silken hair, a small cart in which he pulled her through the maze. He had the sunniest smile and
the gentlest voice . . . And Nicholas had poisoned him?
The thought burned in the pit of Lucie's stomach. She
told herself she had no time to dwell on that now.

She lifted out an armful of sewn books, each painstakingly illustrated on its cloth cover with an unusual
herb, and set them aside. These were Nicholas's. Be
neath them were older, leather-bound books, their
covers dry and cracking. Lucie leafed through them,
pausing over meticulous sketches of astrological signs,
heavenly portents. Paul Wilton, her father-in-law, had
been more interested in that part of his work than in the botanical work that Nicholas delighted in.
She found it confusing to follow her father-in-law's chronology’ he would go through several books and
then go back and fill in blank areas in all of them
before moving on to a fresh book. Or sometimes he
would interrupt one book to return to another. Lucie was uncertain what date she sought, though she knew
it had to be within the range of her mother's marriage
and the time Geoffrey was in York. She knew that
Geoffrey had come after she was born. She'd asked her
Aunt Phillippa about that long ago, when she'd had a
romantic idea that she might be Geoffrey's daughter. 'Oh
no, my little love, you are my niece, you are Robert's
child. Never doubt that.'

Her Aunt Phillippa did not understand how lovely
it had been, imagining that she was the child of her mother's happiness, that her father was the fair-haired
knight who made her mother laugh. She did not want
to be the daughter of the grim man who shouted and
called her 'little lady.' It hurt her more than her father's scolding that Sir Robert never said her name. As if he
could not be bothered to remember it. It had frightened
her. If her father could forget her, God could, too. Geoffrey
had remembered her name. And her favourite colour.
And secrets she'd told him . . .

Lucie shook her head. She had sat and dreamt over
the same notebook long enough that needles prickled
in the hand poised to turn the page, and one of her feet had gone to sleep. She picked up the record books that
she guessed covered the years of her mother's marriage,
and moved over to the table and chair by the garden
window.

Slowly she made her way through the books, pausing
at all mention of 'N’ which was Paul Wilton's code
for Nicholas. There were no complete names in the
records, just one or two initials, enough to distin
guish one customer or supplier from another. Most
of the entries mentioning Nicholas referred to his
purchase of cuttings and seeds for the garden. Occa
sionally, more frequently as time went by, Nicholas
helped his father in the shop. His responsibilities
grew.

And then she found it. An entry about the time of
her mother's death. She had almost stopped before she
reached it. 'MD cauterised wound, bandaged. Stayed
the night to see what N's eyes looked like when he
woke. Left salve and tisane. AA, D'Arby, and DP
agree N has done his penance.' And in the accounts
were entered a generous payment to MD for services
rendered and a gift to the minster fund, the size of
which made Lucie uneasy. For surely 'AA' was the Archdeacon, D'Arby was her father, and 'DP' Dame
Phillippa. They agreed that Nicholas had done his
penance for what? What sin required such a large
offering to the minster fund? Did it have something
to do with her mother's death? And who was 'MD'?

Owen woke at dawn from a light drowse that had taken
most of the night to achieve. His stomach burned and
his head felt crowded with demons chattering inces
santly in voices pitched to hysteria. Too many ques
tions, few answers, too many constraints. He could not exhume Montaigne, he could not question Lucie or she
would know he suspected her, he could not question Nicholas because the man was dying. Anselm was a
madman. Thoresby - what of John Thoresby? The
comfortable, confident Lord Chancellor of England
and Archbishop of York. Sent Owen out to inquire
into his ward's death, yet Owen felt the man pre
tended ignorance where he knew the facts. Why? Did
Thoresby not trust Owen? If not, then what was Owen doing here? Not that he was certain anything would be
proved by exhuming Montaigne, but for Thoresby to so
summarily deny him . . .

Such thoughts got him nowhere. He must think
where he might get some answers. He needed to
talk with someone who knew something of Lady
D'Arby, Montaigne, and Nicholas. Bess had not lived
long enough in York to know anything but rumours
about that time.

Magda Digby. It was a long shot, but Owen suspected
that little occurred in York that the Riverwoman did
not hear about. He applied some salve to the eye, put
on his patch and his boots, and crept out of the inn.
He could speak with her and be back before Lucie was
ready to open the shop.

After her wakeful night, Lucie was anxious to send
Owen for her Aunt Phillippa. She put away the rec
ords and slept for a while, then rose shortly after dawn
and broke her fast with Tildy while they discussed
the girl's chores for the day. By then Lucie expected
Owen, but he did not come. She checked for him out
at the woodpile. The air was frosty, and snow clouds
glowered overhead. Under the holly hedge, spring cro
cuses pushed green shoots through the thinning snow.
It made her heart glad to see the first sign of spring.
But her irritation returned when she found no trace
of Owen anywhere in the garden. Now that she had
resolved to send for her aunt, she could not bear the
delay.
• She would go to the York Tavern and fetch Owen.
Tildy could listen for Nicholas and come for her if he
woke.

Tom was measuring the contents of the casks. He
looked up with a smile when she entered. 'Lucie
Wilton. Welcome, neighbour.' He noticed her agitated
state. Is it Nicholas? Is he worse?'

She nodded. 'I want to send Owen for my Aunt
Phillippa’

'And you thought to find him here? Nay, he was
off at first light.'

Bess's voice rang out from up above, barking orders.

'Do you have any idea where he went?' Lucie asked.

Tom scratched his beard, then shook his head. 'He
said naught to me. I didn't think but he was coming
to you. Go on up and see if Bess knows aught.'

'She sounds busy.'

'Oh, aye. Trying to put Owen's room to rights. She won't rest till fire is scrubbed away. But go up. She'd
want to see you’

Bess stood in the doorway of the small room, hands
on hips, one toe tapping. 'I don't know, Kit. I just don't
know what to do with you. You're all elbows, girl.
Nothing is safe when you're near.'

'Bess?'

Bess turned, her face as red as the hair tumbling
from her cap in tight, damp curls. Her sleeves were
rolled up to the elbows, revealing muscular forearms.
'Oh, goodness me, you catch me in the midst of
teaching this child the art of scouring a floor. Can you
believe she's made it to fifteen years without learning
the trick?'

Normally, Lucie would have smiled at her friend's
tirade, but this morning she was too intent on her
mission. 'Have you seen Owen?'

'He's not with you? When he left so early this
morning, I thought you'd ordered him there at dawn.'

Lucie turned towards the ladder. 'Damnable man.'

The set of her friend's jaw, her lack of humour, and
the frustration in those two words alerted Bess. She
caught Lucie's arm. 'What is it, love? Has Nicholas
taken a turn?'

Lucie nodded.

'And you need someone to watch the shop while
you sit with him?'

'I want to send Owen for my Aunt Phillippa.'

'Your aunt? Whatever for? What good has she done
you, I ask? I'll watch the shop.'

'You have your work here.'

'Kit can do it.'

'I need my aunt. It's time she helped me out.'

'Well, I won't disagree with you about that. But
why send Owen? Send John, my stable boy. He's a
good lad, rides fast, he'll be back and forth in no
time.'

'I don't need to burden you, Bess.'

'It's no burden, love. I want to help.'

Lucie looked down at her hands. 'I wish you could.'

Bess folded her arms across her chest. 'As I thought.
It's more than sending for your aunt that's worrying
you. Come now, downstairs with you, tell Bess all about it.'

'I can't stay, Bess’ Lucie said as she followed her
friend down to the tavern.

'Then we'll talk at your house. It's all the same
to me.'

'No. I can't talk there.'

Bess led her into the kitchen, set her down in a
chair, tsking at the bony shoulders. 'You're not eating right, Lucie. Everything seems worse when you're not
eating right’ She poured a cup of ale for Lucie and one
for herself.

Lucie found herself swept up in Bess's assump
tion that she was about to confide in her, wondering
where to begin, how to explain what she feared about
Nicholas. But it seemed disloyal to admit even to her
best friend that she feared her husband had killed
someone.