The Apothecary Rose (29 page)

'Quiet about what?'

'That Nicholas gave your mother the abortifacant
that killed her. Gave her too much at once.'

Lucie felt sick to her stomach. 'He administered
a mortal dose?'

'No, she took too much herself.'

'And he should have known better.'

'So I think in his mind Nicholas was redeeming
himself through you.'

'Am I to find that comforting?'

'No. None of this will be comforting.'

Lucie took a good swallow of brandywine. Tell
me the rest.'

'I wish I could spare you this, but after what hap
pened tonight, I think I should begin with Nicholas
and Anselm.'

Lucie listened quietly as he told her about her hus
band's relationship with Anselm at the abbey school.

'It explains much of Anselm's behaviour’ she said
when he paused. 'What else have you learned?' She
could see in Owen's eye that her calm response re
assured him. He relaxed and told her about Digby's
suspicions, about Magda Digby's information. At dawn
they still sat there.

'Deus juva me,'
she whispered when he had finished.
'My life is ashes.'

Owen said nothing.

'My mother . . .' Even if the Riverwoman was right
that Nicholas had not understood her mother's weak
ness, he was still guilty. 'My loving husband gave my
mother the means to kill herself. He should never have
become Master Apothecary. How was it concealed?'

Owen shook his head. 'I do not know. Perhaps
your Aunt Phillippa will enlighten us.'

'Aunt Phillippa encouraged me to marry Nicholas.
She encouraged me.' Lucie got up and went to the
garden door, opening it to the pale morning light. 'Is
she my friend or my enemy?' Lucie whispered, hugging
herself. 'She could arrive today. I was going to get her
bed ready first thing.'

'You should sleep awhile.'

Lucie spun round. He was so blind. 'Lie up there next to that stranger and think about all you've told
me? I'd go mad. I don't know whether to hate him or
pity him.'

'I will find out all I can for you.'

'You mean for the Archbishop.'

Owen got up and came to her, taking her hands.
'I mean for you, Lucie.' She could not help looking at
his face, uncovered, vulnerable. The scar had reddened. Shadows underlined his good eye. He was as exhausted
as she. 'Can you forgive me, Lucie? Can you ever trust
me?'

'I don't know. Help me get to the bottom of this
wretched story, Owen, then we'll see. But your future
is up to His Grace, isn't it? I'll be looking for an appren
tice. Well. Work will keep my mind busy.' She left the
room.

Upstairs, she checked on Nicholas. Force of habit.
His eyes flickered open. 'Lucie? Are you hurt?'

'Not really.' She had leaned down to see if he was
feverish.

He touched her face.

She recoiled.

'Lucie?'

Her mother's murderer. She wanted to hurt him.
'It was Anselm who started the fire, did you know?
He called me she-devil. Succubus. Whore. The fire was
for me, Nicholas. I was to burn. Then he could have
you all to himself.'

'He is mad. What did he say to you?'

'You call him mad? But he is your friend, Nicholas.'

'That was long ago, Lucie.'

'Really? Of late he has been a welcome guest. Ever
since you poisoned Geoffrey’

'No!' Nicholas hissed.

Lucie moved to the foot of the bed. He sickened
her with his lies. 'Even now you cannot tell me the
truth?'

'It isn't what you think.'

'You poisoned him, Nicholas. You used the skill God
gave you to murder Geoffrey Montaigne. He was a good
man. Gentle. He loved my mother. Did you? Were you
jealous of him?'

'Lucie, please. She was my friend, nothing more.'

'And so you killed her?'

'I did not - I did what she asked.'

'And did she ask you to kill Geoffrey?'

'I did that for you.'

'For me? You damned yourself for me? You say
that as if you expected my gratitude. I never wished
for Geoffrey's death. It was not Geoffrey who killed my
mother.'

'You blame me?'

'I do.'

'Who has told you this?'

'You should have, Nicholas. You should have.'

'I -1 am guilty of poor judgement. I was very young.
But I tried to make it up to you. The shop. You would
be Master Apothecary. No one could take that away
from you. Except Montaigne. If he told someone what
I had done - Please, Lucie.'

He would not even take the responsibility. 'Go to
sleep, Nicholas. Leave me alone.'

'I love you, Lucie. I did it for you. But to tell
you - I could not.'

For her. He really thought he had murdered for
her. Her entire body trembled as she walked out of
the room.

Next door, in the tiny room that had been Nicholas's as a boy and would have been Martin's, she made up a
pallet for her Aunt Phillippa and one for herself.

The Gift

'His Grace?'

'He said to come at once.'

'At his house or in his chambers?'

'His chambers.'

Anselm hurried away. It was not often these days
that he was summoned to the Archbishop. He won
dered whether the Archbishop would have learned
about the fire. Unlikely. The only witness was dead. And if the Archbishop did learn of it - might he not
approve? They were, after all, the shepherds of the
flock. And he had eliminated a she-wolf who threat
ened one of their dearest lambs.

Jehannes showed him into the Archbishop's cham
ber.

John Thoresby did not rise to greet Anselm, but
motioned him to a chair in front of the table where
he had been examining documents.

'Your Grace. I am honoured to -'

'I did not call you here to exchange pleasantries.
I need you to go on a mission for me.'

So it had nothing to do with the fire. 'Out of the
city, Your Grace?'

'To Durham.'

It was an honour to be needed by the Archbishop.
But Durham. That was impossible right now. He must
be near Nicholas in his time of need. 'Forgive me, Your
Grace, A good friend is ill. On his deathbed, I fear. I hate
to leave him right now.'

'Nicholas Wilton, is it?'

The guess surprised Anselm. And flattered him.
That the Archbishop would bother to learn so much
about him. 'He is my oldest friend. And so alone
now.'

'I know of your friendship. I understand that this is
a difficult time for you to be apart from him. But he is
hardly alone. Wilton is in good hands, and I need you
in Durham. Sir John Dalwylie is contemplating a gift to the minster fund. A considerable gift. We must pay him
respect and encourage him with an account of similar
gifts. I entrust you with this mission, Archdeacon. It is
an honour. Are you going to make me regret my faith in you?'

'No, Your Grace. It is an honour. I am most grateful.
But could it not wait?'

'No, it cannot. I need you to leave today. As soon
as you can ready yourself.'

'I say Mass -'

'I have seen to that.'

Anselm bowed. He knew when not to pursue his excuses any further. 'I will not fail you, Your Grace.'

'Good.' Thoresby rose. 'You will instruct your clerk
on any business you might expect in the next five or
six days. Jehannes will explain the mission and provide
you with letters of introduction.'

When Anselm came out of the Archbishop's chamber, the intrusive Owen Archer was conversing with
Jehannes. They spoke too softly for Anselm to hear
the matter of their speech, and they broke off as soon
as they became aware of him.

'Archdeacon’ Jehannes said. 'Please, sit down while I
announce Captain Archer to His Grace.' Jehannes slipped
into the other room.

Anselm felt the cursed man's eye on him. 'You
are out betimes, Archer.'

'I had a sleepless night.'

Anselm noted the man had a most malevolent look
in the one eye. Perhaps the Lord had blinded him in the other as punishment for that bold look.

'Trouble sleeping? You have been unwell?'

'No’

Jehannes returned. 'His Grace will see you at once, Captain Archer.'

Thoresby stood as Owen entered the room. 'Jehannes
tells me there was a fire.'

'Your Archdeacon was eager to send Mistress Wilton
to her final reward, Your Grace. Had I not been at the
window, had I not tried the door to the shed, Anselm would have succeeded.'

'You are certain it was he?'

'Mistress Wilton is certain.'

Thoresby nodded, sifted through the papers, chose
one, read it over, took a pen, and signed it with a
flourish. 'I have just signed his death warrant, Archer.
You need not worry about his return.'

'When does he leave?'

'At once.'

'I must get back to the shop, then. To make sure
that he does not stop to say his farewells.'

'He will not, Archer’
'I will make sure of that.'

The moment Lucie entered the room she knew some
thing was not right. Something about her husband's
inert body. She opened the shutters to get more light,
her fingers clumsy with panic. Saliva dribbled from
Nicholas's mouth. His breathing was shallow and
uneven.

'Nicholas, can you hear me?'

He did not respond.

She felt his pulse. It was weak and erratic. 'Jesu mercy’ Another attack. She had wanted to give him pain. But not this.

When Bess came over to see how Lucie was recovering
from the night's scare, she was puzzled to find her
friend sitting at the foot of the bed, staring at Nicholas.
'What is it, Lucie?'

'Nicholas had another attack. He's dying, Bess’
'Oh’ child’ Bess sat down beside Lucie and smoothed
her hair from her face. 'He's been dying all this time,
love. It's best you accept that and look to yourself.
There's nothing any of us can do to save him’ Lucie's
skin was ice cold. 'For heaven's sake, child’ Bess threw
a shawl over Lucie's shoulders and led her over to the
table.

'I've killed him, Bess’ 'And how did you do that, for pity's sake?'
'I told him it was the Archdeacon who caught me
in the shed. I told him what he'd called me, what he'd said. I told him what I told you, my suspicions’ Lucie
looked up at Bess, her eyes red from the fire and no
sleep. 'I wanted to cause him pain. I brought on the
attack’

'Oh yes, of course. And how about the night at
the abbey? Did you bring that on, too? Nonsense. The
man has something on his conscience, and it's killing
him. It's nothing to do with you. How is your hand?
Let me see.' Lucie winced as Bess unwrapped it. 'You
should know better than to let it dry out like that,
Lucie. Why does your training fail you when you are
the patient, eh?'

Lucie's thoughts were elsewhere. 'You knew Owen
was not who he said he was, didn't you?'

Bess started to deny it, then thought better of it.
'I did not know until the night his room caught fire.
Then he owed it to us to tell us why someone was
trying to kill him.'

'The fire wasn't an accident?'

'No more than the fire last night, child.'

Bess had never seen Lucie's eyes so dead, her posture
so defeated. 'Did you sleep at all?'

Lucie shook her head.

'You and Owen talked?'

'Yes. I suppose you know all of it?'

'I doubt it. But no matter. I would not put you
through it again so soon just to enlighten me’

Downstairs, the shop bell rang.

'I must go down’ Lucie said with weary resignation.

Bess hugged her. 'I'll sit with Nicholas - though
much good it will do.'

Dame Phillippa arrived at midday. She was not the
bent, white-haired old woman Owen had expected.
Dame Phillippa was tall and straight-backed and
walked with a healthy stride. Her eyes were deep-set
and knowing. Her wimple was snow white and her
simple dress and veil spotless. She gave Owen a firm
handshake, looked around the kitchen, and frowned.
'As I thought, Lucie needed to call for me long ago, but tried to carry it all on her shoulders.'

'That is not why I sent for you, Aunt,' Lucie said
from the shop doorway. She hesitated, then crossed
over quickly to her aunt and took her hands in hers. 'You are good to come, Aunt Phillippa.'

Phillippa gave her a hug, then stood back and
studied her niece, the bandaged hand, the red eyes.
There is more to this than your husband's illness, I
can see,'

'Let me show you where you can put your things.'

Phillippa followed Lucie up the stairs. She noted
the second pallet. 'I did not bring a servant’

'It's for me. I was going to sleep in here with
you. But Nicholas took a turn last night. He is much
worse.'

'He is dying?'

Lucie nodded.

'That is why you sent for me?'

That is part of it. We must talk, Aunt Phillippa.'

Her aunt nodded. There is trouble here. I can
smell it. Tell me, Lucie.'

Tonight. I must get down to the shop now.'

Her aunt shrugged. 'I will watch over Nicholas.'
She took off her cloak and hung it on a peg.

That would be kind. Bess Merchet is sitting with
him now. I'm sure she cannot spend the day up
there.'

'Bess Merchet?'

The owner of the York Tavern. Next door.'

'She works for you?'

'No, Aunt Phillippa. She is my dearest friend.'

The eyebrows lifted slightly. 'Do you ever find
it difficult? This is not the life you were born to.'

'I am finding this life most difficult at the moment,
Aunt Phillippa, but it has nothing to do with my sta
tion. We will talk this evening.' Lucie hurried away
before she began something she had no time to finish.

News of the fire the night before brought more cus
tomers than usual to the shop, hoping for details. Lucie
and Owen worked until Phillippa called them for the
evening meal.

Phillippa had brought a game pie and a delicately seasoned soup of winter vegetables and barley. Lucie
and Owen ate silently.

As Owen pushed himself from the table, Lucie
suggested that they sit by the fire with brandywine.
'And Aunt Phillippa will tell us about Nicholas,
Geoffrey Montaigne, and my mother.'

Dame Phillippa looked confused. 'Whatever for?'

'I need to understand why Nicholas poisoned Geoffrey
Montaigne at Christmastide.'

Dame Phillippa looked from one to the other.
'Blessed Mary, Mother of God,' she whispered, crossing
herself. 'Will that sorrow never cease?'

Wulfstan squinted toward the open door. It was difficult to make out faces at a distance when he'd been
doing close work for any length of time. He recognised
the graceful movement of the hand on the door. 'Broth
er Michaelo. Another headache so soon?'

'No, my saviour. I would like to share something
with you. In appreciation for all you have done for me. A liqueur for which my family is known in Normandy. My mother sends just a few drops, for fear more would
be a temptation to the messenger. I do not offend you
by offering spirits?'

'Not at all, Michaelo. They aid digestion admirably,
which is a blessing at my age. Please. Sit down.'

Wulfstan fetched two small cups.

Michaelo's dark eyes shone with a lustre that Wulf
stan did not see when the monk had one of his
headaches. They were moonlit pools in his pale,
slender face.

'It is pleasant to see my patients when they are well.'

Michaelo smiled as he poured. He gave Wulfstan
twice the amount he poured himself. Even so, it was
very little. He held up his cup. Wulfstan lifted his.

'To Brother Wulfstan, in whose hands resides the
healing touch of Our Saviour.'

What a pleasant young man. Wulfstan flushed with
pleasure and sipped. An odd assortment of flavours
confused his palate.

'Oh my. Now there is a talent. To mix so many
herbs. The monks do something like this at Pridiam. Twenty-six herbs, I think.' He took another sip.

Michaelo's eyes shone. 'I knew that you could
appreciate it, knowing the ingredients as you do.'
He touched the cup to his lips.