The Apothecary Rose (33 page)

She should go down, tell Owen, send Tildy for
Bess. No need for a priest, Anselm had already given him the last rites. There was nothing to do but prepare
the body for burial, wrap it in a shroud. Bess would send
her stable boy to Cutter's for the coffin.

Lucie would have liked to bury Nicholas in his
garden - it was there he had been happiest - but
it was not possible. He must be buried in hallowed
ground. She must get up, go downstairs, take care of
the details. But she lingered, feeling close to him even
though his eyes were closed and his soul had passed on,
knowing that once she left Nicholas's side, he would
be truly, completely gone.

This evening her feelings for him had been confused.
She had felt betrayed. Her mother had been poisoned
by the man in whom Lucie had placed all her trust. All
her hope for the future. The father of her only child.
That brief joy, so sharp and pure. Nicholas had acted irresponsibly and handed her mother her death. He had
sought out the advice of his former lover, someone
bound to be jealous of Nicholas's feeling for Amelie
D'Arby.

It was the Archdeacon Lucie should hate. She had
lashed out at Nicholas, but it was Anselm she should hate. Anselm.

He must pay for all this pain.

Owen cursed as the shop bell rang. He needed to think.
But he could not ignore the bell. No one came to them
at this time of the evening except with an emergency.
Melisende guarded her catch and watched Owen as he
walked past her.

'God be with you.' A young monk, flushed, out
of breath, eyes shining with troubled excitement. 'I must speak with Mistress Wilton’ Brother Sebastian
from the abbey.

'There is illness in the household. Mistress Wilton
watches over her husband.'

The young monk bowed. 'My Abbot sends me to
warn you that Brother Wulfstan has been poisoned.'

Owen was surprised. Brother Wulfstan attacked,
even with Anselm out of the way? 'Is he dead?'

The Lord spared him. But he is ill. And the Abbot
worries that Mistress Wilton is in danger. He wants
you to take the Wiltons to Freythorpe Hadden. They
should be safe there with Sir Robert and his retainers.'

'An odd choice. It would be easier to set up a
defence in familiar territory. Why Freythorpe Hadden?'

Brother Sebastian shrugged. 'I am just a messenger.'

Such messengers often knew far more than the
players. 'Think. What could be his reasoning?'

'Perhaps he feels York is dangerous. Enemies could
be anywhere. It was one of our brethren who tried to
poison the Infirmarian. Brother Michaelo, acting for
the Archdeacon. Perhaps my Abbot suspects he has
more agents.' Sebastian frowned, fearful he had said too much. 'But I am only a messenger.'

'And where is the Archdeacon now?'

'On the road to Durham.'

'And if Anselm doubles back,' Lucie asked from
the doorway, 'and finds us .gone, will he not think
to go to my father's house?'

Brother Sebastian bowed to her. 'God be with you,
Mistress Wilton. My Abbot is concerned for you. He
says Owen Archer and Sir Robert's retainers can better
protect you at Freythorpe’

'Owen can protect me here. My husband has just
died. I want to bury him here, among the people who
loved him.'

'Nicholas is dead?' Owen went over to her.

Lucie held herself stiffly, as if any softening would
undo her. Her face was pale, making her eyes look
huge in her face. 'Please thank Abbot Campian for
his warning and his concern. Tell him that we will
be watchful.' Lucie excused herself and went back up
the stairs.

Brother Sebastian gave Owen a worried look. 'My
Abbot will not like it.'

Owen considered him. 'Did Brother Michaelo say
that the Archdeacon meant to kill Mistress Wilton?'

'I do not know.'

'I understand the Archdeacon was sent to Durham.
Surely not alone?'

'Brandon, a novice, accompanies him.'

'And who else?'

'Just Brandon.'

'That is all? One novice?'

Sebastian looked uncomfortable. 'Brandon is strong’

Owen laughed in disbelief. He was surrounded by
fools. 'One strong man is no match for the Highlanders
on the road.'

Brother Sebastian shrugged.

Owen patted him on the shoulder. 'I know none
of this is your doing. I do not mean to badger you.
But you must see that I cannot argue with Mistress
Wilton on the night of her husband's death. I am afraid
you must tell your Abbot what she said.'

The messenger gone, Owen climbed the steps. Lucie sat beside Nicholas, studying him with a faraway look.

'I sent Brother Sebastian on his way.'

Lucie shook herself, rubbed her forehead. 'I will
not bury Nicholas at Freythorpe Hadden’ she said.

'Why not?'

'That place brought only sorrow to both of us. I
wish I could bury him in his garden. But certainly
not at Freythorpe. Sir Robert pushed me away. There
is no love there for me or Nicholas.'

'But it was your home.'

She gave him a strange look. 'You chose not to return to the place where you were a boy. Perhaps
you were right.'

Owen could think of no response to that. 'What
can I do to help you?'

'Aunt Phillippa must sleep. Ask Bess to come help me prepare Nicholas for burial.'

Owen took her hands in his. 'Your aunt is not
the only one who needs sleep.'

'I cannot sleep.'

'Lucie, think what you've been through the past
two nights. The fire. Now Nicholas.'

'I will prepare him. Then keep vigil.'

'Let someone else keep vigil.'

'No. I will do it. I killed him. I will keep the vigil.'

Owen's heart sank. Killed him? Had they come full
circle? Was she the murderer after all? Had Nicholas
been killed by a slow poison so he would never recover
enough to remember and possibly accuse her?

Lucie laughed, a brittle, chilling little laugh. 'You are shocked that I killed my husband.'

'I'm confused. How did you kill him?'

Even lacking sleep and in the first stages of mourn
ing, Lucie could look at him with those eyes of hers
and make him feel that she could see into his soul. 'I'm
not a poisoner, if that's what you're thinking.' Spoken
without anger. She sounded merely tired. 'I told him
that his friend had tried to kill me. I blamed him for
my mother's death. When he tried to tell me that he
had killed Montaigne for me, I turned away from him.
And then 1 went downstairs. I should have been with
him.' Gently she smoothed the grizzled hair back from
Nicholas's forehead.

'He was already dying, Lucie.'

She kept her eyes on her husband. 'I was wrong to
blame him. All of this has been the fruit of the Archdeacon's unholy love for Nicholas, a mean, suffocating
love. It is Anselm who will burn in Hell for all this,
not my Nicholas.'

'Think about this tomorrow.'

Lucie was not listening. 'I came and found Nicholas whimpering in his sleep. I tried to comfort him. I told
him I forgave him. But I don't know if he heard.'

'I am sure he did.'

'You say that because you want me calm. Then
you can persuade me to take him to Freythorpe.'

'That's not true, Lucie.'

'Go fetch Bess.'

Owen, seeing she would not be comforted, went
for Bess.

Confrontations

Anselm dragged himself to the man, steadied himself
against a wheel. 'We were attacked. My companion is
dead. I must get to Wilton's apothecary in York, by the
minster. Can you get me there?'

That I can. I be heading there for market. The
Lord is good to put me in the way of helping one of
his priests. I'm sinner enough to need the indulgence
it should get me.'

Anselm soon lay among baskets and sacks, com
forted by this sign of God's grace.

Bess shooed Lucie down to the kitchen after they
had prepared Nicholas's body. Then she set a cup
of brandywine in front of her friend, saying, 'I'll send
the stable boy for Father William at first light.' He was
their parish priest.

Lucie nodded. She stared somewhere beyond her
hands, her eyes unfocused. Bess and Owen exchanged
looks.

The shop bell jingled.

'Who in God's creation?' Bess went to see, scurried
back with a flush to her face. 'My Lord the Archbishop’
she announced, her cap ribbons aflutter.

Thoresby strode into the room even as Bess spoke,
making the sign of the cross to bless the house.

'Mistress Wilton’ he said, taking Lucie's hand, 'your
husband was respected in York. Nicholas Wilton was a fine apothecary. He will be missed.'

Thank you, Your Grace.'

'You must forgive me for intruding on your mourn
ing. But circumstances force my hand. It is most
unfortunate.' He nodded to Owen, glanced at Bess.
She excused herself to go sit with Nicholas.

Lucie took a sip of the brandywine. Her hands
trembled. 'Please sit down, Your Grace’ she said quietly.

1 will not stay long. I meant simply to assure you
that I have arranged everything. Two of my men will
bring a cart and a coffin shortly. At dawn, I and four of
my men will accompany you to Freythorpe Hadden.'

'You need not concern yourself with us, Your Grace.
The Wiltons have served your purpose.'

'What are you talking about?'

'I know that Owen is your man. I suppose I am to
be grateful that you allowed me to have his services
for a time.'

He paused, but only for a moment. 'Mistress Wilton,
this is not the time for injured pride. I am trying to
prevent my Archdeacon or his young men from causing
any more distress’

Lucie rose, flushed and trembling with anger. 'I do
not mean to sound ungrateful, My Lord Thoresby, but
I cannot accept your gift, I do not intend to bury my
husband at Freythorpe Hadden. That is not where he
belongs.'

Thoresby stood. 'I chose a bad time, I can see.
Forgive me, Mistress Wilton.' He signalled for Owen
to follow him out the kitchen door. Lucie eyed Owen
darkly as he passed.

Out in the wet garden, Thoresby dropped the pleas
ant courtesy. 'Damnable woman. Does she think we
play a game, Archer? Does she not know how precari
ous her position is?' He pulled up his hood.

'I am not sure what Mistress Wilton thinks at the
moment, Your Grace. Last night Anselm trapped her in
a burning shed. Tonight she lost her husband. Now
you suggest that she bury her husband where she had
never thought to bury him. And she wonders whether
she can trust me. Whether she can count on me. You
must not judge her by her words or actions tonight.'

Owen felt Thoresby's eyes on him. 'Mistress Wilton is more than an employer to you, that I can see. What
does she know of all this?'

'She knows everything.'

'And what is "everything"?'

'That Montaigne held Nicholas responsible for
Amelie D'Arby's death so many years ago. Montaigne
was her lover. She died aborting his child with
an overdose of a potion concocted by Nicholas.
Montaigne tried to kill Nicholas the night she
died. He thought he had succeeded. His return
threatened Nicholas. He feared Montaigne would
discover he was still alive and try again to kill
him - or ruin his name, which would ruin all
he'd tried to do for Lucie. So Nicholas poisoned him
with the physick that was later used in ignorance on
Fitzwilliam.'

'I might have guessed a woman was involved. We
can be such fools over them.' Thoresby was quiet a
moment. 'Did Mistress Wilton have a hand in the
poisoning?'

'No. She did not even know the identity of the
pilgrim Nicholas had mixed the physick for. And
because her husband fell ill the very night he com
mitted the deed, she did not learn of the poison soon enough to save Fitzwilliam.' Owen could make out an
unpleasant grin on Thoresby's face. He had denied it
too quickly.

'You would not tell me if she
were
guilty.'

'My first allegiance is to you, Your Grace.'

Thoresby chuckled. 'I think not. But it is possible
she is innocent. So I choose to accept your explana
tion.' He shook his head. The Lord's purpose in this
mystifies me. Fitzwilliam deserved punishment, but not by the hands that meted it out. And now my
Archdeacon seems possessed by the Devil himself.
He influenced Brother Michaelo. Who else? You must
persuade Mistress Wilton to accept my plan.'

'She is not easy to influence’

'It's time you discovered how to move her, then.'
He said it with a chilling firmness, with finality.
Thoresby departed, leaving a cold silence in his wake.
Then Owen heard his horse trot off into the night.

Bess looked up as Lucie sank down on the stool by
the door. 'So, what ordeal does our lord the Archbishop
mean to put you through so soon after you've been
widowed?'

Lucie did not answer at once. Bess noted the shad
ows under her eyes and the deepened creases from nose
to mouth, signs of little sleep and much worry. 'Men
never know when to be still.'

Lucie sighed. 'There may be trouble here. They
want me to leave at dawn. The Archdeacon has gone
mad, it seems. But the Archbishop is being kind, Bess.
He is sending men and a cart with me to Freythorpe
Hadden. And he will come with us to say the requiem.'

'Travel to Freythorpe? In your state? With no sleep?'

'The Highlanders rarely strike so early in the day’

'But you've had no rest, my girl.'

'I'll rest later. Aunt Phillippa will see to that.'

'Oh, aye, as she's seen to you in the past. I've
no confidence in her seeing-to.'

'I could use a cup of your brandywine to see me
on the road.'

'You're trying to get rid of me?'

'It would warm me, Bess. And one of the blankets
you use in the cart.' But Lucie did not look at Bess. Her
eyes were on her husband, silent and already strange in
his shroud.

Twice widowed herself, Bess could see that Lucie
needed time alone before all the fuss began over the funeral. 'Well, you could use some warming. I'll fetch what you ask if you sit yourself down by the window
and rest awhile.'

Lucie promised to rest.

Bess huffed away. As she passed the shop door, she heard Owen speaking with Tildy. Satisfied that the two would hear Lucie if she needed anything, Bess hurried
out the kitchen door to fetch whatever she might think
of to ease the strain of Lucie's journey.

Lucie came to with her head resting on Nicholas's
arm in the dark room. She would not have believed
she could fall asleep with her husband just dead. Such
weariness frightened her. It muddled wits, caused mis
takes. She shook herself and went to the window,
opening it wide to let the chill air revive her. Nicholas
was past caring about drafts. The breeze stung her face
and worked like a slap, awakening her to the awful
reality. Her husband had been taken from her. His
kind eyes were forever closed.

And already the men around her tried to wrest
Her power from her. Tell her where she might bury
her husband. What right had they to interfere? They claimed it was for her protection. But what could the
Archbishop of York and Lord Chancellor of England care about her safety? All courtesy demanded was that
he warn her. Perhaps suggest a means of protection. But not demand. Not prepare the way.

Thoresby and Campian protected themselves. She
knew things they would prefer to have hidden. She
might talk. And the folk of York would be only too
glad to listen to her.

But that would gain her nothing. Folk would
be intrigued by the tale of Anselm, Nicholas, and
Amelie. Entertained. They would take the story home to their hearths and while away many a cold night whispering of it. But why would she betray herself?
She had nothing to gain from it and much to lose.
It was a story of bad judgement. It would reflect on
her. An apothecary with poor judgement would not
inspire confidence.

She had no cause to tell the tale, and the Arch
bishop should know that. She would speak with him
tomorrow. Today. It must be close to dawn, though
the rain kept the sky dark.

As she stared out into the wet darkness, the door
opened behind her. She imagined Bess looking in, wor
rying over ber, and smiled to herself despite her fears.

Bess would be pleased to see her taking air. Stealthy
footsteps crossed to the bed. A moan.

'I am too late? Oh, Nicholas, you are too cruel.
Why did you not wait for me? You call me and then
you do not wait. I have crossed through Hell this night
to come to your side.'

Lucie shivered. It was the Archdeacon, the architect of all her sorrow. Owen must have gone to sleep. And
Bess. Lucie could count on no one.

The man's breath wheezed and rattled like that
of one wounded or very ill. 'I heard you, Nicholas. I
heard. They tried to stop me. But I got away. Beautiful
Nicholas. They closed your eyes. They did not want
me to see them again.'

Lucie groped her way to the little table, holding her
breath for fear she would kick something on the way.
She felt for the little spirit lamp, turned up the wick.
A bright flame flared out.

Anselm gasped as he was discovered and shielded his
eyes with a twisted, swollen hand. Nicholas lay across
his lap, peeled from his winding sheet. The Archdeacon
looked hideous. Blood trickled down his forehead. He
reeked of blood and the sweat of fever. A dark red stain
spread across the winding sheet on his lap. He gave up
shielding his eyes to hold Nicholas tighter, clutching
his pale nakedness. 'I burned you. How did your spirit
get free? Get thee hence, she-devil!'

'This is my house, you monster. And Nicholas
was my husband.' Lucie moved closer.

Anselm bared his teeth and growled at her like
a wounded cat, crushing Nicholas to him.

It was the stuff of nightmares. One dead, the other
mad with pain and grief and looking as much a corpse
as the dead man. The madman muttered something
in Latin, prised open Nicholas's right eyelid with his
swollen, twisted finger, and bent to kiss him on the
mouth.

'In the name of Heaven, leave him alone’ Lucie
trembled with rage.

Anselm lifted his eyes to Lucie. 'Heaven? What do
you know of Heaven, she-devil?' He stroked Nicholas's
hair, his stomach, his thigh, watching Lucie, enjoying her discomfort.