The Apothecary Rose (34 page)

'Stop that!' she hissed. She tried to calm herself,
to think of what she might use as a weapon. She
remembered the knife she used for bandages. It was
on the table beside the bed.

'I have a right to say my farewells.' Anselm bent to
kiss Nicholas again. 'He loved me. I protected him.'

'Love?' Lucie edged closer. 'Nicholas feared you.
He said you were mad. Evil.'

Anselm screeched and put Nicholas down with
trembling arms.

Lucie grabbed the knife and held it behind her,
backing away.

Anselm reared up. 'You are the spawn of the evil that
poisoned the soul of my Nicholas’ he cried. 'Nicholas
loved me. It was a pure, innocent love. And then she turned him away. Amelie D'Arby. The French whore’

'And so you tricked innocent Nicholas into killing
her’

Anselm grinned. 'It happened just as I prayed it
would’

'You coward. You had your beloved commit the
sin for you. So Nicholas will burn for it. Not you’

'She will burn. Not my Nicholas. She died horri
bly. Haemorrhaging, life gushing from her. Such pain.
Such fear. And she was unshriven, did you know that? Unshriven. She burns in Hell now, my little she-wolf.
Do you think of her there? Writhing in the eternal fire?'

Lucie slashed out at his face with the knife. But she
was inexperienced. She opened the side of his face, not
his eye.

Anselm shrieked and lunged for the knife.

Lucie kicked at him’ but her skirts hampered her.

He knocked the knife out of her hand.

She grabbed a chair and rammed his side with it.
He tottered’ but came back at her almost at once. He
was bleeding from the stomach, the side of his face,
his forehead. She could not imagine where he got the
strength to continue.

He grabbed her. Got her neck in his hands. One
hand pressed into her. The other did nothing. Lucie
twisted in the direction of the bad hand. He drove her head against the wall. The impact stunned her
and her knees buckled beneath her. Anselm yanked
her up and slammed her head against the wall again.
She screamed as she felt her knees go out completely.
He grabbed her up and pressed her against the wall, the good hand round her throat.

Footsteps came pounding up the stairs.
Dear God,
give me the strength to kill him. For my mother. For
my husband,
Lucie prayed. She dug her nails into
Anselm's hand. He rammed his head against hers.
Her ears rang. She could taste his sweat and blood.

'Stay back, Dame Phillippa’ Owen called from out
side the door. 'Stay out of the way.' The door crashed
open.

Anselm hissed and clutched Lucie to him. Owen
tore her out of the Archdeacon's broken hand. She crawled towards the knife.

Anselm, howling in anger and pain, lunged for
Owen, who turned, caught him in his powerful arms,
and threw him against the wall. Anselm hit it with a
sickening sound of breaking bone and slumped to the
floor, his head sinking down on his shoulder at an
unnatural angle. Phillippa screamed.

Owen hurried to Lucie.

She knelt with the knife raised, staring at the
broken body of the Archdeacon. 'You have killed
him?' A touch of breathlessness. Disbelief. 'He was
mine to kill. Mine.'

Owen knelt beside her, touched her chin, gently
turned her face towards him. 'You put up a good fight, Lucie. He is dead now. He can hurt no more of your
family.'

She twisted her head to look back at Anselm.
'He uncovered Nicholas. Kissed him and -'

'Let me take you downstairs’ Owen said gently.

'He -' Lucie pulled away from Owen and strug
gled to stand by herself. 'He snarled and snapped
like a wounded animal. I did not - He did not
seem human. And the way he held Nicholas, I —' she
took a step towards Nicholas, his naked corpse lying
on the sheet fouled by Anselm's blood. She put her hand to her mouth. 'The way he held him. Touched
him. Taunting me. I - Nicholas died fearing him. And
that monster held him there when Nicholas could not fight him.' Her body trembled.

'Lucie?' Owen touched her arm.

She backed away, went to stand over her hus
band's body, hugging her elbows to her sides, the
knife trembling in her hands. 'My God. Even in death
the man clutched at him. Such a terrible, suffocating
love. More hate than love. What was my husband's
sin, that he should suffer so long?' She lifted the
bloodstained sheet. 'What right had he? What right?'
All the blood. Her mother's gown had been heavy with
blood, the skirt pooling on the rushes, so wet and cold.
Her skin so smooth and cold.
Owen went to her. 'Let me take you down to
the kitchen.'

Lucie shook her head. 'Bess will have a clean sheet.
She will have a clean sheet.'

A door opened down below. Footsteps crossed the
kitchen, mounted the stairs. Voices murmured on the
landing.

Bess stepped through the doorway. 'Merciful
Mother,' she whispered at the sight of Nicholas's naked
ness against the bloody sheet. 'What happened?' Her
eyes searched the room, took in Lucie's blood-smeared face, the bloodstains on Owen's shirt, and rested on the
body of the Archdeacon. 'Holy Mary, Mother of God,' she
breathed, leaning down to him, then turning away as
she caught the stench of his ordeal. 'You cannot have
done all this?' She looked Owen in the eye.

'He was wounded already.'

Their voices seemed to wake Lucie. She dropped
the knife. It clattered on the floor.

'Lucie?' Bess said. She dabbed at the blood on
her friend's face.

'The brandywine and blanket won't be necessary
now’ Lucie said.

Bess looked at Owen. 'It's the Archdeacon's blood on the winding sheet?'

Owen nodded. 'Aye’

Bess was quiet a moment. 'The Archbishop's men are
here with the coffin. Phillippa and I will wrap Anselm
in his own filth and get a clean sheet for Nicholas.'
She nodded to herself, turned to leave. Then turned
back. 'And you two must deal with the Archbishop's
men.'

Lucie had begun to shiver uncontrollably. Owen
caught up her hands. They were like ice. He held
them.
'I don't know what to do.' Lucie stared at her
hands in his, her eyes wide with the numbness that
Owen had seen time and again in his men when they had fought too long on a battlefield with the dead all
about them, slipping on the blood and entrails of their comrades and their enemies, and suddenly it
all became too much, their minds and hearts could
deal with no more. 'I don't know what to do,' Lucie
whispered.

'For the moment we must go downstairs,' Owen
said, and led her by the hand.

The Archbishop's men rose, and Owen motioned
them to sit back down. 'Mistress Wilton needs brandy-
wine. I could use some, too.'

Twenty-five

Aftermath

He struggled to keep his mind on the cross, but
discipline did not come easily to Wulfstan. He floated,
his thoughts drifting up, over, around him, never quite
engaging him, just brushing him with random strands. It was a pleasant feeling that he found impossible to
resist. But he tried. He had a vague idea that he
should not be comforted, that he'd done something unforgivable, though at the moment he could not
remember what it was. When he tried to remember,
he became frightened and shied away from the effort.
'Brother Wulfstan, can you hear me?'

It was a quiet, unfamiliar voice. Deep, resonant.
Wulfstan liked the voice. But he did not answer. To
speak would break the bubble in which he floated.
Why could they not leave him alone?

'Wulfstan, the Archbishop is here to speak with
you.'

His Abbot's voice. High-pitched with tension. An unpleasant voice. Wulfstan preferred the other.

'He wishes to ask you about Lucie Wilton.'

Blue eyes. A gentle touch. A smile. Lucie Wilton.
Wulfstan shivered. The bubble in which he floated
dipped precipitously, then righted itself. Lucie Wilton
stirred an unpleasant strand of memory. He did not
want to think about her.

'Wulfstan?'

Why would they not go away?

'Nicholas Wilton is dead, Wulfstan. We know he
poisoned your friend Montaigne. Did Lucie Wilton
have a hand in that?'

Montaigne. Gentle pilgrim. Darkness. Merciful Moth
er Mary, that was it. That was the horrible deed for which he could not be absolved. Not with any amount
of penance. His fault. He should have known. It was
his duty to know. He had murdered his friend. He had
failed him. Arrogance. And dear Lucie Wilton. Could
she have had a hand in the poisoning? Or known and
not warned him? Could she have cold-bloodedly looked
away as his friend was poisoned?

'No!' The bubble burst. His heart jolted. He clawed
the stones, struggling to rise. Strong arms came to his
aid. Wulfstan opened his eyes and stumbled, blinded
by the flickering light of the altar candles. The strong
arms steadied him.

'Come, sit down on this bench.' It was the Arch
bishop who spoke with the pleasant voice and helped
him so gently. Thoresby himself. The Lord Chancel
lor's chain of office shone on his chest. He smelled
richly of scented oils.

'I must know the character of the woman, Brother
Wulfstan. You must tell me about her.'

Michaelo sometimes smelled like this. Spicy,
musky, flowery all at once, A vain young man.
But harmless, Wulfstan had thought. Until Michaelo
had tried to poison him. Had come perilously close to
succeeding.

'Why me? Why would he want to kill me?' Wulfstan
wondered aloud.

'Wulfstan.' Abbot Campian filled his vision. 'You
are wandering.' To Thoresby, Campian said, 'He is
not fully recovered. But he begged to be allowed to
come to chapel and do penance.'

'Penance? For what sin, Brother Wulfstan?'

Wulfstan hung his head. 'I should have recognised
the nature of the concoction. I should have recognised
the symptoms of aconite poisoning. Your ward should
not have died. Or Geoffrey.' He wept.

Dame Phillippa and Bess had persuaded Lucie and
Owen to go and sleep at the inn. They would prepare
Nicholas and sit with him. One of the Archbishop's
men guarded the inn, another the shop. The other
two had gone to inform Thoresby of the Archdeacon's death.

Owen looked in on Lucie before going to his own
room. She stood at the window, her arms wrapped
tightly around her, as if braced for the next blow.

'You must try to sleep.'

'When I close my eyes, I see Nicholas in Anselm's
arms.' Her voice was full of tears. 'I cannot bear it.'

Owen stood for a moment, uncertain whether he
was welcome. But he could not leave her. 'Come. Lie
down. I'll talk with you until you sleep.'

She let him lead her to the bed. 'Tell me how
you met the Archbishop.'

'No. That would keep you wakeful.' Instead, he told
her about his archers, naming each one and describing him. Lucie was soon asleep.

Owen nodded off in the chair beside her.

Lucie awoke at the cock's crow, disoriented. 'What is this place?'

Owen jerked awake.

'What is this place?' she repeated.

'The best room at the York. We came here last night.'

'The Archdeacon’ Lucie whispered, touching her
head gingerly. Bruises had appeared on her face and throat, revealing to Owen that they had struggled more
than he'd guessed.

The sight of the bruises filled Owen with a rage
that killing Anselm had not satisfied: He must master
this. 'Lie still.' He pressed a cold, damp cloth to Lucie's
head. 'You fought bravely.'

Her eyes looked beyond Owen. 'I wanted to kill
him’ she said. 'I was angry with you for stealing the kill from me.'

'It is all over now’

'What am I to do?'

'Do?'

'I have lost everything. My husband. The shop.
Everything.'

'I have told the Archbishop you are innocent.'

'That will not matter.'

'I will do my best.'

Lucie pushed the cloth away and sat up with effort.
'You will continue in the Archbishop's service?'

'I may wind up in his dungeon in the Old Baile.'

'Why? You came to my defence. Why would you
wind up in his dungeon for that?'

'He did not want Anselm disposed of in the city.
He wanted it to happen away from witnesses.' And
he'd already questioned Owen's loyalty.

'So you should have let Anselm kill me?'

'Of course not. It is a matter of whether His Grace
believes me.' Owen freshened the cloth and put it back
on her forehead. 'I saw the knife slash on Anselm's face.
That took daring.'

'I was driven. I wanted to blind him and then stab him in the heart. You see how successful I was. I'd
never used a knife on someone before. It wasn't - His
skull -' She coughed, doubled over. He held her head
over a pan as she retched.

John Thoresby removed his chain of office and his
cloak. Blood did not easily wash out of fur. Then
he bent down to examine his Archdeacon. The neck had been neatly snapped. Archer was tidy and quick. It pleased the Archbishop. It also disturbed him. He had wanted this to happen, yes. But not in York. Not so close to the minster. Or if it had to happen in the
city, then within his liberty, where he had jurisdiction.
Not that anyone involved would talk. But in the middle
of the city. Some soul, unable to sleep, might have seen
the Archdeacon arrive. Seen the commotion. And for
whom had Owen murdered Anselm? For his lord, or
for the pretty widow?

Thoresby knew how to deal with the widow. Wulfstan had said she expected to be made a master apothecary soon. He said she wanted that very much. And Nicholas had wanted it for her. That suited Thoresby.
He liked Mistress Wilton's spirit. She would have made
a good abbess. He would agree to her becoming a master
in exchange for her silence about this affair. He did not
doubt she would co-operate.

But Archer. What to do with him? He knew every
thing, had no loyalties, no handles to hold him down,
keep him to his silence. Unless it was the widow.
If Archer had murdered Anselm for the widow, that
might be something. Thoresby would watch him.

The requiems were small and quiet, but not for
any shame. Both Anselm and Nicholas were laid
to rest in hallowed ground. In the apothecary's case,
Thoresby blessed a corner of the Wiltons' garden. It
was a small matter, but the widow was touchingly
grateful. He wanted her that way.

Thoresby watched Archer at the grave. If the man
was in love with the widow, he should be elated.
She was now free, though of course a discreet period
of mourning ought to be observed. But Archer stood
there with a dark light in his eye, close to but never
touching Lucie Wilton. As if he could not see through
to that earthly reward.

After the ceremony, Thoresby drew Owen aside. 'What is this gloom?'

Archer gave him a queer look. 'None of it is right. All of York is making a martyr out of Anselm. They
say he was ambushed as he returned to the city to give
the last rites to his friend. That God saw his loyalty and
let him live long enough to help his friend to Heaven.'

'It is almost the truth, Archer.'

'The people should know the whole truth. They
should know what Anselm had done.'

Thoresby looked down at his ring, discomfited by
the fanatic glint in the man's eye. 'It was I put
the story of Anselm's noble death on people's lips,'
Thoresby said quietly. 'If I were to correct it, tell
people that my Archdeacon had killed Digby, tried
to kill you and Mistress Wilton, then we have scan
dal at the minster. Folk do not bequeath money
to churches connected with scandals. And the King
wants York to be a grand minster, because his son
is buried there, William of Hatfield, who died so
young, still a babe, because he was too good to
live. Edward likes that image. The Hatfield chap
el must be in a church worthy of the little angel.
Untouched by scandal. So you see, the romantic story
of boyhood friends is the only story they must ever
hear.'

'It is a lie,'

'You are a fool, Archer. Whom will it hurt?'

'Are you a man of God? Are you not to lead us on
the path of righteousness? To show us how to choose between good and evil?'

Thoresby bit back a smile. Could Archer be so
naive after all his years in the old Duke's service?
'I am the Archbishop of York and Lord Chancellor of England. Good and evil I must judge in the light of the
common weal.'

Owen paced in front of him. 'You sent your Arch
deacon off to Durham hoping that he would be am
bushed.'

'Not hoping. I told you I had signed his death
warrant. What did you think I meant? The soldiers
were my soldiers.'

'And Brandon?'

'I had to send someone from the abbey, or Anselm
would have been suspicious. Young Brandon knew the
plan. He rode off, but he didn't need to. My men knew
not to harm him.'

'It was dark out on the moors, Your Grace. How could they be sure they had the right man?'

'The lad is resourceful. He might think to identify himself.'

'And what if the Highlanders had found them first?'

'I trusted in God. Brandon is a strong lad from the borders. He knows how to defend himself.'

'Against Highlanders? What do you know about
fighting alone? You, who have been coddled from
birth. Tis the same in battle. You sit in your fancy
tents and plot and scheme, then move us around the
field mimicking tactics you read about in books. You
find it exciting. A challenge. You make wagers. Clever
tactician, that Thoresby, he lost only fifty men.'