The Apothecary Rose (5 page)

'I am flattered that two such powerful men offer
me employment, and I thank you for giving me the opportunity to choose. But I prefer to serve the Arch
bishop and Lord Chancellor. I am better suited to your
service.'

Thoresby cocked his head to one side. 'Not ambi
tious, I see. You are a freak in the circles in which
you dance at present. Beware.' His look was serious, almost concerned.

A shower of pain rushed across Owen's blind eye,
hundreds of needle pricks, hot and sharp. He'd taken to
accepting these attacks as warnings, someone walking
on his grave. 'I am a cautious man who knows his place,
my lord.'

'I think you are, Owen Archer. Indeed.' Thoresby
rose, poked the fire for a moment, returned to his
seat.

Owen put down the wine. He wanted a clear head.

Thoresby, too, set aside his cup. 'The puzzle begins
thus. Sir Geoffrey Montaigne, late of the Black Prince's
retinue, makes a pilgrimage to York to atone for
some past sin. We do not know what sin, for while
in the service of the Prince, Montaigne's behaviour
was beyond reproach. Something in his past, perhaps.
Before joining the Prince's army he fought under
Sir Robert D'Arby of Freythorpe Hadden, a short
ride from York. Montaigne's choice of St. Mary's
at York for his pilgrimage suggests that his sin was
linked to his time in D'Arby's service. So. He arrives in York shortly before Christmas and within a few
weeks falls ill of camp fever - the ride north jarred
open an old wound, which weakened him, causing
a recurrence of the fever he'd suffered in France -all this according to the abbey Infirmarian, Broth
er Wulfstan - and within three days Montaigne is
dead.'

Thoresby paused.

Owen saw nothing odd in the story. 'Camp fever
is often fatal.'

'Indeed. I understand that after you were wounded
you assisted the camp doctor. You treated many cases
of fever?'

'Many cases.'

'Master Worthington praised your compassion.'

'I'd had the fever myself but a year before. I knew
what they suffered.'

The Archbishop nodded. 'Montaigne's death would
have gone unremarked but for another death at the
abbey within a month. Sir Oswald Fitzwilliam of
Lincoln, a familiar face at the abbey, making retreats
for sins that were only too easily guessed at by all who
knew him. Shortly after Twelfthnight he falls ill with
a winter fever. It worsens. He sweats profusely, com
plains of pain in his limbs, has fainting spells, fever
visions, and within a few days he is dead. A similar
death to Montaigne's.'

'A similar death? But it does not sound like camp
fever.'

'Towards the end, Montaigne was much the same.'

'The Infirmarian poisoned these men?'

'I think not. Too obvious.' Thoresby took up his
cup and drank.

'Forgive me, Your Grace, but how do you come
into this?'

The Archbishop sighed. 'Fitzwilliam was my ward
until he came of age. An embarrassing failure for me.
He grew to he a greedy, sly creature. I used all the
weight of my offices to get him into Gaunt's service.
I did not make friends in doing so. I assume my ward was poisoned. And though I do not pretend to mourn
him, I should know his murderer.'

'And Montaigne?'

'Ah. As far as I can determine, a God-fearing man with no enemies. Perhaps his death is unrelated.' The
Archbishop leaned back and closed his eyes. 'But I
think not. The deaths were too similar.' He looked
up at Owen. 'Poisoned by mistake?' He shrugged. 'Or
was he merely better at burying his business than
Fitzwilliam?' He smiled. 'And here's an interesting
item. Montaigne did not give his name at St. Mary's.
He called himself a pilgrim. Humble and plain. Or sly?'

An interesting puzzle. Owen liked the prospect.
'What inquiries have you made so far?'

'A few questions, enough to discover that Abbot
Campian thinks they both died of natural causes.
Hopes they did, is more like it. He fears we'll wrong
ly accuse his Infirmarian, Brother Wulfstan. And the Archdeacon of York assures me that if there had been
a hint of trouble his Summoner would know of it. I hand it to you, Owen Archer. Disregard them. Begin
at the beginning’

'In what guise shall I present myself in York?'

'I think that something as close to the truth as
possible will suit the situation. Present yourself as a
soldier who has lost his taste for killing and wishes
to begin afresh. You are looking for honest work in
the city, with a small behest from your late lord to
support you in the meantime. My secretary, Jehannes,
will doubtless come up with something before you
arrive in York. You will of course have all the funds
you need. You will go to Jehannes when you arrive, and
whenever you have need of anything. The Archdeacon of York would normally arrange all this, but I would
rather he not know about your purpose.'

'You suspect him?'

Thoresby smiled. 'I suspect everyone at this point.'

'Everyone but Jehannes

Thoresby nodded.

'And after I complete this task, what then?'

'We will see.'

Owen left with mixed feelings. No need to take
ship to Italy. He had an interesting puzzle to solve.
But it was a mental challenge, not at all a physical one.
Fishing for clues, catching people in lies. Not his best
talents. It bothered him a little. What bothered him
more was presenting himself as one who had lost his
taste for killing. Did the Archbishop think that true?
It was not. Given a just cause, he would kill again. He
had not lost his nerve. Did the Archbishop think him
a coward? His face grew hot.

But no. The Archbishop would not hire a coward.
He must push that thought from his mind. Doubts
would keep him from doing his best. And he must
succeed. Success would secure his future in England.
God still watched over him.

Entering
the Maze

He arrived late in the day, in time to find his friends
resting from a day of training the young recruits.
Bertold, who had succeeded him as Captain of Archers, greeted him warmly. With him were Lief, Gaspare, and
Ned. The five had fought together in France. It was
Bertold and Lief who had found Owen bleeding and
delirious with pain near the corpses of the jongleur
and his leman.

The four archers sat around a smoking brazier in Bertold's quarters, a small but private room that was
one of the rewards for attaining the status of captain in
Lancaster's company, enjoying another luxury, a small
cask of ale.

'Being Captain's changed you not a whit.' Owen
tugged at Bertold's shaggy black hair, pulled back with
a greasy leather thong, though it curled wildly about
his scarred face wherever it could escape.

'No need to put on airs to train archers,' Bertold
said. ' Tis not the place for lordlings.'

'True enough,' Owen said.

Doe-eyed Ned lifted his tankard to salute Owen.
'You'll never look a lordling with that patch.'

'Aye. But the ladies like it.'

Laughing, Gaspare made room on the bench beside
him. He knew the weakness women had for the right
scars. Tall, handsome, broad in the shoulders, he'd
seduced many a young woman by asking her to kiss
the scar that ran from his ear to his lips, where the
knife had left a permanent crease, and then asking if
they would like to see where the wound continued on
his chest. 'You can't be getting much of a chance to try
out the ladies sitting at the higher tables. Those ladies
are after rank.'

'They wed rank. I said nothing about wedding.'

They all laughed.

'So you're not hungering for the life of a soldier?' Gaspare asked.

The question was like a blow, but Owen chose
to ignore it. 'How are the new recruits?'

'Soft as always,' Bertold growled.

Lief, a huge man from the North Country, frowned
at a reed he was hollowing out. Owen looked at Lief's
large, thick fingers and was newly amazed at the delica
cy with which the man used them. 'They come along a bit slower than when you had the training of them. No
Welsh fairy tales to inspire them.' Lief kept his eyes on
his work, but Owen could see the smile beneath the red
beard.

Bertold handed Owen a tankard. 'You're looking
in need of this.'

Owen accepted it with thirsty gratitude and drained
it in one gulp. His friends cheered and slapped him on
the back.

'So. You may talk fancy, but you still drink like
one of us. Do you bring us good news?' Bertold asked
in a more serious tone. 'I'd welcome you to take back this thankless burden. I never asked to be Captain of Archers.'

'Sorry, old friend. I'm to leave on a mission to
the North Country, and I'd a mind to see my old
comrades before I started.'

Lief blew into the reed, clearing out the dust, held it
up to the firelight, squinted into it, then leaned close
to Owen, lowering his voice. 'So what's Gaunt's business
up north, then? Highlanders, is it?'

'It's not for him,' Owen said. 'For the Lord Chan
cellor and Archbishop of York.'

Thoresby?' Gaspare sounded surprised.

'Aye.'

Bertold shook his head. 'Churchmen are queer ones
to ferret out. How come you to be working for him?'

'The old Duke recommended me to His Grace.'

Ned studied him thoughtfully. The eye's no better?'

Owen shook his head. 'Nor is it likely to be.'

'You could still be Captain of Archers,' Bertold
said quickly.

'I haven't changed my mind about that. Nor will I.'

Bertold shrugged.

'I did also have news for any of his old mates
about Sir Oswald Fitzwilliam. Do you know who
they might be?'

Bertold frowned. 'News about Fitzwilliam?'

'Aye.'

'What's the bastard got into now?' Lief snarled.

'He's dead.'

Ned leaned forward. 'Oh, aye? And who do we
thank for that?'

'I couldn't say. Camp fever. Bad case of it struck
him down at St. Mary's Abbey in York.'

'Pah.' Lief spat into the rushes at his feet. 'And
when was he near a camp, I'd like to know?'

'He'd seen no action?'

Ned laughed. 'Depends on what kind you mean.
He'd had his fill of hand-to-hand from sticking his nose where it wasn't wanted.'

'A spy?'

They all grew quiet.

'I take no offence. I had little time for spies when
I was one of you.'

Bertold slapped him on the knee. 'You'll ever be
one of us.'

Owen held up his tankard. 'Then pour me another.'

They proceeded to get bleary-eyed while they talked.

'And so Fitzwilliam's dead, is he?' Ned said, coming
back round to Owen's news.

That's what I heard.'

Lief spat again into the rushes. 'And good riddance.'

'You had trouble with him?'

'Trouble? Pah. Nothing he touched but didn't turn
to trouble.'

Ned kicked Lief's boot. 'Still sore over fair Alice?'

'Hmpf. That whore. I'm better off without her. She
would have knifed me in my sleep some night. The
type.'

Gaspare leaned over to Owen. 'Was going to marry
her, see. Till he smelled that whore's son in her bed.'

Lief got to his feet with a roar, making as if to
smash Gaspare's head with his fist. Bertold pushed him
back down on the bench.

'Silly girl. She'd have been better off with Lief.'

'Fitzwilliam married her?'

'Married?' Bertold grinned. 'He's the ward of your
new lord. But then you'd know that. Why would he
be wanting to marry the likes of Alice, a kitchen maid?'

'Ah.'

'I've known worse than him.' Gaspare shrugged. 'But how'd you come to know him, Captain? He came after
you'd gone up the table.'

'I heard of him at Thoresby's table. As you say,
His Grace's ward.'

'What was he doing at an abbey?' Lief asked.

They say he'd gone on pilgrimage to York.'

'Aye,' said Gaspare. 'He left before Christmastide. Before we left the Savoy.'

'That long ago? He arrived in York much later.'

Ned shook his head. 'Only a fool such as he would
travel north in winter.'

'Aye,' said Bertold. 'The Duchess called Lord March
mad for travelling that route to fetch his lady.'

'Now there could lie a story,' Ned said. 'Fitzwilliam
knew Lord March's lady well. He heads north to see her, the husband follows. Are you sure it was camp fever killed him?'

' Tis the story I heard. But I know nothing of
this lady. He was to see her on his way?'

Ned shrugged. 'Who's to say? Lord March has a
holding south of York. At Christmastide the Duchess
named his lady, Jocelyn, to be part of her household. So
he hied himself north to fetch her straightaway, though
the Duchess said 'twas a cruel thing to make her travel
through the freezing mud, that she could come at
Easter. But he'd have none of that, greedy bastard. The
stipend doesn't begin until she's in residence, you see.
He was loath to lose pay while she dallied up north until Eastertide.'

Gaspare snorted. 'Daily's the right word for what she's about, from what I hear.'

Owen felt hopeful. If it proved so easy as this, that
Fitzwilliam had gone north, stopped with this Lady
Jocelyn, and been seriously wounded by her jealous
lord, then his investigation might be concluded with
no need to spend February on the road north. 'So this Lady Jocelyn is now at Kenilworth?'

'Aye,' Gaspare said. 'You'll see her sitting high with
the other ladies-in-waiting this evening. And Lord
March holding forth nearby.'

Lady Jocelyn stared off into the ether with a bored
expression while a companion chattered on about the
weather. Owen would have chosen the pleasant-faced
companion over Fitzwilliam's mistress. Lady Jocelyn had a charming, childlike face, rounded and dimpled and dotted with a rosebud mouth, but her eyes were
flinty. She regarded him as he approached, calculating
his worth to her, Owen guessed. The tiny mouth
smiled.

'My Lady Jocelyn.' He bowed to her.

She put a hand to her bosom, her dress fashionably low, revealing much, and averted her eyes momentari
ly, but they returned to regard him with a predatory
attention. 'You are a guest of the Duke?'

'A retainer of the old Duke, here to collect my
belongings. I am now in the household of the Lord
Chancellor.'

That lit a small spark in the eyes. A member of
a powerful household. 'Your name, sir?'

'Owen Archer, my lady.'

'You sought a word with me?'

'I have a message for you from' - Owen looked
at the companion, then back to Jocelyn - 'an old
acquaintance.'

A faint flush. 'I am afraid my duties consume my
days, from tending to my lady's wardrobe to walking
her lapdog in midmorning, out beyond the rose garden.
That alone takes up most of the morning till the noon
meal.'

'Then it is that activity I must praise for putting
such enchanting roses in your cheeks, though it keeps
you so busy. Perhaps I will have the good fortune to
see you on one of your walks. I often walk out to be
alone with my thoughts.' Owen bowed to her, then to
her companion, 'My ladies’ and withdrew.

Bertold called to him as he moved to go out into
the night. 'Share a tankard with us.'

Owen shook his head, knowing that they would get
maudlin about the old days and drink until they could
barely stumble back to their cots. He would wake on
the morrow with the devil's hammer pounding in his
head and a mouth as dry as the sands of Hell. He did not wish to meet with the Lady Jocelyn in such state.

'I can sit no more, my friend. I must walk off
the journey so I can sleep lying still tonight.'

'A word to a friend, then. Watch yourself with
Lady Jocelyn. Lord March is ambitious. He will look the other way if his lady plays with the powerful, but
not with a servant of the household, no matter how
well you speak.'

Bertold had tossed out the right bait. As Owen sat
down with his friend, he sent up a silent prayer that
he could glean what he needed from Bertold this night
and get away before the past came pouring over him in
a great wave of ale. Already his head ached from the
earlier tankards.

'The lady's a bit round in the face and dull-witted
for your tastes, I would ha' thought,' said Bertold.

'And where is this Lord March I'm to be wary of?'

Bertold nodded his head towards the table to the
left of the Duke's high table. 'The bald one with the
mouth.'

Lord March was the focus of attention at the table,
leaning across it to yell, red-faced, at a smirking com
panion. He was a tall, lanky man in the latest fashion,
sleeves so wide their ends were lost in the rushes at his feet, leggings so tight it was plain for all to see that his
argument not only engrossed but aroused him.