The Apothecary Rose (6 page)

'He looks a character.'

'At the moment he's favoured by the right people,
so I for one would not cross him.'

'Gaunt favours him?'

'He has a canny mind for contracts.'

'I'll watch my step.'

The morning sun was hot on Owen's face, though the
air was sharp and a brisk wind got under his clothes
to chill what the sun could not reach. The scar on his
face burned and tugged in the cold, dry air, and the
need to squint in the brightness made it worse. He'd a
mind to return to the pallet he'd made up in Bertold's
room and waste the day away in sleep, but he had his
job, he must follow it through. As he passed along the beds of the kitchen garden, Owen sensed eyes on him,
but the only person in sight was an old servant raking
the path. Owen paused several times to break off a sprig
and smell the familiar herbs. He favoured spicy, tangy
herbs. His mother had fed them a mash of rosemary and
sage in winter to keep their blood hot. She'd prepared
it in a wooden bowl that carried the scent of the mash
year round.

A long time since he'd thought about that. Odd
how the scent of a plant could make him feel as
if he could reach out and touch his mother's face.
Her smooth, soft skin. Her coarse, curly hair, like his, only silver and bronze. Ten years or more since he'd
seen her. Her hair would be all silver now, or white.
Her cheeks and eyes sunken. She would look old and
weary. But he was quite sure she was still alive. He
would know if she had died, if his mother's strong
spirit had passed from this world. Wouldn't he? Best
not to dwell on it.

The paths of the rose garden were wider than those
of the kitchen garden, and edged with river rocks. Here the Duchess would stroll with her maidens and sit on a sunny spring day. The paths twined among themselves
and met at an urn that was empty now but for a few dry
leaves that skittered in jagged circles within the bowl.
In the beds, the brown twigs that would fill out and
bloom in summer were heaped with straw. A smell of decay hung in the air. Depressing. He hurried through.

The holly hedge that bordered the rose garden was
a welcome goal, its dark green leaves shining and
bristling like men at arms awaiting battle. Or were the
bright red berries spots of blood? Were they standing at
attention at the end of the slaughter, hoping that their
lord would notice their many wounds and give them
leave to take ship home? Owen shook off the thought.
What a gloom this winter garden laid over his soul. Or
was it last night's ale?

As Owen passed under the holly arch, he again
sensed eyes at his back. And again, spinning round,
he saw nothing.

A long way ahead of him, on a pathway between
pruned fruit trees, Lady Jocelyn led a dog so pampered
that its belly cleaned the path beneath it as it waddled
along. It was clear that the dog wished to maintain
a much slower pace than the lady permitted, for she
tugged at the jewelled leash every few steps. Lady
Jocelyn was headed for the maze. Owen hurried, not wanting to lose her. He'd been in the maze only once, and that had convinced him that one walked in a maze
only with someone who knew it well. His approach
alerted the dog. It pricked up its ears and began to yap,
digging its paws into the dirt of the path. Lady Jocelyn
glanced back, gave a little wave when she saw Owen, and then inexplicably picked up the yapping dog and
hurried into the maze.

Owen halted, perplexed. Had she for some reason
changed her mind about granting an interview? Had he
misunderstood? Had she misunderstood? His scar was
pulling, and the chill made standing still unpleasant.
Sleeping off the aftershocks of the ale seemed a better
idea all he time. But should he give up so easily? Per
haps he would walk to the entrance of the maze and
call her name. If she did not answer, he would turn
round and indulge himself.

As he approached, the dog resumed its yapping, farther and farther into the maze. Lady Jocelyn was
not waiting for him at the entrance. He almost turned
back. What good was it to call to her? He would hardly
be heard over the yapping dog. But he must question
the lady sometime.

Owen stepped through the sentinel yews and came
face to face with the angry eyes of Lord March. He
looked much larger in his fur-lined cloak and draped
fur hat.

'Are you following Lady March?' he demanded. His
voice had a most impressive resonance.

'Following? It was not my purpose, Lord March,
but seeing her tugging at the little beast, I thought
I might lend a hand.'

The face was getting closer. Owen did not like its
colour. Too red for reason. 'You would follow a young
woman into the privacy of the maze unchaperoned?'

Owen wanted to laugh. The dog would hardly allow
for much dalliance. But he groped instead for a calming
comment. It was at such times that he cursed himself
for not pursuing his original plan, connecting himself
to an Italian noble as a mercenary. That life would not
have involved verbal duels. Perhaps humility was what Lord March desired. Owen made a little bow. 'Forgive
me. I see how it appeared to you. I did not mean to insult Lady Jocelyn's virtue in any way.'

Lord March grew redder. His beady eyes were now so close to Owen's face that he could see the red trails
of last night's brandywine. 'You spoke with her at table
last night.'

Dear God, here it came. The truth just might get
him out of this if it weren't about Lady Jocelyn's dead
lover. Owen thought quickly. 'Last night. Aye. To be
honest, it was that I wanted to apologize for. You see, my mates dared me to seek a word with her, the lovely
new lady-in-waiting. They fortified me with ale and sent me off with the lie that she was unmarried. She soon set me straight about that. This morning I feel a
fool.'

'So you thought to dally with my lady, did you?'

A fist met Owen's face. He couldn't believe it.
Lord March had come out here for a brawl? His punch had grazed Owen's chin. Now he seemed to be aiming
for his patch. Owen caught the arm that was raised to
him and punched Lord March in the mouth. That set
him back long enough to give Owen a chance to feel
his jaw and reassure himself that any bruising would
be hidden by his beard. He disliked the idea of travelling with signs of a recent brawl. One did not get good
service at the inn with bruises and an eye patch. Lord March turned back for another go. Owen grabbed the
man's arms and was embarrassed by how easily he held
him still.

'I do not wish to continue this, my lord. I assure
you that you have no cause to fight me. I have not
injured your name in any way.'

The beady eyes smouldered with resentment. What
cursed luck. Owen had hoped to learn enough about
Fitzwilliam in this company that he might satisfy
Thoresby without journeying north. Now he would
have to leave without much to go on, for surely he
had sufficiently insulted Lord March with his superior
strength that the man would make it his business to
get Owen killed. Or at least seriously injured.

'You are Thoresby's man, I hear,' Lord March said.
'Get you back to London and away from my lady, or I'll
have you torn limb from limb.'

Owen gingerly let go the man's arms and backed
up a few steps, bowed, and tried once more to explain. But it only evinced a howl of rage from the obviously mad Lord March.

Now what? If Owen turned and walked away, the ridiculous man might attack him with a weapon. Lord
March did not seem rational enough to care whether
he attacked from behind or not. But standing here was
no good. And backing all the way to the rose garden
seemed unwise.

Owen need not have concerned himself. Lord March
decided the next step by lunging at Owen with a knife.
Well aimed, too, for a vulnerable spot. His left shoul
der.

'Damn you!' Owen cried, kicking the knife out of
March's hand and punching him below the belt with
all the fury that he felt for the lunatic bastard who'd
reopened the wound he'd worked so hard to heal. As
Lord March doubled over in pain, Owen drove another
fist into the man's jaw. Lord March fell back and lay
on the path, bleeding from the mouth. Most likely he'd
bitten his tongue.

Owen tossed the knife into the yew hedge and
strode angrily away, keeping a tight grip on his wound
ed shoulder to stem the bleeding.

The Rogue
and the Lady

'I gave much worse than I got, to be sure. The
man was a fool to pick on me. He's a weakling.'

'We warned you to stay away from the fair Jocelyn. The man is bedevilled by her. They say that Gaunt had his lady invited into the household to keep Lord March
at his work. He was always taking off north to check
on her.'

'To be honest, she is not so delicious as to warrant such jealous devotion.'

'Glad I am to hear you say that, Captain. I'd thought that the loss of one eye had robbed you of your senses
in regard to the ladies.'

Owen tossed the remainder of his brandywine in
Gaspare's face.

Laughing, he headed for Bertold's chamber, where
he got out the salve that kept his scar soft and cool
and applied a generous portion, then lay down on the pallet. He must have dozed off, for he came to as his
head was being gently lifted onto a silken lap.

Lady Jocelyn's rosebud mouth puckered in concern,
then widened into a smile. The flinty eyes had softened
considerably. 'Captain Archer. I am so relieved to see
that you are awake. Where did he wound you?'

Her dress was cut dangerously low, in the new
fashion, and he could see her breasts heaving with her
breath. She was excited. He suddenly saw it so clearly,
the chemistry of the marriage. She set up intrigues, March rescued her, she kissed him and tucked him in
bed, and then tiptoed off to the wounded bait. Good God
in Heaven. Owen wished he were anywhere else in the
world right now than here in Bertold's chamber, with
no danger of Bertold returning, alone with this woman
who would probably get nasty when she discovered
that he did not want her. But it would all have been
for naught if he did not ask her about Fitzwilliam.

'I am not seriously wounded, though I cannot vouch
for your husband's mouth.'

'He will have discomfort eating for a few days,
but it will heal.'

'I do not know why he took such offence, though
it did not help that I could not tell him why I wished
an audience with you.'

'Yes. The old friend -'

'Sir Oswald Fitzwilliam.'

'Ozzie?' She put a hand to her white chest. 'You
have heard from him?'

'More like I have heard
of
him, my lady. Fitzwilliam
is dead.' Her eyes widened. Owen sat up and took her
hands. 'Forgive me for the shock my news must inflict,
but I could think of no gradual way to tell you.'

'Ozzie.' She shook her head. 'But I saw him - Who
killed him?'

Again, the assumption that Fitzwilliam was mur
dered, that one of his innumerable enemies had caught
up with him. Owen began to despair of ever unravelling
the mess of the man's life to discover the murderer.
'You began to say you saw him. When did you last see him? At Christmas? Perhaps he visited you en route to
York?'

She averted her eyes. 'He was an old friend.'

'A family friend? Perhaps Lord March had entrusted
him with a message to you?'

'Yes. Of course. What did you think?'

'Then I could have saved myself a bruise and a
wound by telling your husband about Fitzwilliam?'

She looked back at him, frightened. 'Oh no. No, I
am most grateful that you mentioned nothing. It's —'
She brought a dimpled fist to her mouth. Her eyes
glittered in the dusty daylight from the high window.
'I am most grateful.' She reached out to him.

'Lady Jocelyn, I would seek compensation in another
way.'

She withdrew her hands, as if he'd gotten too hot
to touch, and looked at him quietly.

'I want information. Fitzwilliam came to see you
at Christmas. What did he talk about? What was he
doing penance for at St. Mary's Abbey?'

She said nothing.

'I know you were lovers.'

She caught her breath and moved to stand up. He
put his hands on her shoulders and made it clear that
he meant to hold her there. Her bosom heaved. A part
of him found it amusing that he had wasted such a
perfect opportunity for an afternoon of pleasure. But
mostly he was disgusted with the whole business and wanted to conclude it as quickly as possible.

'I mean you no harm, Lady Jocelyn. I merely want
to know what Fitzwilliam was up to just before he died. Who he might have been seeing in York. Tell
me what you know and I will release you without mishap.'

'And if I do not tell you?' A teasing tone. She
still saw this as a game, a flirtation.

All life was a series of flirtations to her, he supposed.
He disliked her kind of woman. Addlebrained. Silly. No
good to anyone. 'I would prefer not to threaten you, my fair Jocelyn.'

He could see from her heightened colour that he
was right, that she found the situation exciting, that
she would be disappointed when he sent her off with
out so much as a kiss. And he thought it unwise to
disappoint this woman. So he leaned over and kissed
the rosebud mouth lightly. 'You are most lovely. But I do not mean to compromise you.'

She dropped her head demurely. 'Captain Archer.'

'Fitzwilliam's raptures about you fell far short of
the truth.'

Her laughter surprised him. 'Raptures. Fitzwilliam.
You are a poor liar, though charming. Quite charming.'

Not so silly. 'I -'

'Obviously, Ozzie got himself murdered and you've
been sent by his guardian, that carrion crow, to find
out who dared to spill Thoresby blood, however tainted
with common blood it might have been.'

Owen felt quite stupid. The flinty eyes had warned
him. 'Right on all counts, my lady. I am left speechless
by your keen wit.'

'I'll tell you what I know on one condition.'

'What is that?'

'You will leave here tomorrow without questioning
any others.'

'And how will you hold me to that pledge?'

'My husband will see that you are seriously injured.'

'Ah. You will cry rape and he will turn his thugs
on me.'

'Precisely.'

How could he have been so wrong about her? Silly,
indeed. He wished now that were true. 'Why are you
so concerned?'

'I must have no scandal now that I am in the
household of the Duchess of Lancaster. It is an honour
to be here. It is everything to Jamie - Lord March.'

'But you would cause a scandal with your threat.'

'I would be the injured party, Captain Archer. It
is a commonplace, a woman ravished by a soldier.
No one would question it.'

'The Lord Chancellor might.'

'I'm certain that John Thoresby did not choose you
for your virtue. Why should he doubt that you would
take advantage of me when I came alone to your cham
ber to make sure someone had seen to your wounds?'

'That was a silly thing to do.'

She shrugged. 'People see me as a silly woman. I don't
mind. It suits me. Affords me the element of surprise.'

'Indeed. Well, I can think of nothing I have to
gain by causing a scandal, so you are safe with me.'

She smoothed her skirt. 'I was with child. Jamie
was furious. After waiting for two years, I got pregnant
when it was most inconvenient. The Duchess would
insist that I stay up north. My stipend would not begin until after my lying-in. Jamie went to Ozzie. Told him
that it was probably his child. Ozzie came north and
took me to a midwife who, for a fee, halted my future
need for her services.'

'Was it Fitzwilliam's child?'

'I am not certain.'

'What did Lord March use to threaten him?'

Lady Jocelyn looked injured. 'He had no need to
threaten. Ozzie loved me. He would have done any
thing for me. He assumed it was his child, and if I did not wish to carry it, he was willing to help me
rid myself of it. Safely.'

'Lord March does not care for an heir?'

'There will be time for heirs. At the moment he wants to establish his standing with the new Duke.'

'And you want to establish yours with the Duchess.'

'Of course. They go hand in hand.'

'Of course. This midwife. Where was she?'

'Just outside York, on the river. Magda Digby, the
Riverwoman. A horrid creature. A smelly shack. But
she was good to me. As you can see, I'm none the
worse for the experience.'

'And Fitzwilliam's pilgrimage to York?'

She wrinkled her nose. 'He'd had an unfortunate
dalliance with a kitchen maid here. The Duchess
learned of it and sent him off to repent.'

'What happened to the maid?'

'She will be married to one of the servants.'

'Her name is Alice?'

'You know about her?'

'One of my - Bertold's archers was going to marry
her before Fitzwilliam got between them.'

'I shall mention it to the Duchess - after you have
gone quietly. Is there anything more you wish to
know?'

'Did he have any enemies in York?'