The Apothecary Rose (9 page)

'An unpleasant character,' Owen said.

'They say he is good at his job.'

'Why should a Summoner smell of fish?'

'It's his mother. She lives on the river.'

'Oh, aye. A midwife, I think.'

Mistress Wilton tensed. 'Why would a stranger
know about her?'

Damn his tongue. 'I encountered the Summoner
earlier. I was told he was the son of the Riverwoman.'

Mistress Wilton nodded.

'But the fishy smell. Surely he does not live with
her? As Summoner he would live close to the minster?'

'Yes, he lives in the city. But, being unwed, he
has his mother see to his clothes.' Mistress Wilton
glanced at the beaded curtain in the doorway behind
her. 'I must check on Master Wilton.'

'Of course. Thank you for the salve, Mistress Wil
ton.' Owen put a shilling on the counter. 'Will this
cover it?'

'That would pay for six such pots, Master Archer.
Two pennies will suffice.'

He put out the appropriate change. 'I hope your husband truly does improve with each day.'

She smiled a wan smile. There was a sadness about
Mistress Wilton that he found intriguing.

Outside, Owen paused at the gate that led around
back to the garden. If all went well, he would be spen
ding his days near the fair Mistress Wilton. He would exercise all his charm on the Guildmaster to make that
so.

Owen returned to the inn to ask directions to the public baths. He expected to need a bath more than
ever after his visit with Magda Digby.

Alone again in the shop, Lucie fought against trem
bling hands and fears that threatened to distract her
from her work. A life was in her hands. Alice Baker's
sleeping draught must not be too strong. Lucie must
stay clear-headed. But why had the Summoner come?
Did he know something? The Summoner could destroy
them. Would Archdeacon Anselm allow that? Surely
he loved Nicholas too much for that. And Potter Digby
was too much a toady to antagonise the Archdeacon.
At least she prayed that he was. How wretched to be
grateful about the Archdeacon's unnatural love for her husband.

Enough of this. Brother Wulfstan had nothing to
gain by telling anyone but her. The Summoner could
not know. Nor could the Archdeacon. She forced her
thoughts away from her troubles and finished the
draught, labelled it. As she put it aside, her hand
brushed the honey pot, still down on the counter
from mixing the stranger's salve. Reaching to set the
pot back on the shelf, Lucie remembered how her skin had tingled as she'd taken it down, feeling his dark eye
on her. She had felt the heat of his gaze right through
the tightly woven wool of her dress. She had never felt
so aware of her own flesh. Thank God he'd kept the other
eye covered.

Lucie blushed at her thoughts. Blessed Mary and all
the saints, she was a married woman. And this Owen
Archer had insulted her. He'd treated her as if she were a silly girl. As if she didn't belong behind the counter.
Nicholas had never treated her that way.

Jehannes was right about the mud. While Owen
planned his strategy, he watched several people slip
and slide down the bank beyond St. Mary's water tow
er. Then he was rewarded for his wait. A woman with
a babe in arms managed the descent without mishap,
walking on a path that was not immediately apparent.
It zigzagged down the slope among rocks and scrubby bushes a bit away from the tower. Took longer than the other, slippery path, but Owen was not as surefooted as
he'd once been. He did not relish tumbling down the
slope. So he marked the woman's route and followed
it as faithfully as possible. It was slow going with the
one eye. He had to sweep his good eye back and forth along the path before him. But at last he stepped down
onto the riverbank. Down there the mud had frozen
into ridges in places, was soggy in others. Owen under
stood why people walked past him with their heads
down, keeping their eyes on their footing. It was cold
enough without a dip in the mud. Owen felt the damp
down here by the river through all his leather clothes
and his new boots. Surely no one would ever choose
to live down here.

He looked round for the house on the rise in the mud.
What he saw were rickety compositions of driftwood,
mud, and twigs. Close to the abbey walls the hovels crowded together, then thinned upriver. Then he saw
it, an odd structure, its roof a boat turned upside down
so that a carved sea serpent on the prow peered down
at a strange angle. By the door sat a woman swathed
in rags of many colours, all mud-bedimmed, whittling
at what looked like a mandrake root. This must be the
Riverwoman.

Owen had come up with a reason to speak with her
on his walk down here, but seeing her with the knife
in her hand gave him second thoughts. He considered
retracing his steps and returning another day, when
he'd prepared a better introduction. But it was too
late, she had glanced up and now fixed a keen eye on
him.

'Goodwife Digby?' Owen asked, removing his cap.

'Goodwife.' She nodded and laughed, a queer, barking
sound. Her lungs were probably affected by the river
damp. 'Naught call me that but want favours. Hast
thou a favour to beg, Bird-eye?'

Owen was momentarily taken aback by her blunt
reference to his affliction. But why should he expect
courtesy in such a place? 'Aye, so I do come seeking
a favour.'

'Lost thine eye in the wars, eh?'

She'd played right into his hands. 'Not lost. There's
still an eye beneath this patch.'

'And thou wouldst know whether Magda can make thee see again?'

He nodded.

She rose with some huffing and muttering, stuck the knife in a pouch tied around her middle, and motioned
him inside with the hand that still held the root. A
welcome, though smoky, fire greeted him. He had to stoop to avoid the roots and plants hanging from the
rafters.

'You can dry these down here by the river?'

'The fire keeps it dry. Good for roots, good for bones.
It will cost thee for Magda to look at the eye, even if
she can do nothing.'

He put a silver coin on a table by the fire. 'That's
for looking. I'll pay in gold for healing.'

She looked him up and down. 'Thou art well set
up. Good clothes, plenty coin. Why come to Magda's
sort?'

'A lady friend recommended you. You helped her.'

Magda shrugged. 'A midwife. Has naught to do
with eyes.'

'Then I have wasted your time.'

'Nay.' She motioned him over to the fire. 'Let
Magda see.'

He sat down so his head might be level with
hers, lifted the patch, and leaned back.

She bent over him, smelling richly of river and
earth. Her hands were grimy. But her touch was
gentle. She examined the eye, then stood back with
a sigh. The light's gone from it, though very near
wasn't. Thou hast done well to keep the scar from
drawing too much. Thou hast done all that can be
done.'

Her words brought him down so hard Owen realised
he had begun to believe his story, that he had come with hope that she might help him regain his sight.
What a fool he was. Why would this grimy, smelly
hag know more than Master Roglio?

She sniffed. 'Thou art angry. Tis always the way.
And now thou wilt feel Magda is a little to blame for thy blinding. Aye. 'Tis always the way.' She snatched up the silver piece.

'You did not ask my name. Or the name of the
woman who told me of you.'

' 'Tis better not to know the names.'

'She found you through a friend of mine.'

The hag squinted at him in the smoky room.
'It's information he seeks, not healing. Magda hears
the truth in the voice. Soft, nice voice. Charming
Welsh rogue. Arthur's kin, no doubt thou thinkst.'
She laughed. 'Get thee gone, Bird-eye. Magda does not
need thy kind.'

'I did come for the eye. I have lost my captaincy because of it.'

She looked him up and down again, felt his shoul
ders. 'Strong Welshman. Thou art an archer, yes?'

'Was.'

'Captain of Archers. Thou'st climbed far. Go back
to pulling at the bow, Captain Archer. 'Tis only thy
pride keeps thee away. Not as quick and sure as thou mightst have been. Now leave. Magda has charms to carve for folk in need of her.'

While Bess waited at the baker's ovens for the night's
bread, she considered Owen Archer. He was a man
with a mission, no doubt about it. He had that quiet, still look to him, like a cat standing at the edge of a
strange garden, sniffing out the danger, sizing up the
competition, eye gliding this way and that, nice and
easy, don't want to scare the prey. He might be one-
eyed, but she doubted much got past him.

So what was his real business in York? He meant
to be here long enough that he needed the cover of
employment. He'd been a soldier, an archer, a knave
with that earring and his good looks, she'd wager.
He was Welsh. He knew something of gardens and
medicinal plants. And he could read. That was the
odd piece of information stuck on the rest. That and
his clothes. New clothes, costlier than an out-of-work
soldier could afford. But the scar wasn't new. Two
years, maybe three years he'd had it. So what had
he done since he quit soldiering? Learned to read?
Assisted a surgeon? And what in that could bring
him here?

He was connected to the Archbishop somehow.

Soldier. Minster. Bess let those two pieces tumble
about in her head while she fussed with the loaves. Kit could not be trusted with more than one light
basket, she was too busy gawking to watch her step,
so Bess had to carry two fully loaded ones. Between
the weight of the baskets and Kit's pokiness, it was
dusk before they got back to the inn, and Tom was
aflutter, setting up for the evening.

'Who's been in while I was gone?' she asked Tom
over a cup of ale. It was their custom to fortify them
selves for the busy hours ahead.

'Summoner Digby, asking about Owen Archer. Told
him he should speak with gentleman himself. Master
Archer would be down here for ale sometime, he could
be sure.'

Bess wished she'd been here. 'What did Digby say?'

Tom shrugged. 'Just wanted to know if we'd taken in a one-eyed stranger. I asked why he wanted to know.
It
it was Summoner business. He said maybe, he weren't
at liberty to say. Pah.' Tom spat into the fire. 'Putting
on airs. Man stinks of fish. Where's he sleep, I ask you?'

Bess closed her eyes, feeling the heat of the ale and
the hearth fire after her afternoon out in the chill. So
Owen might have business with Archdeacon Anselm.
Most of the Archdeacon's time was spent collecting
money to complete the minster.

'And that's all?'

'Aye, he left directly.'

'Anyone else?'

'Owen Archer himself came in and left again. Asked
about baths. Road dirt. Told him he'd get fever, taking
unnecessary baths. Now Digby, he could use one.'

'Did he go off to the baths, then?' Bess asked,
impatient to know all of it.

'I gave directions. He went out.' Tom put down
his cup and leaned close to Bess. 'Here now, wife.
What you be thinking about this Owen Archer?'

Bess checked that they were alone. 'I think he's
looking for someone or something. Something to do
with the minster, I suspect. Maybe some soldier's
money didn't make it to the minster coffers?' She shrugged. 'I don't know.'

Tom grinned. 'I know my Bess. You'll have it
all figured soon enough.'