The Apothecary Rose (12 page)

'That is kind of you.'

The Archdeacon inclined his head slightly. 'Not
at all, Captain Archer.'

Anselm had encountered men like Owen Archer be
fore, with his honeyed tongue, lustrous curls, and
large, liquid, long-lashed eye. Such men carried part
of the rib meant for Eve. They were evil, cunning.
Attractive to women because the witches recognised
themselves in him. This man had been called by Lucie Wilton. Of that, Anselm was certain. Lucie was her mother's spawn. And Bess Merchet aided her. What
power must come from that union. Neither woman
dropped her gaze in humility when he approached.
Bold, unnatural women. Wicked.

And Owen Archer in league with them. He must
be watched.

Bess sat on a stool behind the counter, chatting
with Lucie between customers. She took pity on her
friend, so tied down with the shop, with Nicholas, and
with the house that she never got out into the town to
gossip.

'What do you think of Owen Archer?' Bess asked.
He had told her he'd been to the shop and met Mis
tress Wilton. Bess noted with interest the blush that
coloured her pretty friend's face.

'I am not in the habit of giving opinions on my
customers’ Lucie said, avoiding Bess's eyes.

Bess snorted, 'just as I thought.'

'What is that supposed to mean?' Lucie met her
friend's eyes, challenging her.

'He charmed you.'

Lucie's cheeks flamed. 'He did not. If you must
know, he was rude. He took me for a serving girl.
Thought he could turn my head with pretty words.'

Bess winced. She had not taken Lucie's stubbornness
into account when she imagined an innocent romance.
Oh, dear. Well, perhaps it was for the best. 'Maybe he is
a knave. Archdeacon Anselm sent for him. He's been
to see him.'

'How do you know that?'

'I heard Owen Archer and Potter Digby talking at
the tavern last night.' Bess didn't like the tightness
in Lucie's voice. Or how the becoming blush had
suddenly faded. That worries you?' Bess asked.

'Why should I feel anything at all about the mat
ter? I hardly know the man.' Lucie turned sharply and
knocked a clay cup off the counter. It split in two as
it hit the rushes. Tears filled Lucie's eyes and spilled
down her cheeks.

'Lucie, love, what's wrong?'

Lucie shook her head. 'I'm tired. Please go, Bess.'

'You need help in this shop.'

'Tell that to Guildmaster Thorpe.'

'Why don't you close up early today?'

'Just leave me alone, Bess. Please.'

Lucie sank down on the stool Bess had vacated and
hugged her arms to herself. She did not believe in coin
cidences. Ever since the night Nicholas was brought
home by Digby
_’
the Summoner and the Archdeacon
had spied on them. Digby had never brought his
custom to her before. His mother was a midwife.
She doctored him when he fell ill. But suddenly
he was a regular customer. And then yesterday he
encountered Owen Archer in her shop and by evening
the Archdeacon had sent for him. Was Archdeacon
Anselm questioning all her customers? He frightened her. And he frightened Nicholas. Her husband denied
it. 'He comes as a friend, Lucie. You must not be con
cerned with his visits.' But she knew her husband's
moods, illness or no, and he was agitated after the Archdeacon's visits. He did not care for Anselm any more than Lucie did.

Magda Digby, th
e Riverwoman

Bess joined him for a drink late in the evening.
She settled down across from him, saluted him with
a tankard of ale. 'I think I deserve this.' She sipped,
smiled her satisfaction. 'He's got the touch, my Tom.
'Tis usually the women who brew the finest ale, but
my Tom's the exception to the rule.' She took another
long drink. 'So how are you finding the folk of York?'

'I've not met many. The Archdeacon seems to have
taken offence at my connection with the Archbishop. It seemed his sole purpose in seeing me. To find out
my business at the minster.'

'Anselm's an unpleasant sort. A good man in his way.
He's raised a deal of money for the Hatfield Chapel at
the minster. That reflects well on us all. I must give
him that. When the King comes to the dedication, he'll
bring with him a large company. Good for business.'

Owen was tempted to mention the Archdeacon's allusion to Mistress Wilton's background, but he did
not yet want Bess to know that he had his eye on a
job with the Wiltons. He was not sure how Bess would
respond. 'As for other folk in York, I've met some of
the monks at St. Mary's. They seem a pleasant lot.'

'Monks.' Bess shook her head, making her cap rib
bons tremble. 'Hiding away from the world. Pampered little boys, if you ask me. No wonder they're pleasant.'
She sipped her ale. 'You've been up to the abbey, then?'

'I had a letter of introduction to Brother Wulfstan,
the Infirmarian. I thought he might know of someone
in need of a gardener or a surgeon's assistant. An
apothecary's assistant. That sort of work.'

She studied him over the rim of her tankard. 'And did
he know of any such opportunities?' she asked quietly.

Owen had walked right into it. There seemed no
way around it. 'He mentioned the Wiltons.'

Bess bristled. 'I'm sure he did.'

'The poor man had an unfortunate winter.'

'Wilton?'

'No. Brother Wulfstan’

Bess frowned, confused.

'The two pilgrims who died in his infirmary?'

'Oh.' She shrugged. 'I suppose you could see that
as Brother Wulfstan's misfortune. It certainly was the
talk for a while. Folk feared the plague. It could happen
again. Just that quickly. One day life as usual, next day
all your neighbours sickening.' Bess sighed. 'Doesn't
bear thinking about.'

'Did you know either of the men?'

'Second one was the notorious Fitzwilliam. Aye.
He stayed here once or twice. I had to watch him with the help. A little too eager to plant his seed,
that young man.'

'He had a reputation down south, too.'

'That's right. You would have known him.'

1 heard of him. We never met’

Bess shook her head. 'A man like him, wasting
all his opportunities.' She shook herself. 'Listen to
me. Gossiping about the dead, a man I hardly knew. So what's your next step?'

Owen could not think how to lead back to Fitz
william. 'I hope to speak with a few guildmasters.
See what they suggest. The Archbishop's secretary sent out some letters.'

Bess nodded. 'You'll soon find something, an enter
prising man like yourself.' Bess drained her cup and rose, dusting off her apron. 'Thanks for the company.
I must get back to work.'

Owen smiled to himself as he watched her move
away, efficiently cleaning away empty cups and wiping
off tables as she went. She'd got the information she wanted while seeming to have a pleasant chat. A pro
fessional interrogator. He would do well to study her
technique.

Bess handed Owen a message when he came down
stairs the next morning. 'A messenger from the minster
brought it first thing.' She gave him a conspiratorial
wink. 'The Archdeacon won't like this, eh?'

Owen read it while Kit set some bread and cheese and his morning ale in front of him. Jehannes wanted
to see him at once. Owen ate quickly and set off for
the minster.

Jehannes greeted him with an apology for the curt
note. 'I had to make sure you came here first. I must
warn you, Archer, be careful with your questioning.'

'Someone has complained?'

'Abbot Campian. He wants to know if His Grace
sent you to inquire into the death of Fitzwilliam.'

A sharp pain shot across Owen's left eye. 'I am
not meant for this sort of work’

'Is anyone ever meant for the work he does?'

'I do not wish to disappoint the Archbishop.'

'I told the Abbot that you are asking a few questions in exchange for the Archbishop's help in finding you a
means of support.'

'Clever. Thank you.'

Jehannes nodded.

'Is he angry?'

Jehannes considered the question. 'More a matter
of feeling slighted. We should have trusted him. He
says you are free to return and discuss the matter with
him.'

'I will do that.'

'And he entices you with some information about
Fitzwilliam. Some business he had, or might have had,
with Magda Digby.'

Owen perked up. I'll go there directly.' He rose.

'Have you met the Summoner's mother yet?'

Owen nodded. 'A shrewd one, Magda Digby. I came
out of that interview feeling a fool.'

Jehannes smiled. 'Good luck with her. One more
thing. Guildmaster Thorpe will see you at midday. He
wants to talk with you about the Wilton apprentice
ship.'

Owen left with a full morning before him. If the
Abbot's lead seemed at all worthwhile, he meant to
visit Magda Digby before midday. It would be nice to
have that out of his way when he met Mistress Wilton
again.

Abbot Campian offered him a cup of ale. To fortify
yourself. I expect you will be off to visit Magda Digby.
You should have trusted me, you know.' He flicked an
invisible mote of dust off the table, folded his hands
neatly before him, then looked up at Owen.

'I apologise’ Owen said. 'I am clumsy at this sort
of thing.'

'You've undertaken a thankless task. But I suppose the interest of John Thoresby is worth it.' The fingers
fluttered slightly. They were the cleanest hands Owen
had ever seen.

'I mean to begin again’ Owen explained. 'I need
the Archbishop's help. Will you tell anyone else that I am his man?'

'Only if necessary.' Abbot Campian's eyes were dark
pools of calm water, Owen believed him. 'Of course
this is all a waste of time. Sir Oswald Fitzwilliam was
ill. He died, despite my Infirmarian’s best efforts and
our prayers. It was his time.'

His manner made it difficult, even rude, to disagree.
But Owen must do what he must do. 'The Archbishop
wants to be certain.'

The fingers fluttered. 'One can never be certain.'

'No.'

They were silent for a while. Owen sipped the
ale and let the Abbot's calm work on him. Finally,
Campian spoke. 'Fitzwilliam spent his last days in the
infirmary, under the watchful eyes of Brother Wulfstan
and the novice Henry. I cannot see how anyone might
have got to the man.'

'He went to the infirmary because he was already ill.'

The eyebrows lifted. 'Ah. So you think a poison
that had a delayed reaction -'

'I am not to think anything, just to collect facts.'

'You've come to hear about Fitzwilliam and Magda
Digby?'

'Yes’

'It is probably nothing.'

'I must know. Please’

'I tell you this in confidence. No one else living
knows about the connection with the Riverwoman
but the Digbys themselves.'

'But if I should have to tell the Archbishop?'

The fingers lifted and fell. 'That would be unfor
tunate. But I wish to co-operate.'

'I will tell the Archbishop only if I must.'

The Abbot nodded. 'I believe you.' He looked up at
the ceiling, collecting his thoughts, then back to Owen.
'I make it a practice to keep the reasons for a pilgrim's
penance to myself. Sometimes they choose to share
their troubles with others, but usually I am the only
one to know. It is not a confession, you understand. I
break no sacred bond of silence in telling you.'

'I understand.'

The Devil inspires men in a variety of evil. You
have heard of the trafficking in bodies for relics?'

'I have heard rumours of such things.'

Fitzwilliam's second visit to us followed his attempt
to sell an arm for quite a large sum of money to the
wrong person. Needless to say, had he been anyone
else -'

'But then the Archbishop knows of this.'

'He does not know whence came the arm.'

'And you do?'

'Fitzwilliam confided in me. On this last visit. He
told me that people are wrong about Magda Digby.
That she is a healer and a good woman. She had just got him out of a difficulty.'

'Why was he telling you this?'

'He wanted to know how he might make reparations
for a sin that he had coerced her into committing.'

'He coerced her into selling him the arm?'

The Abbot bowed his head and closed his eyes.
Owen waited. 'I do not know how the incident might
be connected with his death. I cannot see how she
might have got to him. But perhaps she is one person
who wanted him silenced.'

'Or the Summoner himself.'

'Or her son, yes.'

'Do you tell me this to ruin the Digbys?'

The soft eyes opened wide in alarm. 'No.
Deus juva
me.
I hope that you need not tell the Archbishop. But if you find a connection with Fitzwilliam's death —' He looked down at his immaculate hands. Softly he
said, 'I do hope you will tell the Archbishop that I
was co-operative’

'Why?'

'I am not his man. I became Abbot in the time
of his predecessor. He does not know me. Has no allegiance to me.'

'How long ago was this incident with the arm?'

'Six years.'

'The woman might not even remember it. She would
not have known who Fitzwilliam was.'

'But her son would. It was about the time he became
Summoner. I'm sure he worried that if word got out, he would be ruined.'

'What did you tell Fitzwilliam?'

'Tell him?'

'How to make amends with the Riverwoman.'

'I told him to pray tor her soul.' The eyes regarded
Owen calmly. This the Abbot was sure of. Prayer was
the answer to the world's ills. Sufficient prayer.

As Owen left the peace of the Abbot's presence,
he felt grateful to the man for his co-operation. It was
plain he had found it embarrassing.
The upside-down sea serpent greeted Owen alone.
The Riverwoman was not outside the hut this time.
Owen knocked. Heard a grunt. Took it as permission
to enter. When he walked into the dry, hot, smoky
room and his eye adjusted to the level of light, Owen thought he had walked into some satanic ceremony. A
cat lay strapped to a table by the fire, breathing rapidly
but not stirring, as Magda leaned over it with a small,
sharp knife. She did not look up at the intruder, but hissed, 'Quiet.' She made some superficial cuts at the
edge of a gaping wound, then put the knife down and
picked up a needle and thread. While Owen watched
in queasy wonder, she sewed up the wound and then turned to him, wiping her bloody hands on her skirts.