The Apothecary Rose (14 page)

'Goodwife Digby cleared up the business.'

'What business do you have questioning her?'

Owen shrugged. 'I'm a curious man.'

'She says you work for the Archbishop. Is he con
cerned about Fitzwilliam's death?'

'Should he be?'

'She said Abbot Campian told you about the arm.
Why would he do that? What does he have against
the Digbys?'

'What could the Abbot have against you?'

'I mean to know.'

'You must have felt threatened by the theft of
the arm.'

Digby shrugged. ' Tis known the poor use her as
a surgeon. The connection could be made. How could
she prove she'd gotten no money for it? But I was
appointed Summoner shortly. Looked like Fitzwilliam
had kept his peace.'

'You never thought to make sure he kept quiet?'

Digby squinted at Owen. 'What do you mean? That
I'd kill him? Shut him up for good? Are you accusing
me?' His voice kept rising. Heads turned, then turned
quickly away, remembering who sat there.

Owen shrugged. 'Becoming Summoner meant much
to you. I've been to your mother's house, I can imagine
being desperate to get away.'

Digby shook his head as if amazed by what he heard.
'A daft way to start out as Summoner, murdering the Archbishop's ward.'

Put that way, it was a laughable suspicion. Owen
gave up the line of questioning. It led nowhere. 'The Abbot told me that Fitzwilliam repented what he had
done. Realised he could have caused your mother much
trouble. And he respected her.'

Digby's face reddened. 'He said that?'

'Aye. So you've nothing to fear from that old busi
ness, I think. Would you like a drink?'

'Nay.' Digby sat a moment, concentrating on turning
his faded cap round and round in his hands.

'Sure you won't have that drink?'

Digby shook his head, then slipped away, looking
confused.

Lucie woke as Nicholas's writing fell to the floor
with a crash of paper and pen. She caught the inkpot
as it began to slide. Nicholas jerked awake. 'I am a burden,'

'You are tired. Camden Thorpe's visit exhausted
you.'

'I am glad of help for you, Lucie.'

She touched his hand, his face, smiled for him.
'I am glad, too. Now rest. Your notes can wait.'

He gripped her hand. 'I must finish. Write it all
down. The garden. My mixtures.'

'There is time.' She gently prised loose his hand, smoothed the hair from his forehead.

He sighed. 'You are too good for me.'

'Nonsense.' She kissed his forehead and he closed
his eyes. She turned down the lamp and slid in beside
him. Tonight she would allow herself the luxury of
sleeping in the bed. Nicholas was calm enough.

But it was not like before. Nicholas did not turn
and gather Lucie in his arms. Even if he had, it
would not feel the same. Lucie did not feel the
solace here that she had before. In this bed she had
felt protected from the world. No longer. Her future
security depended on secrecy. At first it had seemed
a small thing. But lately she wondered. Was it that
simple? She wished she knew just what had befallen Nicholas at the abbey that night. Whom had he seen? How had the Summoner come to be there? Was the
Archdeacon's interest merely a friend's concern? If so,
why did it frighten Nicholas?

She smelled danger everywhere. Even the appren
tice. She could not even appreciate Guildmaster
Thorpe's granting her request.

Instead she wondered what the Welshman was after. Oh, he would be a welcome help, she'd no doubt about
that. But what was in it for him? To begin a new life,
he said. Perhaps. Her first suspicion had been that he
and the Guildmaster planned to wrest the apothecary
from her, to help her until Nicholas died, all the while
learning the books, the customers, the flow of trade,
and then take it from her when he died, saying she
was too inexperienced, a woman after all, the daughter of a sinful Frenchwoman. That was why the nuns had tormented her. So well behaved the other girls thought her a prig, she'd been watched constantly for signs of
sinfulness because the nuns knew her mother had had a lover, that it was her sin that had killed her. Day in
and day out they'd followed her, watched her, listened
to her every word, raking through all her words and deeds for seeds of her mother's character.

Once she'd become so sick of it she'd plotted an
escape. Her one friend was Sister Doltrice, the Herb
alist and Infirmarian, for Lucie's mother had passed
on to her daughter a love of gardens and much lore of healing plants. Sister Doltrice did not keep a hawk eye
on her. So after breakfast one day, Lucie complained
of stomach cramps. She clutched her stomach and let
tears trickle down her cheeks. Sister Winifrith hurried
her to the infirmary.

The plan was to creep out after Sister Doltrice had
tucked her in for the night, slip out the garden door
and down through the cluster of sheds and outbuildings
to the part of the wall that had crumbled beneath the
weight of a falling tree.

While she waited in the infirmary for nightfall,
Lucie sipped the minty tisane that her friend had pre
pared for her tummy, and drowsed in the warm room
as Sister Dotrice puttered with her chores. In the early evening the nun declared Lucie's colour better and let her sit up a little, keeping her occupied with stories of
her large family and their busy farm up near Helmsley,
a farm cradled between heathery hills beside the cool clear water of Trilicum Beck. They were merry tales,
full of silliness and love, and Lucie lost herself in
them, gradually nodding off and slipping down into
the soft bed, where her sweet dreams kept her until
dawn.

As she'd left for her morning lessons, she'd turned
and asked Sister Doltrice why the other sisters were
so hard on her.

'Because of your mother, child. Because they do
not understand that your mother was very young and
frightened by the wildness of the North Country and
found her solace in a gentle man who loved her and
made her smile.'

'Can't you tell them to stop?'

She snorted. 'And let them wonder how I could
understand such a thing?'

Lucie looked into the Infirmarian's face and saw
what a beauty she'd been - still was, in a comfortable
sort of way - and realised what she was saying.

Sister Doltrice took her hand. 'And now we have
shared secrets that we must swear never to reveal to
a soul.'

'What secret do you have from me?'

That your tummy aches when you need a day
of Doltrice's minty concoctions and endless stories.
Much better than running away, don't you agree?'

'You knew?'

The Infirmarian knelt down and took Lucie in her
arms. She was warm and smelled of flowers and herbs.
'To be a good healer, one must read the heart as well
as bodily wastes.'

'It's our secret?'

'Our secret, little one. And you're always wel
come.'

Lucie had trusted Sister Doltrice as she'd trusted
no one since her mother died. Only Nicholas would
later earn such trust.

And the apprentice? She thought not. She'd once
asked Sister Doltrice how to tell whether a stranger
was trustworthy. 'Look them in the eye and ask them,'
she'd said.

Lucie had been disappointed with that answer, which
seemed no answer at all.

She still thought it silly. And unwise. For one
who asks such a question reveals that she has need of
discretion. And she did not want the Welshman to get

curious. Especially with his connection to the Arch
bishop and the Archdeacon, She wished there were a
way to refuse him as her apprentice. But she needed
help. Who knew how long the Guildmaster would take
to replace him? And to refuse the Guildmaster's offer
when she had made such a fuss about needing help
would arouse suspicion.

Thorns

At dawn he dressed and headed for the Wiltons'
garden. His breath smoked in the fiosty air. His boots
crunched on the snow. He made his way along the
paths and through the holly hedge to the woodpile.
In the shed beside it he found an axe. He took off
his tunic. Though chilly now, he intended to work up
a good sweat. He would want his tunic dry when he
cooled down. A habit from his old life on campaign.
With the single mindedness he'd used in archery, he
attacked the woodpile, pretending it was the Breton
jongleur.
Ungrateful wretch.
He hacked at him. ‘
fought for your life.
Another blow. ‘
risked the ridi
cule of my comrades.
He hacked.
You and your gypsy.
Another.
She unmanned me.
Crack.
Breton bastard.

At first his injured shoulder was painfully stiff,
but as his muscles warmed, it loosened up and he
rediscovered the satisfaction of physical labour. His
mind calmed and cleared. His movements became
rhythmic and fluid.

A cough interrupted him.

'You begin the day with remarkable energy.' Lucie
Wilton handed him a cloth. 'You'll want to dry off and
get dressed. There's a warm breakfast in the kitchen.'

It was plain she'd heard him and hurried out to
investigate, thinking him an intruder. Her hair was
loose, covered only by a shawl. The pale morning sun
caught red-gold strands and caused them to shimmer with life. Dear God, how he would love to touch that hair. Yet even as she stood here, radiant and vulner
able in the morning light, he was aware of a bristly
guardedness with which she maintained a cautious
distance.

He remembered the cloth in his hand. And suddenly he felt how the cold penetrated. And he was uncomfortable standing before her, stripped to the waist. He
dried himself quickly and donned his shirt.

'You've cut enough wood to last a fortnight’ she
said. 'And all on an empty stomach. You'll win me
over yet, Owen Archer’ Teasing words, such as his
sisters might have used with him.

But she'd misunderstood him. He had not cut this
stack of firewood to impress her. '1 needed to move’
he said. It sounded ridiculous.

Lucie Wilton nodded, not interested enough to note
the awkward comment, and led the way back through the snowy garden.

While he ate, she quizzed him on his experience and
his knowledge of medicines and gardens. His answers
appeared to satisfy her. Her questions impressed him.
She was indeed ready to graduate from apprentice to
journeyman, if he was any judge. She was quick, like Gaspare. She absorbed information and used it at once,
asking questions off his answers. It was plain she
knew more than Owen did about both medicines and
gardens. Far more.

The questions dwindled and she grew quiet, staring down at her hands on the table. And then those cool,
level eyes lifted to his. 'I can believe that you might be through with soldiering and want to learn a trade. But
why in York? Why not in Wales, close to your family? You speak of your mother and the land with affection.'

Why indeed? He explained that the old Duke had
asked Thoresby to assist Owen in entering a trade. But
it sounded hollow and rehearsed to his ears. Surely it
must to hers.

Lucie Wilton sighed, got up, busied herself at the
hearth. She looked proud and noble standing there, though her dress was simple, with darned spots, most
of them unravelling. An impatient seamstress. He
wondered why she had not arranged for help before.
Wilton's business could certainly support such help.
The room was substantial for a merchant's kitchen,
beams, shelves, trestle table, and chairs of oak. The
crockery on the shelves was simple but well fired.
Little of it appeared to be used. Most was covered in
dust, hi fact it was easy to see what took precedence
in this house. From the beams, herbs hung to dry and
shed their debris unchecked, so that dried flowers and
leaves mingled with the dust on the shelves and were
crushed underfoot, starring the packed dirt floor. Odd,
when the shop was as dust-free as was humanly poss
ible.

Lucie sat down again. Her mouth was set in an
angry line. 'Soldiers are a cold, unnatural lot.'

It was not at all what he'd expected her to say. He
had to think about where their conversation had left off. I'm condemned for not returning to Wales?'

'You are a free man, with funds enough to keep
a private room at an inn. Funds enough to let your
people see that their prayers were answered, that you
are alive. Did it not occur to you to see them before
you took up your new life?' Angry tears stood in her
eyes. The emotion brought colour to her face.

Apparently aware of how readable she was at that moment, Lucie looked down, flicked invisible crumbs
from the table.

Owen could think of no answer to her outburst. To be honest, he'd never considered his family. They'd
been part of his boyhood. Wales was the past. But
he did not say that. He said nothing for a moment,
wondering about the source of this attack. A possibility occurred to him. 'Your father was a soldier, I
hear.'

She stiffened, eyes cold.

He'd guessed the source, but it was a misstep, for
sure. 'I do not mean to pry.' It seemed as though prying
was all he did these days.

She did not warm to his apology. 'You'll begin
the day by sweeping the shop doorway and lighting
the lamps. Then you can stack the firewood outside the kitchen door. Later I'll show you around -'

A rush of cold air sucked the warmth out of the
kitchen as Bess Merchet opened the outside door. 'I thought I might find you here.' Her cheeks were rosy.
She paused to catch her breath, her eyes taking in the
remains of breakfast. 'You're off to an early start, the two of you. And so's the Summoner. He's just been to the inn to say the Archdeacon wants to see you, Owen
Archer. I sent Digby off with the promise I'd tell you at once.'

Owen glanced at Lucie.

She looked pale, but said calmly, 'Get the shop ready before you go.'

The Archdeacon smiled. An unpleasant experience on
his face, but a smile nonetheless. 'I suspect you thought
yesterday's promise mere courtesy, Archer. But God has
granted me the grace to fulfil my promise in one day. I
have heard this morning of an apothecary in Durham
who needs an apprentice.' Anselm sat back, elbows on the arms of his thronelike chair, his fingertips meeting
in a satisfied steeple
_;

Owen had not foreseen this turn. He did not respond
at once as he thought how best to relay the bad news.

The Archdeacon chuckled. 'I see that I have, indeed,
surprised you.'

Owen decided to act simple. 'Oh aye, that you
have, Archdeacon. As you said yourself, posts such
as that are rare. And I took that to heart yesterday
and - well, I signed a contract with Master Nicholas
Wilton.'

The steeple crumbled as the Archdeacon's hands
descended to the arms of his chair, which he clenched
with enough strength to turn his knuckles the colour
of bleached bone. 'You did what?'

'You see, I decided I'd best settle for whatever I
could get, apprenticing to an apprentice though it is, else I might starve before I heard of another post.'

'You -' The Archdeacon checked himself. 'Most un
fortunate.' Anger tightened his throat.

Owen stood up. 'I'm grateful to you.'

Anselm's eyes burned into Owen's, then glided away.
He nodded.

' 'Tis a binding contract -' Owen said.

'Go.' Anselm breathed the word as if expelling poison.

Owen obeyed, hurrying away before he made mat
ters worse. He paused in the minster yard, commit
ting the Archdeacon's reactions to memory. It was to
be expected that Anselm would be annoyed to have wasted his time on Owen. But why had he done so in
the first place? In case it might please Thoresby? Per
haps. But Owen could not think of a way Anselm could have sent queries to Durham and received a reply in the
house between their two conversations. That made it
very likely a bogus post. To what end? With the hope
that Owen would be attacked by Highlanders on the
road? And eliminated. Anselm's anger, then, had more
to do with Owen's working for Nicholas Wilton than
with Anselm's having wasted his time. And his anger
had made him reckless. Owen did not like that.

Owen sat across from Lucie and ate his meal in
silence. Once she caught him watching her, and he
quickly looked down at the stew in his bowl. She
had an uncanny effect on him, as if he'd taken up the role of little brother. It irritated him, and yet when he
met that grave, level gaze, instead of confronting her
he looked away, confused, as now.

They'd managed to pass the day in peaceful co-opera
tion. He'd learned the lay of the household, shop, and
garden. Much impressed he was, too.

He finished his meal before Lucie did, and got up
to stoke the fire.

'Don't build it up so late,' she said.

'It will go out in the night.'

'I want it to. I mean to clean the hearth first thing
in the morning.'

Then you'll have to rebuild the fire.'

' Tis always so when I clean the hearth.' She looked
at him as if he were simple.

'When will you have time to do it?'

'Before dawn.'

'How will you know when to rise?'

Til sleep beside it. When the fire dies, I'll wake
with the cold.'

'Let me do it.'

'No, this I do myself.'

'Then the serving girl.' She was to come the next day,

'No.'

'Why is it so important that you have a clean hearth ?'

'Because I want it clean.'

'I'd like to help.'

'You'll have enough to do. Besides, what could you
know about cleaning a hearth?'

'A man learns many things on campaign.'

'There are no hearths on campaign.'

She exhausted him. 'You'd be right about that.'
He caught her watching him with a puzzled frown.

It was her turn to look away. 'It's odd for a soldier
to offer such help’ she said.

'I was not always a soldier, I helped my mother
as a lad.'

'Did your mother teach you to clean a hearth?'

'Aye. She did that. And many other things besides.
Didn't yours?'

'My mother died when I was young' Lucie said.

'And then it was the sisters.'

'Yes.' Her guard came up. 'Who told you that?'

'Camden Thorpe. I asked a few questions. Natu
ral curiosity. He said that your mother was fond of
Nicholas's garden.'

'It reminded her of home.' There was a breathless
tension in her voice. He trod on dangerous ground.

He tried to make her comfortable. 'My mother be
lieved that tending a garden was the highest form of
devotion to the Lord. She made all her children work
in the garden’

It worked. She met his gaze. 'And did it bring
you closer to God?' she asked.