The Apothecary Rose (17 page)

'Brother Wulfstan, you've cut yourself.' Henry lifted
the knife from Wulfstan's hand and dabbed at the blood
welling from a cut on the hand beneath it.

Wulfstan stared at his own red blood for moments
before seeing it. 'Oh my.' He'd been chopping parsley
for a morning tonic. Chopped right into his hand and
never noticed, no more than any of his other aches
and pains. He crossed himself and said a prayer of
thanksgiving. It might have been much worse. 'Well,
there you see the danger of daydreaming while working
with sharp instruments, God be praised’ He made light
of it to lessen dear Henry's concern.

'Let me wash it out for you,' the novice offered.

Wulfstan accepted his ministrations, then went to
ask the Abbot for permission to go into town.

'Does it have to do with the Summoner's visit?'
Abbot Campian asked.

Wulfstan could withhold facts, but he could not
lie. 'Yes. I wish to know why Archdeacon Anselm
sent him to me. He did ask for me?'

The Abbot nodded. 'I wondered about that, too.
What did he want?'

Wulfstan told him.

The Abbot sighed. 'Most unfortunate. Had he
asked me, I could have told him the pilgrim's
name. Montaigne. Sir Geoffrey Montaigne. I suspect
that the Archdeacon wants to strike him from his
list of infidelities, now that both parties are dead.'

Wulfstan shook his head. 'I do not understand.'

'Just give the Archdeacon the name, Wulfstan, and
that will be an end to it.'

Wulfstan turned to go.

'Surely you do not mean to go out in sandals,
Brother Wulfstan?'

The Infirmarian looked down at his dusty toes.
He'd put on his cloak and forgotten his boots. 'Of
course. I was in such a hurry.'

Abbot Campian put a hand on Wulfstan's shoulder and looked deep into his eyes. 'Are you up to such an
errand, my old friend?'

'Oh, quite. Of course. I was simply rushed.' Wulfstan
scurried back to his cell. Perhaps all this trouble was God
telling him that he was, indeed, too old to be trusted
with the lives of the monks of St. Mary's.

But his memory was intact. Sir Geoffrey Montaigne.
He would remember that.

A warm sun had already turned the snow on the
streets to slush, and it was not yet midday. The icy
wetness penetrated the leather of Wulfstan's old boots.
His feet were frozen by the time he stood in the hall
waiting to see the Archdeacon.

'Brother Wulfstan.' The Archdeacon smiled as the
Infirmarian was shown into his chamber. 'How can I
help you?'

How to begin? Wulfstan felt unprepared. He'd spent
the entire walk fretting over his cold feet and chanting the pilgrim's name so he would not forget it. 'I -' When
in doubt, trust to the truth. 'About the Summoner's
visit today, I - well, you can imagine how disturbing
a soul finds a visit from the Summoner. And his ques
tions. They were so odd. I wondered, as did my Abbot,
what was the purpose of asking them of me?' There.
He had forced it all out.

Archdeacon Anselm picked up a parchment, set
it down, pushed an ink pot a little farther to his
left, touched his brow, then, at last, said, 'This is
the first I have heard of my Summoner visiting you,
Brother Wulfstan. But perhaps I simply do not connect you with one of his inquiries. If you told me what he'd
asked -'

'It was about the pilgrim who died at the abbey
just before Christmas. He asked had the pilgrim been
buried at the abbey, and what was his name.'

Anselm leaned towards him, far more interested than he had been at first. Wulfstan did not know
whether to be pleased or not. 'And what were your
answers?'

'He has not told you?'

'Not yet. As I said, I did not know of his visit.'

'Oh. Yes.'

'Your answers, Brother Wulfstan?'

'The pilgrim was buried at the abbey, as he'd requested. But the pilgrim's name I could not give him.'

'And he did not say why he asked these things?'

Wulfstan shook his head. He noticed that the Arch
deacon shared Brother Michaelo's habit of flaring his
nostrils when he thought. Like a horse. An odd habit
for humans. 'So you did not send him to quiz me?'

'I assure you I did not, Brother Wulfstan, and I
apologise for any discomfort his visit may have caused
you’

'Strange.' And now Wulfstan wondered whether
he must tell the Archdeacon the name of the pilgrim. After all, he said he had not sent Digby, so it must be
the Summoner who wanted to know, not the Arch
deacon. Wulfstan had a queer feeling in his stomach
about this whole business. A protective feeling to
wards his dead friend. Geoffrey. His friend had not
wanted his name known. But Abbot Campian had told
him to give the Archdeacon the name.

The Archdeacon rose, and so did Wulfstan.

'You said you could not give him the pilgrim's
name’ the Archdeacon said as he led Wulfstan to
the door. 'You mean that you did not know it?'

Oh dear. Could he disobey? 'No, Archdeacon, I
did not know the pilgrim's name.' Which was true.
He had not at the time.

'Anonymous to the grave.'

Wulfstan nodded, his heart in his mouth.

Out on the street, he felt weak and lightheaded. And
cold. His joints and his extremities ached. He thought
of Lucie Wilton's cosy hearth fire. The apothecary was
closer at this point than the abbey. And he did feel
dizzy and chilled. He decided to pay her a visit, ask
after Nicholas.

He had not foreseen that the apprentice would be
minding the shop. 'I - I came to see Mistress Wilton.
To ask after Nicholas. I was out and -'

Owen nodded. 'Mistress Wilton is in the kitchen.
She will welcome your company, 1 am sure.'

Brother Wulfstan went back.

Lucie sat by the fire, darning. 'What a pleasant
surprise.' Then her smile turned to a concerned frown.
'What is the matter, Brother Wulfstan? You look as if
you've had a fright.'

He had not meant to mention it. But her solicitous
manner made him want to confide in her. After all,
they were in this together, in a sense, 'Summoner
Digby paid me a visit today. Asked questions about the pilgrim who died the night Nicholas took ill.'

Lucie sat him down and poured him a cup of wine,
adding spices and heating it with a hot poker. 'Now’
she said, handing him the cup and resuming her seat,
'tell me what he wanted.'

'He wanted to know if I had known the name of the pilgrim, if he'd had any visitors, where he was buried.
It must mean he suspects that a sin was committed.
That is the Summoner's business.'

Lucie looked thoughtful. 'But such questions are
not to the point, are they?'

'I don't know why he asked them. And why he
asked them of me. The Archdeacon could not tell
me.'

'The Archdeacon? You spoke with him, too?'

'I went to him. My Abbot thought it best. That is
why I am out in the city. But the Archdeacon seemed
to know nothing of the visit.'

'And were you able to tell Digby the pilgrim's name?'

Again, forced so close to a lie. 'I - no. I could
not tell him.'

Lucie studied his face. 'You would have told him
had you known, wouldn't you?'

'Charity is difficult for me with a man such as
Summoner Digby.'

'You would lie?'

Wulfstan flushed. 'Not that. I would try to - avoid
telling him.'

'And is that what you did? Avoid it? Do you
really know who the pilgrim was?'

If he said yes, the next question would naturally
be the pilgrim's name. Again, the old monk was loath
to reveal his friend's identity. And what good would
it do Lucie to know for whom Nicholas had mixed
the fatal physick? 'I could not tell Digby, that is the
truth.' Narrowly, but it was the truth.

Lucie seemed satisfied. She picked up her darning.
'Some unfinished business, perhaps. We have nothing
to worry about, my friend. He would have no way of
discovering our secret. Drink your wine. Let it warm you.'

Wulfstan sipped it. It warmed him most pleasantly. He sipped again, sat back, and let himself relax. Of course Lucie was right. They had shared their secret
with no one else.

As he sat by the fire watching Lucie's lovely face
bent over the darning, Wulfstan noted how much like
her mother she looked now. The hair was not raven
like Amelie's, and the mouth was firmer, the chin
squarer, but - Geoffrey Montaigne. He remembered
now. Lady D'Arby's lover. It had been such a scan
dal, even Wulfstan had heard about it. The beautiful Amelie, Lady D'Arby, and the fair young knight who
had guarded her on the Channel crossing. She had been
with child by him when she died. Sir Robert had been
in Calais too long for it to be his. Geoffrey Montaigne.

'Mon Dieu’
he whispered. Lady D'Arby had been
Geoffrey's only love.

Lucie looked up, frowned. 'What is it?'

Wulfstan flushed. Shook his head. Thank heaven
he had not told her the name. He should not stir up
bad memories for her. Indeed, who knew how much
an eight-year-old had been told. He knew little about
the raising of children. 'It is nothing.'

'You did not look as if it were nothing.'

'It was simply - I thought how much you look
like your mother. The way you held your head just then.'

It was Lucie's turn to flush. 'I am not half so
beautiful as my mother.'

Saint Paul said that it was unwise to flatter women.
That they put too much stock in appearance. But poor
Lucie had so little joy these days. 'I think you are more
beautiful than your mother.'

Lucie gave him a perplexed smile. 'Brother Wulfstan.
You are flattering me’

'I am a silly old man, my dear Lucie. But I know
beauty when I see it.' He rose, fumbling with his sleeves to hide his flushed face. 'And now I must
hurry back for Vespers.'

She took his hand. Thank you for coming.'
'I am glad you could take the time for me.'
He nodded to Owen as he went out through the
shop. Wulfstan felt Owen's eye on him all the way
out the door. That man did not belong as an apprentice in Lucie Wilton's shop. Wulfstan did not like to
think of him there, with that predatory eye fixed on
her innocent beauty. An apprentice should be a young
man. A boy. An innocent.

From the shadow of the neighbouring house's second storey, Digby watched Wulfstan leave the shop. Then
he went in.

Owen held up his hand to keep Digby quiet while he
listened to Lucie's movements in the kitchen. She was
speaking with Tildy, the new serving girl. She would
not overhear them. He nodded. 'So what did you learn?'

'I might ask you the same. I just watched him
leave the shop’

'He spoke with Lucie about your visit’

'Why did he come here?'

'You tell me’ Owen fixed his eye on Digby until
the man flushed.

'He seemed disturbed,' Digby said, 'very disturbed
by my questions about Montaigne's grave. But he knew
nothing about who Montaigne was. And according to
him, the man had no visitors’

'So we still don't know what makes the good Infirm
arian so nervous. Did you believe him?'

'Aye. He's an innocent, for all his age. Takes his
vows seriously.'

'Montaigne's grave is at the abbey?'

Digby gave him a worried look. 'I won't disturb
a consecrated grave.'