The Apothecary Rose (18 page)

'I would not ask that of you. Thank you, Digby.
You're a good man.'

When Digby left, Owen paced the shop.
He would
have no way of discovering
our
secret.
Holy Mother
in Heaven. And yet it seemed she did not know the
pilgrim's identity. Could it be a code between them?
In case they were overheard? Or might they have some
other secret? Sweet Jesus, let her be innocent.

But she had a secret. One shared with Wulfstan.
One that Wulfstan feared the Summoner might discover. And it had something to do with Montaigne's
death. That did not sound innocent.

Digby's
Weakness

'I know.'

The young man's eyes widened, an alert look un
usual for him. 'You have another friend at St. Mary's?'

'How charming for you to be jealous, Michaelo. But
it was the Infirmarian himself who told me. The old
fool worried why he'd been singled out. He's going to
slip, Michaelo. I cannot have that.'

Michaelo shrugged and yawned. 'Why you fuss over
Nicholas Wilton, that worn-out man, I cannot under
stand. An apothecary. A merchant, really.' He sighed
and slumped down in a chair.

'He was as fair as you once, my young buck.'

'But now he's palsied.'

'Youth makes you cruel.'

'I doubt that you'll worry over me when I'm old
and palsied,'

'I will be long dead.'

'But would you? Worry over me?'

Anselm looked away. Of course not. Michaelo came
to him out of greed, not love. Anselm was Michaelo's
chance of escape from the abbey. It had been different with Nicholas, He had loved Anselm. Until the
Abbot frightened him. And even afterwards, there had
been a tenderness. There would never be anyone like
Nicholas. There could never be. But Anselm needed
Michaelo's loyalty. 'Of course I would worry over you,
Michaelo. You mean very much to me.'

Michaelo stretched contentedly and stood up. 'Am
I to do something about old woolly-head?'

'He does worry me.'

'And what do I get in return?'

'A word in the Archbishop's ear. About how useful
you might be to him as Lord Chancellor's secretary.
That is what you want, is it not? To see the court?'
Michaelo was suited to that life. He would go quietly
mad at the abbey, where he felt trapped, where his only
recreation was the Infirmarian's wine.

Michaelo glowed. 'What about the fishy one?'

'I'll deal with my Summoner.'

'He's been seen with the one-eyed Welshman. At
the York Tavern. And elsewhere.'

Anselm pretended not to be surprised. 'Digby is
a scoundrel.'

'He's quite handsome, the Welshman.'

Anselm ignored the comment. Michaelo was too
lazy to be promiscuous. But not so lazy that he would
not take care of Wulfstan. He knew better than to disappoint Anselm. He could not afford to have Anselm telling Abbot Campian or Archbishop Thoresby of
Michaelo's petty thievery and the bribes he paid to escape work. Such behaviour would not recommend
him for the post he desired.

'The abbey is an unhealthy place this winter, my
young buck. Take care that you do not catch a chill
yourself.'

Michaelo pouted. 'You grow tired of me.'

'Not at all, Michaelo. I am concerned about your
welfare.'

Michaelo took his leave.

Anselm paced his room. Digby had betrayed him.
Potter Digby, raised up from the slime by Anselm,
set in the path of grace. Meeting Owen Archer in
that bitch's tavern. Plotting with him. Against the
man who had brought him out of the vermin city
and certain damnation with that witch of a mother.
Cur. Ungrateful monster.

Brother Wulfstan made his way back from the Wiltons'
in a daze.

Gentle Geoffrey had been Lady D'Arby's lover. The
man who seemed an innocent. When Wulfstan had
heard of the adulterous affair, he had imagined a
rakish knight. A Fitzwilliam. An Owen Archer. Glib,
clever, careless of the feelings of his fellow man. But
Geoffrey was nothing of the sort. He was God-fearing,
kind, well spoken, considerate. How could Geoffrey have
betrayed Sir Robert D'Arby, the man he had served?
Were Wulfstan a farmer instead of a monk, would it
be clear to him? He had never dreamed that Geoffrey
had lain with the woman he remembered with such tenderness. A married woman. That must be the sin
that had brought Geoffrey here to make his peace with
the Lord.

But he had also spoken of killing someone. Wulfstan
had thought nothing of that. The man had been a sol
dier. He'd mistaken poor Nicholas for someone else.
Or had he?

Nicholas Wilton is Master? Son of old Paul?
 
No,
it cannot be. You are mistaken. Nicholas Wilton is
dead these fifteen years.

Geoffrey had been almost angry, insisting on it.

Wulfstan had told Nicholas that.

Dear God in Heaven. Sweet Mary and all the saints.

But why would Geoffrey have tried to kill Nicholas?
Jealousy? Nicholas and Lady D'Arby had been friends.

Wulfstan went to the chapel.
My dearest Lord,
he prayed, kneeling on the cold stones,
help me to under
stand. Tell me what I should do.

He stared at the statue of Mary, Mother of God,
the Virgin Mother. He knelt there he knew not how long, his thoughts in turmoil. It did not make sense.
And what of the Archdeacon? He had been Nicholas's
friend at the abbey school. More than a friend. If
Geoffrey had tried to kill Nicholas, and Anselrn knew
of that
...
It was too much for Wulfstan to contem
plate.

He picked himself up off the damp stone, brushed
off his habit, and went to seek out Abbot Campian.

Owen asked Lucie if he might go out after Vespers.
It was time for another talk with Wulfstan. If he let
the old monk think too long about Digby's visit’ he might talk to the wrong people. Whoever they might be. And he must discover the secret Wulfstan shared
with Lucie.

Owen did not look forward to the interrogation. His questions would upset the old monk. He did not enjoy
hounding Wulfstan, But better to upset him than let
him walk into a trap.

Abbot Campian was puzzled. 'You are Brother Wulf
stan's second visitor today. Has this anything to do with Summoner Digby's earlier visit?'

'I know of his visit.'

That is intriguing. The Archdeacon did not.' Cam
pian's usually calm eyes were troubled. The Sum
moner's questions regarded Sir Geoffrey Montaigne. I
presume you know who he was?'

'Yes, I do.'

'And your inquiry into Fitzwilliam's death has led
you to question Montaigne's?'

With so little information Campian had put togeth
er the truth. It was plain to Owen why the man had
achieved the position of Abbot. 'It is essential that you
keep my secret.'

'And to Brother Wulfstan? What do I say to him?
He was alarmed by the Summoner's visit. Now you
return. He is an old man. The deaths in the infirmary
distressed him deeply. Especially Montaigne's.'

'When I have learned from him what I need to
know, I will tell him my purpose’

The Abbot bowed his head for a few breaths, then
looked up. Owen read calm resolve in Campian's eyes.
Tomorrow the Archbishop arrives. I intend to speak
with him about this.'

'May I talk to Brother Wulfstan?'

'Not until I speak with His Grace.'

'Come with me to speak with the Archbishop's
secretary, Jehannes. You will hear that His Grace would
wish me to do this.'

The Abbot did not blink. 'I will speak with His
Grace tomorrow.'

Digby dressed himself with care and made sure to
tell his landlady, Widow Cartwright, that he would
dine this evening with the Archdeacon.

'He must be pleased with you to extend such an
honour.' The widow considered whom she ought to
tell first. News of the Summoner was always eagerly
received. All folk liked to keep track of his career. Good times for Digby meant trouble for someone. It was good
to know when to watch your back.

Digby hurried to the minster yard over frozen mud
and slippery cobbles. As dusk descended, the sun-
thawed streets refroze and a mist rose up from the iced
puddles, mingling with the damp river air. Digby was
chilled through his wool cloak by the time he arrived at the Archdeacon's chambers.

While warming himself before the fire, Digby drank
down a goblet of mulled wine and poured himself
another. He felt aglow by the time they sat to eat, and
looked forward to a pleasant evening. The Archdeacon seemed in an expansive mood, speaking of the minster
windows and Digby's critical role in raising funds.
They toasted their successful partnership and cut into
an excellent roast. Perhaps it was the wine which the
Archdeacon encouraged him to enjoy, or perhaps the
praise, that loosened Digby's tongue. He chatted about
this and that, working his way into a confiding mood,
and at last he brought up the one blemish that troubled his otherwise perfect contentment — that he suspected Wilton of poisoning the pilgrim at the abbey and was
reluctant to bring him to justice because of the Arch
deacon's friendship with the apothecary. Of course
Digby stopped short of accusing the Archdeacon of
protecting his friend. Indeed, he apologised for shock
ing him with such an idea. But people changed over
time, got caught up in situations that twisted their
thinking and led them astray.

Anselm looked puzzled. 'You make a serious accusation, Digby. My friend led astray. Indeed it might
happen as you say. But Nicholas. I have seen no hint
of evil in him.' The Archdeacon twisted his goblet
round and round in his hands. 'But as my Summoner
you have always judged with a fair reasoning. Perhaps
you might enlighten me.'

The praise, even more than the wine, buoyed his
spirits. Digby gave him all the details he had put
together. Except, again, his suspicion that Anselm wished to cover up for Nicholas. For he was certain
now, as he sat across from the man and saw his quiet,
pious countenance, that Anselm could not be guilty of
such a thing.

Anselm put down his cup and nodded when Digby
concluded. 'I thank you for discussing this with me. And so honestly. I will consider this tonight, Digby, and give you my decision tomorrow.'

Throughout the rest of the meal, Digby sensed that
the Archdeacon was distracted, which was no surprise.
He would not be much of a friend, were he to take such a suggestion calmly. Digby took his leave directly after
the savoury with a warm feeling of having done the
right thing.

But as he made his way home, the damp, icy air
began to sober him. And as he sobered he grew afraid,
thinking about what he had done, thinking of the
rather quiet manner in which the Archdeacon had
received the accusation of his friend. He had frowned,
but he had not exclaimed. He had shown no surprise.

And it came to Digby that he had been unwise to
blurt it out. He began to tremble. He knew it was partly
the after effects of the wine that jangled his nerves, but he was afraid, and too troubled to go directly to
bed. So, icy though it was, with a soft snow falling, he
headed down Lop Lane, then Footless Lane, past St.
Leonard's Hospital, to Lendal Tower. The smell and
the rush of the river often calmed him.

He stood on the walkway beside the tower, looking
down at the rushing water, the river swollen from the
beginning of the thaw, and tried to let the familiar
sound soothe him. But the movement beneath him
made him dizzy and fluttered his stomach. When he
closed his eyes, the rushing water was there, but now spinning in a whirlpool. He tasted bile, and his head
pounded. Too much wine. Oh, sweet Jesus and all the
saints, he was drunk as a lord.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. 'Are you unwell,
my friend?'