The Apothecary Rose (3 page)

Wulfstan drew Lucie down on a chest by the little
window. Tell me about the Archdeacon's visit.'

'He had heard Nicholas was ill. He asked if it
were serious. I told him I did not know, that I
could tell him no more than his Summoner had told
him. Nothing had changed. He seemed surprised. He
asked why I assumed his Summoner had told him. I
told him how Digby had found Nicholas. He did not
like that. "The abbey infirmary? What was Nicholas
doing there?" He said it as if it were an enemy camp,
a place Digby should have known not to go’

'My infirmary?' Wulfstan did not like that.

'The Archdeacon alarmed me with his questions. I
told him Nicholas had taken a physick to a patient.
"The soldier?" he asked. I said yes, the one who called
himself a pilgrim. The Archdeacon's face lost what little colour it has. He put a hand on the counter to
steady himself. I asked him what he suspected. He
asked what had happened at the abbey. Of course I
did not know. I suspected that the Archdeacon knew
more than I did. I asked him who the pilgrim was. I am sure he knows. He blinked and looked away. "I
have not seen this pilgrim, Mistress Wilton," he said.
It is the sort of half-truth the sisters told to shield
us from the world. I persisted. He pulled himself up
straight and said he would come back. "Who is he?"
I demanded. "I will come back," he said again, and
hurried out.

Lucie looked out the window, her jaw set. 'Damna
ble priest. He knows who the man is. Why would he not tell me? I think it has everything to do with the soldier.' She turned angry eyes on Wulfstan. 'Who is the pilgrim, Wulfstan?'

'My dear Lucie, as God is my witness, I do not know!’

‘I want to speak with him.'

Wulfstan shook his head. 'He is dead.'

She looked shocked. 'Dead? When?'

'Last night. Whoever he was, he cannot help us now.'

Lucie crossed herself. It was bad luck to speak
evil of the recently dead. 'May he rest in peace.'

Wulfstan whispered an Amen, his eyes cast down,
burning with tears. He was so weary he could not
control himself.

Lucie, noting his discomfort, took his hand. 'I am
sorry you lost your patient.'

'It is worse than that. He was a friend.' Wulfstan's
voice broke. He wiped his eyes and took a deep breath.
'Forgive me. I fear I am little use to you.'

Gently, she kissed his forehead. Just a touch with
her lips, but it was such an affectionate gesture it
undid the monk. He put his face in his hands and
wept. Lucie put her arm around him and drew him
close.

Later, when Wulfstan had fortified himself with a
cup of brandywine, he spoke of his friendship with
the pilgrim. Of the man's sorrow.

'He sounds like a gentle man. I thank you for
coming in your sorrow. How did you know to come?'

'Digby. He came to tell me of your trouble.'

This is a strange business, Brother Wulfstan. Digby's
eagerness to help, the Archdeacon's visit. Do you
know, I think if I knew the connection between Arch
deacon Anselm and the pilgrim and the Archdeacon
and Nicholas, I might understand what has happened.' Wulfstan said nothing. Long ago he had promised
Nicholas he would say nothing to Lucie about the past, and he would not. But it bothered him that
Nicholas had taken ill while he and Anselm and
Anselm's Summoner were at St. Mary's. He found
it difficult to see it as a coincidence.

God created evil in the form of Eve, out of Adam's rib.
He took the evil part of man and created woman. So
plain, writ so clear, and yet few men heed the warning.
And by their blindness they are undone.

Anselm, Archdeacon of York, knelt on the cold,
damp stones, trying to push away bitter thoughts
and pray for his dearest friend. But the thoughts
had everything to do with Nicholas. Gentle Nicholas,
undone by his love for a woman, suffering such pain
it was impossible he should live much longer. Perhaps
that was best.

Anselm shifted uncomfortably. The chill damp had
settled in his knees, whence a dull ache moved up to
his loins. He offered up the suffering for his friend's salvation. He would suffer anything for Nicholas. He
had already suffered for him most of his adult life. But
Anselm resented none of it. His prayers for Nicholas
were heartfelt.

Nicholas was not to blame for his misfortune. He
had not chosen the path of sin. It was his father's
choice, his father who had taken him from the abbey
school and made him his apprentice in the apothecary, next door to a tavern, close to the heart of the city and its wickedness. It was Nicholas's father who had urged
him to look on women, to choose a mate who would
bear him a son to carry on the business. Nicholas,
always the obedient son, had turned from Anselm and
found in his path a woman so evil she would ensnare
three men before she was through, bringing all three down with her. And her daughter would seal the deed, trapping Nicholas here until the curse be played out to
its horrible end.

Nicholas's father had died as was fitting, with
a bitterness in his heart, seeing his son unmarried and with a terrible secret that could destroy all he
had worked so hard to create. Such is the price of
sin. But Nicholas might have been spared. Beautiful, gentle, loving Nicholas.

Anselm bent his head and prayed for a forgiving God.

Weeks later, past Twelfthnight, Brother Wulfstan sat
beside the brazier in the infirmary, sadly contemplating
his hand. First it had tingled, then it had gone numb. With just a fingertip's worth of the physick. Enough
aconite to kill by applying a salve. No wonder ingesting
it had killed his friend and now Sir Oswald FitzWilliam.
God forgive him, but he had not noticed that he had grown so old and incompetent. And yet here was the
proof. Never should an Infirmarian accept a physick
prepared by other hands without testing it. And when
the patient died, Wulfstan had not thought to test it
even then, but had put it on a shelf, ready for the next
victim. God forgive him, it was Wulfstan's own incom
petence that had killed his friend, the gentle pilgrim.
And now Sir Oswald Fitzwilliam, the Archbishop's ward. Sweet Mary and all the saints, what was he to
do?

What did it mean? Nicholas Wilton was respected
throughout the county. How could he make such a
mistake?

Wulfstan stared at his hand as a possibility dawned
on him. Perhaps Nicholas had already been unwell that a
fternoon and had mixed the physick incorrectly. One
powder looks much like another. If he were already
sickening, might he not have forgotten which was
aconite and which was ground orris root? Wulfstan
always prayed for God's hand to guide him as he meas
ured. A medicine could so easily become a poison.
And yet Nicholas had shown no sign of illness that
afternoon. His colour had perhaps been mottled, but
he had a weak constitution and he had just spent some
hours in the garden during the first serious freeze of the
season. There was his odd temper, though. There was
that. But, Dear Lord, that was little to rouse suspicion.
After all these years of trusting Nicholas.

One thing was clear. Wulfstan must return the
unused portion of the physick to Lucie Wilton and talk with her. She must watch over Nicholas when he grew
well enough to return to the shop. Nicholas must not
be allowed to mix anything until it was clear that he
was in his right mind once more.

Wulfstan was so overwrought by the time he arrived
at the apothecary that it seemed to him Lucie Wilton knew, the moment her eyes fell on the parcel in his hand, what he carried. But how could she? And her words denied that suspicion.

'A gift for Nicholas? Some new mixture that might
change his humours?'

'I wish it were, Lucie, my child.'

She frowned at the tone in his voice and led him
back to the kitchen, gesturing to the chair by the fire.

Chilled as he had been outside, Wulfstan was now
sweating. He mopped at his face. Lucie held a cup out
to him. 'Bess Merchet brought over some of Tom's ale.
You look more in need of it than I.'

'God be with you.' He gladly accepted the cup, took several long drinks.

'Now, my friend, tell me what is wrong.' Lucie's
voice was calm, but her eyes were alert for trouble.
And he had noted when he took the cup from her that
her hands were cold. But of course he had made her
nervous, coming here unlocked for, acting so solemn.

'Forgive me. I come from a deathbed. Sir Oswald
Fitzwilliam, the Archbishop's ward. And I fear that
I might be responsible.'

'You, Brother Wulfstan?'

He put the cup down beside him and picked up
the parcel. 'You see, I administered this to him and then, when he worsened so quickly and dramatically,
I examined it. My child, anything but the most minute
dose of this physick would be deadly to a mortal man.'

Lucie, her eyes on the parcel, asked quietly, 'And
you bring it here for me to test? Hoping that you are
mistaken?'

Wulfstan shook his head. 'I am not mistaken, Lucie.'

She looked up at him, held him with her clear
blue eyes. 'Then why have you brought it?'

'It is the physick for camp fever that Nicholas
mixed for me the day he fell ill.'

At first he thought she had not heard, she was so
still. Then, 'Merciful Mother,' she breathed, crossing
herself. 'Are you certain?' Her eyes were large with
the import of his words.

'I am as careful as I know you are to label everything’
Wulfstan said.

'I had no idea there was any left.'

'The pilgrim died the very night I administered it. Nicholas gave me enough for several days. It seemed
sinful not to keep it.'

'But if you knew -'

'Not until today. I never thought to check it until
today.'

Lucie bit her lip, thinking. 'I do not know the
mixture for camp fever. What is the poison?'

'Aconite.'

'And you are certain that in the mixture you hold
the aconite is strong enough to kill?'

'My hand is yet numb with just a pinch of the
mixture.'

Lucie hugged herself. 'Both men had painful limbs?'
Wulfstan nodded. 'Trouble breathing?' Again he nod
ded. Lucie put her head in her hands.

'Forgive me for adding to your sorrow, my child.
I would not have told you, but I thought you must
know to watch Nicholas. You must not let him back
in the shop until he is completely mended, in mind as
well as body.'

She nodded without looking up.

Wulfstan bent to pick up the cup. Lucie's cat
stretched beside the fire and came over to rub
against Wulfstan's hand. Melisende was a lovely
grey and white striped cat with unusually long ears.
Wulfstan rubbed her forehead. Melisende purred.

'He must have been ill already’ Lucie said.

Wulfstan picked up the cup of ale. Melisende jumped
onto his lap and circled about, getting comfortable. That is what I think. He did not realise that he should
not trust himself that day.'

Lucie looked up again, her eyes bright with tears.
'Could it have been the cold? Should I not have let
him work on the roses with me?'

Wulfstan felt horrible. The last thing he intended
was to accuse Lucie Wilton of negligence. She had
already suffered so much, taken so much on herself.
'Lucie, my child, how could you keep him from his garden? You must not blame yourself.'

'It is difficult not to. He wastes away.'

'Do not give up hope. God will take him only if
it is his time.'