The Apothecary Rose (4 page)

'But even should he recover-' Lucie touched the
tears on her cheeks, as if confused by the wetness there, then blotted them with the cloth with which
she'd wiped her hands after pouring the ale. 'Poor
Nicholas. He will be a broken man if he recovers
to find that everything he has worked for is in ruins around him.'

'Why should it be in ruins?'

Lucie fastened her lovely, tear-filled eyes on the old
monk. Two deaths. According to the civic ordinances,
we can no longer practise. The Guild cannot go against
the ordinances. I cannot imagine Guildmaster Thorpe
will find it possible to give Nicholas a second chance.
We are ruined, Brother Wulfstan.'

Wulfstan stroked the cat and silently prayed for
guidance. He must prevent such a disaster.

Lucie paced from the fire to the door a few times,
then stopped midway, in front of some shelves, and absently rearranged the jars and dishes in front of her.

'It is a terrible business’ Wulfstan said, more to
the cat than to Lucie.

But Lucie seemed to waken with those words and
came swiftly to sit beside the old monk. She took
one of his hands in hers. 'My dear friend, forgive me. I have been thinking about what all this means to
Nicholas and me, but you, too, risk losing your life's
work.'

'Me? Losing my life's work?'

'Your infirmary.'

'My - How would I lose my infirmary?'

'When Abbot Campian learns that you administered
the physick without testing it -'

Sweet Jesus, would his Abbot relieve him of his
duties? Of course he would. And rightly so. Old age
had made him careless.

'Unless we save ourselves,' Lucie said quietly.

'Save ourselves?'

'By making this our secret.'

'We would tell no one?'

'No one.' She looked down at their hands, then
back up at Wulfstan. 'Would it be so wrong? For my part, I will not let Nicholas mix another physick until
both you and I agree that he has completely recovered his reason. And I've no doubt that you will never again administer a physick that you have not tested yourself.' She regarded Wulfstan with her clear eyes. Dry now.
Calm and rational.

They buoyed Wulfstan's spirits. 'I had not thought so
far. But of course you are right about the consequences.
For all three of us.' He drank down the ale.

'Then it is our secret?'

God help him, but Wulfstan did not wish to bring
more sorrow to this household. Nor did he wish to
lose his infirmary. He nodded. 'It is our secret.'

Lucie squeezed his hand.

'But when he recovers -' Wulfstan began.

'I will watch out for him.' Lucie let go his hand
and bent to pick up the package. 'According to the
ordinance, I should burn this.'

Wulfstan nodded. 'Do so. I would do it for you, but -

Lucie shook her head. 'No, it is my duty.' She
leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. 'Thank
you, Brother Wulfstan. You have been our salvation.'

He could not believe that anything so sweet could
come from evil. God had shown him the way.

When Wulfstan had left, Lucie paced the room, hugging her arms to herself. She considered the jug of ale.

A cup might steady her. But it was early afternoon. There would be customers. She must keep her wits about her. Everything depended on her now.

One

A One-Eyed
Spy

_M
aster Roglio took great pains folding his a
strological charts and tucking away the tools e had used to examine the eye. Owen noted a tremor in the physician's hands, the tensed shoulders of a man holding his breath, eyes that would not meet his. Master Roglio stank of fear. Owen glanced at the Duke of Lancaster, who glowered in the corner. An old man, but Lancaster's power was 'second only to King Edward's. Displeasing him was a dangerous business.

It would be Christian to wait with his question, but Owen had waited three months for this moment, and he could wait no longer. The flesh heals, but the eye remains dark. You see no change, eh, Physician?'

Roglio's eyes slid to the old Duke, who sat forward, interested. Roglio raised both shoulders in an eloquent shrug. 'God may yet work a miracle.'

'But you cannot,' the old Duke said with a snarl.

Roglio met the Duke's steely gaze. 'No, my lord.' He managed not to flinch.

The flesh healed, but the eye remained dark. One eye.

God had created man with two for a purpose, no doubt.
And blinded Owen in one. A purpose to that as well,
no doubt.

Owen had made good use of two. Lancaster's prize
archer, he had trained the others, drilled them, risen to captain. An achievement for a Welshman. No animal
escaped his arrows. Nor man. He'd taken care to kill
only for food or in obedience to his liege lord. And all
for the honour and glory of God.

Christian charity had robbed him of all that. A
jongleur and his leman. Bretons. More independent
than the Welsh, Owen had thought. They had no
reason to spy for the French. The leman helped herself, flirting with the men. The soldiers would make
good use of her. But the jongleur was doomed. The men
did not find him entertaining. Only Owen understood the Breton songs, and only with effort. The language
was a bastard mix of Cornish and French. The men
grew restive. Killing the jongleur, now that would be
better sport. Owen argued to release him. And won.

Two nights later, the jongleur slipped into camp
and slit the throats of the best prisoners, those who
would cost the French nobility most in ransoms.
Owen caught him.
Ungrateful bastard. You were
shown mercy.
The leman crept up from behind. Owen
spun round. A thrust meant for his neck opened the
left eye instead. Roaring, he plunged the sword into
her gut, retrieved it, and, turning round, did not see
the jongleur on his left until he'd sliced into Owen's shoulder. Calling on the bowman's muscles that gave
him enough strength to wield a broadsword with one
hand, Owen sliced through the jongleur's shoulder and
down beneath the neck. Once the Bretons lay in pools
of their own blood, Owen slipped to the ground in a
hellfire of pain. His last soldierly deed.

Now what?

Everything must be learned over again. He'd not
bothered till now, thinking the half-blind state tempo
rary. A passing discomfort, like all his wounds. When
an unseen obstacle tripped him up, he shrugged it off,
a small penance for his many sins, a lesson in humility.
Not an easy lesson. Familiar objects looked foreign. The world appeared lopsided. When he blinked, it winked out.

Owen learned the value of two eyes. With two,
a mote in one had not blinded him. It was a mere
discomfort. Now it rendered him as helpless as a babe in arms.

Complete darkness. He knew it possible. Death,
too, was possible.

It changed everything.

The old Duke argued that Owen's loss of sight did
not render him useless - an archer aimed with one
eye shut. And the strength would return to his shoulder
with work. But Owen saw his blinding as the result of
his own faulty judgement and the shoulder wound as the inevitable result of his blinding. A one-eyed man
was vulnerable. He would endanger those with whom
he fought.

Lancaster let him be for a time, then surprised him.
'You are a natural mimic, Owen Archer. In my service
you have mannered yourself a knight. Your accent is
rough, but the marcher lords carry the accents of their
borders. And better than a lordling, you are a free man. No one owns you, you have no family honour
to defend, you do not seek power through secret alli
ances. I can trust you. With a little education I might use you well as my eyes and my ears. What say you?'

Owen turned his head like a bird to study his
lord with his good eye. Lancaster possessed a strange
humour and was adept at maintaining a level voice,
devoid of emotion. But at this moment the old Duke's
gaze was level, lacking amusement.

'I would be your spy?'

The old Duke grinned. 'Yet another virtue. A blunt
thrust to the heart of things.'

'A spy with one eye would seem almost as useless
as a one-eyed archer, my lord.' Best that he say it.
Someone would.

'Not to mention how conspicuous you are with
your leather patch and angry scar.' The old Duke
chuckled, enjoying the moment. 'Your unlikeliness
becomes a disguise’

'An interesting line of reasoning’ Owen said.

The old Duke threw back his head and roared
with laughter. 'Spoken with a lordling's delicacy.
Excellent’ A sudden sobering. Lancaster leaned for
ward. 'My son-in-law called me a master tactician. And that I am, Owen Archer. Power is not held by attending
the King and fighting battles. I need trustworthy spies.
You were of great value as Captain of Archers. You can
be of greater value as my eyes and ears. But you must
know the players and the plots. You must read well
both men and their letters. Will you apply yourself to
the learning of this?'

A spy worked alone. Owen's incompleteness would
endanger no one but himself. It appealed to him. 'Aye,
my lord. Gladly’

God was merciful in His designs. Owen spent the
night in chapel giving thanks. He might yet prove
useful.

Two years later Owen stood in the back of Westminster
Abbey church, part of the old Duke's funeral retinue.

God had lifted him up to strike him down once more.
He could not expect that the old Duke had arranged
for his future. If the dukedom had passed on to
Lancaster's own son, perhaps that might have been.
But the old Duke had only daughters. The new Duke
of Lancaster, John of Gaunt, was a son-in-law, husband to the old Duke's daughter Blanche, and he was the son
of King Edward, which made him a powerful lord in his
own right. He could hardly be expected to employ a
one-eyed Welsh spy. Owen had thought much on his
future the last few days. He had some money earned in
the Duke's service. His best plan so far was to arrange
passage to the continent and on to Italy. Many princes,
much intrigue. Someone would find him useful.

He worked on his aim until his good eye blurred
with fatigue and his arms and shoulders twitched. Still
a sure shot, almost as strong as before. But vulnerable
on the left. He worked on spinning from a crouch, and
strengthened his neck so he could turn sharp.

And then John Thoresby, Lord Chancellor of England
and Archbishop of York, sent to Kenilworth for him, Thoresby was in London seeing to the King's business.
Owen was to join him there.

Owen accepted the proffered cup and tasted the wine. He had not tasted better, even at the old Duke's table.
The Lord Chancellor and Archbishop of York treated
him nobly. Owen could not think what he might want.

John Thoresby leaned back in his chair. He sipped his wine with quiet pleasure. A fire crackled beside
them in the hearth that warmed the private anteroom. Tapestries caught the firelight and lent the warmth of
their vivid colours to the room.

With his one eye, Owen could not look at the
tapestries without being obvious. It required turning
the head this way and that, especially for those on the
left. There was only one solution. Be obvious. Praise
the man by praising his possessions. He turned his
head, letting his one eye span the room. A boar hunt
began to the left of the door and continued around the
room, finishing with a feast in the great hall, where
the beast's head was presented to the victor. The
separate tapestries formed a complete set, designed
for this room, for the fit was perfect. 'The tapestries
are exquisite. Norman work, I think. The close weave,
the deep green. Norman for certain’

John Thoresby smiled. 'Not all your time in Nor
mandy was spent on the battlefield, I see’

'Nor yours in negotiations’ Owen grinned. He must not seem cowed by the honour of sharing wine in the
Lord Chancellor's chambers.

'You are a bold Welshman, Owen Archer. And
adaptable. When the old Duke asked that I take
you into my service, I thought his mind muddled with pain. He did not die with ease, as you may
know’

Owen nodded. Lancaster had died in agony. Master
Roglio said the old Duke's own flesh devoured itself
from within so that he could at the end consume
nothing but water, which exited his body as a bloody
flux. Owen was moved that in the midst of his agony
his lord had remembered him.

'He trained you to listen, observe, and retain’
Thoresby watched Owen over the rim of his cup.
'Is that correct?'

'Yes, my lord’

'So much trust might have overwhelmed an ordinary
archer’ Thoresby kept his eyes steady on Owen.

The Archbishop was easy in himself. Honesty would
be Owen's best ploy. 'I lost the sight in one eye, which
I thought was death to me. My lord's trust lifted me up
from despair. He gave me purpose when I thought I had
none. I owed him my life’

'Owed him’ Thoresby nodded. 'And you owe me
nothing. I merely consider honouring an old comrade's
request’

'You might have ignored it, and only God would
be the wiser’

Thoresby cocked an eyebrow. A grin danced on his
lips. 'The Archbishop of York would deceive a man on
his deathbed?'

'If he judged that it were better for the soul in
his care’

Thoresby put down his cup and leaned forward,
hands on knees. The Archbishop's ring shone on
his finger. The chain of Chancellor glittered in the
firelight. 'You make me smile, Owen Archer. You
make me think I can trust you’

'As Archbishop or Lord Chancellor?'

'Both. The matter concerns York. And two knights of the realm, dead before their times, in St. Mary's Abbey. Do you know the abbey?'

Owen shook his head.

'Good. I want someone who can be objective. Make
inquiries, note the facts, report them to me’ The
Archbishop poured himself more wine and gestured for
Owen to do the same. 'We serve ourselves. I wished to
have no ears but ours this evening’

Owen poured himself more wine and sat back
to hear the story.

'I must tell you that the new Duke of Lancaster
is interested in you. You might do well with Gaunt.
It would be a secure future - more so than with me.
Mine are elected positions; he is the son of the King,
and Duke of Lancaster for life. I tell you this because
you might have cause to speak with him. The second
knight in this matter was one of Gaunt's men’

Owen considered this wrinkle. Gaunt was dangerous,
noted for his treachery. Owen could well imagine the
sort of work Gaunt would give him. To serve him would
be an honour, but it would not be honourable. Not to
Owen. Surely God had not raised him up from the ashes
for such work.