The Apothecary Rose (7 page)

The North
Country

Owen arrived in York weary, cold, and predisposed
to hate the city. He entered from the south, through
Micklegate Bar, across Ouse Bridge with its stench of
fishmongers and public privy, through King's Square and up Petergate, making first for the minster to pres
ent himself to Thoresby's cleric. The city was a warren
of narrow streets darkened by jutting second storeys,
stinking of night waste and garbage, much like London
and Calais. He wondered how so many fools could be
coerced into living in this crowded place, huddled up
against the north wind that howled off the moors.

But the minster impressed him. It would be a great
cathedral when finished. He stood back and gazed
upward, imagining the spires that would crown the two
square towers at the front. At least the Yorkshiremen knew how to give thanks to the Lord for seeing them
through the long winter.

A dour-faced cleric led Owen to the Archbishop's
chambers, after attempts to direct him failed. Neither
could understand the other's accent. As Owen entered
the chambers, an odd character slithered past. Short, wiry, with olive skin and lank hair, sly, watery eyes,
heavy-lidded. A fishy odour lingered after he'd slipped
out the door. Not the sort one expected to find in the
Archbishop's chambers.

It was a relief to find Jehannes, the Archbishop's
clerk, a pleasant-faced young man with a quiet, watch
ful air. 'His Grace will be pleased you've arrived safely.
The Scots are a plague to the winter traveller up here.'

'I met few fools out on the road but the thieves
in the forest.'

A little smile. 'Your accent will worry the folk who think all who speak oddly are Scots brigands.
I see why Canon Guthrum watched you so closely.'

'His Grace forgot to warn me of that. I will try
to smooth out my speech.'

Jehannes placed two documents on the table. One
bore the Archbishop's seal, the other a seal Owen did
not recognise. The cleric pushed the latter towards
Owen. 'Master Roglio provides you with a letter of
introduction to the Abbot of St. Mary's. The Infirm
arian admires Roglio. This might loosen his tongue.'

'So you know of my purpose here?'

A slight nod. 'I do not envy you your task. You
will not find it easy to wrest information out of
Yorkshiremen. Even the city variety.'

'And the other document?'

'An introduction to the Master of the Merchant's
Guild, Camden Thorpe. I will send it tomorrow. There
might be a position for you at Wilton's apothecary,
off St. Helen's Square. Close to the minster and the
abbey.'

'A position?'

'Your disguise. The apothecary was taken ill at
Christmastide. Confined to bed with a palsy. His
Grace thought you might assist Mistress Wilton. Your
experience with the camp doctor makes you credible
in such a post.'

Owen liked the prospect. 'How will I know the
Guildmaster's response?'

'I will send word to your lodgings.'

Owen perked up. 'Lodgings. Now that's a subject I've thought long on. A hot meal and a warm bed.
Where might these lodgings be?'

Jehannes looked apologetic. 'I'm afraid I am not
certain. His Grace thinks it unwise to put you up
here, even for the first night. You do not want to
be associated with any authority, you see. I suggest
you see Bess Merchet at the York Tavern. It's next
to Wilton's apothecary. If she has no room to spare,
trust her to find you some place where you'll be able to sleep without a weapon at hand.'

'A friendly city, is it?'

'Not for strangers. And certainly not for someone with an odd speech.'

'You do not make me eager to meet the folk of
York.'

'It does not help to be overconfident.'

'I noticed a singular character exiting.'

The cleric thought back to his last visitor. Totter
Digby, Archdeacon Anselm's Summoner.'

The match tickled Owen. Summoner was the job
of a weasel, and Potter Digby looked like nothing so
much as that sly creature. 'He looks like he was bred for the job.'

Jehannes covered up a laugh with a cough. 'I under
stand I am to provide you with any additional funds.'

Hint taken, Owen completed his business with
out further attempts at gossip, but as he crossed to
the door he paused. The name Digby. Could it be a
coincidence? 'How would I find the midwife they call
the Riverwoman?' He would keep the name out of it
for now.

Jehannes looked surprised. 'What business could
you have with her? Have you a woman in distress?'

Owen shook his head. 'Fitzwilliam had business
with her shortly before he arrived at St. Mary's.'

'Ah.' Jehannes nodded. 'You'll find a footpath that
leads down to the river on the far side of St. Mary's.
I would go in daylight.'

'Oh?'

'Slippery, down there by the river.'

'The footing or the folk?'

Jehannes allowed himself a smile. 'Both.'

'So while I'm watching my step, how do I find
this woman?'

'Her shack is out on a grassy rock in the mud
flat. When the river rises, she has her own island.'

'Does she have a name?'

'Magda Digby. The Summoner's mother.'

'Interesting.'

'They are an interesting family, yes.'

As Owen stepped outside, a sound to his left made
him pause, breath held. He turned, ready for an attack.
With his good eye he glimpsed a man slipping around
the corner of the building. A fishy smell lingered
behind. Owen grinned. Seemed he'd kindled the wea
sel's curiosity.

The York Tavern provided a good living to Bess Mer
chet and her husband, Tom. The clientele had im
proved since Bess took over the running of the tavern
eight years ago, when she came there as a wife. She beat
out the vermin, human and otherwise, and scrubbed
and repaired until the inn was clean and respectable. Right away Tom saw her worth and handed over the reins, and the tavern with its modest set of inn rooms
flourished.

The stranger came as Bess stirred the last bit of
seasoning into the stew she'd made for her neigh
bours.

Well now, she thought as he stood in the doorway
deciding whether to enter, there's a story to him, and
a good one, I'll wager. Tall, broad-shouldered, a soldier of some sort. Leather leggings and vest, good boots, a
heavy cloak thrown back over one shoulder. He did
not come begging, not this one, though the leather
patch over the left eye and the scar running across the
cheek might make it tough for him to go a-soldiering
now. She liked his dark curls and gold earring. There
was a bit of devil in him.

'So, stranger, will you be coming in or do you
mean to let all the heat escape into the square?'

He laughed and closed the door behind him. 'Would
you be Goodwife Merchet?'

West Country speech. A handicap, but a strong
will and a quick wit could rise above that.

'I am Bess Merchet, proprietress. What can I do
for you?' She wiped her plump hands on her apron
and adjusted her ribboned cap.

'I need a room. I was told at the minster to try
here first. I'd find no better in York.'

Bess cocked her head to one side. 'Is your business
with the minster?'

'My business is to find work before my money
runs out. But not to fear, my good woman, I've a tidy
sum tucked away, enough to pay for your best room.
The Archbishop himself will vouch for that. It was he
distributed my late lord's behests.'

My good woman indeed. As if the ability to pay were
all that mattered to an innkeeper. But the Archbishop.
Well now. 'What sort of work? You don't look like one
trained to a trade or used to a plough.'

'You would be right there. I was a soldier until I
lost the use of this eye.' He touched the patch. 'So. Would you be having a room?'

'Not so fast. Bess Merchet makes her decisions
in good time.' He looked surprised. Used to obedi
ent women. But that was his soldiering. He seemed
a decent sort, all in all. 'Who was your liege lord?'

'The late Duke of Lancaster.'

'Ah. Ousted by Gaunt the upstart, eh?' A source
of good stories. She liked that. Good for business in
the tavern. Tell me now, is the Duchess Blanche as beautiful as the ballads say?'

'Oh, aye. And you'd be hard put to find a gentler, more courteous lady in all King Edward's realm.'

'So why doesn't the Archbishop find you work?'

He gave her his most
dazzling
smile. 'I promise
you I can pay my way.'

So he thought he'd turn her head with a smile?
Lovely it was, but she was no more fool than he.
'You don't want to answer that question?'

He let the smile fade. 'I have been the puppet of
great men long enough. I envy folk like you who can
plan ahead, know what's coming.'

Bess sniffed. As if folk had control over their lives.

'As far as anyone can,' he added.

More sensitive than she'd guessed. A good sign.
'So what kind of work can you do?'

'I'm strong and good with plants. It would suit me
to be a gardener. And I know a bit about medicines. I
assisted the camp doctor after my injury.'

Bess stiffened. She was not one to believe in coincidence. It was no accident brought this Welshman to
her door, the very man her neighbours needed. Who
had put him on to Lucie's trouble?

'You sound the sort of helper an apothecary would find useful.'

'I thought I would talk with some of the guild-
masters.'

'You've not talked with someone already?'

'I thought it best to find lodgings first.'

A cautious man. 'What is your name, Welshman?'

His eye widened, surprised. A grin slowly spread across his face. A sincere grin. 'You've a good ear.'

'Your speech is no challenge.'

'I've been warned the folk here might mistake me
for a Highlander.'

'Not Bess Merchet.'

Owen pulled the glove off his right hand and extend
ed his hand in friendship. 'Owen Archer's the name.'

Bess shook his hand. Warm, dry, no fear in the
hand he proffered. And a strong grip. Well, an archer.
He would be strong.

'Now about that room?'

Bess took a deep breath. Common sense told her this man could be trouble, but the handshake won her. And
he did look travel-weary. She nodded, decided. 'I've got
a room.' She led him up the stairs.

Two pallets, a window, and space to walk - a
comfortable room. Even a chest in which to store
his pack, and some hooks on which to hang wet
outer clothes. Bess stood back to let him take a look.

The dark eye swept the room, then paused at the
doorway.

'Across the hall. That's a private room?'

That fool Kit must have left the door open when
she finished cleaning. 'It is. But it's not available.'