The Apothecary Rose

'I must have no scandal now that I am in the household of the Duchess of Lancaster. It is an honour to be here. It is everything to Jamie — Lord March.'

'But you would cause a scandal with your threat.'

'I would be the injured party, Captain Archer. It is a commonplace, a woman ravished by a soldier. No one would question it.'

'The Lord Chancellor might.'

'I'm certain that John Thoresby did not choose you for your virtue. Why should he doubt that you would take advantage of me when I came alone to your chamber to make sure someone had seen to your wounds?'

'That was a silly thing to do.'

She shrugged. 'People see me as a silly woman. I don't mind. It suits me. Affords me the element of surprise.'

'Indeed. Well, I can think of nothing I have to gain by causing a scandal, so you are safe with me.'

She smoothed her skirt. 'I was with child. Jamie was furious. After waiting for two years, I got pregnant when it was most inconvenient. The Duchess would insist that I stay up north. My stipend would not begin until after my lying-in. Jamie went to Ozzie. Told him that it was probably his child. Ozzie came north and took me to a midwife who, for a fee, halted my future need for her services.'

'Was it Fitzwilliam's child?'

'I am not certain.'

'What did Lord March use to threaten him?'

Lady Jocelyn looked injured. 'He had no need to threaten. Ozzie loved me. He would have done anything for me. He assumed it was his child, and if I did not wish to carry it, he was willing to help me rid myself of it. Safely.'

'Lord March does not care for an heir?'

'There will be time for heirs. At the moment he wants to establish his standing with the new Duke.'

'And you want to establish yours with the Duchess.'

'Of course. They go hand in hand.'

'Of course. This midwife. Where was she?'

'Just outside York, on the river. Magda Digby, the Riverwoman. A horrid creature. A smelly shack. But she was good to me. As you can see, I'm none the worse for the experience.'

'And Fitzwilliam's pilgrimage to York?'

She wrinkled her nose. 'He'd had an unfortunate dalliance with a kitchen maid here. The Duchess learned of it and sent him off to repent.'

'What happened to the maid?'

'She will be married to one of the servants.'

'Her name is Alice?'

'You know about her?'

'One of my — Bertold's archers was going to marry her before Fitzwilliam got between them.'

'I shall mention it to the Duchess — after you have gone quietly. Is there anything more you wish to know?'

'Did he have any enemies in York?'She gave a little laugh. 'A man of Ozzie's spirit had enemies everywhere.'

Four

The North Country

The journey from Kenilworth to York was as unpleasant as a Channel crossing. Owen thought on the pilgrims dead at the abbey and found it easy to dismiss their deaths as the result of travelling to this godforsaken country in winter. By day, the damp north wind howled in his ears, battered his face, chilled him through his warmest clothes. By night, wolves added their hungry cries to the wind's demon voice. The journey would have gone more pleasantly as part of a company of soldiers. Or at least in the company of Bertold, Lief, Ned, and Gaspare. As often as that thought arose, Owen fought it. His soldiering days were over. He must forget that life.

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 present 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, watchful 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 Infirmarian 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 understand I am to provide you with any additional funds.'

Hint taken, Owen completed his business without 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.'