The Apothecary Rose

'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 weasel's curiosity.

The York Tavern provided a good living to Bess Merchet and her husband, Tom. The clientele had improved 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 neighbours.

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 obedient 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 extended 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.'

'I'll pay better than your usual price for it.'

There he went with the money again. Bess shook her head. 'That would not make up for the loss of business. I save it for a regular customer. Otherwise only for short stays in between. What would I do with you when he returns on Monday next?'

'I'll pay double for this room to keep it private.'

Bess frowned. She didn't like folk who threw away their money. Besides, it wasn't right to waste a bed.

'A private room is a rare commodity, Owen Archer. How came you to be so keen on it?'

He said nothing.

She read discomfort in his face. It intrigued her.

'You aren't looking for a place to hide?'

'No.'

She waited, hands on hips. A cart rattled by in the street below. A cat padded down the hallway.

Owen grinned. 'You would make a good interrogator.'

Bess waited.

'It's simple. It's the eye and my years of training as a soldier. Someone sneaks up on my left.' He spun round. Bess pressed back against the wall. He thrust with an imaginary sword.

'Merciful Mother.' Bess crossed herself.

He retreated, sheathed the invisible sword. 'I do not trust myself if I'm awakened suddenly.'

'I'll have no trouble here’ she warned.

'I will not wittingly cause you trouble.' His voice was level. He looked straight at her with the good eye.

Bess smoothed her apron, patted her ribboned cap, suppressed a smile. Oh, to be ten years younger and of a slightly better class. 'There is a small room, upstairs in the back. I keep it for family visits. It's plain. But it has a window that looks out on the Wiltons' garden.'

The apothecary's garden. Perfect. 'I should not put your family out.'

Bess heard courtesy rather than honesty in Owen's voice. He wanted the room, her family be damned. It rang true. The thought of the extra revenue pleased her. Her husband, Tom, needed a new pair of boots and she had to purchase a donkey for the cart — Flick was getting long in the tooth.