'Don't worry yourself about my children. Their visits are few and far between. And they grew up in a farmhouse — my second husband, Peter, God rest his soul, farmed near Scarborough. They're used to making do. Let me show you the room.'
She apologised for the creaky ladder up to the third floor. She and Tom didn't mind it, but the archer might be used to better.
'I grew up sharing the floor with goats,' he assured her.
'Well, you'll not have to do that here.' She pushed open the low door. He bent over to step in, straightened up inside, stretched his arms overhead. His fingers just brushed the ceiling. He walked over to the window, pushed it open, leaned out, turned with a smile.
'This will suit me, Goodwife Merchet.'
She liked the curl his accent made in her name.
She quoted a rate just slightly more than for the
double room below.
'More than fair. I'll give you a fortnight's fee today.' Bess ran down the list of house rules and left him
to settle himself. She must get that stew over to Lucie.
She resolved not to tell Lucie about Owen just yet. Wait
to see if the handshake proved reliable.
Exhausted, Lucie Wilton nodded off as she sat in the corner of the bedchamber, her head coming to rest on the shop accounts. The room was tiny and close, and Lucie had not slept well since her husband fell ill. Even now, her nap was interrupted by Nicholas's muttering. But it was good he woke her. She had not meant to sleep. She had closed the shop for the midday meal and a chance to go over the accounts. Things tallied well. They had lost no customers to Nicholas's illness. In fact, the books reflected business as usual.
Even the inventory. Nicholas always kept meticulous records of the medicines they dispensed, so that he might improve the efficiency of the garden. He still had to trade for some roots and barks, and buy some of the minerals and gemstones — ground pearl and emerald were popular with some of their wealthier clients — but they got most of the herbs they used from their own garden.
Lucie had taken pains to spread out the fatal dose of aconite in the records, a pinch in this physick, a pinch in that, over a week's time. The books would arouse no suspicion.
But she worried how long she could keep up her pace. She rubbed the back of her neck, sat up slowly, every muscle aching. It was too much, the shop, the household, the garden. She had asked the Guildmaster for an apprentice. Being an apprentice herself, she knew it was unlikely he would agree. He'd been much too courteous to say that to her face, but she knew how it worked. What was sincere was his praise for her work. Not one customer had been turned away since Nicholas took to his bed.
But Lucie paid for it with a weariness that she could no longer ignore. Bess, bless her heart, was only too happy to mother her. She already took care of most of the meals. And she'd taken an armload of mending this morning. No doubt she would clean the house if given a chance. Lucie had given up the fight with dust — a fine layer lay over everything in the house, upstairs and down. But not the shop. That was pristine. She neglected nothing about the shop. Nicholas was proud of her. She was proud of herself. It was one thing to be an apprentice, quite another to be in charge. She enjoyed it, revelled in it, but also feared it. Every minute of every day, with every grain she measured out, she was aware of the trust the people of York placed in her. She held the power of life and death. One slip, one mismeasure could kill. She double- and triple-checked everything, focusing her attention completely on the task at hand.
But she could not keep up such diligence without more sleep. She must sleep. She must have help. If not an apprentice, at least a serving girl.
'Lucie. Are you sleeping at the table?'
She jerked alert and winced as pain radiated from head to neck to arm. But it was good to have Nicholas alert, speaking, knowing her again. His speech was slurred, as if his mouth did not work quite right yet, but understandable. And when the pale eyes lit on her, they saw her, not some phantom, as they had on those first horrible nights.
He had asked if the pilgrim was up and about yet. She had told him that even his physick could not save the man. Nicholas had crossed himself and bowed his head. Lucie prayed she never had to tell him the complete truth.
Five
Up in his room, Owen sat down on the stool beneath the window and ripped off his patch to massage the scar tissue around the eye. He rubbed hard. The skin was tight from the cold ride north, and needlepricks of pain shot through the eye itself from time to time. Five days he'd travelled, through freezing rain and snow. Only fools travelled north in mid-February. He searched through his pack for the salve that eased the tightness. He had only enough for one day. A natural purpose for visiting the apothecary.
He bided his time, shaking out his extra shirt and leggings, easing his feet out of his boots for a bit. They stank. He stank. He must ask about the public baths. When he saw no one at any windows opposite, nor down below, he leaned out the window and studied the apothecary's garden. Tidy, laid out in an unusual fashion. More variety than in most such. It looked like a monastery garden. Behind a holly hedge, what must be a potting shed. He could just see the back of the house. A door that led into the garden, one window below, two above. A modest but comfortable house.
Down below, Bess Merchet bellowed an order. Owen grinned. She could be useful to him. And he liked her. Sharp-witted, bold, comely for the mother of grown children — bright red hair, a round but compact body — and a nice sense of humour. Little could get past her. She must know all the gossip worth knowing.
He put on his boots and patch and went downstairs with his salve pot and money pouch.
'You'll be hungry,' was Bess's greeting. She motioned to him to sit down at a trestle table. 'Kit! A trencher and stew. And some of the new ale.'
A man came through the back door, carrying a bucket. He nodded to Owen. 'Tom Merchet.' Younger than Bess by a few years, burly, with friendly eyes. 'You'll be Master Archer.'
'Aye. Call me Owen, if you will. I trust I'll be with you awhile.'
Tom put down the bucket and went over to fill a tankard with ale. Setting it down in front of Owen, he stood back, arms folded. 'Go on. Taste ale. See if it's not better than any in London.'
Owen took a good long drink, then set the tankard down with a hearty thud. He nodded, smiled. 'I'd heard tales of York Tavern ale, but none did it justice.' He meant it.
Tom nodded and went out.
A young woman brought the food. Bess followed close behind. 'Go on now, Kit, have your meal in the back.' The girl scuttled out.
Owen ate the stew with relish. All the while Bess hovered nearby, moving benches, fussing with cobwebs. He finished, downed the rest of the ale, and pushed the bench away from the table.
'You've made a fast friend, praising his ale so high’ Bess said.
'I like to give praise where it's due. I've never had better inn fare. The stew was fit for a lord's table. Archers, even captains of archers, do not often partake of such fare.'
The herbs and some of the vegetables are from the Wilton garden. Nicholas has always been generous with me.'
'He's the apothecary?'
'Aye. Round the corner on Davygate.'
'A good apothecary?'
Bess sniffed. 'The best in the North Country.'
Owen noted the qualifier. Not the kingdom, but the North Country. Not an exaggerator. She did not claim there were none better even in London.
'I need a salve for the eye.'
A mischievous grin lit Bess's face. 'They'll fix you up.'
'Why do you smile?'