The Apothecary Rose

Bess shrugged. ' 'Tis nothing. I think of a dozen things at once.'

The sly gleam in her eye made Owen uneasy. He had to be careful. 'Now let me give you the fortnight's rent before I explore the city.'

Bess tucked the money in her apron pocket and smiled to herself. It would not be a bad thing for Lucie to encounter a charming rogue. Have an adventure while her ageing, ailing husband was abed. It would warm Lucie's blood, fortify her for the times ahead. Bess knew that Lucie Wilton would catch Owen Archer's eye. She was fair, straight-backed, slender, with clear blue eyes and an engaging smile — a smile seen too seldom these days.

Owen reminded Bess of her first husband, Will, a clerk in Scarborough with an eye for the girls. Bess had snared Will with her coppery curls and bold tongue. It was Will had taught her to read and write. Bright Will. Handsome Will.

Bess knew what it was like to nurse a dying husband and fear for the future. She had buried two husbands, both beloved. The fathers of her children. Poor Lucie did not even have the comfort of children.

Owen Archer might be just the man to lift Lucie's spirits.

But the timing of his arrival disturbed Bess. He suited the Wiltons' needs too well.

Owen did not mean to chat with the apothecary, merely to meet him and get a sense of the man. The door of the apothecary was ajar.

A woman stood behind the counter, measuring powder into a pouch for a customer who paced back and forth, complaining about the weather. The customer was well dressed, though his speech had the rough edges of the North Country. Most likely a merchant. He did not seem at all put out about being helped by a young woman whom Owen assumed to be the apothecary's daughter.

The woman glanced up at Owen. Looked again, with a hint of uneasiness. He was sorry for that, for she was a comely young woman, fine-featured and with clear eyes. But he could imagine what she saw. A scarred stranger in road-dusted leather. Trouble. And perhaps she was right. He waited until the merchant had departed, then approached the counter. She studied him evenly, her eyes pausing on the scar that spread out from beneath the patch across his cheekbone.

'Is the Master about?'

She bristled. 'Not at the moment. What can I do for you?'

Stupid. He knew the Master was bedridden. And the question had gotten him off to a bad start with her. 'Do you have a salve of boneset and comfrey? My scar tightens and draws with the winter wind.'

She reached over the counter and touched his cheek.

He grinned, delighted. 'You have a gentle touch.'

She withdrew her hand as if he'd burned her. 'It is obviously difficult for you, but you must think of me as an apothecary.' Her eyes smouldered, her voice chilled.

Cheeky daughter, to call herself an apothecary. 'Forgive me. I found your touch disconcerting.'

'Sweet words — '

'I did ask your forgiveness.'

She nodded. 'Honey and calendula. They are the best softeners. Ask any court lady.'

'Softening. Aye. That's what it's needing. But something also to soothe the fire that returns now and again. To the scar, that is.' He grinned.

She did not. Her blue eyes had a granite glint to them.

He withdrew the grin, coughed. 'Sorry again.'

'I can add something to cool the skin.' She cocked her head to one side, still with the even gaze. 'Your speech has an odd music. You are not from the North Country.'

'Wales is my mother country. And the scar was got in the King's service.'

'A soldier?'

He could see that displeased her. He was not doing at all well.

'No more. I've seen the error of my ways.' He beamed his most disarming smile.

'You are fortunate’ Spoken without a hint of being charmed.

'It is my excuse for being clumsy with women.' York women in particular.

She smiled — politely — and stepped away to mix the salve. Owen watched her, noting how fluid were her movements, how graceful and sure. Her hair was tucked up in a clean white kerchief, baring a long, slender neck. He wished he had two eyes to feast on her.

She bristled as she turned back to him. 'Have I grown horns?'

He reddened, realising how he'd stared. But surely she recognised adoration. He refused to apologise. He'd done nothing to offend her. But he did change the subject. 'I noticed the garden gate.' He gestured towards the door. 'Do you keep bees?'

'Bees?'

'For the honey in the salve.'

'No. No hives. I would like to, but I've no time to tend them with my husband ill. We get our honey from the abbey. St. Mary's. You are a gardener?'

Her husband? Surely this was not Mistress Wilton. 'I was a gardener in another lifetime.'

She looked puzzled. What clear blue eyes she had. How they bored into his soul.

'When I was a boy in Wales.'

'Ah. You are a long way from home.'

'A long way indeed.' He loved those eyes.

She cleared her throat and nodded towards the pot he clutched.

'Oh. Aye.' He handed it to her.

With a flattened spoon she measured out the salve. Exactly one measure.

'You've a practised eye.'

'Five years as my husband's apprentice’ she said with quiet pride.

There it was again. Then you must be Mistress Wilton.' She nodded. How disappointing. Married, and to the man he hoped would employ him. He offered his hand. 'Owen Archer. I am staying at the York, so we'll be neighbours for a while.'

She hesitated, then shook his hand. A firm, warm shake. 'We're pleased to have your trade, Master Archer. The Merchets will take good care of you.'

'You said your husband is ill?'

Her face closed up. She handed him his salve. 'Be sparing of this. It is a strong medicine.'

He regretted the question. 'I will be careful.'

The shop bell jingled. As the fair Mistress Wilton looked beyond him to the doorway, the colour drained from her face.

Owen turned to see what wretch disturbed her. The Summoner, Potter Digby. Owen had acquired a second shadow.

Mistress Wilton did not move. Owen picked up the salve pot. 'I've been using what I had twice daily. Is that appropriate for the new mixture?'

The blue eyes moved, focused on him. Colour returned to the cheeks. 'Twice daily? It must bother you very much. How long since you were wounded?'

'Three years.'

The Summoner stepped up to the counter on Owen's left side. His blind side. Sneaking wretch. Owen controlled himself. With a slow, casual air he rested his right elbow on the counter and turned to look at Digby.

The Summoner nodded at Owen, then said to Mistress Wilton, 'I inquire after the health of Master Wilton. God grant he is better?'

'He improves with each day, Master Summoner. Thank you for your good wishes.'

Owen noted that as much as he had irritated her, she had not sounded nearly so cold as this. He hoped she never used such a tone with him.

Digby seemed oblivious. 'I remember Master Wilton in my prayers.'

'We are most grateful.'

No, they weren't. At least she wasn't, that was plain.

'God be with you.' The Summoner bowed slightly and slithered out the door.

A riddle. A visit from the Summoner would be welcome by few, but Mistress Wilton's reaction was beyond distaste. It seemed she and the Summoner had old business. Owen tucked the incident away to digest later.

Mistress Wilton held on to the countertop, her knuckles white. She closed her eyes. Opened them. Seemed surprised to see Owen still there. He hated himself for bringing that shadow with him into the shop.

'An unpleasant character,' Owen said.

'They say he is good at his job.'

'Why should a Summoner smell of fish?'

'It's his mother. She lives on the river.'

'Oh, aye. A midwife, I think.'

Mistress Wilton tensed. 'Why would a stranger know about her?'

Damn his tongue. 'I encountered the Summoner earlier. I was told he was the son of the Riverwoman.'