The Apothecary Rose

Mistress Wilton nodded.

'But the fishy smell. Surely he does not live with her? As Summoner he would live close to the minster?'

'Yes, he lives in the city. But, being unwed, he has his mother see to his clothes.' Mistress Wilton glanced at the beaded curtain in the doorway behind her. 'I must check on Master Wilton.'

'Of course. Thank you for the salve, Mistress Wilton.' Owen put a shilling on the counter. 'Will this cover it?'

'That would pay for six such pots, Master Archer. Two pennies will suffice.'

He put out the appropriate change. 'I hope your husband truly does improve with each day.'

She smiled a wan smile. There was a sadness about Mistress Wilton that he found intriguing.

Outside, Owen paused at the gate that led around back to the garden. If all went well, he would be spending his days near the fair Mistress Wilton. He would exercise all his charm on the Guildmaster to make that so.

Owen returned to the inn to ask directions to the public baths. He expected to need a bath more than ever after his visit with Magda Digby.

Alone again in the shop, Lucie fought against trembling hands and fears that threatened to distract her from her work. A life was in her hands. Alice Baker's sleeping draught must not be too strong. Lucie must stay clear-headed. But why had the Summoner come? Did he know something? The Summoner could destroy them. Would Archdeacon Anselm allow that? Surely he loved Nicholas too much for that. And Potter Digby was too much a toady to antagonise the Archdeacon. At least she prayed that he was. How wretched to be grateful about the Archdeacon's unnatural love for her husband.

Enough of this. Brother Wulfstan had nothing to gain by telling anyone but her. The Summoner could not know. Nor could the Archdeacon. She forced her thoughts away from her troubles and finished the draught, labelled it. As she put it aside, her hand brushed the honey pot, still down on the counter from mixing the stranger's salve. Reaching to set the pot back on the shelf, Lucie remembered how her skin had tingled as she'd taken it down, feeling his dark eye on her. She had felt the heat of his gaze right through the tightly woven wool of her dress. She had never felt so aware of her own flesh. Thank God he'd kept the other eye covered.

Lucie blushed at her thoughts. Blessed Mary and all the saints, she was a married woman. And this Owen Archer had insulted her. He'd treated her as if she were a silly girl. As if she didn't belong behind the counter. Nicholas had never treated her that way.

Jehannes was right about the mud. While Owen planned his strategy, he watched several people slip and slide down the bank beyond St. Mary's water tower. Then he was rewarded for his wait. A woman with a babe in arms managed the descent without mishap, walking on a path that was not immediately apparent. It zigzagged down the slope among rocks and scrubby bushes a bit away from the tower. Took longer than the other, slippery path, but Owen was not as surefooted as he'd once been. He did not relish tumbling down the slope. So he marked the woman's route and followed it as faithfully as possible. It was slow going with the one eye. He had to sweep his good eye back and forth along the path before him. But at last he stepped down onto the riverbank. Down there the mud had frozen into ridges in places, was soggy in others. Owen understood why people walked past him with their heads down, keeping their eyes on their footing. It was cold enough without a dip in the mud. Owen felt the damp down here by the river through all his leather clothes and his new boots. Surely no one would ever choose to live down here.

He looked round for the house on the rise in the mud. What he saw were rickety compositions of driftwood, mud, and twigs. Close to the abbey walls the hovels crowded together, then thinned upriver. Then he saw it, an odd structure, its roof a boat turned upside down so that a carved sea serpent on the prow peered down at a strange angle. By the door sat a woman swathed in rags of many colours, all mud-bedimmed, whittling at what looked like a mandrake root. This must be the Riverwoman.

Owen had come up with a reason to speak with her on his walk down here, but seeing her with the knife in her hand gave him second thoughts. He considered retracing his steps and returning another day, when he'd prepared a better introduction. But it was too late, she had glanced up and now fixed a keen eye on him.

'Goodwife Digby?' Owen asked, removing his cap.

'Goodwife.' She nodded and laughed, a queer, barking sound. Her lungs were probably affected by the river damp. 'Naught call me that but want favours. Hast thou a favour to beg, Bird-eye?'

Owen was momentarily taken aback by her blunt reference to his affliction. But why should he expect courtesy in such a place? 'Aye, so I do come seeking a favour.'

'Lost thine eye in the wars, eh?'

She'd played right into his hands. 'Not lost. There's still an eye beneath this patch.'

'And thou wouldst know whether Magda can make thee see again?'

He nodded.

She rose with some huffing and muttering, stuck the knife in a pouch tied around her middle, and motioned him inside with the hand that still held the root. A welcome, though smoky, fire greeted him. He had to stoop to avoid the roots and plants hanging from the rafters.

'You can dry these down here by the river?'

'The fire keeps it dry. Good for roots, good for bones. It will cost thee for Magda to look at the eye, even if she can do nothing.'

He put a silver coin on a table by the fire. 'That's for looking. I'll pay in gold for healing.'

She looked him up and down. 'Thou art well set up. Good clothes, plenty coin. Why come to Magda's sort?'

'A lady friend recommended you. You helped her.'

Magda shrugged. 'A midwife. Has naught to do with eyes.'

'Then I have wasted your time.'

'Nay.' She motioned him over to the fire. 'Let Magda see.'

He sat down so his head might be level with hers, lifted the patch, and leaned back.

She bent over him, smelling richly of river and earth. Her hands were grimy. But her touch was gentle. She examined the eye, then stood back with a sigh. The light's gone from it, though very near wasn't. Thou hast done well to keep the scar from drawing too much. Thou hast done all that can be done.'

Her words brought him down so hard Owen realised he had begun to believe his story, that he had come with hope that she might help him regain his sight. What a fool he was. Why would this grimy, smelly hag know more than Master Roglio?

She sniffed. 'Thou art angry. Tis always the way. And now thou wilt feel Magda is a little to blame for thy blinding. Aye. 'Tis always the way.' She snatched up the silver piece.

'You did not ask my name. Or the name of the woman who told me of you.'

' 'Tis better not to know the names.'

'She found you through a friend of mine.'

The hag squinted at him in the smoky room. 'It's information he seeks, not healing. Magda hears the truth in the voice. Soft, nice voice. Charming Welsh rogue. Arthur's kin, no doubt thou thinkst.' She laughed. 'Get thee gone, Bird-eye. Magda does not need thy kind.'

'I did come for the eye. I have lost my captaincy because of it.'

She looked him up and down again, felt his shoulders. 'Strong Welshman. Thou art an archer, yes?'

'Was.'

'Captain of Archers. Thou'st climbed far. Go back to pulling at the bow, Captain Archer. 'Tis only thy pride keeps thee away. Not as quick and sure as thou mightst have been. Now leave. Magda has charms to carve for folk in need of her.'

While Bess waited at the baker's ovens for the night's bread, she considered Owen Archer. He was a man with a mission, no doubt about it. He had that quiet, still look to him, like a cat standing at the edge of a strange garden, sniffing out the danger, sizing up the competition, eye gliding this way and that, nice and easy, don't want to scare the prey. He might be one-eyed, but she doubted much got past him.