The Apothecary Rose

Owen shook his head.

'Pity. If anyone could, it would be him. What sort of work do you seek?'

Owen glanced around the room, 'I know it is unusual for someone my age, but I hope to apprentice to an apothecary or surgeon.'

Wulfstan frowned. 'From soldier to healer is a great leap. But if God calls you, He will provide a way.'

Owen noted how the monk glanced back at his work. 'I have taken enough of your time.' He took his leave.

He did not feel much enlightened. What had he learned? That Brother Wulfstan was troubled by the deaths at the abbey and nervous about something. He did not like questions about the deaths or about Nicholas Wilton. Perhaps that meant nothing, but Owen would think about it. And the Infirmarian stuck to the story that Fitzwilliam had died of an illness. But then if the man was murdered in Wulfstan's infirmary, it would look bad for the monk, so he was unlikely to admit it.

An unprofitable interview, all in all. Owen decided to take the opportunity to ask some of the other monks what they knew about Fitzwilliam. He gestured to a young monk hurrying past.

'I was hoping to speak with some who might remember a cousin of mine, Sir Oswald Fitzwilliam?'

The fresh-faced monk looked Owen up and down, then grinned. 'You are of a different sort than your cousin, sir-?'

'Archer. Owen Archer.' He extended his hand.

The young monk gave a slight bow, but did not bring forth his hand from his sleeve. 'I am Brother Jonas. I remember your cousin. He was a' — Jonas averted his eyes for a moment, thinking — 'he was a character. His death must have been unexpected.'

'How he met his death surprised me. With his tendency to collect enemies, I expected he'd meet a violent end.'

The eyebrows rose. 'I had heard he was one for the ladies. With those tight leggings and short tunics, his intentions were obvious. But that is the worst I had heard of him.'

'Was he well liked here?'

'He was not disliked.' The monk glanced around, then pushed his hands farther into his sleeves. 'I must go about my business now. Shall I show you out?'

'No need.' Owen nodded to him and continued up the corridor, then out into the cloister walk. There he met another, older monk. 'God be with you.'

'And with you, my son’ the old monk whispered.

'Forgive me for disturbing your meditation, but I wondered if you were one of the brothers who helped my cousin, Oswald Fitzwilliam. He spoke with affection and gratitude about the peace he found here.'

The old monk's gaunt face registered mild surprise. He shook his head. 'I can take no credit for your cousin. I have no business with the pilgrims to the abbey.' He rose stiffly, made the sign of the cross in blessing, and shuffled off.

'I knew Fitzwilliam,' a voice said behind Owen.

Owen turned. A chubby monk with bright eyes and a cheery smile stood rocking back and forth, hands tucked in his sleeves. 'I am Brother Celadine, the Cellarer.'

'Of course. He would have sought you out.'

'Do you have permission to speak with us about your cousin?'

The question surprised Owen. Brother Celadine had begun in a friendly mode. 'I do not have permission as such. I came with a letter of introduction to Brother Wulfstan. But I thought as long as I was here — '

'You were close to your cousin?'

'I remember good times.'

Celadine nodded. 'Most of the brothers tolerated Fitzwilliam because he was the Archbishop's ward. But I was fond of him. It is not easy being ward of a powerful man such as His Grace. Fitzwilliam was watched. His every transgression was noted. He was bound to rebel. But I don't think he was at heart an evil man. Oh, I had no delusions that he would go forth and sin no more, but he tried to be better.'

'How did you come to know him so well?'

Celadine chuckled. 'I once caught him in the cellars. Partaking of more than was his portion.'

'And he repented?'

'He did not repeat the offence.'

'How did he seem this last time?'

The monk looked out at the cloister garden, thinking. 'Quieter than usual. Pale. I think he was ill when he arrived.'

'Was something bothering him, do you think?'

'He never came here by choice.'

A door opened at the end of the cloister walk.

The Cellarer glanced over at the door with an anxious look. 'I must be about my business,' he said abruptly, 'God be with you.'

Owen turned to see Abbot Campian approaching with a determined stride. The frown on the Abbot's face told Owen the game was up.

'I gave you permission to speak with Brother Wulfstan. Now I hear you are interrupting the brothers' meditations to ask questions about Sir Oswald Fitzwilliam, You take advantage of my hospitality, Captain Archer.'

'Forgive me. I thought as I was here — '

'St. Mary's is a place of meditation and prayer.'

'I apologise for my transgression.'

'I will have Brother Sebastian show you out.' Campian motioned a young monk from the shadows. Owen humbly followed the young monk to the front gate. 'Is your Abbot very angry with me?'

Brother Sebastian smiled. 'Not angry. He demands order. He expects all to obey the rules.'

'He is fortunate to have a world well ordered.' 'We are fortunate to have him as our Abbot.' Owen took his leave with a feeling of frustration. He had learned nothing about Fitzwilliam that would explain his death. In fact, the brothers of St. Mary's seemed to find it reasonable that the man died of a winter cold. Owen wondered for the first time whether Thoresby had sent him on a fool's errand.

Perhaps he would learn more from his visit to the Archdeacon.

An ascetic, Owen thought, as Anselm gestured to him to be seated. Tall, gaunt, dun-coloured even to the eyes. A chill to the voice that ensured distance.

'I understand you visited the Archbishop's secretary yesterday.'

So this was a territorial matter. Owen relaxed. Thoresby had rehearsed him on this.

'His Grace the Archbishop does a favour for the late Henry, Duke of Lancaster, in providing me with a letter of introduction and the funds my late lord meant me to have. He had me transact the business with Jehannes because it is as Lord Chancellor that he does this favour for the late Duke.'

'A letter of introduction? What is your business in York?'

'I seek employment.'

The cold eyes looked him over. 'What did you do for the late Duke?'

'I was Captain of Archers.'

'The present Duke did not wish to keep you on?'

'I am finished with soldiering. I want to learn a trade, apprentice to a master.'

Anselm's nostrils flared. 'A Captain of Archers content now to become a humble apprentice?'

'It is God's wish that I begin again. I have faith that the loss of my eye was God's sign that I am done with killing. That I am meant to serve Him in another way.'

'What do you have in mind?'

'I would like to apprentice to an apothecary.'

'From killer to healer?' The voice was amused, but the eyes still cold.

'I assisted the camp physician, measuring out medicines and such.'

'I fear there are seldom such apprenticeships available in York. Besides, an archer is not likely to read and write.'

'I can do both. The late Duke saw to it that I might be gainfully employed.'

'Remarkable.' He made the word an insult.

'And God has this very day shown me His purpose. I've heard of Master Nicholas Wilton's situation.'

The Archdeacon came alert at the name.

I've a strong back for gardening, and the experience dispensing physicks.'

'Apprentice to Nicholas Wilton?' Anselm rose.

'It is the perfect situation.'

The Archdeacon shook his head. 'You are wrong. You would be trained by his wife. It is ill-advised to be trained by a woman. And one of questionable background.'

'I've heard nothing ill of Mistress Wilton.'