Still, Wulfstan was uncomfortable. According to Digby, after Wulfstan had exhausted all his knowledge, he had gone to Nicholas Wilton for help. And Nicholas Wilton had collapsed outside the infirmary after delivering the medicine he had mixed specifically for Montaigne. While the Archdeacon was dining with the Abbot and Digby was lurking around outside. Thorny.
Poisoning can look like a fever. But if the man was near death, why bother?
Because waiting was hard. Especially when one's life hung in the balance. Be patient. Owen had drummed that into his new archers. Do not rush. Wait for the best moment to let fly the arrow. Do not let fear or desperation loosen your grip too soon. Nothing is changed by your panic, only your ability to reason. But some forget the lesson when tested in battle.
If Montaigne had been poisoned, it was because someone had panicked. He would have died anyway, but perhaps more slowly. Owen could see the how. If Brother Wulfstan did not sense trouble, he would not examine the physick. And that was what made Digby's suspicion plausible. Brother Wulfstan would not have gone to Nicholas Wilton for help if he had suspected him of wanting to poison the patient. So when the physick had not worked, Wulfstan had taken it as a sign that the Lord wanted Montaigne now. The monk would accept that. It was Church doctrine.
That was, perhaps, the how.
But the why? Owen stared at Digby, who was nodding to himself with a pleased look on his face.
'So?'
I've placed Montaigne. Lady D'Arby's lover, he was. Folk said 'twas his babe killed her.'
The name sounded familiar, but he could not place it at once. 'Lady D'Arby?'
'Your Mistress Wilton's mother. You might speak with 'em up at Freythorpe Hadden. Dame Phillippa and Sir Robert.'
'He was the lover of Mistress Wilton's mother?'
Digby nodded. 'The beautiful Amelie. Sir Robert's war prize.'
'And Montaigne's baby killed her? So there was a scandal?'
'Lots of talk, but no action taken. She died. Montaigne disappeared. Lord D'Arby went on pilgrimage to the Holy Land.'
'Who is Dame Phillippa?'
'Sir Robert's sister. Looks after him.'
'Where is Freythorpe Hadden?'
'South of here. Ask your new mistress.' Digby drained his tankard, rose, extended his hand to Owen.
Owen cupped his hands around his drink. 'Unwise for us to look friendly, Summoner.'
Digby shrugged and walked away.Leaving Owen in an even worse mood than he'd found him in. Montaigne was the lover of Lucie's mother. Owen did not like that at all.
Twelve
Owen lay awake, bothered by all that Digby had told him. Montaigne and Amelie, Lady D'Arby. There had been a scandal. As Lucie's husband, Nicholas Wilton might have wished to avenge his wife's family's shame. But surely that was an old story. On the other hand, Montaigne's return to York would reopen old wounds.
Owen thought of the wizened old man lying in the sickroom. Nicholas hardly seemed strong enough to hatch such a plot and see it through.
And then Owen had an awful thought. He tried to discard it, but he could not. Lucie Wilton could have prepared the physick. She was knowledgeable. She could concoct a poison as well as her husband could. Digby had said Wilton delivered the physick to the abbey, but the Summoner could not know who had prepared it.
Perhaps Lucie Wilton. She might have reason to hate Montaigne. She had a marked antipathy towards soldiers. Owen had assumed it was her father, sending her to the convent and going off when the mother died. But perhaps it was Montaigne. And though Montaigne had not identified himself, that might not matter. Children noticed much. Lucie might have seen him, recognised him from the past. Owen must find out if she had been to the abbey while Montaigne was there. The possibility sent pain across the blind eye. He rubbed beneath the patch.
There was no escaping it. Lucie Wilton might be guilty. Her being a beautiful young woman should not cloud his judgement. He knew full well that a woman could be as ruthless as a man. It was not the jongleur who had blinded him.
But what a sickening suspicion. It was an ugly, unredeemed world that could make Lucie Wilton betray her calling to heal and use her God-given skill to murder.
And yet suspecting Nicholas Wilton of the same crime had not made Owen sick at heart. He disgusted himself. He was smitten by Lucie Wilton, and was allowing it to colour his judgement. It was not impossible that Lucie might avenge her mother's ignoble death in such a way. Given her training as an apothecary, it was the likeliest way for her to strike back.
Of course, all this assumed Digby was right, that Montaigne had been poisoned. But where did that leave Fitzwilliam?
It was still possible that Digby was wrong. The evidence lay in the grave of Montaigne. All the evidence lay in the grave of an unknown pilgrim. Were such graves marked? What words would the monks of St. Mary's speak over the grave of an unknown pilgrim? How would they mark it? A gentle pilgrim who met his end on such-and-such a day in the thirty-sixth year of the reign of King Edward the Third of England?
The grave was where his clues lay. Owen flipped over on his left side, sending a shooting pain through his shoulder. With a curse he rolled back on his right side.
What unpleasant tasks this sleuthing necessitated — tussling with Lord March, opening a grave. And to disturb consecrated ground was a sacrilege. Would God blame him for it? No point in worrying about that yet. He might not have an opportunity to find out. Abbot Campian would probably refuse to co-operate. And Thoresby might reject evidence got in such a way. Owen did not like this prying into people's lives. It made him no different from the Summoner.
Next morning, Owen sought out Digby. He discovered him standing in the shadows near the marketplace, watching a maid and a soldier who stood at the edge of the stalls, their heads bent close together, speaking in hushed voices.
'Looking for sinners?' Owen asked Digby.
The soldier glanced over at them, whispered something to the maid.
Digby backed farther into shadow and put a finger to his lips.
The couple parted, the maid wandering over to a stall, the soldier hailing a comrade.
'I have a mission for you, my friend,' Owen said, grinning.
Digby gave him a disgusted look. 'So we're friends now, are we?'
'You've made it rather plain we're meeting at the tavern.'
'Have I caused trouble for you?'
'I hope not. Time will tell.'
'Well, you've ruined my morning. What do you want?' Wulfstan smiled at Henry's attempts to tie the rag around the monk's head. Michaelo had one of his headaches this morning, and Wulfstan thought to use the opportunity to teach Henry the treatment the monk responded to best. Feverfew steeped in a warm cup of wine, to mask the bitterness of the herb, then a cloth soaked in minted water bound around his head. Wulfstan suspected that Michaelo enjoyed the extra wine and the chance to sit and dream while the cure took effect, but it seemed a harmless vice. It was not as if he appeared every week with his complaint. Twice a month, and not at regular intervals, so it might be a legitimate complaint. At worst a moderate vice.
Henry had done well with the feverfew-and-wine concoction, and the soaking of the cloth. But his fingers were all thumbs with a knot.
'No fisher folk in your family, I see’ Wulfstan said.