The Apothecary Rose

'I have never been out on the water, Brother Wulfstan. Nor tied a knot. Am I very stupid?'

'I do not think the tying of knots renders one intelligent, Henry. You will learn.' Wulfstan showed him again. Henry tried once more. 'Better. Much better, God be praised.' Wulfstan undid the loose, partial knot and handed the cloth to Henry. 'Soak this once more and give it another try.'

Brother Michaelo was wondrously patient through all this, quietly sipping the wine and humming. The wine obviously worked its magic. Indeed, that must be the key to Michaelo, Wulfstan thought, he loved his wine. He thanked the Lord that Michaelo had not been apprenticed to him in the infirmary.

Henry's next attempt at the knot was interrupted by Brother Sebastian's breathless entrance. 'Summoner Digby to see you, Brother Wulfstan.'

Digby's name burned in the Infirmarian's stomach.

'The Abbot said to show him back here. Is it safe?' Sebastian, a healthy man, associated the infirmary with bloodlettings and death.

'Quite safe,' Wulfstan assured him, though he wished he could say otherwise and deter the Summoner. Merciful Mother, let Digby not bring bad news this time. 'Show him in.'

Wulfstan looked down at Henry's work. 'Why, Henry, that will hold well.'

'Tie up a boat like that, and the first wave would sweep it downriver’

Brother Wulfstan recognised Digby's voice. 'Brother Michaelo's head is in no danger of being swept away’ Wulfstan said, angry that the man undid his praise.

Brother Michaelo sniffed and opened his eyes. 'What smells of river water? It cannot be the cloth?'

Wulfstan pulled Digby away. Henry assured Michaelo that he had soaked the cloth in well water. The Summoner followed Wulfstan to the small hearth at the other end of the room.

'Forgive me for interrupting your work.'

Wulfstan closed his eyes and hardened himself for bad news. 'What is your news, Summoner?'

'No news. A question, if it is not too much trouble. It is for the diocesan records.'

'My Abbot would be more appropriate in a question of records.'

'Forgive me, I thought you would be the one to ask. You see, it is about the pilgrim who died in your infirmary — in this very room — the night of the first snow.'

Deus juva me. Wulfstan's old legs threatened to collapse. 'I forget myself. Sit down by the fire and rest yourself.' He sat likewise, gratefully, gripping his knees through the coarse wool of his habit to keep them from knocking. 'The pilgrim. Yes. What is the question?'

'Did you bury him on the abbey grounds?'

Wulfstan pondered the question. Or what it implied. Why would the Archdeacon care where someone had been buried? To be sure he had been buried? Wulfstan had heard there was a brisk trade in bodies for relics. Surely the Archdeacon had no cause to suspect the monks of St. Mary's of trafficking in false relics. No. More likely they questioned the cause of the pilgrims' deaths. They hoped to dig up the body here in York and have Master Saurian examine it. Wulfstan had heard of such things — digging up the dead. But surely the Archbishop would not desecrate consecrated ground in such a way? Merciful Mother. Wulfstan was not sure whether anything could be told three months later. But if the poison were evident. . They would blame him. Dear God. And he would have no choice but to point his finger at Nicholas Wilton. And Lucie would lose her security. And he the infirmary, for — as Lucie had wisely pointed out — how could Abbot Campian trust him not to make such a mistake again? They would declare him too old to be competent.

'Brother Wulfstan?' Digby leaned forward, frowning. 'It requires a simple yes or no.'

True. And he could not think of any reason not to answer. 'My thoughts are on Brother Michaelo this morning, Summoner. Yes. We buried the gentle knight on the abbey grounds, as he had requested’

'Ah. Then he made a behest to the abbey?'

Wulfstan nodded. 'The Abbot can tell you the amount.'

'And what name did you inscribe on the stone?'

The question puzzled Wulfstan. 'No name, just "A Pilgrim," as he had wished.'

'But the behest. From whom will that be collected?'

'He brought it with him. Spoils of war, he said. Truly, these are not questions for an Infirmarian.'

The Summoner rose. 'You have been most helpful’

Wulfstan showed him to the door, where Sebastian waited to accompany him out.

The Summoner caught the door as it was about to close on him. 'But surely he told you his name. Or there was something in his possessions that identified him?'

Wulfstan shook his head. 'I can vouch for that myself. He never said, and there was nothing to suggest who he was.'

'Did he have any visitors while he was here?'

'None.'

'No one from the city?'

'No one at all, Summoner Digby.'

The Summoner shrugged and left.

Wulfstan went back to his instruction, but his mind was in turmoil. The Archdeacon must have sent Digby. But why? What was he getting at? Perhaps the minster collected a portion of such behests. Such matters were none of his business. Yet he had told the Summoner about it. Surely Digby had not come to the Infirmarian for information like that. Unless the Abbot had denied that the abbey received a behest in order to keep the money at St. Mary's, where there were always more expenses than money. The orchard wall needed mending, an exquisite chasuble had been torn beyond repair, and dry rot had weakened several of the tables in the refectory. But would his Abbot lie? Wulfstan doubted it. He had never known the Abbot to hide behind a lie. Indeed, Wulfstan devoutly hoped he was not wrong about his superior. He had always held him up as a model of men.

Whether the pilgrim was buried at the abbey and what his name was, those were the Summoner's questions, now Wulfstan thought of it. His name. A missing person, perhaps? That was it. But if someone was travelling in disguise, he would not go by his own name. And Digby had not asked for a description. In any case, the pilgrim had seemed such an honest man.

'Brother Wulfstan, you've cut yourself.' Henry lifted the knife from Wulfstan's hand and dabbed at the blood welling from a cut on the hand beneath it.

Wulfstan stared at his own red blood for moments before seeing it. 'Oh my.' He'd been chopping parsley for a morning tonic. Chopped right into his hand and never noticed, no more than any of his other aches and pains. He crossed himself and said a prayer of thanksgiving. It might have been much worse. 'Well, there you see the danger of daydreaming while working with sharp instruments, God be praised’ He made light of it to lessen dear Henry's concern.

'Let me wash it out for you,' the novice offered.

Wulfstan accepted his ministrations, then went to ask the Abbot for permission to go into town.

'Does it have to do with the Summoner's visit?' Abbot Campian asked.

Wulfstan could withhold facts, but he could not lie. 'Yes. I wish to know why Archdeacon Anselm sent him to me. He did ask for me?'

The Abbot nodded. 'I wondered about that, too. What did he want?'

Wulfstan told him.

The Abbot sighed. 'Most unfortunate. Had he asked me, I could have told him the pilgrim's name. Montaigne. Sir Geoffrey Montaigne. I suspect that the Archdeacon wants to strike him from his list of infidelities, now that both parties are dead.'

Wulfstan shook his head. 'I do not understand.'

'Just give the Archdeacon the name, Wulfstan, and that will be an end to it.'

Wulfstan turned to go.

'Surely you do not mean to go out in sandals, Brother Wulfstan?'

The Infirmarian looked down at his dusty toes. He'd put on his cloak and forgotten his boots. 'Of course. I was in such a hurry.'

Abbot Campian put a hand on Wulfstan's shoulder and looked deep into his eyes. 'Are you up to such an errand, my old friend?'

'Oh, quite. Of course. I was simply rushed.' Wulfstan scurried back to his cell. Perhaps all this trouble was God telling him that he was, indeed, too old to be trusted with the lives of the monks of St. Mary's.