Lucie looked out the window, her jaw set. 'Damnable priest. He knows who the man is. Why would he not tell me? I think it has everything to do with the soldier.' She turned angry eyes on Wulfstan. 'Who is the pilgrim, Wulfstan?'
'My dear Lucie, as God is my witness, I do not know!’
‘I want to speak with him.'
Wulfstan shook his head. 'He is dead.'
She looked shocked. 'Dead? When?'
'Last night. Whoever he was, he cannot help us now.'
Lucie crossed herself. It was bad luck to speak evil of the recently dead. 'May he rest in peace.'
Wulfstan whispered an Amen, his eyes cast down, burning with tears. He was so weary he could not control himself.
Lucie, noting his discomfort, took his hand. 'I am sorry you lost your patient.'
'It is worse than that. He was a friend.' Wulfstan's voice broke. He wiped his eyes and took a deep breath. 'Forgive me. I fear I am little use to you.'
Gently, she kissed his forehead. Just a touch with her lips, but it was such an affectionate gesture it undid the monk. He put his face in his hands and wept. Lucie put her arm around him and drew him close.
Later, when Wulfstan had fortified himself with a cup of brandywine, he spoke of his friendship with the pilgrim. Of the man's sorrow.
'He sounds like a gentle man. I thank you for coming in your sorrow. How did you know to come?'
'Digby. He came to tell me of your trouble.'
This is a strange business, Brother Wulfstan. Digby's eagerness to help, the Archdeacon's visit. Do you know, I think if I knew the connection between Arch shy;deacon Anselm and the pilgrim and the Archdeacon and Nicholas, I might understand what has happened.' Wulfstan said nothing. Long ago he had promised Nicholas he would say nothing to Lucie about the past, and he would not. But it bothered him that Nicholas had taken ill while he and Anselm and Anselm's Summoner were at St. Mary's. He found it difficult to see it as a coincidence.
God created evil in the form of Eve, out of Adam's rib. He took the evil part of man and created woman. So plain, writ so clear, and yet few men heed the warning. And by their blindness they are undone.
Anselm, Archdeacon of York, knelt on the cold, damp stones, trying to push away bitter thoughts and pray for his dearest friend. But the thoughts had everything to do with Nicholas. Gentle Nicholas, undone by his love for a woman, suffering such pain it was impossible he should live much longer. Perhaps that was best.
Anselm shifted uncomfortably. The chill damp had settled in his knees, whence a dull ache moved up to his loins. He offered up the suffering for his friend's salvation. He would suffer anything for Nicholas. He had already suffered for him most of his adult life. But Anselm resented none of it. His prayers for Nicholas were heartfelt.
Nicholas was not to blame for his misfortune. He had not chosen the path of sin. It was his father's choice, his father who had taken him from the abbey school and made him his apprentice in the apothecary, next door to a tavern, close to the heart of the city and its wickedness. It was Nicholas's father who had urged him to look on women, to choose a mate who would bear him a son to carry on the business. Nicholas, always the obedient son, had turned from Anselm and found in his path a woman so evil she would ensnare three men before she was through, bringing all three down with her. And her daughter would seal the deed, trapping Nicholas here until the curse be played out to its horrible end.
Nicholas's father had died as was fitting, with a bitterness in his heart, seeing his son unmarried and with a terrible secret that could destroy all he had worked so hard to create. Such is the price of sin. But Nicholas might have been spared. Beautiful, gentle, loving Nicholas.
Anselm bent his head and prayed for a forgiving God.
Weeks later, past Twelfthnight, Brother Wulfstan sat beside the brazier in the infirmary, sadly contemplating his hand. First it had tingled, then it had gone numb. With just a fingertip's worth of the physick. Enough aconite to kill by applying a salve. No wonder ingesting it had killed his friend and now Sir Oswald FitzWilliam. God forgive him, but he had not noticed that he had grown so old and incompetent. And yet here was the proof. Never should an Infirmarian accept a physick prepared by other hands without testing it. And when the patient died, Wulfstan had not thought to test it even then, but had put it on a shelf, ready for the next victim. God forgive him, it was Wulfstan's own incom shy;petence that had killed his friend, the gentle pilgrim. And now Sir Oswald Fitzwilliam, the Archbishop's ward. Sweet Mary and all the saints, what was he to do?
What did it mean? Nicholas Wilton was respected throughout the county. How could he make such a mistake?
Wulfstan stared at his hand as a possibility dawned on him. Perhaps Nicholas had already been unwell that afternoon and had mixed the physick incorrectly. One powder looks much like another. If he were already sickening, might he not have forgotten which was aconite and which was ground orris root? Wulfstan always prayed for God's hand to guide him as he meas shy;ured. A medicine could so easily become a poison. And yet Nicholas had shown no sign of illness that afternoon. His colour had perhaps been mottled, but he had a weak constitution and he had just spent some hours in the garden during the first serious freeze of the season. There was his odd temper, though. There was that. But, Dear Lord, that was little to rouse suspicion. After all these years of trusting Nicholas.
One thing was clear. Wulfstan must return the unused portion of the physick to Lucie Wilton and talk with her. She must watch over Nicholas when he grew well enough to return to the shop. Nicholas must not be allowed to mix anything until it was clear that he was in his right mind once more.
Wulfstan was so overwrought by the time he arrived at the apothecary that it seemed to him Lucie Wilton knew, the moment her eyes fell on the parcel in his hand, what he carried. But how could she? And her words denied that suspicion.
'A gift for Nicholas? Some new mixture that might change his humours?'
'I wish it were, Lucie, my child.'
She frowned at the tone in his voice and led him back to the kitchen, gesturing to the chair by the fire.
Chilled as he had been outside, Wulfstan was now sweating. He mopped at his face. Lucie held a cup out to him. 'Bess Merchet brought over some of Tom's ale. You look more in need of it than I.'
'God be with you.' He gladly accepted the cup, took several long drinks.
'Now, my friend, tell me what is wrong.' Lucie's voice was calm, but her eyes were alert for trouble. And he had noted when he took the cup from her that her hands were cold. But of course he had made her nervous, coming here unlocked for, acting so solemn.
'Forgive me. I come from a deathbed. Sir Oswald Fitzwilliam, the Archbishop's ward. And I fear that I might be responsible.'
'You, Brother Wulfstan?'
He put the cup down beside him and picked up the parcel. 'You see, I administered this to him and then, when he worsened so quickly and dramatically, I examined it. My child, anything but the most minute dose of this physick would be deadly to a mortal man.'
Lucie, her eyes on the parcel, asked quietly, 'And you bring it here for me to test? Hoping that you are mistaken?'
Wulfstan shook his head. 'I am not mistaken, Lucie.'
She looked up at him, held him with her clear blue eyes. 'Then why have you brought it?'
'It is the physick for camp fever that Nicholas mixed for me the day he fell ill.'