Lucie wiped her hands on her apron. 'Owen can show you out, Archdeacon’ She hurried from the room. Owen heard her light step on the stairway.
'I can show myself out,' Anselm said. And did so.
After a midday meal served shyly by Tildy, who then sat down to join them, Lucie led Owen up to the sickroom. Nicholas lay propped against pillows, several small bound books on the covers beside him.
'Lucie is — pleased with you’ Nicholas struggled with the words, groping for them, breathless and beaded with sweat after a sentence. 'But I fear Anselm is right. We are wrong to keep you to your contract’
'What are you saying?' Lucie knelt beside Nicholas to dab his sweaty face with a sweet-scented cloth.
'Apprentice to an apprentice’ Nicholas shook his head. 'Not good for him’
Lucie's colour rose. 'Nonsense. Where else would he have access to books such as yours? Not to mention the garden. He's apprenticed to the most successful apothecary in the North Country.' Her eyes snapped with indignation.
'Lucie, my love-' Nicholas reached for her hand — 'a Master in Durham has need of him.'
Owen felt like an eavesdropper. He reminded them of his presence. '1 chose my situation. All is as it should be’
Nicholas shook his head. 'It is not a good post for him. Anselm is right.'
Lucie closed her eyes against Nicholas's pleading look. 'You wanted to give Owen something to study.'
'Lucie’
She leaned down to him. 'Must I remind you of our agreement, Nicholas? I am in charge of the shop while you are unwell. I make the decisions’
The apothecary looked down at his hands and shook his head.
Like a child, Owen thought. One who has been naughty and is doing his penance.
'Good’ Lucie moved away and gestured for Owen to go over to Nicholas.
The apothecary's hands shook as he showed Owen the books, the critical passages. He stank. Not just of the sickroom, but of fear. A smell a soldier knows well.
'You should heed the Archdeacon’ Nicholas whispered to Owen when Lucie had left the room.
'He does not want me here, that is plain’ Owen looked into the sick man's eyes. Rheumy, red-rimmed. Fear added a disturbing intensity. 'Why, Master Nicholas? Why does the Archdeacon want me gone?'
'Anselm watches over my soul’
'I can scarcely believe I endanger your soul’
Nicholas said nothing, his watery eyes flicking here and there, pausing on anything but Owen's watchful face.
'I am just what you need here. You know that.'
'Anselm, sees it otherwise’
'Why?'
'I am selfish to use you in such a way.'
'Nonsense. I came of my own free will. I am content. This is exactly where I want to be.'
Nicholas took a deep, shuddering breath and closed his eyes. 'Potter Digby. You knew him?'
'A little. Why?'
'He should not have died. None of them should have died.'
'None of them?' Here at last, a confession? Owen leaned closer. 'What do you mean?'
Nicholas's eyes opened wide. 'I — ' He shook his head. Tears welled up, ran down his fevered cheeks. 'Protect her.' His head fell back on the pillow. He struggled for air, his bony hands clawing his throat. Owen called for Lucie.
She ran up the stairs. 'Merciful Mother.' Nicholas twisted and turned on the bed, fighting to breathe. The smell of sweat and urine filled the room. Lucie knelt down and grabbed one of the clawlike hands.
'Nicholas, love. What do you need?' He moaned and pressed her hand to his chest. 'Your chest? Is the pain there?'
The watery eyes fluttered. 'Breathing. Mandragora.'
Lucie sat back, frightened. 'You need something so strong?'
Nicholas drew a great, shuddering breath. 'A pinch. In the milk. You know.'
Lucie hesitated. But when he doubled up, she turned to Owen.
'Watch him. If his eyes start to roll or he begins to choke, call me at once.'
Nicholas calmed. But just as Owen thought how much better he seemed, Nicholas threw his head back and arched in a paroxysm of pain.
Lucie, back with the physick, brought the small table with the spirit lamp over beside Owen. 'Watch me’ she said in a tight voice. Her eyes reflected her husband's pain. 'See that I do exactly as 1 say.'
Owen watched.
Lucie held up a tiny silver bowl, smaller than a thimble. 'Powdered mandrake root, just this measure, no more.' Her hands trembled as she dipped the bowl into a heavy crock on which was painted a root in the shape of a man. Owen steadied it for her. She poured the thimble's contents into a larger bowl. 'Dried milk of poppy, this amount’ She lifted a larger measure, and Owen tilted the second crock for her, on which was painted a delicately pleated flower. 'Boiling water to two fingers beneath the edge.' Her voice was calmer now. She poured the water. 'And mix well over the lamp, then cool, still mixing, until I can keep my hand against the bowl for three breaths. I must not scald my patient's gullet.'
'Can I mix it for you? I'm sure Master Nicholas would rather you held his hand.'
Lucie nodded and changed places with Owen. With her apron she dried the sweat from Nicholas's face. 'Peace, Nicholas, you'll soon sleep without pain.'
Owen stirred the liquid and followed her instructions under Lucie's watchful eye. When she'd seen him keep his hand to the bowl for three breaths, she nodded and he handed it to her, then lifted Nicholas's head, holding him while he coughed up phlegm and fought to catch his breath. When Nicholas was quiet, Lucie helped him drink. Within a few minutes the moaning ceased.
'Bless you’ Nicholas said. The effort to speak cost him a cough. He winced with pain.
'No more talk, Nicholas, my love. Sleep now.'
Owen lowered him to the bed.
'Do you need a priest?' the Archdeacon asked from the doorway.
'Anselm!' Nicholas gasped and clutched at his heart.
In two strides, Owen was at the door.
Lucie dropped to her knees beside Nicholas, whose eyes were wide with terror. 'I did not call him back, Nicholas.' She held him close to her, trying to calm him.
'My master is in need of rest, Archdeacon’ Owen said, pushing Anselm out the door with him. 'Your prayers are appreciated, but they'd be best said elsewhere.' He closed the door firmly behind them.
'Anselm is mad, Lucie’ Nicholas whispered, clutching her hand. 'Stay away from him.'
'I will, my love. Now rest. You must rest.' She smoothed his brow and watched with relief as the milk of poppy quieted him. 'And I will keep him away from you. He is killing you.'
On the stairs, the Archdeacon demanded, 'What happened?' As if he had a right to know.
Owen led him down to the shop without a word. Once there, he said in what he hoped was a controlled, emotionless voice, 'Nicholas Wilton is in much pain. Your visits do not calm him. You must let him rest.'
Anselm glared at Owen. 'You overstep your place, Owen Archer. You are not the master of this house.'
'If you are his friend, leave him in peace. He had a spell, requiring mandragora to relieve the pain. He must sleep now.'
The Archdeacon's face changed. The eyes warmed to honest concern. So he did care about Nicholas. 'Mandragora. Then he is worse.'
'I think so.'
'I did not know. Of course I will leave and let him rest. He must get well. You must do everything possible to make him better.' Anselm paused with his hand on the door. 'I do not like trusting him to you, Archer. A Summoner stands apart from the people. He must, in order to impart a fair judgement. To befriend a Summoner is the act of someone buying favours.'
'You suspect me?'
'I merely warn you.'
'I will get no favours from him.'
'God rest his soul.'
'You show an unusual interest in my welfare.'
'You are apprenticed to my friend. I do not want you to bring dishonour upon his house.'
'I will not.'