'See that you do not.' The Archdeacon swept out of the shop.
He had not said what was on his mind, of that Owen was certain. But that he was worried for Nicholas was clear. Worried and angry.
After the evening meal, Owen perused Nicholas's books. Lucie mended and Tildy shelled beans. Lucie spoke softly to Tildy of the morrow's work.
Now and again Lucie would look up with anxious care, as if her eyes could see through the floorboards to the sickroom. Owen could not help but wonder what that old, dying man had to offer her. He could not even give her a living child. What made the lovely Lucie so loyal to Nicholas Wilton? Was it that he had killed for her?
Or that he had delivered the poison for her? But if he was merely the unwitting messenger, what had caused his collapse? A poison with a delayed effect?
One poisoning. Two poisonings. One meant to kill, the other to silence. Had she poisoned Nicholas to silence him?
Owen looked up from the book he'd been pretending to read. Lucie was listening to Tildy repeat the ingredients of tomorrow's soup pot. '. . after the barley boils, that bit o' pork from yesterday, winter savoury, salt, a stalk of fennel..'
'Not fennel, Tildy, lovage.' The voice soft, the manner gentle. She tucked a wisp of hair back into Tildy's kerchief. The girl smiled. Lucie patted her hand. 'You're a good girl, Tildy. You're a big help to me.'
Such a woman did not injure her husband and kill her mother's lover. How had such thoughts come to him? He watched as Lucie showed Tildy which pot to use, where the spices were kept, how to interpret the labels. She was patient and thorough with the girl, as she was with him.
He tried to imagine her, in her patient, thorough way, planning the poison, how it would be delivered. Thinking about her lovely mother, the babe that had killed her, how Lucie was then sent off to the convent, and now she'd heard that the man was back, that he was dying at the abbey, that Nicholas had been asked to make a physick to save the man's life. Gently she would offer to mix the medicine. Or to wrap it while Nicholas dressed warmly for the walk. A few extra pinches of aconite, and it was ready. Who would notice?
One poisoning to kill, the other to silence. Fitzwilliam an accident. And then, when Brother Wulfstan discovered the deed, she agreed to burn the rest of the poison and keep quiet. How tidy.
Could she have done that to Nicholas? Was that why she was so solicitous? Guilt?
I’ll say good night, then, Owen’ Tildy said, standing over him with her candle. He was startled by her nearness. He hoped his head had been bent over the books.
'Good night, Tildy.'
When Tildy was gone, Lucie said, 'Something bothers you.'
So much for his subtlety. 'It is so much to learn. I hope that I don't fool myself, thinking I can learn it so late. I'm no child. Not the usual age of an apprentice.'
'You are doing well. You have no need to worry.'
He wished she were not suddenly kind to him. He must take the opportunity of being alone with her to find out what she knew. What she would admit to. He must approach it slowly. She must not guess his purpose. 'It is very different here from the camps. Childhood illnesses, pregnant women, the very old — I saw nothing of this before. There it was mostly wounds and camp fever.'
She did not react as he had hoped, relaxed and ready to talk shop. Her face reddened. 'I hope you do not find the work here tedious.'
Dear God, he could not even make small talk with her. 'Not at all. I have already learned so much. Master Nicholas has a unique mind. They do say he has an excellent physick for camp fever. We experimented with many mixtures. What does he use?'
She yanked at a tangled thread and cursed as it snapped. 'We are not in a camp.'
'But surely there are men in York who contracted the fever as soldiers. It recurs. That's the curse of it.'
'Nicholas has not discussed it with me.' Her tone closed the subject.
Owen let it go. It was enough for now to know she found the topic disturbing. He went back to his reading.
After a while he noticed that Lucie stared into the fire, her mending forgotten on her lap. The firelight shone on tears spilling down her cheeks.
He closed the book and went to her. 'What is it? Can I help?'
She shook her head. Her shoulders trembled as she worked to compose herself.
When she seemed calmer, Owen asked, 'It was unusual for Master Nicholas to ask for mandragora?'
'He prescribes mandrake root only when the danger of an overdose is outweighed by the pain. He is in great pain.' She wiped her eyes. 'Thank you for your help this afternoon.'
'I was glad I could do something for you.'
'His condition frightened me. All I could think of was that he might die. One mismeasure of mandrake.' She looked down at her hands. 'What we do. We possess the power of life and death.'
'Better than a soldier, who holds only the power of death’
'No.' She touched his hand. 'No, listen to me. You must never forget that about what we do. We could as easily kill as heal.' Her eyes held his.
What was she telling him? 'But the amount of mandragora you gave the master was safe.'
'Yes, of course’ She pressed his hand, then withdrew hers with an embarrassed blush. 'I am not myself.'
'This cannot be easy for you’
'Perhaps you should go’
'Whatever you wish’
'I wish none of this had happened. I wish — ' Her voice broke. She ducked her head, dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her apron.
Owen took her cold hands in his and kissed them.
'Owen — ' Her eyes were soft, not angry.
He put his hands on her shoulders, drew her to him, and kissed her. Her lips were warm. She responded. A warm, urgent kiss. Then pushed him away. She looked down at her hands, her face flushed.
'Know this, know this always, Lucie Wilton’ Owen whispered, not trusting his voice, 'I will do anything I can to help you. I cannot do otherwise. I will not press myself on you. But if you have need of me, I will do whatever you ask.'
'You should not say such things.' She still did not look at him. 'You do not know us.'
'I cannot help what I feel.'
'You must go now.'
Owen kissed her hands again, then hurried away, out into the fog, feeling foolish, angry with himself, and yet relieved. She had not withdrawn her hands. She was not angry. She had kissed him with the same hunger he felt. Lucie Wilton did not find him, one-eyed and starting over again like a boy, repulsive. He had held her, kissed her, and said to her what he had ached to say ever since he'd first seen her. And she had not pulled away. He felt lightheaded. Triumphant.
And disgusted with himself. For against all reason he had fallen in love with a woman who might be a murderer. Whose crime he was honour-bound to expose. She had the knowledge to poison Montaigne. She had said as much tonight. We could as easily kill as heal. And perhaps she had a motive. Or a motive to persuade her husband to commit the sin, which was worse than committing it herself. She would condemn Nicholas to Hell with her.
And that other sin he had thought of. Could she have brought on Nicholas's illness? He thought about them together, up in that stuffy room. Her tender nursing. No. To carry that off would require a most devious mind. He could not believe that of her. He would not.
And Anselm. Where did he fit into the scheme? Why was he so threatened by Owen's presence in his friend's shop?
Owen tried to concentrate on that question. But his mind turned back to Lucie. Twice today he had held her. She was beautiful. Responsive. Dear God, let her not be a murderer.
Anselm closed his eyes and swung the knotted thongs against his bare back, again, again, mortifying the flesh, offering it to his Saviour in return for Nicholas's deliverance from the evil that surrounded him. Nicholas must live. He must live long enough to recognise the error of his life and come back to Anselm, his protector. He must understand. God had given Anselm this task. Why could Nicholas not understand? What had they done to him? Anselm beat himself until his body was on fire with divine light. He would succeed. The Lord smiled on him.