The Apothecary Rose

'And is now dead.'

'Nicholas Wilton could hardly have killed Digby.'

'Perhaps the Archdeacon?'

Thoresby considered Owen with a grave expression. 'Is that what you believe?' he asked at last.

'It fits with Digby's suspicions. And a clumsy attempt on his part to rid himself of me.'

'Oh?'

He told him of Anselm's claim to have arranged, in less than a day, an apprenticeship for him in Durham. 'He hoped I might not return, I think.'

'Interesting. What do you know of Anselm?'

'Very little. What should I know?'

Thoresby smiled at the question. 'You are a bold Welshman. The old Duke chose his men well.' He nodded to Jehannes, who filled his cup, and freshened Owen's. The Lord Chancellor's chain of office glittered in the firelight as Thoresby toyed with it. He nodded to himself, picked up the cup, tasted the wine, nodded again.

'Do you know the duties of an Archdeacon, Owen?'

'Primarily fiscal, are they not?'

Thoresby nodded. 'As Archdeacon of York, Anselm must raise money for the cathedral building. You can see that it is not finished. A long, expensive process, this expression of York's devotion to the Lord. And the King. The Hatfield chapel is close to the King's heart.' He sipped. Thus the paradox of the position. The Archdeacon must be a cleric and yet worldly — not usually a virtue in a man of the cloth.'

Owen nodded, but he wondered where Thoresby was leading.

Thoresby chuckled. 'Your one eye is quite expressive. You think I wander. Too much wine, perhaps.' He put down his cup. 'You would be wrong to think that, my friend. John Thoresby never wanders’

'I would not make the mistake of thinking that, Your Grace.'

'I chose Anselm — and it has proven to be a wise choice — because he did not show great piety. A good scholar, a persuasive speaker, with a solemn air about him — the pinched face, the gauntness — but poorly suited to an abbey. He has a weakness for young men, you see.'

'I had heard that he and Nicholas were good friends at the abbey school.'

Thoresby smiled. 'You see Nicholas at the end of his life, on his deathbed. But he was a handsome young man — in a delicate way. Magnificent blue eyes. And he was a listener.' Thoresby shook his head, 'Anselm was smitten. There was a scandal. Not because two boys were discovered in bed together. A common occurrence in abbey schools — you must be used to it in the army. But Anselm was Abbot Gerard's prize novice. Gerard was grooming Anselm for high office in the Church. He was furious. And anger opened his eyes. He saw the signs of Anselm's nature, realised that it was his protege's doing, that young Nicholas had merely been flattered — and flustered, no doubt — by the attention of the older boy. And perhaps comforted to share a bed with another. Anselm was harshly reprimanded. He became rather an ascetic. But Gerard knew it was a mask.'

'He offered Anselm to you as Archdeacon to get him away from novices?'

'It was Anselm's request. To be removed from temptation.'

'Admirable.'

'You smirk as you say that. But Anselm is a fine man. I have had no cause for complaint. Or did not till now. It was his misfortune to be a second son, bound for the Church. Had he been a layman, his nature would not have mattered. Oh, he might have found it unpleasant siring his sons, but as long as he saw to that in an acceptable space of years, he would have been free to pursue his pleasures where he would. You must pity Anselm. The Church was not his choice.'

'It is difficult for me to pity a man who tried to trick me into a dangerous, perhaps fatal journey.'

'I find it hard to believe he would be so … clumsy.'

Not that he would not do it. Owen said nothing for a few minutes, absorbing that. 'I take it the Archdeacon never got over his passion for Nicholas Wilton?'

'They were great friends. I think no more than that on Wilton's part. But that ended with the death of Lady D'Arby.'

Owen sat up. This was more what he wished to hear. 'Why?'

Thoresby shrugged. 'He did not like Nicholas's friendship with Lady D'Arby. But why they fought after she died, I do not know.'

'I wish I had known all this when I began.'

'I hardly imagined my ward had been poisoned by accident. He had so many enemies.'

The two men regarded each other for a moment.

'Do you have any proof?' Thoresby asked.

'Not exactly. I have Brother Wulfstan's word that he gave your ward the physick made for Montaigne. After the second death, and only then, Wulfstan tested the medicine and discovered too much monkshood. Enough to kill. Looking back, he realised that their deaths had been similar, with all the symptoms expected of poisoning by monkshood.'

'He is certain of this?'

'Yes.'

'Why did he not tell anyone of his discovery?'

'It was too late to save them.'

'Where is the physick now?'

'Burned. So that no more harm could come of it.'

'Belated caution’ Thoresby sighed. 'Did Brother Wulfstan confront Nicholas Wilton with his discovery?'

'The man is dying, Your Grace.'

'So he did not.' Thoresby seemed irritated by this turn. 'Have you said anything to Wilton?'

'No. Do you wish to pursue this further?'

Thoresby sat back, gazing up at the ceiling, his hands pressed together, lips pursed. 'It is difficult for me to accept, when I was expecting a clear case of revenge and my ward to be the intended victim. It is the motive that eludes me. Too weak. Not good enough for me, Owen Archer. Let us see this to the finish, shall we?'

Owen nodded, rose to leave, then hesitated, frowning. 'I might wish to exhume Montaigne's body.'

To what purpose?'

'To look for signs of poisoning. Since Wulfstan destroyed the physick.'

'I think not, Archer. I want no more upset at the abbey’

Withholding information, tying his hands, what did the man want of him? 'Then what would you suggest, Your Grace?'

'Look to the living for your answers, Archer. You have uncovered quite a complicated knot. Now unravel it.' Lucie sat by Nicholas, turning the few facts she had around in her mind. If Nicholas were not so ill, she might mention Geoffrey, see his reaction. But he was so weakened by today's attack. And if what she suspected was true, if his poisoning Geoffrey was no accident, it might kill him to know that she knew. But what could drive Nicholas to murder?

She was frightened.

She-devils. She and who? Her mother? What could the Archdeacon have against them? Of what vileness did he suspect them?

But of course. Her mother with Geoffrey, and — he had accused her of it today — she and Owen. But it wasn't true.

And why would Geoffrey have attacked Nicholas?

She must know more. Geoffrey Montaigne, her mother, Nicholas, Archdeacon Anselm, Potter Digby. What connected them? Who might know? It must go back to her mother's time.

Her Aunt Phillippa. Of course. She would send for her in the morning. She would say Nicholas was dying and she needed her aunt's support. And she did. The house would feel much safer with her Aunt Phillippa in it.

Eighteen

Lucie Joins the Dance

Nicholas slept. His breathing was ragged, but regular enough to assure Lucie that the pain had diminished. She lay down beside him, the room dark but for the tiny flame of the spirit lamp. The cat climbed up on her chest, a welcome warmth. Lucie petted Melisende absently as she stared at the ceiling, wondering how to approach her Aunt Phillippa. To ask about her mother would not be unusual, but to ask about Geoffrey and Nicholas — Her aunt's guard would go up. Phillippa was always careful talking about that time. Lucie knew there was much her aunt chose not to tell her. She would want to know what Lucie had heard, what she was fishing for. Perhaps if Lucie did not make much of it. Something overheard, that Geoffrey and Nicholas had argued. But if she made light of it, so might her aunt. She must say enough that Phillippa would want to separate truth from rumour. Perhaps she might say she had noticed an odd entry in the shop records.