At first he thought she had not heard, she was so still. Then, 'Merciful Mother,' she breathed, crossing herself. 'Are you certain?' Her eyes were large with the import of his words.
'I am as careful as I know you are to label everything’ Wulfstan said.
'I had no idea there was any left.'
'The pilgrim died the very night I administered it. Nicholas gave me enough for several days. It seemed sinful not to keep it.'
'But if you knew — '
'Not until today. I never thought to check it until today.'
Lucie bit her lip, thinking. 'I do not know the mixture for camp fever. What is the poison?'
'Aconite.'
'And you are certain that in the mixture you hold the aconite is strong enough to kill?'
'My hand is yet numb with just a pinch of the mixture.'
Lucie hugged herself. 'Both men had painful limbs?' Wulfstan nodded. 'Trouble breathing?' Again he nod shy;ded. Lucie put her head in her hands.
'Forgive me for adding to your sorrow, my child. I would not have told you, but I thought you must know to watch Nicholas. You must not let him back in the shop until he is completely mended, in mind as well as body.'
She nodded without looking up.
Wulfstan bent to pick up the cup. Lucie's cat stretched beside the fire and came over to rub against Wulfstan's hand. Melisende was a lovely grey and white striped cat with unusually long ears. Wulfstan rubbed her forehead. Melisende purred.
'He must have been ill already’ Lucie said.
Wulfstan picked up the cup of ale. Melisende jumped onto his lap and circled about, getting comfortable. That is what I think. He did not realise that he should not trust himself that day.'
Lucie looked up again, her eyes bright with tears. 'Could it have been the cold? Should I not have let him work on the roses with me?'
Wulfstan felt horrible. The last thing he intended was to accuse Lucie Wilton of negligence. She had already suffered so much, taken so much on herself. 'Lucie, my child, how could you keep him from his garden? You must not blame yourself.'
'It is difficult not to. He wastes away.'
'Do not give up hope. God will take him only if it is his time.'
'But even should he recover-' Lucie touched the tears on her cheeks, as if confused by the wetness there, then blotted them with the cloth with which she'd wiped her hands after pouring the ale. 'Poor Nicholas. He will be a broken man if he recovers to find that everything he has worked for is in ruins around him.'
'Why should it be in ruins?'
Lucie fastened her lovely, tear-filled eyes on the old monk. Two deaths. According to the civic ordinances, we can no longer practise. The Guild cannot go against the ordinances. I cannot imagine Guildmaster Thorpe will find it possible to give Nicholas a second chance. We are ruined, Brother Wulfstan.'
Wulfstan stroked the cat and silently prayed for guidance. He must prevent such a disaster.
Lucie paced from the fire to the door a few times, then stopped midway, in front of some shelves, and absently rearranged the jars and dishes in front of her.
'It is a terrible business’ Wulfstan said, more to the cat than to Lucie.
But Lucie seemed to waken with those words and came swiftly to sit beside the old monk. She took one of his hands in hers. 'My dear friend, forgive me. I have been thinking about what all this means to Nicholas and me, but you, too, risk losing your life's work.'
'Me? Losing my life's work?'
'Your infirmary.'
'My — How would I lose my infirmary?'
'When Abbot Campian learns that you administered the physick without testing it — '
Sweet Jesus, would his Abbot relieve him of his duties? Of course he would. And rightly so. Old age had made him careless.
'Unless we save ourselves,' Lucie said quietly.
'Save ourselves?'
'By making this our secret.'
'We would tell no one?'
'No one.' She looked down at their hands, then back up at Wulfstan. 'Would it be so wrong? For my part, I will not let Nicholas mix another physick until both you and I agree that he has completely recovered his reason. And I've no doubt that you will never again administer a physick that you have not tested yourself.' She regarded Wulfstan with her clear eyes. Dry now. Calm and rational.
They buoyed Wulfstan's spirits. 'I had not thought so far. But of course you are right about the consequences. For all three of us.' He drank down the ale.
'Then it is our secret?'
God help him, but Wulfstan did not wish to bring more sorrow to this household. Nor did he wish to lose his infirmary. He nodded. 'It is our secret.'
Lucie squeezed his hand.
'But when he recovers — ' Wulfstan began.
'I will watch out for him.' Lucie let go his hand and bent to pick up the package. 'According to the ordinance, I should burn this.'
Wulfstan nodded. 'Do so. I would do it for you, but -
Lucie shook her head. 'No, it is my duty.' She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. 'Thank you, Brother Wulfstan. You have been our salvation.'
He could not believe that anything so sweet could come from evil. God had shown him the way.
When Wulfstan had left, Lucie paced the room, hugging her arms to herself. She considered the jug of ale.
A cup might steady her. But it was early afternoon. There would be customers. She must keep her wits about her. Everything depended on her now.
One
Master Roglio took great pains folding his astrological charts and tucking away the tools e had used to examine the eye. Owen noted a tremor in the physician's hands, the tensed shoulders of a man holding his breath, eyes that would not meet his. Master Roglio stank of fear. Owen glanced at the Duke of Lancaster, who glowered in the corner. An old man, but Lancaster's power was 'second only to King Edward's. Displeasing him was a dangerous business.
It would be Christian to wait with his question, but Owen had waited three months for this moment, and he could wait no longer. The flesh heals, but the eye remains dark. You see no change, eh, Physician?'
Roglio's eyes slid to the old Duke, who sat forward, interested. Roglio raised both shoulders in an eloquent shrug. 'God may yet work a miracle.'
'But you cannot,' the old Duke said with a snarl.
Roglio met the Duke's steely gaze. 'No, my lord.' He managed not to flinch.
The flesh healed, but the eye remained dark. One eye.
God had created man with two for a purpose, no doubt. And blinded Owen in one. A purpose to that as well, no doubt.
Owen had made good use of two. Lancaster's prize archer, he had trained the others, drilled them, risen to captain. An achievement for a Welshman. No animal escaped his arrows. Nor man. He'd taken care to kill only for food or in obedience to his liege lord. And all for the honour and glory of God.
Christian charity had robbed him of all that. A jongleur and his leman. Bretons. More independent than the Welsh, Owen had thought. They had no reason to spy for the French. The leman helped her shy;self, flirting with the men. The soldiers would make good use of her. But the jongleur was doomed. The men did not find him entertaining. Only Owen understood the Breton songs, and only with effort. The language was a bastard mix of Cornish and French. The men grew restive. Killing the jongleur, now that would be better sport. Owen argued to release him. And won.
Two nights later, the jongleur slipped into camp and slit the throats of the best prisoners, those who would cost the French nobility most in ransoms. Owen caught him. Ungrateful bastard. You were shown mercy. The leman crept up from behind. Owen spun round. A thrust meant for his neck opened the left eye instead. Roaring, he plunged the sword into her gut, retrieved it, and, turning round, did not see the jongleur on his left until he'd sliced into Owen's shoulder. Calling on the bowman's muscles that gave him enough strength to wield a broadsword with one hand, Owen sliced through the jongleur's shoulder and down beneath the neck. Once the Bretons lay in pools of their own blood, Owen slipped to the ground in a hellfire of pain. His last soldierly deed.