The Apothecary Rose

'No. None of this will be comforting.'

Lucie took a good swallow of brandywine. Tell me the rest.'

'I wish I could spare you this, but after what happened tonight, I think I should begin with Nicholas and Anselm.'

Lucie listened quietly as he told her about her husband's relationship with Anselm at the abbey school.

'It explains much of Anselm's behaviour’ she said when he paused. 'What else have you learned?' She could see in Owen's eye that her calm response reassured him. He relaxed and told her about Digby's suspicions, about Magda Digby's information. At dawn they still sat there.

'Deus juva me,' she whispered when he had finished. 'My life is ashes.'

Owen said nothing.

'My mother. .' Even if the Riverwoman was right that Nicholas had not understood her mother's weakness, he was still guilty. 'My loving husband gave my mother the means to kill herself. He should never have become Master Apothecary. How was it concealed?'

Owen shook his head. 'I do not know. Perhaps your Aunt Phillippa will enlighten us.'

'Aunt Phillippa encouraged me to marry Nicholas. She encouraged me.' Lucie got up and went to the garden door, opening it to the pale morning light. 'Is she my friend or my enemy?' Lucie whispered, hugging herself. 'She could arrive today. I was going to get her bed ready first thing.'

'You should sleep awhile.'

Lucie spun round. He was so blind. 'Lie up there next to that stranger and think about all you've told me? I'd go mad. I don't know whether to hate him or pity him.'

'I will find out all I can for you.'

'You mean for the Archbishop.'

Owen got up and came to her, taking her hands. 'I mean for you, Lucie.' She could not help looking at his face, uncovered, vulnerable. The scar had reddened. Shadows underlined his good eye. He was as exhausted as she. 'Can you forgive me, Lucie? Can you ever trust me?'

'I don't know. Help me get to the bottom of this wretched story, Owen, then we'll see. But your future is up to His Grace, isn't it? I'll be looking for an apprentice. Well. Work will keep my mind busy.' She left the room.

Upstairs, she checked on Nicholas. Force of habit. His eyes flickered open. 'Lucie? Are you hurt?'

'Not really.' She had leaned down to see if he was feverish.

He touched her face.

She recoiled.

'Lucie?'

Her mother's murderer. She wanted to hurt him. 'It was Anselm who started the fire, did you know? He called me she-devil. Succubus. Whore. The fire was for me, Nicholas. I was to burn. Then he could have you all to himself.'

'He is mad. What did he say to you?'

'You call him mad? But he is your friend, Nicholas.'

'That was long ago, Lucie.'

'Really? Of late he has been a welcome guest. Ever since you poisoned Geoffrey’

'No!' Nicholas hissed.

Lucie moved to the foot of the bed. He sickened her with his lies. 'Even now you cannot tell me the truth?'

'It isn't what you think.'

'You poisoned him, Nicholas. You used the skill God gave you to murder Geoffrey Montaigne. He was a good man. Gentle. He loved my mother. Did you? Were you jealous of him?'

'Lucie, please. She was my friend, nothing more.'

'And so you killed her?'

'I did not — I did what she asked.'

'And did she ask you to kill Geoffrey?'

'I did that for you.'

'For me? You damned yourself for me? You say that as if you expected my gratitude. I never wished for Geoffrey's death. It was not Geoffrey who killed my mother.'

'You blame me?'

'I do.'

'Who has told you this?'

'You should have, Nicholas. You should have.'

'I -1 am guilty of poor judgement. I was very young. But I tried to make it up to you. The shop. You would be Master Apothecary. No one could take that away from you. Except Montaigne. If he told someone what I had done — Please, Lucie.'

He would not even take the responsibility. 'Go to sleep, Nicholas. Leave me alone.'

'I love you, Lucie. I did it for you. But to tell you — I could not.'

For her. He really thought he had murdered for her. Her entire body trembled as she walked out of the room.

Next door, in the tiny room that had been Nicholas's as a boy and would have been Martin's, she made up a pallet for her Aunt Phillippa and one for herself.

Twenty-one

The Gift

Anselm's clerk jumped up when the Archdeacon arrived to see to some business before he said Mass. 'His Grace the Archbishop is waiting to see you.'

'His Grace?'

'He said to come at once.'

'At his house or in his chambers?'

'His chambers.'

Anselm hurried away. It was not often these days that he was summoned to the Archbishop. He wondered whether the Archbishop would have learned about the fire. Unlikely. The only witness was dead. And if the Archbishop did learn of it — might he not approve? They were, after all, the shepherds of the flock. And he had eliminated a she-wolf who threatened one of their dearest lambs.

Jehannes showed him into the Archbishop's chamber.

John Thoresby did not rise to greet Anselm, but motioned him to a chair in front of the table where he had been examining documents.

'Your Grace. I am honoured to — '

'I did not call you here to exchange pleasantries. I need you to go on a mission for me.'

So it had nothing to do with the fire. 'Out of the city, Your Grace?'

'To Durham.'

It was an honour to be needed by the Archbishop. But Durham. That was impossible right now. He must be near Nicholas in his time of need. 'Forgive me, Your Grace, A good friend is ill. On his deathbed, I fear. I hate to leave him right now.'

'Nicholas Wilton, is it?'

The guess surprised Anselm. And flattered him. That the Archbishop would bother to learn so much about him. 'He is my oldest friend. And so alone now.'

'I know of your friendship. I understand that this is a difficult time for you to be apart from him. But he is hardly alone. Wilton is in good hands, and I need you in Durham. Sir John Dalwylie is contemplating a gift to the minster fund. A considerable gift. We must pay him respect and encourage him with an account of similar gifts. I entrust you with this mission, Archdeacon. It is an honour. Are you going to make me regret my faith in you?'

'No, Your Grace. It is an honour. I am most grateful. But could it not wait?'

'No, it cannot. I need you to leave today. As soon as you can ready yourself.'

'I say Mass — '

'I have seen to that.'

Anselm bowed. He knew when not to pursue his excuses any further. 'I will not fail you, Your Grace.'

'Good.' Thoresby rose. 'You will instruct your clerk on any business you might expect in the next five or six days. Jehannes will explain the mission and provide you with letters of introduction.'

When Anselm came out of the Archbishop's chamber, the intrusive Owen Archer was conversing with Jehannes. They spoke too softly for Anselm to hear the matter of their speech, and they broke off as soon as they became aware of him.

'Archdeacon’ Jehannes said. 'Please, sit down while I announce Captain Archer to His Grace.' Jehannes slipped into the other room.

Anselm felt the cursed man's eye on him. 'You are out betimes, Archer.'

'I had a sleepless night.'

Anselm noted the man had a most malevolent look in the one eye. Perhaps the Lord had blinded him in the other as punishment for that bold look.

'Trouble sleeping? You have been unwell?'

'No’

Jehannes returned. 'His Grace will see you at once, Captain Archer.'

Thoresby stood as Owen entered the room. 'Jehannes tells me there was a fire.'

'Your Archdeacon was eager to send Mistress Wilton to her final reward, Your Grace. Had I not been at the window, had I not tried the door to the shed, Anselm would have succeeded.'