The Apothecary Rose

'You are certain it was he?'

'Mistress Wilton is certain.'

Thoresby nodded, sifted through the papers, chose one, read it over, took a pen, and signed it with a flourish. 'I have just signed his death warrant, Archer. You need not worry about his return.'

'When does he leave?'

'At once.'

'I must get back to the shop, then. To make sure that he does not stop to say his farewells.'

'He will not, Archer’ 'I will make sure of that.'

The moment Lucie entered the room she knew something was not right. Something about her husband's inert body. She opened the shutters to get more light, her fingers clumsy with panic. Saliva dribbled from Nicholas's mouth. His breathing was shallow and uneven.

'Nicholas, can you hear me?'

He did not respond.

She felt his pulse. It was weak and erratic. 'Jesu mercy’ Another attack. She had wanted to give him pain. But not this.

When Bess came over to see how Lucie was recovering from the night's scare, she was puzzled to find her friend sitting at the foot of the bed, staring at Nicholas. 'What is it, Lucie?'

'Nicholas had another attack. He's dying, Bess’ 'Oh’ child’ Bess sat down beside Lucie and smoothed her hair from her face. 'He's been dying all this time, love. It's best you accept that and look to yourself. There's nothing any of us can do to save him’ Lucie's skin was ice cold. 'For heaven's sake, child’ Bess threw a shawl over Lucie's shoulders and led her over to the table.

'I've killed him, Bess’ 'And how did you do that, for pity's sake?' 'I told him it was the Archdeacon who caught me in the shed. I told him what he'd called me, what he'd said. I told him what I told you, my suspicions’ Lucie looked up at Bess, her eyes red from the fire and no sleep. 'I wanted to cause him pain. I brought on the attack’

'Oh yes, of course. And how about the night at the abbey? Did you bring that on, too? Nonsense. The man has something on his conscience, and it's killing him. It's nothing to do with you. How is your hand? Let me see.' Lucie winced as Bess unwrapped it. 'You should know better than to let it dry out like that, Lucie. Why does your training fail you when you are the patient, eh?'

Lucie's thoughts were elsewhere. 'You knew Owen was not who he said he was, didn't you?'

Bess started to deny it, then thought better of it. 'I did not know until the night his room caught fire. Then he owed it to us to tell us why someone was trying to kill him.'

'The fire wasn't an accident?'

'No more than the fire last night, child.'

Bess had never seen Lucie's eyes so dead, her posture so defeated. 'Did you sleep at all?'

Lucie shook her head.

'You and Owen talked?'

'Yes. I suppose you know all of it?'

'I doubt it. But no matter. I would not put you through it again so soon just to enlighten me’

Downstairs, the shop bell rang.

'I must go down’ Lucie said with weary resignation.

Bess hugged her. 'I'll sit with Nicholas — though much good it will do.'

Dame Phillippa arrived at midday. She was not the bent, white-haired old woman Owen had expected. Dame Phillippa was tall and straight-backed and walked with a healthy stride. Her eyes were deep-set and knowing. Her wimple was snow white and her simple dress and veil spotless. She gave Owen a firm handshake, looked around the kitchen, and frowned. 'As I thought, Lucie needed to call for me long ago, but tried to carry it all on her shoulders.'

'That is not why I sent for you, Aunt,' Lucie said from the shop doorway. She hesitated, then crossed over quickly to her aunt and took her hands in hers. 'You are good to come, Aunt Phillippa.'

Phillippa gave her a hug, then stood back and studied her niece, the bandaged hand, the red eyes. There is more to this than your husband's illness, I can see,'

'Let me show you where you can put your things.'

Phillippa followed Lucie up the stairs. She noted the second pallet. 'I did not bring a servant’

'It's for me. I was going to sleep in here with you. But Nicholas took a turn last night. He is much worse.'

'He is dying?'

Lucie nodded.

'That is why you sent for me?'

That is part of it. We must talk, Aunt Phillippa.'

Her aunt nodded. There is trouble here. I can smell it. Tell me, Lucie.'

Tonight. I must get down to the shop now.'

Her aunt shrugged. 'I will watch over Nicholas.' She took off her cloak and hung it on a peg.

That would be kind. Bess Merchet is sitting with him now. I'm sure she cannot spend the day up there.'

'Bess Merchet?'

The owner of the York Tavern. Next door.'

'She works for you?'

'No, Aunt Phillippa. She is my dearest friend.'

The eyebrows lifted slightly. 'Do you ever find it difficult? This is not the life you were born to.'

'I am finding this life most difficult at the moment, Aunt Phillippa, but it has nothing to do with my station. We will talk this evening.' Lucie hurried away before she began something she had no time to finish.

News of the fire the night before brought more customers than usual to the shop, hoping for details. Lucie and Owen worked until Phillippa called them for the evening meal.

Phillippa had brought a game pie and a delicately seasoned soup of winter vegetables and barley. Lucie and Owen ate silently.

As Owen pushed himself from the table, Lucie suggested that they sit by the fire with brandywine. 'And Aunt Phillippa will tell us about Nicholas, Geoffrey Montaigne, and my mother.'

Dame Phillippa looked confused. 'Whatever for?'

'I need to understand why Nicholas poisoned Geoffrey Montaigne at Christmastide.'

Dame Phillippa looked from one to the other. 'Blessed Mary, Mother of God,' she whispered, crossing herself. 'Will that sorrow never cease?'

Wulfstan squinted toward the open door. It was difficult to make out faces at a distance when he'd been doing close work for any length of time. He recognised the graceful movement of the hand on the door. 'Brother Michaelo. Another headache so soon?'

'No, my saviour. I would like to share something with you. In appreciation for all you have done for me. A liqueur for which my family is known in Normandy. My mother sends just a few drops, for fear more would be a temptation to the messenger. I do not offend you by offering spirits?'

'Not at all, Michaelo. They aid digestion admirably, which is a blessing at my age. Please. Sit down.'

Wulfstan fetched two small cups.

Michaelo's dark eyes shone with a lustre that Wulfstan did not see when the monk had one of his headaches. They were moonlit pools in his pale, slender face.

'It is pleasant to see my patients when they are well.'

Michaelo smiled as he poured. He gave Wulfstan twice the amount he poured himself. Even so, it was very little. He held up his cup. Wulfstan lifted his.

'To Brother Wulfstan, in whose hands resides the healing touch of Our Saviour.'

What a pleasant young man. Wulfstan flushed with pleasure and sipped. An odd assortment of flavours confused his palate.

'Oh my. Now there is a talent. To mix so many herbs. The monks do something like this at Pridiam. Twenty-six herbs, I think.' He took another sip.

Michaelo's eyes shone. 'I knew that you could appreciate it, knowing the ingredients as you do.' He touched the cup to his lips.

Wulfstan's tongue moved the heavy liquid around in his mouth so that he might taste all the nuances. Delicate combinations. Yet there was a false note. Something that did not belong. The Pridiam concoction was better balanced. Pity Michaelo's family added so much of the offensive plant. An odd, powdery taste.

'Something is not to your liking?'

Michaelo's dark eyes swam before Wulfstan. 'Dizzy.' He sank back against the wall, his hand on his heart, which pounded against his hand. Slow and strong. Dizzy. Powdery taste. 'Too much foxglove.' He shook his head. The room tilted.