The Apothecary Rose

Anselm dragged himself to the man, steadied himself against a wheel. 'We were attacked. My companion is dead. I must get to Wilton's apothecary in York, by the minster. Can you get me there?'

That I can. I be heading there for market. The Lord is good to put me in the way of helping one of his priests. I'm sinner enough to need the indulgence it should get me.'

Anselm soon lay among baskets and sacks, comforted by this sign of God's grace.

Bess shooed Lucie down to the kitchen after they had prepared Nicholas's body. Then she set a cup of brandywine in front of her friend, saying, 'I'll send the stable boy for Father William at first light.' He was their parish priest.

Lucie nodded. She stared somewhere beyond her hands, her eyes unfocused. Bess and Owen exchanged looks.

The shop bell jingled.

'Who in God's creation?' Bess went to see, scurried back with a flush to her face. 'My Lord the Archbishop’ she announced, her cap ribbons aflutter.

Thoresby strode into the room even as Bess spoke, making the sign of the cross to bless the house.

'Mistress Wilton’ he said, taking Lucie's hand, 'your husband was respected in York. Nicholas Wilton was a fine apothecary. He will be missed.'

Thank you, Your Grace.'

'You must forgive me for intruding on your mourning. But circumstances force my hand. It is most unfortunate.' He nodded to Owen, glanced at Bess. She excused herself to go sit with Nicholas.

Lucie took a sip of the brandywine. Her hands trembled. 'Please sit down, Your Grace’ she said quietly.

1 will not stay long. I meant simply to assure you that I have arranged everything. Two of my men will bring a cart and a coffin shortly. At dawn, I and four of my men will accompany you to Freythorpe Hadden.'

'You need not concern yourself with us, Your Grace. The Wiltons have served your purpose.'

'What are you talking about?'

'I know that Owen is your man. I suppose I am to be grateful that you allowed me to have his services for a time.'

He paused, but only for a moment. 'Mistress Wilton, this is not the time for injured pride. I am trying to prevent my Archdeacon or his young men from causing any more distress’

Lucie rose, flushed and trembling with anger. 'I do not mean to sound ungrateful, My Lord Thoresby, but I cannot accept your gift, I do not intend to bury my husband at Freythorpe Hadden. That is not where he belongs.'

Thoresby stood. 'I chose a bad time, I can see. Forgive me, Mistress Wilton.' He signalled for Owen to follow him out the kitchen door. Lucie eyed Owen darkly as he passed.

Out in the wet garden, Thoresby dropped the pleasant courtesy. 'Damnable woman. Does she think we play a game, Archer? Does she not know how precarious her position is?' He pulled up his hood.

'I am not sure what Mistress Wilton thinks at the moment, Your Grace. Last night Anselm trapped her in a burning shed. Tonight she lost her husband. Now you suggest that she bury her husband where she had never thought to bury him. And she wonders whether she can trust me. Whether she can count on me. You must not judge her by her words or actions tonight.'

Owen felt Thoresby's eyes on him. 'Mistress Wilton is more than an employer to you, that I can see. What does she know of all this?'

'She knows everything.'

'And what is "everything"?'

'That Montaigne held Nicholas responsible for Amelie D'Arby's death so many years ago. Montaigne was her lover. She died aborting his child with an overdose of a potion concocted by Nicholas. Montaigne tried to kill Nicholas the night she died. He thought he had succeeded. His return threatened Nicholas. He feared Montaigne would discover he was still alive and try again to kill him — or ruin his name, which would ruin all he'd tried to do for Lucie. So Nicholas poisoned him with the physick that was later used in ignorance on Fitzwilliam.'

'I might have guessed a woman was involved. We can be such fools over them.' Thoresby was quiet a moment. 'Did Mistress Wilton have a hand in the poisoning?'

'No. She did not even know the identity of the pilgrim Nicholas had mixed the physick for. And because her husband fell ill the very night he committed the deed, she did not learn of the poison soon enough to save Fitzwilliam.' Owen could make out an unpleasant grin on Thoresby's face. He had denied it too quickly.

'You would not tell me if she were guilty.'

'My first allegiance is to you, Your Grace.'

Thoresby chuckled. 'I think not. But it is possible she is innocent. So I choose to accept your explanation.' He shook his head. The Lord's purpose in this mystifies me. Fitzwilliam deserved punishment, but not by the hands that meted it out. And now my Archdeacon seems possessed by the Devil himself. He influenced Brother Michaelo. Who else? You must persuade Mistress Wilton to accept my plan.'

'She is not easy to influence’

'It's time you discovered how to move her, then.' He said it with a chilling firmness, with finality. Thoresby departed, leaving a cold silence in his wake. Then Owen heard his horse trot off into the night.

Bess looked up as Lucie sank down on the stool by the door. 'So, what ordeal does our lord the Archbishop mean to put you through so soon after you've been widowed?'

Lucie did not answer at once. Bess noted the shadows under her eyes and the deepened creases from nose to mouth, signs of little sleep and much worry. 'Men never know when to be still.'

Lucie sighed. 'There may be trouble here. They want me to leave at dawn. The Archdeacon has gone mad, it seems. But the Archbishop is being kind, Bess. He is sending men and a cart with me to Freythorpe Hadden. And he will come with us to say the requiem.'

'Travel to Freythorpe? In your state? With no sleep?'

'The Highlanders rarely strike so early in the day’

'But you've had no rest, my girl.'

'I'll rest later. Aunt Phillippa will see to that.'

'Oh, aye, as she's seen to you in the past. I've no confidence in her seeing-to.'

'I could use a cup of your brandywine to see me on the road.'

'You're trying to get rid of me?'

'It would warm me, Bess. And one of the blankets you use in the cart.' But Lucie did not look at Bess. Her eyes were on her husband, silent and already strange in his shroud.

Twice widowed herself, Bess could see that Lucie needed time alone before all the fuss began over the funeral. 'Well, you could use some warming. I'll fetch what you ask if you sit yourself down by the window and rest awhile.'

Lucie promised to rest.

Bess huffed away. As she passed the shop door, she heard Owen speaking with Tildy. Satisfied that the two would hear Lucie if she needed anything, Bess hurried out the kitchen door to fetch whatever she might think of to ease the strain of Lucie's journey.

Lucie came to with her head resting on Nicholas's arm in the dark room. She would not have believed she could fall asleep with her husband just dead. Such weariness frightened her. It muddled wits, caused mistakes. She shook herself and went to the window, opening it wide to let the chill air revive her. Nicholas was past caring about drafts. The breeze stung her face and worked like a slap, awakening her to the awful reality. Her husband had been taken from her. His kind eyes were forever closed.

And already the men around her tried to wrest Her power from her. Tell her where she might bury her husband. What right had they to interfere? They claimed it was for her protection. But what could the Archbishop of York and Lord Chancellor of England care about her safety? All courtesy demanded was that he warn her. Perhaps suggest a means of protection. But not demand. Not prepare the way.

Thoresby and Campian protected themselves. She knew things they would prefer to have hidden. She might talk. And the folk of York would be only too glad to listen to her.

But that would gain her nothing. Folk would be intrigued by the tale of Anselm, Nicholas, and Amelie. Entertained. They would take the story home to their hearths and while away many a cold night whispering of it. But why would she betray herself? She had nothing to gain from it and much to lose. It was a story of bad judgement. It would reflect on her. An apothecary with poor judgement would not inspire confidence.