The Apothecary Rose

1 cannot hope for that so soon, Bess. But you're a good friend to say it.' Owen put his pack down beside Bess, lifted her to her feet, and hugged her hard.

'My.' Bess took a step backward, flustered. 'If she doesn't look forward to that, my friend Lucie is not near as smart as she seems.'

'Look after her, Bess.' Owen hoisted his pack.

'The room will be waiting for you,' Bess called to his departing back. But would Lucie Wilton, she wondered. The young woman had a mind of her own, and a stubborn will. Bess could not predict her reaction

to Owen's plan.

Lucie rose to get more mulled wine for the Archbishop. He waved her down. 'I cannot stay longer. You are satisfied with the terms?'

She examined the paper with what seemed inordinate care, but he wondered how much of that was show. Her pale, drawn face spoke of her grief and her ordeal. The bruises were dark against her white wimple. It was too soon after her husband's death and her confrontation with Anselm to bargain for her future. And that was precisely why he had chosen the day after the funeral. No time to stew over it, begin to question any of it. She would have what she wanted as long as she vowed to remain silent. That was where he wanted her.

'I am happy with it. What does Guildmaster Thorpe say?'

'He intended you to take over the shop. He need not know that his plan would have been blocked had you refused to co-operate.'

Lucie studied Thoresby's face far longer than he found comfortable. 'I think I am right in trusting you,' she said. 'I hope I do not find I was a fool.'

'As long as you keep your side of the bargain, all will be well.'

'And what of Owen Archer?'

'He is disillusioned by his service in the Church. He means to find honest work.'

'Can you let him do that?'

'It depends. Has he said anything to you?'

She shook her head. 'We will talk when he returns from the abbey.'

'Ah, yes. He is praying over it.' Thoresby rose.

Lucie rose. 'Your Grace, his eye. Could he still be Captain of Archers with one eye?'

Odd question to ask him. 'Certainly. An archer closes one eye to aim. The sighting is not the same, but the old Duke said Archer had almost attained his old accuracy’

'So why did he leave that life?'

'He did not trust himself any more’

'That is what he says. But what do you think, Your Grace?'

Thoresby smiled. He liked her. 'I believe him. And I think he was done with killing. He lost that eye because he saved someone's life who did not find his life anything to be grateful for. Archer is an innocent. Was. I think he has learned something in my service.'

'He saved my life.'

'It's fortunate that Archer still has the reflexes of a soldier, if not the heart. God be with you, Mistress Wilton’

'You will not punish him for your Archdeacon's death?'

Another odd question. 'I did not become Archbishop of York and Lord Chancellor of England by being a fool, Mistress Wilton’

Lucie sat long into the evening. Melisende came in, drank some water, napped in Lucie's lap, Tildy put food before Lucie and took it away cold, Bess looked in and decided to leave her in peace, the cat left for her night revels, and at last, cold and stiff in all her joints, Lucie dragged herself up to bed, where she buried her head and wept.

Owen tossed on his cot, holding his ears. But still he heard the bells, felt them vibrate through his body. Damnable bells.

A timid knock. 'Pilgrim Archer. It is time for the Night Office’

Owen sat up, realising why the bells had sounded so loud. He was at St. Mary's. He groped for his eye patch, put it on, and opened the door of his cell.

A novice bowed to him. 'Follow me.'

The bells stopped. In the echoing silence, his and many other sandalled feet whispered along the dimly lit stone corridors. The black-robed company filed into the candlelit chapel and flowed into the rows of seats, all without speech, with few even looking up. The novice led Owen to his place. He looked round at his companions, most with their hoods up, heads bowed, no one bristling with resentment, no one jostling for a better seat. All these men moving with humility and quiet obedience. It filled Owen with a sense of peace. In this he could see the appeal of monastic life. As they began to chant the office, he felt lighthearted.

Until his eye rested on Brother Wulfstan. Gentle Wulfstan. Since the attempted poisoning, there was a vague cast to the old Infirmarian's eye, as though his thoughts were fixed on the next life. Owen wondered how long Michaelo's poison would linger in Wulfstan's body, and whether the novice Henry had thought to bleed the old monk.

Owen's feeling of peace was gone.

After he had broken his fast the next morning, Owen wandered to the infirmary to speak with Henry. But he found Wulfstan alone at his worktable, dripping various essential oils into a salve paste. As each oil touched the warm paste, it released its intense perfume. Owen understood why the old monk stood near a slightly opened window.

'May we speak?' Owen asked. He was not sure how closely they followed the Rule of Saint Benedict here.

Wulfstan motioned Owen to a seat near him. 'The infirmary is necessarily an exception — and, as our Saviour knows only too well, I have grown lax in my vow of silence over the years.'

This morning the old monk's eyes looked clear. 'You seem much recovered’ Owen said.

Wulfstan thought a moment, then nodded. 'A bad business. Who would have thought Michaelo would do such a thing?' He gave a little laugh. 1 find it quite miraculous that he had the energy.'

The laughter surprised Owen. 'You have forgiven him?'

Wulfstan shrugged. 'He has confessed and performed penance.' He squinted while he measured another drop. 'And if in his heart he truly repents, the Lord God will forgive him. I can do no less.'

'And Nicholas Wilton. Do you forgive him?'

Wulfstan sighed, wiped off his hands, sank down beside Owen. 'That is more difficult. He used me to poison my friend. Abbot Campian explained that it was because Nicholas feared Montaigne. But he need not have done, of that I am certain. Geoffrey had come to make his peace with God. He would not have put his soul in peril. He would not have attacked the Wiltons’ Wulfstan brushed tears from his eyes.

'I am sorry for the pain this has caused you’

The Infirmarian studied Owen's face. 'I believe you. I did not like you at first’

'I know’

'You knew too much for a stranger. Asked too many questions.' The old monk shook his head. 'Poor Lucie. Will the story be told? Will she lose all that Nicholas tried to give her?'

'The Archbishop has no desire to publicise a scandal involving his late Archdeacon. But whether he will let Mistress Wilton keep the shop, I do not know’, 'You do not approve of the Archbishop's silence?'

'I am pleased for Mistress Wilton. And for you. But the people have been misled about Anselm.'

Wulfstan shrugged. 'He was a benighted soul. As are we all, more or less. Let him rest in peace.'

Owen was quiet.

'What will you do now?' Wulfstan asked.

'I would like to continue as Mistress Wilton's apprentice.'

Wulfstan sighed. '1 see’ Owen would bide his time, work his charm, ask for her hand. And who could blame him?

Early one morning two weeks after the funeral, Lucie woke to a fresh scent that reminded her of spring. She smiled when she turned towards the garden window and saw the quince branches she had brought in two days ago. The warmth in the room had coaxed them into bloom. A good omen on her first waking in this bed alone. She had dreaded this first night. She had put it off, sleeping in the smaller room with her Aunt Phillippa while they aired out this room and scrubbed away the illness and death.