The Apothecary Rose

Laughing, Gaspare made room on the bench beside him. He knew the weakness women had for the right scars. Tall, handsome, broad in the shoulders, he'd seduced many a young woman by asking her to kiss the scar that ran from his ear to his lips, where the knife had left a permanent crease, and then asking if they would like to see where the wound continued on his chest. 'You can't be getting much of a chance to try out the ladies sitting at the higher tables. Those ladies are after rank.'

'They wed rank. I said nothing about wedding.'

They all laughed.

'So you're not hungering for the life of a soldier?' Gaspare asked.

The question was like a blow, but Owen chose to ignore it. 'How are the new recruits?'

'Soft as always,' Bertold growled.

Lief, a huge man from the North Country, frowned at a reed he was hollowing out. Owen looked at Lief's large, thick fingers and was newly amazed at the delicacy with which the man used them. 'They come along a bit slower than when you had the training of them. No Welsh fairy tales to inspire them.' Lief kept his eyes on his work, but Owen could see the smile beneath the red beard.

Bertold handed Owen a tankard. 'You're looking in need of this.'

Owen accepted it with thirsty gratitude and drained it in one gulp. His friends cheered and slapped him on the back.

'So. You may talk fancy, but you still drink like one of us. Do you bring us good news?' Bertold asked in a more serious tone. 'I'd welcome you to take back this thankless burden. I never asked to be Captain of Archers.'

'Sorry, old friend. I'm to leave on a mission to the North Country, and I'd a mind to see my old comrades before I started.'

Lief blew into the reed, clearing out the dust, held it up to the firelight, squinted into it, then leaned close to Owen, lowering his voice. 'So what's Gaunt's business up north, then? Highlanders, is it?'

'It's not for him,' Owen said. 'For the Lord Chancellor and Archbishop of York.'

Thoresby?' Gaspare sounded surprised.

'Aye.'

Bertold shook his head. 'Churchmen are queer ones to ferret out. How come you to be working for him?'

'The old Duke recommended me to His Grace.'

Ned studied him thoughtfully. The eye's no better?'

Owen shook his head. 'Nor is it likely to be.'

'You could still be Captain of Archers,' Bertold said quickly.

'I haven't changed my mind about that. Nor will I.'

Bertold shrugged.

'I did also have news for any of his old mates about Sir Oswald Fitzwilliam. Do you know who they might be?'

Bertold frowned. 'News about Fitzwilliam?'

'Aye.'

'What's the bastard got into now?' Lief snarled.

'He's dead.'

Ned leaned forward. 'Oh, aye? And who do we thank for that?'

'I couldn't say. Camp fever. Bad case of it struck him down at St. Mary's Abbey in York.'

'Pah.' Lief spat into the rushes at his feet. 'And when was he near a camp, I'd like to know?'

'He'd seen no action?'

Ned laughed. 'Depends on what kind you mean. He'd had his fill of hand-to-hand from sticking his nose where it wasn't wanted.'

'A spy?'

They all grew quiet.

'I take no offence. I had little time for spies when I was one of you.'

Bertold slapped him on the knee. 'You'll ever be one of us.'

Owen held up his tankard. 'Then pour me another.'

They proceeded to get bleary-eyed while they talked.

'And so Fitzwilliam's dead, is he?' Ned said, coming back round to Owen's news.

That's what I heard.'

Lief spat again into the rushes. 'And good riddance.'

'You had trouble with him?'

'Trouble? Pah. Nothing he touched but didn't turn to trouble.'

Ned kicked Lief's boot. 'Still sore over fair Alice?'

'Hmpf. That whore. I'm better off without her. She would have knifed me in my sleep some night. The type.'

Gaspare leaned over to Owen. 'Was going to marry her, see. Till he smelled that whore's son in her bed.'

Lief got to his feet with a roar, making as if to smash Gaspare's head with his fist. Bertold pushed him back down on the bench.

'Silly girl. She'd have been better off with Lief.'

'Fitzwilliam married her?'

'Married?' Bertold grinned. 'He's the ward of your new lord. But then you'd know that. Why would he be wanting to marry the likes of Alice, a kitchen maid?'

'Ah.'

'I've known worse than him.' Gaspare shrugged. 'But how'd you come to know him, Captain? He came after you'd gone up the table.'

'I heard of him at Thoresby's table. As you say, His Grace's ward.'

'What was he doing at an abbey?' Lief asked.

They say he'd gone on pilgrimage to York.'

'Aye,' said Gaspare. 'He left before Christmastide. Before we left the Savoy.'

'That long ago? He arrived in York much later.'

Ned shook his head. 'Only a fool such as he would travel north in winter.'

'Aye,' said Bertold. 'The Duchess called Lord March mad for travelling that route to fetch his lady.'

'Now there could lie a story,' Ned said. 'Fitzwilliam knew Lord March's lady well. He heads north to see her, the husband follows. Are you sure it was camp fever killed him?'

' Tis the story I heard. But I know nothing of this lady. He was to see her on his way?'

Ned shrugged. 'Who's to say? Lord March has a holding south of York. At Christmastide the Duchess named his lady, Jocelyn, to be part of her household. So he hied himself north to fetch her straightaway, though the Duchess said 'twas a cruel thing to make her travel through the freezing mud, that she could come at Easter. But he'd have none of that, greedy bastard. The stipend doesn't begin until she's in residence, you see. He was loath to lose pay while she dallied up north until Eastertide.'

Gaspare snorted. 'Daily's the right word for what she's about, from what I hear.'

Owen felt hopeful. If it proved so easy as this, that Fitzwilliam had gone north, stopped with this Lady Jocelyn, and been seriously wounded by her jealous lord, then his investigation might be concluded with no need to spend February on the road north. 'So this Lady Jocelyn is now at Kenilworth?'

'Aye,' Gaspare said. 'You'll see her sitting high with the other ladies-in-waiting this evening. And Lord March holding forth nearby.'

Lady Jocelyn stared off into the ether with a bored expression while a companion chattered on about the weather. Owen would have chosen the pleasant-faced companion over Fitzwilliam's mistress. Lady Jocelyn had a charming, childlike face, rounded and dimpled and dotted with a rosebud mouth, but her eyes were flinty. She regarded him as he approached, calculating his worth to her, Owen guessed. The tiny mouth smiled.

'My Lady Jocelyn.' He bowed to her.

She put a hand to her bosom, her dress fashionably low, revealing much, and averted her eyes momentarily, but they returned to regard him with a predatory attention. 'You are a guest of the Duke?'

'A retainer of the old Duke, here to collect my belongings. I am now in the household of the Lord Chancellor.'

That lit a small spark in the eyes. A member of a powerful household. 'Your name, sir?'

'Owen Archer, my lady.'

'You sought a word with me?'

'I have a message for you from' — Owen looked at the companion, then back to Jocelyn — 'an old acquaintance.'

A faint flush. 'I am afraid my duties consume my days, from tending to my lady's wardrobe to walking her lapdog in midmorning, out beyond the rose garden. That alone takes up most of the morning till the noon meal.'

'Then it is that activity I must praise for putting such enchanting roses in your cheeks, though it keeps you so busy. Perhaps I will have the good fortune to see you on one of your walks. I often walk out to be alone with my thoughts.' Owen bowed to her, then to her companion, 'My ladies’ and withdrew.

Bertold called to him as he moved to go out into the night. 'Share a tankard with us.'