Candace Robb - The Apothecary Rose

'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.

She had no cause to tell the tale, and the Archbishop should know that. She would speak with him tomorrow. Today. It must be close to dawn, though the rain kept the sky dark.

As she stared out into the wet darkness, the door opened behind her. She imagined Bess looking in, worrying over ber, and smiled to herself despite her fears.

Bess would be pleased to see her taking air. Stealthy footsteps crossed to the bed. A moan.

'I am too late? Oh, Nicholas, you are too cruel. Why did you not wait for me? You call me and then you do not wait. I have crossed through Hell this night to come to your side.'

Lucie shivered. It was the Archdeacon, the architect of all her sorrow. Owen must have gone to sleep. And Bess. Lucie could count on no one.

The man's breath wheezed and rattled like that of one wounded or very ill. 'I heard you, Nicholas. I heard. They tried to stop me. But I got away. Beautiful Nicholas. They closed your eyes. They did not want me to see them again.'

Lucie groped her way to the little table, holding her breath for fear she would kick something on the way. She felt for the little spirit lamp, turned up the wick. A bright flame flared out.

Anselm gasped as he was discovered and shielded his eyes with a twisted, swollen hand. Nicholas lay across his lap, peeled from his winding sheet. The Archdeacon looked hideous. Blood trickled down his forehead. He reeked of blood and the sweat of fever. A dark red stain spread across the winding sheet on his lap. He gave up shielding his eyes to hold Nicholas tighter, clutching his pale nakedness. 'I burned you. How did your spirit get free? Get thee hence, she-devil!'

'This is my house, you monster. And Nicholas was my husband.' Lucie moved closer.

Anselm bared his teeth and growled at her like a wounded cat, crushing Nicholas to him.

It was the stuff of nightmares. One dead, the other mad with pain and grief and looking as much a corpse as the dead man. The madman muttered something in Latin, prised open Nicholas's right eyelid with his swollen, twisted finger, and bent to kiss him on the mouth.

'In the name of Heaven, leave him alone’ Lucie trembled with rage.

Anselm lifted his eyes to Lucie. 'Heaven? What do you know of Heaven, she-devil?' He stroked Nicholas's hair, his stomach, his thigh, watching Lucie, enjoying her discomfort.