Candace Robb - A Spy For The Redeemer

Lucie swore under her breath as she found the door locked. She had not wanted a customer to hear her chastise Jasper. But the shut shop might itself cause rumours. Mistress Skipwith had said she understood, Jasper was merely an apprentice and there was no harm done, just some sneezing, she would tell no one, the lad would never do it again. But tongues wagged despite the best intentions.

A monk stood without, in the black robes of a Benedictine, his head bowed beneath his cowl.

‘ Benedicte ,’ said Lucie.

The monk raised his head. It was Brother Michaelo, secretary to the Archbishop of York and her father’s companion in pilgrimage. What did it mean, that he appeared alone? The monk’s patrician face was drawn, his eyes sad. Dear God, please let Owen be well . ‘Brother Michaelo. I did not know you had returned.’ Lucie stepped aside, welcoming him into the shop.

‘ Benedicte , Mistress Wilton.’ The monk bowed as he entered the room.

Lucie glanced out into the street before she closed the door. ‘You are alone.’

‘I am.’ Michaelo drew a stack of letters from his scrip. ‘Captain Archer entrusted these to me.’

‘My husband is well?’

A nod. ‘I left him well.’

Deo gratias . ‘God bless you for bringing them,’ Lucie said, though her heart was heavy as she took the letters. ‘My husband is yet in Wales, then?’

‘By now the captain had hoped to depart for home. God willing, he should be home before Corpus Christi.’

A month. Still so long to wait. But she had managed this long. ‘And my father?’ When they had departed, Sir Robert D’Arby had not been in the best of health.

Brother Michaelo lowered his eyes and crossed himself.

‘Father,’ Lucie whispered. She had thought herself prepared for this. ‘When?’

‘On the third day of Passiontide, Mistress Wilton.’

More than a month ago. Lucie, too, crossed herself. She began to shiver. When had the room grown so cold?

‘I am sorry to bring you such news,’ said Michaelo, taking her arm, helping her to a bench.

It should not be a shock, Lucie thought as she heard Michaelo slip behind the counter, pour water from the jug. He sat beside her, held a cup until she was calm enough to take it.

‘I should not have encouraged him,’ Lucie said. ‘He had not recovered and it was so cold when they rode out, then such a wet spring.’ Sir Robert had caught a chill the previous summer. Despite his sister’s devoted nursing he had never quite recovered. A recurring cough and hoarseness had been particularly troublesome.

‘You could not have foreseen the weather, Mistress Wilton.’ The monk drew a scented cloth from his sleeve. ‘Sir Robert found the journey difficult.’ Michaelo dabbed at his eyes. ‘But he never complained.’

‘Is it for my father, those tears?’ Was it possible the self-absorbed Michaelo had been moved by Sir Robert’s death?

Michaelo raised his eyes. ‘I have walked in wretchedness all the way from Wales — selfishly, pitying myself for the loss of my friend. For your father was joyous in death and welcomed his release.’ Michaelo’s voice rode the waves of his emotions. ‘After you have read the letters, I shall tell you of your father’s last days. You might find comfort in hearing of them. Come to me when you are ready. I shall be with Jehannes, Archdeacon of York.’ He rose. ‘Should I send for someone?’

‘Jasper is near.’

‘You are very pale.’

His sympathy brought tears to her eyes. ‘I shall come to you at Jehannes’s house as soon as possible — tomorrow, if I am able.’ The archbishop’s secretary bowed, turned and departed silently.

If I am able . Lucie moved to a stool behind the counter. Alice Baker and her jaundice, Maria de Skipwith and Jasper’s mistake, Jasper’s distrust of Roger Moreton. And now she had lost her father. Her eyes burned. Sweet Jesu, but she was tired.

She needed a shoulder to lean on. Someone to comfort her as she wept for her father. She needed Owen. But he was not here. Her instinct was to go to see her kind neighbour, Roger Moreton, but the foolish Jasper had decided Roger was wooing her. He could not see that Roger was kind to everyone, not just Lucie.

Her father was gone. She must go to Freythorpe Hadden and break the news to Phillippa, her father’s sister and long-time housekeeper. Could she close the shop for a few days? Would Alice Baker start rumours about Lucie’s incompetence while she was not here to defend herself? Alice’s jaundice was not Lucie’s fault — most people would know that. For most of her married life Alice had complained of sleeplessness and fluttering of the heart. It seemed hardly a week went by that she was not in the shop buying new ingredients for the remedies she prepared herself. Lucie guessed that it was the skullcap purchased most recently that, mixed with something else on Alice’s crowded shelves, had caused an overabundance of the wrong humours and turned her skin and eyes yellow, her urine a peaty brown. The midwife Magda Digby had agreed with Lucie — skullcap and valerian should not be mixed. Magda had prescribed an infusion of dandelion root and vervain. Lucie had mixed it for Alice, but who knew whether the woman was drinking it? And what she had added to it.

Sir Robert was dead. Lucie noticed the letters in her hands. She had forgotten what she held. Ink and parchment. She wanted Owen here, not his letters.

‘Who was it?’ Jasper stood over her, turning his head this way and that to see what she had in her lap.

‘Brother Michaelo.’ Lucie noticed that the boy’s nose was red and his eyes watery. He would remember the punishment. ‘Did you find all the peppercorns?’

‘Made me sneeze.’ He wiped his nose.

‘Good. It did the same to Mistress Skipwith. You did your best?’

He nodded. ‘What did he want?’

Jasper despised Brother Michaelo. The archbishop’s secretary had once threatened the life of someone the boy had loved dearly, Brother Wulfstan, the old infirmarian of St Mary’s Abbey.

‘Brother Michaelo brought letters from Owen,’ said Lucie. ‘And — news of my father’s death.’

‘Sir Robert?’ Jasper whispered. He crossed himself. ‘May God grant him peace.’

Lucie crossed herself, too.

Contrite, Jasper said, ‘Go, read the letters. I can manage the shop.’

Lucie pressed his hand, glad of the truce, however fleeting. ‘I should read these and think about what to do. You can find me in the garden if you have need.’

He gave her a lopsided grin. ‘If Mistress Skipwith has told anyone of my mistake, there will be little to do.’

‘She said she would not speak of it.’

As Lucie rose, Jasper said, ‘I am sorry about her. It will not happen again. I swear.’

Lucie nodded, squeezed his hand again. He was young, bound to make mistakes. Perhaps she was too hard on him. But the guild would not tolerate more serious errors. Even this would have been punishable. ‘Now mix the correct herbs and spices for Mistress Skipwith. When we close the shop, you can take it to her. There will of course be no charge. And you would be wise to thank her. She might have spoken to the guild master and had you in the pillory.’

The apothecary’s garden behind the shop had been the masterwork of Lucie’s first husband, Nicholas Wilton. It held not only the herbs one might expect in such a garden but also many exotic plants grown from seeds Nicholas had collected. Lucie chose a spot amidst the roses, near Nicholas’s grave, well away from the noise of the children at play. But it was not of her first husband she thought as she stared down at the letters. She thought of Owen and his misgivings about Sir Robert making the pilgrimage to St David’s. Owen had pointed out the hardships of such a journey, to the farthest west of Wales, even for a young, healthy man. They must depart while winter still froze their breath. Could she not see how dangerous it would be for Sir Robert, almost four score and in uncertain health, to attempt such a journey? Lucie had known Owen’s arguments were sound. But when she faced her father, saw the yearning in his eyes, she could not forbid it. And in truth, had she the right? All Sir Robert had wished was to reach St David’s. Lucie realised with a pang that she did not know whether he had reached the holy city. Brother Michaelo had said that Sir Robert had passed away in peace. Surely that meant he had completed the pilgrimage? It was this, the question unasked, that at last loosed a flood of tears. Lucie let them come. She did not even notice Kate, the serving maid, until she spoke.