Кэндис Робб - The Apothecary Rose

Owen arrived in York weary, cold, and predisposed to hate the city. He entered from the south, through Micklegate Bar, across Ouse Bridge with its stench of fishmongers and public privy, through King’s Square and up Petergate, making first for the minster to present himself to Thoresby’s cleric. The city was a warren of narrow streets darkened by jutting second stories, stinking of night waste and garbage, much like London and Calais. He wondered how so many fools could be coerced into living in this crowded place, huddled up against the north wind that howled off the moors.

But the minster impressed him. It would be a great cathedral when finished. He stood back and gazed upward, imagining the spires that would crown the two square towers at the front. At least the Yorkshiremen knew how to give thanks to the Lord for seeing them through the long winter.

A dour-faced cleric led Owen to the Archbishop’s chambers, after attempts to direct him failed. Neither could understand the other’s accent. As Owen entered the chambers, an odd character slithered past. Short, wiry, with olive skin and lank hair, sly, watery eyes, heavy-lidded. A fishy odor lingered after he’d slipped out the door. Not the sort one expected to find in the Archbishop’s chambers.

It was a relief to find Jehannes, the Archbishop’s clerk, a pleasant-faced young man with a quiet, watchful air. “His Grace will be pleased you’ve arrived safely. The Scots are a plague to the winter traveler up here.”

“I met few fools out on the road but the thieves in the forest.”

A little smile. “Your accent will worry the folk who think all who speak oddly are Scots brigands. I see why Canon Guthrum watched you so closely.”

“His Grace forgot to warn me of that. I will try to smooth out my speech.”

Jehannes placed two documents on the table. One bore the Archbishop’s seal, the other a seal Owen did not recognize. The cleric pushed the latter toward Owen. “Master Roglio provides you with a letter of introduction to the Abbot of St. Mary’s. The Infirmarian admires Roglio. This might loosen his tongue.”

“So you know of my purpose here?”

A slight nod. “I do not envy you your task. You will not find it easy to wrest information out of Yorkshiremen. Even the city variety.”

“And the other document?”

“An introduction to the Master of the Merchants’ Guild, Camden Thorpe. I will send it tomorrow. There might be a position for you at Wilton’s apothecary, off St. Helen’s Square. Close to the minster and the abbey.”

“A position?”

“Your disguise. The apothecary was taken ill at Christmastide. Confined to bed with a palsy. His Grace thought you might assist Mistress Wilton. Your experience with the camp doctor makes you credible in such a post.”

Owen liked the prospect. “How will I know the Guildmaster’s response?”

“I will send word to your lodgings.”

Owen perked up. “Lodgings. Now that’s a subject I’ve thought long on. A hot meal and a warm bed. Where might these lodgings be?”

Jehannes looked apologetic. “I’m afraid I am not certain. His Grace thinks it unwise to put you up here, even for the first night. You do not want to be associated with any authority, you see. I suggest you see Bess Merchet at the York Tavern. It’s next to Wilton’s apothecary. If she has no room to spare, trust her to find you some place where you’ll be able to sleep without a weapon at hand.”

“A friendly city, is it?”

“Not for strangers. And certainly not for someone with an odd speech.”

“You do not make me eager to meet the folk of York.”

“It does not help to be overconfident.”

“I noticed a singular character exiting.”

The cleric thought back to his last visitor. “Potter Digby, Archdeacon Anselm’s Summoner.”

The match tickled Owen. Summoner was the job of a weasel, and Potter Digby looked like nothing so much as that sly creature. “He looks like he was bred for the job.”

Jehannes covered up a laugh with a cough. “I understand I am to provide you with any additional funds.”

Hint taken, Owen completed his business without further attempts at gossip, but as he crossed to the door he paused. The name Digby. Could it be a coincidence? “How would I find the midwife they call the Riverwoman?” He would keep the name out of it for now.

Jehannes looked surprised. “What business could you have with her? Have you a woman in distress?”

Owen shook his head. “Fitzwilliam had business with her shortly before he arrived at St. Mary’s.”

“Ah.” Jehannes nodded. “You’ll find a footpath that leads down to the river on the far side of St. Mary’s. I would go in daylight.”

“Oh?”

“Slippery, down there by the river.”

“The footing or the folk?”

Jehannes allowed himself a smile. “Both.”

“So while I’m watching my step, how do I find this woman?”

“Her shack is out on a grassy rock in the mud flat. When the river rises, she has her own island.”

“Does she have a name?”

“Magda Digby. The Summoner’s mother.”

“Interesting.”

“They are an interesting family, yes.”

As Owen stepped outside, a sound to his left made him pause, breath held. He turned, ready for an attack. With his good eye he glimpsed a man slipping around the corner of the building. A fishy smell lingered behind. Owen grinned. Seemed he’d kindled the weasel’s curiosity.

The York Tavern provided a good living to Bess Merchet and her husband, Tom. The clientele had improved since Bess took over the running of the tavern eight years ago, when she came there as a wife. She beat out the vermin, human and otherwise, and scrubbed and repaired until the inn was clean and respectable. Right away Tom saw her worth and handed over the reins, and the tavern with its modest set of inn rooms flourished.

The stranger came as Bess stirred the last bit of seasoning into the stew she’d made for her neighbors.

Well now, she thought as he stood in the doorway deciding whether to enter, there’s a story to him, and a good one, I’ll wager. Tall, broad-shouldered, a soldier of some sort. Leather leggings and vest, good boots, a heavy cloak thrown back over one shoulder. He did not come begging, not this one, though the leather patch over the left eye and the scar running across the cheek might make it tough for him to go a-soldiering now. She liked his dark curls and gold earring. There was a bit of devil in him.

“So, stranger, will you be coming in or do you mean to let all the heat escape into the square?”

He laughed and closed the door behind him. “Would you be Goodwife Merchet?”

West Country speech. A handicap, but a strong will and a quick wit could rise above that.

“I am Bess Merchet, proprietress. What can I do for you?” She wiped her plump hands on her apron and adjusted her ribboned cap.

“I need a room. I was told at the minster to try here first. I’d find no better in York.”

Bess cocked her head to one side. “Is your business with the minster?”

“My business is to find work before my money runs out. But not to fear, my good woman, I’ve a tidy sum tucked away, enough to pay for your best room. The Archbishop himself will vouch for that. It was he distributed my late lord’s behests.”

My good woman indeed. As if the ability to pay were all that mattered to an innkeeper. But the Archbishop. Well now. “What sort of work? You don’t look like one trained to a trade or used to a plow.”

“You would be right there. I was a soldier until I lost the use of this eye.” He touched the patch. “So. Would you be having a room?”

“Not so fast. Bess Merchet makes her decisions in good time.” He looked surprised. Used to obedient women. But that was his soldiering. He seemed a decent sort, all in all. “Who was your liege lord?”