Кэндис Робб: The Apothecary Rose

She could tell him little, only that Digby had helped Nicholas inside, for he seemed unable to support himself on his right leg. The right arm also seemed useless. And he’d made no sound but down in the throat. She clenched her hands and looked desperate for comfort.

But Wulfstan could give little. “It sounds to be a palsy. Whether it be temporary or permanent, only time will tell. It is in God’s hands. Perhaps if I knew what caused it.” He thought of Nicholas’s behavior as he questioned Wulfstan about the pilgrim, and later when Nicholas had glimpsed the pilgrim’s state. “He was agitated when he left the infirmary. Perhaps in the dark he fell. A blow to the head could cause such a palsy. Or to the spine. An extreme shock.”

“A shock.” Lucie glanced at Nicholas, then bent her head away from him so that only Wulfstan could hear. “Could it be the pilgrim?” She asked it in a soft, tense voice.

Wulfstan remembered the dying man’s accusations. But he had no proof. And now that the man was dead he could see no reason to frighten Lucie. “My patient’s appearance disturbed Nicholas, to be sure. He said he’d not expected the man to be so ill. But that is not shock enough.” He looked at Lucie’s bowed head. “What is it, my child? What do you fear?”

“It was Archdeacon Anselm’s visit this morning.”

“Anselm? Came here?”

“They have not spoken in years. Since before we were married. It is odd that he should come today. There he stood in the doorway, so early, before any customers. He’d already heard that Nicholas was taken ill. He expressed concern, for all the world a worried friend. After so many years. He did not come when our Martin died.” Their only child. Dead of the plague before he ever walked.

Something in this disturbed Wulfstan. For last night he had been visited by the Archdeacon. At the time he had given it little thought. The Archdeacon was to dine with Abbot Campian. Before supper he had stopped in the infirmary, curious whether it had changed since he was last bled there. Anselm had been schooled at St. Mary’s. Last evening he had been pleasant enough, asking after Brother Wulfstan’s health, telling Henry how frightened he had been of Wulfstan, who had been broad in the chest in his younger years. Anselm had asked about the pilgrim, the only patient. It seemed a mere politeness.

Wulfstan drew Lucie down on a chest by the little window. “Tell me about the Archdeacon’s visit.”

“He had heard Nicholas was ill. He asked if it were serious. I told him I did not know, that I could tell him no more than his Summoner had told him. Nothing had changed. He seemed surprised. He asked why I assumed his Summoner had told him. I told him how Digby had found Nicholas. He did not like that. ‘The Abbey infirmary? What was Nicholas doing there?’ He said it as if it were an enemy camp, a place Digby should have known not to go.”

“My infirmary?” Wulfstan did not like that.

“The Archdeacon alarmed me with his questions. I told him Nicholas had taken a physick to a patient. ‘The soldier?’ he asked. I said yes, the one who called himself a pilgrim. The Archdeacon’s face lost what little color it had. He put a hand on the counter to steady himself. I asked him what he suspected. He asked what had happened at the abbey. Of course I did not know. I suspected that the Archdeacon knew more than I did. I asked him who the pilgrim was. I am sure he knows. He blinked and looked away. ‘I have not seen this pilgrim, Mistress Wilton,’ he said. It is the sort of half-truth the sisters told to shield us from the world. I persisted. He pulled himself up straight and said he would come back. ‘Who is he?’ I demanded. ‘I will come back,’ he said again, and hurried out.”

Lucie looked out the window, her jaw set. “Damnable priest. He knows who the man is. Why would he not tell me? I think it has everything to do with the soldier.” She turned angry eyes on Wulfstan. “Who is the pilgrim, Wulfstan?”

“My dear Lucie, as God is my witness, I do not know.”

“I want to speak with him.”

Wulfstan shook his head. “He is dead.”

She looked shocked. “Dead? When?”

“Last night. Whoever he was, he cannot help us now.”

Lucie crossed herself. It was bad luck to speak evil of the recently dead. “May he rest in peace.”

Wulfstan whispered an Amen, his eyes cast down, burning with tears. He was so weary he could not control himself.

Lucie, noting his discomfort, took his hand. “I am sorry you lost your patient.”

“It is worse than that. He was a friend.” Wulfstan’s voice broke. He wiped his eyes and took a deep breath. “Forgive me. I fear I am little use to you.”

Gently, she kissed his forehead. Just a touch with her lips, but it was such an affectionate gesture it undid the old monk. He put his face in his hands and wept. Lucie put her arm around him and drew him close.

Later, when Wulfstan had fortified himself with a cup of brandywine, he spoke of his friendship with the pilgrim. Of the man’s sorrow.

“He sounds like a gentle man. I thank you for coming in your sorrow. How did you know to come?”

“Digby. He came to tell me of your trouble.”

“This is a strange business, Brother Wulfstan. Digby’s eagerness to help, the Archdeacon’s visit. Do you know, I think if I knew the connection between Archdeacon Anselm and the pilgrim and the Archdeacon and Nicholas, I might understand what has happened.”

Wulfstan said nothing. Long ago he had promised Nicholas he would say nothing to Lucie about the past, and he would not. But it bothered him that Nicholas had taken ill while he and Anselm and Anselm’s Summoner were at St. Mary’s. He found it difficult to see it as a coincidence.

God created evil in the form of Eve, out of Adam’s rib. He took the evil part of man and created woman. So plain, writ so clear, and yet few men heed the warning. And by their blindness they are undone.

Anselm, Archdeacon of York, knelt on the cold, damp stones, trying to push away bitter thoughts and pray for his dearest friend. But the thoughts had everything to do with Nicholas. Gentle Nicholas, undone by his love for a woman, suffering such pain it was impossible he should live much longer. Perhaps that was best.

Anselm shifted uncomfortably. The chill damp had settled in his knees, whence a dull ache moved up to his loins. He offered up the suffering for his friend’s salvation. He would suffer anything for Nicholas. He had already suffered for him most of his adult life. But Anselm resented none of it. His prayers for Nicholas were heartfelt.

Nicholas was not to blame for his misfortune. He had not chosen the path of sin. It was his father’s choice, his father who had taken him from the abbey school and made him his apprentice in the apothecary, next door to a tavern, close to the heart of the city and its wickedness. It was Nicholas’s father who had urged him to look on women, to choose a mate who would bear him a son to carry on the business. Nicholas, always the obedient son, had turned from Anselm and found in his path a woman so evil she would ensnare three men before she was through, bringing all three down with her. And her daughter would seal the deed, trapping Nicholas here until the curse be played out to its horrible end.

Nicholas’s father had died as was fitting, with a bitterness in his heart, seeing his son unmarried and with a terrible secret that could destroy all he had worked so hard to create. Such is the price of sin. But Nicholas might have been spared. Beautiful, gentle, loving Nicholas.

Anselm bent his head and prayed for a forgiving God.

Weeks later, past Twelfthnight, Brother Wulfstan sat beside the brazier in the infirmary, sadly contemplating his hand. First it had tingled, then it had gone numb. With just a fingertip’s worth of the physick. Enough aconite to kill by applying a salve. No wonder ingesting it had killed his friend and now Sir Oswald Fitzwilliam. God forgive him, but he had not noticed that he had grown so old and incompetent. And yet here was the proof. Never should an Infirmarian accept a physick prepared by other hands without testing it. But he had. And when the patient died, Wulfstan had not thought to test it even then, but had put it on a shelf, ready for the next victim. God forgive him, it was Wulfstan’s own incompetence that had killed his friend, the gentle pilgrim. And now Sir Oswald Fitzwilliam, the Archbishop’s ward. Sweet Mary and all the saints, what was he to do?