Кэндис Робб: The Apothecary Rose

“I will watch out for him.” Lucie let go his hand and bent to pick up the package. “According to the ordinance, I should burn this.”

Wulfstan nodded. “Do so. I would do it for you, but–”

Lucie shook her head. “No, it is my duty.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you, Brother Wulfstan. You have been our salvation.”

He could not believe that anything so sweet could come from evil. God had shown him the way.

When Wulfstan had left, Lucie paced the room, hugging her arms to herself. She considered the jug of ale. A cup might steady her. But it was early afternoon. There would be customers. She must keep her wits about her. Everything depended on her now.

Master Roglio took great pains folding his astrological charts and tucking away the tools he had used to examine the eye. Owen noted a tremor in the physician’s hands, the tensed shoulders of a man holding his breath, eyes that would not meet his. Master Roglio stank of fear. Owen glanced at the Duke of Lancaster, who glowered in the corner. An old man, but Lancaster’s power was second only to King Edward’s. Displeasing him was a dangerous business.

It would be Christian to wait with his question, but Owen had waited three months for this moment, and he could wait no longer. “The flesh heals, but the eye remains dark. You see no change, eh, Physician?”

Roglio’s eyes slid to the old Duke, who sat forward, interested. Roglio raised both shoulders in an eloquent shrug. “God may yet work a miracle.”

“But you cannot,” the old Duke said with a snarl.

Roglio met the Duke’s steely gaze. “No, my lord.” He managed not to flinch.

The flesh healed, but the eye remained dark. One eye. God had created man with two for a purpose, no doubt. And blinded Owen in one. A purpose to that as well, no doubt.

Owen had made good use of two. Lancaster’s prize archer, he had trained the others, drilled them, risen to captain. An achievement for a Welshman. No animal escaped his arrows. Nor man. He’d taken care to kill only for food or in obedience to his liege lord. And all for the honor and glory of God.

Christian charity had robbed him of all that. A jongleur and his leman. Bretons. More independent than the Welsh, Owen had thought. They had no reason to spy for the French. The leman helped herself, flirting with the men. The soldiers would make good use of her. But the jongleur was doomed. The men did not find him entertaining. Only Owen understood the Breton songs, and only with effort. The language was a bastard mix of Cornish and French. The men grew restive. Killing the jongleur, now that would be better sport. Owen argued to release him. And won.

Two nights later, the jongleur slipped into camp and slit the throats of the best prisoners, those who would cost the French nobility most in ransoms. Owen caught him. Ungrateful bastard. You were shown mercy. The leman crept up from behind. Owen spun round. A thrust meant for his neck opened the left eye instead. Roaring, he plunged the sword into her gut, retrieved it, and, turning round, did not see the jongleur on his left until he’d sliced into Owen’s shoulder. Calling on the bowman’s muscles that gave him enough strength to wield a broadsword with one hand, Owen sliced through the jongleur’s shoulder and down beneath the neck. Once the Bretons lay in pools of their own blood, Owen slipped to the ground in a hellfire of pain. His last soldierly deed.

Now what?

Everything must be learned over again. He’d not bothered till now, thinking the half-blind state temporary. A passing discomfort, like all his wounds. When an unseen obstacle tripped him up, he shrugged it off, a small penance for his many sins, a lesson in humility. Not an easy lesson. Familiar objects looked foreign. The world appeared lopsided. When he blinked, it winked out.

Owen learned the value of two eyes. With two, a mote in one had not blinded him. It was a mere discomfort. Now it rendered him as helpless as a babe in arms.

Complete darkness. He knew it possible. Death, too, was possible.

It changed everything.

The old Duke argued that Owen’s loss of sight did not render him useless – an archer aimed with one eye shut. And the strength would return to his shoulder with work. But Owen saw his blinding as the result of his own faulty judgment and the shoulder wound as the inevitable result of his blinding. A one-eyed man was vulnerable. He would endanger those with whom he fought.

Lancaster let him be for a time, then surprised him. “You are a natural mimic, Owen Archer. In my service you have mannered yourself a knight. Your accent is rough, but the marcher lords carry the accents of their borders. And better than a lordling, you are a free man. No one owns you, you have no family honor to defend, you do not seek power through secret alliances. I can trust you. With a little education I might use you well as my eyes and my ears. What say you?”

Owen turned his head like a bird to study his lord with his good eye. Lancaster possessed a strange humor and was adept at maintaining a level voice, devoid of emotion. But at this moment the old Duke’s gaze was level, lacking amusement.

“I would be your spy?”

The old Duke grinned. “Yet another virtue. A blunt thrust to the heart of things.”

“A spy with one eye would seem almost as useless as a one-eyed archer, my lord.” Best that he say it. Someone would.

“Not to mention how conspicuous you are with your leather patch and angry scar.” The old Duke chuckled, enjoying the moment. “Your unlikeliness becomes a disguise.”

“An interesting line of reasoning,” Owen said.

The old Duke threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Spoken with a lordling’s delicacy. Excellent.” A sudden sobering. Lancaster leaned forward. “My son-in-law called me a master tactician. And that I am, Owen Archer. Power is not held by attending the King and fighting battles. I need trustworthy spies. You were of great value as Captain of Archers. You can be of greater value as my eyes and ears. But you must know the players and the plots. You must read well both men and their letters. Will you apply yourself to the learning of this?”

A spy worked alone. Owen’s incompleteness would endanger no one but himself. It appealed to him. “Aye, my lord. Gladly.”

God was merciful in His designs. Owen spent the night in chapel giving thanks. He might yet prove useful.

Two years later Owen stood in the back of Westminster Abbey church, part of the old Duke’s funeral retinue. God had lifted him up to strike him down once more. He could not expect that the old Duke had arranged for his future. If the dukedom had passed on to Lancaster’s own son, perhaps that might have been. But the old Duke had only daughters. The new Duke of Lancaster, John of Gaunt, was a son-in-law, husband to the old Duke’s daughter Blanche, and he was the son of King Edward, which made him a powerful lord in his own right. He could hardly be expected to employ a one-eyed Welsh spy. Owen had thought much on his future the last few days. He had some money earned in the Duke’s service. His best plan so far was to arrange passage to the continent and on to Italy. Many princes, much intrigue. Someone would find him useful.

He worked on his aim until his good eye blurred with fatigue and his arms and shoulders twitched. Still a sure shot, almost as strong as before. But vulnerable on the left. He worked on spinning from a crouch, and strengthened his neck so he could turn sharp.

And then John Thoresby, Lord Chancellor of England and Archbishop of York, sent to Kenilworth for him. Thoresby was in London seeing to the King’s business. Owen was to join him there.