Кэндис Робб - The Apothecary Rose

“Wulfstan, the Archbishop is here to speak with you.”

His Abbot’s voice. High-pitched with tension. An unpleasant voice. Wulfstan preferred the other.

“He wishes to ask you about Lucie Wilton.”

Blue eyes. A gentle touch. A smile. Lucie Wilton. Wulfstan shivered. The bubble in which he floated dipped precipitously, then righted itself. Lucie Wilton stirred an unpleasant strand of memory. He did not want to think about her.

“Wulfstan?”

Why would they not go away?

“Nicholas Wilton is dead, Wulfstan. We know he poisoned your friend Montaigne. Did Lucie Wilton have a hand in that?”

Montaigne. Gentle pilgrim. Darkness. Merciful Mother Mary, that was it. That was the horrible deed for which he could not be absolved. Not with any amount of penance. His fault. He should have known. It was his duty to know. He had murdered his friend. He had failed him. Arrogance. And dear Lucie Wilton. Could she have had a hand in the poisoning? Or known and not warned him? Could she have cold-bloodedly looked away as his friend was poisoned?

“No!” The bubble burst. His heart jolted. He clawed the stones, struggling to rise. Strong arms came to his aid. Wulfstan opened his eyes and stumbled, blinded by the flickering light of the altar candles. The strong arms steadied him.

“Come, sit down on this bench.” It was the Archbishop who spoke with the pleasant voice and helped him so gently. Thoresby himself. The Lord Chancellor’s chain of office shone on his chest. He smelled richly of scented oils.

“I must know the character of the woman, Brother Wulfstan. You must tell me about her.”

Michaelo sometimes smelled like this. Spicy, musky, flowery all at once. A vain young man. But harmless, Wulfstan had thought. Until Michaelo had tried to poison him. Had come perilously close to succeeding.

“Why me? Why would he want to kill me?” Wulfstan wondered aloud.

“Wulfstan.” Abbot Campian filled his vision. “You are wandering.” To Thoresby, Campian said, “He is not fully recovered. But he begged to be allowed to come to chapel and do penance.”

“Penance? For what sin, Brother Wulfstan?”

Wulfstan hung his head. “I should have recognized the nature of the concoction. I should have recognized the symptoms of aconite poisoning. Your ward should not have died. Or Geoffrey.” He wept.

Dame Phillippa and Bess had persuaded Lucie and Owen to go and sleep at the inn. They would prepare Nicholas and sit with him. One of the Archbishop’s men guarded the inn, another the shop. The other two had gone to inform Thoresby of the Archdeacon’s death.

Owen looked in on Lucie before going to his own room. She stood at the window, her arms wrapped tightly around her, as if braced for the next blow.

“You must try to sleep.”

“When I close my eyes, I see Nicholas in Anselm’s arms.” Her voice was full of tears. “I cannot bear it.”

Owen stood for a moment, uncertain whether he was welcome. But he could not leave her. “Come. Lie down. I’ll talk with you until you sleep.”

She let him lead her to the bed. “Tell me how you met the Archbishop.”

“No. That would keep you wakeful.” Instead, he told her about his archers, naming each one and describing him. Lucie was soon asleep.

Owen nodded off in the chair beside her.

Lucie awoke at the cock’s crow, disoriented. “What is this place?”

Owen jerked awake.

“What is this place?” she repeated.

“The best room at the York. We came here last night.”

“The Archdeacon,” Lucie whispered, touching her head gingerly. Bruises had appeared on her face and throat, revealing to Owen that they had struggled more than he’d guessed.

The sight of the bruises filled Owen with a rage that killing Anselm had not satisfied. He must master this. “Lie still.” He pressed a cold, damp cloth to Lucie’s head. “You fought bravely.”

Her eyes looked beyond Owen. “I wanted to kill him,” she said. “I was angry with you for stealing the kill from me.”

“It is all over now.”

“What am I to do?”

“Do?”

“I have lost everything. My husband. The shop. Everything.”

“I have told the Archbishop you are innocent.”

“That will not matter.”

“I will do my best.”

Lucie pushed the cloth away and sat up with effort. “You will continue in the Archbishop’s service?”

“I may wind up in his dungeon in the Old Baile.”

“Why? You came to my defense. Why would you wind up in his dungeon for that?”

“He did not want Anselm disposed of in the city. He wanted it to happen away from witnesses.” And he’d already questioned Owen’s loyalty.

“So you should have let Anselm kill me?”

“Of course not. It is a matter of whether His Grace believes me.” Owen freshened the cloth and put it back on her forehead. “I saw the knife slash on Anselm’s face. That took daring.”

“I was driven. I wanted to blind him and then stab him in the heart. You see how successful I was. I’d never used a knife on someone before. It wasn’t – His skull–” She coughed, doubled over. He held her head over a pan as she retched.

John Thoresby removed his chain of office and his cloak. Blood did not easily wash out of fur. Then he bent down to examine his Archdeacon. The neck had been neatly snapped. Archer was tidy and quick. It pleased the Archbishop. It also disturbed him. He had wanted this to happen, yes. But not in York. Not so close to the minster. Or if it had to happen in the city, then within his liberty, where he had jurisdiction. Not that anyone involved would talk. But in the middle of the city. Some soul, unable to sleep, might have seen the Archdeacon arrive. Seen the commotion. And for whom had Owen murdered Anselm? For his lord, or for the pretty widow?

Thoresby knew how to deal with the widow. Wulfstan had said she expected to be made a master apothecary soon. He said she wanted that very much. And Nicholas had wanted it for her. That suited Thoresby. He liked Mistress Wilton’s spirit. She would have made a good abbess. He would agree to her becoming a master in exchange for her silence about this affair. He did not doubt she would cooperate.

But Archer. What to do with him? He knew everything, had no loyalties, no handles to hold him down, keep him to his silence. Unless it was the widow. If Archer had murdered Anselm for the widow, that might be something. Thoresby would watch him.

The requiems were small and quiet, but not for any shame. Both Anselm and Nicholas were laid to rest in hallowed ground. In the apothecary’s case, Thoresby blessed a corner of the Wiltons’ garden. It was a small matter, but the widow was touchingly grateful. He wanted her that way.

Thoresby watched Archer at the grave. If the man was in love with the widow, he should be elated. She was now free, though of course a discreet period of mourning ought to be observed. But Archer stood there with a dark light in his eye, close to but never touching Lucie Wilton. As if he could not see through to that earthly reward.

After the ceremony, Thoresby drew Owen aside. “What is this gloom?”

Archer gave him a queer look. “None of it is right. All of York is making a martyr out of Anselm. They say he was ambushed as he returned to the city to give the last rites to his friend. That God saw his loyalty and let him live long enough to help his friend to Heaven.”

“It is almost the truth, Archer.”

“The people should know the whole truth. They should know what Anselm had done.”

Thoresby looked down at his ring, discomfited by the fanatic glint in the man’s eye. “It was I put the story of Anselm’s noble death on people’s lips,” Thoresby said quietly. “If I were to correct it, tell people that my Archdeacon had killed Digby, tried to kill you and Mistress Wilton, then we have scandal at the minster. Folk do not bequeath money to churches connected with scandals. And the King wants York to be a grand minster, because his son is buried there, William of Hatfield, who died so young, still a babe, because he was too good to live. Edward likes that image. The Hatfield chapel must be in a church worthy of the little angel. Untouched by scandal. So you see, the romantic story of boyhood friends is the only story they must ever hear.”