Кэндис Робб - The Apothecary Rose

An interesting puzzle. Owen liked the prospect. “What inquiries have you made so far?”

“A few questions, enough to discover that Abbot Campian thinks they both died of natural causes. Hopes they did, is more like it. He fears we’ll wrongly accuse his Infirmarian, Brother Wulfstan. And the Archdeacon of York assures me that if there had been a hint of trouble his Summoner would know of it. I hand it to you, Owen Archer. Disregard them. Begin at the beginning.”

“In what guise shall I present myself in York?”

“I think that something as close to the truth as possible will suit the situation. Present yourself as a soldier who has lost his taste for killing and wishes to begin afresh. You are looking for honest work in the city, with a small behest from your late lord to support you in the meantime. My secretary, Jehannes, will doubtless come up with something before you arrive in York. You will of course have all the funds you need. You will go to Jehannes when you arrive, and whenever you have need of anything. The Archdeacon of York would normally arrange all this, but I would rather he not know about your purpose.”

“You suspect him?”

Thoresby smiled. “I suspect everyone at this point.”

“Everyone but Jehannes.”

Thoresby nodded.

“And after I complete this task, what then?”

“We will see.”

Owen left with mixed feelings. No need to take ship to Italy. He had an interesting puzzle to solve. But it was a mental challenge, not at all a physical one. Fishing for clues, catching people in lies. Not his best talents. It bothered him a little. What bothered him more was presenting himself as one who had lost his taste for killing. Did the Archbishop think that true? It was not. Given a just cause, he would kill again. He had not lost his nerve. Did the Archbishop think him a coward? His face grew hot.

But no. The Archbishop would not hire a coward. He must push that thought from his mind. Doubts would keep him from doing his best. And he must succeed. Success would secure his future in England. God still watched over him.

Owen headed back to Kenilworth the next morning. Gaunt had come to the castle for Christmas and would remain there with his retinue while the roads were too muddy for wagons top-heavy with household items. Owen hoped that of his old comrades-in-arms who had remained in Gaunt’s service, someone would have known Fitzwilliam. He was not certain, for he had divorced himself from his old friends when he became a spy, wanting nothing to remind him of the old times.

He arrived late in the day, in time to find his friends resting from a day of training the young recruits. Bertold, who had succeeded him as Captain of Archers, greeted him warmly. With him were Lief, Gaspare, and Ned. The five had fought together in France. It was Bertold and Lief who had found Owen bleeding and delirious with pain near the corpses of the jongleur and his leman.

The four archers sat around a smoking brazier in Bertold’s quarters, a small but private room that was one of the rewards for attaining the status of captain in Lancaster’s company, enjoying another luxury, a small cask of ale.

“Being Captain’s changed you not a whit.” Owen tugged at Bertold’s shaggy black hair, pulled back with a greasy leather thong, though it curled wildly about his scarred face wherever it could escape.

“No need to put on airs to train archers,” Bertold said. “’Tis not the place for lordlings.”

“True enough,” Owen said.

Doe-eyed Ned lifted his tankard to salute Owen. “You’ll never look a lordling with that patch.”

“Aye. But the ladies like it.”

Laughing, Gaspare made room on the bench beside him. He knew the weakness women had for the right scars. Tall, handsome, broad in the shoulders, he’d seduced many a young woman by asking her to kiss the scar that ran from his ear to his lips, where the knife had left a permanent crease, and then asking if they would like to see where the wound continued on his chest. “You can’t be getting much of a chance to try out the ladies sitting at the higher tables. Those ladies are after rank.”

“They wed rank. I said nothing about wedding.”

They all laughed.

“So you’re not hungering for the life of a soldier?” Gaspare asked.

The question was like a blow, but Owen chose to ignore it. “How are the new recruits?”

“Soft as always,” Bertold growled.

Lief, a huge man from the north country, frowned at a reed he was hollowing out. Owen looked at Lief’s large, thick fingers and was newly amazed at the delicacy with which the man used them. “They come along a bit slower than when you had the training of them. No Welsh fairy tales to inspire them.” Lief kept his eyes on his work, but Owen could see the smile beneath the red beard.

Bertold handed Owen a tankard. “You’re looking in need of this.”

Owen accepted it with thirsty gratitude and drained it in one gulp. His friends cheered and slapped him on the back.

“So. You may talk fancy, but you still drink like one of us. Do you bring us good news?” Bertold asked in a more serious tone. “I’d welcome you to take back this thankless burden. I never asked to be Captain of Archers.”

“Sorry, old friend. I’m to leave on a mission to the north country, and I’d a mind to see my old comrades before I started.”

Lief blew into the reed, clearing out the dust, held it up to the firelight, squinted into it, then leaned close to Owen, lowering his voice. “So what’s Gaunt’s business up north, then? The Scots, is it?”

“It’s not for him,” Owen said. “For the Lord Chancellor and Archbishop of York.”

“Thoresby?” Gaspare sounded surprised.

“Aye.”

Bertold shook his head. “Churchmen are queer ones to ferret out. How come you to be working for him?”

“The old Duke recommended me to His Grace.”

Ned studied him thoughtfully. “The eye’s no better?”

Owen shook his head. “Nor is it likely to be.”

“You could still be Captain of Archers,” Bertold said quietly.

“I haven’t changed my mind about that. Nor will I.”

Bertold shrugged.

“I did also have news for any of his old mates about Sir Oswald Fitzwilliam. Do you know who they might be?”

Bertold frowned. “News about Fitzwilliam?”

“Aye.”

“What’s the bastard gotten into now?” Lief snarled.

“He’s dead.”

Ned leaned forward. “Oh, aye? And who do we thank for that?”

“I couldn’t say. Camp fever. Bad case of it struck him down at St. Mary’s Abbey in York.”

“Pah.” Lief spat into the rushes at his feet. “And when was he near a camp, I’d like to know?”

“He’d seen no action?”

Ned laughed. “Depends on what kind you mean. He’d had his fill of hand-to-hand from sticking his nose where it wasn’t wanted.”

“A spy?”

They all grew quiet.

“I take no offense. I had little time for spies when I was one of you.”

Bertold slapped him on the knee. “You’ll ever be one of us.”

Owen held up his tankard. “Then pour me another.”

They proceeded to get bleary-eyed while they talked.

“And so Fitzwilliam’s dead, is he?” Ned said, coming back round to Owen’s news.

“That’s what I heard.”

Lief spat again into the rushes. “And good riddance.”

“You had trouble with him?”

“Trouble? Pah. Nothing he touched but didn’t turn to trouble.”

Ned kicked Lief’s boot. “Still sore over fair Alice?”

“Hmpf. That whore. I’m better off without her. She would have knifed me in my sleep some night. The type.”

Gaspare leaned over to Owen. “Was going to marry her, see. Till he smelled that whore’s son in her bed.”