Кэндис Робб - The Apothecary Rose

Lief got to his feet with a roar, making as if to smash Gaspare’s head with his fist. Bertold pushed him back down on the bench.

“Silly girl. She’d have been better off with Lief.”

“Fitzwilliam married her?”

“Married?” Bertold grinned. “He’s the ward of your new lord. But then you’d know that. Why would he be wanting to marry the likes of Alice, a kitchen maid?”

“Ah.”

“I’ve known worse than him.” Gaspare shrugged. “But how’d you come to know him, Captain? He came after you’d gone up the table.”

“I heard of him at Thoresby’s table. As you say, His Grace’s ward.”

“What was he doing at an abbey?” Lief asked.

“They say he’d gone on pilgrimage to York.”

“Aye,” said Gaspare. “He left before Christmastide. Before we left the Savoy.”

“That long ago? He arrived in York much later.”

Ned shook his head. “Only a fool such as he would travel north in winter.”

“Aye,” said Bertold. “The Duchess called Lord March mad for traveling that route to fetch his lady.”

“Now there could lie a story,” Ned said. “Fitzwilliam knew Lord March’s lady well. He heads north to see her, the husband follows. Are you sure it was camp fever killed him?”

“’Tis the story I heard. But I know nothing of this lady. He was to see her on his way?”

Ned shrugged. “Who’s to say? Lord March has a holding south of York. At Christmastide the Duchess named his lady, Jocelyn, to be part of her household. So he hied himself north to fetch her straightway, though the Duchess said ’twas a cruel thing to make her travel through the freezing mud, that she could come at Easter. But he’d have none of that, greedy bastard. The stipend doesn’t begin until she’s in residence, you see. He was loath to lose pay while she dallied up north until Eastertide.”

Gaspare snorted. “Dally’s the right word for what she’s about, from what I hear.”

Owen felt hopeful. If it proved so easy as this, that Fitzwilliam had gone north, stopped with this Lady Jocelyn, and been seriously wounded by her jealous lord, then his investigation might be concluded with no need to spend February on the road north. “So this Lady Jocelyn is now at Kenilworth?”

“Aye,” Gaspare said. “You’ll see her sitting high with the other ladies-in-waiting this evening. And Lord March holding forth nearby.”

Lady Jocelyn stared off into the ether with a bored expression while a companion chattered on about the weather. Owen would have chosen the pleasant-faced companion over Fitzwilliam’s mistress. Lady Jocelyn had a charming, childlike face, rounded and dimpled and dotted with a rosebud mouth, but her eyes were flinty. She regarded him as he approached, calculating his worth to her, Owen guessed. The tiny mouth smiled.

“My Lady Jocelyn.” He bowed to her.

She put a hand to her bosom, her dress fashionably low, revealing much, and averted her eyes momentarily, but they returned to regard him with a predatory attention. “You are a guest of the Duke?”

“A retainer of the old Duke, here to collect my belongings. I am now in the household of the Lord Chancellor.”

That lit a small spark in the eyes. A member of a powerful household. “Your name, sir?”

“Owen Archer, my lady.”

“You sought a word with me?”

“I have a message for you from” – Owen looked at the companion, then back to Jocelyn – “an old acquaintance.”

A faint flush. “I am afraid my duties consume my days, from tending to my lady’s wardrobe to walking her lapdog in midmorning, out beyond the rose garden. That alone takes up most of the morning till the noon meal.”

“Then it is that activity I must praise for putting such enchanting roses in your cheeks, though it keeps you so busy. Perhaps I will have the good fortune to see you on one of your walks. I often walk out to be alone with my thoughts.” Owen bowed to her, then to her companion, “My ladies,” and withdrew.

Bertold called to him as he moved to go out into the night. “Share a tankard with us.”

Owen shook his head, knowing that they would get maudlin about the old days and drink until they could barely stumble back to their cots. He would wake on the morrow with the devil’s hammer pounding in his head and a mouth as dry as the sands of Hell. He did not wish to meet with the Lady Jocelyn in such state.

“I can sit no more, my friend. I must walk off the journey so I can sleep lying still tonight.”

“A word to a friend, then. Watch yourself with Lady Jocelyn. Lord March is ambitious. He will look the other way if his lady plays with the powerful, but not with a servant of the household, no matter how well you speak.”

Bertold had tossed out the right bait. As Owen sat down with his friend, he sent up a silent prayer that he could glean what he needed from Bertold this night and get away before the past came pouring over him in a great wave of ale. Already his head ached from the earlier tankards.

“The lady’s a bit round in the face and dull-witted for your tastes, I would ha’ thought,” said Bertold.

“And where is this Lord March I’m to be wary of?”

Bertold nodded his head toward the table to the left of the Duke’s high table. “The bald one with the mouth.”

Lord March was the focus of attention at the table, leaning across it to yell, red-faced, at a smirking companion. He was a tall, lanky man in the latest fashion, sleeves so wide their ends were lost in the rushes at his feet, leggings so tight it was plain for all to see that his argument not only engrossed but aroused him.

“He looks a character.”

“At the moment he’s favored by the right people, so I for one would not cross him.”

“Gaunt favors him?”

“He has a canny mind for contracts.”

“I’ll watch my step.”

The morning sun was hot on Owen’s face, though the air was sharp and a brisk wind got under his clothes to chill what the sun could not reach. The scar on his face burned and tugged in the cold, dry air, and the need to squint in the brightness made it worse. He’d a mind to return to the pallet he’d made up in Bertold’s room and waste the day away in sleep, but he had his job, he must follow it through. As he passed along the beds of the kitchen garden, Owen sensed eyes on him, but the only person in sight was an old servant raking the path. Owen paused several times to break off a sprig and smell the familiar herbs. He favored spicy, tangy herbs. His mother had fed them a mash of rosemary and sage in winter to keep their blood hot. She’d prepared it in a wooden bowl that carried the scent of the mash year round.

A long time since he’d thought about that. Odd how the scent of a plant could make him feel as if he could reach out and touch his mother’s face. Her smooth, soft skin. Her coarse, curly hair, like his, only silver and bronze. Ten years or more since he’d seen her. Her hair would be all silver now, or white. Her cheeks and eyes sunken. She would look old and weary. But he was quite sure she was still alive. He would know if she had died, if his mother’s strong spirit had passed from this world. Wouldn’t he? Best not to dwell on it.

The paths of the rose garden were wider than those of the kitchen garden, and edged with river rocks. Here the Duchess would stroll with her maidens and sit on a sunny spring day. The paths twined among themselves and met at an urn that was empty now but for a few dry leaves that skittered in jagged circles within the bowl. In the beds, the brown twigs that would fill out and bloom in summer were heaped with straw. A smell of decay hung in the air. Depressing. He hurried through.

The holly hedge that bordered the rose garden was a welcome goal, its dark green leaves shining and bristling like men at arms awaiting battle. Or were the bright red berries spots of blood? Were they standing at attention at the end of the slaughter, hoping that their lord would notice their many wounds and give them leave to take ship home? Owen shook off the thought. What a gloom this winter garden lay over his soul. Or was it last night’s ale?