Apothecary Rose: The First Owen Archer Mystery Read online

  The

  Apothecary

  Rose

  A MEDIEVAL MYSTERY

  Candace Robb

  MANDARIN

  A Mandarin Paperback

  THE APOTHECARY ROSE

  First published in Great Britain 1994 by William Heinemann Ltd and Mandarin Paperbacks imprints of Reed International Books Ltd Michelin House, 81 Fulham Road, London SW6RB and Auckland, Melbourne, Singapore and Toronto

  Reprinted 1994 (three times), 1995 (five times), 1996 (three times), 1997

  Copyright © 1993 by Candace M. Robb

  The author has asserted her moral rights to this work.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library isbn o 7493 1883 x

  Printed and bound in Great Britain

  by Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berkshire

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Glossary

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Author’s Note

  To Gen, who first got me to England;

  to Jacqui, the apothecary; and

  to Charlie, who always makes it so.

  Acknowledgements

  ‘The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne,

  Th’assay so hard, so sharp the conquerynge,

  The dredful joye, alwey that slit so yerne…

  Geoffrey Chaucer, ‘The Parlement of Foules’

  I thank Lisa Healy for her long-term faith in me and a crucial editing; Paul Zibton for the map, sanity lattes, and a critical reading; Christie Andersen for allowing me the time to write this book; Liz Armstrong for making all my medieval literature courses a joy; Paula Moreschi for keeping mind and body sound through it all; Evan Marshall for turning bad news intogood news; Michael Denneny and Keith Kahla for making me feel welcome at St. Martin’s; the staffs of the University of York’s Borthwick Institute and the Morrell Library; the York Archaeological Trust; Dr Tom Lockwood, chairman of the English Department at the University of Washington; and most of all, Charles Robb for providing time, computer resources, food, drink, criticism, enthusiasm, travel arrangements, and organisation, for outfitting me for exploring ruins in Yorkshire in a very cold December, and for insisting that a house is not a home without two spoiled cats.

  Glossary

  Archdeacon

  Each diocese was divided into two or more archdeaconries; the archdeacons were appointed by the archbishop or bishop and carried out most of his duties.

  Jongleur

  A minstrel who sang, juggled, tumbled; French term, but widely used in an England where Norman French was just fading from prevalence.

  Leman

  Mistress; another French term widely used in medieval England.

  Minster

  A cathedral originally founded as a monastery(in the fourteenth century the minster was being rebuilt for the second time); to this day, York’s cathedral of St. Peter is called York Minster.

  Summoner

  An assistant to an archdeacon who cited people to the archbishop’s or bishop’s consistory court, which was held once a month. The court was staffed by the bishop’s officials and lawyers and had jurisdiction over the diocesan clergy and the morals, wills and marriages of the laity. The salary of a summoner was commission on fines levied by consistory courts - petty graft formed a large part of his income. More commonly called an ‘apparitor,’ but I use the term Chaucer used to call to mind the Canterbury pilgrim he so vividly described.

  Prologue

  Brother Wulfstan checked the colour of his patient’s eyes, tasted his sweat. The physick had only weakened the man. The Infirmarian feared he might lose this pilgrim. Trembling with disappointment, Wulfstan sat himself down at his worktable to think through the problem.

  The pilgrim had arrived pale and hollow-cheeked at St. Mary’s Abbey. Released from the Black Prince’s service because of wounds and a bout with camp fever, the man had resolved to come on pilgrimage to York, his wounds making him more aware of his mortality than any sermon ever had. He’d endured a rough Channel crossing and a long ride north that had reopened his wounds. Wulfstan had stopped the bleeding with periwinkle, but the recurrence of the fever caught him ill prepared. The Infirmarian had little experience with the ailments of soldiers, having lived in the cloistered peace of St. Mary’s since childhood. He rarely ventured farther from the abbey than York Minster or Nicholas Wilton’s apothecary, both within a short walk.

  For two days and a night Wulfstan mixed physicks, applied plasters, and prayed. At last, exhausted and sick at heart, he thought of Nicholas Wilton. It was a sign of his hysteria that Wulfstan had not thought of the apothecary before - Nicholas had worked a wondrous cure on a guest of the Archbishop who’d been near death with camp fever. He would know what to do. Wulfstan breathed three Aves in thanksgiving as his spirits soared. God had shown the way.

  The Infirmarian instructed his novice, Henry, to keep the pilgrim’s lips moist and to prepare a mint tisane for him to sip if he roused. Then Wulfstan hurried through the cloister to ask the Abbot’s permission to go into the city. He brushed at the powder and bits of dried herbs on his habit. Abbot Campian was a fastidious man. He believed that a tidy appearance bespoke a tidy mind. Wulfstan knew the Abbot could hardly disagree with his mission, but he found comfort in rules, as the Abbot did in tidiness. Wulfstan believed that if he obeyed and did his best, he could not fail to win a place, though humble, in the heavenly chorus. To be at peace in the arms of the Lord for all eternity. He could imagine no better fate. And rules showed him the way to that eternal contentment.

  With his Abbot’s permission, Wulfstan stepped out into the December afternoon. Bah. It had begun to snow. All through November and into December he’d awaited the first snow, and it came now, when he had an urgent errand. If he’d been a superstitious peasant, he would have suspected the fates were against him today. But he fortified himself with the conviction that as God had seen him through all the small troubles of his life, surely He could not mean to desert Wulfstan at this late date.

  The Infirmarian pulled up his cowl and headed into the wind as fast as he could, blinking and puffing, out the Abbey gates and onto the cobbled street, into the bustle of York. The cacophony of the city startled Wulfstan out of his single-minded hurry. He became aware of a stitch in his side. His heart hammered. Such signs of frailty frightened him. He was behaving like a fool. He was too old to move so quickly, especially on cobbles made slippery with the f
irst snow. Holding his side, he paused at the crossroads for a passing cart. The snow came down thick now, great, fluffy flakes that stung as they melted on his flushed cheeks. Overheat and then chill. You’re an idiot, Wulfstan. He turned down Davygate, trying to moderate his speed. But Wilton’s shop was just past the next crossing. He was so close to his goal. He picked up his pace again, propelled forward by fear of losing his patient.

  Wulfstan had grown fond of the pilgrim in a short time. The man was a soft-spoken, gentle knight who identified himself only as a pilgrim wishing to pray, meditate, make his peace with God. He carried with him an old sorrow, the love of a woman who belonged to someone else. He spoke of her as the gentlest, most beautiful woman, whose purgatory on earth was to be tied to an old man who gave her no joy. ‘What would she think of me now, eh, my friend?’ His eyes would mist over. ‘But she is gone.’ The pilgrim came daily to the infirmary to have Wulfstan change his bandages. During these visits he had discovered the herb garden, how its beauty comforted the heart, even in winter. ‘She found solace in a garden much like this’ Many a day the pilgrim lingered there while Wulfstan puttered in the beds. He said little, observing the monastic rule of speaking only when necessary. He was ever ready to assist with carrying or fetching, sensitive to Wulfstan’s old bones. Wulfstan enjoyed the man’s quiet companionship and appreciated his help, though he knew accepting it was sinful indulgence.

  So he had taken it hard when the pilgrim collapsed in chapel. The man had been keeping a vigil that night in memory of his love. Brother Sebastian found him in a swoon on the cold stone floor at Lauds. Thanks be to God for the night office, or the pilgrim might have lain there till dawn and caught a mortal chill.

  Even so, he was very ill. Wulfstan hurried. By the time he pushed open Wilton’s shop door, the old monk was panting and bent double, clutching his side. The dimness of the shop and his own weakness blinded him momentarily; he could not see if anyone was in the shop. ‘God’s peace be with you,’ he gasped. No answer. ‘Nicholas? Lucie?’

  The beaded curtain in the kitchen doorway rattled as someone stepped through. ‘Brother Wulfstan!’ Lucie Wilton lifted the hinged counter and took Wulfstan’s hand. ‘You look dreadful.’ She smelled of the outdoors. ‘Your hands are like ice.’

  He straightened up with caution. ‘You’ve been in the garden.’ His breathless, shaky voice surprised him. He’d pushed himself even further than he’d thought.

  ‘We wanted to cover the roses with straw before the snow.’ Lucie Wilton held a spirit lamp up to his face. He blinked in the light. ‘Come back by the kitchen fire. Your cheeks are aflame. You’ll burst your heart hurrying so.’

  Wulfstan followed her behind the counter and through to the kitchen, where he accepted a bench beside the fire with humble gratitude. Old age and shortness of breath made impossible the polite habit of protesting against kindness. In the cheery kitchen he smiled on Mistress Wilton, who brightened his heart with beauty, gentleness, courtesy. She would have made her father proud at court, he was certain. Sir Robert was an old fool.

  She handed him a cup of warmed wine. ‘Now what brings you out in the snow? And in such haste?’ He told her the purpose of his errand. ‘Camp fever. You are tending a soldier?’ ‘No longer a soldier. With his grey beard and sad eyes, I think those days are over for him.’ Wulfstan glanced away from the kind concern in her face to the door that opened onto the garden. ‘I hate to steal Nicholas from his roses. Do you perhaps know the proper mixture?’

  ‘Nicholas has not yet tested me on it.’ ‘I hate to be a bother, but the man is so very ill.’ Lucie patted him on the shoulder. ‘Rest here while I fetch my husband.’

  Lucie was apprenticed to her husband, a situation not unusual. Wives commonly learned their husbands’ trades by working beside them. But Lucie’s apprenticeship had been formally arranged by Nicholas to ensure her future. Being sixteen years her senior, and of delicate health, he worried about her comfort after he passed on.

  Another man might have looked on her fair face and reasoned that she would remarry. And in Lucie’s case, perhaps marry better, closer to her original station in life. For Lucie was the daughter of Sir Robert D’Arby of Freythorpe Hadden,- she might have married a minor lord. Had her mother not died when Lucie was young, it would almost certainly have been so. But with the death of the fair Amelie, Sir Robert had become singularly uninterested in his only child’s lot in life. He’d sent her off to a convent, where Nicholas had discovered her and vowed to free her into a life more suited to her character. Wulfstan liked Nicholas Wilton for what he had done for Lucie. In the long run the apothecary would be a better inheritance than the settlement she might receive as a lord’s widow, and it made her independent.

  Nicholas came in, wiping his hands and shaking his head. ‘The snow was long in coming this year, but how it falls now!’ His thin face glowed with the cold, and his pale eyes shone. The apothecary’s garden was his passion.

  ‘Have you finished with the roses?’ Wulfstan asked. Gardening was the bond between them. And the lore of healing plants.

  ‘Almost.’ Nicholas sat down with the sigh of a pleasantly tired man. ‘Lucie tells me you have a pilgrim with camp fever.’

  ‘That is so. He’s bad, Nicholas. Weak and shivering.’

  ‘How long since his last bout with it?’

  ‘Five months.’

  More questions followed, the apothecary frowning and nodding. ‘Was he clear-headed when he arrived?’

  ‘Most lucid. While I tended his wounds he sometimes asked about the folk in York. He once fought beside Sir Robert in a French campaign.’

  Lucie looked up at that with a steely expression. She had little affection for her father.

  ‘Now there was an odd thing’ Wulfstan said. ‘He was upset with me when I said you had become Master in your father’s place, Nicholas. He insisted that you had died.’

  ‘Died?’ Nicholas whispered.

  Lucie crossed herself.

  Later, Wulfstan was to remember that it was then that Nicholas’s manner changed. He began to ask questions that, to Wulfstan’s mind, had little to do with a diagnosis - the soldier’s name, his appearance, his age, his purpose in coming to St. Mary’s, if he’d had visitors.

  Wulfstan had few answers. The pilgrim had wished to remain nameless; he’d made no mention of home or family; he was grey-haired, tall, with a soldier’s bearing even in his illness. No visitors, though he knew the folk at Freythorpe Hadden. And, apparently, knew of Nicholas. ‘But surely this is unimportant?’ The apothecary wasted precious time.

  Lucie Wilton touched her husband’s arm. He jumped as if her touch had burned him. ‘Brother Wulfstan must hurry back to his patient’ she said, regarding her husband with a worried look.

  Nicholas got up and began to pace. After an uncomfortable silence in which Wulfstan began to fear Nicholas was at a loss for a proper physick, the apothecary turned with an odd sigh. ‘My usual mixture will not suffice. Go back to your patient, Brother Wulfstan. I will follow with the physick before the day is out.’ He looked distracted, not meeting Wulfstan’s eyes.

  Wulfstan was disappointed. More delay. ‘It is not a simple case, then? Is it the wound that complicates it?’

  ‘It is never simple with camp fever.’

  Wulfstan crossed himself.

  Lucie put a comforting hand on his shoulder. ‘Is it very serious, Nicholas?’

  ‘I cannot say,’ he snapped. Then, thinking better of it, he bent and kissed her gently on the forehead. ‘There’s no need for you to stay, Lucie.’ His voice caressed her. ‘And no need to worry. You might finish up the last rose bed if you hurry.’

  ‘I thought I might learn something by watching you prepare the mixture.’

  Nicholas took her hand. ‘I will review it with you later, my love. But the snow will not wait.’ His eyes were affectionate, gentle, almost melancholy.

  Without further argument, Lucie donned her mantle and went out the garden door.


  Wulfstan sighed.

  ‘She is a treasure’ Nicholas said.

  Wulfstan agreed. ‘You are both blessed in your contentment.’

  Nicholas looked down at the floor and said nothing. It seemed to Wulfstan that his friend avoided meeting his eyes. Perhaps things were not so well between them. ‘So you will prepare a special mixture?’

  Nicholas clapped his hands, back to business. ‘And you must hasten back to your patient and ply him with mint to bring on a good sweat.’

  ‘I left Henry with sufficient instructions’ Wulfstan protested, but seeing Nicholas’s odd temper, he took his leave.

  A bitter cold return journey it was. Nicholas was right. The first snow made up for its tardiness.

  At dusk, as Wulfstan nodded by the pilgrim’s sickbed, he was wakened by a tap on his shoulder. Nicholas Wilton at last. But something was amiss with the apothecary. Wulfstan rubbed his eyes and squinted at the man. Nicholas’s eyes were too large in his pale face, as if he’d had a shock.

  ‘You do not look well, Nicholas. You should have sent someone else with the medicine’

  The patient moaned. His eyes flickered.

  Nicholas drew Wulfstan aside. ‘He looks worse than I expected’ he whispered. Ah, Wulfstan thought, that explained the expression on the apothecary’s face.

  ‘You must dose him at once!’ Nicholas said. ‘Hurry. A dram in boiling water. I’ll sit with him.’

  Wulfstan hastened to the fire.

  Apparently the pilgrim woke, for Wulfstan heard him cry out, then Nicholas’s voice murmuring some comfort. The sick man cried out again. Wulfstan was not surprised. The gentle knight burned with fever. Delirium was to be expected.

  He tested the water, impatient for it to boil. The pilgrim sobbed, At last the water boiled. Wulfstan measured with care, said a prayer over it, stirred well, and hurried with it to the sickbed.

  To his surprise, Nicholas was gone. He had left the pilgrim alone. ‘How odd to leave without a word’ Wulfstan muttered.