Apothecary Rose: The First Owen Archer Mystery Page 2

  ‘Murderer’ the pilgrim hissed. ‘Poisoner.’ His face was red and slick with sweat.

  ‘Calm yourself, my friend’ Wulfstan said. ‘This emotion does you no good.’

  The pilgrim’s breathing was tortured. He thrashed from side to side, his eyes wild.

  Wulfstan had all he could do to calm him, whispering reassurances. ‘Fever visions, my friend. Visitations of Lucifer to break your will. Pay them no heed.’

  At last the man’s eyes cleared, ‘He was a nightmare?’

  ‘Yes, yes. There are no murderers here.’ That was true enough. Wulfstan held the cup up to the man’s pale lips. ‘Now drink this down. Rest is what you need. A healing slumber.’

  The watery, frightened eyes moved to the cup, then back to Wulfstan. ‘You prepared it?’

  ‘With my own hands, my friend. Now drink.’

  He did so. ‘Then he is dead. I did kill him’ he whispered. The dreadful thought seemed to calm him. Soon, warm and drowsy, the pilgrim drifted into sleep.

  But shortly after Compline he began to moan, then woke in a sweat, complaining of pains in his arms and legs. Perhaps Wulfstan had been wrong to call it camp fever. But his friend had not exhibited these symptoms before. Wulfstan tried to soothe his limbs with cloths soaked in witch hazel, but the pain persisted.

  He summoned Henry. Together they prepared poultices and wrapped the pilgrim’s limbs. Nothing helped. Wulfstan was at his wits’ end. He had done his best. No one could fault his efforts. The Lord knew how deeply he felt the pilgrim’s suffering. He considered sending for Master Saurian, the physician who tended the monks when they were ill, but he had been little help when the pilgrim fell ill, and it was late, and Wulfstan feared Saurian would simply say God’s will be done. Of course God’s will be done. Wulfstan did not have to drag Saurian out in the middle of the night to be told that. But God’s will was not always clear to man.

  The pilgrim’s breathing became laboured. He gasped for air. Henry brought pillows to prop up the sick man’s head and help him breathe.

  It was a long night. The wind found every chink in the infirmary, and moaned at the door. The hearth smoked and made the Infirmarian’s already teary eyes burn. Once, when Wulfstan bent over the pilgrim to blot his brow, the man grabbed his habit and pulled him close, whispering, ‘He has poisoned me. I did not kill him. I did not avenge her.’ Then he sank back on ‘It is the fever that burns within you, my friend,’ Wulfstan said aloud, in case the pilgrim could hear and be comforted. ‘You would be worse without the medicine.’ The man did not stir.

  How unfortunate that the pilgrim mistook for a murderer the man who had come to save him. A murderer the pilgrim thought he’d killed. Was that why he had been so certain Nicholas Wilton was dead? He had tried to kill him ? Gentle Mary and all the saints, no wonder Nicholas took alarm. But as Wulfstan kept watch over the suffering pilgrim, he convinced himself that it was all fever dreams. He could not imagine the gentle pilgrim attacking Nicholas Wilton.

  Wulfstan watched in the smoky darkness. His heart sank as the pilgrim’s faint stretched on and on. His breathing was shallow, with now and then an explosive gasp, as if he could not get enough air. Wulfstan But for all their care, the pilgrim’s shallow breathing ceased at dawn.

  Heartsick, Wulfstan retired to the chapel to pray for his friend’s soul.

  Henry came to Wulfstan as he nodded over his prayers. Archdeacon Anselm’s Summoner, Potter Digby, wished to speak with him.

  Wulfstan could not imagine what Digby might want with him. It was a Summoner’s dreadful duty to investigate rumours of sinners who’d broken diocesan law, and to summon those he judged guilty to the Archbishop’s consistory court to be fined. For this he earned a commission. And for this Digby was disliked among the townspeople, who knew he waited to catch them in marital infidelities, marriage being a sacrament and infidelities his most lucrative charges. The lay clergy seldom had much money to pay for their sins. Many said it was the Summoner’s unholy diligence that kept the stonemasons and glaziers busy on the cathedral. Wulfstan thought it a pity that the beautiful minster should be linked to such greed. In truth, he disliked Potter Digby with a sinful energy. As Wulfstan followed Henry to the cloister, he wondered what unpleasantness brought the man to him.

  Potter Digby, it turned out, was on private business. He’d found Nicholas Wilton in a faint near the abbey gate the night before and hailed a passing cart to carry him home. Wilton was in such a state he did not recognise his own wife. Digby thought Mistress Wilton would appreciate Brother Wulfstan’s presence.

  ‘Nicholas? How strange.’ Wulfstan thought back on Nicholas’s abrupt departure. ‘He did behave oddly last night. But you must forgive me. I have been up all night. I lost a patient and friend. I cannot come. I would be no good to them.’

  ‘Wilton is bad. His wife is frightened.’ Digby shrugged. ‘But perhaps Master Saurian -‘

  ‘Saurian? He’ll be no comfort to Mistress Wilton.’ Wulfstan wavered. Though trembling with fatigue and a long fast, he could not abandon gentle Lucie Wilton to the cold Master Saurian.

  ‘Then whom do you suggest, Brother Wulfstan?’

  The Infirmarian shrugged. ‘I will ask my Abbot’s permission.’

  Once more Wulfstan braved the snow, his old bones chilled and aching. It did not matter. He could not leave Lucie Wilton alone at such a time.

  He need not have worried. Bess Merchet, proprietress of the York Tavern, around the corner from Wilton’s apothecary, met him at the kitchen door. Wulfstan was pleased to see her competent bulk in the doorway. She was a sensible woman, regardless of the brandywine on her breath, and a good friend to Lucie.

  ‘She’ll be that pleased to see you, Brother Wulfstan.’

  Bess hustled him in and set a cup of something hot in his hands. ‘Drink that up and catch your breath. I’ll see how things stand up above.’ She disappeared up the stairs.

  Wulfstan sniffed at the mixture of brandywine and herbs, then decided it would do him a world of good. It soon settled his heart back in its caging and dulled the pain of loss.

  Upstairs, one look at Nicholas told Wulfstan that he might soon suffer the loss of another friend. ‘Merciful Mother, what has happened to you?’ Wulfstan knelt beside Nicholas’s bed, taking the man’s hands, which lay limp upon the covers, and trying to rub warmth into them. Nicholas stared ahead, moving his lips but making no sound.

  ‘He has been like this all night.’ Lucie sat on the other side of the bed, dabbing at her husband’s tears. Shadows beneath her eyes bespoke a night as terrible as Wulfstan’s. ‘He left here yesterday afternoon as you saw him, clear-witted and healthy enough to work in the garden, cold as it was, and returned crippled and bereft of speech, tormented by some horror I cannot know and so cannot comfort him.’ She bit her lip. There was no time for tears.

  Wulfstan’s heart overflowed with pity for her. He knew his own pain over the pilgrim. How much greater must hers be, seeing her husband like this. He must find a way to help. He tucked Nicholas’s hands under the covers and drew Lucie away from the sickbed. ‘Tell me everything you can.’

  She could tell him little, only that Digby had helped Nicholas inside, for he seemed unable to support himself on his right leg. The right arm also seemed useless. And he’d made no sound but down in the throat. She clenched her hands and looked desperate for comfort.

  But Wulfstan could give little. ‘It sounds to be a palsy. Whether it be temporary or permanent, only time will tell. It is in God’s hands. Perhaps if I knew what caused it.’ He thought of Nicholas’s behaviour as he questioned Wulfstan about the pilgrim, and later when Nicholas had glimpsed the pilgrim’s state. ‘He was agitated when he left the infirmary. Perhaps in the dark he fell. A blow to the head could cause such a palsy. Or to the spine. An extreme shock.’

  ‘A shock.’ Lucie glanced at Nicholas, then bent her head away from him so that only Wulfstan could hear. ‘Could it be the pilgrim?’ She asked it in a soft, tense voice.

>   Wulfstan remembered the dying man’s accusations. But he had no proof. And now that the man was dead he could see no reason to frighten Lucie. ‘My patient’s appearance disturbed Nicholas, to be sure. He said he’d not expected the man to be so ill. But that is not shock enough.’ He looked at Lucie’s bowed head. ‘What is it, my child? What do you fear?’

  ‘It was Archdeacon Anselm’s visit this morning.’

  ‘Anselm? Came here?’

  ‘They have not spoken in years. Since before we were married. It is odd that he should come today. There he stood in the doorway, so early, before any customers. He’d already heard that Nicholas was taken ill. He expressed concern, for all the world a worried friend. After so many years. He did not come when our Martin died’ Their only child. Dead of the plague before he ever walked.

  Something in this disturbed Wulfstan. For last night he had been visited by the Archdeacon. At the time he had given it little thought. The Archdeacon was to dine with Abbot Campian. Before supper he had stopped in the infirmary, curious whether it had changed since he was last bled there. Anselm had been schooled at St. Mary’s. Last evening he had been pleasant enough, asking after Brother Wulfstan’s health, telling Henry how frightened he had been of Wulfstan, who had been broad in the chest in his younger years. Anselm had asked about the pilgrim, the only patient. It seemed a mere politeness.

  Wulfstan drew Lucie down on a chest by the little window. Tell me about the Archdeacon’s visit.’

  ‘He had heard Nicholas was ill. He asked if it were serious. I told him I did not know, that I could tell him no more than his Summoner had told him. Nothing had changed. He seemed surprised. He asked why I assumed his Summoner had told him. I told him how Digby had found Nicholas. He did not like that. “The abbey infirmary? What was Nicholas doing there?” He said it as if it were an enemy camp, a place Digby should have known not to go’

  ‘My infirmary?’ Wulfstan did not like that.

  ‘The Archdeacon alarmed me with his questions. I told him Nicholas had taken a physick to a patient. “The soldier?” he asked. I said yes, the one who called himself a pilgrim. The Archdeacon’s face lost what little colour it has. He put a hand on the counter to steady himself. I asked him what he suspected. He asked what had happened at the abbey. Of course I did not know. I suspected that the Archdeacon knew more than I did. I asked him who the pilgrim was. I am sure he knows. He blinked and looked away. “I have not seen this pilgrim, Mistress Wilton,” he said. It is the sort of half-truth the sisters told to shield us from the world. I persisted. He pulled himself up straight and said he would come back. “Who is he?” I demanded. “I will come back,” he said again, and hurried out.

  Lucie looked out the window, her jaw set. ‘Damnable priest. He knows who the man is. Why would he not tell me? I think it has everything to do with the soldier.’ She turned angry eyes on Wulfstan. ‘Who is the pilgrim, Wulfstan?’

  ‘My dear Lucie, as God is my witness, I do not know!’

  ‘I want to speak with him.’

  Wulfstan shook his head. ‘He is dead.’

  She looked shocked. ‘Dead? When?’

  ‘Last night. Whoever he was, he cannot help us now.’

  Lucie crossed herself. It was bad luck to speak evil of the recently dead. ‘May he rest in peace.’

  Wulfstan whispered an Amen, his eyes cast down, burning with tears. He was so weary he could not control himself.

  Lucie, noting his discomfort, took his hand. ‘I am sorry you lost your patient.’

  ‘It is worse than that. He was a friend.’ Wulfstan’s voice broke. He wiped his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘Forgive me. I fear I am little use to you.’

  Gently, she kissed his forehead. Just a touch with her lips, but it was such an affectionate gesture it undid the monk. He put his face in his hands and wept. Lucie put her arm around him and drew him close.

  Later, when Wulfstan had fortified himself with a cup of brandywine, he spoke of his friendship with the pilgrim. Of the man’s sorrow.

  ‘He sounds like a gentle man. I thank you for coming in your sorrow. How did you know to come?’

  ‘Digby. He came to tell me of your trouble.’

  This is a strange business, Brother Wulfstan. Digby’s eagerness to help, the Archdeacon’s visit. Do you know, I think if I knew the connection between Archdeacon Anselm and the pilgrim and the Archdeacon and Nicholas, I might understand what has happened.’ Wulfstan said nothing. Long ago he had promised Nicholas he would say nothing to Lucie about the past, and he would not. But it bothered him that Nicholas had taken ill while he and Anselm and Anselm’s Summoner were at St. Mary’s. He found it difficult to see it as a coincidence.

  God created evil in the form of Eve, out of Adam’s rib. He took the evil part of man and created woman. So plain, writ so clear, and yet few men heed the warning. And by their blindness they are undone.

  Anselm, Archdeacon of York, knelt on the cold, damp stones, trying to push away bitter thoughts and pray for his dearest friend. But the thoughts had everything to do with Nicholas. Gentle Nicholas, undone by his love for a woman, suffering such pain it was impossible he should live much longer. Perhaps that was best.

  Anselm shifted uncomfortably. The chill damp had settled in his knees, whence a dull ache moved up to his loins. He offered up the suffering for his friend’s salvation. He would suffer anything for Nicholas. He had already suffered for him most of his adult life. But Anselm resented none of it. His prayers for Nicholas were heartfelt.

  Nicholas was not to blame for his misfortune. He had not chosen the path of sin. It was his father’s choice, his father who had taken him from the abbey school and made him his apprentice in the apothecary, next door to a tavern, close to the heart of the city and its wickedness. It was Nicholas’s father who had urged him to look on women, to choose a mate who would bear him a son to carry on the business. Nicholas, always the obedient son, had turned from Anselm and found in his path a woman so evil she would ensnare three men before she was through, bringing all three down with her. And her daughter would seal the deed, trapping Nicholas here until the curse be played out to its horrible end.

  Nicholas’s father had died as was fitting, with a bitterness in his heart, seeing his son unmarried and with a terrible secret that could destroy all he had worked so hard to create. Such is the price of sin. But Nicholas might have been spared. Beautiful, gentle, loving Nicholas.

  Anselm bent his head and prayed for a forgiving God.

  Weeks later, past Twelfth Night, Brother Wulfstan sat beside the brazier in the infirmary, sadly contemplating his hand. First it had tingled, then it had gone numb. With just a fingertip’s worth of the physick. Enough aconite to kill by applying a salve. No wonder ingesting it had killed his friend and now Sir Oswald FitzWilliam. God forgive him, but he had not noticed that he had grown so old and incompetent. And yet here was the proof. Never should an Infirmarian accept a physick prepared by other hands without testing it. And when the patient died, Wulfstan had not thought to test it even then, but had put it on a shelf, ready for the next patient.

  And now Sir Oswald Fitzwilliam, the Archbishop’s ward. Sweet Mary and all the saints, what was he to do?

  What did it mean? Nicholas Wilton was respected throughout the county. How could he make such a mistake?

  Wulfstan stared at his hand as a possibility dawned on him. Perhaps Nicholas had already been unwell that afternoon and had mixed the physick incorrectly. One powder looks much like another. If he were already sickening, might he not have forgotten which was aconite and which was ground orris root? Wulfstan always prayed for God’s hand to guide him as he measured. A medicine could so easily become a poison. And yet Nicholas had shown no sign of illness that afternoon. His colour had perhaps been mottled, but he had a weak constitution and he had just spent some hours in the garden during the first serious freeze of the season. There was his odd temper, though. There was that. But, Dear Lord, that was little to rouse suspicion. After a
ll these years of trusting Nicholas.

  One thing was clear. Wulfstan must return the unused portion of the physick to Lucie Wilton and talk with her. She must watch over Nicholas when he grew well enough to return to the shop. Nicholas must not be allowed to mix anything until it was clear that he was in his right mind once more.

  Wulfstan was so overwrought by the time he arrived at the apothecary that it seemed to him Lucie Wilton knew, the moment her eyes fell on the parcel in his hand, what he carried. But how could she? And her words denied that suspicion.

  ‘A gift for Nicholas? Some new mixture that might change his humours?’

  ‘I wish it were, Lucie, my child.’

  She frowned at the tone in his voice and led him back to the kitchen, gesturing to the chair by the fire.

  Chilled as he had been outside, Wulfstan was now sweating. He mopped at his face. Lucie held a cup out to him. ‘Bess Merchet brought over some of Tom’s ale. You look more in need of it than I.’

  ‘God be with you.’ He gladly accepted the cup, took several long drinks.

  ‘Now, my friend, tell me what is wrong.’ Lucie’s voice was calm, but her eyes were alert for trouble. And he had noted when he took the cup from her that her hands were cold. But of course he had made her nervous, coming here unlocked for, acting so solemn.

  ‘Forgive me. I come from a deathbed. Sir Oswald Fitzwilliam, the Archbishop’s ward. And I fear that I might be responsible.’

  ‘You, Brother Wulfstan?’

  He put the cup down beside him and picked up the parcel. ‘You see, I administered this to him and then, when he worsened so quickly and dramatically, I examined it. My child, anything but the most minute dose of this physick would be deadly to a mortal man.’

  Lucie, her eyes on the parcel, asked quietly, ‘And you bring it here for me to test? Hoping that you are mistaken?’

  Wulfstan shook his head. ‘I am not mistaken, Lucie.’

  She looked up at him, held him with her clear blue eyes. ‘Then why have you brought it?’