The Apothecary Rose

But his memory was intact. Sir Geoffrey Montaigne. He would remember that.

A warm sun had already turned the snow on the streets to slush, and it was not yet midday. The icy wetness penetrated the leather of Wulfstan's old boots. His feet were frozen by the time he stood in the hall waiting to see the Archdeacon.

'Brother Wulfstan.' The Archdeacon smiled as the Infirmarian was shown into his chamber. 'How can I help you?'

How to begin? Wulfstan felt unprepared. He'd spent the entire walk fretting over his cold feet and chanting the pilgrim's name so he would not forget it. 'I — ' When in doubt, trust to the truth. 'About the Summoner's visit today, I — well, you can imagine how disturbing a soul finds a visit from the Summoner. And his questions. They were so odd. I wondered, as did my Abbot, what was the purpose of asking them of me?' There. He had forced it all out.

Archdeacon Anselm picked up a parchment, set it down, pushed an ink pot a little farther to his left, touched his brow, then, at last, said, 'This is the first I have heard of my Summoner visiting you, Brother Wulfstan. But perhaps I simply do not connect you with one of his inquiries. If you told me what he'd asked — '

'It was about the pilgrim who died at the abbey just before Christmas. He asked had the pilgrim been buried at the abbey, and what was his name.'

Anselm leaned towards him, far more interested than he had been at first. Wulfstan did not know whether to be pleased or not. 'And what were your answers?'

'He has not told you?'

'Not yet. As I said, I did not know of his visit.'

'Oh. Yes.'

'Your answers, Brother Wulfstan?'

'The pilgrim was buried at the abbey, as he'd requested. But the pilgrim's name I could not give him.'

'And he did not say why he asked these things?'

Wulfstan shook his head. He noticed that the Archdeacon shared Brother Michaelo's habit of flaring his nostrils when he thought. Like a horse. An odd habit for humans. 'So you did not send him to quiz me?'

'I assure you I did not, Brother Wulfstan, and I apologise for any discomfort his visit may have caused you’

'Strange.' And now Wulfstan wondered whether he must tell the Archdeacon the name of the pilgrim. After all, he said he had not sent Digby, so it must be the Summoner who wanted to know, not the Archdeacon. Wulfstan had a queer feeling in his stomach about this whole business. A protective feeling towards his dead friend. Geoffrey. His friend had not wanted his name known. But Abbot Campian had told him to give the Archdeacon the name.

The Archdeacon rose, and so did Wulfstan.

'You said you could not give him the pilgrim's name’ the Archdeacon said as he led Wulfstan to the door. 'You mean that you did not know it?'

Oh dear. Could he disobey? 'No, Archdeacon, I did not know the pilgrim's name.' Which was true. He had not at the time.

'Anonymous to the grave.'

Wulfstan nodded, his heart in his mouth.

Out on the street, he felt weak and lightheaded. And cold. His joints and his extremities ached. He thought of Lucie Wilton's cosy hearth fire. The apothecary was closer at this point than the abbey. And he did feel dizzy and chilled. He decided to pay her a visit, ask after Nicholas.

He had not foreseen that the apprentice would be minding the shop. 'I–I came to see Mistress Wilton. To ask after Nicholas. I was out and — '

Owen nodded. 'Mistress Wilton is in the kitchen. She will welcome your company, 1 am sure.'

Brother Wulfstan went back.

Lucie sat by the fire, darning. 'What a pleasant surprise.' Then her smile turned to a concerned frown. 'What is the matter, Brother Wulfstan? You look as if you've had a fright.'

He had not meant to mention it. But her solicitous manner made him want to confide in her. After all, they were in this together, in a sense, 'Summoner Digby paid me a visit today. Asked questions about the pilgrim who died the night Nicholas took ill.'

Lucie sat him down and poured him a cup of wine, adding spices and heating it with a hot poker. 'Now’ she said, handing him the cup and resuming her seat, 'tell me what he wanted.'

'He wanted to know if I had known the name of the pilgrim, if he'd had any visitors, where he was buried. It must mean he suspects that a sin was committed. That is the Summoner's business.'

Lucie looked thoughtful. 'But such questions are not to the point, are they?'

'I don't know why he asked them. And why he asked them of me. The Archdeacon could not tell me.'

'The Archdeacon? You spoke with him, too?'

'I went to him. My Abbot thought it best. That is why I am out in the city. But the Archdeacon seemed to know nothing of the visit.'

'And were you able to tell Digby the pilgrim's name?'

Again, forced so close to a lie. 'I — no. I could not tell him.'

Lucie studied his face. 'You would have told him had you known, wouldn't you?'

'Charity is difficult for me with a man such as Summoner Digby.'

'You would lie?'

Wulfstan flushed. 'Not that. I would try to — avoid telling him.'

'And is that what you did? Avoid it? Do you really know who the pilgrim was?'

If he said yes, the next question would naturally be the pilgrim's name. Again, the old monk was loath to reveal his friend's identity. And what good would it do Lucie to know for whom Nicholas had mixed the fatal physick? 'I could not tell Digby, that is the truth.' Narrowly, but it was the truth.

Lucie seemed satisfied. She picked up her darning. 'Some unfinished business, perhaps. We have nothing to worry about, my friend. He would have no way of discovering our secret. Drink your wine. Let it warm you.'

Wulfstan sipped it. It warmed him most pleasantly. He sipped again, sat back, and let himself relax. Of course Lucie was right. They had shared their secret with no one else.

As he sat by the fire watching Lucie's lovely face bent over the darning, Wulfstan noted how much like her mother she looked now. The hair was not raven like Amelie's, and the mouth was firmer, the chin squarer, but — Geoffrey Montaigne. He remembered now. Lady D'Arby's lover. It had been such a scandal, even Wulfstan had heard about it. The beautiful Amelie, Lady D'Arby, and the fair young knight who had guarded her on the Channel crossing. She had been with child by him when she died. Sir Robert had been in Calais too long for it to be his. Geoffrey Montaigne.

'Mon Dieu’ he whispered. Lady D'Arby had been Geoffrey's only love.

Lucie looked up, frowned. 'What is it?'

Wulfstan flushed. Shook his head. Thank heaven he had not told her the name. He should not stir up bad memories for her. Indeed, who knew how much an eight-year-old had been told. He knew little about the raising of children. 'It is nothing.'

'You did not look as if it were nothing.'

'It was simply — I thought how much you look like your mother. The way you held your head just then.'

It was Lucie's turn to flush. 'I am not half so beautiful as my mother.'

Saint Paul said that it was unwise to flatter women. That they put too much stock in appearance. But poor Lucie had so little joy these days. 'I think you are more beautiful than your mother.'

Lucie gave him a perplexed smile. 'Brother Wulfstan. You are flattering me’

'I am a silly old man, my dear Lucie. But I know beauty when I see it.' He rose, fumbling with his sleeves to hide his flushed face. 'And now I must hurry back for Vespers.'

She took his hand. Thank you for coming.' 'I am glad you could take the time for me.' He nodded to Owen as he went out through the shop. Wulfstan felt Owen's eye on him all the way out the door. That man did not belong as an apprentice in Lucie Wilton's shop. Wulfstan did not like to think of him there, with that predatory eye fixed on her innocent beauty. An apprentice should be a young man. A boy. An innocent.