The Apothecary Rose

'She won't hear you’ observed a boy, his feet wrapped in rags, matted hair dusted with snow. 'She's crying over the body.'

'Whose body?' asked Owen.

The children ran away.

Owen entered the small shop where Widow Cartwright did fancy sewing. Two men stood in the doorway to the back room. Beyond them, a woman wailed in the rhythmic chant of a mourner.

As Owen entered the room, the men hushed and stood back from the doorway.

The black-clad mourner was visible through the doorway now, bent double, hands to head. Owen moved towards her. A body lay on a trestle table, pallid and swollen. Digby. The stench of death already overwhelmed the man's characteristic fishy odour. Someone had placed coins on his eyes.

In a corner sat Widow Cartwright, weeping noisily. The mourner was Magda Digby. Owen spoke her name. She did not hear. He touched her shoulder. Her wailing chant faded. Slowly, as one rousing herself from sleep, she unfolded herself and turned eyes on him so red and swollen that he doubted she could see. But he was wrong.

'Bird-eye. Look at my son. River took him. The river.' She squinted at Owen as if she expected him to explain. Her eyes moved over his face, then came to rest on the hand that lay on her shoulder. She put her rough hand over it. 'Thou art good to come.'

'I mourn with you, Goodwife Digby. He was a friend.'

'Magda will remember thy kindness.'

'Why did they bring him here?'

Totter wanted Christian burial, not his mother's way. So Magda brought him here. Anselm will bury Potter as he wished. Tis his duty. But he would not from the Riverwoman's house. Nay. Such as Anselm think 'tis cursed. He could not come. So Magda came here. She does her part. No one will deny a mother's sorrow.'

She nodded, then folded herself up once more and resumed her wailing.

Owen backed out of the room. The two men watched him.

'How did he die? Did he drown?'

One of the men pulled himself up, thrust out his chest. 'And who be you to ask?' he demanded.

'I was a friend.'

The other sniffed. 'Friend of Summoner?' He spat in the corner. 'And I be King of France.'

'Who is in charge here?'

'Archdeacon Anselm’ said the first one. 'We're waitin' for him.'

The other stepped closer, peering up into Owen's face. 'You're Wilton's apprentice. They do say you sat with Summoner in tavern — ' His eyes stopped on something in the front doorway, behind Owen.

'What are you doing here?'

Owen recognised the cold voice of the Archdeacon. He faced him. Anselm was not someone to have at his back. 'Where did this happen? When?'

'He was fished out of the river this evening.' Anselm's voice was calm for someone who had come to visit the dead.

'But he was accustomed to the river.'

'Accustomed, yes. Overconfident, perhaps. What do you think, Owen Archer? And how do you happen to be here?'

'He says he was Summoner's friend,' said the man who had spat in the corner.

'Indeed?' The Archdeacon's voice softened, grew oily. 'An odd choice of a friend. Guaranteed to make a stranger suspect.'

'I did not know any better. Rome is but a quiet presence in my country. We have no Summoners’ There seemed no reason to linger.

'I will leave you to your business.' He took a step towards the door.

The Archdeacon stepped aside.

Owen's legs felt heavy, tired. Something should be said. Some kind words about Digby, who had befriended him. Odious the man might have been, but he had believed he served God in his weasel-like way. Owen paused next to Anselm. 'I would like to be one of the pall bearers.'

The Archdeacon's nostrils flared, an eyebrow lifted. 'We will bury him without ceremony. He was of humble origins’

'When will you bury him?'

'Tomorrow morning.'

'Where?'

'At Holy Trinity off Goodramgate.'

Owen left, resolved to rise early and attend the funeral.

Back up in his room at the inn, Owen shed his boots and leaned back on the bed. Pain pulsed through his head in giddying waves. He rubbed his temples, hard, harder, too hard. He put his head in his hands. When he closed his eye he saw Digby lying on the table. Heavy with river water. A fleshy sack of river water. The coins glittering on his eyes.

Owen felt responsible. Digby had thought he was doing the work of the Lord. As Owen had thought of his own mission for the Archbishop. They were not so different. He had sent Digby to sleuth for him, and Digby was dead. A coincidence? Or did Owen's new occupation make him obsessive about plots and motives? He was too tired to know.

But just how reliable had Digby been? He'd guessed wrong about Montaigne being in league with Fitzwilliam; the Archbishop would have mentioned a connection between them. And could Owen credit Digby's suggestion about the relationship between Wilton and the Archdeacon — that Wilton was Anselm's weakness? To a soldier the implication was clear. But an Archdeacon? What about Montaigne and Lady D'Arby? Was it likely that was true?

Sharp pains coursed across Owen's blind eye, making his head ache. Perhaps that was why his thoughts were such a muddle. He needed sleep. A good rest often calmed the eye. He still had some brandywine from Thoresby's London cellars. But he was tired of drinking from flasks. Tired of living like a soldier on campaign, travelling light, ready to move. He was no longer a soldier. He wanted a cup for his brandywine. He went downstairs in search of one, taking the flask with him.

A light drew him into the kitchen. Bess Merchet sat at a small table near the hearth. On the table were a jug, a cup, and a small lamp. One hand on the cup, Bess stared at the embers in the hearth.

Owen paused in the doorway. A line between Bess's brows suggested that she, too, found her thoughts holding off sleep. She lifted the cup to her lips, sipped, put it down, then cocked her head, as if just now she'd heard him. She turned, nodded to him. 'Obliging of you to appear just now, Owen Archer.'

He thought it an odd greeting. 'I came for a cup.' He held out the flask. 'The last of the Lord Chancellor's fine brandywine. I thought it would help me sleep.'

Bess grinned and held up the jug before her. 'I wonder if it's as good as the Archbishop's.' She nodded to the bench across from her. 'Get a cup from the board to your right.'

After they'd established that Thoresby kept a slightly better cellar as Archbishop than as Lord Chancellor, and sat back, warm and companionable, Owen asked, 'You were thinking about me?'

Bess frowned, sipped from her cup. 'I was over at the Wiltons' this evening, after hours. I'm worried about Lucie. Got home, couldn't sleep for worryin' about her. Came down to think. I do my best thinking over a jug of brandywine. I must decide what to do, you see, for I cannot rest easy in my bed until I know you mean her no harm.'

'Lucie Wilton?'

'Aye.'

'You would warn her against me?'

'She's accepted you, I know. What's done is done. But I want answers, Owen Archer. You arrived well informed. What are you up to?'

'I have told you’

'How'd you come to know about Lucie needing help?'

'Jehannes told me — the Archbishop's secretary. There is nothing mysterious or underhanded in that. When I arrived, he said the Archbishop had written a letter of introduction to Camden Thorpe — my late master had asked the Archbishop to assist me in finding a post.'

'You're sniffing about, that's what I say. Asking questions. Something to do with the minster.'

Owen grinned. 'You followed me.'

'No, I never. But the Archdeacon sends for you. The Archbishop provides for you. I'm not simple.'

'I had a small behest from my late lord. Administered by the Archbishop. I visited the Archbishop's secretary first thing to arrange for the payment. Anselm did not like that.'