by Candace Robb
‘Benedicte, Mistress Wilton.’ The monk bowed as he entered the room.
Lucie glanced out into the street before she closed the door. ‘You are alone.’
‘I am.’ Michaelo drew a stack of letters from his scrip. ‘Captain Archer entrusted these to me.’
‘My husband is well?’
A nod. ‘I left him well.’
Deo gratias. ‘God bless you for bringing them,’ Lucie said, though her heart was heavy as she took the letters. ‘My husband is yet in Wales, then?’
‘By now the captain had hoped to depart for home. God willing, he should be home before Corpus Christi.’
A month. Still so long to wait. But she had managed this long. ‘And my father?’ When they had departed, Sir Robert D’Arby had not been in the best of health.
Brother Michaelo lowered his eyes and crossed himself.
‘Father,’ Lucie whispered. She had thought herself prepared for this. ‘When?’
‘On the third day of Passiontide, Mistress Wilton.’
More than a month ago. Lucie, too, crossed herself. She began to shiver. When had the room grown so cold?
‘I am sorry to bring you such news,’ said Michaelo, taking her arm, helping her to a bench.
It should not be a shock, Lucie thought as she heard Michaelo slip behind the counter, pour water from the jug. He sat beside her, held a cup until she was calm enough to take it.
‘I should not have encouraged him,’ Lucie said. ‘He had not recovered and it was so cold when they rode out, then such a wet spring.’ Sir Robert had caught a chill the previous summer. Despite his sister’s devoted nursing he had never quite recovered. A recurring cough and hoarseness had been particularly troublesome.
‘You could not have foreseen the weather, Mistress Wilton.’ The monk drew a scented cloth from his sleeve. ‘Sir Robert found the journey difficult.’ Michaelo dabbed at his eyes. ‘But he never complained.’
‘Is it for my father, those tears?’ Was it possible the self-absorbed Michaelo had been moved by Sir Robert’s death?
Michaelo raised his eyes. ‘I have walked in wretchedness all the way from Wales – selfishly, pitying myself for the loss of my friend. For your father was joyous in death and welcomed his release.’ Michaelo’s voice rode the waves of his emotions. ‘After you have read the letters, I shall tell you of your father’s last days. You might find comfort in hearing of them. Come to me when you are ready. I shall be with Jehannes, Archdeacon of York.’ He rose. ‘Should I send for someone?’
‘Jasper is near.’
‘You are very pale.’
His sympathy brought tears to her eyes. ‘I shall come to you at Jehannes’s house as soon as possible – tomorrow, if I am able.’ The archbishop’s secretary bowed, turned and departed silently.
If I am able. Lucie moved to a stool behind the counter. Alice Baker and her jaundice, Maria de Skipwith and Jasper’s mistake, Jasper’s distrust of Roger Moreton. And now she had lost her father. Her eyes burned. Sweet Jesu, but she was tired.
She needed a shoulder to lean on. Someone to comfort her as she wept for her father. She needed Owen. But he was not here. Her instinct was to go to see her kind neighbour, Roger Moreton, but the foolish Jasper had decided Roger was wooing her. He could not see that Roger was kind to everyone, not just Lucie.
Her father was gone. She must go to Freythorpe Hadden and break the news to Phillippa, her father’s sister and long-time housekeeper. Could she close the shop for a few days? Would Alice Baker start rumours about Lucie’s incompetence while she was not here to defend herself? Alice’s jaundice was not Lucie’s fault – most people would know that. For most of her married life Alice had complained of sleeplessness and fluttering of the heart. It seemed hardly a week went by that she was not in the shop buying new ingredients for the remedies she prepared herself. Lucie guessed that it was the skullcap purchased most recently that, mixed with something else on Alice’s crowded shelves, had caused an overabundance of the wrong humours and turned her skin and eyes yellow, her urine a peaty brown. The midwife Magda Digby had agreed with Lucie – skullcap and valerian should not be mixed. Magda had prescribed an infusion of dandelion root and vervain. Lucie had mixed it for Alice, but who knew whether the woman was drinking it? And what she had added to it.
Sir Robert was dead. Lucie noticed the letters in her hands. She had forgotten what she held. Ink and parchment. She wanted Owen here, not his letters.
‘Who was it?’ Jasper stood over her, turning his head this way and that to see what she had in her lap.
‘Brother Michaelo.’ Lucie noticed that the boy’s nose was red and his eyes watery. He would remember the punishment. ‘Did you find all the peppercorns?’
‘Made me sneeze.’ He wiped his nose.
‘Good. It did the same to Mistress Skipwith. You did your best?’
He nodded. ‘What did he want?’
Jasper despised Brother Michaelo. The archbishop’s secretary had once threatened the life of someone the boy had loved dearly, Brother Wulfstan, the old infirmarian of St Mary’s Abbey.
‘Brother Michaelo brought letters from Owen,’ said Lucie. ‘And – news of my father’s death.’
‘Sir Robert?’ Jasper whispered. He crossed himself. ‘May God grant him peace.’
Lucie crossed herself, too.
Contrite, Jasper said, ‘Go, read the letters. I can manage the shop.’
Lucie pressed his hand, glad of the truce, however fleeting. ‘I should read these and think about what to do. You can find me in the garden if you have need.’
He gave her a lopsided grin. ‘If Mistress Skipwith has told anyone of my mistake, there will be little to do.’
‘She said she would not speak of it.’
As Lucie rose, Jasper said, ‘I am sorry about her. It will not happen again. I swear.’
Lucie nodded, squeezed his hand again. He was young, bound to make mistakes. Perhaps she was too hard on him. But the guild would not tolerate more serious errors. Even this would have been punishable. ‘Now mix the correct herbs and spices for Mistress Skipwith. When we close the shop, you can take it to her. There will of course be no charge. And you would be wise to thank her. She might have spoken to the guild master and had you in the pillory.’
The apothecary’s garden behind the shop had been the masterwork of Lucie’s first husband, Nicholas Wilton. It held not only the herbs one might expect in such a garden but also many exotic plants grown from seeds Nicholas had collected. Lucie chose a spot amidst the roses, near Nicholas’s grave, well away from the noise of the children at play. But it was not of her first husband she thought as she stared down at the letters. She thought of Owen and his misgivings about Sir Robert making the pilgrimage to St David’s. Owen had pointed out the hardships of such a journey, to the farthest west of Wales, even for a young, healthy man. They must depart while winter still froze their breath. Could she not see how dangerous it would be for Sir Robert, almost four score and in uncertain health, to attempt such a journey? Lucie had known Owen’s arguments were sound. But when she faced her father, saw the yearning in his eyes, she could not forbid it. And in truth, had she the right? All Sir Robert had wished was to reach St David’s. Lucie realised with a pang that she did not know whether he had reached the holy city. Brother Michaelo had said that Sir Robert had passed away in peace. Surely that meant he had completed the pilgrimage? It was this, the question unasked, that at last loosed a flood of tears. Lucie let them come. She did not even notice Kate, the serving maid, until she spoke.
‘I saw Brother Michaelo,’ Kate said, standing over Lucie, holding out a cup of ale. ‘He looked so solemn. And then I saw you weeping. I pray that nothing has happened to Captain Archer.’
Lucie took the cup. ‘It is Sir Robert. The chill took him at last.’
‘Oh, I am sorry, Mistress. He was a good man.’ The young woman shifted feet. ‘Are those letters from the captain?’ Kate had boundless admiration for the literate.
‘Will he be home soon?’
‘Brother Michaelo says the captain hopes to be home by Corpus Christi.’
Kate made a face. ‘Still so long. But it is good to have his letters?’
‘It is, Kate. I was going to read them now.’
‘Oh, to be sure. I must return to my duties.’
‘You will not tell your sister about Sir Robert in front of the children?’
Kate’s older sister, Tildy, was with Gwenllian and Hugh near the kitchen door. ‘Oh, no, Mistress Lucie. It is for you to tell them. I shall not even tell my sister.’
Lucie sighed as she watched Kate hurry away. Why did everything seem so difficult of late? When had she last laughed?
Roger Moreton had made her laugh last night, at supper – until Jasper insulted him. The boy’s animosity was misplaced. It was true that Roger was a widower. His wife had died in childbirth – a stillbirth – the previous autumn. But his wealth and good reputation made him the hope of all parents of marriageable young women. Who would be his next wife was a topic of much excited conjecture in the city. Roger had no need to woo a married woman.
Lucie looked down at the letters in her hands. Where to begin? She untied the string that held them together. Owen had marked on each the place and date of writing so she might read them in order, and so follow his journey. In the first letter he mentioned Sir Robert’s cough, his dizziness. The river crossings had been difficult in the early spring, from the border country to Carreg Cennen. There was much in the letter about Owen’s mixed feelings upon returning to his own country, but Lucie skimmed to find news of her father. Owen wrote of constant bickering between Brother Michaelo and Sir Robert, good-humoured on the monk’s part. A later letter mentioned Brother Michaelo’s tender nursing of her father. The monk perplexed Lucie – in the time she had known him he had metamorphosed from a self-serving sybarite to a trusted servant of the Archbishop of York. Practical changes, she had thought, still self-serving. But this tenderness towards her father – this was change of a deeper sort. God had watched over Sir Robert, to grant him such a companion on his final earthly journey. In the last letter, Lucie at last found the news that calmed her. Not only had her father reached St David’s, but he had been granted a vision at St Non’s Well, a vision that had given him the absolution he had sought over many pilgrimages. Sir Robert had died in peace, a happy man. Thanks be to God.
For a long while Lucie sat, head bowed, the pile of letters in her lap, remembering her father. Melisende, her ageing cat, curled up at her feet. Faintly Lucie heard her children’s voices.
The church bells chiming Nones woke Lucie from her reverie. She must return to the shop. Gathering up the letters, she took them to the workroom, tucked them on a shelf that had once held wooden dishes and spoons when Lucie and Nicholas, and later Owen, had lived in this house behind the shop. It was Sir Robert who had given them the fine house across the garden. He had tried hard to make up for his earlier neglect. Lucie hoped her father had known, in the end, how much she had loved him.
Jasper raised his head as Lucie entered the shop. ‘Does the captain say when he might return?’
‘In his last letter he said he hoped to be home within the month. That was over a month ago.’ She nodded towards the package he was wrapping. ‘Is that for Mistress Skipwith?’
‘Do you want to check it?’
‘I should.’
Jasper unwrapped it. Lucie poked about with a mixing stick, found nothing amiss and handed it back to Jasper.
‘By the time she has cooked this in lard it will be useless anyway,’ Jasper said glumly as he refolded the parchment and placed it on the counter.
‘She believes that it helps her sleep. A little on the temples.’
Jasper hung his head.
Lucie hated seeing him like this. ‘I shall close the shop while I am at Freythorpe Hadden. I must tell Phillippa of her brother’s death.’
‘I could go to Freythorpe.’
‘You will stay here. It needs a woman’s delicacy. And I need you to see to the stores, and the garden.’
‘But the roads –’
‘Take the remedy to Mistress Skipwith!’
Jasper grabbed the package.
‘And hurry back. We have much to do.’
As Lucie walked out on to Davygate the next morning, a hooded figure stepped out of the shadow cast by the jettied upper storey.
‘Have you found the counterpoison for my jaundice?’ Alice Baker asked.
Lucie felt her blood rise to her face, her heart pound. It was not her nature to enjoy confrontations. ‘I told you what I thought caused it and what you must do to undo it.’ She repeated the advice, hoping this time Alice would hear it. ‘An infusion of vervain and dandelion root. Nothing more. Then fast for two days, drinking only water, eating nothing. After that, eat moderately and take no medicines.’
‘You have found no counterpoison.’ A statement, made an accusation by her tone.
‘That regimen is the remedy. I believe you mixed valerian with skullcap.’
‘Have a care, Lucie Wilton. I could ruin you.’
Ungrateful wretch, Lucie thought. But she merely said, ‘I cannot believe you wish to do that, Alice.’
Lucie glanced up at the sound of a door opening and shutting across the street.
‘May God go with you, Mistress Baker, Mistress Wilton.’ Roger Moreton smiled as he crossed the street from his house. Another man followed in his wake. Lucie mirrored Roger’s smile – how did he manage to be there when she needed him?
‘Master Moreton.’ Alice Baker simpered, then remembered herself and turned so that her jaundiced face was in shadow.
Roger was a handsome man, clear-featured and solidly built. He always seemed delighted with life, his eyes twinkling, his colour high.
‘Can you believe it?’ said Roger rather breathlessly. ‘Just as I mentioned your name, I turned, and there you were. Is it not so, Harold?’
‘Quite so.’
‘God go with you, gentlemen, Mistress Wilton.’ Alice hurried off.
Lucie had paid no attention to Roger’s companion. Now she looked up into the stranger’s eyes. Sweet heaven but they were remarkably blue. He gave her an oddly formal bow.
‘You spoke of me?’ she asked Roger.
‘I lied. But that terrible woman. She will insist on blaming you for her foolishness.’
‘It is difficult to accept that one is a fool,’ Lucie said. ‘But I thank you. And you,’ she said to the stranger.
He in turn glanced uncertainly at Roger.
‘Forgive my discourtesy,’ Roger said hurriedly. ‘Mistress Wilton, this is Harold Galfrey. He is to be my household steward when I move to St Saviour.’ Although he lived alone, Roger had recently purchased a large house in another parish in the city. It had increased the frenzy of the rumours regarding his choice for the next Mistress Moreton.
Lucie would not have guessed the man to be a steward. With his tanned skin and sun-bleached hair he did not seem one who spent his days inside, organising a household. Neither was his physique that of such a man. However, his attire was appropriate for a household steward. His clothes had been chosen with an eye to cut and fabric, and yet in such muted colours they would offend no one or call attention to him. ‘You are fortunate to find yourself in Master Moreton’s household,’ she said.
‘I am indeed, Mistress Wilton,’ said Harold.
‘I must be going now. I have much to do before I leave for the country.’ She needed time to talk to Brother Michaelo as well as arrange for a Requiem Mass for her father. And though she had shut the shop, she hoped Jasper might catch up with replenishing the stores – so there was much to discuss. ‘Thank you for rescuing me. God’s blessing on your day.’
‘Leave for the country?’ said Roger. ‘What takes you to the country?’
Lucie had no one to blame but herself for mentioning the journey, for knowing Roger, he would wish to hear everything an
d then offer assistance. ‘I received word yesterday of my father’s death, while on pilgrimage in Wales. I must go to Freythorpe Hadden to tell my aunt.’
‘God rest his soul,’ Roger said. ‘I must do something. I shall accompany you.’
‘You are kind. But I shall stay several days. You cannot leave your business so long.’
He nodded, frowning. ‘But you need an escort.’ He brightened. ‘Harold is idle until I am in the new house. He shall escort you.’ Roger looked pleased with his inspiration.
Harold looked perplexed.
Lucie had no time to argue. ‘Thank you, Master Moreton. I shall consider your offer.’
Two
PRAYERS UNANSWERED
High on a cliff that hung over the white-capped sea, threading along a path through a bowl-shaped meadow ringed by low, ancient stones in the midst of which stood a small chapel, pilgrims braced themselves against windswept rain. Heads bowed against the storm, soggy cloaks wrapped tightly about them, they waited for their turn at a stone-roofed well that formed the lowest spot in the bowl. One by one the bedraggled pilgrims knelt there, cupping their hands to drink the water or pour it over some sore or malformation, and prayed to St Non for healing. Then they hurried to the chapel for a prayerful respite from the tempest.
Owen Archer watched as a departing pilgrim stumbled on the low, slippery standing stones at the edge of the meadow. Another stooped to help him. The fallen pilgrim shook his head as he rose, expressing his embarrassment, no doubt. Owen thought it odd that the man brushed off his rain-heavy clothes. If he was as cold and wet as Owen – and how could he not be? – he could not possibly notice any added moisture from the wet grass.
Owen fought the arrogant notion that the Almighty had staged this tempest for him, to chide him for thinking he might dip his hand in St Non’s Well, say a prayer and so easily regain the sight in his left eye, like the blind Movi who held St David under the water at his baptism. But was it not a sign of his faith that he would seek out the water that had cured many pilgrims with eye ailments? God would surely choose another way to teach him humility.