King's Bishop (Owen Archer Book 4)

by Candace Robb

  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 all 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 unlooked 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?’

  ‘It is the physick for camp fever that Nicholas mixed for me the day he fell ill.’

  At first he thought she had not heard, she was so still. Then, ‘Merciful Mother,’ she breathed, crossing herself. ‘Are you certain?’ Her eyes were large with the import of his words.

  ‘I am as careful as I know you are to label everything,’ Wulfstan said.

  ‘I had no idea there was any left.’

  The pilgrim died the very night I administered it. Nicholas gave me enough for several days. It seemed sinful not to keep it.’

  ‘But if you knew –’

  ‘Not until today. I never thought to check it until today.’

  Lucie bit her lip, thinking. ‘I do not know the mixture for camp fever. What is the poison?’

  ‘Aconite.’

  ‘And you are certain that in the mixture you hold the aconite is strong enough to kill?’

  ‘My hand is yet numb with just a pinch of the mixture.’

  Lucie hugged herself. ‘Both men had painful limbs?’ Wulfstan nodded. ‘Trouble breathing?’ Again he nodded. Lucie put her head in her hands.

  ‘Forgive me for adding to your sorrow, my child. I would not have told you, but I thought you must know to watch Nicholas. You must not let him back in the shop until he is completely mended, in mind as well as body.’

  She nodded without looking up.

  Wulfstan bent to pick up the cup. Lucie’s cat stretched beside the fire and came over to rub against Wulfstan’s hand. Melisende was a lovely grey and white striped cat with unusually long ears. Wulfstan rubbed her forehead. Melisende purred.

  ‘He must have been ill already,’ Lucie said.

  Wulfstan picked up the cup of ale. Melisende jumped onto his lap and circled about, getting comfortable. ‘That is what I think. He did not realise that he should not trust himself that day.’

  Lucie looked up again, her eyes bright with tears. ‘Could it have been the cold? Should I not have let him work on the roses with me?’

  Wulfstan felt horrible. The last thing he intended was to accuse Lucie Wilton of negligence. She had already suffered so much, taken so much on herself. ‘Lucie, my child, how could you keep him from his garden? You must not blame yourself.’

  ‘It is difficult not to. He wastes away.’

  ‘Do not give up hope. God will take him only if it is his time.’

  ‘But even should he recover –’ Lucie touched the tears on her cheeks, as if confused by the wetness there, then blotted them with the cloth with which she’d wiped her hands after pouring the ale. ‘Poor Nicholas. He will be a broken man if he recovers to find that everything he has worked for is in ruins around him.’

  ‘Why should it be in ruins?’

  Lucie fastened her lovely, tear-filled eyes on the old monk. ‘Two deaths. According to the civic ordinances, we can no longer practise. The Guild cannot go against the ordinances. I cannot imagine Guildmaster Thorpe will find it possible to give Nicholas a second chance. We are ruined, Brother Wulfstan.’

  Wulfstan stroked the cat and silently prayed for guidance. He must prevent such a disaster.

  Lucie paced from the fire to the door a few times, then stopped midway, in front of some shelves, and absently rearranged the jars and dishes in front of her.

  ‘It is a terrible business,’ Wulfstan said, more to the cat than to Lucie.

  But Lucie seemed to waken with those words and came swiftly to sit beside the old monk. She took one of his hands in hers. ‘My dear friend, forgive me. I have been thinking about what all this means to Nicholas and me, but you, too, risk losing your life’s work.’

  ‘Me? Losing my life’s work?’

  ‘Your infirmary.’

  ‘My – How would I lose my infirmary?’

  ‘When Abbot Campian learns that you administered the physick without testing it –’

  Sweet Jesus, would his Abbot relieve him of his duties? Of course he would. And rightly so. Old age had made him careless.

  ‘Unless we save ourselves,’ Lucie said quietly.

  ‘Save ourselves?’

  ‘By making this our secret.’

  ‘We would tell no one?’

  ‘No one.’ She looked down at their hands, then back up at Wulfstan. ‘Would it be so wrong? For my part, I will not let Nicholas mix another physick until both you and I agree that he has completely recovered his reason. And I’ve no doubt that you will never again administer a physick that you have not tested yourself.’ She regarded Wulfstan with her clear eyes. Dry now. Calm and rational.

  They buoyed Wulfstan’s spirits. ‘I had not thought so far. But of course you are right about the consequences. For all three of us.’ He drank down the ale.

  ‘Then it is our secret?’

  God help him, but Wulfstan did not wish to bring more sorrow to this household. Nor did he wish to lose his infirmary. He nodded. ‘It is our secret.’

  Lucie squeezed his hand.

  ‘But when he recovers –’ Wulfstan began.

  ‘I will watch out for him.’ Lucie let go his hand and bent to pick up the package. ‘According to the ordinance, I should burn this.’

  Wulfstan nodded. ‘D
o so. I would do it for you, but –’

  Lucie shook her head. ‘No, it is my duty.’ She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Thank you, Brother Wulfstan. You have been our salvation.’

  He could not believe that anything so sweet could come from evil. God had shown him the way.

  When Wulfstan had left, Lucie paced the room, hugging her arms to herself. She considered the jug of ale. A cup might steady her. But it was early afternoon. There would be customers. She must keep her wits about her. Everything depended on her now.