The Apothecary Rose Read Free Page B

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. 'Damna ble 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 Arch deacon 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