Contents

About the Author

Candace Robb has read and researched medieval history for many years, having studied for a Ph.D in Medieval and Anglo-Saxon Literature. She is the author of nine Owen Archer novels and three Margaret Kerr Mysteries.

Also by Candace Robb

The Lady Chapel

The Nun’s Tale

The King’s Bishop

The Riddle of St Leonard’s

A Gift of Sanctuary

A Spy for the Redeemer

A Trust Betrayed

The Cross-Legged Knight

The Fire in the Flint

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Epub ISBN: 9781446457993
Version 1.0

Reprinted by Arrow Books 1998

20

Copyright © Candace Robb 1993

Extract from The Lady Chapel © Candace Robb 1994

Candace Robb has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

First published in Great Britain in 1994 by William Heinemann
This edition first published in 1994 by Mandarin Paperbacks, reprinted 14 times

Arrow Books
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Arrow Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 9780099429760

Acknowledgements

‘The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne,
Th’assay so hard, so sharp the conquerynge,
The dredful joye, alwey that slit so yerne….’

Geoffrey Chaucer, ‘The Parlement of Foules’

I thank Lisa Healy for her long-term faith in me and a crucial editing; Paul Zibton for the map, sanity lattes, and a critical reading; Christie Andersen for allowing me the time to write this book; Liz Armstrong for making all my medieval literature courses a joy; Paula Moreschi for keeping mind and body sound through it all; Evan Marshall for turning bad news into good news; Michael Denneny and Keith Kahla for making me feel welcome at St. Martin’s; the staffs of the University of York’s Borthwick Institute and the Morrell Library; the York Archaeological Trust; Dr Tom Lockwood, chairman of the English Department at the University of Washington; and most of all, Charles Robb for providing time, computer resources, food, drink, criticism, enthusiasm, travel arrangements, and organisation, for outfitting me for exploring ruins in Yorkshire in a very cold December, and for insisting that a house is not a home without two spoiled cats.

Glossary

Prologue

BROTHER WULFSTAN CHECKED the colour of his patient’s eyes, tasted his sweat. The physick had only weakened the man. The Infirmarian feared he might lose this pilgrim. Trembling with disappointment, Wulfstan sat himself down at his worktable to think through the problem.

The pilgrim had arrived pale and hollow-cheeked at St. Mary’s Abbey. Released from the Black Prince’s service because of wounds and a bout with camp fever, the man had resolved to come on pilgrimage to York, his wounds making him more aware of his mortality than any sermon ever had. He’d endured a rough Channel crossing and a long ride north that had reopened his wounds. Wulfstan had stopped the bleeding with periwinkle, but the recurrence of the fever caught him ill prepared. The Infirmarian had little experience with the ailments of soldiers, having lived in the cloistered peace of St. Mary’s since childhood. He rarely ventured farther from the abbey than York Minster or Nicholas Wilton’s apothecary, both within a short walk.

For two days and a night Wulfstan mixed physicks, applied plasters, and prayed. At last, exhausted and sick at heart, he thought of Nicholas Wilton. It was a sign of his hysteria that Wulfstan had not thought of the apothecary before – Nicholas had worked a wondrous cure on a guest of the Archbishop who’d been near death with camp fever. He would know what to do. Wulfstan breathed three Aves in thanksgiving as his spirits soared. God had shown the way.

The Infirmarian instructed his novice, Henry, to keep the pilgrim’s lips moist and to prepare a mint tisane for him to sip if he roused. Then Wulfstan hurried through the cloister to ask the Abbot’s permission to go into the city. He brushed at the powder and bits of dried herbs on his habit. Abbot Campian was a fastidious man. He believed that a tidy appearance bespoke a tidy mind. Wulfstan knew the Abbot could hardly disagree with his mission, but he found comfort in rules, as the Abbot did in tidiness. Wulfstan believed that if he obeyed and did his best, he could not fail to win a place, though humble, in the heavenly chorus. To be at peace in the arms of the Lord for all eternity. He could imagine no better fate. And rules showed him the way to that eternal contentment.

With his Abbot’s permission, Wulfstan stepped out into the December afternoon. Bah. It had begun to snow. All through November and into December he’d awaited the first snow, and it came now, when he had an urgent errand. If he’d been a superstitious peasant, he would have suspected the fates were against him today. But he fortified himself with the conviction that as God had seen him through all the small troubles of his life, surely He could not mean to desert Wulfstan at this late date.

The Infirmarian pulled up his cowl and headed into the wind as fast as he could, blinking and puffing, out the Abbey gates and onto the cobbled street, into the bustle of York. The cacophony of the city startled Wulfstan out of his single-minded hurry. He became aware of a stitch in his side. His heart hammered. Such signs of frailty frightened him. He was behaving like a fool. He was too old to move so quickly, especially on cobbles made slippery with the first snow. Holding his side, he paused at the crossroads for a passing cart. The snow came down thick now, great, fluffy flakes that stung as they melted on his flushed cheeks. Overheat and then chill. You’re an idiot, Wulfstan. He turned down Davygate, trying to moderate his speed. But Wilton’s shop was just past the next crossing. He was so close to his goal. He picked up his pace again, propelled forward by fear of losing his patient.

Wulfstan had grown fond of the pilgrim in a short time. The man was a soft-spoken, gentle knight who identified himself only as a pilgrim wishing to pray, meditate, make his peace with God. He carried with him an old sorrow, the love of a woman who belonged to someone else. He spoke of her as the gentlest, most beautiful woman, whose purgatory on earth was to be tied to an old man who gave her no joy. ‘What would she think of me now, eh, my friend?’ His eyes would mist over. ‘But she is gone.’ The pilgrim came daily to the infirmary to have Wulfstan change his bandages. During these visits he had discovered the herb garden, how its beauty comforted the heart, even in winter. ‘She found solace in a garden much like this.’ Many a day the pilgrim lingered there while Wulfstan puttered in the beds. He said little, observing the monastic rule of speaking only when necessary. He was ever ready to assist with carrying or fetching, sensitive to Wulfstan’s old bones. Wulfstan enjoyed the man’s quiet companionship and appreciated his help, though he knew accepting it was sinful indulgence.

So he had taken it hard when the pilgrim collapsed in chapel. The man had been keeping a vigil that night in memory of his love. Brother Sebastian found him in a swoon on the cold stone floor at Lauds. Thanks be to God for the night office, or the pilgrim might have lain there till dawn and caught a mortal chill.

Even so, he was very ill. Wulfstan hurried. By the time he pushed open Wilton’s shop door, the old monk was panting and bent double, clutching his side. The dimness of the shop and his own weakness blinded him momentarily; he could not see if anyone was in the shop. ‘God’s peace be with you,’ he gasped. No answer. ‘Nicholas? Lucie?’

The beaded curtain in the kitchen doorway rattled as someone stepped through. ‘Brother Wulfstan!’ Lucie Wilton lifted the hinged counter and took Wulfstan’s hand. ‘You look dreadful.’ She smelled of the outdoors. ‘Your hands are like ice.’

He straightened up with caution. ‘You’ve been in the garden.’ His breathless, shaky voice surprised him. He’d pushed himself even further than he’d thought.

‘We wanted to cover the roses with straw before the snow.’ Lucie Wilton held a spirit lamp up to his face. He blinked in the light. ‘Come back by the kitchen fire. Your cheeks are aflame. You’ll burst your heart hurrying so.’

Wulfstan followed her behind the counter and through to the kitchen, where he accepted a bench beside the fire with humble gratitude. Old age and shortness of breath made impossible the polite habit of protesting against kindness. In the cheery kitchen he smiled on Mistress Wilton, who brightened his heart with beauty, gentleness, courtesy. She would have made her father proud at court, he was certain. Sir Robert was an old fool.

She handed him a cup of warmed wine. ‘Now what brings you out in the snow? And in such haste?’

He told her the purpose of his errand.

‘Camp fever. You are tending a soldier?’

‘No longer a soldier. With his grey beard and sad eyes, I think those days are over for him.’ Wulfstan glanced away from the kind concern in her face to the door that opened onto the garden. ‘I hate to steal Nicholas from his roses. Do you perhaps know the proper mixture?’

‘Nicholas has not yet tested me on it.’

‘I hate to be a bother, but the man is so very ill.’

Lucie patted him on the shoulder. ‘Rest here while I fetch my husband.’

Lucie was apprenticed to her husband, a situation not unusual. Wives commonly learned their husbands’ trades by working beside them. But Lucie’s apprenticeship had been formally arranged by Nicholas to ensure her future. Being sixteen years her senior, and of delicate health, he worried about her comfort after he passed on.

Another man might have looked on her fair face and reasoned that she would remarry. And in Lucie’s case, perhaps marry better, closer to her original station in life. For Lucie was the daughter of Sir Robert D’Arby of Freythorpe Hadden; she might have married a minor lord. Had her mother not died when Lucie was young, it would almost certainly have been so. But with the death of the fair Amelie, Sir Robert had become singularly uninterested in his only child’s lot in life. He’d sent her off to a convent, where Nicholas had discovered her and vowed to free her into a life more suited to her character. Wulfstan liked Nicholas Wilton for what he had done for Lucie. In the long run the apothecary would be a better inheritance than the settlement she might receive as a lord’s widow, and it made her independent.

Nicholas came in, wiping his hands and shaking his head. ‘The snow was long in coming this year, but how it falls now!’ His thin face glowed with the cold, and his pale eyes shone. The apothecary’s garden was his passion.

‘Have you finished with the roses?’ Wulfstan asked. Gardening was the bond between them. And the lore of healing plants.

‘Almost.’ Nicholas sat down with the sigh of a pleasantly tired man. ‘Lucie tells me you have a pilgrim with camp fever.’

‘That is so. He’s bad, Nicholas. Weak and shivering.’

‘How long since his last bout with it?’

‘Five months.’

More questions followed, the apothecary frowning and nodding. ‘Was he clear-headed when he arrived?’

‘Most lucid. While I tended his wounds he sometimes asked about the folk in York. He once fought beside Sir Robert in a French campaign.’

Lucie looked up at that with a steely expression. She had little affection for her father.

‘Now there was an odd thing,’ Wulfstan said. ‘He was upset with me when I said you had become Master in your father’s place, Nicholas. He insisted that you had died.’

‘Died?’ Nicholas whispered.

Lucie crossed herself.

Later, Wulfstan was to remember that it was then that Nicholas’s manner changed. He began to ask questions that, to Wulfstan’s mind, had little to do with a diagnosis – the soldier’s name, his appearance, his age, his purpose in coming to St. Mary’s, if he’d had visitors.

Wulfstan had few answers. The pilgrim had wished to remain nameless; he’d made no mention of home or family; he was grey-haired, tall, with a soldier’s bearing even in his illness. No visitors, though he knew the folk at Freythorpe Hadden. And, apparently, knew of Nicholas. ‘But surely this is unimportant?’ The apothecary wasted precious time.

Lucie Wilton touched her husband’s arm. He jumped as if her touch had burned him. ‘Brother Wulfstan must hurry back to his patient,’ she said, regarding her husband with a worried look.

Nicholas got up and began to pace. After an uncomfortable silence in which Wulfstan began to fear Nicholas was at a loss for a proper physick, the apothecary turned with an odd sigh. ‘My usual mixture will not suffice. Go back to your patient, Brother Wulfstan. I will follow with the physick before the day is out.’ He looked distracted, not meeting Wulfstan’s eyes.

Wulfstan was disappointed. More delay. ‘It is not a simple case, then? Is it the wound that complicates it?’

‘It is never simple with camp fever.’

Wulfstan crossed himself.

Lucie put a comforting hand on his shoulder. ‘Is it very serious, Nicholas?’

‘I cannot say,’ he snapped. Then, thinking better of it, he bent and kissed her gently on the forehead. ‘There’s no need for you to stay, Lucie.’ His voice caressed her. ‘And no need to worry. You might finish up the last rose bed if you hurry.’

‘I thought I might learn something by watching you prepare the mixture.’

Nicholas took her hand. ‘I will review it with you later, my love. But the snow will not wait.’ His eyes were affectionate, gentle, almost melancholy.

Without further argument, Lucie donned her mantle and went out the garden door.

Wulfstan sighed.

‘She is a treasure,’ Nicholas said.

Wulfstan agreed. ‘You are both blessed in your contentment.’

Nicholas looked down at the floor and said nothing. It seemed to Wulfstan that his friend avoided meeting his eyes. Perhaps things were not so well between them. ‘So you will prepare a special mixture?’

Nicholas clapped his hands, back to business. ‘And you must hasten back to your patient and ply him with mint to bring on a good sweat.’

‘I left Henry with sufficient instructions,’ Wulfstan protested, but seeing Nicholas’s odd temper, he took his leave.

A bitter cold return journey it was. Nicholas was right. The first snow made up for its tardiness.

At dusk, as Wulfstan nodded by the pilgrim’s sickbed, he was wakened by a tap on his shoulder. Nicholas Wilton at last. But something was amiss with the apothecary. Wulfstan rubbed his eyes and squinted at the man. Nicholas’s eyes were too large in his pale face, as if he’d had a shock.

‘You do not look well, Nicholas. You should have sent someone else with the medicine.’

The patient moaned. His eyes flickered.

Nicholas drew Wulfstan aside. ‘He looks worse than I expected,’ he whispered. Ah, Wulfstan thought, that explained the expression on the apothecary’s face. ‘You must dose him at once,’ Nicholas said. ‘Hurry. A dram in boiling water. I’ll sit with him.’

Wulfstan hastened to the fire.

Apparently the pilgrim woke, for Wulfstan heard him cry out, then Nicholas’s voice murmuring some comfort. The sick man cried out again. Wulfstan was not surprised. The gentle knight burned with fever. Delirium was to be expected.

He tested the water, impatient for it to boil. The pilgrim sobbed. At last the water boiled. Wulfstan measured with care, said a prayer over it, stirred well, and hurried with it to the sickbed.

To his surprise, Nicholas was gone. He had left the pilgrim alone. ‘How odd to leave without a word,’ Wulfstan muttered.

‘Murderer,’ the pilgrim hissed. ‘Poisoner.’ His face was red and slick with sweat.

‘Calm yourself, my friend,’ Wulfstan said. ‘This emotion does you no good.’

The pilgrim’s breathing was tortured. He thrashed from side to side, his eyes wild.

Wulfstan had all he could do to calm him, whispering reassurances. ‘Fever visions, my friend. Visitations of Lucifer to break your will. Pay them no heed.’

At last the man’s eyes cleared. ‘He was a nightmare?’

‘Yes, yes. There are no murderers here.’ That was true enough. Wulfstan held the cup up to the man’s pale lips. ‘Now drink this down. Rest is what you need. A healing slumber.’

The watery, frightened eyes moved to the cup, then back to Wulfstan. ‘You prepared it?’

‘With my own hands, my friend. Now drink.’

He did so. ‘Then he is dead. I did kill him,’ he whispered. The dreadful thought seemed to calm him. Soon, warm and drowsy, the pilgrim drifted into sleep. But shortly after Compline he began to moan, then woke in a sweat, complaining of pains in his arms and legs. Perhaps Wulfstan had been wrong to call it camp fever. But his friend had not exhibited these symptoms before. Wulfstan tried to soothe his limbs with cloths soaked in witch hazel, but the pain persisted.

He summoned Henry. Together they prepared poultices and wrapped the pilgrim’s limbs. Nothing helped. Wulfstan was at his wits’ end. He had done his best. No one could fault his efforts. The Lord knew how deeply he felt the pilgrim’s suffering. He considered sending for Master Saurian, the physician who tended the monks when they were ill, but he had been little help when the pilgrim fell ill, and it was late, and Wulfstan feared Saurian would simply say God’s will be done. Of course God’s will be done. Wulfstan did not have to drag Saurian out in the middle of the night to be told that. But God’s will was not always clear to man.

The pilgrim’s breathing became laboured. He gasped for air. Henry brought pillows to prop up the sick man’s head and help him breathe.

It was a long night. The wind found every chink in the infirmary, and moaned at the door. The hearth smoked and made the Infirmarian’s already teary eyes burn. Once, when Wulfstan bent over the pilgrim to blot his brow, the man grabbed his habit and pulled him close, whispering, ‘He has poisoned me. I did not kill him. I did not avenge her.’ Then he sank back on the pallet in a swoon.

‘It is the fever that burns within you, my friend,’ Wulfstan said aloud, in case the pilgrim could hear and be comforted. ‘You would be worse without the medicine.’ The man did not stir.

How unfortunate that the pilgrim mistook for a murderer the man who had come to save him. A murderer the pilgrim thought he’d killed. Was that why he had been so certain Nicholas Wilton was dead? He had tried to kill him? Gentle Mary and all the saints, no wonder Nicholas took alarm. But as Wulfstan kept watch over the suffering pilgrim, he convinced himself that it was all fever dreams. He could not imagine the gentle pilgrim attacking Nicholas Wilton.

Wulfstan watched in the smoky darkness. His heart sank as the pilgrim’s faint stretched on and on. His breathing was shallow, with now and then an explosive gasp, as if he could not get enough air. Wulfstan propped him up higher and prayed. Henry returned from Lauds and knelt with him.

But for all their care, the pilgrim’s shallow breathing ceased at dawn.

Heartsick, Wulfstan retired to the chapel to pray for his friend’s soul.

Henry came to Wulfstan as he nodded over his prayers. Archdeacon Anselm’s Summoner, Potter Digby, wished to speak with him.

Wulfstan could not imagine what Digby might want with him. It was a Summoner’s dreadful duty to investigate rumours of sinners who’d broken diocesan law, and to summon those he judged guilty to the Archbishop’s consistory court to be fined. For this he earned a commission. And for this Digby was disliked among the townspeople, who knew he waited to catch them in marital infidelities, marriage being a sacrament and infidelities his most lucrative charges. The lay clergy seldom had much money to pay for their sins. Many said it was the Summoner’s unholy diligence that kept the stonemasons and glaziers busy on the cathedral. Wulfstan thought it a pity that the beautiful minster should be linked to such greed. In truth, he disliked Potter Digby with a sinful energy. As Wulfstan followed Henry to the cloister, he wondered what unpleasantness brought the man to him.

Potter Digby, it turned out, was on private business. He’d found Nicholas Wilton in a faint near the abbey gate the night before and hailed a passing cart to carry him home. Wilton was in such a state he did not recognise his own wife. Digby thought Mistress Wilton would appreciate Brother Wulfstan’s presence.

‘Nicholas? How strange.’ Wulfstan thought back on Nicholas’s abrupt departure. ‘He did behave oddly last night. But you must forgive me. I have been up all night. I lost a patient and friend. I cannot come. I would be no good to them.’

‘Wilton is bad. His wife is frightened.’ Digby shrugged. ‘But perhaps Master Saurian –’

‘Saurian? He’ll be no comfort to Mistress Wilton.’ Wulfstan wavered. Though trembling with fatigue and a long fast, he could not abandon gentle Lucie Wilton to the cold Master Saurian.

‘Then whom do you suggest, Brother Wulfstan?’

The Infirmarian shrugged. ‘I will ask my Abbot’s permission.’

Once more Wulfstan braved the snow, his old bones chilled and aching. It did not matter. He could not leave Lucie Wilton alone at such a time.

He need not have worried. Bess Merchet, proprietress of the York Tavern, around the corner from Wilton’s apothecary, met him at the kitchen door. Wulfstan was pleased to see her competent bulk in the doorway. She was a sensible woman, regardless of the brandywine on her breath, and a good friend to Lucie.

‘She’ll be that pleased to see you, Brother Wulfstan.’ Bess hustled him in and set a cup of something hot in his hands. ‘Drink that up and catch your breath. I’ll see how things stand up above.’ She disappeared up the stairs.

Wulfstan sniffed at the mixture of brandywine and herbs, then decided it would do him a world of good. It soon settled his heart back in its caging and dulled the pain of loss.

Upstairs, one look at Nicholas told Wulfstan that he might soon suffer the loss of another friend. ‘Merciful Mother, what has happened to you?’ Wulfstan knelt beside Nicholas’s bed, taking the man’s hands, which lay limp upon the covers, and trying to rub warmth into them. Nicholas stared ahead, moving his lips but making no sound.

‘He has been like this all night.’ Lucie sat on the other side of the bed, dabbing at her husband’s tears. Shadows beneath her eyes bespoke a night as terrible as Wulfstan’s. ‘He left here yesterday afternoon as you saw him, clear-witted and healthy enough to work in the garden, cold as it was, and returned crippled and bereft of speech, tormented by some horror I cannot know and so cannot comfort him.’ She bit her lip. There was no time for tears.

Wulfstan’s heart overflowed with pity for her. He knew his own pain over the pilgrim. How much greater must hers be, seeing her husband like this. He must find a way to help. He tucked Nicholas’s hands under the covers and drew Lucie away from the sickbed. ‘Tell me everything you can.’

She could tell him little, only that Digby had helped Nicholas inside, for he seemed unable to support himself on his right leg. The right arm also seemed useless. And he’d made no sound but down in the throat. She clenched her hands and looked desperate for comfort.

But Wulfstan could give little. ‘It sounds to be a palsy. Whether it be temporary or permanent, only time will tell. It is in God’s hands. Perhaps if I knew what caused it.’ He thought of Nicholas’s behaviour as he questioned Wulfstan about the pilgrim, and later when Nicholas had glimpsed the pilgrim’s state. ‘He was agitated when he left the infirmary. Perhaps in the dark he fell. A blow to the head could cause such a palsy. Or to the spine. An extreme shock.’

‘A shock.’ Lucie glanced at Nicholas, then bent her head away from him so that only Wulfstan could hear. ‘Could it be the pilgrim?’ She asked it in a soft, tense voice.

Wulfstan remembered the dying man’s accusations. But he had no proof. And now that the man was dead he could see no reason to frighten Lucie. ‘My patient’s appearance disturbed Nicholas, to be sure. He said he’d not expected the man to be so ill. But that is not shock enough.’ He looked at Lucie’s bowed head. ‘What is it, my child? What do you fear?’

‘It was Archdeacon Anselm’s visit this morning.’

‘Anselm? Came here?’

‘They have not spoken in years. Since before we were married. It is odd that he should come today. There he stood in the doorway, so early, before any customers. He’d already heard that Nicholas was taken ill. He expressed concern, for all the world a worried friend. After so many years. He did not come when our Martin died.’ Their only child. Dead of the plague before he ever walked.

Something in this disturbed Wulfstan. For last night he had been visited by the Archdeacon. At the time he had given it little thought. The Archdeacon was to dine with Abbot Campian. Before supper he had stopped in the infirmary, curious whether it had changed since he was last bled there. Anselm had been schooled at St. Mary’s. Last evening he had been pleasant enough, asking after Brother Wulfstan’s health, telling Henry how frightened he had been of Wulfstan, who had been broad in the chest in his younger years. Anselm had asked about the pilgrim, the only patient. It seemed a mere politeness.

Wulfstan drew Lucie down on a chest by the little window. ‘Tell me about the Archdeacon’s visit.’

‘He had heard Nicholas was ill. He asked if it were serious. I told him I did not know, that I could tell him no more than his Summoner had told him. Nothing had changed. He seemed surprised. He asked why I assumed his Summoner had told him. I told him how Digby had found Nicholas. He did not like that. “The abbey infirmary? What was Nicholas doing there?” He said it as if it were an enemy camp, a place Digby should have known not to go.’

‘My infirmary?’ Wulfstan did not like that.

‘The Archdeacon alarmed me with his questions. I told him Nicholas had taken a physick to a patient. “The soldier?” he asked. I said yes, the one who called himself a pilgrim. The Archdeacon’s face lost what little colour it has. He put a hand on the counter to steady himself. I asked him what he suspected. He asked what had happened at the abbey. Of course I did not know. I suspected 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. ‘Damnable 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 Archdeacon 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 unmarried and with a terrible secret that could destroy all he had worked so hard to create. Such is the price of sin. But Nicholas might have been spared. Beautiful, gentle, loving Nicholas.

Anselm bent his head and prayed for a forgiving God.

Weeks later, past Twelfthnight, Brother Wulfstan sat beside the brazier in the infirmary, sadly contemplating his hand. First it had tingled, then it had gone numb. With just a fingertip’s worth of the physick. Enough aconite to kill by applying a salve. No wonder ingesting it had killed his friend and now Sir Oswald Fitzwilliam. God forgive him, but he had not noticed that he had grown so old and incompetent. And yet here was the proof. Never should an Infirmarian accept a physick prepared by other hands without testing it. And when the patient died, Wulfstan had not thought to test it even then, but had put it on a shelf, ready for the next victim. God forgive him, it was Wulfstan’s own incompetence that had killed his friend, the gentle pilgrim. And now Sir Oswald Fitzwilliam, the Archbishop’s ward. Sweet Mary and all the saints, what was he to do?

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. ‘Do 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.

One

A One-Eyed Spy

MASTER ROGLIO TOOK great pains folding his astrological charts and tucking away the tools he had used to examine the eye. Owen noted a tremor in the physician’s hands, the tensed shoulders of a man holding his breath, eyes that would not meet his. Master Roglio stank of fear. Owen glanced at the Duke of Lancaster, who glowered in the corner. An old man, but Lancaster’s power was second only to King Edward’s. Displeasing him was a dangerous business.

It would be Christian to wait with his question, but Owen had waited three months for this moment, and he could wait no longer. ‘The flesh heals, but the eye remains dark. You see no change, eh, Physician?’ Roglio’s eyes slid to the old Duke, who sat forward, interested. Roglio raised both shoulders in an eloquent shrug. ‘God may yet work a miracle.’

‘But you cannot,’ the old Duke said with a snarl.

Roglio met the Duke’s steely gaze. ‘No, my lord.’ He managed not to flinch.

The flesh healed, but the eye remained dark. One eye. God had created man with two for a purpose, no doubt. And blinded Owen in one. A purpose to that as well, no doubt.

Owen had made good use of two. Lancaster’s prize archer, he had trained the others, drilled them, risen to captain. An achievement for a Welshman. No animal escaped his arrows. Nor man. He’d taken care to kill only for food or in obedience to his liege lord. And all for the honour and glory of God.

Christian charity had robbed him of all that. A jongleur and his leman. Bretons. More independent than the Welsh, Owen had thought. They had no reason to spy for the French. The leman helped herself, flirting with the men. The soldiers would make good use of her. But the jongleur was doomed. The men did not find him entertaining. Only Owen understood the Breton songs, and only with effort. The language was a bastard mix of Cornish and French. The men grew restive. Killing the jongleur, now that would be better sport. Owen argued to release him. And won.

Two nights later, the jongleur slipped into camp and slit the throats of the best prisoners, those who would cost the French nobility most in ransoms. Owen caught him. Ungrateful bastard. You were shown mercy. The leman crept up from behind. Owen spun round. A thrust meant for his neck opened the left eye instead. Roaring, he plunged the sword into her gut, retrieved it, and, turning round, did not see the jongleur on his left until he’d sliced into Owen’s shoulder. Calling on the bowman’s muscles that gave him enough strength to wield a broadsword with one hand, Owen sliced through the jongleur’s shoulder and down beneath the neck. Once the Bretons lay in pools of their own blood, Owen slipped to the ground in a hellfire of pain. His last soldierly deed.

Now what?

Everything must be learned over again. He’d not bothered till now, thinking the half-blind state temporary. A passing discomfort, like all his wounds. When an unseen obstacle tripped him up, he shrugged it off, a small penance for his many sins, a lesson in humility. Not an easy lesson. Familiar objects looked foreign. The world appeared lopsided. When he blinked, it winked out.

Owen learned the value of two eyes. With two, a mote in one had not blinded him. It was a mere discomfort. Now it rendered him as helpless as a babe in arms.

Complete darkness. He knew it possible. Death, too, was possible.

It changed everything.

The old Duke argued that Owen’s loss of sight did not render him useless – an archer aimed with one eye shut. And the strength would return to his shoulder with work. But Owen saw his blinding as the result of his own faulty judgement and the shoulder wound as the inevitable result of his blinding. A one-eyed man was vulnerable. He would endanger those with whom he fought.

Lancaster let him be for a time, then surprised him. ‘You are a natural mimic, Owen Archer. In my service you have mannered yourself a knight. Your accent is rough, but the marcher lords carry the accents of their borders. And better than a lordling, you are a free man. No one owns you, you have no family honour to defend, you do not seek power through secret alliances. I can trust you. With a little education I might use you well as my eyes and my ears. What say you?’

Owen turned his head like a bird to study his lord with his good eye. Lancaster possessed a strange humour and was adept at maintaining a level voice, devoid of emotion. But at this moment the old Duke’s gaze was level, lacking amusement.

‘I would be your spy?’

The old Duke grinned. ‘Yet another virtue. A blunt thrust to the heart of things.’

‘A spy with one eye would seem almost as useless as a one-eyed archer, my lord.’ Best that he say it. Someone would.

‘Not to mention how conspicuous you are with your leather patch and angry scar.’ The old Duke chuckled, enjoying the moment. ‘Your unlikeliness becomes a disguise.’

‘An interesting line of reasoning,’ Owen said.

The old Duke threw back his head and roared with laughter. ‘Spoken with a lordling’s delicacy. Excellent.’ A sudden sobering. Lancaster leaned forward. ‘My son-in-law called me a master tactician. And that I am, Owen Archer. Power is not held by attending the King and fighting battles. I need trustworthy spies. You were of great value as Captain of Archers. You can be of greater value as my eyes and ears. But you must know the players and the plots. You must read well both men and their letters. Will you apply yourself to the learning of this?’

A spy worked alone. Owen’s incompleteness would endanger no one but himself. It appealed to him. ‘Aye, my lord. Gladly.’

God was merciful in His designs. Owen spent the night in chapel giving thanks. He might yet prove useful.

Two years later Owen stood in the back of Westminster Abbey church, part of the old Duke’s funeral retinue.