Table Of ContentThe
ApothecaryRose
A MEDIEVAL MYSTERY
Candace Robb
MANDARIN
A Mandarin Paperback
THE APOTHECARY ROSE
First published in Great Britain 1994 by William Heinemann Ltd and Mandarin Paperbacks imprints of Reed
International Books Ltd Michelin House, 81 Fulham Road, London sw^ 6RB and Auckland, Melbourne,
Singapore and Toronto Reprinted 1994 (three times), 1995 (five times), 1996 (three times), 1997
Copyright © 1993 by Candace M. Robb The author has asserted her moral rights A CIP catalogue
record for this title is available from the British Library ISBN o 7493 1883 x Printed and bound in Great
Britain by Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berkshire This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall
not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the
publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and
without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Table of Contents
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ix GLOSSARY Xiii
PROLOGUE I 1 A One-Eyed Spy 25
2 Entering the Maze 36
3 The Rogue and the Lady 49
4 The North Country 55
5 The Apothecary Rose 67
6 Summoning 82
7 Men of the Cloth 87
8 Magda Digby, the Riverwoman 104
9 A Contract 115
10 Thorns 128
11 Digby's Deal 141
12 Knots 152
13 Digby's Weakness 167
14 Purgatory 177
15 A Piece of the Puzzle 198
16 Mandrake Root 212
17 An Accounting 230
18 Lucie Joins the Dance 240
19 Bess Intervenes 256
20 Plain Truth 270
21 The Gift 281
22 Amelie D'Arby 291
23 Obsession 308
24 Confrontations 320
25 Aftermath 332
To Gen, who first got me to England;
to Jacqui, the apothecary; and
to Charlie, who always makes it so.
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 arrange ments, 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
Archdeacon
Each diocese was divided into two or more archdeaconries; the archdeacons
were appointed by the archbishop or bishop and carried out most of his
duties.
Jongleur
A minstrel who sang, juggled, tumbled; French term, but widely used in an
England where Norman French was just fading from prevalence.
Leman
Mistress; another French term widely used in medieval England.
Minster
A cathedral originally founded as a monastery(in the fourteenth century the
minster was being rebuilt for the second time); to this day, York's cathedral of
St. Peter is called York Minster.
Summoner
An assistant to an archdeacon who cited people to the archbishop's or
bishop's consistory court, which was held once a month. The court was staffed
by the bishop's officials and lawyers and had jurisdiction over the diocesan
clergy and the morals, wills and marriages of the laity. The salary of a
summoner was commission on fines levied by consistory courts - petty graft
formed a large part of his income. More commonly called an 'apparitor,' but I
use the term Chaucer used to call to mind the Canterbury pilgrim he so vividly
described.
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 Chann el 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
hur ried 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 fastidi ous man. He believed that a tidy appearance bespoke a tidy mind.
Wulfstan knew the Abbot could hardly dis agree 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.
H e 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 band ages. 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 indul gence.
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
appren ticeship 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 sta tion in life. For Lucie was the daughter of Sir Robert D'Arby of
