The Apothecary Rose by Candace Robb Read Free Book Online

with his friend, he sent up a silent prayer that he could glean what he needed from Bertold this night and get away before the past came pouring over him in a great wave of ale. Already his head ached from the earlier tankards.
    'The lady's a bit round in the face and dull-witted for your tastes, I would ha' thought,' said Bertold.
    'And where is this Lord March I'm to be wary of?'
    Bertold nodded his head towards the table to the left of the Duke's high table. 'The bald one with the mouth.'
    Lord March was the focus of attention at the table, leaning across it to yell, red-faced, at a smirking com panion. He was a tall, lanky man in the latest fashion, sleeves so wide their ends were lost in the rushes at his feet, leggings so tight it was plain for all to see that his argument not only engrossed but aroused him.
    'He looks a character.'
    'At the moment he's favoured by the right people, so I for one would not cross him.'
    'Gaunt favours him?'
    'He has a canny mind for contracts.'
    'I'll watch my step.'
    The morning sun was hot on Owen's face, though the air was sharp and a brisk wind got under his clothes to chill what the sun could not reach. The scar on his face burned and tugged in the cold, dry air, and the need to squint in the brightness made it worse. He'd a mind to return to the pallet he'd made up in Bertold's room and waste the day away in sleep, but he had his job, he must follow it through. As he passed along the beds of the kitchen garden, Owen sensed eyes on him, but the only person in sight was an old servant raking the path. Owen paused several times to break off a sprig and smell the familiar herbs. He favoured spicy, tangy herbs. His mother had fed them a mash of rosemary and sage in winter to keep their blood hot. She'd prepared it in a wooden bowl that carried the scent of the mash year round.
    A long time since he'd thought about that. Odd how the scent of a plant could make him feel as if he could reach out and touch his mother's face. Her smooth, soft skin. Her coarse, curly hair, like his, only silver and bronze. Ten years or more since he'd seen her. Her hair would be all silver now, or white. Her cheeks and eyes sunken. She would look old and weary. But he was quite sure she was still alive. He would know if she had died, if his mother's strong spirit had passed from this world. Wouldn't he? Best not to dwell on it.
    The paths of the rose garden were wider than those of the kitchen garden, and edged with river rocks. Here the Duchess would stroll with her maidens and sit on a sunny spring day. The paths twined among themselves and met at an urn that was empty now but for a few dry leaves that skittered in jagged circles within the bowl. In the beds, the brown twigs that would fill out and bloom in summer were heaped with straw. A smell of decay hung in the air. Depressing. He hurried through.
    The holly hedge that bordered the rose garden was a welcome goal, its dark green leaves shining and bristling like men at arms awaiting battle. Or were the bright red berries spots of blood? Were they standing at attention at the end of the slaughter, hoping that their lord would notice their many wounds and give them leave to take ship home? Owen shook off the thought. What a gloom this winter garden laid over his soul. Or was it last night's ale?
    As Owen passed under the holly arch, he again sensed eyes at his back. And again, spinning round, he saw nothing.
    A long way ahead of him, on a pathway between pruned fruit trees, Lady Jocelyn led a dog so pampered that its belly cleaned the path beneath it as it waddled along. It was clear that the dog wished to maintain a much slower pace than the lady permitted, for she tugged at the jewelled leash every few steps. Lady Jocelyn was headed for the maze. Owen hurried, not wanting to lose her. He'd been in the maze only once, and that had convinced him that one walked in a maze only with someone who knew it well. His approach alerted the dog. It pricked up its