The Apothecary’s Apprentice 10
The Apothecary's Apprentice
« Previous Post- 7. The Apothecary’s Apprentice 07
- 8. The Apothecary’s Apprentice 08
- 9. The Apothecary’s Apprentice 09
- 10. The Apothecary’s Apprentice 10
- 11. The Apothecary’s Apprentice 11
- 12. The Apothecary’s Apprentice 12
Thomas was thoughtful as he returned to camp.
There was a difference in Jennet. There was a new light in her eyes.
Dear Jennet. She deserved to succeed and nothing must stand in her way. Certainly not himself.
A fire had been lit in the clearing, and cooking smells drifted from the black iron pot suspended over it on a tall trivet.
Children had been sent to gather more firewood, the men were tending to the horses, while the women unpacked their requirements for the long summer pitch.
The company lived much the same as the Romany tribe that passed through, travelling in horse-drawn homes and sleeping in tents of tough canvas over frames of ash-wood.
A lithe shape emerged from the shadows and Thomas caught the whiff of Agnetta’s musky perfume.
“Thomas? You’s seen her? That friend of yourn?”
She fell into step with him, her feet slap-slapping on the track, hips swaying, braided skirts flapping around her slim ankles.
“Aye. Jennet is at Gryce’s on the town square. An apprenticeship.”
Agnetta tossed her head scornfully.
“Me, I wudden be bothered! Us do know as much as the apothecaries.”
“Managing a business requires other training,” Thomas pointed out.
“Happen.” She swept him a sidelong glance. “Wud you watch me dance tonight, Thomas? Wud you play for me?”
“I wonder you can raise the energy. Are you not tired after the journey?”
“Nay,” Agnetta replied.
They reached the glow of the campfire, where Cecily Tewke sat stirring the cooking pot.
Firelight played on her strong face, buffed and lined by the weather.
She had eyes full of old wisdom and greying black hair drawn back under a scarf knotted at the nape of her neck.
She looked up, smiling.
“Supper’s done, Agnetta. Go tell the men. Thomas, take yourn.”
The Tewkeses were Hampshire born and spoke with the soft brogue of their countrymen.
Thomas, who dealt with the marketing and dealing side of the group, was mindful to school his speech into more easily understood lines.
He took the bowl of broth and hunkered down with the others.
He was joined by Amos Tewke.
“How now, my sonner. Be it good to be back? Familiar ground for ’ee, idden it?”
Tall and sinewy, with a craggy face and thick hair and beard, Amos was the only father Thomas had known, and his respect for the man was total.
“Could be,” Thomas replied.
He felt an affinity with Beam Heath.
It was where he had been found as an infant, though there was no knowing if this was his actual place of origin.
The only evidence of his early life was a broken necklet of seed pearls and blue stones set in gold, which he been clutching in his fist when the gatherers had come across him.
He kept it in a goatskin pouch attached to a leather thong around his neck.
Sometimes he would take out the necklet and ponder on the woman who had worn it.
Had she been his mother? What had she looked like?
The only response ever to be had was the murmur of the wind in the grass and the call of a curlew above.
The meal consumed, the pots washed and children put to bed, the company gathered together for a little entertainment.
Music and story-telling were enjoyed in equal measure, and participants were usually many.
Tonight the travellers were content just to relax and watch the mesmeric dancing of Agnetta as she twirled to the mellifluous notes of Thomas’s fiddle.
It was not long, however, before a halt was called and the company retired to the straw-filled pallets and rough blankets of their bender tents or wagons.
Come morning, Agnetta was first up.
She fetched water from the brook, collected her wicker trug and set off to gather the herbage the heath had to offer.
Combing dells and hidden places where the physic plants flourished was time consuming, and the sun was high as she made her way back to the pitch.
She was entering the copse of elms near the grand new house of the pit master when she heard the murmur of voices.
Agnetta stopped short, her ears straining.
“Sweeting, you will be here next week?”
“For a short while, yes.”
Agnetta crept closer, keeping to the thorn and holly bushes along the path.
In a small clearing stood Jennet Parry and the son of the pit master.
Agnetta regarded him. He cut a fine figure, with fancy clothes, yellow curls and smooth-shaven face.
She turned her gaze on his companion, feeling a spark of jealousy.
Just good friends, Thomas insisted when challenged, but Agnetta did not believe it.
She ducked behind the bushes, watching.
“A kiss to remember you by till next we meet?”
The kiss was lingering and tender.