A BED
OF
SPICES
by
Barbara
Samuel
Smashwords Edition
~~~~
"With her unique and lyrical style, Barbara Samuel touches
every emotion. The quiet brilliance of her story lingered in my mind
long after the book was closed."
~ Susan Wiggs
Table of Contents
Excerpt: How To Bake A
Perfect Life
Excerpt:
Lucien's Fall
Excerpt:
A Winter Ballad
About
Barbara
More
Books by Barbara
~~~~
Copyright © 2010 Barbara Samuel
Cover Design / eBook Conversion Sharon Schlicht LittleBytesDesign.com
Image: Woman in Corset ©Ksenia Kozlovskaya
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This is a republication in ebook format of an earlier work. Every effort has been made to reproduce the original as accurately as possible. If you find an error, please let us know at eBookErrata@BarbaraSamuel.com
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
~~~~
BLAZING TORCHES OF PASSION
"Are we mad?" Rica asked with a tremulous smile.
"Utterly," Solomon said in a raw whisper. A need welled up within him, rising until it broke the threads of restraint he'd held over himself. Moving slowly and deliberately, he pushed gently at her shoulders until Rica lay amid the grass and buttercups, her hair spread out below her like an Arabian carpet.
"I am mad," he murmured. "But I care not—for if madness brings such visions as these, I willingly leave the world."
Closer and closer Solomon moved, until their bodies touched from ankle to shoulder.
"Rica," he said and could think of no more. He touched her cheek only for a moment. One moment, stolen from all time, was little enough to ask.
"Please," she whispered hoarsely. "Please kiss me, Solomon, or I shall die of wanting."
~~~~
Authors Note
Two thousand Jews perished in the Strassburg fire of February 14, 1349, but the sacrifice did not, of course, halt the advance of the plague. Within a few weeks, the city fell prey to the Black Death.
Throughout that summer, plague and pogroms raged through Germany. Some Jewish refugees fled to the east, some were successfully protected by the ruling princes of their territories, some converted to escape the flames.
In Mainz, a curious thing occurred. Throughout the summer of 1349, the Jews of that city secretly collected arms with which to protect themselves. When the killing mob descended in August, two hundred of them died over several days of fighting. The Jews, at last defeated by the greater numbers, retreated to their homes and set fire to them.
Within twenty years, Jews settled in nearly all the communities once more, but they were under much stronger restrictions. Thus did the era of the ghetto begin.
~~~~
Part One
Strassburg—Summer 1348
I should like to hold my knight
Naked in my arms at eve
That
he might be in ecstasy
As I cushioned his head against my
breast.
~ Countess of Dia
My poor heart she has caught
With magic spells and wiles
I
do not sigh for gold
But for her mouth that smiles;
Her hue it
is so bright She half makes blind my sight.
~ Judah
ha-Levi
~~~~
Prologue
Charles der Esslingen stood near the embrasure of his chamber and looked to the courtyard below. His solar filled the top floor in the keep of the old castle, and the builders had been generous with light so high, where arrow slits and protection were no longer necessities. Buttery May sunshine splashed into the room, warming the sweet herbs in the rushes beneath his feet.
It was a glorious view, and all he surveyed belonged to him; all had been won with his sword in his youth. There was the keep and the manor, the upper and lower baileys with their whitewashed walls. Beyond was a meadow dotted with sheep, their newly shorn bodies oddly naked. There was a forest, thick with game birds and animals, a vineyard where grew some of the finest Rhenish grapes in the empire, and an orchard where apple and pear trees flourished. In the distance, beyond his eye's reach, was a smattering of peasant dwellings and the fields with their new crops.
In the greening baileys, the morning bustle had begun. Scullery maids washed pots in a tub nearby the open kitchen door. Another girl gathered herbs in her apron from the garden close to the wall. A vassal paced the walk in obvious boredom.
As Charles lifted his cup, his daughter Frederica bustled from the kitchen, headed with purpose across the grass. Taking in the busy swish of her skirts, he half smiled, feeding his hawk a crust of bread. "On her morning rounds," he commented to the bird, who cocked an eye toward the yard.
The vassal on the walk called out to Rica in some jest Charles could not hear. She paused to laugh over her shoulder, and the sound rang through the hazy morning, teasing and ripe, like the girl herself.
Charles stepped closer to the embrasure to watch her progress. Chickens scurried in alarm before her, squawking in protest of the flying skirts. Within the confines of the bailey, she was bareheaded, and her hair glistened in the morning sun as if laced with silver and gold, the tresses flowing well past her waist. The dark woolen cotehardie she wore clung to the curves of breast and hip that had been so long in coming, and even the billowing surcoat hid little of the final result of her long wait for a woman's body.
The vassal on the walk had kept pace with her, calling out. Ignored, he finally stopped, but looked after the girl with such wistfulness and frustration that even her father had to laugh.
Rica slipped into the brewhouse. Charles turned from his post, still smiling softly at the besotted youth on the walk. Poor fool was hardly alone.
He sipped from the cup of wine his servants had brought him, along with a dry bit of stale bread from last night's supper. Rica teased him over his indulgence in early morning food—she teased everyone about something—but Charles grappled with weakness enough as it was. Without food in the morning, he sometimes shook like an old woman.
A soft sigh came from the corner. Charles eyed his second daughter over the rim of his wooden cup. Head bent over her needlework—her endless, endless needlework—she was utterly still but for the flying fingers.
Etta. Her hair, too, streamed over slender shoulders and a fine, lush woman's form. The face was oval, as pale and flawless as a field of fresh snow at evening, her lips red and tender. As if she sensed his gaze, she lifted her eyes to her father. Fringed with almost unnaturally long lashes, the irises were a deep purplish blue.
His daughters. Twins. So utterly identical that no one would have been able to tell them apart but for the tragedy that made the physical similarities almost a parody. The tragedy that was, perhaps, his judgment from God for the violence of his youth.
Etta, for all her shining loveliness, had no besotted youths trailing in her wake. She rarely went abroad. She never spoke to anyone except Rica, who swore that Etta was not simple-minded, only deeply wounded somewhere in the darkest heart of her.
Without a smile or any acknowledgment, she lowered her gaze back to the tapestry on her lap. A familiar pluck of grief touched his heart. To have lost his beloved and beautiful wife so violently ten years before was sorrow enough. That his six-year-old daughter had been so brutalized was beyond his imagination.
The dark thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of a vassal at the door of his chamber.
"Ah, Rudolf," Charles said in greeting. "Come in. Tell me what you have learned."
The young man settled on a bench nearby the wall and rubbed his hands to warm them by the fire. "The pestilence is widespread, my lord. They say there has never been such as this."
Charles grunted, chewing his hard crust of bread.
"They say that India is gone, so littered with bodies the stench travels for a hundred miles. Italy has suffered the same fate for nearly a year. France is in chaos . . . now the pestilence moves north."
"And what, pray tell, have the famed doctors and astrologers to say?"
"A demon in the air and an alignment of planets," Rudolf said in disgust. "It should be plainly obvious it is a punishment from—"
Charles raised a weary hand and pressed with the heel of his palm to his chest, trying to ease the ache there. Thin rumors had wound through the countryside for many months, telling of the disease. With the rumors came grim prophecies of death for all mankind. "Heard you a tale of its look?"
"Yes, the sufferers—"
"I need no more gruesome stories. Tell the guards to watch for it in travelers along the river. We will admit no such victims here."
"Yes, my lord." Rudolf stood, and he cleared his throat. His nerves were betrayed by the clutch of his fists at his side. "Have you given thought to my suit?"
"I have." Settling himself upon a stool, Charles waved toward a bench and Rudolf sat, back straight. Against the sunlight, his hair took on a glorious blaze of yellow, the ends curled at his shoulders, his handsome face earnest. Rudolf had served him well. The link to his powerful family would help erase the less noble blood running through Charles's own veins. Beyond that, Rudolf was the most besotted of the field of Rica's admirers. He would make a good husband to her. "I will agree to the betrothal—"
Rudolf jumped to his feet in exuberance. "Oh, thank you, my lord!"
Charles forestalled any further display. "There is a condition."
"Anything."
"She is headstrong," he warned.
Rudolf gave him a rueful smile. "Of that, my lord, I am all too aware."
Charles walked to the embrasure. Rica stood now in the gardens, conversing with a servant. He gestured to Rudolf, who joined him.
"She is also a romantic girl," Charles said slowly. "Her head is filled with the tragic poems written by the ladies and knights of the courts." He paused. "I want you to take the summer to woo her, so I am not forced to wed her against her will."
"And if I cannot capture that wild heart?"
"I think I know a little of the romantic dreams of young girls." Charles inclined his head. "You are not without your gifts ... I watch the eyes of the women here."
Rudolf flushed darkly. "Foolish wenches with only coupling to fill their brains."
"Seemed a lovely pastime when I was a youth," Charles said mildly, but raised a hand once again to forestall Rudolf's protestations. This was the only flaw of the young man—a certain grim piety that manifested itself at odd times. "Speak not to Rica of religion and God," he cautioned. "She is not concerned with matters of the spirit at this point in her life. Women grow more serious when their bellies swell."
"She is all I wish as she is," Rudolf murmured, leaning out to watch her, his eyes glowing. "Whatever I must do to win her—" He straightened and clasped his hands behind his back. "You need not worry. For the summer I will be a model of courtly love."
"Good." Charles turned away. "If summer's end finds her still reluctant, I will tell her of the betrothal and you will be wed. By All Saint's Day, you will have a wife—willing or no."
From the corner, the ordinarily silent Etta cried out, and Charles started. Both men stared at her, but she ignored them, her gaze fixed on a cut on her palm. She whimpered in terror as blood trickled over her hand and began to run down her arm.
Charles sprang forward, for once not annoyed with the girl. Her aversion to blood was well known and understandable given the trauma of her childhood.
"There, my sweet," he murmured, taking her arm. He plucked a length of fabric from the basket beside her and twisted it around her hand. "Your scissors slipped, that's all."
But as the blood soaked through the cloth, Charles felt a tremor of foreboding pass through his belly. As Etta fixed terrified eyes on his face, he felt as if there were something he should be seeing, something just beyond his reach.
He dismissed it. "Rudolf, fetch Olga." To Etta, he added, "She will attend you quickly. All will be well."
~~~~
Chapter One
Rica knelt in the confessional, smelling the sour, sharp scent of beeswax that had been rubbed into the wood. Stone flags met her knees. Beyond the screen, blocked with sheer white linen, the old priest wheezed, as he always did in the spring.
She clasped her hands together. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," she murmured. "It has been six days since my last confession."
Pursing her lips, she tried to remember the pockets of wickedness that riddled those six days. She had nearly forgotten to be shriven at all, and now, breathless with the run across the courtyard, she found her mind a blank. "I borrowed my sister's scarf without telling her, the good one she embroidered for Assumption."
"Mmmm." The priest coughed, the sound shallow but wheezing.
Beginning was difficult, but once reminded, she seemed to recall an avalanche of transgressions to confess each time—there were so many ways to err! "I spoke sharply to Cook this morning and disobeyed my father's order to wear my hat when I leave the castle grounds. It was too hot."
A murmur came through the screen. Rica shifted on the flags, uncomfortable with the need to confess the next sin. It had been told and repented a hundred times—and would be told a hundred more, for she could not overcome it. Her voice dropped. "I dreamed I slew my mother's murderer."
A short pause marked the air. He was supposed to be anonymous, a figure of shadowy authority, although he was the chapel priest and everyone knew it.
"Is there nothing else you would tell me?" the priest prodded. Obviously, he had some concern she might have omitted something.
Swallowing a smile, Rica realized what it would be. She did not help him. The priest had been in her father's chapel for most of her life. He had given her instruction in the catechism and taught her to read Latin. It was the gentle old priest who supplied Rica with her beloved texts, and although he disapproved of the path her thoughts took at times, she knew he was fond of her. Now he was worried that the poems of the courts, those passionate avowals of tragic love, would corrupt her completely.
More worried, she thought with a frown, about her reading those stories of illicit love than he was about her repeated dreams of revenge.
Bloody dreams they were, in which she was armed with only a dagger and her hatred. In light of such, the romances in which she so delighted carried little weight. "I have read no more of the literature you forbade me," she said quietly.
"Ahhh." Relief soughed through the word. He gave her prayers of penance. "God bless you, child. Pray for me, who sins as you do."
He coughed and Rica promised herself she would prepare a tea to soothe that ticklish hacking. Her father, too, needed a fresh batch of his medicine. She would go see Helga this afternoon. Perhaps even Etta could be persuaded to go along.
Her spirits rose in anticipation. She hurried from the chapel into the warmth of the spring day, her limbs lightened with confession and the promised break in routine.
But in spite of her eagerness to be away, it was the middle of the afternoon before her duties allowed her to set out for Helga's cottage. Her sister, Etta, walked silently alongside her, a serene expression on her beautiful face. Although they were said to be identical twins, Rica knew Etta was far more beautiful than she. Her heart was pure, and that virtue shone in her complexion, in her eyes, in her almost unbearably sweet smile.
Their dog, a monstrous wolfhound, knew it, too. Leo trotted steadfastly at Etta's side, licking her fingers every few steps as if to assure himself of her continued presence. He loved Rica, and always came with her as protection when she walked alone to the cottage for herbs, but it was to Etta he was devoted.
Rica slipped her hand into the bend of her sister's elbow. "The day is beautiful, is it not?" she said, gesturing toward the Vosges Mountains standing blue to the west. The river 111 rose from a secret spring in those hills, its path lined with thick trees.
To the east wound the great Rhine. Nestled against a bend in the waterway spilled the city of Strassburg, its rooftops piled one atop the other like a tumble of chess pieces. At some times of day, the city glowed with a magical, rosy wash, but this afternoon the walls wavered in a haze of heat.
Faintly from the monastery on the river came the echo of monks at prayer, a melancholy song Rica loved in spite of its sadness. "Listen," she said to Etta. "Do you hear them?"
Etta cocked her head toward the sound and smiled softly, but she made no reply. Rica had not really expected one. Etta was not mute—nor simple-minded—as the servants and her father were wont to believe. She spoke to Rica, usually about God, if the truth were known, when Rica would much rather have discussed a new fabric she had purchased from a wandering peddler, or a bangled belt she'd found in the city. God and embroidery proved Etta's only topics, however, and Rica had learned to live with that.
Her vivid, bloody dream flitted through her mind again. Gone now was the contrition she felt in the confessional. She always told the priest it was her mother she was avenging in her dream, and perhaps it was in some small way. But when she lifted her hand, dagger shining in the moonlight of her dream, it was Etta who was in her mind; Etta who was avenged in the murder of the man who had brutally handled Rica's twin. One day, she promised herself grimly. Perhaps then, the wounded spirit of Etta would be freed.
Rica led them around a muddy hole in the road, lifting her skirts. It made little difference, for the hems dragged the ground as fashion insisted. For the hundredth time, Rica swore to shorten her tunics and coats.
The dog whined suddenly, ear cocked in alertness. Rica smiled. "What is it, Leo?" She scanned the trees along the road. A flurry of sparrows danced through the branches of pine and birch, but the dog cared little for birds, though he snapped at them as a matter of course if they got too close. He made a soft whimper in his throat.
Rica spied the squirrel at the same instant it began to chatter and scold. Its tail flicked indignantly at the intruders, and it scrambled for the safety of a branch from which it kept up its haranguing.
Three months ago, nothing would have kept Leo in his place beside them, but Rica had worked with him patiently, rewarding him when he did not give chase to some succulent little animal in the fields and forests. With a pang, she realized she had forgotten to bring treats with her today.
She nudged her sister. "Etta, bend down and give Leo a hug. Tell him what a good dog he is for not giving chase."
For a moment, Etta only looked at Rica with a blank expression in her wide, lavender eyes. Then she knelt, unmindful of the mud in the road, and buried her face in Leo's gray-and-brown fur. "Good dog," she said quietly. Leo made a small, grateful noise in his throat and licked Etta's face.
A wild, searing sense of hope unfurled in Rica's breast, an almost painful sensation. It was the first time Rica could remember Etta ever speaking to any human or animal save Rica herself. Were the demons passing, then? Or was the dog a link to the world that Rica had never thought to use before?
Biting her lip to contain her excitement—for anything sudden or unexpected sent Etta scurrying behind a mask of silent terror—Rica watched them, dog and girl in the humid warmth of a late spring day. "Good dog," Etta said again, and offered her face for his licks. A bubble of laughter slipped from the pale throat.
Rica's hands shook. Out of a need to move somehow, she tore the barbette from her hair and tossed it above her head, catching it just as Etta stood up again. Her face again held the slight, virtuous smile, but Rica didn't miss the way her hand lingered on Leo's back, protective and loving.
Sweet mother of God, Rica thought in joy. Thank you.
It was only then she realized she had sinned twice on this walk, the same sins she had confessed this very morning. It seemed she could never keep a day clean of them.
And yet, she didn't replace her hat. It was too hot, and the damage, after all, had been done.
Helga's cottage squatted at the edge of a thick stand of trees, a plain thatch-roofed dwelling surrounded with neat beds of herbs, the medium of her commerce. The widow of a minor squire, Helga had raised seven healthy children with her concoctions and potions. It was a miracle so near to the river, and some said she was a witch, but when needy enough, even they sneaked through the woods to her cottage.
It had been Helga who had delivered the twins; Helga who had nursed a six-year-old Etta back from the edge of the grave; Helga who had kept the old priest healthy and had even put a stop to the worst of Rica's father's bellyaches.
Rica thought she might also be her father's mistress but knew better than to ask either of them.
The twins approached the cottage, their hems tangling in stands of borage and lavender alongside paths covered in red clover. The pungent odor of dill wafted through the air as Leo waved his eager tail into a stand of it.
Rica heard voices from behind the cottage, where Helga worked in warm weather. Helga's was one, of course. That throaty, rich sound was unmistakable—"the voice of a bawdy," her father always said. Rica liked it.
The other one was deeper, thick with laughter, unfamiliar. Rica hung back for a moment, trying to place it, wondering if she ought to put back her hat and smooth her hair before she appeared. But what if it were only some peasant come for Helga's spring tonic?
She peeked around the corner. The midwife's broad body blocked Rica's view of the male visitor and she bit the inside of her lip, waiting. A fly buzzed nearby her ear and she shooed it away distractedly, setting the tiny bells on her bracelet jingling.
Helga's broad figure swiveled with more grace than one would have suspected. "Rica!" she said, beckoning with one hand. "Come, girl. No need to hide yourself."
Rica slid around the corner, tossing a handful of hair over her shoulder as she came forward, her eyes downcast as befitted a maid—even if her hat was gone, she thought with a flush. In her wake trailed Etta and the dog.
"Ah!" exclaimed Helga. "Both my pretties are here today." She kissed them soundly.
That ritual finished, Rica looked at the man in the yard. At first, she only peeped through her lashes to see how embarrassed she ought to be, but one glance astonished her so fully, she opened her eyes wide and stared.
His voice had led her to expect a man, full-grown and burly. And in ways, she supposed he was a man, as much as she was a woman. His hair tumbled over his head in thick, unruly curls, the color black as a starling's tail, and glossier still. His brow was high and wide above black eyes that twinkled with the lingering humor of the joke he and Helga had shared.
Her stomach squeezed. She pressed her palm to the place, dumbstruck for once in her life. His skin gleamed with color: a fine ruddiness in his cheeks, a warm walnut on his hands and neck.
He was beautiful, as beautiful as a fallen angel or a pagan god. And he stared back at her as if he could not believe she stood there, as if he knew her, as if he were as dazzled as she.
She turned in panic toward Helga. "My f-father sent me for some tonic," she said breathlessly. "Oh, and I need yarrow and lungwort for the priest."
Helga gave her a curious look. "Did you run all the way?"
"Er, w-well," Rica stammered, then realized what a good excuse it made for breathlessness. "Only through the meadow."
Helga laughed. "Our Rica is not a lazy girl—she's been seeing to the kitchens and gardens since she was ten—but she loves to escape when she does."
The visitor laughed and Rica glanced sideways at him. His teeth were big and strong and white, his lips red as apples.
A little ache bloomed in her breast. Like a lady stricken with the beauty of a knight in one of the poems the priest had forbidden her, Rica felt faint and star-struck and bewitched.
She smiled at him.
He swallowed, then glanced away quickly, a dusky stain on his cheekbones. "Is that so?" he asked.
Having lost the thread of conversation, Rica frowned. "Is what so?"
"That you like to escape when you have finished your chores?"
"Er, yes." She looked at Helga. "Shall I get the tonic? I know what to do."
"Oh, I'll fetch it, child." She patted her shoulder. "Stay here and keep the young man company while I get it. He is a good student. Tell him about your thoughts on sickness."
Rica nearly bolted, followed after the robust old woman no matter how odd it seemed. But the stranger's voice halted her. "Please," he said in his resonant voice. "Do not go. It is rare enough a girl thinks at all. I would hear your thoughts, if you would tell them."
"It is nothing," she said. "I only see that my father is much better when he does not eat certain things "
"Oh? What sort of things?"
She twisted the stem of a stalk of chamomile lying on the table. "Goose and duck, old mutton, beef. Even frumerity seems to sit ill with him." With a slight shrug, she again glanced at him shyly. "He growled a lot at first, but he no longer gets the bellyaches he once did."
"And how came you to this thought?"
"I watched to see when he grew ill." She frowned. "Not such a difficult step to take."
He leaned forward. "But not a step all would see." He met her eyes and Rica, unwillingly, saw a glimmer of respect there. A man who would listen to the thoughts of a woman?
She inclined her head and felt her hair fall over her arm and wrist. "Anyone with any intelligence would see it."
"Ah," his grin was swift and devastating. "And we all know how widespread intelligence is."
His phrasing somehow made them a unit, two apart from the teeming masses. It was the first time anyone had thought to recognize her ability to reason.
"Common as tamed boars."
He laughed. What a beautiful mouth he had, Rica thought. Generous, as if it could give—
Startled, she flushed with a painful intensity. A third sin in less than an hour—perhaps four if she counted thinking of the poetry that the priest had forbidden her to read.
But, as with her hat, the damage had been done. Her gaze caught on his throat, long and brown. His shoulders were broad beneath the dark jupon, his calves well shaped in his hose.
The small ache in her chest bloomed as wide as a poppy, touching her breasts and belly.
Then her wandering gaze fell upon his hands. Powerful they were, with the look of hard work in the long dark fingers. But it was the cleanliness of them that struck her. No dirt clung beneath his neatly trimmed nails. The knuckles were scrubbed.
And she became aware of a heady, warm scent the wind blew toward her, a scent of clean male skin mixed with a unique, elusive smell. His smell.
"Who are you?" she asked, suddenly frightened.
"Has your Helga not told you of her student?" His voice dropped to a rough, low tone. "She has told me of you."
"You?" Rica's eyes widened. She sought and found the round yellow patch on his chest, the mark of his Jewry. Her heart squeezed painfully and her words came out on a disappointed note she could not control. "I thought you a burgher's son, by your clothes."
The black eyes hardened a notch. "My father is a merchant," he said. "A rich one—but I am his fourth son and he has granted permission to let me study medicine." He turned his face toward the city. "The pestilence chased me home, but as I wait for better days, Helga has been kind enough to share her knowledge of herbal cures with me."
"And a bright, quick student he is," Helga interjected, emerging from the cottage with several packets of muslin tied in string. A fat black-and-white cat wound around her ankles, and somehow she avoided tripping. "Solomon has learned in a few months what's taken me four years to teach you."
Piqued, Rica lifted her chin. "Perhaps he has better reason." The words came out on a rather more annoyed note than she had intended, and she caught the tail of a grin hidden behind Solomon's hand.
"Oh, now, sweet," Helga said with her husky chuckle, "I meant no harm."
Rica clasped the packets close to her chest and lifted her skirts. "Come, Etta, it is time to return."
Etta rose from the ground, where she had squatted to stroke the cat's wild long fur. Next to her, Leo whined jealously and licked her hand. "Good dog," she said in a clear, high voice.
Helga gasped. Rica glanced at her in alarm, shaking her head quickly once. Then, unable to stop the swell of joy in her chest, she crossed the yard and hugged the midwife. "It's the third time today," she whispered against her ear.
"You must come tell me about this soon," Helga whispered in return, squeezing Rica's arms.
Rica smiled and lifting her skirts, hurried after her sister, who was heading back toward the castle.
* * *
In spite of the fact that Rica watched her sister almost continuously, there was no further manifestation of the strange, alert behavior until late afternoon.
Upon returning to the castle, Etta bent over her tapestry frame and with monotonous concentration, poked the needle in and out, in and out of the fabric. The dog flopped next to her on the rushes, content to sleep nearby his mistress if nothing else were required of him.
Rica leaned restlessly against the embrasure, waiting for her father. There was a newer wing than this two-hundred-year-old keep with its damp walls, but Charles clung stubbornly to his solar, giving the newer quarters to his guests. The lower-slung addition could not hope to compete with this eagle's view of the courtyard and all its goings on.
Below were kitchen maids in the garden, collecting new greens for supper. From some unseen place, a musician plucked a lute, readying it for the evening's entertainment. The priest sneezed his way across the courtyard. Along the walk, two men-at-arms paced slowly, their lackadaisical attitudes shouting of the peace that had reigned since the new emperor had taken his throne. There were always dangers so close to the river, but the reckless, bloody days of Rica's childhood had settled now in this simple peace.
Charles came in, his hawk on his arm. His face was pale and beaded with sweat. "Papa!" Rica exclaimed. "Come sit down."
"Do not flutter so, child," he grumbled, but did not shake off her hands. He allowed her to remove his outer garment, then wash his face with a cloth dipped in cool water.
"You are too fat, Papa," Rica said with a frown. "If you do not stop putting food in your mouth every minute, all summer you will suffer thus."
He waved a beefy hand. "You have taken all my favorites from me. I eat only what is left."
Rica smiled as the color began to return to his cheeks. He was not, in truth, terribly fat, although a round belly filled his tunic well enough. But even the moderate extra weight had him billowing as he took the stairs, flushing in the heat of a summer's day, and sleeping poorly. "It will be easier now we have fresh food. I will go pick cherries for you tomorrow."
He winked and patted her hand, his good humor returning with his wind. "As you wish, liebling. You have been right thus far." He shifted to pour a cup of ale. "Did you bring me some magic potion from Helga?"
"I gave it to Matilda. She will send a girl up with it." She kissed his cheek. "I will leave you," she said with a smile, knowing he would nap until supper and that he hated admitting to an old man's weakness.
Charles caught sight of Etta and frowned. "Take her with you, girl. I am weary of her sitting like a stone in my corner."
"She is not deaf, Papa." Rica whirled, furious at his bad-tempered words, and touched her sister's slim shoulder. "Come, I will dress your hair and you may do mine."
As Etta complaisantly settled her threads in a basket, Rica shot her father a look.
He lifted one bushy gray eyebrow, unapologetic.
Before they left the chamber, one of Charles's vassals appeared, Rudolf der Brumath. A tall man with the grace of a young stag, he smiled genially toward the girls. "I hope I do not interrupt."
"No." Rica smiled. Unlike most of the rest of the castle inhabitants, Rudolf always included Etta in his greetings and she liked him for that.
He bowed now over Rica's hand, then Etta's, turning the latter's over. "I see your wound has healed," he murmured.
Etta bent her head, and a rosy flush of color stained her pale cheeks. "Aye," she whispered.
Startled, Rica glanced quickly at her sister, then toward Rudolf, who smiled gently into Etta's face. Although she knew Rudolf extended his kindness toward Etta in order to win Rica's favor, she thought now there might be a way to use that kindness.
Giving him her broadest smile, she said, "Perhaps you will sit with us for the entertainment tonight."
Rudolf bowed his golden head. "It would be an honor and a pleasure."
Rica smiled again and took her sister's hand. "Till later, then."
Out in the passageway, Rica noted Etta's flush. "He is handsome, is he not?" she whispered.
"Yes," Etta whispered, looking with wonder at the hand he had kissed.
Rica hugged her sister. "Come. I will dress your hair with lavender flowers. Tonight, you will be a beauty such has never been seen before."
* * *
The meat was already upon the table before Rica and Etta appeared, and by that time Charles was fuming. The scent of braised pork taunted him with savory fingers, plucking at his belly with teasing temptation. Around him, the faces of other diners were smeared with the grease of the fat, rich cut.
He picked without interest at the broth and bread before him, torn between the bellyache he would face if he indulged his hunger and the deep satisfaction of chewing hard.
So when Rica, then Etta, appeared in the great hall, he frowned. His gaze darted from one to the other. He frowned outright. Rica always led, always. But was that Rica?
For the first time in his life, he could not tell them apart. Both wore richly embroidered surcoats over pale gowns, their identically creamy shoulders displayed. One girl had braided her hair with ribbons, the other had left hers free to tumble in a glory of silver and gold over ripe breasts and graceful arms.
As they took a place at the table, Charles heard the awed stilling of speech that grew below the buzzing of the ladies. Every man in the room had fallen completely, absurdly silent—no doubt, Charles thought grimly, contemplating all manner of ménage à trois with his nubile daughters. Elbowed by wives and nudged along by his own warning glance, the men quickly lit again the flame of chatter.
Charles ate slowly, watching his children. The one with the braid . . . now, that must be Etta, for she was the more modest of the two. That one's gown skimmed the edges of her collarbone, and she wore no bangles about her wrists or waist.
So it was Rica who had left her hair loose save for a small weaving of gillyflowers and lavender, Rica whose womanly curves swelled above a low-cut gown, Rica whose hands made bells ring on her bracelets. He smiled to himself in satisfaction. For though her head was demurely lowered as Rudolf next to her whispered something into her ear, he saw her smile in the strangely ripe way she had, even as a flush stained her cheeks.
A queer release rippled through him. Perhaps there would be no trouble over this betrothal. He'd not even known he was worried until the pair had met in his chamber this afternoon.
What a fine marriage they would make! Both were so strong and fair, and Rica was sturdy, unlike many of her class. She would bear fine sons. Rudolf, in spite of his wearying piety, was healthy, and he carried the blood of the noble Brumaths in his veins.
Charles looked at Etta, sitting quietly. Perhaps there was even hope for this girl. Surely there would be some lad willing to trade her silence for her beauty. Someone gentle but a bit stupid.
He scanned the trestle tables. Ah, he thought, spying the son of a squire—a black-haired youth of some bearing. Hugh was famed for his handling of difficult horses, but even his mother admitted that was the extent of his intelligence.
Charles lifted his cup. Perhaps. There was not only the matter of her silence, however, but that of her virginity. Sobering, he touched his belly, aching now even with the bland food he was allowed.
He must somehow see them both settled before the year was through. Then he could die in peace.
~~~~
Chapter Two
"Solomon," said his brother Hershel, leaning his elbows on the good embroidered tablecloth their mother spread for Sabbath meals. "A game of chess?"
Replete with the rich food of the midday feast, Solomon merely shook his head. "I am no match for you at my best. Today I am too sleepy."
"A walk then?" Hershel never stopped moving. The notion of rest was alien to him, as it was to their father, who chuckled with a friend in a corner of the sumptuous room. Together the old men shared a joke in Yiddish.
The air was still and close with the heat of the afternoon. A walk by the river might awaken him. To his brother, Solomon nodded.
They carried bread crumbs for the birds, and once beyond the walls of the city, scattered them for pigeons and wrens. Hershel was unusually silent, a faraway expression on his strong, dark face.
"Dreaming of your wedding night, brother?" Solomon teased.
A telltale flush lit Hershel's cheeks. "Ah—well," he protested. Then he smiled. "Perhaps a little."
"Raizel is beautiful," he said. "She will make you a good wife."
"I had the good luck to claim her before your travels brought you home."
"Nay." Solomon tossed a handful of crumbs toward a waiting pigeon, who then warred with a squirrel over the choicest chunks. "I have told you—I will not marry till I am finished with my studies."
"You cannot wait so long," Hershel protested. "The women will be old and used by then. Who knows how long the pestilence will last?"
"It has always seemed cruel to marry then leave a wife to manage all." He shook his head. "When I marry, I will be there."
"You never forget Benjamin's poor wife. She was only one of many."
"She worried herself to an early grave without him. It was unkind to leave her as he did."
"He had no choice. A man must do what he must."
Solomon shrugged, dismissing the subject. "I will not marry until I am finished at Montpellier."
"A man should marry," Hershel persisted. "It is your duty and without it, who can resist sin?"
Solomon chuckled. "Your mind is filled with visions of your beloved. I have no such dreams to torture me."
Hershel planted his feet on the banks of the river. "You are the one Papa beat—when you were seven!—for kissing girls. Have you forgotten?"
"How could I forget?" He lifted an eyebrow wickedly. "He beat me at ten and thirteen for the same. What of it?"
"Such a nature does not just go with the mist. It may be buried, but it will be your death if you do not marry."
"Pah! I have a heart, but I have also a mind with which to rule it."
"It is not the urgings of your heart that concern me."
With a small shake of his head, Solomon touched Hershel's shoulder. "Truly. You need not fret."
Hershel let go of a breath, then nodded. "Perhaps it is my own thoughts that vex me. I tell you I cannot even close my eyes for waiting."
"The time will pass soon enough."
They began to walk again. From the monastery came the faint sound of monks singing dirgeful prayers. A wide barge loaded with barrels floated by on the current of the Rhine. Wine, perhaps.
Traffic on the river this spring had been light. Solomon sobered, thinking of the plague that had so thinned the boats traveling to and fro on their busy errands.
As if reading his thoughts, Hershel asked, "Think you the pestilence will fly so far north?"
"Who knows?" Solomon shrugged. "They say it spreads on the fogs—perhaps we should pray for winds that blow southward." He shuddered inwardly. "It's a gruesome blight."
The pestilence had struck the school at Montpellier with swift and devastating consequences. The students and physicians and priests had swelled and blackened. The smell of them foreshadowed their fate: a smell of rot and death so powerful Solomon had been forced to tie a cloth about his face.
As he fled the evil, traveling home to Strassburg, he had seen whole peasant villages littered with too many bodies to bury. Survivors had begged blessings from him, dressed as he was in his priest's guise. Twice, in sympathy, he had nearly given them, but his conscience had not let him.
"They say there are hangings in France over this plague," Hershel said quietly. "They say the Jews are poisoning the wells."
"Ignorance and terror—they know not whence the pestilence comes." He tossed crumbs to an eager magpie. "But the pope has issued a bull to protect us, and the emperor has warned he will fine his subjects if they try such."
"You have forgotten, Solomon." Hershel looked at his brother. "These peasants have nothing, no thoughts. They are like cattle—when they are afraid, they will stampede."
"What would you do? Gather your bride and run?" Solomon frowned. "Where? Here we are many. We have allies in the town council and the emperor—weak as they may be, they are better than no allies at all. At least the council will lose our taxes if we are harmed." He stepped closer. "You leave Strassburg and you will die of the pestilence."
"You did not die."
There was no answer to that. Solomon had puzzled over it a dozen times, a hundred—not only his own survival, but that of others who stood in the midst of the victims and never fell ill. What protected them? And what of those who sickened unto death, then recovered? Was it something they ate or some blessing or a way of breathing?
It was the kind of question he longed someday to answer, the kind of question that made medicine endlessly fascinating. He had learned much at Montpellier, but Helga had taught him in a few short months more than he dreamed an unschooled woman could know. There was a logic in her herbs and potions he had missed in his studies of humors and purging.
Beyond Helga's knowledge were the Arabians, with whom he had a burning desire to study; their excellence was renowned.
"Ah, Solomon," said his brother in disgust. "You dream and leave me when I speak to you of pressing things." He stalked away, calling over his shoulder, "It is no wonder you cannot play chess! You have no brain!"
Smiling at Hershel's impatience, Solomon let him rush ahead while he lingered, watching birds pick along the banks. His gaze fell upon the silhouette of Esslingen's castle, nestled on a hill alongside the Rhine. From this distance it looked small, a toy for a child, and beyond it rose the Vosges, blue against the sky.
It was a reassuring sight, torn from a more peaceful, less crowded time. Long ago. Solomon smiled, thinking of the beauty contained now within those walls—a princess or an angel, with lips lush and ripe as strawberries ...
His flesh grew warm, and for a long moment, he let himself dwell upon the beauty of the girl he'd seen in Helga's garden. After only one glimpse of her, she haunted him at odd moments.
He thought of Hershel's warning. Solomon knew he was weak in matters of the flesh. Women. He sighed. There were so many beautiful women! He found them endlessly alluring—their eyes, their hair, their swaying bodies, their lilting laughter. There was a promise of pleasure in their soft mouths and clean hands and white breasts.
And it seemed as long as he could remember, there had been girls willing to share their glories with him—the daughters of merchants and stray gypsies and pretty peasants and lusty married women, bored with their lot. Precisely because he'd been approached so often, because he knew himself to be weak in matters of lust, his brother need not have worried. Solomon allowed himself to think of the treasures of women, of many women, happily and hungrily, but he never allowed his attention to be fixed upon one single beauty for more than a little while. Thus were his passions satisfied and thwarted all at once. It was a simple matter of discipline.
So as he walked back through town, even though it was Sabbath and he should have at least tried to keep his thoughts pure, he admired every girl and woman he saw, covertly but thoroughly. Thus was the beauty of the angel in the castle purged again from his mind.
* * *
Three days flew by before Rica could find leave again to return to Helga's cottage. She was eager to tell the old woman about Etta's triumph at supper one evening, about her response to the handsome Rudolf, ah—about all of it.
It wasn't until she entered the yard that she admitted she had also hoped to find the young man Solomon there. Upon seeing only Helga grinding rosemary on a stump, she felt an irrational sense of disappointment.
"Hey, my pretty," Helga greeted her. "Sit down and help me, girl." Her red face shone with a film of perspiration, and her skirt immodestly showed her calves. "Oh, and don't be looking at me that way. If you were an old woman like me, you'd lift your skirts to the wind, too."
Rica smiled, sinking down upon a stool. "It is a hot day," she agreed, then lifted her surcoat over her head and hung it on a tree. Even in her tunic, her skin felt sticky. She envied Helga her age and freedom.
"What will you have me do?" she asked. "I am yours this whole afternoon to do your bidding." The words were teasing, but both knew how Rica prized her forays to the cottage.
Helga handed over the mortar and pestle. "Grind away. And when you've finished, I could use a bit of weeding in the gardens. My old back ails me."
"Mmmm." Head bent, Rica asked innocently, "Where is your helper? Have you chased him away so quickly?"
"Well, I'll not be working him that way. Too many things to teach before he goes back to his fancy school." She heaved her considerable frame upright. "You know my thoughts on physicians, you do. If I can send one off with some knowledge of true healing, I've paid for a goodly number of my sins." She grinned, showing a mouthful of broad white teeth, teeth of which she was inordinately proud. Still had every one she'd grown, she was fond of boasting.
Rica smiled, breathing the pungent scent of crushed rosemary. "Of course," she teased, "it is painful for you to have such a healthy young man in your clutches for hours each day."
"Oh, it's a sore trial," Helga agreed, shaking her head. "Were I a maid ..."
"Were you a maid, you'd keep your skirts down like the rest of us."
Helga pinched her cheek. "See that you remember it, girl."
Rica flushed. So her interest had been noted. "I am no fool for men, like some I know," she said, piqued.
"It only takes one man to make a woman a fool," Helga returned, her voice light. "None are above it." With that, she bustled toward the cottage.
Rica ground the rosemary, staring off toward the mountains, hazy blue beneath a heat-whitened sky. Sweat trickled over her scalp and between her breasts, both tickling and annoying. A fat old fly buzzed and lit upon her shoulder; apparently liking the taste of the salt on her flesh, he returned persistently. In the forest beyond the cottage, grackles and merles and starlings twittered and sang. It was hot, but peaceful, too.
Away from the castle, she always felt a sense of lightness. Here, in Helga's simple yard, she could just sit and be, without worrying over Etta or her father, or wondering whether the girls in the brewhouse were ruining the ale.
The rattle of a harness reached her. Helga's voice, bawdy and teasing, boomed out. It was the peddler, no doubt, come to flirt and talk awhile with the midwife. Helga would fetch him a cup of ale and together they'd while away an hour or so, exchanging ripe faux invitations that neither would ever act upon. A safe and pleasant entertainment, Rica supposed, and wondered if she'd flirt with peddlers when she was old.
She leaned against the tree, feeling rough bark against her back. Dappled shade fell over her skirts, looking cool, but providing little shield from the heat. She blew a strand of hair from her eyes.
She had no idea how long she sat there, with the mortar between her palms. From time to time, she stopped to push her dampened hair from her face and pull the linen of her tunic from her slick skin. She was in the act of lifting the fabric from her flesh when someone held out a cup of water to her.
"Your face is flushed, fräulein," said a deep male voice in concern. "You must have some water."
With a shiver, Rica recognized the voice. She'd heard him speak no more than a handful of sentences, but the rich sound was burned into memory. She looked up to find Solomon standing alongside her, a faint smile on his mouth, a wooden cup grasped between his extraordinarily beautiful, clean fingers. She accepted the offering without looking away. "Thank you."
In deference to the heat, he carried his heavy jupon, wearing only a light tunic, loose at the throat to show a brown chest and dark curls of hair. "You should take care with this heat, you know," he said, settling on the stump Helga had vacated, his hands clasped loosely between his knees. "Perhaps the work would wait until another day."
The water slid down her throat, deliciously cool. It seemed she could feel it all the way into her belly, and for a moment, the sheer pleasure of the feeling out-weighed even the glowing presence of the young man.
"Ah, no," she said when she'd drained the cup. "If I leave this work, there is only more awaiting at the castle—most of it hotter and more boring than this. I'd rather sit here."
He smiled, pulling a plume of grass from its sheath to chew on. "So it is with me." A tumble of black curls fell over his forehead. With a careless gesture he tossed them back. "My brothers tease me for walking out here every afternoon, but otherwise my father would find some unpleasant task for me to attend."
"Yes." She felt a swirl of awareness and looked away, afraid her thoughts would show.
He seemed to be perfectly at ease. "I saw Helga with the peddler. Do you wish for help?"
"Oh, it is a job for only one, I think."
"Well, then, do you mind if I sit with you until Helga is finished?"
"I do not mind," she said quietly. But perhaps she did. Perhaps she would do something foolish if he stayed, talking so easily to her. "You have been studying medicine?" she asked politely.
"For almost five years at Montpellier."
"And what brings you home so soon?"
He bent his head, using the feathery end of the grass to brush a beetle away from his toe. "Have you not heard of the pestilence, fräulein?"
"Only a little. Is it so bad?"
"They say ships with the whole crew dead washed to shore in Italy," he said. "From what I saw, I know it to be true."
Rica frowned, turning the mortar in her hands. "My father's vassal believes it is a punishment from God."
"Do you share his belief?"
"No. Do you?"
"No." A slow smile spread over his beautiful mouth, giving a warm glow to his dark eyes. Rica suddenly saw a flicker of something hot and pointed, an expression he hid quickly behind lowered lids—so quickly Rica wondered if she had imagined it.
"Where is your sister today?" he asked, twirling the grass between his fingers.
"She stayed behind to do her tapestry. She does not come abroad with me often."
"Helga said she will not speak."
"She is very timid. She speaks to me, and to our dog. I think she will begin to speak to a vassal because he is beautiful." She bit her lip, realizing she had said more than she intended. "Did Helga tell you also what happened to her?"
He shook his head and sunlight glossed a hundred loose curls.
"When we were six," Rica said, "my mother and sister had been out to gather blackberries and my mother turned her ankle, so they were slow getting back." Between her palms, the mortar turned slowly. "Soldiers found them just after dark and carried them to a meadow. There were six of the soldiers. They took my mother by force, over and over until she died, and then began on my sister."
Rica looked at him, seeing in his face not the aghast horror she saw so often when the story was told, but a resigned and terrible sorrow.
"So," he said, "her timidity has reason."
"Yes."
He looked at her steadily. This time, his gaze softened. She felt it trail like the tip of a finger over her cheek and jaw, and slide over her mouth. Without thinking, she returned his exploration, seeing the plumpness of his lower lip and the fine brown skin at the neck of his loosened tunic.
The bowl of rosemary slipped from her fingers and fell to the earth. With a small cry of embarrassment and chagrin, Rica bent over to retrieve it at the same instant Solomon also reached for it. Their hands brushed. His hair swept her cheek, smelling of sunshine and heat. Rica wanted to press her mouth into it.
Endlessly, the moment stretched, with his fingers over her own, his head bent over her breast, his hair upon her face. He looked up.
Rica met his eyes almost against her will, feeling a thready pulse in her veins. Up close, she saw there was no break in the color of his eyes at all—the black irises faded into the black middles, giving them the look of a pond at night.
Yet, like a pond, his eyes glimmered and shifted. A puzzled frown touched his clear, wide brow. "If it did not seem mad, I would swear I knew you," he said.
A ripple of the same recognition had whispered through Rica upon seeing him the first time, and in an effort to hold to sanity, she tried now to recall where they might have met. Perhaps it was only as simple as passing in the roads of the city.
She shook her head infinitesimally.
Flushing, Solomon stood and handed her the pestle. "Forgive me," he said with a short, formal bow. "But it would be best if I find some other task for my hands."
Rica did not raise her eyes. "Yes," she said softly. "That would be best."
It was only when he had turned away, flinging his jupon over his shoulder, that she allowed herself another glimpse of him.
It only takes one man to make a woman a fool.
Rica knew how foolish this particular attraction was. Poets and poems aside, to indulge even a fleeting fantasy would be a lunatic's move.
In sudden panic, she gathered the herbs and donned her surcoat, and found Helga still chatting with the peddler. Rather than interrupt them, she gave a little wave as she passed a few feet away, knowing she would have to explain the next time she came. In the morning. He came only afternoons.
But as she whistled for Leo, she felt Solomon's gaze once more. She turned to find him standing in the shadow of a grove of pines, watching her. She lowered her head and kept walking.
For the first time, she realized all the poems she so loved were grounded in tragedy. Of tragedy, she'd already had her fill.
* * *