A Bed of Spices (8 page)

He fingered the painting. One day he would stand in this street and see for himself. One day he would train with the finest physicians in the world.

So perhaps he would take Rica this little painting. It was forever emblazoned upon his brain, and she, perhaps, had never seen such a thing.

His brother Asher called to him. “Solomon! We shall starve waiting for you!”

Hastily, as if burned, he tossed the painting back into its place, then dressed. At the door he paused, trying desperately to remember how he usually went down, how he behaved when he had nothing to hide. He felt as if the impression of Rica had branded him obviously, as if her mouth hovered in a ghostly image over his own.

He cursed himself. How could he have let himself go so far past his promises to himself?

For a moment, he pressed his fingers to his brow. How could he not? In the deserted meadow, damp and fresh from the water, she had been more beautiful than a vision. His heart ached at even the memory.

Madness. Perhaps there was some clue in the stars. He would consult the astrologers on the morrow. They often had much to offer.

Thus steadied, he descended.

But the evening was cursed, as the day had been. There were too many people, too many aunts and uncles and cousins and friends, all crowding in, laughing and talking and teasing.

The instant Solomon took his place at the richly laid table, he spied the girl. She sat nearby his mother, who fluttered around the girl with an oddly protective air.

Raizel’s sister, no doubt. And like Raizel, a beauty. Rich dark eyes and rosy cheeks; a glorious weight of hair and fine, clear skin with the shimmer of moonlight. She blushed when she looked up to find Solomon’s eyes upon her, and her pretty mouth trembled.

He set his jaw and bent over his plate, knowing there would be a proper introduction, and pressure from his father. “
It is your obligation to marry
!”

Perhaps his father had grown weary of Solomon’s insistence upon waiting. Perhaps there would be no choice this time—and he could not protest that she was ugly. He looked at Jacob, who sat at the head of the table, viewing the assembled guests with the pride and bearing of a monarch.

And why not? There were few Jews as rich as Jacob, few who could boast such finery as the gold-embroidered jupon that he wore, who could display such treasures as spread all around them in the lavishly furnished room. It was a plain house from without, even ugly, so as not to incite the jealousy of Christian neighbors. Within were luxuries even many of the petty barons of the town could not afford.

Not only was he rich, but Jacob had also sired five living sons—a wealth of children. His wife was beautiful, even in her age, and Jacob himself was yet a fine, handsome man with the same curls of his sons and a black beard only now showing signs of silver.

As if he felt Solomon’s eyes upon him, Jacob turned. His mouth pursed in a speculative gesture, and his shrewd eyes narrowed. Solomon, alarmed, hastily bowed over his food.

Could it be that his father somehow knew of his attraction to Rica? Had someone seen him kiss her in the meadow?

No force in the world could have stopped the deep flush of shame that rose up his neck. It had been the thing that often gave him away as a boy; it had not so humiliated him in years.

With a sense of horror, he realized it was his own guilty thoughts that had put the color in his cheeks. He would go no more to Helga’s, he vowed. He would not stray from within the walls of Strassburg itself. Surely, if he had no glimpse of her, this lunacy would burn itself clean.

For, dear Cod, it must.

Etta sat motionless
as Rica wove flowers through her hair and tied her braids with golden thread. “You must listen to me, Etta.”

“Yes.”

“I see how you watch Rudolf and it is a good thing. A woman needs a husband.” She frowned for a moment, remembering the white boots of Rudolf’s steed as they flashed by the hiding place in the bushes. He had watched her, Solomon said.

Arid yet, perhaps he was only perplexed over the puzzle she had offered. “A man must be coaxed,” she continued. “Do you understand?”

Etta raised her eyes. “Yes. I must not be shy.”

“You may be shy, but not silent. A man will always talk about himself, but you must do the prompting.” Pleased with her handiwork, she stepped back to admire Etta’s hair. “Good,” she said, and turned to the trunk by the wall that held her clothes. A blue velvet surcoat, trimmed with fur and embroidered with morning glories, was folded on top. She took it out and then pulled out a pale cotehardie as well. “Wear these,” she said, and fetched out for herself simpler things, in dull colors.

“It is you he wishes to bed,” Etta commented.

How often had Rica sworn to her father that Etta was not simple? And yet she had made the same assumption herself. She bit her lip, turning to meet her sister’s eyes. “I know.”

“You do not love him.”

“No.”

Etta reached for the rich blue surcoat. “He knows I am not you.”

“He will not know anymore. I promise you, Etta. You shall have him, not I.”

Nodding to herself, Etta shook her shoulders gently to let the fabric settle low, showing her creamy neck and shoulders, and the enticing swell of white breasts. “This is what men wish to see, is it not?”

Rica felt her heart thud once, uncomfortably, remembering how Rudolf’s eyes had fastened upon her neckline this afternoon. Even Rica could see the enticement the low cut of the gown offered. She saw, too, the innocence that shone in Etta’s serenely beautiful face. The combination might be dangerous. “Beware, little sister,” she said softly. “He is a man.”

Etta raised her eyes and a strange, secretive expression flashed over them for an instant. “Aye,” she said.

She left the room, her skirts swishing upon the rushes, bells jingling softly. Rica stared after her, disturbed.

They were twins, identical to the dimple in their left cheeks, to the length of their lashes and the sound of their voices.

Could it be they had similar hearts, as well? Had Etta been roused from her long silence by passion?

Rica frowned in concern. Her own newly awakened passion was wrong, and she must find a way to resist temptation. She could not indulge her attraction to Solomon, especially after the kiss they had shared this afternoon. It still shamed her that she could have acted in such a way with him—and it was truly, deeply dangerous for both of them.

Buried in the heart of her sister was there such wantonness?

Was it the force of the stars that made Etta awaken to the passion of her heart, as Rica had also awakened?

Distractedly, she combed and braided her hair and donned the plain clothes. An astrologer could tell her what fate awaited them, what the stars of their birth had to say about the strange new events in their lives. Perhaps she could find leave to go to Strassburg on the morrow.

For suddenly, she felt uneasy.

Charles stayed in his room, and in his absence, Rudolf felt free. He ate well and drank readily of mead, filling the cups of Etta and Rica as often as he filled his own. Surely a little wine would loosen those tongues and trip them in their game—which girl was Rica?

The minstrels assembled in the gallery and Rudolf leaned toward the girl next to him. Rica, he thought. Her face was soft with drink, her eyes deep violet. “I sought you in the forest this afternoon, lady,” he said quietly.

“No, my lord. Today I did not go abroad.”

Puzzled, he glanced toward the other girl, who stared at the lute player with glassy-eyed fascination. “It was you in the garden?”

She lowered her gaze to look at her hands, folded in her lap, and dimpled prettily. “Perhaps.”

“Nay,” he said hoarsely, remembering the proud, uplifted breasts shining with water. As if drawn against his will, he measured that same flesh now with his eyes. His loins grew heavy. “‘Twas you I saw bathing in the river.”

Her eyes flew open to meet his, startled. An odd, fleeting fury crossed her features.

Contrite, Rudolf cursed himself. His caution was gone—insanity and lust had taken its place. “I sought only to protect you.”

A flush crawled over her delicate white skin and she lowered her lashes once again. “I am ashamed to have been seen so.”

“You are as beautiful as—” he struggled, trying to think of suitable words, “as our Holy Mother. You have no need to be ashamed.”

A servant bent to the other girl, toward Etta—he was sure it was she now—and whispered. Etta nodded and murmured something in her sister’s ear. There was a quick exchange of words between them, then Etta rose and departed.

“My father is not well,” Rica said quietly.

The lutes and drums banged to a merry start. “Shall we begin the dancing?”

Gracefully, Rica rose. “As you wish, my lord.”

Ah, what a wife she would make
! As he held out his arms, smelling lavender on her skin, he congratulated himself heartily. Today he had played the courtly lover well. Charles would be pleased.

Rica hurried up the circling stairs toward her father’s chamber, worried that his illness had taken a turn for the worse. In truth she was glad to escape the hall. It was a strain to be silent at the meal, to listen to each word Etta spoke for fear she would misstep herself and give the game away.

Wine had loosened her sister’s tongue, and

Rudolf was well into his cups. All would be well now.

As she entered her father’s solar, he looked up and scowled. “Where is your sister?”

Rica glanced at her drab tunic and sighed. “I am my sister, Pappi. I am Rica.” She settled next to his bed on a small wooden stool, looking in concern at the flush in his cheeks. “What say you? Was it a goose or a fat cut of pork? And who gave it to you?”

He waved a hand. “‘Twas neither. I hunted with my hawk this morning and grew overtired.”

The room was too warm. A bright fire blazed on the hearth in spite of the season, lending a reddish glow to the walls.

“Papa, you must—”

“Ah. girl, do not preach at me!” he roared. “I asked for your company, not your shrewish lectures.”

Rica narrowed her eyes. “A tantrum will only make your chest ache all the more.” With a swish of her skirts, she stood up and restlessly poked at the fire. “I’ll not stay if you take your temper out on me.”

He glowered at her a moment more, then a reluctant smile spread over his broad, handsome face. “You were bom a queen,
liebling
,” he said with a chuckle. “It wearies me so to be trapped here, I fear I do you an injustice.”

Rica relented. Chin in the air, she settled back upon the stool. “Company I have. Will you play dice?” she offered.

“Nay Just sit with me.” He touched the brown hem of her mantle with a frown. “What game perform you with your sister?”

Rica was wise enough to know her father would not approve her plan to win Rudolf for Etta. “Tis only a diversion, meant to amuse.”

“Ah, well, it brings light to your sister’s eye,” he conceded. “No harm in that.”

From below came the faint echo of music, a haunting pipe, and lutes, and a drum. As Rica listened, the music stilled and a single voice rang out, the rich tenor of a troubadour.

“What think you of Hugh for Etta, daughter?” Charles asked suddenly.

“Hugh, the horseman?”

“The one.”

Rica plucked at the buttons on her sleeve, mulling her answer. “He is fair and good, but think you it wise to offer her?”

Charles fell silent. After a moment, he reached for her hand. “I am ailing, child. I would see you both well settled before—”

“Do not say it.‘” Rica cried, gripping his sturdy fingers.

His sharp blue eyes flickered. “Very well. I am pleased to see you are so fond,” he said, amused.

“Pappi—” she began, and stopped, wondering how to tell him. to hint to him that Rudolf might make a better mate for Etta.

“Have you some burden,
liebling
?”

For a moment, she peered into his face in the flickering light, trying to discern the future on his beefy features. “Nay,” she said at last. She would wait. Her father saw how improved Etta seemed to be; in time, perhaps, he would see that Etta would make a fine wife to the knight. There was time.

Instead she coaxed him into a hand of cards, then when he wearied, left him with a kiss to his brow.

Faintly the music floated through the halls as Rica made her way through the passage. On the stairs, she paused, thinking she ought to see how Etta fared.

But in truth, her heart was heavy. The world seemed a sad dark place this night, and she could not say why. She made for the quiet of her own chamber.

As she neared the doorway, a shadow emerged from the other direction and Rica started, then saw it was the priest, a candle held aloft, a thick book in his arms.

The mere sight of him was enough to bring a rush of guilt to her heart. “Good even, Father,” she said quietly.

“Rica. I had hoped to find you.”

She smiled. “Not even my father knew which girl I was tonight—and yet, you, in the gloom, name me rightly.”

“Perhaps God lends me clear sight.” He shifted to lift the bound manuscript from his hands. “I have come to ease your heart, my child.” A twinkle in his eye betrayed the solemnity of his words. “You have no mother. I took the liberty of finding that which might prepare you for the glory of your marriage.”

For an instant, Rica was certain he saw her sin burning on her flesh. Then she realized he referred to her confession of lustful thoughts. How small that sin now seemed! In a whisper, she accepted his offering. “Thank you.”

He winked. “There is more to God’s wishes than prayers, child.”

Rica watched him amble away, candle aloft and flickering in the drafts of the passage, his rotund figure rocking. At least he no longer coughed.

With a sigh, she entered her chamber and touched her candle to the rushlight before she sank to her bench. As he often did, Father Goddard had marked pages for her to read from one of his precious volumes.

For a moment she was thankful for his presence in her life—kindly and sprightly and wise. He had given her all the treasures she deemed powerful by releasing the secrets of Latin. Had she been a son, he would have begged her father to send her to a monastery.