A Bed of Spices (2 page)

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 III 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 fru-menty 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.”