A Bed of Spices (20 page)

“I am teaching her letters, now, too.”

“I never thought…” He trailed off, then shook his head. Abruptly, he faced Rica, close and intent. “You must marry, both of you.”

Rica thought instantly of Solomon and lowered her eyes to hide their expression. If only she could say to her father, “There
is
a man I would take to spouse…”

But she could not. Instead, she must forestall her father’s wish to find her a husband until at least that time Solomon departed for his studies. Even that thought made her feel somehow diminished. “I do not wish to marry yet, Papa,” she said quietly. “It would suit me more to wait another year.”

“No.” The word brooked no argument.

In alarm, Rica looked at him. “But I am not ready! Will you marry me against my will?”

“If need be.” His eyes, ordinarily so gentle, were a clear, implacable blue. “It would grieve me to do so, but there is much danger in the air. I would see you settled—and soon.”

“Will you wait at least until the equinox? It is you I do not wish to leave. And my sister needs me yet.”

“That may be—but you will marry by All Saints’ Day. Look about you.”

Head lowered, Rica whispered, “Yes, Papa,” Then frowning, she looked at him. “Have you a mate in mind?”

He stroked the breast feathers of his bird. “Perhaps.”

“And for Etta, too?”

“Hugh, the horseman, will do for Etta. Especially now she has grown so strong.”

The servant appeared with sops and ale. Rica stared at the food with a bleak heart. Once again, time crept up on her. Now she would not only lose her love, she would be forced to marry.

She also had to find a way to bring the alliance between Etta and Rudolf to her father’s attention before it was too late and Etta was firmly betrothed to Hugh.

A dull ache sprang to life between her eyes. If only all could remain as it was this summer!

But time would not let it be so.

Rudolf knelt in the confessional. Against his knees, the flags were unkindly cold, and he took satisfaction in the discomfort, as he did in the rough hair shirt he wore hidden beneath his tunic. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

At the priest’s murmured invitation to confide those sins, Rudolf’s guilt rose like bile in his throat, clouding his vision with a red haze. “My carnal appetites have led me to sins of the flesh,” he said in a harsh voice.

“Do we speak of fornication?”

“Nay, Father. I have only handled roughly a woman who should be more gently treated. I cannot think what madness overtook me.” He shifted in discomfort at the memory of Rica on the circular staircase and his drunken, lustful frenzy. He’d seen bruises on her the next day. “Now I fear I have lost my suit for all time.”

The old priest chuckled. “Oh, surely it is not so dire as that, my son?”

“She speaks not to me, Father, and when I speak to her, she stares through me as if I am a wraith.” He rested his forehead on the wooden wall. “I know not how to make amends to her.”

“You handled her roughly, you say?”

“In my passion, I frightened her. She is yet a maid. I was a fool.”

“Did Ric—er—this maid seem to show fondness before your mishandling of her?”

“I believe she was growing very fond.”

The priest grunted. “Then all you need do is show her you can be gentle as well as harsh. Women must be sweetly wooed. Read to her of poetry, perhaps.”

Rudolf frowned. “I cannot read.”

“Oh, yes. Well, collect flowers and baubles, then— things that will please her.”

“That I can do.”

“And do not be overly harsh with yourself, my son. ‘Tis a man’s nature to hunger for the flesh of a woman, and your virtue speaks well of you.”

Rudolf lifted his chin as pride in this recognition pushed away his guilt. Women were temptresses, all of them—even Saint Paul exhorted them to keep themselves covered so as not to draw the eyes of men. “Thank you, Father.”

His penance was not harsh. He said the prayers by rote, then begged a healing lotion from the cook and went to a private place. There he shed the hair shirt and rubbed lotion over his reddened flesh. Dressed once more, his sins absolved, he made for the gardens to gather flowers for his love.

***

Solomon knelt in the beds of herbs in front of Helga’s cottage, ostensibly weeding. Nearby Helga, too, weeded the neat rows, her face perspiring. She talked sporadically of the properties of various plants, quizzing him in their uses. He answered by rote, his attention focused on the narrow road down which Rica would come if she found leave.

More days than not she came. Solomon had given up all pretense of believing anything else in his life mattered. He lived for the hours she sat with him in Helga’s yard or cottage, when they talked of poets and natural law and the structure of society. He could discuss anything with her, and if she did not know the subject, she was eager to learn.

She liked to hear his stories of Montpellier and travel tales and the stories of faraway lands he’d heard told by the merchants in his father’s shop all his life. Her eyes gleamed with excitement as she listened.

She was also deeply curious about his religion, although at first her questions had been offered shyly. She wanted to know about it because it was his—but he also saw that it fascinated her.

In turn, he asked about the ordering of a castle, the feeding and housing of so many who depended upon the lord. She also had a great store of legends and fairy tales she shared with him.

Talking. He had never talked so much, so hungrily with anyone. Her mind was like a thick and fascinating book, one which he longed to study again and again. It seemed he could never talk enough with her.

He glanced up desultorily and straightened, blinking. There on the road was not one Rica, but two.

He gaped unabashedly at the twins. From twenty paces, there was no difference in them whatever. One wore yellow, the other rose. Identical, endless hair tumbled over matching white shoulders.

Next to him, Helga made a soft noise of disbelief. “I cannot see which is which,” she said.

The girls stopped before them, smiling identical smiles of secretive mischief. And yet, once they came close, Solomon knew instantly which was Rica—in spite of the similarity of their features, he knew his love. The color of her eyes was a bit deeper than that of her sister’s, her mouth a little fuller, her figure a little more robust. It was a hundred tiny details that made the difference, but he knew.

Helga seemed not to see those tiny details, and looked from one to the other with an almost comically baffled expression. “Sweet Mother of God, ‘tis a miracle! I cannot tell which is my Rica, which is my Etta!”

Before they could speak, Solomon grinned and stepped forward, looking deep into Rica’s eyes in secret hunger and joy before he turned. He took her hand and drew her forward. “This is Rica.”

She laughed. “Well done, Herr Jacob! Only the priest can tell if we do not speak!”

Helga reached for Etta, her cornflower eyes sparkling with tears. “Ah, my pretty. You are healing! I did not think it could be so quick!”

“Love can heal any wound,” Rica said teasingly and nudged her sister.

Etta blushed, but her chin lifted. “As she is the one who loved me so well, she should know.”

Even her voice was much the same as Rica’s, Solomon thought, narrowing his eyes. Etta’s was a little higher, a bit lighter, somehow. He stared at her intently, trying to pinpoint the differences in her face. In his hand, Rica’s fingers wiggled and he looked at her.

The dark blue irises blazed with approval. “I am impressed, my lord,” she said quietly.

Etta drew a small package from the pouch at her waist. “I have brought you a present, Helga,” she said quietly. “And I have a petition for you, if you might give me a minute or two.”

“Pah!” Helga grabbed the girl’s hand. “Such formality from a babe I brought to the world!” She waved a hand toward Solomon and Rica. “These two can go make bawdy jokes in the gardens. You and I will have a cup of ale and chat alone.”

Etta smiled.

Solomon and Rica stood on the road watching them disappear into the cottage. Suddenly, Rica lifted her skirts and ran for the back garden, laughing impishly. “I will beat you!” she cried.

His heart light, he laughed and ran after her, catching up as they reached the side path. He grabbed her arm, and she laughed, nearly stumbling in the hem of her too-long skirts.

“You win, my lord,” she said, and slumped against the warm wall of the cottage.

She was tousled from the little scuffle, and in the warmth of the day, her skin was dewy. All at once, Solomon was struck deeply by the fragile beauty of her white throat, and leaning in close, he tasted the delicate hollow at the base. Against his tongue, her skin was slick and salty.

The unexpected pleasure of touching her burst through his veins with a sizzling madness. “Oh, Rica,” he breathed against her, and took small sups of her throat, following the graceful line to her chin.

They were hidden from the road here, and Solomon knew they’d hear Helga before she appeared. He circled Rica’s waist with his hands, stroking the sweet curve. He smiled. “This must be the prize I’ve won.”

Her eyes were mischievous. “If you like.” Her head fell back a little, and a bar of sunlight struck the blue pupils, making them seem blazing jewels set in her rosy face. Overcome, he kissed her, falling deep into her mouth. And Rica met him eagerly, her lips succulent and giving and playful against his own, her tongue dancing and parrying until she made a deep, slow sound. He felt her fingers on his wrist, urging his hand higher. He chuckled and followed her bidding, creeping up over her rib cage until her breast, soft and full, pressed into his palm.

Even through the layers of clothes, he could feel the hard nub of her nipple against his palm, and he rubbed it slowly, plucking at her lips with his teeth. She wriggled deliciously against him, and again he chuckled, tantalizing her flesh with his thumb.

Against her lips, he whispered, “Wouldn’t you like to feel my mouth here, Rica? Like this.” He captured her lower lip, suckling in illustration. “And like this.” With his tongue, he traced tiny circles over her mouth, over the tip of her tongue.

Then, somehow, he was lost. His passion, until that instant a leashed creature, leapt beyond his restraints. He kissed her violently, pressing her against the wall of the cottage, vaguely aware of the heat of the day, of the sound of insects around them. Rica instinctively moved against him, and her hands roved over his back, and lower, and crept—

The door banged in back. Solomon tore himself away and straightened, pulling his tunic down. Quickly, he reached out to brush a lock of hair from Rica’s damp mouth.

“Oh-ho!” Helga called.

Rica shot him a panicky glance. He shook his head minutely and bent over the beds nearby their feet. “Over here!” he called, and plucked a cluster of blue flowers from a borage plant.

Helga looked around the corner curiously. Rica had recovered herself enough to kneel next to him in the dirt, and he handed her the borage. “She’s proving an apt student,” he said, repressing his amusement over the irony. “Perhaps she just needed a better teacher.”

But the joke didn’t ease Helga’s expression. “Come grind these spices for me, in the back,” she said brusquely.

They hurried to do her bidding. As they settled in their usual places, Solomon noticed for the first time they were in full view of Helga.

“Do you think she guesses?” Rica said after a moment.

“Oh, yes.” He grinned at her. “I’m sure of it.”

“Why does she not stop us, then?”

He looked toward the cottage, then back to Rica. “Perhaps she has a romantic heart.” To change the subject, which would only lead to solemnity, he asked, “What is your sister about today?”

“She wouldn’t tell me.” Rica grinned. “In truth, I think she seeks a love potion.”

“Ahhh.” He laughed. “So, is that how you’ve captured my heart? With magic spells and potions?”

“You are the one who is so well versed in herbs and the like,” she said archly. “My mind was pure before you.”

“And now?”

“And now I will not tell you.” She smiled without looking at him.

He grinned, feeling a gentle heat surge through him. “Put your hand alongside of you,” he said and when she complied, he drew light circles over the heart of her palm. “I am dying for want of you, Rica.”

Her gaze sobered.

Solomon glanced toward the cottage and saw Helga bent over the hearth. Looking back to Rica, he said, “I think of nothing but being with you, naked, touching you.”

She blushed.

“Do I embarrass you,
mein herz
?”

“No.” Her fingers tightened on his, and she closed her eyes. “I am just afraid.”

“We’ll meet in a hidden place—no one need know where we are.” His heart pounded with both arousal and love. “It would be more beautiful to love you that way than anything I can think of.”

“Once we begin—”

“Shhh.” He smiled. “You must trust me, Rica. I know—” He shook his head. “Never mind. You must trust me. Will you do that?”

Her expression blazed as she lifted her eyes. She smiled, shaking her head. “You know I will say yes.”

He laughed. “Good. Tomorrow?”

“Yes.” For a moment, she clutched his hand. “It’s so hard not to kiss you when you are so close.”

He let her hand go and glanced toward the cottage. “But for now we must work, or Helga might find ways to put us on separate tasks.”

As the twins walked home, Rica again asked Etta what business she had wanted to discuss with Helga.

“It was nothing,” Etta insisted again. “A private question I wanted to ask.”

“I am curious, that’s all. You’ve never kept anything from me before.”

“None that you know.”

Rica glanced at her, laughing. “Etta!”

“Well, you do not tell me all.”

“Yes, I do.” Guiltily she thought of Solomon, but that was a different manner. Dangerous.

“You have secrets now, Rica.” Etta gazed at her steadily. “I see them in your eyes.”

Rica said nothing.

After a moment, Etta said, “Who is that man you were with?”