A Bed of Spices (24 page)

Rica paused in her chamber to brush out her hair and wash her face. It was as she bent over the bowl that the idea struck her—now she might learn how Rudolf courted Etta, might learn what ill thoughts lurked behind his overly pious face.

There was no doubt that it was Rudolf who had accosted Etta that night on the stairs. He had done penance for the act, severe penance if she were to judge by the rough red rash that had circled his throat. The act of his penance stayed her wish for vengeance—for the moment.

From the first there had been something akilter in the blaze of lust through his piety. The mix disturbed her in some way she could not name.

Straightening, she dried her face and removed her belt and the bangles at her wrists and found a simple leather girdle to circle her waist. Tonight Rica would become Etta, to see what she might learn. Etta would no doubt be furious if she learned of this duplicity, so Rica would not risk going to her chamber for a surcoat Rudolf would recognize as Etta’s—whom he believed to be Rica.

Instead, she smoothed her tunic and wore it alone with only the simple belt.

As she descended the stairs in the tower toward the hall, she felt a strange, sudden worry.

Where would this duplicity end? And how would Rudolf, so proud and pious, take the news of their dishonesty?

She paused a moment in the gloom. Perhaps it was past time to end the ruse, to spread the game before Rudolf and let fate take its course.

But Rica could not do that to her sister without Etta’s consent. Whether Rudolf was good or evil, Etta loved him now. In light of that love, Rica could only act in protection—she could not damage whatever chance Etta might have with him.

In the hall, a simple meal had been laid and servants scurried quickly to finish their chores before the bells rang at sundown, freeing them from their duties for the Feast of the Assumption. Tomorrow the priests would wander the fields and pastures, blessing animals and crops. Herbs would be gathered for their greater medicinal properties.

Rica, sitting down to her meal, was struck suddenly with a way to see Solomon. She would take herbs from Helga’s garden to him, as if Helga had sent them. She smiled to herself in satisfaction—she would not even be forced to take Olga, since she was freed from her duties for the day. Amidst the wandering peasants and priests and burghers celebrating the glorious feast, no one would notice another woman, more or less.

So happy did the thought make her that she nearly forgot to pick lightly over her food as Etta would do—and even when she realized she must, it was no small task. She had tended Etta nearly all the day, and her stomach growled over the rich scent of the roasted quail set before her.

Still, conscious of Rudolf’s watchful gaze, she sipped delicately of her cup of ale and nibbled a shred of meat and broke a hank of bread in half. In the corner, a lute player strummed a soft tune.

She was rewarded when the meal was cleared. Rudolf bent over her. “Will you walk with me this night, my lady?”

Rica inclined her head demurely in assent and accepted his hand to stand. From the corner of her eye, she saw her father nod to himself in satisfaction. Charles knew Etta was ill, so correctly assumed it was Rica who took Rudolf’s arm.

With suddenness and clarity, the truth struck her. In horror, she looked back at her father’s smile, then looked at Rudolf, who tucked her fingers in the crook of his elbow.

It was Rudolf her father wished her to marry! How had she been so blind?

Somehow she moved her stiffened limbs in a semblance of walking. Waves of horror washed through her, over and over.

Mocking flashes of memory pointed to the signs that had been there all along—if only she’d been wise enough to see them. With a rising sense of panic, she remembered conversations with her father, and with Rudolf.

Rudolf spoke little, seemingly content to press her fingers to the crook of his elbow. As they walked, Rica felt a wild fear growing. The deception she and Etta had indulged all these weeks now seemed a terrible, terrible tangle from which there was no escape; a tangle with grave consequences.

Silently she walked with Rudolf past the kitchens and brewhouse, past the stables and hives, toward the orchard. The sun was low, and just as it slipped behind the jagged line of mountains to the west, bells began to toll to free the servants. Rica watched a cluster of stable-boys run for the gates, headed for hardier pursuits in the clusters of peasant dwellings beyond the walls.

“And so the rabble departs once more for sin,” Rudolf said.

“They are only boys,” Rica replied mildly.

Beneath her fingers, Rudolf’s arm went rigid. “‘Tis as boys they learn the lustful habits of a lifetime.”

Rica wondered what Etta would have said to that, and stayed silent.

“‘Tis not our concern,” he said with a shrug, and led her to the stone bench beneath the peach trees where Etta so often sat to do her embroidery. As Rica settled, he added, “In truth, I would speak of happier things this night.”

A cold break of sweat traveled down her spine. “Happier things?”

He smiled down at her, as if infinitely patient. “You have forgiven my lapse, Rica, but we have spoken little of it.”

It was that very lapse she had wished to speak of, but it seemed prelude now, and Rica was eager to squelch it. “We need not! I would forget, and have you do the same.”

Earnestly, he sank beside her on the bench and took her hand in both of his. His fingers were cold. Rica forced herself not to yank away. “It was my love for you that made me mad in that moment.” He lifted her fingers to his thin, sharp lips. “In truth, fair lady, I think of nothing but our wedding night.”

Rica had thought herself a wanton. She had feared that Solomon’s touch had forever unleashed a beast of lust within her. But though her breath came quickly now, it was dismay that made it so. Her flesh shrank from his touch. His breath smelled of onions, and his tunic, upon close examination, was none too clean. Beneath his nails was a thin grime. If she embraced him he’d smell of sourness and old ale.

She snatched her hand from his. “Marriage?”

He laughed, as if she were teasing him. “Surely you do not think my courting would lead to some unseemly end? I wish not a mistress, but a wife.”

She stood up, putting her back to him in order to collect her thoughts. It mattered not what she, Rica, thought of this moment. It mattered what Etta would think and feel.

Or did it? The masquerade now seemed absurdly unworkable, unless she were to pretend to be Etta for all of time, even for her father. Untenable.

“A wife?” she echoed, stalling for time.

“Do you worry about your father?” he asked.

“Yes.” Rica turned, tossing her hair over her shoulder. From a foot or two away, it was not so hard to act the shy but besotted maiden. From this distance, she saw the shine of his blond hair and the evenness of his teeth. Earnestly she clasped her hands before her. “He may not wish for me to leave him— he is not well, as you know.”

Rudolf smiled, and it was a gentle expression, but amused, also. “He already granted my petition, Rica.”

She closed her eyes and pressed her fist to the sudden new pain below her ribs. “When?”

“What does it matter?” he asked. “I asked, he answered—a woman needs no more than that.”

She bit her lip. “I only wish to know, my lord,” she said silkily, “so that I might celebrate that day through the years before us.”

He preened and she knew a swift, sharp need to slap him. Instead, she folded her hands, taking a measure of calm from the pain of knuckles pressed too tightly together.

“I cannot think of the date, my love,” he said slowly, then brightened. “But it was the day your sister cut her hand with the scissors—do you remember?”

The day she cut her hand with the scissors
. Rica glanced toward the mountains rising above the castle walls and willed herself to remain straight and unmoving.

“Yes,” she said softly. “I remember.” She had walked with Etta to Helga’s cottage. As if the day were written on the blue hills, she saw it clearly—the bandage on Etta’s hand as she bent to speak for the first time to someone other than Rica herself; the joy…

Rica remembered.

In the yard at Helga’s that day there had been a young man with curls shimmering like a raven’s tail, and a mouth red as apples and eyes that said he knew her every thought.

It was the day Etta had begun to speak so clearly, the day she had begun to heal.

Because she had been sitting in the solar and had overheard Charles give his blessing to a betrothal between Rica and Rudolf. Etta wanted Rudolf for herself.

And Rica had helped her.

In place of horror, Rica now felt rage build and rush through her at the tangle of betrayals—her father had betrayed her by promising her to this vassal without even asking if she had a wish or a choice in the matter. Helga, no doubt, had known of it and thus had urged Rica to experience the last days of her youth.

But the worst of it was Etta, who seemed pure and gentle and had shown herself to be more conniving than a thief. Ah, yes, Rica had underestimated her.

With a bitter smile, she looked at Rudolf. “It seems, my lord, there is naught for me to say but that it is time. Let us marry quickly.”

So great was her anger that she suffered the quick, eager hug Rudolf bestowed upon her without flinching. After a moment, she stepped back. “We shall announce to him tomorrow that it is done, when my sister is well again and can hear.”

“As you wish,” Rudolf murmured, and kissed her hand.

When Rudolf left her, Rica raced through the passages toward her sister’s chamber. Anger spurred her feet; it sucked the breath from her chest. Her gown was caught in tight fists, and when she burst through the door of Etta’s chamber, the door flung back and struck the trunk behind with a crack.

The servant, startled and frightened, looked up. “Go,” Rica said. “Leave me and go to your family.”

The girl scurried out. With narrowed eyes, Rica approached her sister, who slept peacefully wrapped in the bedclothes. Her color, so wan earlier, had returned, and her long braid snaked from below the sheets like a gold serpent.

She looked so innocent, Rica thought. Like a carving of the Virgin, her features so clear and virtuous.

And yet if Rica had but seen, the signs had all been there—the strange triumph in Etta’s eyes when they’d argued over Rudolf upon the arrival of their cousins; the quick recovery from her long quiet; the steadfast denial that Rudolf had been the one to mistreat her.

Abruptly, Rica sank down on the three-legged stool the servant had vacated. What a tangle it all was! Now that she thought on it, it seemed impossible. How could it be only three months since that day Etta had cut her hand, the day she had met Solomon, that Rudolf had petitioned for her hand? How could life change so quickly?

It made her dizzy.

She had come to this chamber fully prepared to drag Etta from her sleep and demand explanations, but the longer she sat, the less inclined she was to disturb Etta.

Instead, all through the night she sat on the little stool, trying to puzzle through the mess that the deceptions and tangled passions had created, seeking an answer to it all. In the morning, she would face her father and Etta and Rudolf. By then, there had to be some kind of plan.

Just before dawn, she slipped through the passages and out to the courtyard. It was oddly still without the clatter of pans from the kitchen and the sound of servants at work. There was a hush of waiting in the still lavender morning. Rica paused, staring around her, seeking signs of what the day would hold.

The chapel was empty, for it was well known Father Goddard waited until the last minute before rising to ring the bells for Prime. It was dark within, illuminated only by a host of flickering candles lit to the Virgin for her holy day. Each candle represented a prayer, and for a moment, Rica stared at the small flames. With swift and sudden compassion for the troubles of others, she breathed, “Oh, Holy Mother, grant them all.”

In the cool silence, she knelt on the stones before the statue. “Mary, Mother of God, hear my prayer. I have no one else—only you can grant this petition I lay before you. Grant me courage in what I am to do today—and grant protection for my love.”

The words seemed too small in light of what she faced. For long moments, she struggled with some offering she might make to speed her prayer. No material thing she owned seemed enough, nor could she offer herself to a nunnery.

She closed her eyes, knowing the one thing she could give. “Oh, Mary, if you will see us all safely through this, I swear I will not kiss my love again. I will be as women should, and discourage the natural passion of my Solomon.”

The promise left her bereft. For a long time, she knelt there, weeping and whispering Hail Marys until the first rays of the sun struck the precious colored window high on the chapel wall.

Even in prayer, she felt no peace. There was a loose, reckless feeling in her, as if events had already been set in motion and nothing she did would influence the outcome.

And yet, she had to try. Rica stood and gathered her cloak about her, squaring her shoulders. The rest of her life, and her sister’s, hung in the balance of this day’s events.

In his chamber, Charles stood by the wide embrasure, sipping at his wooden cup of ale. Since Humphrey and his group’s departure, Charles had felt his strength returning. He no longer resented the diet of light foods

Rica and Helga insisted upon, for he had seen how much healthier he was when he abided by it.

So from the carved bowl he had settled before him, he plucked a handful of the early raspberries Rica had collected for him this week and watched the bustling in the fields beyond the castle. Already the priests were about, riding mules from plot to plot to bless the crops and creatures. Clusters of peasants walked toward the waters of the Ill, there to bathe for healing. Charles thought to do the same himself later. Rivers were blessed on Assumption. Perhaps he could find a measure of health in them.

His hawk cocked an eager eye toward the berries in the bowl. With a chuckle, Charles held out his palm to the bird. Delicately, as if the beak were not designed to shred the flesh of hapless rodents, the bird picked one out and swallowed it. He made a soft noise of approval and bent his head again.