A Bed of Spices (25 page)

“Ah, my friend, you, too, are growing old. What will we do without each other?”

Rica came in. Her arms were laden with a pitcher of fresh ale and a basket filled with fruit, bread, and cheese. “What’s this, daughter?”

She raised her brows. “A celebration.”

Without looking at him, she shook a linen cloth from her basket and spread it over the small table he kept in his room. There was harsh efficiency in her movements and a tightness around her lips.

“Rica, is something amiss?”

She looked at him. In her eyes was a blaze of anger he had not first spied. “What could possibly be amiss, Papa?” The words were bitter.

“I’ll not play some guessing game. Tell me or keep it to yourself, but curb your teasing.” As if he did not care, he fed the bird another berry.

“You have not long to wait. My sister joins us in a moment.”

The first pricklings of unease slid down his spine. There was more than a little anger in her voice. This was a black fury, and not the temper of a child, either. Charles pursed his lips.

Rica slammed food and tankard and cups on the table. Her cheeks were flushed. For once, she wore not the bangles and bells of which she was so fond, and her hair was demurely braided away from her face. The tunic was simple, unadorned but for the leather girdle that carried her purse and keys.

Before he could comment, however, Etta appeared. Her surcoat was richly embroidered with red and purple and gold. Her hair was loose in waves around her shoulders and arms. “Good morning, Papa,” she said, then kissed his cheek. She spied the food. “What’s this?”

Rica did not pause to answer. With exaggerated care, she brushed crumbs from the cloth, then raised her eyes to Etta. It was upon her sister the fierce anger found focus. “A celebration.”

Etta only plucked a berry from the bowl on the embrasure and settled herself on the bench. “Pray tell, sister,” she said calmly. “What do we celebrate?”

Then Rudolf came into the chamber, his handsome face flushed, his hair combed wet into place. “Ah!” he said, smiling. “I see I am the last to arrive.”

Charles instinctively glanced at Rica. Her body drew up, taut as a bowstring. “Please, my lord,” she said in a gentle voice. “Sit awhile.”

Etta, too, had gone rigid. Her eyes narrowed upon her sister, and Charles felt another prickling of foreboding. He frowned. “I weary of this game,” he said harshly. “Show your hand.”

For a moment, it seemed Rica did not know what her game was. She looked at him with sorrow and pleading in her eyes. Before he could speak, she whirled.

“Tell me, Rudolf,” she said sweetly, standing beside her sister, “which is Etta and which is Rica?”

Rudolf rose, smiling. “I have come to know the difference these last weeks. The heart can see what the eye cannot.”

Charles watched him cross the room and kneel before Etta in her rich red coat. He kissed her hand. “This is my betrothed, my Rica. The woman who will bear my children.”

Rica looked at her father with a triumphant tilt to her chin.

For a moment, the trio was frozen before his eyes—Etta awash with love for the blond and courtly knight, Rudolf kneeling in the most perfect pose, Rica standing like an avenging queen beside the two.

A thready pain passed through Charles’s chest.

By the saints, he should have seen how weak the foppish Rudolf was, should have seen what now was clear—he was no match for Rica.

Charles pressed a palm to his chest, where the thready pain gained power. His breath felt short. His heart pounded twice its usual speed.

Rudolf thought he had won his prize. And if Charles withdrew the betrothal now—after word had been sent to his family—war would be the result. The proud der Brumaths would not take the game of these two girls lightly.

Gasping, Charles grabbed his left arm, where a bolt of pain shimmered through.

“You idiot, der Brumath. That is Etta!” he cried, and collapsed.

Rica watched her
father fall. “Papa!” she screamed, and ran to his side. His face was mottled, his lips bluish. Urgently she opened his jupon around the throat and loosened the laces below. He breathed in labored gasps, his eyes open as if to hang on to his life.

After a moment, his pain seemed to ease, but the bluish look of his lips did not. She had seen a man die in just such a way only last year after dancing with a wild young girl in the great hall. “Papa!” she said fiercely. “Be still. I’ll run for Helga!”

He made a noise.

She jumped to her feet. “Etta, sit with him—no, Rudolf, you stay. Wash his face with cool water. Etta, go you to the kitchens and mix the tisane—exactly as I showed you. Come quickly back and give it to him.”

They stared at her dully. “Do what I say!” she shouted.

They moved. Rica raced through the passages to the stables and found her horse. She’d never ridden without her saddle, but there was no time to do it now. Making do with a blanket tossed over the palfrey’s back, she struggled astride with the help of a low gate, then urged the horse into a run.

The priest was in Helga’s yard, scattering holy water and blessings over the broad plots of herbs. “Helga!” Rica cried. “It is my father! You must come quickly.”

Helga whirled instantly, lifting her skirts to dash into the cottage. In a trice, she was back, her basket in hand. “Help me,” she ordered the priest harshly.

He struggled to help her mount. With a whoosh of breath, Helga was astride, and Rica urged the horse into a run once more. It was less than a mile each way, but the horse was unused to such weight, and refused to run. Grunting with frustration, Rica settled for a canter.

“Tell me all,” Helga said over her shoulder.

“He collapsed, holding to his arm as if in great pain. His lips were blue.” She fought tears and nudged her horse with her heels.

“What did you do?”

“I loosened his clothes, then sent Etta to get his tea. Rudolf stayed with him.”

“Good child, good.” Helga squeezed her arm. “Was he still in pain when you left him?”

“No. He seemed better, but his color was poor… that terrible blue.”

A guard saw them coming from the walk and called orders for the gate to be opened. They rode through to the bailey. “How is he?” Rica said to the vassal waiting to take her horse.

“I know not, lady.”

Rica gave Helga a terrified look. On the way up, she said, “Solomon told me it is his heart.”

Helga nodded.

“He seemed better!” Rica said.

“Aye, that he did.” Helga grunted as they made the long climb to the solar, winding around and around on the stone steps. Breathing hard, she asked, “Was there some news this morning to upset him?”

Rica swallowed, thought to answer, then could not. “I will explain all later,” she said.

Until they entered the solar, to find Rudolf standing stiffly by the embrasure as Etta tended her father, Rica not thought of the twist this hour had put on her fate.

Now Rudolf swiveled around to stare at her, his proud, haughty face blazing with arrogant fury. “Ah,
Rica
,” he said with a sneer. “You have returned.”

Etta met her gaze with misery.

Ignoring them both, Rica pushed through to see her father. “How are you feeling now, Pappi?”

He, too, looked at her for a long moment. Rica was chilled by the narrowing of his eyes, and a pang of regret arrowed through her when he removed his hand from hers. “Helga,” he said.

The midwife bustled forward, her stout figure in its rough homespun reassuring. Rica stepped back, watching as Helga touched Charles’s forehead and cheeks. She pressed a hand to his chest and closed her eyes as she felt the beats. “No more pain?” she asked.

“No.”

Helga turned to the trio awaiting her pronouncement. “He will come round. I will stay with him.” With a wave of her hand, she shooed them out.

Rica reluctantly turned away, wishing to put things right somehow, both with her father and with Helga, who must now guess she was responsible for her father’s bad turn. As if sensing this, Helga said, “Rica, you must go to the apothecary.”

Rudolf made a noise of disbelief. “But there are no servants to take her!” he protested. “She cannot go abroad so alone.”

“I will take Lewis with me,” Rica said impulsively before she was stuck with Rudolf himself. “He can guard me as well as any.”

Rudolf glared at her.

Rica lifted her chin and opened her mouth to tell him he was not yet her husband, but mindful of her father, she closed it again. “What shall I fetch for you, Helga?” she asked.

Rudolf stormed out of the room. Rica glanced over her shoulder to watch him go, hating him with every fiber of her being. When she turned, she found both her father and Helga looking at her. On Helga’s face was sympathy and sorrow. Only anger showed in her father’s face.

She knelt at his side. “Papa, I am sorry—”

“Leave me,” he said, his voice weary.

Stricken, Rica rose. Tears stung her eyes. Blinking, she turned to go, but Helga stopped her at the door.

Murmuring so quietly Charles could not hear, she said, “I warned you, sweet. Do not be overly hard on yourself—he will forgive you in time. Go now to the apothecary and fetch me a tincture of foxglove.”

Neither tears nor guilt would give any help. Lifting her skirts, Rica went in search of Lewis to ride with her to Strassburg.

Rudolf strode through the passages toward Etta’s chamber, his sword clinking at his side, his spurs jingling on the stone passages.

The door was slightly ajar, and he slammed it with his open palm. The sting of the blow gave him satisfaction, as did the noise, which startled Etta. She turned in fear.

“I cannot think what God made that is more evil than woman,” he said without preamble.

“My lord,” she said, stepping forward with imploring hands outstretched. “Do not be angry, I

pray you. ‘Twas Rica insisted we deceive you. She wishes not to marry yet.“

“You have made me a fool, both of you.”

“Truly, my lord, I did not pretend to love you.” Her words seemed to embarrass her—she flushed.

The virtue of her demeanor, coupled with the richness of her flesh spilling over her gown, lit the familiar lust in his loins. And yet this girl was not even a virgin! Without thinking, he lifted his hand to strike her. She saw the blow coming and flinched, but did not try to move away.

He caught himself in time. This was not the one he wished to punish. She had been ill used—by not only her sister but himself. “Get up from there,” he said harshly.

She rose from her knees.

“It will give me no pleasure to wed your sister, for it is your heart I have learned‘ to love these past months.”

A great joy lit her features. Hope. He crushed it with a bitter smile—some small punishment was due this girl, too. “But wed her I will, and see that she pays for this duplicity.”

Etta cried out, “But—”

“Enough! You were sullied early for what purpose God only knows. Take yourself to a nunnery and there pray for His purpose. I see no other use for you.”

Without waiting for her reply, he turned with a military click of spurs and walked out, shutting the door behind him. It was no surprise to hear something hit the wood behind him, something thrown with fury at his head.

He smiled in bitter satisfaction. One punished. One to go.

***

Lewis rode soberly with Rica into the city. Leo ran beside them. As they traveled through the gold-and-blue morning, Rica tried desperately to keep her thoughts from Solomon. It seemed evil beyond measure even to imagine him while her father lay ill because of her duplicity, and the storm of this morning’s revelations had yet to gather fully. She had made her vow to Mary, too, and it must be honored.

And yet, because of the sudden new blots on her life, the thought of her love was doubly enticing. She had not, after all, promised never to think of him, but only not to kiss him.

To comfort herself, she thought of him laughing so merrily in the glade by the Ill, thought of his strong hands and the shining respect in his eyes.

Next to her, Lewis asked, “What puts so sweet a smile on your face, my lady?”

She flushed. “Oh, I know not. For all the trouble this day, it is beautiful weather, is it not?”

To her surprise, he laughed. “Nay, that was no weather smile.” His gaze was trained on the approaching gates of the city. “I have watched you this summer. You are in love.”

“Lewis!”

“Can you deny it?” Jovially, he lifted one brow. “Think on it. I have seen you walking the baileys and rushing off to the woods and glowing and sighing.”

“Oh, ‘tis only restlessness,” she said, as she had to her father. Was she so easily read?

Lewis shook his head. “‘Tis love. I think, too, ’tis he that puts that smile on your lips—perhaps it is the son of some noble in the city?”

Terror struck through her heart and she closed her eyes, banishing thoughts of Solomon. “I tell you there is no one.”

He slowed. “Rica, your words to your father about Minna will help my suit. He has said he will speak to Humphrey in my behalf.”

“That is good news indeed,” Rica said with a smile.

“In return, I would help you if you will allow it.” He paused, as if considering his next words. “I dislike Rudolf der Brumath and am loath to see you linked forever to him.”

“God’s teeth! How know you of this betrothal? Did everyone know except me?”

Lewis again lifted a careless shoulder. “He bragged to his underlings. They gossip.”

“He is evil,” Rica said with passion. “I cannot prove it, neither will I convince my father, but I feel it.”

“Yes.” He reined his horse and reached for hers. “So will you not let me help you in some small way, my lady? In gratitude for what you have done for me?”

In misery, Rica stared at him. She wanted to weep but simply shook her head. “I thank you, but believe me when I say there is no hope.”

“Then I will pray.”

At the gates of the city, they paused. Hordes of people lined the streets, and a procession honoring Mary wound past.

“Ah, no!” Rica cried out. “How will we find the apothecary in this mess?”