A Bed of Spices (26 page)

“All we can do is try.”

But as she feared, the shop was empty.

They stood there a moment, staring about them. Leo slurped water from a puddle by the wall. The sun beat down on Rica’s head, reminding her urgently of time passing. “I cannot wait until the morrow!” she said in frustration.

“There is a Jew who sells tinctures, nearby the temple.”

Rica stared at him without speaking.

Mistaking her look, Lewis lifted his hands. “I do not mean to offend, my lady, but it seems the matter is pressing, and your father will not know if ‘twas a Jew who made the tincture.”

“Neither would he care,” Rica said fiercely. “Let’s find him.”

The Jewish sector was outwardly plain, and here the noise of the Assumption feasts and games was not heard. Shopkeepers visited with one another quietly, watching with curiosity the two mounted riders passing by.

Rica stared straight ahead, her heart pounding in her chest. She prayed silently that Solomon would not see her and mistake the reason for her presence here.

Leo trotted alongside the horses cheerfully, snuffling at this and that, running to catch up. When he suddenly barked, Rica nearly jumped from her skin. Before she could catch him, he dashed through the open door into a shop on a corner. “Leo!” she cried out, furiously. He did not reappear.

She glanced at Lewis, not knowing what to do. Lewis grinned. “‘Tis not like him to be so ill behaved. There must be a bitch within.”

Rica stared at the shop. Her heart shivered. Nay, it was no bitch but Solomon that Leo sought; she would lay her life on it. Frozen in fear, she simply stared. Her limbs trembled.

“My lady,” Lewis prompted. “He will not come to me. Are you so frightened to go in?”

Rica did not trust her voice. She shook her head and slipped from her horse. Her legs nearly buckled. Her senses seemed extraordinarily heightened; across the street, she saw a bearded man with a long face stare at her with suspicion. The air was filled with an assortment of scents, garlic and roasting poultry and cinnamon. From an open casement above the shop, she heard a woman’s laugh ring out, teasing and somehow ardent. A child chased another into a courtyard down the street, both of them screeching.

It seemed she stood there an eternity, building her courage to walk into the shop of Solomon’s father. “Lady,” Lewis said. “Shall I go with you?”

She looked at him and steadied herself. “No. I will return in a moment.”

But when she turned back, there was Solomon. He had been working—his sleeves were rolled back on his lean arms, and water yet glistened on the flesh. On his head was a small round hat made of velvet and embroidered simply around the edges. He held Leo by the scruff of the neck.

And here, Rica saw him anew again. Not a boyish rogue or a forbidding man or her passionate lover, but the son of a Jewish merchant, who had a life so different from her own, a life he’d owned before she came into it. a life with which he would continue when the storm of this day passed.

As if nothing at all were strange, she forced a smile to her lips and stepped forward. “Forgive us, sir. He is not so ill behaved most days. Did he cause you trouble?”

He gave her a blazing smile. “No trouble,
fräulein
!” he said. Then he bent his head toward the dog, whispering so only Rica could hear, “My love, I ache to see you. Can you tarry an hour?”

Rica made to take Leo, leaning close enough to Solomon that she felt his heat and smelled his unique aroma. She nearly swooned. “I cannot!” she whispered back. “My father is ill and I must return quickly.”

His eyes were bleak. “When?” he asked in a low voice.

It was unbearable to look into his face. Unbearable to think she would never taste his lips again, listen to him laughing with her, feel his hands in her own.

Knowing it was a sin, that she would be punished, she nonetheless met his gaze. “Monday, by the Ill,” she said. “You
must
come.”

“I will.” He bent close to look at the dog. His arm brushed hers. She looked at him. For a brief second, he held her gaze. Under his breath, so quiet not even Leo, had he cared, could hear, he said, “Rica, I love you.”

She swallowed, biting back tears. A movement in the doorway caught her eye and she started.

There, appearing like the avenging God of all the terrifying texts, was a man with a long gray-and-black beard. His features were stern. The deep eyes and thick hair were repeated in the son who stood before him, and in the power of his bearing, she saw what Solomon would one day be.

He glared at Rica. She suddenly felt there were no secrets from this man, that somehow he knew of what had passed between her and Solomon.

One word from his lips sent Solomon back into the shop. Rica called Leo firmly and mounted again. “I apologize, sir, for any trouble he caused.”

Solomon’s father did not reply—only stared with dark knowledge until she set her horse forward.

They found the apothecary’s shop and purchased the tincture and rode silently away from the Jewish sector. Once past the gates of the city again, Lewis spoke.

“I see you need more than prayers, my lady.”

She stared ahead of her, afraid to speak. Her voice would betray her.

Lewis seemed not to mind her silence. “Love can be cruel… I have seen it tear the life from a woman. Do not let such be true of you.”

He had somehow become her friend these past months. Her need to confide in someone overpowered her caution. “I am a fool, Lewis. A foolish, foolish woman.”

“No.” The word was strong and sure. “As witness to that moment on the street, I wish but for a fraction of the love I saw there between you. It may be fleeting, but it is sweet.”

The castle loomed closer, the whitewashed walls serene in the still August afternoon. Heat shimmered around the base, making it seem to float on the hill. How could it look so much the same, when all else had changed?

Just before they passed through the gates, Lewis paused. “Rica, you have my word that no tales will pass through my lips. And should you need an ally, know that I am he.”

“Thank you, sweet Lewis.” She shook her head. “Be kind to my cousin—that is all I ask of you. At least one of us will find happiness thus.”

“On that you may depend.”

They spurred the horses and went through the gates.

Solomon worried through
Sabbath and the day after how he would manage to free himself of his father in order to sneak away to the Ill.

It was madness to think on it, madness to still dream of Rica, but he could not stop. It was as if she had somehow become a part of him, like an arm or a leg, and without her he felt less complete. Less himself, less a scholar, less of everything.

At night, he dreamed of her laughing as she wound herself around him, frowning as she disputed some point of learning with him, sighing as she kissed him.

And there had been about her words an urgency. “You
must
come,” she had said, as fiercely as she was able in a whisper.

But Jacob watched him continually, endlessly. If he left on some errand, Hershel and Asher watched in Jacob’s place. From daybreak to sunset, Solomon found his hands and back busy at some task.

So it was on Monday, as the morning passed. Anxiously Solomon conceived of one plan, then another, then another. All of them were foolhardy, not worthy of his thought.

He grew desperate. One last day with her was all he asked. One day to savor as he walked the rest of his life without her.

His mother called down the stairs for the men to come eat. Jacob put down his books and rose. “Come, my sons.”

Solomon looked up, as if distracted. “In a moment, Papa.” He bent his head again over the figures he had been copying, as if still adding.

The three went up the stairs—Jacob, Hershel, then Asher, who looked over his shoulder. “The figures will wait, Solomon. We are always kept hungry till you finish writing.”

Without looking up, Solomon scribbled a meaningless number, then lifted his quill and looked at a number higher on the page. He turned to the abacus. “Do not wait—tell Mama I will come when I finish. If I do not complete the series, I will have to begin anew.”

“If you tarry long, I will eat your portion.”

Solomon ignored him. Asher could eat a king’s share and still want more.

He did not look up again but counted the steps as Asher climbed. Overhead, he heard murmurings as Asher relayed his message, a higher
tsk
ing from his mother.

It was then he bolted through the open door of the shop, leaving the servant behind the counter to stare agape. Without coat or proper hat, he ran full speed through the winding streets of the city, headed for the west gate.

Once through the gates, he paused for an instant to catch his breath, then keeping to the cover of trees growing alongside the Rhine, ran toward the castle. It was a roundabout route, but his father would not think to look here.

Just before he reached the castle, he detoured through the vineyards, waving toward peasants at work testing the grapes. He walked more easily now, although he could not stop himself from glancing over his shoulder once or twice. The way behind him was clear.

When Solomon returned home today, his father would beat him, but the knowledge did nothing to dim his excitement. As he drew nearer the meadow by the Ill River, his heart leapt with anticipation.

And when he saw Rica, standing morose beneath a chestnut tree, his breath left him. Her hair streamed over her blue tunic, and a circlet of bells girdled her slim waist. He approached slowly, drinking in the sight of her, letting his love and anticipation build until he could not bear it. When he spoke, his voice was rough with emotion. “Rica.”

She turned with a glad cry and launched herself into his arms. He caught her hard against him, wishing they could somehow meld so they would never be parted again. Burying his face in the silk of her hair, feeling her breasts and belly press into him, her arms locked around his neck, he felt faint with bittersweet joy. This moment was worth any beating.

“God, I have missed you,” he whispered. “I am not whole without you.” He closed his eyes to feel the smooth curve of her cheek against his own and the shape of her ribs below his fingers.

Rica buried her nose in his neck, squeezing him close. “Solomon,” she whispered. “I was afraid you would not come.”

“I am here, my love. Is there something amiss?”

Slowly she lifted her head. In her face was a new sorrow. “I am to be wed.”

“What? When?”

“I know not the date. Soon.” Grimly, she clutched his sleeves. “To Rudolf der Brumath.”

Jealousy sucked the air from Solomon’s lungs. He gripped her shoulders. “Who is he?”

“The one who watched me bathe.” She pointed toward the bluff. “There.”

From the beginning, Solomon had known there was no future for them. From the beginning, he had fought against loving her. Now he found he could not bear the thought of another man touching her, when he—who loved her—had barely tasted the edges of her desire.

He kissed her urgently, as if he could keep her there with his lips. “I cannot think on it, Rica,” he whispered. “I cannot think of never seeing you again.”

“Take me with you, then.” She clasped his face in her hands. “To Montpellier.” When he did not immediately reply, she rushed forward with a torrent of words. “I will do whatever I must—be your mistress, anything, Just do not leave me here to marry him.”

“A whore is what you would be, Rica.”

“I care not.”

He made a soft low sound. “‘Tis I that could not bear it.”

“It matters not where I live or how. I am clever, I will find a way—and as long as I am with you, I do not care.”

He shook his head. “Rica, you have been so protected! You know not what you ask.”

A little of the earnest expression bled away from her eyes. “You do not think me equal to it.”

It wounded her. He could see that, but he had been honest from the beginning. “No, Rica. I don’t think you can do this. I think our love would not be enough to sustain you for long.”

“But Solomon!” She curled her hands into his sleeves. “Think of it! You can teach me of philosophers and mathematics and all the things you are learning.

Perhaps I can do copying work. I have a very fine hand.“

He stared at her, taking in the passionate and eager pleading in her mountain-blue eyes. The curve of her lip and the intelligence on her brow struck a cord of hunger through him, a yearning so deep he could not breathe. He pressed his forehead to hers. “Let me think on it,” he said at last.

“There is no time!” she cried. Falling to her knees, she bent her head over his hand. Warm tears fell on his fingers. “I cannot bear for you to go away and leave me here. I cannot think of living my life without you.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “Please, Solomon.”

A bar of sunlight arrowed through the leaves above them and danced on the crown of her head. Solomon thought of the tight-lipped vassal with the strange, carnal air he’d seen the day she bathed in the river. There had been something unholy about the knight. Solomon suddenly imagined Rica nude and rigid, with the hands of that man upon her breasts.

In sudden, sharp decision, he pulled her to her feet and into his amis. At the sweetness of her soft form against him, he knew it would be worth whatever struggles lay ahead. Together, they could face them down. “I have no wish to leave you, Rica. I am mad with love for you.”

A shimmer of joy washed over her face. “Oh, Solomon!” she cried. “Think of all that you can teach me!”

“I have things to teach you,” he said, half-teasing, and kissed her. “No more talking, for I swear I am half starved with want for you.”

There was no gentleness or ease in his movements today. With fingers made clumsy with haste and hunger, he unlaced her cotehardie and tugged the fabric away from her arms and planted kisses along her shoulder. She tasted of sunlight and her hair smelled of lavender. He kissed the smooth flesh in a rush of joy and love, reveling in the sheer splendor that was Rica.

She laughed lightly and buried her hands in his hair, gasping when he freed her breast to suckle one rosy tip. She kissed his temple and tugged his hair to bring his mouth to her lips.