A Bed of Spices (27 page)

Then he was lost in her, in the dark honey taste of her mouth, his hands rounding the supple weight of her breasts. She loosened the buttons of his jupon and pushed her hands below, touching his thighs and hips, her fingers bold and—

The first blow struck his ear and shoulder with a force that nearly knocked him senseless. He grabbed for something to steady himself. For a moment, he had Rica’s gown in his hand. A second blow landed against his arm and caught the side of his jaw. Rica was torn from him, and he heard her scream.

Before he could find his footing, another blow struck his shoulders with the force of a falling tree. Solomon fell to the grass, blinking.

In quick succession, two more hit him, across the legs and back.

“You fool!”

His father. Solomon went cold. Slowly he turned and saw Jacob standing over him, a cane in his upraised arm. Before he could move away, it struck him across the shoulders again.

He struggled to rise, to get away from Jacob’s wrath and the litany of punishment spilling from his lips. But the rise and fall of the stout cane seemed to anticipate his every dodge.

“How many times have I beat you for this ill-guided passion?” Jacob roared. “How many times? How long until you learn?”

The blows rained down on his head, on his shoulders, his back, and legs. Solomon tasted blood. His head seemed full of noise.

“Stop!” Rica screamed. “You’ll kill him!”

And still the blows fell until Solomon could no more raise his hands to ward them off. His body throbbed with pain.

All at once, the beating ended. Solomon heard Jacob breathing in gasps, and Rica weeping. He heard the cane fall to the leaves.

“Get up,” Jacob said, his voice weary.

Rica was there, helping him to his feet. She had gathered her tunic, but it hung loose around her shoulders. Solomon reached protectively toward her, to pull the fabric over her collarbone.

His father slapped him, and only Rica’s determined grip kept him from falling. On rubbery legs, he found his footing. “I am no boy, Papa,” he said, and wiped his mouth with a trembling hand.

A sharp drumming pain pounded over his left eye, and he felt a swirl of blood coming from the place, but he faced his father squarely. “This is not lust, Papa,” he said. “This woman is my life.”

Jacob only stared at him, fury and sorrow and pain in the black eyes.

The pounding pain intensified, and Solomon stumbled, raising a hand uncertainly. Unable to stave off the dizziness any longer, he dropped to his knees.

“You are a fool,” Jacob said.

Solomon whispered, “Yes.” Darkness swallowed him.

Solomon slumped to the ground and Rica whirled, a sharp accusation on her lips. As she faced the fierce man with his black-and-gray beard, however, terror struck through her. She stepped backward.

He lifted a finger, pointing at her. “If anyone else had found you two, they would have dragged you to the square in Strassburg and beheaded you!”

Clutching her gown to her breasts, she nodded. “I know.”

“Why did you come after my son? Was there no knight who sought your fancy or did you just wish to dally with someone strange?”

She lifted her chin, tugging her gown over her shoulder. “Nay! He told you—we are in love.” Tears of reaction rose in her throat, and she swallowed them. “I promised the Holy Mother I would kiss him no more. It was I you should have beaten!” she cried. “It is given to women to—” her throat filled so thickly with remorse she could barely speak, “to avoid tempting men. You could have killed him.”

The man looked dispassionately at Solomon. “He will not die… not today.” His eyes narrowed. “To save him from death I beat him. And you, too.”

Solomon groaned and Rica knelt beside him. He struggled again to rise. Blood stuck his shirt to his back and trickled from a split in his fine mouth and one over his eye. Purpling showed along his smooth brown shoulder and on one side of his face. He lifted his hand toward her. “Go, Rica. Leave me with my father.”

His eyes were fierce. She swallowed and gathered her skirts.

As she rose, Solomon’s father said, “Wait!”

The command was unmistakable. Rica turned around.

“Look at your love now,” he said in a rough voice, “and remember I am his father. He sat on my knee as a babe and chanted his figures to me before he lost his first tooth.”

There was deep sorrow in his voice. “I beg you, stay away. If I who love him can do this, think what those who hate him will do.”

Rica closed her eyes, then before she could do more to humiliate herself, whirled, and ran back through the forest.

Charles felt better. The weather was calm. His chest had given him no more pain. In her customary alcove, a subdued Etta embroidered the tapestry that had seen so little of her attention this summer.

With kindness, he inquired, “Where will you hang your stitchery when it is finished, my dutiful daughter?”

“I have not yet thought, Papa.” She smoothed the brightly colored folds, which showed a detailed scene of a hunt. “Do you have some wish for it?”

“Perhaps on that wall there.” He pointed. “To cheer me on gloomy winter days.”

She smiled sweetly, and for an instant, Charles was sharply reminded of his long-dead wife, who in temperament resembled this Etta who had bloomed this summer. For all the trouble the games had caused, he could not regret the change in Etta.

He frowned, thinking on his other daughter, who in temperament far more resembled him, stubborn and willful and as passionate as a thunderstorm. He had no doubt he would be forced to tie her up and gag her in order to wed her to Rudolf.

Helga tapped his shoulder, not unkindly. “Do not begin your brooding, my sweet. Twill only make you ill.”

Rudolf appeared at the door. “My lord, a word with you, if you will.”

“Did I not tell you to give the man a rest!” Helga said. “Must you run to him for every little thing?”

Rudolf gave Charles a disapproving look. He did not like the midwife, thought she was a witch, he said, or her cures would likely fail as others did.

But to his credit, he used his head. “You do not mind if I sit awhile?”

“No work,” Helga warned.

Shoving a tankard of ale toward the young knight, Charles chuckled. “Rest a bit. You’ll find it pleasant enough on a hot afternoon.”

Helga moved away to shake the linens outside a window. Charles heard her cluck. “Ah, there’s my girl! In a temper, too, by the look of her.”

Charles twitched his lips, suppressing a smile. He was still furious with Rica but had missed her company these last days. In truth, he would welcome one of her tiffs with the brewhouse staff or some indignant huff over Cook. He reached for the chessboard. “Will you play?”

“I will, my lord.”

Rica burst into the room. One look at her was all Charles needed to know that the peace of the day was shattered. Her hair was uncombed and fell in loose tangles over her shoulders. Her tunic was soiled. A smear of blood stained her neck.

He stood up. “Rica! Are you wounded?”

Into the room she moved, alight with some fire. Her cheeks glowed with it, and her eyes held an almost unholy shine.

“Mother of God,” Helga whispered.

“Wounded?” Rica said. “Oh, yes. I am wounded— by your betrayal, and Helga’s and my sister’s.”

“Are you still wallowing in all your self-deceptions?” Charles said with a frown. “For I’ll have none today.”

With the same strange passion, she advanced. “I will not marry, Papa. Not
him”
—she threw a disdainful glance toward Rudolf—“not anyone.”

“You
will
marry, girl, and when and who ! say!”

He leaned on the table. “If need be, I will tie you to the church doors!”

She stared at him and he saw her breath came hard, as if she were winded. “I am no virgin, Papa!” she cried out in triumph. “Who will take me?”

“I will.” Rudolf leapt to his feet. “I care not, my lord, if she be virgin or not. I will still take her as my bride.”

Rica smiled and glanced toward Etta, and Charles turned quickly enough to see the shuttered look that passed between the sisters.

“Oh, no,” he said, and came around the table. “Oh, you will not try it again, you—”

He whirled toward Helga. “Take her and see if she tells the truth. There will be no more games from you, girl. You’ve been spoiled long enough!”

Rica stared back at him, and he saw there were tears running over her cheeks, and that her fists were white at the knuckles where she clutched her gown. So close, he saw the marks of love upon her flesh, and his heart plummeted. It was true—she had taken a lover to spite him. His lips thinned. “You disgust me,” he said. “Leave me. I will not look upon your face until you wed willingly as I say you will.”

“Then look your last,” she flung back. “For I will never marry of my own will. Never!”

She ran out, and Charles sank down to his bench, touching his chest. But there was no physical pain, only the sorrowing endlessness of loss. Today, his daughter was no more.

Suddenly, he became aware of the hush surrounding him and looked up to see all three pairs of eyes trained with concern upon him.

“Helga,” he shouted, “go after her and do as I say.” He waved a hand to the other two. “Go away.”

***

In her chamber, Rica fell to the bed and buried her face in the linens. A deep, raw ache tore through her chest, so wide and painful she felt she had no breath. Over and over in her mind’s eye she saw Solomon’s blood and torn clothes; over and over she felt him snatched from her embrace.

Forever. Never again would she meet him in the meadow or by the river or amid the beds of herbs and spices spread around Helga’s cottage. Never would she listen to the sound of his rich voice telling her the wonders of places she had not seen. Never again would his eyes shine for her with love and respect and hope. Never again would he bend tenderly over her to touch his beautiful mouth to hers.

It was punishment from God. Rica had made a vow and broken it within only days.

She felt crazed with loss and sorrow, beyond tears or reason or thought. She lifted her head with a cry and clutched the pillow in her fists.

Then Helga was there, sitting next to her, tugging her at her wrist until Rica sat up. The sturdy arms wrapped her in a sympathetic embrace. “Oh, love,” Helga whispered. “Oh, my sweet.”

And then Rica did weep, in great gulping sobs, her body shuddering as she gasped for air to fuel more tears. She wept so long she thought she would never cease, and through it, Helga stroked her hair, murmuring endearments and soft comfort.

Finally, hiccupping and exhausted, Rica lifted her head. “I will die without him,” she whispered, and a new trail of tears seeped down her cheeks.

“No, child.” With the corner of her rough homespun apron, she blotted Rica’s cheeks. “Life is not nearly so kind. Live you will and suffer, too, until time takes the pain.”

Rica closed her eyes, fighting off a vision of her life—stretching dark and dreary without the light of Solomon.

“Rica, you must speak the truth to me now. You are still a virgin, are you not?”

Rica bowed her head. “He did not take my maidenhead.”

“I thought not.”

“But in heart and soul and mind I am no virgin!” she cried. “In all things I belong to him and I will take no other!”

Helga sighed. “You
will
take another, my sweet. You’ll take Rudolf as your father says—because he will tie you to the church doors if he sees you go not freely.”

“Why can Etta and I not trade again?” Rica grasped Helga’s hands passionately. “No one will know until it is too late, until—”

“Stop being a foolish child. We have all indulged you far too much. You must do this thing—there will be war if this marriage does not take place. The betrothal was formal these three months past.”

“I cannot bear to let him touch me!”

“You will—and more!”

Cut to the center of her new rawness that even her last ally had deserted her, Rica wailed, “I cannot!”

“Child, you must listen.” Helga took a long breath and bent close. “Your sister was brutally handled by those soldiers. She will never have children—”

Rica frowned and sat up.

“No children,” Helga repeated. “Nor even coupling. There are terrible scars.”

“But it has been many years! Surely—”

Helga steadfastly shook her head. “No. It was a great miracle that she survived such treatment, Rica. Believe me when I say I did not think she would live.”

“Oh, my poor, poor sister.” Rica buried her face in her hands. “Does she know?”

“Nay. ‘Twould be unkind to say. I see her going now to a nunnery, where she will be happy when her passion for Rudolf has faded.”

“She seems at peace with this turn of events, Helga. I do not think she will be a cause for worry.”

“I have given her a sleeping draught to ease the time between now and the wedding. It makes her calm.”

“It seems Fate has spun a web about me. I am to be devoured in her web like some hapless fly.”

“Such drama!” Helga snorted.

Dully, Rica rubbed her grainy eyes. She felt emptied and hollow. “Tell my father he need not tie me to the church doors. I cannot bear to lose his goodwill when all else is gone.”

Helga kissed her forehead. “There’s my wise girl. You sleep now, and I will see that you do not stumble aver your sister or Rudolf these next days.”

Numbly, Rica nodded. “When is this wedding?”

“Saturday—at the cathedral.”

Five days. Rica made no comment, and Helga softly moved toward the door. “Sleep, child,” she said, and left her.

Rica curled into a ball, clasping her arms around her chest to staunch the raw ache, but nothing gave relief. Five days and she would be Rudolf der Brumath’s wife while her love and heart rode for Montpellier.

Five days.

In his room
in the city, Solomon, too, lay prone on his bed. Darkness had fallen and he had not risen to light a candle, nor had anyone come to do it for him.

He would not die of this beating, but each movement of eyelid or finger sent fresh reminders of it shooting through his bruised limbs and muscles. He had been prepared to be beaten, had known this night would be so, but foreknowledge made it little easier to endure.