A Bed of Spices (3 page)

The black eyes hardened a notch. “My father is a merchant,” he said. “A rich one—but I am his fourth son and he has granted permission to let me study medicine.” He turned his face toward the city. “The pestilence chased me home, but as I wait for better days, Helga has been kind enough to share her knowledge of herbal cures with me.”

“And a bright, quick student he is,” Helga interjected, emerging from the cottage with several packets of muslin tied in string. A fat black-and-white cat wound around her ankles, and somehow she avoided tripping. “Solomon has learned in a few months what’s taken me four years to teach you.”

Piqued, Rica lifted her chin. “Perhaps he has better reason.” The words came out on a rather more annoyed note than she had intended, and she caught the tail of a grin hidden behind Solomon’s hand.

“Oh, now, sweet,” Helga said with her husky chuckle, “I meant no harm.”

Rica clasped the packets close to her chest and lifted her skirts. “Come, Etta, it is time to return.”

Etta rose from the ground, where she had squatted to stroke the cat’s wild long fur. Next to her, Leo whined jealously and licked her hand. “Good dog,” she said in a clear, high voice.

Helga gasped. Rica glanced at her in alarm, shaking her head quickly once. Then, unable to stop the swell of joy in her chest, she crossed the yard and hugged the midwife. “It’s the third time today,” she whispered against her ear.

“You must come tell me about this soon,” Helga whispered in return, squeezing Rica’s arms.

Rica smiled and lifting her skirts, hurried after her sister, who was heading back toward the castle.

In spite of the fact that Rica watched her sister almost continuously, there was no further manifestation of the strange, alert behavior until late afternoon.

Upon returning to the castle, Etta bent over her tapestry frame and with monotonous concentration, poked the needle in and out, in and out of the fabric. The dog flopped next to her on the rushes, content to sleep nearby his mistress if nothing else were required of him.

Rica leaned restlessly against the embrasure, waiting for her father. There was a newer wing than this two-hundred-year-old keep with its damp walls, but Charles clung stubbornly to his solar, giving the newer quarters to his guests. The lower-slung addition could not hope to compete with this eagle’s view of the courtyard and all its goings on.

Below were kitchen maids in the garden, collecting new greens for supper. From some unseen place, a musician plucked a lute, readying it for the evening’s entertainment. The priest sneezed his way across the courtyard. Along the walk, two men-at-arms paced slowly, their lackadaisical attitudes shouting of the peace that had reigned since the new emperor had taken his throne. There were always dangers so close to the river, but the reckless, bloody days of Rica’s childhood had settled now in this simple peace.

Charles came in, his hawk on his arm. His face was pale and beaded with sweat. “Papa!” Rica exclaimed. “Come sit down.”

“Do not flutter so, child,” he grumbled, but did not shake off her hands. He allowed her to remove his outer garment, then wash his face with a cloth dipped in cool water.

“You are too fat, Papa,” Rica said with a frown. “If you do not stop putting food in your mouth every minute, all summer you will suffer thus.”

He waved a beefy hand. “You have taken all my favorites from me. I eat only what is left.”

Rica smiled as the color began to return to his cheeks. He was not, in truth, terribly fat, although a round belly filled his tunic well enough. But even the moderate extra weight had him billowing as he took the stairs, flushing in the heat of a summer’s day, and sleeping poorly. “It will be easier now we have fresh food. I will go pick cherries for you tomorrow.”

He winked and patted her hand, his good humor returning with his wind. “As you wish,
liebling
. You have been right thus far.” He shifted to pour a cup of ale. “Did you bring me some magic potion from Helga?”

“I gave it to Matilda. She will send a girl up with it.” She kissed his cheek. “I will leave you,” she said with a smile, knowing he would nap until supper and that he hated admitting to an old man’s weakness.

Charles caught sight of Etta and frowned. “Take her with you, girl. I am weary of her sitting like a stone in my corner.”

“She is not deaf, Papa.” Rica whirled, furious at his bad-tempered words, and touched her sister’s slim shoulder. “Come, I will dress your hair and you may do mine.”

As Etta complaisantly settled her threads in a basket, Rica shot her father a look.

He lifted one bushy gray eyebrow, unapologetic.

Before they left the chamber, one of Charles’s vassals appeared, Rudolf der Brumath. A tall man with the grace of a young stag, he smiled genially toward the girls. “I hope I do not interrupt.”

“No.” Rica smiled. Unlike most of the rest of the castle inhabitants, Rudolf always included Etta in his greetings and she liked him for that.

He bowed now over Rica’s hand, then Etta’s, turning the latter’s over. “I see your wound has healed,” he murmured.

Etta bent her head, and a rosy flush of color stained her pale cheeks. “Aye,” she whispered.

Startled, Rica glanced quickly at her sister, then toward Rudolf, who smiled gently into Etta’s face. Although she knew Rudolf extended his kindness toward Etta in order to win Rica’s favor, she thought now there might be a way to use that kindness.

Giving him her broadest smile, she said, “Perhaps you will sit with us for the entertainment tonight.”

Rudolf bowed his golden head. “It would be an honor and a pleasure.”

Rica smiled again and took her sister’s hand. “Till later, then.”

Out in the passageway, Rica noted Etta’s flush. “He is handsome, is he not?” she whispered.

“Yes,” Etta whispered, looking with wonder at the hand he had kissed.

Rica hugged her sister. “Come. I will dress your hair with lavender flowers. Tonight, you will be a beauty such has never been seen before.”

The meat was already upon the table before Rica and Etta appeared, and by that time Charles was fuming. The scent of braised pork taunted him with savory fingers, plucking at his belly with teasing temptation. Around him, the faces of other diners were smeared with the grease of the fat, rich cut.

He picked without interest at the broth and bread before him, torn between the bellyache he would face if he indulged his hunger and the deep satisfaction of chewing hard.

So when Rica, then Etta, appeared in the great hall, he frowned. His gaze darted from one to the other. He frowned outright. Rica always led, always. But was that Rica?

For the first time in his life, he could not tell them apart. Both wore richly embroidered surcoats over pale gowns, their identically creamy shoulders displayed. One girl had braided her hair with ribbons, the other had left hers free to tumble in a glory of silver and gold over ripe breasts and graceful arms.

As they took a place at the table, Charles heard the awed stilling of speech that grew below the buzzing of the ladies. Every man in the room had fallen completely, absurdly silent—no doubt, Charles thought grimly, contemplating all manner of menage a trois with his nubile daughters. Elbowed by wives and nudged along by his own warning glance, the men quickly lit again the flame of chatter.

Charles ate slowly, watching his children. The one with the braid… now, that must be Etta, for she was the more modest of the two. That one’s gown skimmed the edges of her collarbone, and she wore no bangles about her wrists or waist.

So it was Rica who had left her hair loose save for a small weaving of gillyflowers and lavender, Rica whose womanly curves swelled above a low-cut gown, Rica whose hands made bells ring on her bracelets. He smiled to himself in satisfaction. For though her head was demurely lowered as Rudolf next to her whispered something into her ear, he saw her smile in the strangely ripe way she had, even as a flush stained her cheeks.

A queer release rippled through him. Perhaps there would be no trouble over this betrothal. He’d not even known he was worried until the pair had met in his chamber this afternoon.

What a fine marriage they would make! Both were so strong and fair, and Rica was sturdy, unlike many of her class. She would bear fine sons. Rudolf, in spite of his wearying piety, was healthy, and he carried the blood of the noble Brumaths in his veins.

Charles looked at Etta, sitting quietly. Perhaps there was even hope for this girl. Surely there would be some lad willing to trade her silence for her beauty. Someone gentle but a bit stupid.

He scanned the trestle tables. Ah, he thought, spying the son of a squire—a black-haired youth of some bearing. Hugh was famed for his handling of difficult horses, but even his mother admitted that was the extent of his intelligence.

Charles lifted his cup. Perhaps. There was not only the matter of her silence, however, but that of her virginity. Sobering, he touched his belly, aching now even with the bland food he was allowed.

He must somehow see them both settled before the year was through. Then he could die in peace.

“
Solomon,” said his
brother Hershel, leaning his elbows on the good embroidered tablecloth their mother spread for Sabbath meals. “A game of chess?”

Replete with the rich food of the midday feast, Solomon merely shook his head. “I am no match for you at my best. Today I am too sleepy.”

“A walk then?” Hershel never stopped moving. The notion of rest was alien to him, as it was to their father, who chuckled with a friend in a corner of the sumptuous room. Together the old men shared a joke in Yiddish.

The air was still and close with the heat of the afternoon. A walk by the river might awaken him. To his brother, Solomon nodded.

They carried bread crumbs for the birds, and once beyond the walls of the city, scattered them for pigeons and wrens. Hershel was unusually silent, a faraway expression on his strong, dark face.

“Dreaming of your wedding night, brother?” Solomon teased.

A telltale flush lit Hershel’s cheeks. “Ah—well,” he protested. Then he smiled. “Perhaps a little.”

“Raizel is beautiful,” he said. “She will make you a good wife.”

“I had the good luck to claim her before your travels brought you home.”

“Nay.” Solomon tossed a handful of crumbs toward a waiting pigeon, who then warred with a squirrel over the choicest chunks. “I have told you—I will not marry till I am finished with my studies.”

“You cannot wait so long,” Hershel protested. “The women will be old and used by then. Who knows how long the pestilence will last?”

“It has always seemed cruel to marry then leave a wife to manage all.” He shook his head. “When I marry, I will be there.”

“You never forget Benjamin’s poor wife. She was only one of many.”

“She worried herself to an early grave without him. It was unkind to leave her as he did.”

“He had no choice. A man must do what he must.”

Solomon shrugged, dismissing the subject. “I will not marry until I am finished at Montpellier.”

“A man should marry,” Hershel persisted. “It is your duty and without it, who can resist sin?”

Solomon chuckled. “Your mind is filled with visions of your beloved. I have no such dreams to torture me.”

Hershel planted his feet on the banks of the river. “You are the one Papa beat—when you were seven!—for kissing girls. Have you forgotten?”

“How could I forget?” He lifted an eyebrow wickedly. “He beat me at ten and thirteen for the same. What of it?”

“Such a nature does not just go with the mist. It may be buried, but it will be your death if you do not marry.”

“Pah! I have a heart, but I have also a mind with which to rule it.”

“It is not the urgings of your
heart
that concern me.”

With a small shake of his head, Solomon touched Hershel’s shoulder. “Truly. You need not fret.”

Hershel let go of a breath, then nodded. “Perhaps it is my own thoughts that vex me. I tell you I cannot even close my eyes for waiting.”

“The time will pass soon enough.”

They began to walk again. From the monastery came the faint sound of monks singing dirgeful prayers. A wide barge loaded with barrels floated by on the current of the Rhine. Wine, perhaps.

Traffic on the river this spring had been light. Solomon sobered, thinking of the plague that had so thinned the boats traveling to and fro on their busy errands.

As if reading his thoughts, Hershel asked, “Think you the pestilence will fly so far north?”

“Who knows?” Solomon shrugged. “They say it spreads on the fogs—perhaps we should pray for winds that blow southward.” He shuddered inwardly. “It’s a gruesome blight.”

The pestilence had struck the school at Montpellier with swift and devastating consequences. The students and physicians and priests had swelled and blackened. The smell of them foreshadowed their fate: a smell of rot and death so powerful Solomon had been forced to tie a cloth about his face.

As he fled the evil, traveling home to Strassburg, he had seen whole peasant villages littered with too many bodies to bury. Survivors had begged blessings from him, dressed as he was in his priest’s guise. Twice, in sympathy, he had nearly given them, but his conscience had not let him.

“They say there are hangings in France over this plague,” Hershel said quietly. “They say the Jews are poisoning the wells.”

“Ignorance and terror—they know not whence the pestilence comes.” He tossed crumbs to an eager magpie. “But the pope has issued a bull to protect us, and the emperor has warned he will fine his subjects if they try such.”

“You have forgotten, Solomon.” Hershel looked at his brother. “These peasants have nothing, no thoughts. They are like cattle—when they are afraid, they will stampede.”

“What would you do? Gather your bride and run?” Solomon frowned. “Where? Here we are many. We have allies in the town council and the emperor—weak as they may be, they are better than no allies at all. At least the council will lose our taxes if we are harmed.” He stepped closer. “You leave Strassburg and you will die of the pestilence.”