A Bed of Spices (37 page)

The return of winter cruelly echoed her life. It seemed particularly brutal of fate to have let Rica find Solomon again, only to take him away. What purpose could such torture serve?

All had been lost. Her sister, her love. And it would not be long for her father. The massacre had bled nearly as much life from him as it had from Rica.

And what did the future hold for her? She would not marry. To go to a nunnery when her faith had been so deeply shaken seemed a travesty.

She lifted her eyes toward the city, barely visible through the swirling snow. Never again would she set foot in those streets, unless it was to tear the stones apart, to dismantle in vengeance what had been built there.

A dark figure emerged from the snow—a priest on a mule. He bent against the wind, hunched miserably against the cold. Dispassionately, she watched him turn toward the castle gates, no doubt to seek shelter from the weather.

Grimly, she turned away, wishing for shelter from her own misery. But there was none. Her heart had turned to stone.

In his solar, Charles sat by the fire, struggling to breathe. It seemed each day the task grew more difficult, and at times he even felt lightheaded, as if there was not enough air in the world to feed his hungry lungs.

A page announced a priest who would see no one but Charles. “What does he want?”

“He will not say, my lord. Only that he must speak with you alone.”

In his weariness, Charles could think of no excuse to avoid him. He nodded. “Bring him to me, but first check to be sure he has no sign of plague.”

The priest came in a short time later, led by the page, who then departed. Charles waited.

The priest wore plain brown robes. He was quite tall and youthful as he moved into the room, but Charles could not see his face. “What is it you seek, good brother?” Charles said, pouring a cup of ale to give him. “I am not well and would ask you state your purpose quickly.”

The priest pulled back his hood.

A jolt of painful shock ripped through Charles’s heart, and he dropped the cup. “Dear God,” he said.

The young lew stood there without speaking, as sober as job. Charles saw new grief in the hollow cheeks, and a weariness below his eyes. In the stillness, the pop of a log on the hearth was extraordinarily loud.

In his weakened state, Charles struggled to find meaning in the man’s presence here, vainly tried to think of some word that would bring the matter clear to him. And the Jew did not help him, but only stood there, so grim.

“What do you want?” Charles finally asked.

The man hesitated only a moment. With a flourish, he knelt, crossing his hands on his knee. “I have come,” he said solemnly, “to petition you for the hand of your daughter Rica, my lord.”

The words were so quietly yet firmly uttered that Charles was dumbstruck. “You are a Jew,” he said finally, but there was no roar in his voice.

“Yes.”

Charles stared at him. “I could have you drawn and quartered for what you suggest, for what you have done to her.”

“I know.”

“You know.” Charles frowned. “And yet you come here to ask me for her hand?” In astonishment, he shook his head. “What possible reason could you give me that would make me even consider such an absurdity?”

“I think you love her more than you love your own life,” the Jew said quietly, “and you know you are dying.”

“How dare you—”

“I love her, my lord,” he interrupted, and now Charles saw the desperate and passionate light in the young man’s eye. “She is my blood and my flesh and my soul. Without her, I have no more wish to live.”

“You are a
Jew
!” Charles repeated.

“And you risked your life to save mine,” he said quietly. He stood up. “I came to you because she loves you, my lord. I would ask your blessing upon our union. If you cannot give it, I will go away without her.” He paused. “She thinks me dead. She need never know I came.”

There was dignity and power in the man. On the broad brow, there was intelligence and passion; in the cut of his jaw and his firm mouth there was strength and steadfastness. But in his eyes, Charles saw tenderness, and the hands were strong enough to gentle the wüd heart of his child.

“I wish she had loved more wisely,” Charles said heavily, looking away. “How could she love you, knowing how dangerous it was? How could you let her?”

“We did not choose, my lord, not either of us.”

Charles nodded. “How will you keep her? Where will you go? Do you have some plan?”

“I will study with the Arabian physicians, to become the surgeon I should be.” He lifted the hem of his robe, settling the extraordinary weight of it into Charles’s hand. “Money I have.”

Charles bowed his head. His daughter seemed to be perched on the edge of a vast, yawning madness these past days. Her eyes were haunted, and he knew she had seen the flames from her chamber. If Charles sent this lew away, Rica would wither and fade more with each passing day, until she was a parody of herself. He had it in his power to change that.

Charles stood up and opened the door. To the page in the passageway, he said, “Fetch my daughter from her chamber.”

Rica had to be roused from sleep to go to her father. She’d been dreaming of revenge again. Only now instead of daggers she wielded fire like a mad witch, and burned all the houses of Strassburg.

She smoothed her hair, and a little disoriented, followed the page to her father’s chamber. The boy stepped aside, and she brushed by him to go in.

Her father sat in his favored spot, and nearby the fire stood a priest. A bolt of alarm shot through her.

“Papa!” she said, going forward. “Is there something amiss?”

But before she reached him, the priest turned from the fire to look at her.

Rica closed her eyes hastily. He looked like Solomon—so much. These past days, she’d been poised on the brink of some terrible fall, and only through the most relentless discipline had she managed to hold to her sanity. When the panicky moment passed, she opened her eyes once more.

The priest still stared at her. His face had not changed. She cried out before she could stop herself and looked at her father, then back to the priest.

Solomon. Transfixed, she stared at him, unable to grasp the physical presence of him, standing here so plainly in her father’s chamber, staring at her so soberly.

She fell to her knees, unable to speak. Tears washed down her face and she could not stop them. She bit her knuckle and tried to rise; looked to her father, who watched her—

Her shoulders shook with the effort of holding back her tears, and she found she could not speak or stand or do anything but hold up her arms in an imploring gesture, wordless, to her father, then to Solomon.

“My lord,” Solomon said quietly.

“Rica,” Charles said, his voice stronger than it had been in weeks, “I bid you take this man as your husband.”

Rica stared at him, sure this was a dream and any moment she would awaken to find herself in her own bed, and the grief would be again a newly torn wound. She closed her eyes.

Then Solomon was bending to take her arms and a waft of frankincense came with him. Rica wanted to stare again into his fathomless eyes, whether it was dream or not, and she looked up at him.

He helped her to her feet. “All is well, my love,” he whispered. “All is well.”

She touched his beloved face, barely abie to see him though her tears. He lifted her hand and kissed the ring on her finger.

Rica cried out. It was real. She could feel the heat and moisture of his mouth on her fingers, and his hair brushed her chin as he bent his head. It was real, not a dream. He was alive—

Overcome, she fell against him, closing her eyes to feel the press of wool against her cheek and hear his heartbeat thudding hard and strong against her ear. “Oh, you’re alive,” she said, and found she was laughing through her tears.

Unmindful of her father, she pressed a passionate kiss against his lips.

Only then did she turn to her father, who watched her with a suspicious glimmer in his bright blue eyes. “So this is your choice?”

Wordlessly, she nodded, biting her lip.

He stared at her. “An hour, you said, of true love. Perhaps you will be lucky and have more.”

Rica fell to her knees and hugged him tightly. Against her ear, his beard was scratchy, and she felt the new thinness in his body. Now she wept for him, for the knowledge that to have Solomon, she must leave her father. “Pappi—”

“Say no more, child,” he said in a rough voice. He gripped her hard.

For a moment longer, Rica clung to him. “Thank you,” she whispered at last.

“The journey will be a long one,” he said, taking a breath. “And dangerous. Take what you need from here, and go with first light, before anyone knows.”

“My lord, we must go tonight,” Solomon said, not without regret. “I have made arrangements for us to travel with a party of pilgrims, so as not to arouse suspicion. It will be safer.”

Charles looked stricken. In a moment, he nodded. “So be it.”

Torn, Rica rocked back on her heels. “Tell Helga I love her.”

He nodded. “That I will do.” He gripped her hand tightly. “Send word when you have arrived safely, and tell me what wonders you have seen.”

Rica nodded. “I will, Papa.” She kissed him, knowing she would never see him again in this life. When she rose, she gazed at his face, rugged and strong and so dear, to press it into memory. “I love you,” she said.

“Go with God,” he said gruffly, and turned away.

Next to her, Solomon touched her arm. “Gather your things,” he said quietly. “I will meet you in the yard.”

Rica glanced around the room one more time, and spying the unfinished tapestry, took it from its frame. She glanced toward her father, and he nodded his understanding. Rica rolled it up.

Solomon smiled at her—and her heart swelled with joy. She raced to her room to make ready for the journey.

As Rica departed, Solomon turned back to the old man. From within his cloak, he took a small vial. “This will bring a quiet death when you are ready,” he said slowly. “Put it in your wine before bed, and you will slip away in the night, peacefully.”

“I would not like to think a knight should resort to such measures, but the pain is sometimes…”

“Yes.” Solomon knelt and bowed his head. “My lord, you have given me my life tonight. And I wish to thank you—” His voice broke. He went silent a moment, then gathered his emotions and continued. “I wish to thank you for what you did in defense of my people.”

“It was not enough.” The words were weary. “There is an unholy stench to this place.” He shook his head. “How did you escape? Helga saw you.”

Solomon closed his eyes against the memory. It was too raw, still. “My father pretended he would leave with me on Friday. I dressed as you see me now, to travel. When the mob came to arrest us with the others, he screamed that I was trying to convert him.” Solomon raised his eyes, unable to quell his grief. “He would not come with me. He screamed that he’d rather die a Jew than—” Overcome, Solomon bent his head. “And die he did.”

“One day,” said Charles slowly, “you will know the love a father has for his children, and there will be no more question in your heart.” He touched his shoulder. “Go plant the seeds of children in my daughter’s womb. Thereby will your father’s blood live on, and mine, too. Perhaps there is some good in the horror if such a thing can come about.”

Solomon nodded soberly. “So it shall be.”

There was nothing left to say and Solomon made to go. “Thank you, my lord.”

There were tears in the old man’s mountain-blue eyes, and he looked suddenly small in his chair. “Take care of her,” he whispered.

“I will.” Solomon bowed and left.

In the courtyard, he found Rica, cloaked in heaviest wool, already waiting next to her horse. Next to her was Leo, whose tail started to wag as Solomon came up. She smiled at him. “He will not listen to me when I say this adventure is only for us.”

Solomon, still aching over the moment in the solar, bent to scratch a spot just below Leo’s ear. The animal licked his wrist and barked softly. “He would make a good protector. We will take him.”

He sighed and took Rica into his arms, pressing his forehead to hers. For a long time, they stood there in the swirling snow, brow to brow. The tumultuous events of the last months echoed in him, and he could feel them in Rica, too. But slowly, a wide shimmering began to glow in Solomon’s veins. He felt it pass through him to Rica, until he knew there was illumination all around them, all through them, a light that would lead the way to the future.

“Are you ready, wife?”

“Yes.”

Together they rode through the gates of Esslingen Castle, leaving it behind in the swirling snow. Once Rica paused and looked behind her. Diamond droplets of snow clung to her lashes, and the soberness of her look pierced him. He waited, a touch of fear in his breast that she would find herself unable to go after all.

When she looked at him, silvery tears washed over her face. “I told Lewis to fetch Helga for my father.” She swallowed. “I will miss him very much.”

Solomon thought of his own father with the new rawness of his grief. He took her hand. “We will remember them together,” he said.

She gave him a wistful smile, her fingers gripping his almost painfully. “On to Cairo.”

He smiled and kissed her. “To Cairo.”

Holding hands in the swirling snow, they rode away.

Cairo—Autumn 1349

Rica lit a candle
in her room. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” she whispered to the small flame. Resting her hands on the round swell of her belly, she spilled the pockets of wickedness from her soul. She could not seem to keep her temper with a wicked neighbor who babbled insults at Rica in a conglomeration of languages, and she had sworn evilly at a merchant who sold her bad fish.

There was no priest, so she composed a punishment for herself to cleanse the black spots from her heart, then crossed herself and stood up.

When she turned, Solomon was standing respectfully at the door. With a grin he asked, “Is it such a trial for you to give up your old habits, my love?”