A Bed of Spices (6 page)

Refusing to allow herself the smallest of hesitations, she picked up her skirts and bowed her head to pass him. But even before she reached the door, she could smell him—freshly washed with undernotes of something she thought might be frankincense.

Determined, she stepped forward. Holding her breath, she began to move by, feeling the press of his cloak against her body, the brush of a hard thigh against her hand. Again the size of him surprised her—her head barely met his shoulder and she was no small girl. She glanced up at him for an instant, simply to measure his height.

Or so she told herself. As soon as she did it, she knew it was a lie; she wanted only to see up close again the depths of those immeasurably black eyes and the curve of his lip.

As if she had swayed, his hand came up to guide her safely through the doorway. But instead, Rica stopped, almost against her will, to look at him face-to-face.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. His breath touched her cheek, and she felt the cushion of layers of wool between them. His gaze was somber.

It was he that gently turned away, motioning with one hand for her to proceed.

Blinded with humiliation over her boldness, Rica stumbled, and only his firm grip kept her from dumping herself ignobly in a puddle of mud. Flushing, she righted herself and shook his hand away. To hide her quick, unaccountable tears, she strode toward the muddy road, hearing him follow more slowly behind.

After a moment, Rica managed to take control of her wild embarrassment. Stiffly, she slowed and allowed him to catch up with her.

They were shrouded in mist. Trees along the road were barely visible ghosts of black. As if they had been sealed inside a bubble, the world beyond them disappeared. It was oddly still and intimate.

She took a breath. “You must think—” she began, unsure how to phrase her apology.

“Oh, I do,” he cut in smoothly. “I think a great deal about a great many things. Have you ever noticed, for example, how many fevers follow weather like this?” He looked at her, a gentle light in the black eyes, a light that told her he did not mind, that she need not embarrass herself further.

Grateful, Rica smiled her encouragement. “Ft had not occurred to me to think in such ways.”

“What then do you think of in idle moments?”

“Idle moments?” she echoed dryly.

“Or when your hands are busy and your mind must wander.”

“I think of ways to make my sister well,” she began. “And remember all the legends or poems I have read.” A long thick branch lay in the grass alongside the road, and she bent to pick it up to use as a walking stick. “I think about what other places must be like.”

He smiled. “Which other places? England and France? Do you wish to sit in the courts of the monarchs?”

“No.” She looked at him. “I wonder about the places where the Crusaders rode.”

“Do you?” A quizzical expression crossed his brow. “How came you to wonder of those places?”

“My father told me about them. He heard the stories himself as a child.”

“I have a painting of Egypt,” he said, “brought by one of the merchants to my father.”

Rica quelled a quick bite of envy, then laughed. “I am jealous!” she exclaimed. “Tell me, how does it look?”

“Hmmm. How does it look?” He inclined his head. “There are white spires of the mosques, and a cruel warrior with a scimitar.” He cut her a teasing look. “Bloody.”

“Do you think that frightens me?” she asked with a smile. “Do I seem to you a foolish maid, prone to fainting away at a little blood?”

He stopped and stared at her. The hot, pointed expression filled his eyes, and Rica saw him swallow. “No,” he said. His voice was low and intimate.

In the silent gray fog, they were alone. The knowledge rippled between them as they stood face-to-face, a fearsome and dangerous thing.

His eyes swept her face, and he lifted his hand, as if to touch her cheek. Then he dropped it again. “Perhaps I will leave the painting with Helga for you,” he said.

Rica nodded, afraid her voice might waver with emotion if she tried to speak.

He glanced away, in the direction of the castle, then back to her. “I will come mornings to Helga. Come you in the afternoon.”

Her heart soared and plummeted as his meaning sunk in. She was not alone in her longing, but he knew the foolishness as well as she. She squeezed her eyes closed once, quickly. “That would be best.”

They began to walk again, and the castle walls appeared suddenly through the mist. Rica led him to the cook in silence, ignoring the curious glances of the men on the walk and the covert glances of the serving girls.

The cook’s cries rang out as they reached her quarters. Solomon looked at Rica. She gestured with a sweep of her hand for him to enter the room.

Neither spoke. Solomon knelt next to the pallet and asked questions of Matilda in a gentle voice as he touched her belly and sides with his clean hands. Somehow, watching him, Rica was reassured. He had the same calming effect upon the ruddy-faced, bad-tempered woman on the straw mattress. Rica turned away, calling to a kitchen girl to bring hot water for an infusion.

Solomon heard the order and glanced over his shoulder with a minute shake of his head. His eyes cut toward the bloody stain showing on the cook’s skirts. Rica nodded her understanding. The stone had been passed, and for now, at least, no tisane would be necessary to dissolve it within.

“You’ve done my work for me,
fräu
,” Solomon said quietly. “In a day or so, you will be good as new.”

The cook nodded wearily.

Solomon rose in a billow of wool. To Rica, he said, “Can you spare her for a few days, my lady? She will be weary.”

Quelling an impulse to put the bad-mouthed bat right back to work, Rica licked her lips. “I suppose that depends upon whether she will offer me a promise.”

Matilda’s eyes flickered cannily. “
Ja
, mistress. No more tidbits for the master.”

“Do you promise?”

“
]a
.”

With exaggerated care, Rica bent over her stout figure and tugged the coverlet over her shoulder. “Rest as long as you need, then, Matilda. I will see to the kitchen.”

To Rica’s surprise, the cook’s brilliant blue eyes softened. “Bless you, mistress.”

Rica only nodded, realizing the woman was no longer young. Creases and loose flesh marked her face. More kindly, she said, “I will send a girl to help you wash in a bit.”

Outside, Rica led Solomon to the bailey gates, then reached into the pouch on her girdle for a coin.

“No, lady. I did nothing.” He bowed formally. The drizzling rain dotted his curls with silvery beads, and Rica once more felt a painful catch in her chest.

“Thank you,” she said.

For a moment, he held her eyes and she felt the heated pulse of his maleness through the cold mist; sensed once again that she was not alone in her wish to be less polite and more tangled. He tugged his hood over his head and stared down the road toward Helga’s.

Then he turned back and Rica clasped her hands, hoping for she knew not what.

“Give her the tisane. It may be there is more than one.”

She nodded.

Still he paused. Rica waited. When he still said nothing, she asked, “Is there more?”

“No.” He turned and walked stiffly into the mist, disappearing like a specter. Rica watched him go, an odd stinging pain in her heart.

There was more. But he, no more than she, could say it.

The rain lasted
only a few days, and summer returned with sunny azure skies and warm, thick afternoons. After the morning meal a week following her encounter with Solomon, Rica packed a loaf of bread and a chunk of cheese, fetched a large basket, then went in search of her sister and the dog.

Etta sat on a stone bench in the lower bailey. As Rica crossed the grassy enclosure, she smiled at the picture her sister made. Behind her stood pear trees with their offerings of young fruit. Vines climbed the stone walls. A stand of blooming lavender circled the trees, catching the color of Etta’s gown. Her hair, loose below her barbette, shimmered silvery gold in the sunlight, and the ends trailed over the edge of the bench to brush a stand of gillyflowers. At her feet were a basket of fabric and her ever-present Leo, snapping at flies.

Rica settled on the bench. “What work have you found this morning?”

“A christening gown for Gertrude’s niece.” Etta displayed the tiny garment made of snowy linen. Embroidery in white silk edged the collar and sleeves.

“It’s lovely.”

Etta smiled softly at the praise.

“But,” Rica said restlessly, “surely it will wait for another day? I promised Papa some berries for his supper. Will you go?”

“Not today.” Etta sucked a bit of silk and rethread-ed her needle. “I will sit here.”

Rica nearly missed the flutter of her eyes toward the walk. A black-haired vassal paced there, but Rica knew Rudolf often appeared to converse and give direction to those below him in rank. She touched Etta’s arm fondly. “So be it. I will take Leo for my company.”

She bent with a jingle of bells and took up her basket. Her meal was tied snugly in a square of cloth at her waist. She whistled at the dog.

Etta stroked his ears and gave a single command. “Go.”

From the gates, Rica took a slim path through the long grass that grew in the fields. Against the sky, the mountains were a dark, hazy blue.

Her task was a pleasant one. The bushes were heavy with their offerings of ripe, plump blackberries and she ate fully half as many as she picked. Leo snuffled around in the undergrowth, following the trail of some small creature, and dug on occasion through the earth for delectable tidbits.

She smiled at the monstrous animal and wiped her fingers on the grass. Leo suddenly went rigid and barked fiercely, the sound low and full of menace. A shiver of gooseflesh crawled on her arms. She whirled— and let go of a sigh of relief. It was only Rudolf.

Rica touched Leo’s back in a gentling gesture. He sat down, but his ears remained alert.

“I have not approved of your father’s wont to let you wander abroad alone,” Rudolf said as he rode close. He smiled. “I see there is no cause to worry as long as your beast is with you.”

Rica nibbled a berry, wondering what his purpose might be in following her to this isolated grove. “He will tear the throat of a man if I give the word.”

He laughed. “I pray thee, lady—say no word.”

“What brings you so far abroad this morning, my lord? Are there bandits hereabout?”

“Tis my duty to your father to oversee all his holdings.” He gestured with a richly garbed arm and again gave her a smile, as if to belie his words. “I am only seeing to that which I am required by vow to do.”

“Ah.” Rica inclined her head. “Tis duty that brings you out. I will not keep you then.” She picked up her basket in one hand and caught her skirts with the other.

“I would have you stay a bit,” Rudolf protested, and Rica glanced at him. A blush lit his cheeks.

She paused, wondering if the chatter of the servants was true. The rumors held that Rudolf was yet a virgin, more inclined to the priesthood than knighthood, though his valor was unquestionable.

The maids spoke scornfully of him, of the manner in which he rebuffed their flirtatious glances. Looking at him, Rica thought it was their longing that made them speak so sharply. Mounted upon a fine stallion and lit by a broad finger of sunlight that fell through the trees, he was nearly as beautiful as Etta had been, sitting upon the stone bench in the bailey. The chin and nose were strong, his eyes clear. Only his mouth flawed his face, for his lips were thin, reflecting the severity of his nature.

He was not to her taste, but she could see why Etta might love him. As Rica stood there in the dappled shade, with blackberry stains on her fingers, she made up her mind that Etta should have him.

She bit her lip, knowing the dimple in her cheek would appear, and lowered her eyes as befitted a shy maid. “It would be more seemly to speak in the company of the hall.”

“Perhaps. But always you rush hither and thither, lighting only as long as a butterfly. I would have your whole attention.”

She felt a little rush of nervousness at what she was about to do. Did she dare? And could Etta possibly follow through?

“You speak of my sister, I think,” Rica said without raising her eyes. She leaned to retrieve the basket, knowing as she did so that his eyes would be fastened to the neckline of her gown, as they had been upon Etta’s that evening at supper.

“No,” he said, his voice a little hoarse. “I left your sister darning in the bailey. You are not so handy with a needle as she.”

Rica bent her head, letting her hair fall forward, shielding her from view as she mulled how best to answer. He was no fool.

Finally, she lifted her chin and tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Not even my father knows who is Rica and who is Etta, my lord.” She smiled. “How can you profess to know what a father does not?”

His gaze slid over her shoulders and the upper swell of her breasts, licking with lasciviousness at her young flesh. Rica felt a moment’s pang. It would be unwise to miscalculate this man. Virgin he might well be, but a man nonetheless, with the lusts and passions of any man. Even now, there was a dark flush over his cheeks, a hard sheen in his eyes that Rica found frightening. Mayhap Etta would be consumed in such a fire.

She would find a way to ask Helga about such things. For now, the seed had been planted. “Come, Leo,” she said to the dog. As if to reinforce her thoughts about the mounted man, Leo sent one last growl in Rudolfs direction.

“
fräulein
,” Rudolf called from behind her.

Rica turned.

“Whichever you be, perhaps the two of you will sit with me at tonight’s entertainment.”

Rica gave him a smile, then walked with Leo into the shadow of the trees.

She walked a long time in the warm sunshine, her basket over her arm, her barbette in her hand. In a high meadow she paused to eat her meal of cheese and bread. It was hot and she shed her surcoat. She carried it over her shoulder.