A Bed of Spices (7 page)

Seduced by the warm day and the peace of the hours spent alone with no one to please but herself, she wandered toward the river III, to an isolated stretch surrounded by stands of pine and birch trees to which she came often when time permitted. Leo leapt joyfully into the water, and Rica settled in the shade of a pine to watch him.

It was a lazy, bright day. Much too warm. After a time, she shed her clothes to bathe in the cool water, as both Leo and she had known she would do.

Wading out to a deep pool, she submerged herself, shaking her hair to loosen the dust, glorying in the icy fingers over her scalp. She rubbed the sweat of her long walk from her arms and from between her breasts, then leaned against a submerged boulder and closed her eyes against the sunshine, hearing the call of crows and twitterings of sparrows and the chuckling of the river over stones.

The current swirled around her, cupping a breast here, stroking her belly there, circling an ankle and splashing her shoulders. At her feet, it was cold as ice, but warmed as it moved higher. The sun shone on her shoulders and through the water to her torso.

‘Twas Paradise, she thought, and moved her arms lazily. Her thoughts drifted toward Solomon, with his thick tumble of hair and generous mouth. She called forth the memory of him outside the castle walls, turning to tell her just one more thing—the one thing he could not utter.

What would it be like if he were here in the water, too, swimming and bathing with her, his skin shining with water? What if he were laughing here, showing those fine white teeth? What if he were as naked as she—

She opened her eyes and straightened abruptly, sending water splashing outward. A short sound of frustration and dismay escaped her throat, and flushing, she buried her face in her hands, feeling shame sweep through her.

Sweet Mary, could she never escape her thoughts of him?

Hidden on a hill not far away, Rudolf crouched low in the shadow of a bush, watching the woman below. He told himself he had only followed her to puzzle out which sister she might be and to keep her safe should danger appear.

Had he known she sometimes escaped here to bathe? His crouching now in the trees would then be a sin. He frowned. Nay. Once he’d seen her return to the castle with wet hair, but he had not known she bathed, or that she wished to do so this fine warm afternoon.

In the water, she dipped her head backward to wet her hair and the ruddy tip of one slick breast broke the water. A rigid heat rushed to his loins. He closed his eyes.

But was she not his betrothed? Whether or not she knew it, her father had promised her to him. Therefore, it was no sin to look upon her with hunger. For his wife, a man could—nay,
should
—conceive a passion. Had not Saint Paul himself extolled the virtue of marriage?

He straightened and stared. As if to display her womanly treasures for his full approval, she stood up to wade from the water. Wet tendrils of her hair trailed over her arms and clung with exquisite accuracy to the swell of her hips. Her breasts were full and high, her belly smooth and flat, her legs slim and long and white. He groaned and touched himself once, then fisted his hand against the temptation. Soon enough, he’d bury himself between those long legs and swell her flat belly with his child.

A flash of white in the trees downriver caught his eye and Rudolf saw there was a man approaching the spot where Rica stood, naked and glorious. Wildly, he mounted his horse, cursing his choice to hide on this hill. Now he had to ride down it again.

Rica waded toward the bank and donned her kirtle. Her dog had disappeared. Unalarmed, she whistled for him. Almost immediately, he came crashing through the trees, noisy as a bull, his tongue lolling joyously. He paused by her a moment, then raced for the water’s edge and plunged with delight into the river once more.

She laughed at his unadulterated pleasure, then abruptly stilled as she became aware that he had not returned through the forest alone.

For an instant, a deep and penetrating terror overtook her—until she realized it must be someone known to Leo, or he’d not have been so free and quiet. Slowly, she turned.

Solomon had stopped less than two feet from her, his jupon hanging unbuttoned over his tunic, his strong legs bare. In his hands he carried his shoes. His skin shone with the rosy gleam of a good scrubbing.

He stared without speaking and Rica became aware of the water streaming from her hair, wetting the soft cloth of her kirtle.

And yet, she could not move. His eyes, fiery with desire, trapped her where she stood, as if he had cast a spell over her. Or perhaps, she thought, he was caught within the same evil net as she, and acted no more upon his own will than Rica did.

His gaze washed over her, lighting upon her shoulders and waist. The heavy curtain of her wet hair hid her breasts, but Rica felt them grow weighty with a sudden, restless ache.

She stared back at him, seeing a silver rivulet of water trail over the smooth flesh of his neck and through the curls of hair upon his chest.

He stepped toward her and Rica could see he was as moved as she. His chest moved with quick, shallow breaths. “It seems,” he said in a low voice, “we share a favor for this part of the river.”

Rica swallowed. “So it would seem,” she whispered.

He stopped bare inches away from her. “I have cursed you,” he said in a husky tone. He glanced away, then back again to her, and shook his head. His breath soughed over her face, smelling of mint. “You haunt my dreams.”

He touched her cheek and Rica nearly swooned. She closed her eyes and caught his hand, pressing it between her cheek and her palm. It was hot and strong. “I will never be able to confess this,” she whispered almost desperately.

“Tis madness,” he agreed, his voice a low rasp.

The sudden, fierce barking of the dog shattered the moment. Solomon snatched his hand from her as if he were burned. “Dear God,” he muttered, and stared at her as if she were a witch.

A sound of hooves in the forest reached them, and Solomon bent to retrieve Rica’s clothes and basket. He hastily shoved them at her as she whistled for Leo, who bounded toward her, shaking water from his fur forcefully.

Terrified, Rica glanced at Solomon. He didn’t hesitate, but dragged her, clutching her clothes, into a thicket of bushes. Leo struggled in behind them, and though he whined almost inaudibly, he shushed even that small noise at Rica’s touch.

They were crowded hard in the small space, but neither moved. The hoofbeats came nearer, thudding in some hurry, then passed no more than a few feet away. Rica smothered a gasp as she spied the white boots of Rudolf’s stallion. He had come after her.

As the sound faded into the distance, Rica became aware of Solomon once more. His knee was pressed against her thigh and a loop of her hair rested on his arm, soaking his sleeve. His side was pressed into hers and his body seemed extraordinarily warm. She stared at his hands with their scrubbed knuckles and clean nails, at the long gentle fingers and the hot strong palm that had lain against her cheek.

Abruptly, Solomon pulled away. “He is gone.”

She followed him from the thicket of bushes into the lowering sunlight of the grove. Suddenly aware of her near-nudity in the thin wet shift, she donned her tunic. Nervously, she steepled her fingers and listened for the sound of hooves in the forest. “It was a vassal of my father’s on that horse.”

Solomon’s face was grim. He pointed to a bluff. “He watched you—there. When I saw your dog, I thought it might be you he watched.”

Rica lifted her chin. “Were you coming for a look yourself?”

His nostrils flared. “Perhaps you should not bathe in the forest again, lady.”

“It has always been deserted here,” she protested. Then, remembering the pagan thoughts of him that had filled her mind at the caress of the water, she bowed her head. “Perhaps I should not,” she said softly.

With a low, growling sound, Solomon moved close. He stood before her and tipped up her chin. “Have no shame, Rica, for you are as God created you.” A blazing light glimmered in his eyes. “I would give many years to be able to lie with you honestly.”

She swallowed, pricked at his admission. “Men will often give much to have knowledge of a woman that makes their cock rise,” she said, and turned her head from the grip of his fingers. “It was for the lust of men that so many laws were given women.”

Shifting her skirts away from his feet, she bent to pick up her basket.

His hand curled around her arm. “Lust?” he said softly. “Is it lust that sends me dreams of you? Lust that makes me think of naught but the shimmer of your hair and the curve of your lips?”

Her mouth went dry. “I know not of those things,” she whispered.

“Have you never tasted passion, Rica?” he whispered. “Nay, innocence is your cloak, for all that you drive men mad.” His fingers brushed her cheek. “Lust is an evil thing, ugly and dark,” he said quietly. “Lust is a word too small to speak of the dreams I have.”

He stepped closer. “It is passion, Rica, that I feel when I see you, passion that haunts me when you are gone.”

His breath, moist and warm, brushed her cheek. Rica raised her gaze. And it was again the day in Helga’s garden, when his face had been so close.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, but his head tilted and he moved slowly closer, until the full lips were poised a hair’s breadth above hers. “I have never known a woman who moved me so,” he murmured. He kissed her.

His mouth was mobile and firm, as luxurious upon her own as the water had been upon her body. He explored her lips with a curious mixture of hunger and hesitancy, expertise and caution, nibbling now, pressing and moving until Rica found her mouth parting of its own accord. Even then, he only used the tip of his tongue to taste her, to ribbon around the edges of her lips and parry with the tip of her tongue.

The heavy feeling returned to her breasts and spread thickly to her middle. Rica gave herself to the splendid taste of him. Her hands lit upon his arms for steadiness, and her basket bumped his hip.

In a hundred poems, she had read of kisses. She had not dreamed it would feel thus, so deep and swirling, as if her body had swelled and lightened, until she was near to floating in his loose embrace.

At last he lifted his head. His palms circled her cheeks, tender and powerful, and his eyes swept her face hungrily. “I would teach you passion, Rica.”

“There are penalties,” she whispered, riveted in the darkness of his eyes.

His jaw hardened. “Aye,” he said with a bitter-twist of his lips. “And I am a fool.”

He backed away, watching her. Rica lifted her hand in wonder to touch her tingling lips. He froze, then turned and left her.

As if his presence had been all that held her upright, Rica sank to her knees on the ground as he stalked into the trees. Her mouth burned with the press of his lips; her tongue tingled with the ghostly image of his. Her heart skittered in her chest, as wild as a panicked bird.

Wanton.

In a crush of shame, Rica buried her face in her hands, her flesh burning with humiliation. She thought of Solomon looking at her as if she were some kind of demon, a she-devil come to torment him. She thought of him turning away in disgust.

Madness. ‘Twas all madness. Her mind had been overtaken by some force outside herself the moment her eyes had fallen upon his face in Helga’s garden.

And how she would free it, she did not know.

In the streets of Strassburg, the merchants and butchers were hawking the last of the day’s goods. A ball of gold sunlight settled over the mountains and lent a gentle gilding to the scene.

Bemused, Solomon wandered through the streets toward home, admiring the hues of the stone walls and the dull gleam of thick glass in some of the windows. Two snaggle-toothed old women chuckled together near the well, and even they seemed beautiful.

The very air glowed with a sense of Rica. The gold light made him think of her hair, flowing in streamers over her shoulders. He passed the open door of an apothecary, and the scents from within momentarily blotted out the riper city odors; these, too, gave him a moment’s pause, for his senses were flooded with the taste and scent of the woman who had kissed him.

No. He swallowed. Let him kiss her.

He was bewitched. He could not stop the burning he had for her. She haunted his every step, his every dream.

Only the plain walls of his father’s house sobered him. As he approached the wooden gate, he smelled chicken and garlic thick in the air. The ring of his mother’s voice, light and happy, floated down to him.

Even before she ushered him through the courtyard and into his chamber, her eyes bright with excitement, he knew visitors had arrived. Relations from Mainz, come for the wedding feast of Hershel and Raizel. They would sing and dance, laugh and gossip and eat.

Solomon sank to a bench in his chamber with a sigh. He had no wish to join them. Their talk would be of weddings and sons, of business and survival. As it always had been, as it always would be.

Without enthusiasm, he shed his tunic and from his trunk pulled a freshly brushed velvet surcoat and the small embroidered hat he wore at home. As he took it out, the miniature painting of Egypt tumbled loose from its spot.

It was only a camel with white pointed spires of Cairo behind. Women in black veils gathered to one side, and a proud Muslim warrior with a scimitar stood victorious over a slain Christian knight. His father thought it grim.

Solomon inclined his head, and holding his coat on his arm, picked up the painting. The exotic promise of a faraway land was what had first drawn him to it. Even as a small boy, he had heard tales from the traders who sold his father his goods—fine carpets and spices and exotic woods—tales of elephants and camels; of pyramids and deserts and snake charmers. The traders spoke of the wisdom of the East, of knowledge only just dreamed of in the West, The tales had filled his young heart with wanderlust and a’longing for adventure.

Now he still longed to travel there, but it was for the physicians he would go. At Montpellier, even the priests had been forced to admit the excellence of the Arabian physicians. Fully half the body of medical knowledge had come from the Moors.