A Bed of Spices (11 page)

Solomon watched her go, longing for a word in any of the languages he had labored to learn that might call her back to him. There was none.

Instead he followed at a safe distance, to be certain she was not set upon by thieves. He trailed her past the lean-to village that clung to the city walls, and through the gates, then to the astrologer’s. When she dipped inside there, he ached at the new loss of her.

Never once did she look back.

Rudolf paced the walk
, looking toward Strassburg as the sun sank toward the tips of the Vosges. From the direction of the city rode Rica and her servant Olga. Leo, the fierce beast that gave Rica such unseemly freedom, trotted alongside the horses.

His eyes narrowed. He’d seen Rica leave this morn, and although it had been a little time before he could find leave to follow her, the delay had caused the girl to be swallowed up in the city’s arms without a trace. He’d sought her horse, the dog, the servant, stopping in at the shops Rica most often patronized. None had seen the beautiful daughter of Charles der Esslingen.

Now here she rode, free as the wind, hair sailing out behind her, her chin high. When she was his wife, she would not go abroad so. He would teach her the manners and attitude befitting so highborn a lady, would show her the error of her ways.

The thought gave him some satisfaction, but he could not quite shake his annoyance over being unable to find her in Strassburg. It would have given him a chance to advance his suit—for the sooner she was his bride, the sooner he could begin her education.

As the pair neared the castle gates, he turned away. At supper tonight, perhaps he could learn where her errands had taken her.

Rica wearily climbed the stairs toward her chamber. She longed to change her gown, put behind her the tumultuous emotions of the day.

And yet even as she climbed the steep, twisting steps, her mind floated toward Solomon, toward the glory of his touch, the taste of his mouth, and the press of his broad, strong body against her own.

In the passage, she paused by a broad window cut into the thick stone walls. Below sat Etta, embroidering in the hazy late afternoon, her gown spread prettily over the grass, her hair caught demurely into a braid. Leo had found her and slept in the dead doze he deserved after his day.

Beware the change of season
, the astrologer had said
. I see much ill fortune there
.

Rica stared at her sister. The alignment of their births made the stars say the same for both of them. Rica could see that her own foolishness might lead to tragedy if she did not keep her wits about her. But what of Etta?

Her sister looked as virtuous and still as a marble carving of the Virgin Mother. As if she sensed Rica’s gaze, she looked up and lifted her hand in greeting. Rica waved back.

Etta gathered her basket of silks and made for the castle. Rica turned toward her chamber, knowing Etta would come to her.

Behind the heavy oak door, she stripped her surcoat and cotehardie, then poured a bowl of water from the pitcher. She scrubbed her face and neck and arms, sluicing away the dust and sweat of the journey.

As she lifted her palms to her face, a waft of Solomon’s scent struck her nostrils.

A panicky sense of guilt clutched at her and she rubbed more fiercely at her flesh, trying to erase the aroma of him, that scent of male and frankincense and fresh bathing. A tactile memory of his black curls, hot from the sun and springy to the touch, rose up to haunt her. In her ears, his soft groan of hunger lingered.

Abruptly, she realized she was standing in her kirtle, with water dripping from her palms, her unfocused gaze fastened upon the whitewashed stone of her chamber walls.

She took a fresh tunic from her trunk, caring little for the cut or color. It had just settled about her ankles when Etta entered the room. “Hello, sister,” Rica said. “How have you spent your day?”

“As always,” she said and put aside her basket.

“I brought you something.” Rica lifted a bangled belt. “Do you like it?”

“Aye.” A gentle smile spread over Etta’s face as she accepted the offering. ‘“Twill look well with the new green surcoat I have just embroidered. Rudolf likes green.”

A pluck of foreboding pierced her, but Rica proceeded with caution. “How goes your pursuit of the fair Rudolf, sister?”

“I do not pursue him.” Her chin lifted in queer arrogance. “I simply allow him to pursue me—or rather you. He kissed me last night, after the dancing.”

“None too gently, I suspect.” She touched a slightly swollen spot on her sister’s lip, as casually as she would touch her own.

Etta pulled free. “‘Twas not all his roughness.”

There was something odd about Etta today, something Rica could not quite place. Was it only the passion for Rudolf that had bloomed in her heart, or was there something more amiss? In a sudden fit of worry, she said, “Perhaps we should not play this game any longer, Etta. I am—”

Etta whirled, her eyes glittering. “Will you take this thing from me?”

“Etta, no! I am just—”

“You are jealous!”

Rica jumped to her feet, stunned. “No! I am only worried about what will happen.”

“You think me simple, as all the others do.” Etta straightened to a haughty posture. “I am not.”

“I do not worry over simplemindedness, but over your innocence, Etta.” With an imploring gesture, she extended one hand. “Please, let us end this spat. I do not care for arguing with you.”

With a suddenness Rica found startling, Etta launched herself into her sister’s arms. “I am sorry,” she whispered. “Just do not take this one thing from me, I beg you. He is like the sun—when he appears, the world alights for me. I could not bear to—”

‘if you so long for this man, Etta, then you will have him. I swear it.“ She lifted her head. ”But there is something I must tell you.“

“What is it?”

“Come. Sit with me.” Rica mulled her words. She longed to spill the story of her turmoil over Solomon but did not dare, not even to Etta. “I have had a sense of evil coming—I knew not what. Today I went to the astrologer. The stars that govern us, sister, bode no good for the autumn. We must be very careful.”

“What could happen?” Etta said with a soft smile.

Rica took a breath. “You are no virgin, Etta. How will—”

A strange, shuttered look crossed Etta’s face. “Tis cruel of you to mention it.”

Exasperated, Rica squeezed Etta’s hand and leaned forward. “You must prepare for that night. We must ask Helga.”

Comprehension dawned. “Oh, yes. We should go tomorrow.”

Again, a thick blossom of dread filled Rica’s heart, and she stared at her sister, trying to pinpoint the source of her worry. A vision of Rudolf’s tight, sharp lips passed through her mind. Perhaps it was Rudolf that frightened her—she would talk to Helga. “Perhaps,” she said. “We’ll see.”

Rica could not remember whether Solomon said he would go mornings or afternoons. Could she bear to see him? Would Helga see the passion that had passed between them?

But Etta would not go abroad alone. Rica would have to go with her. Perhaps there was safety in their number.

Jacob ben Isaac watched his son Solomon all evening. When Solomon was a child, this strange mood had indicated trouble brewing; Jacob did not like to think there would be trouble now.

Solomon sat nearby the unshuttered window in the solar, staring off toward the line of mountains visible over the roofs of Strassburg. He sat unmoving, deep in a brooding frame of mind, sighing softly to himself.

A woman, Jacob thought. Yet Jacob had seen no hint of her. On Sabbath afternoons, Solomon did not linger in the courtyard of the temple; neither had he seen Solomon gazing overmuch at anyone in particular, though God knew he had a bold eye. Not entirely his own doing. Girls had flocked to this child since his earliest moments; even as a babe he’d had more than his share of attention— aunts fussing over his thick curls, neighbors clucking over the dimples in his cheeks as he grew, then girls and women of all walks eyeing him wherever he went.

Considering all, Jacob thought Solomon had done well for himself. The years at Montpellier had sobered him, and perhaps the bustle of those days now made Strassburg seem a dull hovel indeed. Not so strange.

As if he sensed his father’s gaze, Solomon glanced up. A soft flush of color suddenly rose in his cheeks and he hurriedly glanced away.

Jacob frowned. A woman, then. One he should not be thinking of. Was it the wife of some neighbor? Miriam, the baker’s wife, was a fine figure of a woman, too young for her fat, bad-tempered husband. Perhaps she had drawn Solomon’s eye. Or perhaps it was the daughter of some peasant he’d met on his walks to the herbalist’s cottage.

Jacob would watch. There was little he did not know about his children. This one was born with too much passion.

So why was he reluctant to force Solomon to marry? He was close to the age when many communities would not let him reside in them without a wife. It was his obligation and his duty.

But Jacob wanted his son to have his education, to go as far as his brilliant mind would carry him. He would, perhaps, be the finest physician the world had yet seen, and thus bring glory to his Maker and his people.

Pushing the subject aside, Jacob promised himself he would keep his eyes upon this youth. It was only a few months until he could return to Montpellier, surely. And Solomon, though passionate, was also wise. He would not err too greatly with so much at stake.

***

The visitors came the next morning.

Rica was bathing in the warm room behind the kitchen, where a fire had been laid. The water was warm, scented with lavender flowers freshly plucked and set to float with rose petals on the surface. Etta stood nearby, silently waiting to rinse her sister’s hair.

Last night Rudolf had been aloof at dinner, speaking only with brief courtesy to the twins before gathering with their father to discuss some matter of state. Rica, with narrowed eyes, had realized this was some sort of punishment, but Etta seemed to blame her twin—Etta had been sullen and withdrawn all morning.

“Etta,” she said, soaping her arms and neck, “had I wished for silence, I would have invited Leo in for company.”

Etta only looked at her.

Rica rinsed the soap from her skin. “Men often have concerns other than women, you know. In fact, ‘tis likely you have a greater share of his attention now than you will ever have again once he beds you.”

Etta turned her back, almost rudely, and took up a comb to unsnarl her hair.

Exasperated, Rica dipped her head and soaped her hair, scrubbing furiously. Etta dutifully rinsed it with a pail until it squeaked and handed her a length of linen for drying when she stood up.

“Ignore me, then,” Rica said, snatching the towel. “Run back to your little shell and say nothing. I don’t know why I bother!”

Etta gazed at her serenely. There was a small edge of triumph in the pale eyes, and a knowing expression around her mouth. It marred the perfection of virtue that only weeks before had made Etta seem a Madonna to her sister’s eye.

The trill of a horn from the walk, sounding long and loud, announced visitors. Etta ran from the room, leaving Rica behind to dry and dress alone.

“Etta!” she cried in annoyance.

But Etta did not pause. The horn trilled again, and Rica could hear the sound of voices and excitement rising in the courtyard. In her haste, she tried to don her tunic before her arms were completely dry. The tight sleeves stuck fast her flesh, and a tendril of hair got tangled inside. In her present humor, it took several moments to extract the tresses from within the sleeve, then settle her gown properly.

Meanwhile, from the yard came the sound of several horses and the hale shouts of guards in cheerful greeting and the flurry of voices. The horn rang out again in announcement, calling the castle inhabitants to the bailey.

She squared her chin as she headed for the yard, lifting her skirts to move quickly.

The scene that greeted her was one of mass confusion and excitement. Seven or eight well-appointed horses stepped restlessly in a small herd just inside the gates. A cluster of vassals and men-at-arms gathered on the walk above, chattering among themselves. Scullery maids peeked from the doors of the kitchen until Cook shoved them out of the way to get a look herself. Chickens flapped and screeched warnings to one another.

The morning sun had risen just above the wall and lit the arriving party from behind—Rica could not even make out how many had come. But there were women’s voices amid the expected lower booms of the men.

It was only as her father emerged from the hall that Rica realized who it must be—her uncle from the borderlands to the south, along with his wife and daughters.

Their appearance was unannounced; not even a messenger had been sent ahead. Rica paused, remembering her talk with Solomon the day before, and knew without a doubt that the grim pestilence so scouring the land had chased her uncle and his family north.

“Rica!” squealed a high, sweet female voice, and Rica found her arms filled with the weight and mass of her cousin Lorraine’s body. She smelled of the length of her journey and Rica unwillingly caught her breath in defense.

Rica bit back a sigh. Under the best of circumstances, this cousin was a sore trial—and her mama was worse. The third woman in the party. Lorraine’s younger sister Minna, had been only eight the last time the families had come together. Rica had no idea what she might be like but didn’t hold much hope.

Her aunt came forward smoothly, richly dressed below her traveling cloak, and eyed Rica with a shrewd gaze. “Tis plain to see you have at last grown from a colt to a girl,” she said.

Humphrey, her father’s brother, pushed into the group and scooped Rica into a bear hug. “This is no
girl
,” he bellowed roundly as he settled her back to her feet. “Our little wild Frederica has turned into a woman of fine proportions.”

Rica kissed him, laughing. Older than his brother by a year, Humphrey was a monster of a man with a black beard and thick black hair. His laugh could fill the great hall and drown an entire chorus of troubadours. “I am so glad to see you, Uncle,” she said.