A Bed of Spices (29 page)

But it was done—and could not be now undone.

She dreamed of barbarians with wild hair chasing her, raising bloody scimitars over their heads. She dreamed of scratching the face of a nameless rapist, and of lifting a dagger to avenge her mother’s murder. Everywhere was blood and danger and terror. In her dreams she ran and ran, looking for something she couldn’t find. Her sister. She couldn’t find Etta anywhere—in her dreams, she chased through ominous dark forests, screaming Etta’s name.

And she dreamed of Solomon, his bitter smile exaggerated as he told her she was only a diversion while he awaited his return to Montpellier.

In her dream, she cried out his name with sorrow and longing, and it was this cry that pulled her from sleep.

It was dark. She still felt the cry in her throat, felt her heart pounding and tears on her cheeks. In the soft darkness, she felt his loss anew.

As the first wave of grief passed, she rubbed her tired eyes, wondering how long she had slept. Her head felt thick, her limbs heavy, and she could not tell how long it was till dawn.

She shifted in the bed to look toward the embrasure, looking for signs of light beneath the shutters. None yet showed. She could sleep a little more then.

Nestling deeper into the linens, she closed her eyes and reached again for sleep. This time it settled around her like a soft net, comforting and peaceful.

When next she stirred, it was with a strange sense of urgency. She sat bolt upright in the bed, wincing as a pain rippled through her head. Disoriented, she pressed her palm to her temple.

She was in Etta’s chamber. In the shadowy gloom, she saw the outline of the tub where she had bathed. Vaguely, she remembered climbing into the water, remembered Etta filling her cup with wine over and over as she soaked in the scented water. The images began to blur then—she thought she remembered Etta rinsing her hair, but could not be sure.

Faint light pressed at the shutters, and Rica could hear the sound of horses in the bailey, then beyond on the road. She blinked, her vision bleary, and pressed her fingers harder against the thick pain in her head.

It was her wedding day—still early or Olga would have awakened her. Rica flung the linens aside and tested her ability to stand. Her stomach roiled. An array of shooting lights crossed her vision.

She groaned at the price of drunkenness.

It was only then that the faint sounds of merrymaking reached her. Music and a wild, besotted laugh.

With a cry, she whirled toward the sound, blinking against the pain in her head and the fuzziness in her limbs. Dressed only in her kirtle, she ran for the door and flung it open.

She raced toward the sounds in the great hall, ignoring the throbbing in her head that seemed to derive from something other than only wine…

Etta must have drugged her. Once again, she had underestimated her sister.

As she descended the curving stairs in the tower, hurting her feet on the cold stones, Helga’s words floated mockingly through her mind. No
children… nor even coupling. There are terrible scars
.

Wild terror filled her. Rudolf would not learn he had married the wrong woman until he tried to fit his member into a place it would not go. He would be drunk by then, and that strange passion would be built to a roar and he would be thwarted—!

“Oh, Mary, do not let me be too late!” she cried, and burst into the hall.

The room was littered with the remains of a great feast. Knights slumped over the tables, snoring. A drunk musician continued to pluck his strings, his head bobbing in time to some internal sound. In one corner, two men-at-arms tossed dice, and as Rica stared at them in horror, one looked up as he lifted his cup. Wine spilled over his chin and he wiped it carelessly away with his sleeve.

His gaze raked over her. “Too late, little pigeon,” he grated out, hoarse with all-night merrymaking. “But I’ll comfort you if your—”

Rica ran toward him, unmindful of her undress or the tangles in her hair. “Where is my sister?!” she cried, grabbing his shirt front.

He laughed drunkenly. “Why she rode out not an hour ago, off to her new fief with her new husband!” He grabbed her. “Let me ease your broken heart. I don’t care if you’re a virgin or not.”

Rica slapped him, backing away in horror. Little caring what they would think of her, she screamed in her anguish, then collapsed on the floor, weeping hysterically.

Rudolf waited until
his men were busy with the setting of the tents and preparation of the meal before he took Rica’s hand. “Come, my love,” he said with a smile. “Walk with me.”

She gave him a shy glance, and a blush rose on her cheeks. “Is it safe?”

He grinned, knowing her words were double-edged. He touched the sword at his side and winked. “I will protect you.”

She laughed.

They walked in silence into the forest, away from the men. Rudolf could not speak for his desire, and each step deeper into the shadowy, sweet-smelling trees made him ache a little more.

At last they reached a thick stand of pines that stood in a circle around a bed of spicy needles. With ceremony, Rudolf removed his cloak and spread it out. His new bride stood nearby, watching, and when he took her into his arms, she jumped.

“Do not be afraid, wife,” he said, and kissed her.

All day, he had been waiting for this—nay, all year. Now he felt the madness of his long-stayed hunger welling up like a beast within him, the beast that had always frightened him hitherto, but now could be safely released with his wife.

He tugged up her skirts ungently. Last night, his drunkenness had left him unable to deflower the wife he’d so long waited to bed, and his need seemed trebled now.

Unlike last night, his member stood stiff and ready. With a growl, he freed himself and grabbed her, needing to show her his failure the night before was only too much drink and excitement.

She cried out a little as he tumbled her, shoving himself between her legs. “My lord, a virgin needs time—”

He covered her mouth, nipping at her lips with his teeth, positioning himself to enter. Yes, last night she had been kind, wise even, pricking her finger to put blood on the sheets so none would be the wiser for his failure.

But now, he was hard and ready and had no wish to be gentle. She would know she had been loved today.

But he could not seem to find entrance. Over and over he prodded and pushed, and finally used his hand to seek his goal. He found it and began to ease in.

Again, he was obstructed, and with a cry of frustration, he shoved at her, gripping her shoulders and thrusting with his hips.

She screamed.

The sound infuriated him. He slapped her to make her still, and pushed. A flood of wet heat touched his thigh— ah! She was just a stubborn virgin. Not so long now.

He thrust and felt something give. She screamed again and began to fight him, biting and thrashing with her legs, striking him with her fists. He pinned her and kept at it.

But no matter what he did, he could move no farther. In fury, he pulled away and saw there was blood between them—on his legs and hers and on his cloak.

With a sickness in his belly, he stared at her, breathing hard. There was hatred in her eyes.

“You are a swine!” she cried, and hurtled forward to bite his chin, her nails tearing at his eyes.

He grabbed her arms, feeling new heat flood through his loins. “So be it.” In a blind red haze, he took her, muffling her screams with one hand until they faded to whimpering, dull cries.

Jacob left his sleeping wife and headed with purpose to his desk. In the silence, he dipped his quill and began to write.

Dear Solomon,

It grieves me to be the one to tell you these events, but elsewise you will not know and will perhaps wonder always about the girl.

Here, Jacob paused, feeling slightly ill over the lies he must tell.

The talk these many weeks still buzzed with the tragic story of Frederica der Esslingen, whom all had seen married on the cathedral steps.

Then, only days later, they had crowded along the road to watch her carried home in a bier, killed by thieves. Her husband’s body had not been found— and this above all gave cause for worry, for it could not be given proper burial.

Tragic, they said in the streets, shaking their heads. So beautiful a girl, violated and murdered so brutally by the barbarians still roaming the forests to the east. They all remembered her mother, and her end. Even those who hated the nobility felt sympathy for Charles der Esslingen over such adversity.

This morning, Jacob had had business with the council. As he walked back toward home, he passed the cathedral and glanced toward the steps, feeling a twinge of sadness himself over the fate of such a beautiful young girl. As if his thoughts had conjured her, she stepped through the doors.

Stunned, he stopped to stare.

No, he remembered, looking at the girl, this was not the one who had been killed, was not some ghost come to haunt him. It must be a sister, her twin.

But the girl, standing only a yard or two from the steps, saw him. Like a frightened deer, she froze. A deep flush of color crept through her cheeks as she stared at him, and all at once, tears welled in her eyes. She covered her mouth with her hand and ran away, a huge dog following behind her.

The same dog that had come into his shop one day not so long ago.

Jacob did not know how it had transpired, but the girl Solomon had risked so much to love had somehow survived. Her sister had never seen Jacob, would not have blushed or wept.

As long as she lived, she was a danger to his son.

He picked up his quill and prepared himself to lie.

Solomon carried the letter from his father up to the small rooms he kept. A cold wind blew outside the walls, lonely and bringing tidings of winter. A blessing the cold would be this year, Solomon thought grimly, for the pestilence seemed to freeze with the cold.

He broke the wax seal on the letter and settled by the fire to read. It told of Rica’s wedding.

A great weight seemed to fall on Solomon’s chest, and he put the letter down for a moment. It was cruel of his father to send him this news. A vision of the strange knight’s hands on his love tormented him. Angrily, he stood up, pacing until his mood calmed. He smoothed the page.

And read of Rica’s death.

In the loneliness of his room, Solomon cried out. He buried his face, guilt and grief searing him like a violent flame.

So this would be his punishment for his foolhardy and forbidden love—Rica dead because he had not taken her with him.

Rica dead. All the light in the world was gone. In despair, Solomon wept.

Strassburg—Winter 1349

Thy wit is as pure as thy witchery,

And both in thy face are displayed;

Alas! mid the maze of thy pleasuance,

From the path to thy heart have I strayed.

—Abraham ben Meir ibn Ezra

Solomon rode home
a week after Epiphany. As he approached Strassburg. thick flakes of snow fell gently around him and stuck to the branches of the pines alongside the road. Rising from the swirling snow was the walled city, looking like a magic kingdom alongside the river. All sounds were muffled.

He gazed at the tumbling of rooftops and the cathedral spire with little emotion. He felt hollowed out after his long, wandering journey these past months. There was a mild relief in him—tonight, he would sleep in his father’s house, in warmth and luxury. Tonight he would eat well at his mother’s table.

Perhaps the comfort of his family would ease the torment in his heart.

In the streets of his home city, all seemed well. Merchants and tradesmen went about their business with brisk and cheerful attitudes; goodwives shopped and haggled; beggars waited at the gates of great homes for scraps. Cats chased mice and slept lazily in sheltered alcoves. Children ran.

The normality of the scene stunned him. He stared with bleak eyes at the rosy cheeks of the good

Germans, hale and hearty in the streets of their safe city. He breathed of the air; foul to be sure with the dampening snow, but it was the familiar noisomeness of ordinary garbage, of cooking and spices mixed with the droppings of animals.

There were odors far worse.

It seemed all the world outside this little enclave had gone mad with fear and horror. Everywhere in France, tiny village or big city, plague dead littered the streets. The stench of them hung over the silent countryside like the breath of hell. Dressed as he was in his priest’s garb, survivors fell on him, begging Christian burial for their lost loved ones. At first, in good conscience, he refused.

He had spent only weeks in Montpellier—even now the horrors of that city did not bear thinking of. He heard it, more than saw it, in memory—the wild doomed laughter ringing through sparsely populated streets. A city once filled with doctors, and there were none left. No priests or monks. No one. Solomon had been only too glad to leave it behind when his father’s letter had told him of Rica’s death.

In despair he wandered through those fear-mad cities and villages, where now he did stop to bury the dead he found. There was no healing or comfort he could offer as a physician—as priest he could give some peace to grieving widowers and mothers.

In a tiny village, he stopped at the petition of a young girl, perhaps twelve, to bury her parents and baby brother. He stepped from the mule and collapsed on the road.

He had no idea how long he had lain ill, besieged with a black despair so vast he cared not for life at all. But the girl had dragged him to her mean little hut and bathed him with cool water and sang strange witchery songs over him.

Somehow, he lived. He had little memory of the days he had lain at the mouth of death, except a strange, exaggerated vision of the girl, her dirty face streaked with tears as the boil on his groin drained. She had known what it meant. In his stupor, he had not known or cared.