A Bed of Spices (32 page)

A spiral of intense hope rose in him as he stared at her, remembering, dreaming. He could not have forgotten so much in so short a time.

He passed a peddler leading a worn and dirty horse, and the bells on the harness brought Rica so clearly, so achingly to his heart he nearly wept.

Madness. He rubbed his face. She was dead. The plague and his turmoil these past months had sent him beyond reason. All his wishful imaginings could not make Etta into her sister.

With weary steps, he climbed the stairs in his father’s house, Jacob waited by the hearth, his hands folded.

“Papa,” he said without shedding his cloak, “we must leave Strassburg. The danger is too great to stay here any longer.”

A mulish expression crossed Jacob’s face. “I will not leave yet.”

Solomon took a great breath and blew it out. “Then send away the women… and whoever will go with them. I will stay with you here until we can stay no longer.”

“If the danger creeps so close here, then why will it not go to Mainz or Nürnberg?”

“It may. But perhaps there is a little more time, and that way we can make larger plans. Europe is mad.”

Jacob glanced up sharply. “You would have us leave the Continent? To go where?”

“Cairo.” He held up a hand to forestall his father’s protests. “Jews are many there, and the Mamluks are said to be fair. You have heard the same tales, Papa.”

Jacob stroked his beard, his black eyes thoughtful. He pursed his lips. “Very well. I will send away the family if you will stay until I can settle my business here.”

“These flagellants are dangerous—there should be no delay.”

“So it shall be.” He stood up. “Come, we will tell the others.”

He moved to leave. Solomon stopped him. “Papa.”

Jacob turned, an eyebrow upraised.

Solomon felt his throat filled tight with words. He could not speak around them, around his doubt and hope that it might have been Etta, not Rica, who died. He shook his head. Roughly, he said, “Nothing.”

He helped ready the family. All but Jacob and Solomon would go—Hershel and Asher to protect the women on the dangerous roads. They would go to Raizel’s family in Mainz, and to their brother Simon, who lived with his wife and children there.

By morning it was all done. When the prayers and blessings had been uttered, the mules packed and the family seen through the gates, Solomon turned again to his father. “I have a wish to see the midwife.”

Jacob turned stony-faced. “I will not allow it.”

Solomon smiled, sadly, and touched his father’s shoulder. “The danger there is cold and buried in a crypt.” He glanced toward the rooftops of the city. “Helga is a wise healer, and I wish to talk with her about this plague.” He sighed. “In truth, it would comfort me.”

A strange expression crossed Jacob’s eyes. Worry? “Do what you must.” His voice was thick with disappointment. “But do not tarry long. I will need you if I am to finish my business here.”

“An hour or two, no more.”

Rica had developed
an odd habit over the past few months. Much as she hated needlework, she had taken up Etta’s silks and had been trying to finish the tapestry Etta had left behind. It was slow, frustrating work, and often she had to take out a whole afternoon’s sewing when she looked upon it again.

But slowly, her clumsy fingers were learning to make neat, tiny stitches. As she learned, sitting in the stone alcove of her father’s chamber, she understood why Etta had loved so to sit here. The light was good, even on cloudy winter days, and the fire was cheery. Her father muttered and mumbled to himself as he made notes and listened to accounts from his men-at-arms and vassals and squires. He heard the petitions of peasants and granted or denied requests. When alone, he talked with his hawk and fed him bits of food.

It was as if Rica did not exist, and yet there was some comfort in taking part in his days. She thought, perhaps, he harbored some guilt over Etta’s tragic end, too, and liked to half believe it was still she sitting here, stitching away.

So it was the day she returned from Strassburg.

There were things she wanted to tell him, things she needed urgently to discuss, and she had made up her mind on the ride home that she would talk, whether he listened or not.

But when she arrived, he stood by the embrasure, listening to the words of a councilman from Strass-burg, the same one who had come this summer. Ignoring the glare her father shot at her, she bustled over to the corner and took up the silks.

The councilman broke off when he saw Rica, and glanced at Charles.

Charles set his mouth. “Go on. If she hears what she should not, ‘tis only her fault for her nosiness.”

“Very well. We have confessions extracted at Chillon in September that seem to prove the truth of these accusations against the lews.”

“Bah!” Charles shouted. “A tortured man will say anything to end his pain. At least death brings peace! I know not why the artisans believe such a confession.”

The councilman, a sober man in sober black, shrugged. “‘Tis greed, my lord, as ever.”

“Yes.” The word was weary. “So what is to be done?”

“The council of Köln has written to us. There is some fear the country might be destroyed if the violence continues.”

Rica looked up, alert. There was a bleakness about the man she had not seen before and he bowed his head as he spoke again. “The tragedy at Basle sickened me.”

“Who stands with you, and who against?” Charles asked.

“The mayor and Judge Sturm are with me. The artisans stand against us—and they have much power. They also have much to gain.”

“And the bishop?”

“He is under papal dominion,” he said, “and the pope has repeatedly forbidden these massacres under pain of excommunication.”

Charles sank into a chair, and Rica looked at him in alarm. His color had drained away, and he seemed to have trouble catching his breath. She stood up, but he glared at her and waved a hand. Rica sat back down.

“So, tell me, what is the plan?” Charles asked.

“There is to be a conference in Benfeld with the councils of Strassburg and Koln. The bishop and all the feudal lords will attend. It would be an honor if you would be there to support us, my lord. Your fairness is well known.”

“Send to me the details and I will be there.”

“Thank you, my lord.” He dipped his head in a gesture of respect. “I pray it will end well.”

“As do I.”

The judge left, and Charles let go of a long breath, pressing a hand to his chest. His face was ghostly white. Rica leapt up. “Papa? Shall I send to Helga?”

With an abrupt movement, he nodded. “A potion of hers would not sit ill with me now.”

She whirled and flew into the passageway and there waylaid a vassal. “Run to the midwife and tell her my father is unwell. Quickly—and tell her it is a matter of some urgency.”

He bowed and hurried away.

Rica returned and knelt at her father’s side. “Take off your jupon and lie down. She will come quickly if she is able. Between now and then, I will get your tea.”

He allowed himself to be unbuttoned, his dress to be removed. In his shirt, he reclined on his bed. As

Rica made to go to the kitchens, he reached out for her hand. “Stay a little, child. It is a weariness of the spirit that plagues me, not ill health.”

“Are you strong enough to go to this conference? Benfeld is a hard ride in such weather. How will you stay warm or dry?”

“Child—” He shook his head. “No, you are no child these days. I am glad of it.” He held her hand close to his chest. “Listen. You have not heard the stories. I am ashamed such things could happen in my own land. I must go, Rica.”

A vision of the flagellants, whipping themselves in the streets of Strassburg, passed over her eyes. “I am afraid, Papa,” she whispered, and told him about the flagellants, though not about Rudolf. “It seemed everyone had gone mad. You can hear them talking, telling each other lies about the Jews.” She swallowed, thinking of Solomon. “What will happen to them?”

“I don’t know.”

She went cold. “I will pray then,” she said, and reaching for the blankets, she covered him. “You must rest.”

He was only too willing.

Solomon felt a little faint as he climbed the stairs to Charles der Esslingen’s chamber high in the old keep. He focused on the swaying of Helga’s skirts in front of him, trying to catch his breath.

It was strange to be here, where he had imagined so many times. Rica herself had climbed these steps a thousand times, as a child and a young woman. Down them she had gone to ride away with her husband—to her death.

He had protested when Helga asked him to come, but she could be implacable. She thought he might know something more about this condition than she did, and he could see in her eyes that she loved the man.

So he had come with her. Now he wished he had not. At the top of the steps, he paused, putting his hand against the wall. “Helga, I am still not as well as I would like. Tarry a moment, if you will, and let me catch my breath.”

She did not pause. “Catch your breath in the solar.”

Solomon grinned at her. The world was falling apart all around them, but Helga had not changed. She was her sturdy, sensible self no matter what ills befell mankind. He had missed her.

She had said nothing about Rica. Following her lead, he had said nothing either, and now he braced himself for the sister, in case she was hovering somewhere about.

The lord lay on his bed. Hearing Helga enter, he opened his eyes and smiled at her. “I am in need of your medicine.”

“I have brought someone today, my lord,” Helga said, and turned toward Solomon, drawing him forward with her hand. “This is Solomon ben Jacob, who studied medicine in Montpellier.”

Charles lifted a heavy brow. With a little pang, Solomon saw Rica had inherited his eyes. Not only the color, like the mountains on a warm day, but the light and passion, too.

“Know you how to cure me?” Charles asked.

“I am not yet a physician, but I have studied five years.” Solomon’s lips twitched. “Perhaps I may help a little.”

There was a noise from one corner, and Solomon glanced over. He had not realized there was anyone else in the room.

Sitting on a bench, a tapestry spread over her lap, was the girl he had seen in Strassburg today. A purple mark stained her cheekbone. Once again the first thought in his mind was
Rica
.

“That is my daughter,” Charles said. With an edge in his voice, he added, “She is simple. Pay her no mind.”

Helga bustled over. “Oh, my pretty,” she murmured. “Tell me what happened.”

The girl—he could not bring himself to call her Etta—shook her head. In a breathy, quiet voice, she said, “‘Tis nothing.”

“Well?” Charles prompted. “Will you gaze all the day at my daughter, or examine me and tell me what I already know?”

Solomon chuckled at this. His own father put forth the same bluster.

The examination was not long—it did not need to be. There were telling signs at a simple glance. The lord’s color was whitish, his skin clammy, and a bluish tinge edged his mouth. Solomon heard the labored sound of his breathing, and he leaned over to listen to his heart.

He rocked back on his heels and met der Esslin-gen’s eyes. In that blue so like Rica’s, in the broad and powerful face, Solomon read no regret, only a simple resignation. He was dying.

Wordlessly, Charles looked to the women, watching them with careful attention, and back to Solomon. “So,” Charles said, “tell me what I know. I am an old man and must suffer along as best I can.”

Solomon smiled. “You’re an old man and must suffer along as best you can.”

The girl, as if she could restrain herself no longer, rushed over to settle her father. Her movements were strong and sure, without the fluttering that women so often indulged. Her hair fell down to obscure her face, but Solomon was struck with the fullness of her hips as she leaned over. With a flip of her hair, she turned. The movement was so typically Rica, it scored his soul.

Transfixed, he stared at her. She cocked her head. “And Herr
Docktor
,” she said with an ironic twist of her lips, shooting a glance toward her father, “what say you about a long journey to Benfeld?”

A swell of sweet joy filled him, and a yearning so bright and deep he thought it must flood the room. He had
not
lost his mind.

She lifted her chin in arrogance, but her eyes were dark with the same fury he had seen in her eyes the day he left her on the road to Montpellier.

And at last, the reason for her ruse penetrated his thick skull. She was angry—and with good reason— but if he had a little time with her, perhaps he could make her understand he had not left her for lack of love, but for the opposite.

Disdainfully, she lifted her brows. “Well? What say you?”

Solomon glanced at Charles, who watched the pair of them with a strange, musing look on his face. “I say it would be folly, my lord.”

“See, Pappi?”

Charles straightened on his bed. “I am a knight, though an old one. I no more fight battles with swords, but there’s still a battle left in this heart, and fight it, I will.” He lifted a hand and pointed to Solomon. “It may very well be your life that hangs in the balance.”

“It may be then, my lord,” Solomon countered, “you give your life to save mine. I do not recommend you take this journey. The weather is yet harsh.”

“Pah.”

Solomon looked again at Rica, who still rigidly stood at the foot of her father’s bed, glaring at him. “Stubborn, I see,” he said slowly. “‘Tis a habit that drives wedges through good intentions.”

“Not so much as arrogance,” she returned.

Solomon gathered his cloak, his heart near to brimming. “True enough,” he said, and turned toward her father once more. “I urge you to send a letter in your place.”

Charles cocked a brow and did not answer.

“I bid you all good day.” He nodded to Helga, who had an odd gleam of satisfaction in her eye, and then finally toward Rica. She looked away.

Out on the road back to Strassburg, Solomon inhaled the cool wet air with a sense of exhilaration, a joy so vast he could barely comprehend it.