Rashi's Daughters, Book II: Miriam (29 page)

 

Not that dream again, not tonight
. Judah could feel the hands undressing him, caressing him intimately, yet, try as he might to stay unaffected, he was soon burning with desire. He opened his eyes, or he dreamed that he opened his eyes, because it was too dark to see more than a long-haired female form above him. He knew he should fight the demon and prevent her from mounting him, but his aching loins betrayed him and he was helpless to stop his hips from rising in cooperation as her damp warmth enveloped him. She had bewitched him somehow, and all he could do was writhe in this sweet agony until she at last forced his seed from him.

Still breathing heavily, Miriam fell back on the bed. But their coupling had only sated her temporarily. The heat was returning to her veins, stronger this time. Unable to resist, she turned toward Judah. But he was faster. Before she could kiss him, he was on top of her, furiously driving into her. Sensations she had never imagined possible spread from her womb throughout her body. She moaned, she screamed—a fiery passion was consuming her from the inside. And as the ultimate pleasure began to swell within her, she knew that Judah’s frenzied motions would both fuel and quench that blaze.

“Who are you, demon?” Judah demanded afterward, when he was finally able to catch his breath. “What is your name?”

“I’m Miriam, your wife.”
How can he not know who I am?

“That’s impossible.” In the year he had been intimate with Miriam, it had never been like this. Never! He could feel desire pulsating through him again. “What have you done to me, demon? I can’t get enough of you!”

The best response to his questions was to seal his lips with hers. Her breasts and womb were throbbing, and she didn’t have to wait long. With each coupling, it took her less time to climax while Judah took longer. All her faculties were focused on the waves of passion sweeping over her, and she was only dimly aware of the Matins bells ringing.

Hours later, as Judah continued to pummel her swollen flesh, all Miriam could do was pray for an end to this pleasure/torment. Had she given Judah too much of the potion? What if he was still affected when it came time for morning services? But this had been her doing, and she was obligated to continue as long as he needed her.

Soon his appetite began to flag. After what seemed like an endless series of thrusts, he let out a strangled cry and crumpled atop her. Her limbs almost too weak to move, Miriam somehow found the strength to roll his limp body off of hers. Succumbing to exhaustion, her final awareness was of church bells chiming Lauds.

M
iriam, please consider Samuel and Marona’s invitation.” Judah spoke softly, trying not to disturb her. “The good air in Ramerupt may help you feel better.”

Miriam slowly turned toward him, trying to minimize the wave of nausea that came whenever she lifted her head from the pillow. Why couldn’t she have a normal pregnancy? Other women threw up in the morning and felt better immediately, or they felt nauseous for a short time in the afternoon. But she, the midwife, had to be different. She vomited upon waking and her stomach remained queasy the entire day. Only in the evening did she have a few hours of relative comfort. By then, she was too tired to eat.

Neither dill nor lemon balm infusions seemed to help, although Miriam dutifully drank both. Her consolation was Aunt Sarah’s assurance that the more nauseous a pregnant woman felt, the less likely she was to miscarry. At least the dill and lemon balm infusions tasted good.

“I suppose I wouldn’t feel any worse.” Miriam answered with a sigh. “But I’m going to ride there myself.” Just the thought of traveling in a jostling cart upset her stomach.

“We can ride there together when it stops raining,” Judah said.

It took several days for the weather to clear, and once in Ramerupt, Miriam felt no better, although she had to admit that the clean country air was an improvement over smoky, smelly Troyes. Marona insisted Miriam walk outside at least once a day, even if it was only a few turns around the courtyard. The chilly air seared her lungs, but it also cleared her head.

Eventually she was well enough to walk further and watch the villeins plowing the fields. A young peasant couple was maneuvering the heavy plough down the lengthy furrow, heaping the overturned earth into a ridge in the middle. No wonder the fields were so long and narrow, Miriam thought, as the woman struggled to turn the four oxen pulling the plough around at the furrow’s end. Seeing her in profile, Miriam realized that the villein was pregnant. A surge of empathy filled her, and she hurried toward the village.

Ramerupt-sur-Aube was nearly devoid of life. The communal oven sat unattended, and the stocks on the village green held no wrongdoers. The only people she saw were several men working to repair a cotter’s roof before the next storm and a few others milling around the alehouse. The pungent odor of fermenting barley compelled Miriam to return to the manor, where she learned that company had arrived.

Miriam was expecting Joheved, who was bringing her sons to spend the winter away from Troyes, where the pox was rampant. But here was Emeline as well. How different she looked. Dressed in an elegant pink
bliaut
that made her skin look fair instead of sallow, Emeline’s light blue eyes sparkled with pleasure.

“You’ve changed since I saw you last,” Miriam said.

Emeline smiled broadly. “I was going to say the same thing to you. According to Lady Marona, you’ve married the handsomest man in France and you’re expecting a baby before the Hot Fair.”

Miriam smiled too. It was so nice to see her friend again. “What are you doing in Ramerupt? I thought you’d be married by now.” Miriam was afraid to ask about Emeline’s brother.

“My wedding to Hugh de Plancy is set for May Day.” Her voice held no enthusiasm. “After my brother died, Count Thibault became my guardian and took months to approve the arrangements.”

“I’m so sorry,” Miriam murmured. “I asked about you at court last winter, and they said you’d gone home.”

Joheved and Marona offered more expressions of sympathy.

“Thank you, it’s been almost six months now.” Emeline paused and looked out the window. “There’s so much that’s happened to me since we last spoke.”

“Then you must stay and tell us everything,” Marona said.

“Whatever you’re cooking smells tempting,” Emeline replied.

Miriam noticed that something did smell tempting. Her stomach growled in response and Marona chuckled. “I see your walk outdoors has revived your appetite.” She turned to Emeline and said, “Even with this one eating for two, we have more than enough for guests.”

Samuel and his steward, Étienne, listened politely as Emeline explained about her brother’s injury and how he had removed her from a convent to make her heiress of Méry-sur-Seine.

“Hugh seems an excellent match.” Samuel nodded with approval. “The Plancys are also of the old aristocracy, and with the two fiefs so close together, it should be simple to manage them both.”

When the servants brought out dessert and Joheved took little Samuel onto her lap to nurse him, Emeline stared at her in astonishment. “You’re nursing your own child? But only villeins do that, not noble ladies.” She put her hand over her mouth and quickly added, “I didn’t mean to insult you.”

Joheved smiled at the infant in her arms. “I choose to suckle my son myself. I want him nourished from my own substance, not an ignorant peasant’s.”

After having longingly watched so many mothers nurse their newborns, Miriam wasn’t going to let another women nurse her child either. She felt a fluttering in her belly, one that definitely wasn’t coming from her stomach, and gave a small gasp.

“Is anything the matter?” Marona asked.

“I think I just felt the baby move.” Miriam concentrated on her midsection. “
Oui
, there it goes again.”

Reluctant to alert the Evil Eye, no one at the table offered Miriam congratulations. But all three women smiled.

Miriam felt no more movement until she got into bed that night, and when she did, it reminded her of the villager she’d seen earlier. “Don’t you have other people who can plow for you instead of pregnant women?” she asked Joheved.

“I don’t see why you should care about them so much. After all, it is Le Bon Dieu’s will whether one is born noble or villein.” Joheved knew her voice sounded sharp, but once she nursed little Samuel, tucked Isaac in, finished her prayers, and got into bed, she just wanted to go to sleep. “Besides, she must have been working her own family’s lands. We won’t start plowing the demesne until next week.”

“Her own family’s lands?” Miriam asked in confusion. “I thought all the manor’s land belong to Samuel.”

“It’s not so simple,” Joheved said. “All land in Champagne belongs to Count Thibault, who grants fiefs to his vassals, like Count André, who divide it further among their own lords. So too is this manor split up. The demesne is Samuel’s piece, and then there are smaller plots that he grants to his villeins.”

“But if it means more work and paying higher rent, why would any villein want more land?” Miriam asked.

Joheved tried to suppress a yawn. “He might have more than one son and want each one to inherit enough to support a family. Also, an industrious villein can earn a good profit from his additional land, more than enough to hire men to do the extra work for him.”

“What if he doesn’t have any sons?”

“His land returns to the demesne, and Samuel can keep it or rent it out to a new man,” Joheved replied. “Just as this estate would revert to Count André if Samuel didn’t leave any heirs.”

“I see.” From now on, when Miriam said her morning blessings she’d pray the third one, “Blessed are you, Adonai our God, King of the world, for not making me a slave,” with extra diligence.

 

During the next two months, Miriam’s nausea diminished so that she was able help with the lambing, and to her surprise, Joheved spent every night with the laboring ewes. When she teased her older sister about how squeamish she used to be, Joheved replied that birthing lambs was nothing after changing dirty baby swaddling every day for nearly four years.

Emeline visited several times a week, and between her and Marona, Joheved’s education progressed rapidly. Marona had great depth of experience, but she had spent her entire adult life in Ramerupt. In a small span of years, Emeline had seen many estates, both well and poorly managed, and acknowledged that she had learned far more from the latter. Miriam wasn’t particularly interested in their discussions, but the company was better than sitting alone.

“You must be wary of corruption among those who serve you,” Emeline warned Joheved as the four women walked about the estate one afternoon. “You can tolerate the miller who siphons off a bit of grain for his own use or the fisherman who underreports his catch from your streams, provided their thefts aren’t egregious. But the steward who fills his own purse at your expense or the warden who takes bribes to allow poachers in your forest, these must be replaced immediately with honest fellows.”

“Joheved won’t find problems like that on our small fief,” Marona said.

“How many officials do you have?” Emeline asked.

“First there’s our steward, Étienne.” Joheved began slowly, trying to remember the different duties the lesser officials performed. “Beneath him is Jean Paul, the reeve, who makes sure the villagers report for work promptly and don’t slip off without finding a substitute. He also collects the villeins’ rents, as well as any fines imposed on them.”

Joheved had confided in Miriam her surprise at learning how much money the semiannual manorial court generated. There were fines for neglecting labor work, for allowing livestock to stray into the demesne, for permitting a cottage to fall into disrepair, as well as for such altercations between villeins as cursing, theft, and assault. A man and woman paid a fine for marrying without Lord Samuel’s permission, as did adulterers and those who conceived a child out of wedlock. But the most common fine was for brewing violations, levied when an alewife’s ale was too weak or who sold it before Marona’s official tasting.

“The beadle, the reeve’s deputy, his name is Pierre,” Joheved continued. “He’s responsible for saving seed from last year’s crop and for seeing that the demesne is plowed properly. In late summer Pierre has two reap reeves as well, to supervise the harvest. Marona tastes the ale.”

“You don’t have a bailiff?” Emeline looked surprised.

“
Non
,” Marona answered when a baffled Joheved turned to her. “We’re too small to need a bailiff and a steward.”

“Who takes care of the vineyard?” Emeline asked. “I heard that your family makes wonderful wine.”

Miriam finally got a chance to say something. “It’s our father who has the vineyard, back in Troyes.”

Joheved gave Marona a shy glance. “Although it would be nice to plant one in Ramerupt eventually.”

Upon hearing this, Emeline marched them around until Joheved and Miriam agreed on the best south-facing slope. “Your villeins should begin clear-cutting it at once,” Emeline said.

“But it’s February,” Joheved objected. “We need everyone for spring plowing.”

“Don’t worry about overburdening the villeins,” Emeline said. “In return for protection, it’s their obligation to perform any labor their lord requires. And compared to what I’ve seen elsewhere, your villagers have it easy.”

“Really?” Miriam found that difficult to believe.

“Definitely. Most peasants get requisitioned for castle upkeep, repairing roads and bridges, digging canals. I met one baron who made his villeins beat the water of his castle’s moat to stop the frogs’ croaking when he had a hangover.”

Emeline smiled up at Marona. “But the greatest boon for your villagers is that Samuel is such a homebody. They never have to contribute for him to go on a pilgrimage, hold a tournament, or, most expensive, ransom him after he’s been captured in battle.”