Rashi's Daughters, Book III: Rachel (14 page)

But she’d know for sure by the time Eliezer came home for the Cold Fair. It ought to cheer him after his mother’s death, just as the thought of another baby in her womb lifted some of her grief over losing little Asher.

She was also pleased with a plan she’d devised that might make it possible for Eliezer to live in Troyes most of the year and still make as much money as before. The idea came to her while talking to Sybille, a lanky middle-aged widow who borrowed money from Rachel and Miriam to finance her weaving business.

As usual when the Hot Fair closed, Sybille came to repay the money she’d borrowed in the spring to buy flax. “Here’s what I owe, plus interest.” She counted out the coins.

“Did you have a good season?” Rachel asked as she wrote the amount in her account book.

“Better than most,” Sybille admitted, “but not as good as some. Flax is getting more expensive, but there is always demand for well-woven linen.”

“Have you thought about weaving woolens? They bring more money than linen.”

“I’d have to buy a different loom, and I don’t want to get further into debt than I already am. Besides, it’s mostly men who weave wool.”

“Really?”

Sybille nodded. “Weaving is divided by gender, with women making linen and men making woolens.”

“So is the rest of the cloth business,” Rachel said. “At my sister’s estate, men shear the sheep while women wash and comb the wool, which male dealers buy.”

“Spinsters are always women, no matter which kind of thread they spin,” Sybille added.

“While the dyers and clothiers are men.” Rachel noted that men performed the most profitable tasks. “Sybille, who controls the cloth-making process?”

The weaver paused to think. “Nobody does. The craftsmen perform their parts independently, buying their own supplies and then selling the product to the next one in the chain.”

Rachel smiled and nodded. “Oh. I nearly forgot. I have a favor to ask. My father would like to see the weaving process in person.”

“You and your father are welcome in my shop anytime.”

Sybille gave directions on how to find it, which Rachel automatically wrote down. Rachel’s thoughts were focused on a daring idea—what if one person provided all the various craftsmen’s supplies and paid them individually for their labor. Then all the profits could go to her.

 

Another woman arrived so soon on Sybille’s heels that Rachel knew the newcomer must have been waiting for privacy. A lady, actually, because her rich clothes and fine pointed shoes proclaimed her noble station. She was heavily veiled, and Rachel noted that her veil was merely loosened, not removed, once the door closed. This one would surely have expensive jewels to pawn if she needed to hide her identity.

“How can I be of service to you, Lady . . .” Rachel waited to write down the name of her new client.

There was hesitation before she whispered, “Marie.”

“Ah, another Lady Marie.” Rachel made it clear that she recognized a pseudonym. “Won’t you sit down?”

As Marie awkwardly seated herself on the bench, Rachel observed that the woman was heavily pregnant.

“I’ve come to you because I need money.” Lady Marie pulled a purse from her sleeve and deposited the contents on the table.

Rachel had learned to never show emotion at a client’s jewelry, neither admiration nor disappointment, but inside she was exultant at the magnificent matched set of diamond earrings, brooch, and necklace.
Who is this woman?

“Do you need a loan with these items as collateral or are they for sale?” When Marie didn’t reply, Rachel added, “I can give you more for a sale than a loan.”

“A sale then.” There was no regret in Marie’s voice. “But I must insist that they not be resold in Troyes. My lord mustn’t see anyone else wearing them.”

“My husband will take them to Córdoba.” Rachel made an offer, lower than what she would ultimately be willing to pay if Marie were a shrewd negotiator. It would be more difficult to bargain with her opponent’s face hidden.

But Marie didn’t balk or make a counteroffer. She filled her empty purse with Rachel’s coins (clearly Marie wouldn’t want a credit at the Cold Fair), pulled her veil and cloak tightly around her, and let herself out.

Rachel sighed. Lady Marie either didn’t know the value of her diamonds or didn’t care. Was she a nobleman’s wife or mistress? Probably the latter since most wives, even noble ones, didn’t refer to their husbands as “my lord.” Probably she had gambling debts; that was why most of Rachel’s wealthy clients pawned their jewels. If Marie had needed to pay someone to end her pregnancy, she would have come earlier.

 

Papa found the weaving process fascinating, and when Rachel told him there were two types of looms, one operated by women and the other by men, he insisted on observing both. When Alette, a client whose brother wove the wool she spun, came to repay her loan, Rachel arranged for them to examine his as well.

Sybille’s two looms were located in her courtyard. They hung next to each other, suspended from tall tree branches, their bases almost touching the ground. Each was slightly less than two cubits wide and worked by a woman who sat on a stool in front of it. One loom contained mostly woven cloth, while on the other a great many threads hung parallel to its length, each pulled taut by a weight at the bottom. There were two rods suspended in the middle of each loom, perpendicular to the threads, forming openings for the threads to run through.

Sybille urged them to come closer, where they could see that the women were weaving linen. She introduced them to her daughter, seated at the second loom, and encouraged Salomon and Rachel to run their hands over the threads. “These make up the warp. They support the cloth, so their yarn is heavier than the weft.”

“The weft?” Salomon asked.

Sybille held up a bobbin with thread wound around it. “This is the shuttle, and by sending it under and over the warp, the weft is woven into it.” She pointed to her daughter, who was deftly passing the shuttle from one side of the loom to the other.

“What are these rods and ropes for?” Rachel asked.

“These are the heddles,” Sybille said. “Their loops keep the warp in place so the weft can easily move between the threads.”

She pulled one of the heddle rods toward her, taking every other warp thread with it. She sent the shuttle across the warp, released the rod, and pulled its mate, carrying the other half of the warp, toward her. Immediately she passed the shuttle back to the other side, and pushed the weft down tight toward the ground.

Rachel and Salomon watched as Sybille slowly repeated the motion several times. At the second loom, where Sybille’s daughter did the same thing but much faster, the cloth grew before their eyes.

“So that’s what heddles are.” Rachel pointed to the rod. “And the rope must form the heddle loops.”

“
Oui
, these heddle loops keep alternate warp threads separated, so the weft moves between them perfectly.” Salomon nodded. “This is far more efficient than passing the weft between each individual warp thread by hand.”

Rachel examined the nearly finished cloth on the second loom. “What happens when it’s finished?”

“We either sell it to the dyer, who colors it and sells it to a cloth dealer, or if the linen is to remain in its natural color, to the dealer directly.”

“Now we know what the heddle and its loops are,” Rachel said as she and Salomon walked onto the street. “But I still don’t know what stretching is.”

“I expect that refers to how the warp is fastened to the loom. That step comes before the loops, and I could see the warp threads stretching from the weights attached to them.”

“But we don’t know that stretching comes before the loops today. The Mishnah places dyeing before spinning; yet dyeing now comes much later.”

Salomon sighed. “Maybe we’ll learn what stretching is when we see Alette’s loom.” He looked at Rachel with disappointment as she turned left at the corner. “Aren’t you coming to the vineyard with me?”

“Not today, Papa. Miriam has to check on a brit milah, so I’m staying home to sell our wine.”

Usually by October, while the new vintage lay fermenting in the family’s cellars, little remained of the last year’s. Rachel and Miriam would calculate the amount needed to sustain the Jewish community until Hanukkah, at which time the new vintage was opened. Any extra wine, and some years there was none, they sold at a high price.

“
Ma fille
, I’ll see you at afternoon services then.”

 

Rachel barely had time to use the privy (thank Heaven Anna knew a secret place near the river where moss grew even at the end of summer), wash her hands (Heaven forbid she forget and the demon Shayd shel Bet-Kisay enter her body by way of her dirty hands), and assure herself that the cellar windows needed neither opening nor closing to maintain the proper temperature, when she heard her mother calling for her.

“Rachel, are you still in the cellar? Anna says that the count’s new cellarer is coming down the street.”

Rachel groaned and patted her hair into place. “
Oui
, Mama. I’m here.” Raoul had been young Count Eudes’ cellarer for three years, since Count Thibault’s death, but Mama still called Raoul the new cellarer. Despite Rachel’s efforts to avoid being alone with men, and certainly not with her hair uncovered, this was not the path to take with such an important official.

The first two times Raoul bought wine for the count’s table, both she and Miriam had served him, as befitted his high position. His third visit came sooner than they expected, while Miriam was out, and he not only stayed longer than necessary to complete the sale, he paid a higher price than usual. On his fourth call, he requested Rachel directly, and when she arrived with her braids covered, asked if she truly needed a veil indoors.

Raoul continued to visit Salomon’s cellar far more often than Thibault’s cellarer used to, always asking for Rachel. He only tithed the wine in Salomon’s cellar, although he must have suspected that the family stored more wine elsewhere. In gratitude she made sure to greet him with exposed tresses and a big smile.

There were hurried steps on the cellar stairs, and Rachel looked up to see her mother anxiously scanning the darkened room for her. Rivka’s face was a mask of fear, one that Rachel hadn’t seen since Shibeta began her attack.

“
Mon Dieu
, Mama. What’s the matter?”

“Raoul isn’t alone,” Rivka hissed urgently. “The count himself is with him.”

eight

Rachel swallowed the lump in her throat.
Whatever is Eudes doing here?
She barely had time to smooth out her
bliaut
when she heard the men’s voices upstairs, declining Mama’s offer of refreshments. Then there were two sets of well-polished boots on the stairs, followed by two pairs of men’s legs encased in fine silk hose topped with knee-length
cotes
, one blue and the other scarlet. Of course it was Eudes who wore the scarlet, the most costly dye in Troyes. Only Tyrian purple, extracted from shells of a rare murex snail that lived on the shores of the Great Sea, was more expensive than scarlet, but that dye was rarely available outside the Levant.

Rachel wasn’t sure how to address a count, so she gave him a small curtsy and waited. The young count had light brown hair, which he wore fashionably short, and a full, but neatly trimmed, beard. Despite his twenty-two years, he still had the look of an adolescent about him. She would have considered him handsome enough, except that when he turned to smile at her his teeth reminded her of a farmer’s fence: a jagged row of not quite matching stones.

For the first time in Rachel’s life, a man’s smile frightened her. Eudes was looking at her with the satisfied confidence a wolf must feel when he comes across a fat ewe unguarded in her pen. He might not be hungry at the moment, but he knows where his next meal is coming from.

Raoul, on the other hand, had never appeared so nervous. His eyes darted back and forth between Eudes, Rachel and the wine casks as he twittered around the cellar. He finally realized that they were both waiting for him to introduce them.

“Your Grace, this is Mistress Rachel, Salomon the Vintner’s daughter.” His voice sounded more high-pitched than usual.

Rachel curtsied again, more deeply. “It is an honor to have you in my family’s wine cellar, Your Grace.”

Eudes strolled around the cellar, as if tallying its contents. “Raoul tells me that you have no free-run wine left.”

Rachel tried to treat the count no differently from any other customer. “True. It is our most popular wine, despite being the most expensive.”

“Don’t you find it odd that the free-run wine, which pours out of the vat by itself and requires less labor than the wine extracted by the winepress, should cost more?” he asked.

Raoul stood there speechless, but Rachel rose to his challenge. “Most of the vintner’s labor occurs in the months before the grapes reach the vats, so producing free-run wine is only minimally less work than pressed wine.” To make sure he wasn’t offended by her bold answer, she smiled and added, “But truly, the buyer only cares how the wine tastes, not the amount of effort involved.”

Eudes ran his fingers through his hair. “A quick wit. I like that in a woman.”

Rachel quashed the temptation to grin and give a flirtatious reply. This man was sovereign of Champagne; all its inhabitants belonged to him—men and women. She would have to control her behavior carefully.

She kept her tone professional. “Would Your Grace like to sample the pressed wine? We have some from grapes of our own vineyard and some from the abbey at Montier-la-Celle.”

“The abbey’s produce does not interest me. I am only tempted by your own vineyard’s.” Eudes’ smirk made it clear he was not discussing wine.

“But our best produce is taken,” she replied in kind. “Surely anything less would not be appropriate for Your Grace’s refined palate.”