A Bed of Spices Page 2

  The dog whined suddenly, ear cocked in alertness. Rica smiled. "What is it, Leo?" She scanned the trees along the road. A flurry of sparrows danced through the branches of pine and birch, but the dog cared little for birds, though he snapped at them as a matter of course if they got too close. He made a soft whimper in his throat.

  Rica spied the squirrel at the same instant it began to chatter and scold. Its tail flicked indignantly at the intruders, and it scrambled for the safety of a branch from which it kept up its haranguing.

  Three months ago, nothing would have kept Leo in his place beside them, but Rica had worked with him patiently, rewarding him when he did not give chase to some succulent little animal in the fields and forests. With a pang, she realized she had forgotten to bring treats with her today.

  She nudged her sister. "Etta, bend down and give Leo a hug. Tell him what a good dog he is for not giving chase."

  For a moment, Etta only looked at Rica with a blank expression in her wide, lavender eyes. Then she knelt, unmindful of the mud in the road, and buried her face in Leo's gray-and-brown fur. "Good dog," she said quietly. Leo made a small, grateful noise in his throat and licked Etta's face.

  A wild, searing sense of hope unfurled in Rica's breast, an almost painful sensation. It was the first time Rica could remember Etta ever speaking to any human or animal save Rica herself. Were the demons passing, then? Or was the dog a link to the world that Rica had never thought to use before?

  Biting her lip to contain her excitement—for anything sudden or unexpected sent Etta scurrying behind a mask of silent terror—Rica watched them, dog and girl in the humid warmth of a late spring day. "Good dog," Etta said again, and offered her face for his licks. A bubble of laughter slipped from the pale throat.

  Rica's hands shook. Out of a need to move somehow, she tore the barbette from her hair and tossed it above her head, catching it just as Etta stood up again. Her face again held the slight, virtuous smile, but Rica didn't miss the way her hand lingered on Leo's back, protective and loving.

  Sweet mother of God, Rica thought in joy. Thank you.

  It was only then she realized she had sinned twice on this walk, the same sins she had confessed this very morning. It seemed she could never keep a day clean of them.

  And yet, she didn't replace her hat. It was too hot, and the damage, after all, had been done.

  Helga's cottage squatted at the edge of a thick stand of trees, a plain thatch-roofed dwelling surrounded with neat beds of herbs, the medium of her commerce. The widow of a minor squire, Helga had raised seven healthy children with her concoctions and potions. It was a miracle so near to the river, and some said she was a witch, but when needy enough, even they sneaked through the woods to her cottage.

  It had been Helga who had delivered the twins; Helga who had nursed a six-year-old Etta back from the edge of the grave; Helga who had kept the old priest healthy and had even put a stop to the worst of Rica's father's bellyaches.

  Rica thought she might also be her father's mistress but knew better than to ask either of them.

  The twins approached the cottage, their hems tangling in stands of borage and lavender alongside paths covered in red clover. The pungent odor of dill wafted through the air as Leo waved his eager tail into a stand of it.

  Rica heard voices from behind the cottage, where Helga worked in warm weather. Helga's was one, of course. That throaty, rich sound was unmistakable—"the voice of a bawdy," her father always said. Rica liked it.

  The other one was deeper, thick with laughter, unfamiliar. Rica hung back for a moment, trying to place it, wondering if she ought to put back her hat and smooth her hair before she appeared. But what if it were only some peasant come for Helga's spring tonic?

  She peeked around the corner. The midwife's broad body blocked Rica's view of the male visitor and she bit the inside of her lip, waiting. A fly buzzed nearby her ear and she shooed it away distractedly, setting the tiny bells on her bracelet jingling.

  Helga's broad figure swiveled with more grace than one would have suspected. "Rica!" she said, beckoning with one hand. "Come, girl. No need to hide yourself."

  Rica slid around the corner, tossing a handful of hair over her shoulder as she came forward, her eyes downcast as befitted a maid—even if her hat was gone, she thought with a flush. In her wake trailed Etta and the dog.

  "Ah!" exclaimed Helga. "Both my pretties are here today." She kissed them soundly.

  That ritual finished, Rica looked at the man in the yard. At first, she only peeped through her lashes to see how embarrassed she ought to be, but one glance astonished her so fully, she opened her eyes wide and stared.

  His voice had led her to expect a man, full-grown and burly. And in ways, she supposed he was a man, as much as she was a woman. His hair tumbled over his head in thick, unruly curls, the color black as a starling's tail, and glossier still. His brow was high and wide above black eyes that twinkled with the lingering humor of the joke he and Helga had shared.

  Her stomach squeezed. She pressed her palm to the place, dumbstruck for once in her life. His skin gleamed with color: a fine ruddiness in his cheeks, a warm walnut on his hands and neck.

  He was beautiful, as beautiful as a fallen angel or a pagan god. And he stared back at her as if he could not believe she stood there, as if he knew her, as if he were as dazzled as she.

  She turned in panic toward Helga. "My f-father sent me for some tonic," she said breathlessly. "Oh, and I need yarrow and lungwort for the priest."

  Helga gave her a curious look. "Did you run all the way?"

  "Er, w-well," Rica stammered, then realized what a good excuse it made for breathlessness. "Only through the meadow."

  Helga laughed. "Our Rica is not a lazy girl—she's been seeing to the kitchens and gardens since she was ten—but she loves to escape when she does."

  The visitor laughed and Rica glanced sideways at him. His teeth were big and strong and white, his lips red as apples.

  A little ache bloomed in her breast. Like a lady stricken with the beauty of a knight in one of the poems the priest had forbidden her, Rica felt faint and star-struck and bewitched.

  She smiled at him.

  He swallowed, then glanced away quickly, a dusky stain on his cheekbones. "Is that so?" he asked.

  Having lost the thread of conversation, Rica frowned. "Is what so?"

  "That you like to escape when you have finished your chores?"

  "Er, yes." She looked at Helga. "Shall I get the tonic? I know what to do."

  "Oh, I'll fetch it, child." She patted her shoulder. "Stay here and keep the young man company while I get it. He is a good student. Tell him about your thoughts on sickness."

  Rica nearly bolted, followed after the robust old woman no matter how odd it seemed. But the stranger's voice halted her. "Please," he said in his resonant voice. "Do not go. It is rare enough a girl thinks at all. I would hear your thoughts, if you would tell them."

  "It is nothing," she said. "I only see that my father is much better when he does not eat certain things "

  "Oh? What sort of things?"

  She twisted the stem of a stalk of chamomile lying on the table. "Goose and duck, old mutton, beef. Even frumerity seems to sit ill with him." With a slight shrug, she again glanced at him shyly. "He growled a lot at first, but he no longer gets the bellyaches he once did."

  "And how came you to this thought?"

  "I watched to see when he grew ill." She frowned. "Not such a difficult step to take."

  He leaned forward. "But not a step all would see." He met her eyes and Rica, unwillingly, saw a glimmer of respect there. A man who would listen to the thoughts of a woman?

  She inclined her head and felt her hair fall over her arm and wrist. "Anyone with any intelligence would see it."

  "Ah," his grin was swift and devastating. "And we all know how widespread intelligence is."

  His phrasing somehow made them a unit, two apart from the teeming masses. It was the fi
rst time anyone had thought to recognize her ability to reason.

  "Common as tamed boars."

  He laughed. What a beautiful mouth he had, Rica thought. Generous, as if it could give—

  Startled, she flushed with a painful intensity. A third sin in less than an hour—perhaps four if she counted thinking of the poetry that the priest had forbidden her to read.

  But, as with her hat, the damage had been done. Her gaze caught on his throat, long and brown. His shoulders were broad beneath the dark jupon, his calves well shaped in his hose.

  The small ache in her chest bloomed as wide as a poppy, touching her breasts and belly.

  Then her wandering gaze fell upon his hands. Powerful they were, with the look of hard work in the long dark fingers. But it was the cleanliness of them that struck her. No dirt clung beneath his neatly trimmed nails. The knuckles were scrubbed.

  And she became aware of a heady, warm scent the wind blew toward her, a scent of clean male skin mixed with a unique, elusive smell. His smell.

  "Who are you?" she asked, suddenly frightened.

  "Has your Helga not told you of her student?" His voice dropped to a rough, low tone. "She has told me of you."

  "You?" Rica's eyes widened. She sought and found the round yellow patch on his chest, the mark of his Jewry. Her heart squeezed painfully and her words came out on a disappointed note she could not control. "I thought you a burgher's son, by your clothes."

  The black eyes hardened a notch. "My father is a merchant," he said. "A rich one—but I am his fourth son and he has granted permission to let me study medicine." He turned his face toward the city. "The pestilence chased me home, but as I wait for better days, Helga has been kind enough to share her knowledge of herbal cures with me."

  "And a bright, quick student he is," Helga interjected, emerging from the cottage with several packets of muslin tied in string. A fat black-and-white cat wound around her ankles, and somehow she avoided tripping. "Solomon has learned in a few months what's taken me four years to teach you."

  Piqued, Rica lifted her chin. "Perhaps he has better reason." The words came out on a rather more annoyed note than she had intended, and she caught the tail of a grin hidden behind Solomon's hand.

  "Oh, now, sweet," Helga said with her husky chuckle, "I meant no harm."

  Rica clasped the packets close to her chest and lifted her skirts. "Come, Etta, it is time to return."

  Etta rose from the ground, where she had squatted to stroke the cat's wild long fur. Next to her, Leo whined jealously and licked her hand. "Good dog," she said in a clear, high voice.

  Helga gasped. Rica glanced at her in alarm, shaking her head quickly once. Then, unable to stop the swell of joy in her chest, she crossed the yard and hugged the midwife. "It's the third time today," she whispered against her ear.

  "You must come tell me about this soon," Helga whispered in return, squeezing Rica's arms.

  Rica smiled and lifting her skirts, hurried after her sister, who was heading back toward the castle.

  * * *

  In spite of the fact that Rica watched her sister almost continuously, there was no further manifestation of the strange, alert behavior until late afternoon.

  Upon returning to the castle, Etta bent over her tapestry frame and with monotonous concentration, poked the needle in and out, in and out of the fabric. The dog flopped next to her on the rushes, content to sleep nearby his mistress if nothing else were required of him.

  Rica leaned restlessly against the embrasure, waiting for her father. There was a newer wing than this two-hundred-year-old keep with its damp walls, but Charles clung stubbornly to his solar, giving the newer quarters to his guests. The lower-slung addition could not hope to compete with this eagle's view of the courtyard and all its goings on.

  Below were kitchen maids in the garden, collecting new greens for supper. From some unseen place, a musician plucked a lute, readying it for the evening's entertainment. The priest sneezed his way across the courtyard. Along the walk, two men-at-arms paced slowly, their lackadaisical attitudes shouting of the peace that had reigned since the new emperor had taken his throne. There were always dangers so close to the river, but the reckless, bloody days of Rica's childhood had settled now in this simple peace.

  Charles came in, his hawk on his arm. His face was pale and beaded with sweat. "Papa!" Rica exclaimed. "Come sit down."

  "Do not flutter so, child," he grumbled, but did not shake off her hands. He allowed her to remove his outer garment, then wash his face with a cloth dipped in cool water.

  "You are too fat, Papa," Rica said with a frown. "If you do not stop putting food in your mouth every minute, all summer you will suffer thus."

  He waved a beefy hand. "You have taken all my favorites from me. I eat only what is left."

  Rica smiled as the color began to return to his cheeks. He was not, in truth, terribly fat, although a round belly filled his tunic well enough. But even the moderate extra weight had him billowing as he took the stairs, flushing in the heat of a summer's day, and sleeping poorly. "It will be easier now we have fresh food. I will go pick cherries for you tomorrow."

  He winked and patted her hand, his good humor returning with his wind. "As you wish, liebling. You have been right thus far." He shifted to pour a cup of ale. "Did you bring me some magic potion from Helga?"

  "I gave it to Matilda. She will send a girl up with it." She kissed his cheek. "I will leave you," she said with a smile, knowing he would nap until supper and that he hated admitting to an old man's weakness.

  Charles caught sight of Etta and frowned. "Take her with you, girl. I am weary of her sitting like a stone in my corner."

  "She is not deaf, Papa." Rica whirled, furious at his bad-tempered words, and touched her sister's slim shoulder. "Come, I will dress your hair and you may do mine."

  As Etta complaisantly settled her threads in a basket, Rica shot her father a look.

  He lifted one bushy gray eyebrow, unapologetic.

  Before they left the chamber, one of Charles's vassals appeared, Rudolf der Brumath. A tall man with the grace of a young stag, he smiled genially toward the girls. "I hope I do not interrupt."

  "No." Rica smiled. Unlike most of the rest of the castle inhabitants, Rudolf always included Etta in his greetings and she liked him for that.

  He bowed now over Rica's hand, then Etta's, turning the latter's over. "I see your wound has healed," he murmured.

  Etta bent her head, and a rosy flush of color stained her pale cheeks. "Aye," she whispered.

  Startled, Rica glanced quickly at her sister, then toward Rudolf, who smiled gently into Etta's face. Although she knew Rudolf extended his kindness toward Etta in order to win Rica's favor, she thought now there might be a way to use that kindness.

  Giving him her broadest smile, she said, "Perhaps you will sit with us for the entertainment tonight."

  Rudolf bowed his golden head. "It would be an honor and a pleasure."

  Rica smiled again and took her sister's hand. "Till later, then."

  Out in the passageway, Rica noted Etta's flush. "He is handsome, is he not?" she whispered.

  "Yes," Etta whispered, looking with wonder at the hand he had kissed.

  Rica hugged her sister. "Come. I will dress your hair with lavender flowers. Tonight, you will be a beauty such has never been seen before."

  * * *

  The meat was already upon the table before Rica and Etta appeared, and by that time Charles was fuming. The scent of braised pork taunted him with savory fingers, plucking at his belly with teasing temptation. Around him, the faces of other diners were smeared with the grease of the fat, rich cut.

  He picked without interest at the broth and bread before him, torn between the bellyache he would face if he indulged his hunger and the deep satisfaction of chewing hard.

  So when Rica, then Etta, appeared in the great hall, he frowned. His gaze darted from one to the other. He frowned outright. Rica always led, always. But was t
hat Rica?

  For the first time in his life, he could not tell them apart. Both wore richly embroidered surcoats over pale gowns, their identically creamy shoulders displayed. One girl had braided her hair with ribbons, the other had left hers free to tumble in a glory of silver and gold over ripe breasts and graceful arms.

  As they took a place at the table, Charles heard the awed stilling of speech that grew below the buzzing of the ladies. Every man in the room had fallen completely, absurdly silent—no doubt, Charles thought grimly, contemplating all manner of ménage à trois with his nubile daughters. Elbowed by wives and nudged along by his own warning glance, the men quickly lit again the flame of chatter.

  Charles ate slowly, watching his children. The one with the braid . . . now, that must be Etta, for she was the more modest of the two. That one's gown skimmed the edges of her collarbone, and she wore no bangles about her wrists or waist.

  So it was Rica who had left her hair loose save for a small weaving of gillyflowers and lavender, Rica whose womanly curves swelled above a low-cut gown, Rica whose hands made bells ring on her bracelets. He smiled to himself in satisfaction. For though her head was demurely lowered as Rudolf next to her whispered something into her ear, he saw her smile in the strangely ripe way she had, even as a flush stained her cheeks.

  A queer release rippled through him. Perhaps there would be no trouble over this betrothal. He'd not even known he was worried until the pair had met in his chamber this afternoon.

  What a fine marriage they would make! Both were so strong and fair, and Rica was sturdy, unlike many of her class. She would bear fine sons. Rudolf, in spite of his wearying piety, was healthy, and he carried the blood of the noble Brumaths in his veins.

  Charles looked at Etta, sitting quietly. Perhaps there was even hope for this girl. Surely there would be some lad willing to trade her silence for her beauty. Someone gentle but a bit stupid.

  He scanned the trestle tables. Ah, he thought, spying the son of a squire—a black-haired youth of some bearing. Hugh was famed for his handling of difficult horses, but even his mother admitted that was the extent of his intelligence.