Still he made no move to dismount. Exasperated, she put her hands on her hips. "Dismount and help me, young Geoffrey, or I'll see you sent to bed with no supper."
He obeyed. As he came to stand beside her, looking with some dread at the knight, Anya touched the boy's blond head gently. "Truly, Geoffrey, he is no danger to us."
The boy nodded. "What shall I do?"
Anya tossed her braid over her shoulder and eyed the man. He was quite large, though, thank the saints, slim enough. "Twill be no easy task. We must take as much care with that shoulder as we can, and his head will bleed again." She sighed. "There's no help for it."
Between the two of them, they managed to drag and half lift, half throw the man over the back of Anya's mare. He groaned again, a low, agonized sound, but did not waken. Anya frowned. It would have been better had he roused. She held little hope for his life.
Once he was settled, Anya took the reins to lead her mare back to the castle.
Geoffrey suddenly screamed.
Anya whirled, heart pounding, to look for bandits. She saw nothing. "Geoffrey," she said sharply in reproof.
The boy pointed toward the spot from which they'd lifted the man. A lean, ragged dog skulked close to the place, his tail down. He sniffed the area and whined.
"A wolf!" Geoffrey whispered.
The creature looked as if it feared beating, but even the fear did not keep it from edging closer to the man on the horse. It whined again, a sorrowful sound.
"Not a wolf," Anya said. She thought it might be half, but would not give Geoffrey anything else to panic over. "'Tis only the knight's dog."
Gently, she reached out a hand, murmuring nonsense in an encouraging voice. She had a fondness for beasts of any sort. This one, though ragged and dirty, showed signs of great handsomeness. At her gesture, he crept forward slowly and licked her fingers. She touched his head, scratching below his ears. "I don't know what we can do for your master," she said, "but for you, there are scraps and a warm place to sleep tonight."
She straightened. "Geoffrey, I want you to put your hand on the knight's head, keep it from bouncing too much."
For once, perhaps because he felt sheepish over his myriad fears, the boy did not argue. They made their way through the forest back to the Hall.
At the gates, there was a stir over the wounded knight, but unlike Geoffrey, the men-at-arms did not argue with the lady of the manor. Female she might be, and ruined besides, but they recognized her authority. In the continued absence of her brothers, one on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, another a canon at the cathedral in Lichfield, Anya was the only clear mistress they had. For five years, she had run the manor ably—far better, she knew, than her brother, who'd nearly ruined the fief in his sorrowing and drunken haze.
The men carried the knight to a chamber behind the Great Hall, close to the hearth, where it was warm and dry. They settled him on a straw mattress, then stood waiting. Anya dismissed them, except Geoffrey, whom she sent to the kitchens for the supplies she needed.
The dog crept in, head down, and when Anya didn't shout at him, slunk close to the knight's feet. "I fear your master has little time left to him," she said as she began to remove the hauberk and mail, gently as she was able. The knight groaned softly, shifting away from her hands. His flesh burned with fever, and Anya could smell the sour odor of illness about him.
A little pluck of regret touched her. The lean body, muscled and hard beneath his clothes, matched the extraordinary handsomeness of his face, visible even through the grime and bruises and days' worth of unshaven beard. She pressed her fingers to the high brow. "How long did you lie there?" she asked, knowing he could not hear. "How came you to our forest?"
A maidservant appeared with a bucket of water and strips of cloth. She set them beside Anya with a grunt, and her attention fell to the knight, naked on the straw mattress. A quiet murmur of surprise and pleasure escaped her mouth.
Anya looked at the girl, and caught the greedy gleam in her eye. "I will call you, Tillie, if needs be."
Left alone, Anya dipped her cloth in the warm water and began to wash the sweat and heat from the knight's body. First his face, so bruised and battered. One eye was swollen and a gash marked his jaw. She paused to look at the wound, but found it mending already beneath the caked blood. His lips were cracked, too, as if from thirst. He must have lain in the forest, wounded this way, for at least a day and a night.
Her estimate of his chances of survival plummeted again.
The head wound was deep and oozed with a muckish substance, but even it was not the worst of his injuries. She had prayed the shoulder had only slipped from its joint. Once she removed the mail, it was plain the bone above his chest was broken, and a great red bruise marked the place, as if he'd been given a blow.
Puzzled, she examined him more closely. Bruises marked him head to toe, darkest around his hips and legs. It seemed he had been beaten fiercely. Perhaps he'd been set upon by the bandits who owned the forest?
At his wrists, raw red rings marred the flesh—the marks of binding. One finger was swollen at the joint, and when she probed it, she found another small break.
There was no lack of strangers on the road to Lichfield, for pilgrims and knights and monks traveled the road daily. But few ventured from the road to the forest, and none ever came so far as the village of Winterbourne unless by intent.
Pursing her lips, she glanced at the dog, and suddenly wondered if its fear meant it, too, had been beaten. "Come here, my little friend."
The beast whined and, tail down, crossed the floor. Gently, Anya stroked him, feeling the long sinews of his body below oily gray-and-black fur. Her hand grazed a lump on his side, and the dog yelped, turning to nearly bite her. He stopped short of it, licking her wrist instead.
She rubbed his ears in apology. "They beat him senseless and kicked you aside, I think."
Anya called Mary, her most trusted servant, covering the knight with a fur before the woman came into the chamber.
"Bring me wine and rosemary, and a cup of ale," she said. "And a bone for the dog."
"Ye want me to fetch the priest, too?"
Anya straightened. "He'll not die."
"Aye, milady, but what if he does? Will ye send him to his grave with no—"
"No priest," she said firmly, and looked at the girl. "Just the wine and broth."
Mary scurried out. No doubt she would whisper this new story in the kitchen, to add to the others that made Anya's defiance of the church infamous. It mattered not. There were so many now, her fate was sealed. The priest himself had damned her—what more could the servants do?
* * *
Christian drifted. In his dreams, he stood at the mouth of hell, his skin blistered by the heat. Beyond, standing unharmed in the flames, the Beast laughed at his folly, and Christian tried to protest that he was the wronged; that it should be his father, not he, who should be burning here.
Hell shifted, became a cold battlefield, and he was dying of thirst. An animal chewed his body. He screamed, but it did not stop. Then he was walking somehow, and each step shot agony through him, but he could not find his dog. In his dream, he cried out, "Ysengrin!" and at last, the dog appeared, licking his fingers.
He had no idea how long he had thrashed and wandered, but it was Ysengrin's tongue that roused him slowly. He came awake by pieces, to a dizzy sort of awareness. He lay in a bed, warm with furs and the heat of a wall nearby. Flickering candles winked in the dimness. Christian could see little; his head thundered, and his shoulder burned as if there were still creatures tearing at it with their strong teeth.
In a chair nearby the bed was a woman, slumped beneath another fur. Who are you? he wanted to ask. How came I to be here? He had been so sure he would die at the hands of the bandits. But his lips cracked when he moved them, and all that came from his throat was a dry croak that sounded not of words at all.
It was enough to rouse the woman. She came awake instantly, tossing away the fur
to stand up and take his hand. She touched his head, and his cheek, and reached for a cup. "A little water?" she said.
He found he could not even nod, but it was not necessary. She cradled his head against her breast and lifted the cup to his mouth. The liquid flowed over his parched lips and tongue like a magic potion, silvery and cold. Greedily, he gulped, closing his eyes to taste it more deeply.
Before he finished, she took it away, and he wanted to shout at her to give it back. As if she sensed his frustration, she murmured something soothing, and her voice was deep and strangely settling. Her breast made a plush cradle for his aching head, and her cool hands smoothed the heat from his cheeks. He thought she sang, but oblivion came to him too quickly to be sure.
* * *
The knight hung at death's door for several days. Between other tasks, Anya kept watch over him, patiently feeding him ale and broth and water, mere drops at a time. In the morning, and again at night, she washed him with cool water, head to toe, to break the fever that still raged wildly; then pressed cloths soaked in wine and rosemary to his bruises.
She accepted no help with the task, and could not say why. It seemed the strange, broken knight was her own atonement, a silent penance she performed. As each day took him further from the mouth of death, she began to revere the moments she spent tending him, and let nothing interfere with the intimate tasks.
He was long and golden, with strength in his arms and legs, and perfect symmetry in each thing—his feet were as beautifully made as his brow. Candlelight gilded the hair on his chest and legs until he seemed to glow like a god from another world.
She had never wanted a man, not any of them. And she told herself she admired this one only because he was purely under her control. He was weak as a babe, and needed her, as any of the helpless creatures of the fief might.
But it was a lie even as she thought it. Not even burning with fever was he helpless or weak. Even in the deepest stupor, he exuded a strange dormant power. Sometimes she found herself sitting for long, uncounted minutes, simply staring at him. In those lost minutes, she felt awash with a queer sense of her own body, arrayed around her, made of flesh and bones and empty limbs.
Then some sound would bring her again to herself, only Anya of Winterbourne. Appalled at her yearning, she bustled away, afraid some might observe her covetous glances and make sport of her wish to have that which would be forever denied.
* * *
By the fifth day, he seemed on the mend. Anya left Geoffrey with him and went about her chores. The accounts had to be watched carefully, for the wars and floods and miasmatic winds had given them all poor harvests this year. Not only Winterbourne suffered, either. All her brother's holdings were strained. If the villages and manors were to survive, they could tolerate no waste.
She was weary with keeping watch, a weariness she felt in her neck and grainy eyes. Twice, while recording the day's expenditures, she yawned mightily.
Stephen, captain of her men-at-arms, approached her midmorning. "My lady, I would have a word with you."
She gestured for him to join her. Behind her in the hearth, a fire burned and crackled, smelling of pine. A multicolored young cat scattered rushes playfully, digging below them in fierce delight. Anya chuckled and scooped Esmerelda into her lap, taking a small pleasure in the tiny bones and body against her hand. The cat kneaded her kirtle, purring. "Is there news of my brothers?" she asked.
"William has sent word he cannot leave the monastery."
She sighed. "Gave he a reason?"
Stephen shrugged. "The struggle between Lancaster and the king has given the church much to worry over."
Deliberately, she lifted her cup and drank of the ale within, trying to rein her disappointment and temper. "The piety of my brothers should alone win my entrance to heaven," she said, setting the cup precisely back in the ring it had left on the table. "A monk and a pilgrim—and no one to feed the peasants." With a bitter smile, she looked at him. "'Tis well one of us was not so deeply smitten."
Stephen shifted uncomfortably, turning his eyes from her face. "My lady, it is not wise to flaunt your unbelief so. There is talk—the priest may send word to the bishop…"
"The priest is a doddering idiot who cannot even speak the Latin of the mass and drinks away the villeins' tithes. My brothers are high placed and will intervene on my behalf if it comes to that. You needn't worry."
"Aye, my lady." He stood, but made no move to go.
"Is there more?"
He cleared his throat. "Think you it wise to bring the stranger here so?"
Anya stroked the cat in her lap. "A Christian could not leave a man in the forest to die."
"But he is unknown—perhaps there is a price on his head! Nor can we afford the luxury of another mouth to feed this season."
She met his gaze squarely. "Perhaps he is a saint in disguise."
"But—"
"I will hear no more of it, Stephen. He will stay."
She could see he longed to debate the point. Instead, he inclined his head. "As you wish."
Geoffrey ran from the chamber behind the hearth. "My lady! Come quickly. He has awakened!"
Dropping her quill, Anya leapt to her feet and hurried after him.
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A BED
OF
SPICES
(Excerpt)
by
Barbara Samuel
Author's Note
Two thousand Jews perished in the Strassburg fire of February 14, 1349, but the sacrifice did not, of course, halt the advance of the plague. Within a few weeks, the city fell prey to the Black Death.
Throughout that summer, plague and pogroms raged through Germany. Some Jewish refugees fled to the east, some were successfully protected by the ruling princes of their territories, some converted to escape the flames.
In Mainz, a curious thing occurred. Throughout the summer of 1349, the Jews of that city secretly collected arms with which to protect themselves. When the killing mob descended in August, two hundred of them died over several days of fighting. The Jews, at last defeated by the greater numbers, retreated to their homes and set fire to them.
Within twenty years, Jews settled in nearly all the communities once more, but they were under much stronger restrictions. Thus did the era of the ghetto begin.
Part One
Strassburg—Summer 1348
I should like to hold my knight
Naked in my arms at eve
That he might be in ecstasy
As I cushioned his head against my breast.
~ Countess of Dia
My poor heart she has caught
With magic spells and wiles
I do not sigh for gold
But for her mouth that smiles;
Her hue it is so bright She half makes blind my sight.
~ Judah ha-Levi
Prologue
Charles der Esslingen stood near the embrasure of his chamber and looked to the courtyard below. His solar filled the top floor in the keep of the old castle, and the builders had been generous with light so high, where arrow slits and protection were no longer necessities. Buttery May sunshine splashed into the room, warming the sweet herbs in the rushes beneath his feet.
It was a glorious view, and all he surveyed belonged to him; all had been won with his sword in his youth. There was the keep and the manor, the upper and lower baileys with their whitewashed walls. Beyond was a meadow dotted with sheep, their newly shorn bodies oddly naked. There was a forest, thick with game birds and animals, a vineyard where grew some of the finest Rhenish grapes in the empire, and an orchard where apple and pear trees flourished. In the distance, beyond his eye's reach, was a smattering of peasant dwellings and the fields with their new crops.
In the greening baileys, the morning bustle had begun. Scullery maids washed pots in a tub nearby the open kitchen door. Another girl g
athered herbs in her apron from the garden close to the wall. A vassal paced the walk in obvious boredom.
As Charles lifted his cup, his daughter Frederica bustled from the kitchen, headed with purpose across the grass. Taking in the busy swish of her skirts, he half smiled, feeding his hawk a crust of bread. "On her morning rounds," he commented to the bird, who cocked an eye toward the yard.
The vassal on the walk called out to Rica in some jest Charles could not hear. She paused to laugh over her shoulder, and the sound rang through the hazy morning, teasing and ripe, like the girl herself.
Charles stepped closer to the embrasure to watch her progress. Chickens scurried in alarm before her, squawking in protest of the flying skirts. Within the confines of the bailey, she was bareheaded, and her hair glistened in the morning sun as if laced with silver and gold, the tresses flowing well past her waist. The dark woolen cotehardie she wore clung to the curves of breast and hip that had been so long in coming, and even the billowing surcoat hid little of the final result of her long wait for a woman's body.
The vassal on the walk had kept pace with her, calling out. Ignored, he finally stopped, but looked after the girl with such wistfulness and frustration that even her father had to laugh.
Rica slipped into the brewhouse. Charles turned from his post, still smiling softly at the besotted youth on the walk. Poor fool was hardly alone.
He sipped from the cup of wine his servants had brought him, along with a dry bit of stale bread from last night's supper. Rica teased him over his indulgence in early morning food—she teased everyone about something—but Charles grappled with weakness enough as it was. Without food in the morning, he sometimes shook like an old woman.
A soft sigh came from the corner. Charles eyed his second daughter over the rim of his wooden cup. Head bent over her needlework—her endless, endless needlework—she was utterly still but for the flying fingers.
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