Rashi's Daughters, Book III: Rachel

by Anton, Maggie

From the gossip Rachel heard from Ganymedes in Troyes, Hugues preferred men to women, which was probably why he’d remained childless. In Rachel’s opinion, which she wisely kept to herself, the count’s injuries were likely the result of a lover’s quarrel. Joheved, however, saw a more sinister motive.

  “Obviously the traitor was in the pay of the count’s enemies,” Joheved said. “With Adelaide and Étienne dead, all the lands once ruled by Count Thibault will be ripe for picking now that Hugues is gone—Blois, Chartres, Meaux, and Champagne.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right, milady,” Milo said soberly. “Any greedy nobleman could attack at will, for we would have no sovereign to protect us.”

  Rachel stared in horror as the enormity of the danger dawned on her. “The Champagne fairs make Troyes and Provins a fat prize,” she whispered. “Every count and duke on our borders must covet them.”

  “King Philip will not let his vassals harass us,” Meir said. “His daughter is our countess, so Champagne goes to the crown if Hugues dies.”

  “The king is too weak,” Milo replied. “Until his excommunication is lifted, his vassals are not required to support him.”

  “And they won’t,” Joheved added. “Not if they think they can take Hugues’ lands for themselves.”

  “But Count Thibault’s widow is sister to the king of Angleterre,” Meir said. “Anyone who attacked her family’s lands would have King Henry at his throat.”

  Milo shook his head. “From what I hear, Henry is too busy fighting his brother, Robert, over Normandy to spare any men to protect us.”

  “Are we helpless then?” Rachel asked in despair.

  None of her companions could disprove her, and the conversation concluded on this unhappy note.

  That night Rachel slept restlessly, worrying when and from whom the first blow would fall—the count of Anjou, duke of Burgundy, count of Flanders, duke of Lorraine? Or would it be any of numerous lesser but frighteningly ambitious nobles? What if Count André supported one of the usurpers? Where would that leave Joheved and Meir?

  Would her new clothier’s business be destroyed almost immediately after she’d finally established it?

  For three months, she joined other Jews of Troyes in praying for peace and their sovereign’s recovery. Each night when Rachel went to bed, she gave thanks that no enemy had attacked Troyes that day and recited Psalm 88 to invoke its magical power to save a city. Zipporah’s pregnancy was now obvious, and thoughts of Eliezer receded in importance as Rachel worried about more immediate concerns. Not that she could do anything about them other than hope, pray, and wait.

  Studying Talmud with her sisters provided Rachel some respite from these troubles, but it was her discussions with Dovid that gave her pleasure. The continual thumping of the fulling mill’s hammers prevented any discourse inside, and it was too cold outdoors, so they met in the cottage Joheved provided for him, leaving the door ajar to maintain propriety.

  Their initial task of learning texts in Hebrew and Latin, along with Papa’s interpretations, had given way to a larger agenda. Dovid began offering the Church’s explanations, challenging her to repute them, while she in turn questioned him about the minim’s heresies.

  “Why do the Notzrim refuse to observe the Sabbath?” She was careful not to include him with the heretics. “How can they ignore one of the Ten Commandments?”

  Always a gracious host, Dovid handed her a bowl of soup. “That’s an easy one. Because Jesus rose from the dead on Sunday they observe the Sabbath on that day.”

  Rachel was pleased that he avoided using the word we for those following the Church. “Even so, they still work on what should be a day of rest.”

  “But it says in Genesis, ‘On the seventh day God finished the work,’ which implies that He was still working on the Sabbath,” Dovid explained.

  “And the next line says, ‘He rested on the seventh day . . . and made it holy,’ ” she said triumphantly. “In any case, we both know that the fourth commandment explicitly forbids working on the Sabbath, no matter which day it is celebrated.”

  Dovid appeared more amused than angered at her victory and quoted verses from Isaiah, in Hebrew, that the Church said referred to Jesus and how his suffering expiated the people’s sins.

  “He was despised and rejected by men . . . Surely he has borne our grief and endured our sorrows . . . he was wounded for our sins, crushed for our iniquities; he bore the chastisement that made us whole, and with his bruises we are healed. We all went astray like sheep, each going his own way; and Adonai has laid on him the guilt of us all.”

  “My father says this text speaks of the people Israel, who sinned during Isaiah’s time and are often mentioned as one man by the prophets,” Rachel said. “Thus Israel was made to suffer exile for their sins.”

  Dovid nodded, clearly not very impressed, and took her soup bowl back to the hearth for more. Rachel surreptitiously observed him, admiring his handsome features and wondering how old he was. Certainly he was younger than her, but was he in his early or late twenties?

  “Perhaps you’d prefer a more forceful response.” She took a sip of soup and smiled at him over the brim. “If the Church says Isaiah means forgiveness of sins, then weren’t sins forgiven before Jesus was born? What of the myriad places in the Bible where the Holy One is described as ‘forgiving iniquity.’ And what of all the sin offerings, if they did not bring expiation?”

  “The Church would say that while their sins were forgiven, this did not save them from hell,” Dovid replied. “Only Jesus’s suffering could do that.”

  Rachel’s smile disappeared. “If they say that his death expiates the sins of those who believe in him and redeems them from hell, his believers are free of all commandments and may steal, murder, commit adultery, or any other crime. How is this anything other than a curse to the world?”

  Dovid could only shrug his shoulders.

  “Furthermore, how can it enter anyone’s mind that the Holy One, Whom all agree is merciful to His creatures, condemns to hell all souls born before the advent of Jesus?” Her voice rose with outrage. “Even small children and newborn babes, who are surely innocent of sin?” Including my poor baby Asher. Rachel’s only comfort over his death was the certainty that her little son now reposed in Gan Eden.

  “Enough,” Dovid threw up his hands. “I stand humbled and defeated by your vigorous argument.”

  Rachel saw the twinkle in his eye and chuckled. “You must try harder if you intend to vanquish me.”

  “Far be it from me to vanquish such a femme formidable,” he said softly.

  Rachel knew she was blushing under his frank gaze, but the more she tried, and failed, to think of a suitable retort the more her face flamed. All she could come up with was, “I’m impressed that a man can make such tasty soup.”

  “Another useful thing I learned from the monks.”

  After this, they began exchanging views on personal as well as religious subjects. Rachel learned more than she could imagine about life in a monastery and, in return, shared her experience in the household of a Talmudic scholar without sons. Dovid’s cozy hut, with something delicious always simmering over the fire, became her shelter from all the worries outside. Yet despite their budding intimacy, Dovid never talked about his family, and she mentioned Eliezer as little as possible.

  Passover arrived with some relief for Rachel’s anxieties. Dovid acquitted himself well at the family seder and Count Hugues was recovering. Realizing that his survival was due less to physicians than to the intercession of the abbey’s saints, Hugues showed his gratitude by donating some land to the nuns at Avenay. Among the many witnesses to the transaction were the count’s nephew Thibault, Count André of Ramerupt, the nun Emeline, and the cleric Guy. It was from the latter that Salomon’s family received the news.

  “I suspect Countess Adèle is to be thanked for our continuing peace,” Guy told them when he stopped in at Ramerupt on his way home from the ceremony in Avenay.

  �
�How so?” Salomon asked skeptically. Étienne’s widow was in her thirties, too young to have such influence.

  “She is the daughter of a king, and sister of another,” Guy said, “as well as a great friend to several prominent bishops and archbishops, whose churches she generously endows.”

  Meir nodded. “Growing up in the English court, exposed to politics and intrigue since infancy, no wonder she plays her vassals and rivals against each other so expertly.”

  “Luckily her adversaries see only a young woman without a husband and thereby underestimate her,” Guy said.

  “Lucky for her and for us,” Joheved spoke for them all.

  “Is Troyes out of danger then?” Rachel asked.

  “Perhaps not out of danger, but in less danger than before,” was all Guy would say until he abruptly slapped his thigh. “Oh non.” He turned to Rachel. “Pilgrims brought a letter for you a while back, but with all the excitement over Count Hugues, I forgot about it until just now, when I saw you.”

  Rachel’s heart leapt to her throat. “Do you have it with you?”

  “A thousand apologies, but I left it in Troyes.”

  Rachel, unable to leave Ramerupt until the festival was over, was ready to cry with frustration when Milo came to her rescue. “I would be pleased to ride to Troyes with you, Guy,” he offered. “Then you can give me news of my Lady Emeline and I can return with the letter.”

  Rachel thanked Milo profusely and, having no desire to speak with anyone, retired to her room. But her mind was too flighty to read or study, and she didn’t dare search out Dovid with all her family in residence. She was about to lie down when there was a knock on the door.

  Shemiah poked his head in. “Would you like to go for a walk, Mama? I can’t abide sitting here waiting.”

  She sat up immediately. Of course Shemiah would be anxious to hear from Eliezer; her son was due to leave for Toledo in a week. Together they trod the forest paths that bordered the road to Troyes, discussing the Talmud passages he’d been learning. But her concentration kept faltering as she listened for the clip-clop of horse’s hooves.

  The slightest forest creature’s movement sent her racing back to the road, Shemiah right beside her. Finally there was no point in walking anywhere except down the road toward Troyes. Their conversation turned to Shemiah’s marriage and how he was appreciating his new status. More than his words, her son’s blushing smiles told Rachel that all was indeed well with the newlyweds, and she began to wonder how soon Shemiah would make her a grandmother. Joheved said it was far more enjoyable than motherhood.

  The day wasn’t warm, but Rachel was sweating profusely when they glimpsed movement in the distance. Now that someone was finally approaching, her legs turned to jelly, forcing her to reach out to Shemiah for support. Together they watched as the rider drew close enough to be identified as Milo.

  He dismounted and handed her a stained and travel-worn letter, its seal barely holding it closed. The handwriting was not Eliezer’s, so it had to be from Pesach. Rachel wished she could peruse its contents in private, but she couldn’t wait a moment longer.

  The message was short, and after reading it, she passed it to Shemiah. Following the usual salutations and hopes that everyone was in good health, Pesach had written, “Master Eliezer sends his love to his family and regrets that he was not able to attend his son’s wedding. The birth was difficult, resulting in the child’s death shortly thereafter and a lengthy recovery for the mother. I have every hope that he will return with me for the Hot Fair.”

  Pesach continued with assurances that he’d gotten a good price for Rachel’s woolens and that he looked forward to seeing Shemiah the following month. He closed by sending his regards to his parents and to Dulcie and wishing them all a good Passover.

  Rachel closed her eyes and exhaled. Thank Heaven Eliezer is still alive.

  Shemiah put his arm around her. “That’s welcome news . . . not about the baby, I mean.” Although he did mean the baby.

  Mother and son walked slowly back to the manor house. By the time they reached it, Rachel’s grateful relief was giving way to resentment. Her husband was alive and well, though apparently not concerned enough about his family to have written himself. Or was he still holding a grudge over her not writing to him the previous year?

  “I want to know why Papa hasn’t sent us any letters.” Shemiah kicked a rock in the dirt.

  “I’m glad you’ll be seeing him soon,” she said. “I’m worried.”

  “I am too. It’s bad enough that Papa didn’t come to my wedding, but now he hasn’t studied Talmud for almost two years.”

  “Surely he’s reviewing his studies in Toledo.”

  “Non.” Shemiah’s voice hardened. “He says that Talmud study is doomed, that with all the other yeshivot gone, Grandpapa’s is too small to make a difference. The only thing left of Jewish Law will be codes, each stricter than the last.”

  Rachel’s eyes blazed. “The Holy One won’t let Talmud study cease. Papa’s kuntres will save it. You’ll see.”

  The Mai Faire de Provins was held without incident, but the inhabitants of Troyes continued to worry that their Hot Fair would be an opportune time for an attack on the city, exactly when the plunder would be greatest. Rachel grew increasingly irritated, as she both dreaded and anticipated seeing Eliezer again. She snapped at the servants and was cross with Rivka, who began spending days at a time at Miriam’s.

  Finally Salomon suggested that she help him in the vineyard, thinking that some work outdoors might calm her or at least tire her out. There, hidden from watchful eyes, Rachel vented her frustration at weeds growing among the vines, vigorously uprooting them with her hoe and hacking them into pieces.

  The week after Shavuot, work in the vineyard was at a frantic pace. All were aware that the grape blossoms would soon be opening and thus all activity must cease to ensure complete pollination. Rachel was hurrying to finish her row before sunset, when she heard Miriam frantically calling for her.

  Heart pounding, Rachel dropped the hoe and ran toward her sister. Had Shemiah and Eliezer returned already? Was an army advancing on Troyes?

  Non. Zipporah was in labor.

  “I need you to ride to Ramerupt for Joheved.” Miriam urgently propelled Rachel toward the road home. “Zipporah’s water has broken.”

  Rachel rushed off to the stables and, grateful for the fine mare she now owned, managed to return with her sister before it was completely dark. The men were praying psalms in Salomon’s salon, and Shmuel jumped up to give Joheved a hug as she headed upstairs. Rachel hesitated at the doorway, praying that she wouldn’t have to endure hours, perhaps days, of Zipporah’s painful labor process.

  But when she stepped into the lying-in chamber, she saw that her prayers had been answered. Zipporah was already on the birthing stool, sweat dripping down her face, grunting with exertion. Brunetta sat on one side and Joheved on the other, taking turns whispering protective Torah verses in her ears. Three sets of tefillin were tied to the bedposts, which Rachel assumed must belong to Papa, Meir, and Shmuel. Or was one of them Joheved’s?

  Out of habit she inspected the circle chalked on the floor, but there were no breaks in the protective ring surrounding Zipporah. All four walls, plus the door, were clearly chalked against demons with the magical inscription “Sanvi, Sansanvi, and Semangelaf, Adam and Eve, barring Lillit.” There was nothing else to do except pray Psalm 120, and, just in case, Rachel also whispered Psalm 126, for a woman whose children die.

  Their ministrations were successful, for the church bells had not yet chimed Compline when Zipporah was delivered of a healthy baby girl.

  “Mazel tov!” Rachel joined the women shouting congratulations.

  Their happy voices carried to the men downstairs, who in normal circumstances might have thought the child was male to merit such joy. Brunetta broke down weeping, and tears filled Joheved’s eyes as she made the blessing Baruch ata Adonai . . . Hatov Vehametiv, “Who is good and does good.
”

  Joheved stared defiantly at Miriam and Rachel, as if daring them to correct her for saying the blessing a parent traditionally makes at the birth of a son. But if Zipporah’s sons were under a curse, the Holy One was indeed doing a good thing in giving her a daughter.

  Shmuel must have thought so too, because he and Meir hosted a banquet the day of the baby’s naming as extravagant as any given after a brit milah, an especially generous gesture since the Hot Fair opened the following week and Troyes was full of merchants. So little Marona, named for her Meir’s mother, was joyously welcomed into the world.

  All agreed that her future was assured. Born on a Friday, she would grow to be pious; under the dominion of Venus she was destined to enjoy wealth and physical pleasures. Not that one needed any knowledge of astrology to predict that the daughter of Shmuel and Zipporah would be pious and wealthy.

  Rachel, however, was not destined to enjoy Marona’s naming feast. Midway through morning services, Rivka tugged on her sleeve and pointed to Shemiah pacing the synagogue entry hall below. Rachel tried to leave unobtrusively but tripped over a bench in her hurry, so that when she reached the bottom of the stairs, her foot was throbbing, adding physical pain to her considerable emotional turmoil.

  Shemiah had returned without Eliezer—again.

  “I brought a letter for you from Papa,” Eliezer said. “I left it on your bed so you could read it in private.”

  Rachel leaned on her son’s arm as they headed home, Rivka holding her other hand. “Have you read the letter, Shemiah?”

  “Non, I haven’t. But Papa discussed it with me.”

  She could have asked him how business went in Toledo or told him about Zipporah’s baby girl, but her tongue seemed frozen to the roof of her mouth. Rivka and Shemiah were silent as well, until they reached her bedroom door.

  “I’ll wait downstairs,” Shemiah said, his somber tone fueling her trepidation.

  “So will I,” Rivka added. “I want to know what Papa wrote too.”