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.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.View More (from Kindle)View More (from Kindle App)See all books at BarbaraSamuel.comA BEDOFSPICES(Excerpt)byBarbara SamuelAuthor's NoteTwo 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 OneStrassburg—Summer 1348I should like to hold my knightNaked in my arms at eveThat he might be in ecstasyAs I cushioned his head against my breast.~ Countess of DiaMy poor heart she has caughtWith magic spells and wilesI do not sigh for goldBut for her mouth that smiles;Her hue it is so bright She half makes blind my sight.~ Judah ha-LeviPrologueCharles 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 gathered 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.Etta.Her hair, too, streamed over slender shoulders and a fine, lush woman's form.The face was oval, as pale and flawless as a field of fresh snow at evening, her lips red and tender [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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