‘I do,“ Raulyn granted with an equally feigned sigh, ”if only for courtesy’s sake.“ But when Lucie was gone into the kitchen, he cocked his head and said at Anne, ”Mind you, there’s something sweeter than cake I’d rather have.“
‘What a pity you will have to settle for cake,“ Anne said back at him firmly. His pretended lust for her was an old jest between them, started after Matthew’s death and maybe meant just a little more seriously on his side than Anne ever chose to take it. He never pressed past jesting with it, though, and abruptly let the jest go now, asking seriously instead, with a glance to be sure Lucie was not already returning, ”What I’ve truly come for is to ask if you’ve seen Hal today.“
‘Hal? No.“ Apprenticed to another mercer, Raulyn’s stepson lived in his master’s household in Rother Lane, well away across London. ”Should I have?“
‘The trouble is that no one has. He went out last night and isn’t back. Master Yarford is fit to chew his ear off. Only one, mind you. He says he wants the other to shout in when Hal comes back.“ Raulyn bent forward and said low in her own ear, ”My thought is that Hal went womaning south of the river.“ He meant Southwark, at the far end of London bridge, where the whores gathered—those that didn’t defy the law that forbade them to work in London itself. ”I think he went to try his luck but stayed too late, found the bridge gates locked against him when he would have come back, and decided he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, as the saying goes. My guess is that he’ll show up the worse for wear, but none the worse for that.“
‘Surely not,“ Anne protested. ”Not Hal.“
‘He’s of an age for it.“
Which Hal was, being almost sixteen; but he’d been ever young for his years, with still a boy’s round face and ways. “Does Pernell know?” Anne asked.
‘She doesn’t, yet. Nor Lucie.“ Raulyn made a warning gesture just before Lucie came in, carrying a generous piece of cake and an over-full bowl of ale. Raulyn thanked her with a grave courtesy that made her giggle again. While he ate and drank he tried to persuade Anne that she wanted to buy a length of rose-colored Luye linen from him, urging, ”It would make a beautiful ground for a wall-hanging. Pearls against it would show to perfection.“
‘Where would I get pearls?“ Anne asked.
‘From me!“
Anne laughed. “You’re not a merchant for nothing, are you?”
‘I couldn’t afford to be a merchant for nothing. I’d be out on the street in poverty.“
‘So would I be if I took to buying pearls for a wall-hanging nobody has yet bought,“ Anne returned.
‘Come then, chickling,“ he said to Lucie. ”Your mother will be wondering where we are.“ But with Lucie out the door ahead of him, he turned back to say low-voiced for only Anne to hear, ”I suppose we’ll be one less at dinner tonight, with our Master Daved here with you, yes?“
A blush sweeping up her face, Anne hissed at him, “Yes!” and closed the door rudely close on his heels as he went away laughing. By law, foreign merchants like Daved and his uncle Master Bocking were supposed to stay with London merchants (and be watched by them) while about their London business. Master Bocking’s place had been with Raulyn’s late father-in-law and now—and Daved with him—was with Raulyn. It had been that way Anne had met Daved, but it was one thing for Raulyn to know about them and another for him to say it out so boldly. A little angry at both Raulyn and her betraying blush and at the same time silently laughing at herself, Anne barred the door and went past the stairs and into the kitchen.
There being only herself and Bette to the household, their meals were mostly lesser things, so Bette was humming over her cooking this afternoon, happy to have more to do; had rejoiced this morning that there were garden greens enough to make a goodly salad and talked at length about which herbs she should use on the pike she would bake for Anne and Daved’s supper. Just now as Anne came into the kitchen, she had the lid lifted from the thick earthenware pot at the back of the fire and was poking a judicious fork into the slowly cooking fish. Anne sighed at the rich smell, and Bette said, “Aye, though I say it myself, there’s not king nor duke will dine better than you and Master Weir tonight.”
Among the blessings Anne counted in her life was Bette. She had been a servant to Matthew’s parents and then to him and now was Anne’s, and they were comfortable together. Nor had she ever given sign she minded Daved in Anne’s life. All she had ever said was, “If there’s to be a man in your life, Master Weir is a good one, and all the better for not being around and in the way all the time.”
Nor did she seem to want Anne in her way, either, at present, saying briskly as she re-lidded the pot, “All’s in hand here. You’ll want to be ready for this man of yours, so take yourself upstairs. You might take that bread with you, to save carrying it up later. I still say it’s odd looking.” And had been saying so since Anne made the two loaves this morning.
Anne made no answer, only took the cloth-covered bread on its platter and went upstairs, glad at finally being able to turn whole-heartedly toward Daved and tonight. Having set the platter on the short-legged wooden chest against the wall beside the door, she closed the shutters across the front window so near the house across the way, then half-closed the gardenward window’s shutters past anyone’s seeing in, making the room into a place for her and Daved alone. Next she covered the small table in the room’s middle with her best linen tablecloth, set the cloth-covered bread on its platter in the middle, and from the chest brought out her two silver spoons and the pairs of polished pewter plates and pewter goblets and set a place either side of the table; then from the chest again brought out two new silver candlesticks, the best things she had ever bought for herself, and two slender, never-lighted beeswax candles to go with them. Carefully, hoping she had it right, she set them either side of the bread’s platter.
She had put fresh sheets smelling of lavender on the bed this morning, and then the green coverlet embroidered with summer flowers, so that was ready. She had also brought up a bucket of water to warm in the warm day, and having slipped out of her headrail and wimple and workaday gown and undergown and long chemise, she washed all over, using not her usual plain homemade soap but the dear-bought rose-scented castilian. Washcloth and water and soap slid pleasurably over her body, and she found herself thinking of Daved, wishing his merchant-journeys brought him to England in the winter, when nights were longer…
She took hold on her thoughts, finished washing and put on her new chemise she had close-embroidered with blue forget-me-nots around the neckline’s low curve and then a deep green summer gown laced up the front. She did not bother to cover her hair again, and when Bette called up the stairs that everything was ready if she wanted to fetch it, she went down barefoot, taking with her a candlestub in the battered candlestick that usually served to light her evenings. Bette lighted it for her at the kitchen fire and put it on the tray full of covered dishes that Anne picked up from the table.
Upstairs again, she had only just set the tray on the chest beside the door when the knock came at the front door and her heart seemed to go still. Her breath short and uneven, she faced the stairs, stood frozen, listening to Bette shuffle from the kitchen to the door. There was the small thud of the wooden bar being set aside, the smaller snick of the latch being lifted… and Daved’s voice lightly saying something to which Bette laughed. Anne pressed her hands over her heart with gladness and relief. He was here. He was safe.
Was on the stairs. Was in the room. Was come to a stop to look at her as she was looking at him, for them to see that all was well with them both and well between them. And at the same moment they moved toward each other, came into each others’ arms with the fierceness of matching need, their kiss and their embrace full of remembrance of passions past and promise of passions to come. All too plainly, they had not forgotten each other’s bodies, and when they drew apart, still holding to one another, Daved said, gazing down into her face, “Your loveliness never
wanes, my Anne of delights. Days, weeks, months come and go, but always you are lovely.”
‘You planned those words ahead,“ Anne mock-chided him. ”You’d say them no matter what, so you might have your way with me.“
‘I never plan ahead what I’ll say to you,“ Daved protested with vast innocence. ”I’m ever too worried you’ll have changed toward me.“
Anne took his face between her hands—his beautiful face, more perfect in line and bone and flesh than any carved saint she had ever seen, framed by his dark, curling hair and enriched by his dark, brown eyes—and pressed her body to his, giving him to understand with another lingering kiss that she had not changed toward him.
But though achingly aware of how near the bed was and how long since they had lain there together, Anne also saw how quickly daylight was slipping from the room, and she stepped back from him, saying while she tried to steady her voice and check her lust to have him, “I have something for you.”
He reached to draw her back to him, murmuring, “I hope so.”
She laughed and slipped away from him toward the table. Laughing, too, he followed her. They were neither of them heedless with greed, having found before this what pleasure there was in putting off their final pleasure, how the ache of longing refined into ever-deepening passion over supper and wine and talk. But suddenly, too late, worried at what she had done, Anne hesitated, her hand hovering over the cloth still covering the two loaves of waiting bread. Daved, curious, reached past her and lifted the cloth. His stillness then and his silence made her look up at him, afraid she had done it wrongly. Or should not have done it at all. And she said quickly, “It’s challah bread. Or I meant it to be. I made it for you. Two loaves, the way you told me about it. I remembered what you told me, and today is a Friday, and I thought…”
She faded to a stop as his gaze shifted from the bread to her, and she saw he was not angry as he said gently, “Just challah. Challah is challah, complete in itself. No more need to call it ‘challah bread’ than there is to call you ‘Anne woman.’ Though woman you most surely are.” He put his hands on her waist and drew her back against him, adding— and now she heard the sadness under his voice, “The candles, too. You remembered them.” He looked aside to where she had left a basin of clear water, a cup, and a clean towel sitting on the chest beside the door. “And that. Anne, my love, it isn’t safe. If someone should see…”
‘No one will see,“ Anne said, aching for his sadness. She had done all this to make him happy, not sad. ”Even if someone did see, they wouldn’t understand. No one here knows any more what it means. They can’t.“
‘They do not know, no,“ Daved agreed. ”Because Jews were banished from England four lifetimes ago.“ And if it were found out that he was here and a Jew, he would answer for it with his life.
That Anne knew his secret and might well share his fate were they found out was measure of the love and trust between them, and she started to turn toward him, to reassure him and herself that here in her chamber where no one else would come they were safe; but he was looking past her to the fading light at the window that told the sun was slipped below London’s housetops; and on sudden laughter he cast aside any worry over danger and said, “The candles have to be lighted before the sun sets. If we’re not to waste your effort, we must do it now.”
Anne immediately brought the lighted candlestub from the tray and made to hand it to him, but he shook his head, saying, “It’s for the woman of the house to do.”
Except for the one time he had told her, before they became lovers, that he was a Jew, he had said very little about his life. He sometimes told her bits and pieces, of his travels and his merchant-work—stories gathered and brought to her half as gift and half in reparation, she thought, for telling her so little else about himself. She did not even know where he lived, only that it was not France and seemed to be somewhere farther off than Flanders or Holland.
Because there was no use, she simply tried never to think of his… home. Even the word came hard to her.
His home, where he could drop pretense of being Christian. Where he had a wife. Where he might even have children. She didn’t know. He had never told her more, until his last night with her here, when they were lying in each other’s arms after love, taking pleasure simply in being near each other and knowing he would soon leave both her and England. Then he had talked about his… Shabbat. And she had lain quiet in his arms and listened. It was what he missed most in the months he spent seeming to be a Christian merchant, he said; and hearing the longing in his voice, Anne had drawn from him with soft questions everything she could about it, even to how to make challah. Her thought had been that if Shabbat was so dear to him that it was what he remembered most when he was away from… home, then she would give him Shabbat here, too—make it part of their memories together. It wasn’t Christian, but nothing about it had seemed something that would damn her soul for doing it. And after all it was something Christ must have done all of his life, so how could there be ill in it?
Or so she had told herself until now—until this moment when, with candle in hand to light the Shabbat candles in their silver holders, she stopped and looked up at Daved beside her, hoping he would see only her uncertainty, not her fear.
‘You light them,“ he said encouragingly. ”Then I’ll say the blessing over them, since you cannot.“
Her trust in him had brought her to this, and she would go on trusting him. She lit the candles, and Daved stretched out his arms, drew his hands over the flames and toward himself three times, then covered his face with his hands and began, “Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech haolam …”
Anne shuddered. His voice was gone strange on the sounds that must be words but were like no words she had ever heard. They were a strangeness she had not known was in him.
He finished, lowered his hands, smiled at her, and was simply Daved again. “Now it’s begun,” he said, his voice his own. “And now I sing…”
Anne stiffened, afraid of hearing more of those sounds coming from him.
Daved saw and asked gently, “Or I do not?”
She had meant this as a gift to him. If she failed to trust him… so much of what was between them depended on their trust of one another; and she smiled at him and whispered, “Go on.”
Afterward she would be beyond bounds glad her trust had been stronger than her fear then. He faced the candles again, began to sing, his voice so soft it barely carried beyond the table, and while she listened her fear went from her. The words and even their sound were still strange—“… Bo’achem le-shalom malackei ha-shalom malachei elyon…”—but there was beauty in them, and when Daved put out a hand to her, she took it, and he went on singing while the evening’s soft summer shadows deepened around them, and she found herself wishing she could sing with him, there was such peace and longing in whatever the words were.
He finished and looked at her. In the increasingly shadowed room, there was now only the candlelight by which to see each other, with Daved’s face half in shadow, half in warm candle-glow as he said quietly, “The song asks for God to bless this home with peace and, more deeply, that we find peace within ourselves, both on this Shabbat and afterwards. Shalom aleichem. May peace be upon you.”
Faintly, trying to say it rightly, Anne echoed, “Shalom aleichem. My love.”
He touched her cheek with his fingertips, and all her longing to have him returned in a rush. But he drew back a step and said, “The next part is to you, my eishet chayil—my woman of valor.”
Anne moved her head in a slight nod, willing for him to go on, but he already was, still holding her hands, still gazing at her as he sang, “Eishet chayil mi yimtza ve-rachok …”
Chapter 2
The thick sunlight of the midsummer’s early afternoon poured warmly into the square garth enclosed by the paved cloister walk and crowded buildings of St. Helen’s nunnery, leaving the roofed cloister walk pleasantly in warm shadow, with the quiet of Sunday rest b
etween the day’s longer Offices of prayer lying over everything. If Dame Frevisse was displeased with it all—and she was—she knew the fault lay in herself, not in St. Helen’s. Used as she was to her own St. Frideswide’s priory set small among the fields of northern Oxfordshire, the change of place should—if nothing else—have pleasurably diverted her because St. Helen’s was neither small nor in the countryside but in London, with all London’s busyness of people and churches spread around the priory’s own gathering of church, chapter house, hall, refectory, library, dormitory, kitchen, workrooms, parlors, and the prioress’ private rooms, with the cloister walk and its garth in their midst, a high-walled garden at the back and, toward the street, the foreyard, guesthall, and the wide double gateway opening to broad, busy Bishopsgate Street running down toward London bridge and the Thames. And if that very busyness and crowding were what she disliked, here was the peace of the cloister walk, familiar to her from every nunnery she had ever been in, from her childhood times as a sometimes boarder in French nunneries to all her years in St. Frideswide’s.
The Sempster's Tale Page 2
