The Sempster's Tale Read Online Free

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