Free Rashi's Daughters, Book II: Miriam by Maggie Anton

sighs.
    Marona blew her nose. “I thank you, dear. I haven’t had a good cry in quite some time.”
    “I know. Everyone at home gets so upset when I start bawling that I try to stop right away.”
    “Feel free to weep as much as you need to.”
    Miriam gave Marona a small smile. “ Merci .”
    “I believe it was your move before our little cloudburst,” Marona said, smiling in turn. “Can you remember your strategy or should we start over?”
    Miriam felt almost lighthearted. “Let’s play on. I don’t mind if I lose.”
    And so the courier found them, an hour later, when he came to announce Countess Alice’s desire that Miriam should ride with her and her ladies on Monday. He arrived with trepidation, not sure what activities he would interrupt in a Jewish household on their Sabbath, and was reassured to find these ladies engaged in the same pastime those at court found so compelling.
    Before Miriam could think of a polite way to refuse, Marona announced that of course her guest accepted the countess’s hospitality. She then offered the man some bread, cheese, and ale, and while he ate, questioned him about what time Miriam should be at the castle and whether they were merely going riding or if there was a hunt. Only a simple morning ride was involved, with refreshments served afterward.
    When the man left, Marona turned to her dismayed guest and declared, “Samuel is Count André’s vassal, and if you don’t ride with Countess Alice’s ladies, it might be considered be an insult.” She smiled and patted Miriam’s hand. “The countess can’t be older than twenty. It will be nice for you to spend time with people your own age.”
    “But what will I talk about with the Edomite ladies?” Miriam asked. “What could we possibly have in common?”
    “Don’t worry, dear. If you listen and ask questions, they’re bound to think you’re a brilliant conversationalist.”
     
    Marona was right. Countess Alice and her ladies-in-waiting weren’t very different from the merchants’ wives and daughters in Troyes. As they rode along the forest lanes, talk revolved around the latest court gossip—who was in favor and who was out, who had quarreled with whom and why, which knight was smitten with which lady and whether the feeling was requited.
    But most of all the ladies couldn’t resist talking about the countess’s new son, Gautier, his father’s heir, who had recently been christened. Miriam of course knew about babies; she was training to be a midwife. She easily held her own in the discussion, even sharing a few anecdotes about her young nephew.
    The road came to a fallow field, and a redhead named Rosaline suggested a race to the far end and back. Before Miriam could decide to race, the others took off, Aunt Sarah’s horse not far behind, and by the time their steeds had rounded the field, she was in the lead. Miriam worried briefly that she ought to let the countess win, but soon gave herself over to the pleasure of the race, the ground rushing beneath her and the wind in her face.
    When Miriam’s mount finally slowed to a walk, her heart was pounding. The others gathered around her, praising her horse, and the countess asked what price she would take for the animal.
    “I cannot take any price,” Miriam declared between gasps. “The mare doesn’t belong to me, but to my aunt.”
    As to why her aunt needed such a fleet horse, Miriam replied as she had often heard Sarah respond. “She is a midwife who never knows when some mother’s life may depend on her horse’s swiftness.”
    Countess Alice was silent a moment and then said excitedly, “Your aunt must be the Jewish midwife who delivered little Hugues of Troyes. At Gautier’s christening, Adelaide spoke with me at length of her ordeal. In comparison, my experience, which I thought I would barely survive, seems like a pleasant outing.”
    The excitement of winning the race loosened Miriam’s tongue. She admitted that, as her aunt’s