The Wandering Arm by Sharan Newman

outside in the courtyard now and Natan’s voice carried up and down the narrow street.
    “No one has said anything to me,” Eliazar said quietly. “I know nothing of your business.”
    “You’re lying!” Natan shouted. “You want to steal it. You want to kill me and steal it!”
    “Natan, you’re mad,” Eliazar told him, fearing it was true. “Go home, eat, rest. Come talk to me in a few days, when you’re able to speak reason.”
    He opened the gate. Natan backed through it, still yelling accusations at Eliazar, who finally lost his temper enough to slam the thick outer door shut and drop the bar with a satisfying thud. But Natan could still be heard.
    “You’ll see! One day I’ll be rich and you and your family will come as beggars to my table,” he screamed. “You’ll live to regret treating me like this, Eliazar ben Meir.”
    “No doubt,” Eliazar muttered as he gratefully closed the inner door.
    He took off his cloak and put it on a hook. His hands were cold; he had forgotten to put on his gloves. The air was redolent with the aroma of meat and bread. The Christian servant, Lucia, was just finishing laying the table. He closed his eyes and let the tranquillity and order, the small, familiar sounds, restore his humor.
    He would go to the synagogue to greet the Sabbath and, when he returned, Johannah would have said the blessing over the candles. It would be just the two of them tonight. Yes, he was glad that Natan had not joined them. It was a rare Sabbath that they had no guests to share their meal.
    “You know, my dear,” he said as his wife came in to oversee the preparations, “your price truly is above rubies.”
    “I should hope so,” Johannah answered. “Now, hurry. That Natan has made you late for services.”

    At about that same time, Catherine’s servant, Samonie, was bringing her dinner up the narrow stairs to the women’s rooms.
    “Here’s some stew, Lady Catherine,” Samonie announced as she entered. “I’ll reheat it on the brazier for you.”
    Catherine sniffed. “That’s the rabbit stew from yesterday,” she said in horror. “I can’t have that. It’s Friday.”
    “You need to get your strength back,” Samonie said. “Even I know people are not required to abstain from meat when they’re sick.”
    “But I’m not sick,” Catherine said. “Only sad and tired and still a bit sore. I can’t eat this. I’m sorry.”
    “Catherine LeVendeur, you shall eat every bite and lick the bowl.”
    Both women started. They hadn’t heard Edgar come in.
    “Don’t worry, Samonie,” he said. “I have permission to visit. Catherine, even in the monasteries, people recovering from illness are given meat. You need it.”
    He took the stew from Samonie and sat down next to Catherine, spoon in one hand, bowl in the other. “I’ll feed you if I have to,” he threatened. “Please, Catherine. They won’t let you out of here until you’re stronger and I’m so tired of sleeping with a bunch of farting men-at-arms.” He bent over her and whispered, “You do it with so much more elegance.”
    “Edgar!” Catherine gasped. “Don’t make me laugh! You have no idea what that does to my stomach.”
    They both glanced over at Samonie, only to find she had made a discreet exit.
    “Now eat your stew,” Edgar said, “while I tell you about a very odd proposal your father has made me.”
    Catherine took a bite. She swallowed. No lightning struck. No voices reproved. She took another.
    “Father?” she asked, pulling a bone splinter out of her mouth. “What does he want you to do now? If he’s sending you off to the antipodes the way he does Solomon, I won’t have it … unless I go too.”
    “No, it was more strange than that,” Edgar said. “Keep eating. He wanted to know if I knew anything about working in metal.”
    “What kind of metal?” she asked, peering into the bowl. “Do you think this white thing is a turnip?”
    “Gold and silver, I think,” he said.