The men shook hands, murmuring politeness. Jamie and Ian exchanged looks. Why were they here?
The Vicomte caught the look and interpreted it correctly.
“I wish you to return to Doctor Hasdi,” he said, the effervescence in his voice momentarily supplanted by a note of steel. “And tell him that everything—everything!—was done in accordance with proper custom and according to the Law. This marriage will not be undone. By anyone.”
“Mmphm,” said Ian, less politely.
And so it was that a few minutes later they found themselves standing among the male wedding guests—the women stood on the other side of the canopy—watching as Rebekah came down the path, jingling faintly. She wore a dress of deep red silk; Jamie could see the torchlight shift and shimmer through its folds as she moved. There were gold bracelets on both wrists, and she had a veil over her head and face, with a little headdress sort of thing made of gold chains that dipped across her forehead, strung with little medallions and bells—it was this that made the jingling sound. It reminded him of the Torah scroll, and he stiffened a little at the thought.
Pierre stood with the rabbi under the canopy; as she approached, he stepped apart, and she came to him. She didn’t touch him, though, but proceeded to walk round him. And round him, and round him. Seven times she circled him, and the hairs rose a little on the back of Jamie’s neck; it had the faint sense of magic about it—or witchcraft. Something she did, binding the man.
She came face-to-face with Jamie as she made each turn and plainly could see him in the light of the torches, but her eyes were fixed straight ahead; she made no acknowledgment of anyone—not even Pierre.
But then the circling was done and she came to stand by his side. The rabbi said a few words of welcome to the guests, and then, turning to the bride and groom, poured out a cup of wine and said what appeared to be a Hebrew blessing over it. Jamie made out the beginning, “Blessed are you, Adonai our God …” but then lost the thread.
Pierre reached into his pocket when Reb Cohen stopped speaking, took out a small object—clearly a ring—and, taking Rebekah’s hand in his, put it on the forefinger of her right hand, smiling down into her face with a tenderness that, despite everything, rather caught at Jamie’s heart. Then Pierre lifted her veil, and he caught a glimpse of the answering tenderness on Rebekah’s face in the instant before her husband kissed her.
The congregation sighed as one.
The rabbi picked up a sheet of parchment from a little table nearby. The thing Pierre had called a ketubah, Jamie saw—the wedding contract.
The rabbi read the thing out, first in a language Jamie didn’t recognize, and then again in French. It wasn’t so different from the few marriage contracts he’d seen, laying out the disposition of property and what was due to the bride and all … though he noted with disapproval that it provided for the possibility of divorce. His attention wandered a bit then; Rebekah’s face glowed in the torchlight like pearl and ivory, and the roundness of her bosom showed clearly as she breathed. In spite of everything he thought he now knew about her, he experienced a brief wave of envy toward Pierre.
The contract read and carefully laid aside, the rabbi recited a string of blessings; he kent it was blessings because he caught the words “Blessed are you, Adonai …” over and over, though the subject of the blessings seemed to be everything from the congregation to Jerusalem, so far as he could tell. The bride and groom had another sip of wine.
A pause then, and Jamie expected some official word from the rabbi, uniting husband and wife, but it didn’t come. Instead, one of the witnesses took the wineglass, wrapped it in a linen napkin, and placed it on the ground in front of Pierre. To the Scots’ astonishment, he promptly stamped on the thing—and the crowd burst into applause.
For a few moments, everything seemed quite like a country wedding, with everyone crowding round, wanting to congratulate the happy couple. But within moments, the happy couple was moving off toward the house, while the guests all streamed toward tables that had been set up at the far side of the garden, laden with food and drink.
“Come on,” Jamie muttered, and caught Ian by the arm. They hastened after the newly wedded pair, Ian demanding to know what the devil Jamie thought he was doing.
“I want to talk to her—alone. You stop him, keep him talking for as long as ye can.”
“I—how?”
“How would I know? Ye’ll think of something.” They had reached the house and, ducking in close upon Pierre’s heels, Jamie saw that, by good luck, the man had stopped to say something to a servant. Rebekah was just vanishing down a long hallway; he saw her put her hand to a door.
“The best of luck to ye, man!” he said, clapping Pierre so heartily on the shoulder that the groom staggered. Before he could recover, Ian, very obviously commending his soul to God, stepped up and seized him by the hand, which he wrang vigorously, meanwhile giving Jamie a private Hurry the bloody hell up! sort of look.
Grinning, Jamie ran down the short hallway to the door where he’d seen Rebekah disappear. The grin disappeared as his hand touched the doorknob, though, and the face he presented to her as he entered was as grim as he could make it.
Her eyes widened in shock and indignation at sight of him.
“What are you doing here? No one is supposed to come in here but me and my husband!”
“He’s on his way,” Jamie assured her. “The question is—will he get here?”
Her little fist curled up in a way that would have been comical, if he didn’t know as much about her as he did.
“Is that a threat?” she said, in a tone as incredulous as it was menacing. “Here? You dare threaten me here?”
“Aye, I do. I want that scroll.”
“Well, you’re not getting it,” she snapped. He saw her glance flicker over the table, probably in search either of a bell to summon help, or something to bash him on the head with, but the table held nothing but a platter of stuffed rolls and exotic sweeties. There was a bottle of wine, and he saw her eyes light on that with calculation, but he stretched out a long arm and got hold of it before she could.
“I dinna want it for myself,” he said. “I mean to take it back to your grandfather.”
“Him?” Her face hardened. “No. It’s worth more to him than I am,” she added bitterly, “but at least that means I can use it for protection. As long as I have it, he won’t try to hurt Pierre or drag me back, for fear I might damage it. I’m keeping it.”
“I think he’d be a great deal better off without ye, and doubtless he kens that fine,” Jamie informed her, and had to harden himself against the sudden look of hurt in her eyes. He supposed even spiders might have feelings, but that was neither here nor there.
“Where’s Pierre?” she demanded, rising to her feet. “If you’ve harmed a hair on his head, I’ll—”
“I wouldna touch the poor gomerel and neither would Ian—Juan, I mean. When I said the question was whether he got to ye or not, I meant whether he thinks better of his bargain.”
“What?” He thought she paled a little, but it was hard to tell.
“You give me the scroll to take back to your grandfather—a wee letter of apology to go with it wouldna come amiss, but I willna insist on that—or Ian and I take Pierre out back and have a frank word regarding his new wife.”