The Silver Cup (18 page)

Martin closed his eyes. “What use am I to him or anyone, now? ” He unwrapped the bandage to show his uncle a hand that had been crushed and crippled, a hand that could neither lift nor grasp. The fingers were crooked and frozen, and the top of his hand was crisscrossed with puckered red scars.

Anna looked away.

“At least you made it back,” Gunther said. “I never realized how much I depended on you. I still need you, Martin.”

Anna placed her hand on her father's shoulder, and said to Martin, “There! You have a rare compliment from your uncle. This household needs you Martin. More than ever. Welcome home.”

31

SEASONS OF CHANGE

 
Through the afternoon and well into the evening, Anna and Martin exchanged tales of that spring and summer. Martin had gone north toward Cologne where he had found the rabble that called itself an army under Count Emich of Leiningen. The count provided the men with nothing, so they robbed and ruined the country as they proceeded. Martin's exhilaration for the soldier's life carried him through the first days, but by the time they reached Speyer, he had begun to sense the gap between his dreams of glory and the lawless mob.

It was in Speyer that he had caught the attention of Anna's cousin. Once Magnus recognized Martin, he taunted him at every opportunity. Despised but feared for his vicious nature, the young noble hated just about everyone, but he reserved a special bile for the cousin of his base-born cousin. As the horde ravaged Worms, Magnus spotted Martin, who had retreated to a doorway, stunned and immobilized by the horror. He ordered two men to drag Martin forward.

“How many Jews have you killed, blacksmith boy? ”

The men held Martin, twisting his arms to reply, but he remained silent.

“None, I would wager. You can't go with us to Jerusalem until you've killed one. There, kill that one,” said Magnus, pointing to an elderly Jewish man who knelt praying over the bodies of the dead. “We'll make it easy—Men, hold the old Jew and give this coward an ax, a suitable weapon for a peasant.”

Martin was released, and an ax was placed in his hands. They shoved him to the old man, whose head was forced against a wooden block, but Martin did not move. Magnus's fury increased, until he was purple-faced and spittle collected at the corners of his mouth. Grabbing the ax from Martin, he brought it down across the base of the old man's neck with such force that a single blow severed the neck. Everyone nearby was soaked with the old man's blood. Then Magnus spat at Martin and signaled to his men to hold the boy.

“So you won't raise your hand against the enemy? What good is it? Lay it on the block.”

Magnus's men pushed Martin to his knees, stretching his arm over the block. Magnus raised the ax above his head, but then he stopped.

“No wait,” he said to his men. “Take the ax and give me my mace. Put the coward's hand on the block.” Raising the mace, Magnus said to Martin, “Tell
our
uncle that I was merciful.”

Then Magnus screamed and brought the weapon down.

Martin had only a blurry memory of the feverish days that followed. He awoke in a room hardly larger than a deep coffin. A stream of afternoon light from the single high window revealed nothing but the clean straw where he lay. Martin shivered, then sweated, and was thirsty and weak. His head ached, and he slept fitfully as the day disappeared and the space grew dark. After a delirious night or two or maybe more, he awoke and found a mug of watered ale, some hard bread, and a handful of currants. He also saw that someone had stitched his hand with sinew and wrapped it in a clean bandage with slices of onion, but the hand was monstrous, swollen and clawlike with oozing wounds. He ate a bit of bread and slaked his thirst. Then he drifted in and out of sleep until he awoke to find a young priest kneeling and praying with his cool hand on Martin's sweating forehead. The blood pounded in Martin's ears, and his eyes barely focused.

“You are back among us my lad. Can you tell me your name? ” asked the priest gently.

Martin struggled; his tongue seemed thick, and his mouth felt like wood, but he whispered, “Martin.”

“Martin? ” The priest smiled and made the sign of the cross over Martin. “You are well come and welcome. This is the Church of Saint Martin.”

Martin was cared for by the young priest and two others who lived at the Church of St. Martin. Even after the fever broke and his infection cleared, Martin rarely left his cell or spoke to anyone. He was confused and torn by self pity and disappointment. But his strength began to return, and the young priest started to insist that he earn his keep, and so Martin accompanied him on visits to the sick and the elderly. Sometimes Martin was left alone at a bedside. Soon people began to ask for Martin, for the yellow-haired boy who brought comfort and stories.

Martin and the young priest spent many summer afternoons in the churchyard among the stones of the dead. While the priest weeded and cared for the graves, they talked. Sometimes Martin worked alongside, using his good hand.

“Tell me, do you have brothers and sisters, Martin? ” asked the priest one day.

“Yes.” Martin hesitated before he added, “Three older brothers and two older sisters.”

“So you're the youngest? ” chuckled the priest. “Like me. No doubt it was why I ended up in the church. Does your father have a trade? ”

“He's a blacksmith. Two brothers are smiths as well. And one brother's in the church.”

The priest nodded.

“But I wasn't the youngest,” said Martin.

“There are more? ”

“A younger brother.”

“A large family!” said the priest. “Your father has five sons!”

“My younger brother is gone.”

“It's a hard thing that, isn't it? My mother lost three children.” For a while they weeded in silence, until the priest held up a dark leafy plant, and said, “Martin, separate the goosefoot. I use it in my soup.”

“And the chickens can have the chickweed, right Father?”

“Martin, what a help you are!”

“Some help,” replied Martin, waving his bandaged hand.

The priest patted Martin's shoulder kindly. “So, you thought you'd find glory when you went off in this Holy War?”

Martin nodded. He separated the plants into piles. After a long while he said, “I wanted to be forgiven.”

“Forgiven, Martin?” The priest rose and clapped the dirt from his hands. “Come, let's walk.”

At first Martin could not find the words, and they walked silently, away from the church, through the city, and out by the Rheintor, the city gate nearest the river. As they left Worms, they walked along a hillside that overlooked the Rhine. The swift waters bustled with fishermen, travelers, and traders. Martin began to talk about Thomas.

“I hated being his brother.”

The priest nodded.

“I cannot remember not wishing him dead. I wished he had never lived at all. He made me so angry.”

“Angry? ”

“Yes, angry. It was the same for Mother. I knew that.”

“Did you hurt your brother?”

“Sometimes. Yes. Often. Little things—trips, pinches, tricks.”

“Martin, my older brother did nothing less. I doubt he will be damned for that. Heaven would be empty.”

Martin's voice began to break. “I think Thomas was lost because my mother—I think my mother—” Martin put his fist to his mouth and stared below to the river.

“Yes?”

Martin told about the day in November. The priest stepped in front of him.

“Martin, you don't know what really happened in the woods? ”

“No, not really. But I was so glad when Thomas was gone.”

The priest winced. “Is that why you thought you had to had to go to Jerusalem? ”

Martin nodded, “That was part of it, Father. I thought that somehow I could become someone my family would be proud of.”

“As a soldier?” The priest paused for a while and then said, “Saint Martin was a soldier. Fierce and brave, but soldiers rarely become saints,” said the priest.

“I didn't want to be a saint, Father. I wanted to be a hero. And I wanted to be forgiven. Each soldier in this war will be forgiven for all his sins,” said Martin.

“You thought this holy war was the answer to your prayers? ”

Martin nodded.

“And now? ”

Martin shrugged. “I don't know, Father.”

“You were not the brother you should have been. But you didn't bring about Thomas's death; you don't even know what happened to him. Take this wisdom with you. Saint Martin was glorified for kindness, not heroism. In the cold of winter, he came across a naked beggar and tore his soldier's cape in two and shared it with the poor man. When our Lord appeared to Martin, what do you think he had wrapped across his holy shoulders? Come let's return to church. I want to show you something before evening prayer.”

The priest took Martin to the sacristy where there was a carved egg of rock crystal, set on a stand of gold encrusted with pearls. Inside, Martin saw a tiny scrap of cloth.

“Now you have seen a piece of his cape. Saint Martin left the Roman army in this very city many centuries ago. Your soldiering days have ended here as well. You've been with us for one whole season; now it's time to go home. Confess your sins and ask for God's forgiveness. Then forgive yourself. And forgive your mother. You will always have a place here with us. I don't think
this
is your calling, Martin, but you have a gift with people. You always will be in my prayers.”

They fell asleep listening to Martin's tale, and the next morning Anna awoke early to a heavy dawn with a thick east wind. When she went for water, she noticed that the fir trees showed silver. The sky was yellow, and the the air smelled metallic. Anna made it home just before a fast-moving storm brought sheets of rain and screaming wind. Lightening turned the house white and was quickly followed by deafening thunder. But by midday the sky was bright again, and the wind was hot and dry. Anna took Martin's clothes to the stream to scour with white clay, wood ash, and fat. She knew that Lukas planned to bring Agnes to the house while she was out. When she returned, she found Martin very quiet.

“Are you all right, Martin? ”

He nodded and pushed a loaf of bread and some cheese toward Anna.

“Mother was furious that I came here. There is no love lost between these two houses.”

“No.” Anna broke off a piece of bread for Martin and one for herself.

“Thanks. When Mother saw my hand, she began to rant, but after I told her how it happened, she was quiet. She thinks I'm a coward.”

“You're not!”

“She also said a one-handed man is useless in a forge.”

“Your mother is not easy on anyone.”

“No,” said Martin very sadly. “But she's right about me. I can't play my pipe anymore. I can't even cut a piece of cheese for myself.”

Anna cut a chunk of cheese and handed it to Martin saying, “You'll learn, and until then, you'll have me. I can't play your pipe, but I can sing. And besides, hands do little in Father's trade.”

Karl visited in the evening, and he cried when he saw his son's injury. After hearing Martin's story, he said, “You've filled our lives with mischief and stories. I knew the forge would never have held you. I'll visit you in Worms, Son, and I look forward to the man you will become.”

“Father there is something I'd like to take with me to Worms.”

“Yes, Martin?”

“Do you remember the wooden dog you carved for Thomas? ”

Karl nodded and said hoarsely, “I still have it.”

“May I have it? I'd like to keep something of my brother with me.”

Karl nodded but could say nothing, and so he left. Anna looked at her cousin and swallowed against her own thickening throat.

32

AN ENDING

 
It was dark when Anna eased herself from the bed, picking strands of straw from her damp hair. Her father slept fitfully. Martin was gone from the bed, but his shoes were by the door, and his clothes hung from the peg. As her eyes adjusted, she saw that the door to the garden was ajar. She drew a cup of water from the bucket and poured it slowly over her shoulders and neck. The air was still and hot, but for a moment she shivered under the cool water. Anna filled another cup and brought it out to Martin, whom she found sitting on the ground with his back against the house.

“Can't you sleep? ”

“It's too hot. Remind me of this night in January. Smudge has the best spot.”

Anna's dog had dug a deep hole and was sleeping soundly in the damp earth. The moon was full and lit the garden. She lowered herself to the ground and sat next her cousin.

“You were missed.”

“By whom?”

“By Father, certainly. And by Lukas. Even by me, at least sometimes.”

“Just sometimes?” He laughed. “It's good to be back. I was a half-wit to think I would be a soldier.”

“You were brave to try.”

“Stupid. Stupid. Anyway,
that
dream is dead.”

“Now what? ”

Martin shrugged. “We go to Worms. The place that changed each of our lives.” Martin tried to grip a small stone in his injured hand, working his thumb as a pincer and pressing the pebble against his palm. He dropped it again and picked it up.

“I love this garden,” said Anna sadly. “I don't think I will like living in Worms.”

“What do you know of Worms? ”