The Silver Cup (6 page)

“Father is terribly sad. But mother?” He shook his head. “Lord forgive me. Thomas has been gone how many days? ”

Anna stared at Lukas's feet and bit her lip. She could picture Thomas, see his smile, hear his laughter. “Six days.”

“Not even a week? Mother's already stripped our house of all signs of him. His toy—the little wooden dog that Father carved to look like Gray, his cup, his blanket—everything of Thomas's is gone—put away or burned. Gone,” he said.

“It's as though he never was.”

“And now her family is perfect,” said Lukas. “God forgive my mother.”

“We mustn't think
that
, Lukas.”

“Think what?”

“That your mother did something to Thomas?”

Lukas's face was gray when he looked at Anna. “I--I hadn't thought anything like that. Only that Mother didn't mourn, but
you
don't think—”

“I don't know what to think,” said Anna covering her face with her hands. “It's too awful.”

“God forgive us,” said Lukas.

But not your mother,
thought Anna.

WINTER

8

CHRISTMAS

 
Christmas had always been a time of light and celebration, interrupting the cold dark loneliness of winter. But now it was sorrowful, especially for Lukas and Anna. Thomas was gone.

Christmas preparation began with the Ember Days of fasting; though the meals were meatless, most cupboards were still full, and there was fresh fish and sometimes even whale meat from the north. To forget the gray and leafless world, houses were filled with bright evergreen branches. Elisabeth and Margarete wove boughs of fir and spruce, lacing sprigs of red berry-covered holly through the softer fronds. The greens were tied about the large vertical beams nearest the hearth, and the house was fragrant with the scent of pine. The fasting gave way to feasting beginning on Christmas Day and lasting for twelve days, until the Epiphany.

On the morning before Christmas, Martin cheerfully wrung the necks of two plump geese, and his sisters plucked and readied them for roasting. Elisabeth and Margarete made pies and sausages of the organ meats, and Agnes stuffed the emptied fowl with chopped chestnuts, milk-soaked chunks of bread, pieces of dried apple, and raisins. She sewed up each bird and impaled it for roasting over her spit fire. A leg of mutton simmered in a pot of ale with onions, parsnips, and sage. Pine, roasting meats, and a whiff of cinnamon filled the house. Anna thought that although Agnes and her daughters had prepared the house and the wonderful meals, they could not put joy into the holiday.
We have everything but happiness this year
, Anna realized.
The Christmas table is so quiet; though no one mentions Thomas, his absence is more a presence than he had ever been.

At least Martin had more stories than ever, and his tales usually distracted and entertained everyone. In early December, he and Gunther had traveled south along the Rhine to the city of Strasbourg, carrying their iron goods and salted fish from Mainz to trade for wine and pottery. On this journey, they found the city possessed by a speech Pope Urban had spoken a week earlier in the city of Clermont.

Sitting near a generous log fire that Gunther had built, Anna was fascinated by Martin's tales of the holy battle for the sacred city of Jerusalem. She had never seen Martin so excited, pacing about the hearth, tossing his yellow mane, waving his hands, and telling all that he heard.

“In a field outside the walls of Clermont, a glorious golden platform was built, draped with banners of red, white, and gold.”

“I heard that neither the cathedral nor the city itself could contain the vast crowds who came to hear the Pope,” said Gunther.

Martin nodded. “So, there, on the platform, were twin giants, dressed in white and holding glittering crosses of gold, flanking the holy Pope, who is very tall himself.”

“Pope Urban is called the Golden Pope,” added Gunther.

“Because he has long golden hair and a beard of gold. The Golden Pope called for a war!” Martin continued. “A war to save Jerusalem, the very place where the holy feet of our Lord touched the ground. Pagans are burning churches and killing Christian pilgrims. The Pope called on every man to become a knight of Christ and rid Jerusalem of the enemies of the faith—dark-skinned Turks, evil Persians, and murdering Jews. Each soldier will be forgiven all his sins, forgiven for every sin ever committed.”

Anna interrupted. “Oh, Martin, wouldn't you love to see Jerusalem? ”

“Yes, with all my heart,” said Martin, thumping his chest. “It's the center of the earth! You should hear the tales I've heard from pilgrims, tales of glittering pearl walls and churches domed in bright gold. Jerusalem is always filled with sunlight, and windows there are never shuttered. The land is perfumed by soft winds bearing spices and incense. Winter never comes, and fruits and flowers grow throughout the year. The children play games with rubies and diamonds while songbirds sing from flowering trees. The Pope will reward every soldier with a share of these riches, and then, all are promised a place in heaven forever. Each man who took the vow received a cross of scarlet cloth to sew on his sleeve,” said Martin, tracing an imaginary cross on his own shoulder.

“Do you think men from our town will take a cross?” asked Anna.

“Everyone will want to join! Think of the riches and the glory!”

“Martin is full of tales and hero's dreams, Anna,” said Gunther. “Few in our town will feel as he does. Most have never traveled beyond the river bank. I cannot see them leaving home for a journey that will take years.”

“I can! I should love to see Jerusalem and kill an infidel,” cried Martin his face glowing. “Don't you want to take up your sword, Uncle?

“No, Martin. I have no wish to fight anyone. Besides, little will come of this armed pilgrimage. The snows will keep us home for now. By spring everyone will forget all this,” said Gunther.

“Not me,” said Martin.

“Well, we'll see. Perhaps this call will relieve us of some of the bored young nobles who plague the roads,” said Gunther.

“I just heard the miller had to pay a toll to your brother's sons for use of the little wooden bridge south of town,” said Martin.

“Magnus?” asked Anna.

“Yes, your wolfish cousin Magnus
and
his fawning brother, Wilhelm.”

“I hope those cousins go at least as far as Jerusalem
,”
said Anna.

“There they can kill the Arabs and Jews, and then all their crimes will be forgiven,” said Martin.

“Father? That day in the autumn, when I went with you to Worms . . . ”

“Yes, Anna? ”

“There was a Jewish family at the silversmith, the heavy man with three children.”

“Yes. The spice merchant. We made knives for him.”

“His daughter had the most beautiful dress.”

“Anna I told you how rich those Jews are. I saw their house,” said Martin.

“We could do worse than trade with Jakob,” said Gunther.

“They're the devil's people,” said Martin.

“Are they, Father?”

“Martin knows nothing.”

“Trust me! His children have horns—little horns under their hair,” said Martin, dancing around Anna and wiggling one finger next to each of his ears. “Like goats or devils.”

Gunther shook his head disapprovingly and added wood to the hearth. The log spit and sparked.

“I'll bet you know the devil himself, Martin,” said Anna.

9

COLD WINTER TALES

 
Nothing was enough to warm her, not her hands nor her heart. Anna was no longer certain of things she had never questioned. She thought about Thomas all the time. What had happened to him? Had Agnes committed an unthinkable crime? Was suspecting her aunt itself a sin? Winter was a season with too much time to think and to worry. Each breath smoked. Her feet ached, and her toes felt smashed. Day and night, she sat so close to the hearth that she could smell her woolen dress begin to smolder. Nights lengthened endlessly in the shuttered houses, for with so little light, people hibernated like the animals of the forest. Except for sleep, there was only time.

Along the inside walls, the tamped ground was iced and stone hard, white with frost at the edges. Near the fire, the floor softened and was muddy. No place was comfortable. Uncle Karl had made Anna a slatted iron box to hold charcoal, which she would light. She could rest her feet nearby and try to do some mending. She wore gloves without fingers, but her hands were clumsy with the cold, and she needed to warm her fingers between stitches.

After Christmas, Gunther and Martin never traveled again until Candlemas on the second of February, a holiday that signaled the end of winter's darkest days with a blessing of the candles. For now, Anna and Gunther would repair or replace whatever was worn or broken--a loose ax handle, a splintered bench. She wove baskets, and her father made wooden buckets and bowls. Martin started many tasks and finished nothing. He was restless and rarely useful, except for the tunes he played on his pipe and his stories.

“Anna, have you ever seen Blue Jorg? ”

“Not in a long while. Not him nor anyone else. All I do is sit and look at these walls,” said Anna, feeling very sorry for herself.

Martin rolled his eyes, “Well, you know old Jorg? ”

“Yes. The old tanner who limps.”

“Limps? Now that's kind. I would have said the old drunk staggers.”

“They say he has bad luck,” said Anna with a shrug.

“Bad luck? ” scoffed Martin. “The man was a drunk. Well, I heard a very funny story this morning.” Martin pulled a stool next to Anna who bent and plaited strips of willow for a basket. He sorted through the pile and handed her a curling band to weave.

“The ice on the Rhine is thick enough to hold a loaded ox cart. Your father says it's the harshest winter in memory.”

Martin looked for long pieces of willow as he spoke. “Jorg lived alone below the tannery where he used to work. That's why his skin looked blue. He was a lazy sort; instead of going outdoors to relieve himself, Blue Jorg used buckets and pots, and sometimes the corners of his hut. Imagine the smell! The windows all shuttered, rags stuffed in every chink? They say the house smelled so bad that Blue Jorg's dog kept running away, and Jorg would drag him back inside—the poor animal with his paws splayed out, whining and yapping. Well, last night Jorg was at Gert's.”

“The spooky alewife with those hideous teeth? ”

“Exactly. Snag-toothed, wall-eyed Gert. Horrible creature.”

“I've heard that she's a witch. Ouch!”

Anna had cut herself on a sharp-edged willow. She popped the bleeding finger into her mouth, and Martin crossed himself and chuckled.

“Careful what you say about Gert! Maybe she
is
a witch. Anyway, Gert wanted to be rid of stinking Blue Jorg, so she offered him a free ale, but only if he promised to drink it elsewhere. The old sot couldn't believe his good fortune. He stumbled home, but never made it inside. I'll bet he spilled his beer and tried to eat the beer-soaked snow. They found him frozen this morning. Stone dead. When they opened the door to drag his body inside, his dog shot out and ran down the street—no one has seen him again. The smell in the house was so bad, two men fainted, and one vomited all over the dead blue man.”

“That's a horrible tale, Martin!”

“Why? I wish I had seen the dog and the men this morning. You have to laugh. And it serves the drunk right. One less, now. Though they say they'll have to burn the house down. Why are you so sour?”

“I'm not sour. That's an awful story,” said Anna picking up her basket and weaving.

“You would think that.”

“I'm glad I don't see things your way. No one is ever good enough for you. Don't you ever feel sorry for anyone ? ”

“Sorry for a drunk?”

“Yes. Sorry for someone whose life is harder than yours.”

“I blame him for his own misfortune.”

“I don't think it's always about blame.”

“Well it is,” said Martin grimly. Then he asked, “Do you think it's a sin to be grateful for someone's else's sin?”

“What do you mean?” asked Anna, looking up at Martin, who turned and began prodding the fire with an iron poker.

“If you knew someone else had done something very wrong, but you were really glad that they had done it? Would that be a sin?” he asked, keeping his back to Anna.

“Maybe. I don't know,” she said, trying to figure out her cousin's real question.

“What
do
you know?” snarled Martin.

“Only that you're mean,” said Anna.

“Spare me, cousin. I've seen more of this world than you.”

“Yes, and it hasn't made you kinder.”

“What use is kindness? Good-bye, boggy Anna. I am off to my father's. We're fitting iron strakes on your father's cart wheels. That is, if we can get the forge hot enough.”

“I don't think I'll ever be warm again.”

“I've had enough of your whining. I've had enough of this boring, empty house. I want to join that holy war.”

“Not today, Martin,” called Anna, glad to be rid of him.

The next morning, on the twenty first day of January, the family went to church to celebrate St. Agnes's holy day. Father Rupert told the story of her life.

“When this pure Christian child refused the proposal of the son of a powerful pagan lord, the furious pagan lord stripped her and marched her, naked, to a brothel. As Agnes walked through the door, she was suddenly, miraculously, clothed in a robe of pure white silk. All the men who had come to this sinful house ran away. All except one, who scoffed at the miracle and insulted Agnes. As he lunged for her, he was struck blind by a bolt of white lightening. Agnes forgave him, and when she put her holy hand across his charred flesh, the burns disappeared and so did his blindness. But the people claimed she was a witch, and she was sentenced to die.”