The Silver Cup

by Constance Leeds

  Anna loved Uncle Karl. There was no one better than him, no smith, no father, no man. When Anna’s grandmother bore only a daughter, her grandfather the smith looked about town for an apprentice. He chose Karl, a village boy in his ninth year, with hands already as big as hams and shoulders to match. Karl was born to be a blacksmith. He had become a master craftsman, and so he married the blacksmith’s elder daughter, Agnes.

  But Uncle Karl’s real love was the making of bells. Though his bells were small and simple, and of wrought iron, the sounds were a source of wonder—some deep and almost moaning, some high pitched and tender. Karl would work and hammer and file and shave, searching for the sound, a tone. He claimed that each bell had a voice and a soul, and so every bell would be given a name.

  Anna arrived just as her uncle finished his latest bell.

  “Come Anna, sit with me. The forge is warm like a summer afternoon. What’s in the bundle? ”

  Anna slid the handles to her uncle and pulled a stool next to the bench where he worked.

  Karl nodded, “In my anger with Martin, I forgot the reason for my visit.”

  “I’m sorry, Uncle.”

  “You? Dear girl, you said nothing wrong.”

  Karl began to file the inside of the bell. The noise of iron scratching iron was painful, and Anna grimaced.

  Karl chuckled. “You know, if my sons were here working, we couldn’t talk at all. Can you imagine my storytelling Martin as a blacksmith? The forge is too loud and too dull for that son.”

  Anna agreed. Martin had never been like his blacksmith brothers, who were as quiet and diligent as he was noisy and restless.

  “Is that why he’s learning Father’s trade?” she asked.

  Karl nodded. “And Agnes thought two sons were enough for one forge.” He shrugged, “I suppose she was right. Two is enough—no matter how much trade your father brings. But if Martin can learn to be half as skilled at trading as your father and half as kind as you, he shall make me proud.”

  Anna rubbed her hands near the orange embers and felt her cheeks warm at her uncle’s compliment. Uncle Karl watched Anna blush, and he smiled sadly. “You’re so like your mother. If only she had lived.” Karl shook his head and put his file down. “Now listen to this bell. It’s a beautiful girl. What shall I call her?”

  Anna listened as her uncle gently shook the bell.

  “Elisabeth? For your beautiful first daughter?”

  “Pfff. We have a few of those already. And this bell is more than merely pretty. Listen to her once more.”

  Again Karl rang the bell.

  “There’s a sound after the ring, something almost behind the bell. Is that what you mean?

  “Yes, Anna,” said Karl putting his arm around Anna. “This bell has something more, something almost hidden in its voice, a stronger deeper sound.”

  “I need more time to think of a name for this bell, Uncle.”

  “I don’t. I’ve already picked a name. I shall call her Anna. Pretty, of course, but there is something more to it. Just as there is something more to you, Anna. I hear it. And someday, so will your father.”

  5

  FIRST FROST

  October 26, 1096

  The days shortened. As beech leaves and bracken yellowed, the townspeople turned to the forest, fattening their pigs with the acorns and beechnuts that covered the ground. Fallen wood was gathered for the hearths, and the tall marsh grasses and rushes furnished thatch for roofs, coverings for floors, and feed for the animals when the other grains grew scarce. A few fields were planted with winter wheat and rye, but mostly it was a time to collect nuts and gather the hard-fleshed fruits and vegetables—the apples, pears and quinces, the parsnips and turnips. Grapes were harvested and crushed for wine. It was a busy time, for if people ever had goods to spare, it was in the fall. Martin and Gunther would travel to the many harvest fairs in the towns along the River. Anna’s days were full, helping her aunt and her cousins collect and preserve, but nothing Anna did was ever good enough for Agnes.

  Today, she was exhausted and sore from a very long day of picking apples.

  “Your kirtle is filthy, and there is another hole in your stocking. You’re a disgrace to this family,” hissed Agnes. “I have sweet cider for your father. Wait here with Thomas,” she said, hurrying out to the garden where she had been pressing apples.

  Anna was too weary to care, so she sat by the hearth and pulled at her stocking thread. When she looked up, she saw Thomas struggling to pull a honey jug from the shelf. She rushed to grab him, but he already had the jug in his hands. It was too large and too heavy, and he dropped it, smashing the crockery and spilling its golden treasure. Agnes, Margarete, and Elisabeth rushed from the garden, and when the girls saw the ruined honey, they cried.

  Honey was as valuable as gold. Each winter Agnes wove a new hive, a skep, from willow branches and hazel wood sticks. Her skeps were tight and smooth, each as big as a sheep. In the spring, she would set her skep in the garden, under the fruit trees. One skep could yield more than a man’s weight in honey. A fortune.

  When Agnes saw the ruined honey, her face was blank, and she said nothing. Silently she handed Anna a bladder filled with cider. Elisabeth sobbed, while Margarete began to scream at her little brother. Aunt Agnes said nothing at all. She was as silent as a killing frost. Anna hurried from the house.

  Anna tried to forget her disastrous day that evening as she sat by a cozy fire, brimming with the sweet smell of roasting fruit and chestnuts. She and Martin cooked apples on sticks while he recreated the people and places he and Gunther had seen along the Rhine.

  “On the way to Speyer, we stopped in Worms and delivered the knives to those rich Jews,” he said.

  “Did you see the girl and her brothers? ” asked Anna.

  “Yes. When your father and I were shown into their hall, the girl and her mother were talking to a wine grower who displayed two huge baskets of grapes. I’ve never seen so many grapes, and her mother was sifting fussily through the fruit and talking to the girl in their strange tongue. Laughing and chattering like squirrels. Then her father, the spice merchant, appeared with his sons dressed like little princes to examine our knives. He and his sons yammered to themselves and with the girl. Lord knows what they were saying! But he said he would have more ironwork from us. And well he can afford it. What a house he has! Never have I seen such riches. The room had a stone floor with a woolen carpet of red and green and blue, more like a garden than a floor covering. And there were polished wooden chests and benches with silk-covered cushions. Jakob must be either a thief or a magician: no man lives like that. Not even King Heinrich.”

  “Didn’t you think the girl was pretty? ”

  “Pretty? Those monsters are never pretty. It’s an enchantment ! ” exclaimed Martin, as he and Anna nicked the tops of a handful of chestnuts and rolled them toward the outside edge of the glowing coals.

  “I wish I could have spent the day in Worms,” sighed Anna, rubbing her aching shoulders and remembering her miserable day.

  With his knife, Martin fished out a roasted chestnut for himself and another one that he rolled toward his cousin.

  “Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be someone else,” said Anna.

  “What are you talking about, Anna? ”

  “I wonder what it would be like to be that girl we saw. She had the most beautiful dress, and she looked so happy with her father and her brothers.”

  Martin rolled his eyes. “Have lost your reason? She’s a Jew! Do you want to burn in hell?”

  “No, of course not. But don’t you ever think about a different life? ”

  Martin was quiet. For once, he responded with a silent single nod.

  “I even wonder what it would be like to be Elisabeth,” said Anna, lost in her own daydreams.

  “My beautiful but very dull sister? She talks of nothing but her wedding,” said Martin, spraying Anna with sticky nut crumbs as he spoke and chewed.

  “I l
ove to listen. And Johann is—”

  “Also boring,” scowled Martin. “At least he’s rich. But soft.”

  “You’re all noise and nonsense, Martin,” said Anna wiping her face and leaning away.

  “You’re all dreams, Anna. So, who’s to be your husband ? ”

  “I wish I knew. Father gives it no thought, ” Anna said with a sigh.

  “No. You’re wrong there. What do they say? Wedding clothes are soon a young bride’s shroud?”

  “I know well the cost of childbearing,” said Anna, thinking of her mother.

  “Yes, and so does he. You needn’t worry. Mother will find husbands for all the tiresome girls in the family.”

  “And wives for your brothers? Who ever will she find for you, Martin?”

  “I’ll find my own wife when I am ready. But I am sure my mother will find someone for our Anna.”

  “Your mother thinks I am worthless.”

  Martin shook his head and laughed. “She thinks everyone is worthless, even Father sometimes, but she brags about your father’s noble blood. Anyway, she has dull Elisabeth well matched with our miller’s son. Next she’ll wed nasty Margarete to the widowed carpenter.”

  “The one who’s already buried two wives?”

  “Exactly! He has collected two dowries. Then Mother will turn to you. She’ll have no one left to worry over. Except of course for Thomas, who shall never marry. You come before him, surely. Just ahead of our dog.”

  “You’re so filled with kindness and comfort, dear cousin.”

  “And little else. I wish you could cook.”

  “I’m learning. But with all the cleaning—”

  “Cleaning? I bet you lie about this house most days. It’s a sorry place, as dirty as that smear of freckles on your face. The only thing I’m ever filled with is lice, dear cousin, thanks to you. You are all whining and no work. You’re nothing but a drappling slug!” said Martin, fiercely scratching his head and his armpit in mock discomfort.

  Anna puffed out her cheeks and batted a blistering chestnut into Martin’s lap. He yelped.

  “ You’re as worthless as Thomas,” said Martin storming out of the house.

  I hope I am luckier than Thomas. Poor Thomas, thought Anna sadly, remembering the ruined honey.

  At first, Thomas had seemed like early spring sunshine. He had been a lovely baby, with gold, feathery hair like a new chick and the round face of an angel. For a time, Aunt Agnes’s luck had seemed as perfect as her life, but the weeks and months yielded a different truth. Thomas was sickly, always coughing and sneezing. He grew slowly and did not thrive as her other babies had.

  “He’ll be fine. Just give him time,” Karl would say.

  But time only made it clearer: Thomas was different, late in everything except his smile and his laughter. By his third summer, he was still crawling, and his mother was troubled by him, annoyed both by the things he did and by those he could not do. When he finally learned to walk, Agnes did not celebrate. She complained of his clumsiness. She had the other six children plus Anna to care for, and there was Thomas who still needed to be watched like a much younger child.

  Agnes had no patience for Thomas’s games. Joyfully chasing her chickens, Thomas was delighted by the screeching hens and never understood the mess he created, nor the eggs that were lost. He would tumble over the sow, covering himself in wallow, squealing like an indignant piglet when Agnes grabbed him. He would tease Karl’s favorite dog, Gray, who was named for his coat. Gray tolerated Thomas and would let him roll over his back and even snatch food from his mouth. To most, Gray seemed more wolf than dog, but not to Thomas. Sometimes Thomas would sleep the night curled into Gray’s fur.

  Thomas never learned to speak a word; he just purred when he was happy and cried out when he wanted something or when he was hurt. Anna could see that Uncle Karl loved Thomas. With more than enough sons to help him in the forge, he never worried about what would become of this boy. Thomas loved to sit with his father, humming and rocking, his little head nuzzled into his father’s shoulder, peeking out at his brothers and sisters with his wide smile. But his mother had gone from impatient to angry, for Thomas was in his seventh fall, and Agnes needed to protect him and protect against him.

  Poor Thomas, thought Anna. He’s never had anything but bad luck.

  6

  BLOODY NOVEMBER

  November 5, 1095

  Iron bells sounded for mass on the morning of the fifth day of November, and more than the usual number of worshipers gathered in the gray stone church to celebrate the feast day of Saint Elisabeth, the much beloved mother of John the Baptist. Because the feast day of a namesake saint was celebrated instead of a birthday, this was Elisabeth’s day, and after church, Anna expected a wonderful meal at her aunt’s table. She gazed at Agnes, who entered the church clucking and prodding her children, fiercely proud of her large, handsome family, even of Thomas, scrubbed to a shine and as sweet as any young boy.

  The nave was cold and dusky, but the chancel glowed with sunlight from long, unglazed windows at its sides. The candlelit altar shimmered against the dimness in which the congregation stood. A full size carving of the dying Christ hung on a wooden crucifix that was suspended from the broad crossbeam over the altar.

  The church had no seating, and the milling congregation parted at the entrance of the procession. Two young boys entered, the first bearing a large polished bronze cross atop a long wooden staff. The second boy followed waving a censer of burning precious cedar wood, wafting the sweetness as he proceeded. Lukas and the elderly priest, Father Rupert, followed. The four sang for the length of the church, chanting in unison in one clear, beautiful, Latin voice. Anna shuddered as a puff of the fragrant incense momentarily replaced the stench of sour wet wool and greasy hair. The pure notes filled her to her spine, and then faded. The singers marched forward, and their song grew distant and echoed as they advanced from the crowded dark into the distant holy light.

  After a service in Latin with his back to the flock, Father Rupert turned to the congregation, each of whom he could call by name, and in the language of the people, he began to tell the story of Saint Elisabeth.

  “In the olden days, before the birth of our dear Lord, there was a woman born in Judea to the line of Aaron, an ancient line of Jewish priests, and a cousin of our blessed Virgin. Now this was before that despicable race became accursed, before they murdered our Lord. But that is another story for another time.”

  Martin poked Anna, and she thought of the silversmith and the pretty girl who had smiled.

  “In the Hebrew of that now dreaded race, Elisabeth meant ‘worshiper of god,’ and true to her name, Elisabeth, like her husband Zachary lived a blameless life. But though they were the best of people, their prayers for a child went unanswered and Elisabeth remained barren. Then, one day, long after he had given up hope, Zachary was in his synagogue, and the Archangel Gabriel appeared in his blinding glory.

  ‘Go, old man. Your prayers are answered. Elisabeth bears your son,’ said the angel.

  But Zachary did not believe the angel, and he was struck dumb.”

  Here the old priest clapped his hand hard against his mouth, and Anna gulped. He continued.

  “Indeed Gabriel had spoken the truth, for though Elisabeth’s hair was white, she was with child. When her holy cousin Mary came to visit, Elisabeth’s unborn babe leapt for joy in her womb, for Elisabeth’s babe would be John the—”

  Suddenly the priest stopped, interrupted by gushing, the sound of water hitting the stone floor, echoing throughout the church. In the priest’s silence, the congregation inhaled, and in the void, there was only a trickling sound from Thomas who had wet himself, soaking his leather britches and his stockings. Agnes grabbed her child and dragged him from the church. Thomas began to wail. Some neighbors laughed, and some murmured in sympathy or disapproval.

  Anna hurried to catch Martin who quickly left church as soon as the service ended. She overheard his friend Dieter
and another boy call to him. Martin turned, and as he walked toward his friends, a third boy put out his foot and tripped him. Dieter and the two boys pounced on Martin.

  “Hold still Martin! We’re just checking your britches,” said Dieter with a laugh.

  The boy who had tripped Martin added, “Let’s see if you’re wet like your brother.”

  Martin squirmed and rolled and shook off his tormentors. Dusting himself off, he walked silently toward home. Anna held back and worried. Poor Thomas. If Agnes doesn’t beat him, Martin will. It was a sad and terrible turn of what should have been a merry day for the family.

  The feast of Saint Elisabeth was supposed to be one of the last bright occasions in Bloody November, the hateful month when most animals had to be butchered. Only a few of the strongest would be spared to share the precious stores of grain over the winter. Anna hated November. She had come to know each pig by his temper, each calf by his name, and each sheep and goat by his coat. She did everything she could to avoid the killing. But now Anna even dreaded the family dinner as she walked slowly toward her uncle’s home.

  There she found Thomas alone outside the door, bewildered and sobbing. She led him to the garden and helped him out of his wet clothes and put him in a shirt Martin had outgrown. The little boy twirled around in circles, happy again.

  “Oh Thomas! Do you understand anything? ” she asked.

  Agnes was angry so there was no celebration for Elisabeth’s day. A simple dinner in silence followed the service, leaving the afternoon for the more bloody tasks of November. If only it were still October, thought Anna. She had spent many pleasant October days with the whole family in the forest, collecting nuts and fallen wood. During the silent meal, Anna remembered the last breezy, clear afternoon when, after filling two heavy baskets with beechnuts, acorns, and chestnuts, she had rested and watched Thomas. He ran laughing to Margarete, trying to hand her his basket. Margarete ignored her little brother, so Anna grabbed him and praised his work, a basket full of pine cones, pebbles, and twigs.