“What treasures, Thomas!” she exclaimed, and he clapped his hands joyfully. Then Anna grabbed Thomas by his wrists and spun him round and round until they both fell to the ground, dizzy and laughing. Anna remembered watching her little cousin, lying on the ground, blinking up at the trees and waving his arms like the branches.
“You’re almost as stupid as he is,” snorted Margarete, who turned to help Elisabeth with her heavy basket.
All Anna had thought was how wonderfully Thomas could smile and laugh.
Sweet, hopeless, Thomas, she now thought. He’s ruined Elisabeth’s day.
Anna’s daydream was interrupted by Agnes who ordered her to fetch buckets of water while the men and boys began the butchering. But she was glad for the bloodless assignment. Martin’s old shirt fell below Thomas’s knees as he waddled happily behind her to the well. Returning to the house, Anna spotted Martin with his father and older brothers. He was barefoot and stripped down to his britches, killing animal after animal, bloody and exhilarated. She remembered a few years earlier when Martin had cried for weeks after his mother slaughtered a gosling who had followed him everywhere one summer.
How he has changed! she thought. But at least he’s forgotten Dieter’s teasing.
Last November, Anna recalled that Martin had been enraged when he had been forced to help her with the skinning.
“This is women’s work,” he complained.
“And when did you become a man? ” Agnes had replied.
He had worked in furious silence with Anna, scraping the hides clean of hair and fur, which was saved for brushes and for stiffening the clay used to build the walls of the houses. A tanner would turn the hides into leather for shoes and clothing. At least this year Martin is working with the men, thought Anna.
For the rest of the day and in the days that followed, Anna often worked with Margaret and Elisabeth. They poured blood collected from the slaughtered pigs into boiling pans of oats and barley that hissed and then coagulated into black puddings. They boiled hooves to make jelly and saved horns for Uncle Karl who would carve them into spoons and cups. They made needles from bones and turned bladders into flasks. They helped Agnes salt meats that they hung from the rafters to cure slowly over the always smoking hearth. Later, the meat would be left to dry, hanging from beams, out of reach of the mice or worse. By the end of November, the rafters of both houses were decked with salted and smoked meats, hams, and sausages. Corners were cluttered with baskets of barley and rye and nuts. Wheels of cheese were wrapped in dried leaves and straw and stacked in the lofts. Everything was readied for the long cold, merciless winter.
Aunt Agnes was preoccupied with the work of these winter preparations. Anna spent much of her time watching and distracting little Thomas, finding tasks for him, redoing most of what he did. Though she criticized everything Anna did, Agnes seemed entirely unaware of Thomas. Nothing he did brought any response from her. She spoke no words to him or about him. It was as though he had ceased to exist.
7
THE WOODS
November 15, 1095
An early snow had dusted the fields and now swirled in the cold wind of the shortened afternoons. Martin and Gunther were preparing to depart after dinner, for they always on the road in the final weeks of the harvest season. Since sunrise, Anna had been helping make sausages. Elisabeth chopped and pounded scraps of meat and stirred in salt and bits of fennel and sage. Anna stuffed this claylike mixture into cleaned lengths of pig intestine that Margarete tied with strings made of sinew. As they blanched these sausages in a cauldron and hung them on a rope high above the smoky hearth, Anna sang a song she had learned from Martin. She had a surprisingly deep, rich singing voice that even Agnes had to admit she enjoyed.
While the girls made sausages, Agnes fussed about the midday meal. She set out fresh roast pork seasoned with mustard and garlic and a milk pudding of boiled grains and currants and stewed pears. The family treated the meal as a celebration for Elisabeth because her day had been ruined and for Martin who had been on the road with Gunther on his saint’s feast day. Karl gave Elisabeth a splendid horn drinking cup on which he had carved snowdrops, and her older brothers gave her a new knife with a polished bone handle. Karl took her old knife to save for Thomas. Karl gave Martin a handsome shepherd’s horn pipe to replace the one Martin had lonst in the summer. He was delighted and immediately put it to his lips and entertained the family with a quick and cheeful song.
“That was a feast of a dinner, dear wife,” said Karl patting his stomach.
Gunther thanked Agnes and rose from the table.
“Come Martin, we must be off now. It’s a fine afternoon, but we should begin, or it will be dark before we reach Worms. The days are short now.”
“God speed Gunther,” said Agnes, pushing herself from the table and stretching her arms above her head. “How lucky they are to get out of this smoke-filled house. Well, Karl, before the snow traps me in the house, perhaps I will go out, too.”
“Go? Agnes where will you go? ” asked Karl.
“For a walk. Perhaps I’ll gather the last of the nuts.”
“Dear woman, there are no nuts left to find. And the woods will be empty.”
“I have had a week of blood-letting and sausage-filling. My own stomach is fuller than a sausage casing, as over-filled as one of Anna’s ill-made links.” She glanced scornfully at Anna.
Anna said nothing, but Lukas, who was sitting at her side, took her hand beneath the table.
“Go and breathe some clean air. There’s still a good amount of sun today,” said Karl.
“I’ll take Thomas home with me,” said Anna.
Agnes glowered at her, “No. I will take the boy.”
“Take the dog as well,” said Karl.
“I shall.”
“Do not go deep into the woods,” he added.
“Am I a fool?”
“No, you’re a trying woman, but a matchless cook. Wrap the boy well. It’s very cold. Our Thomas shall be glad to go with you,” said Karl, raking his fingers through the pale silk hair of his youngest son.
Agnes fitted Thomas with his warmest things; she wrapped him in an extra woolen shirt and tied a fur-covered skin across his back and shoulders, and they were off. Thomas could not contain his joy. He was leaving with his mother, who often scared him into tears, but whom he loved dearly.
As they wended through the town gate and off beyond the fields, the sun was already low, and the shadows were long. The ground was patched with snow where the trees were thickest, and the brooks and pools of water had the thin white skins of ice Thomas loved to shatter.
Anna never believed the rest of the story that Aunt Agnes told when only she and Gray returned that evening. Agnes said they found little to collect in the woods, but of course the season was late. Her basket was light, filled mostly with the twigs and pebbles and useless rubble Thomas had gathered. Still, the weather was clear and fine, and the boy seemed pleased. By midafternoon she sat him down for a rest and a small biscuit before they were to head back. As they finished eating, she said she noticed that Thomas had something clenched in his small fist. When Agnes grabbed his hand, he struggled and broke free. And then she saw two loose and very poisonous mushrooms next to where he had been sitting.
She feared he still had more. She chased him, yelling at him not to eat them, trying to grab them back. He, half laughing at this game of chase and half terrified that she was once again angry, scampered off.
When Agnes returned home, it was dark. She was dirty, and her knee was bleeding. Karl covered her with a bear-skin and blankets and placed her near the fire, rubbing her hands and trying to calm her shivers. Her gulping, broken, sob-filled story stunned the family.
“I was running after Thomas, yelling at him to stop. He just kept going. The child is so clumsy, and yet he can be fast.” Agnes looked to Karl who nodded. She continued, “The light was dim, and I was watching only him, and I fell. There must have been a log or a root, or s
omething, and I fell to the ground, and though I cried out in pain, he never looked back. I tried to get up, but I was light-headed, and at first my foot wouldn’t bear my weight, and the pain— the pain was—I was crying, thinking I might never get up, and there was Gray who knew I was hurt. Licking my tears. A stupid dog knew more than the boy.”
Agnes coughed, and Karl handed her a mug of ale that she sipped. She wet her lips several times, watching Karl. He looked dazed. Agnes continued.
“ ‘Go find the boy! ’ I yelled, but Gray stayed by me. Finally I found that I could stand and limp, but by then I had lost all sight of Thomas. I yelled. I screamed. I could feel the wetness of my own blood on my leg. Gray and I stumbled about looking for any sign of his path. I called. I prayed he would come to my voice. The pain in my foot was nothing to my heart’s pain. But the light was fading, so I headed home for help. I could hardly walk myself. He is lost. Dear Lord, help us, the boy is lost.”
By then, it was altogether night with only the sliver of a moon and no hope of finding the child in the dark forest, nor much hope that his little body would survive the cold or worse in the night. Anna pleaded with everyone to go and search, but it was too dark and too dangerous. So she prayed that he had crawled into a hole or under a log and burrowed in for safety and warmth, or that some kind soul had found him and would care for him.
Who but a wolf (or worse) would be in the woods at night? And what would a stranger do with a child unable to say his name? thought Anna.
No night had ever been so long. Before daybreak they were all in the woods, searching the whole day and the next as well. Friends joined. No trace of Thomas was found. Lukas and Anna would not give up. They searched day after day, eventually only hoping to find the little boy’s body for burial.
Lukas sat on a stool by Anna’s hearth, staring at the flames. A tall young man, knotted up by sorrow and confusion, he rested his chin on his knees.
“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
December 25, 1095
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 Gu
nther.
“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
January 20, 1096
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.
The Silver Cup Page 4
