The Silver Cup

by Constance Leeds

  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.”

  Margarete nudged Anna who stood next to her in church, “Mother would have left him blind, burned, and suffering,” she whispered.

  Anna giggled and asked her cousin why St. Agnes was the patron saint of unmarried girls. Margarete shrugged and said, “Who knows? But Mother loves her feast day. And so do I.”

  Every girl loved the traditions of this day. Unmarried girls would fast the day before St. Agnes’s holy day, eating nothing but one salted egg. That night, on the Eve of St. Agnes, each girl was supposed see the face of her future husband in her dreams. Anna had fasted for the past two years but never had a vision. This year was no different. After the service, the family gathered to celebrate.

  “Anna, who did you dream of ? ” asked Elisabeth, who was helping her mother while Karl and his sons were setting the table boards in place for the feast.

  “I had no dream,” answered Anna.

  “Poor Cousin! Again this year? ” remarked Margarete, a bit too gleefully Anna thought.

  “Have you considered that these dreamless nights just might be your fate? No husband? ” asked Agnes.

  Anna looked at her aunt and wondered if she would ever hear a kind word from this sister of her mother. Meanwhile Elisabeth looked horrified. Uncle Karl began to laugh.

  “That’s not a worry for our Anna. You’ll have a handsome husband. Your aunt is just having fun with you,” Karl said. “We shall have trouble deciding who is good enough for you.”

  “I hope so! But husband or no husband, fasting has made me very hungry. And this feast looks matchless. I love food better than anything,” added Anna cheerfully.

  “Better than a husband? ” asked Elisabeth.

  “I may never know,” said Anna, laughing and taking her seat next to Lukas.

  The table was laid with steaming lamb sausages and a pot of yellow turnips, red beets, and green leeks studded with black raisins. It was a meal and a morning filled with rare color and abundance, a break from the cold and stingy times. But the cheer ended when Lukas offered a blessing.

  “Dear Lord, we are thankful for all that we have, but do not let us forget our little brother, Thomas. Please
keep him safe with you in heaven and forgive—”

  Agnes interrupted. “Yes, yes, we’ll pray for his poor unburied soul each and every day, but this isn’t a day for sadness. It’s my day. Thomas is gone, and we’re all better off. Here on earth, the winters are long. His was another mouth to feed, and hands that would never earn. And when Thomas was your size, Lukas, would you have cleaned his soiled britches? I think not.”

  Lukas said nothing. The meal became silent. Anna looked anywhere but at her aunt.

  10

  BAD FEET, BAD TIMES

  February 27, 1096

  “A sleeping person eats nothing, so the shorter the day, the better.” Anna had heard her aunt say these words countless times. By late winter, the cupboards were bare, and meals were especially meager. Even the barn animals went hungry, for hay and oats were used with stingy care. Each grain of food was treasured. Anna was tired of porridge and dried peas, but she knew that when she complained she sounded like the weak and greedy girl Agnes said she was. Still, sometimes she would just blurt out her complaints. Then Martin would insult her, and her father would look disappointed. Anna smoothed her threadbare, patched kirtle and wondered if there would ever be a good time to ask her father for some cloth. Certainly not in the winter, and by February, winter seemed permanent.

  Anna was helping her father patch the cracks and the holes in the daub walls of the house. It was easy work, and she was glad to spend time with him, without Martin, who was off with Dieter. They mixed dirt and straw and animal hair and stirred in manure and water until they had a paste. Gunther carved away the wall where it had softened and exposed the basket work structure.

  “Anna, give me some water. This is too thick,” he said as he began to smear the mixture into the wall.

  “Here, Father,” said Anna, passing a steaming basin. “It smells awful.”

  “It keeps out the cold,” said Gunther reproachfully.

  “Father, do you think I’m sinful? I know I should be so glad for all that we have. But it’s hard to be glad of anything in February.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m so tired of the dark. All winter, our house is shut so tight. There’s no light except the hearth and maybe a sputtering flame from a reed floating in a dish of foul-smelling old fish oil.”

  “I think you are beginning to sound sinful.”

  “The smell chokes me. The oil smokes, the hearth smokes, and my eyes tear. I can barely see this work. When I walk outside, I am blinded by daylight.”

  “Anna, it’s winter for everyone. Not just you.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. But I hate the darkness.”

  “Hand me the knife.”

  “Here. Father, there’s another thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Worse than anything is the smell of Martin’s feet. You say nothing, but you must be glad when Martin leaves. If Martin removes his shoes, our whole house goes sour. I’ve seen his cracked toes: his nails are thick and yellow, and the skin of his soles is peeling away. It must be painful. But the smell takes my breath away.”

  “Now, there you have a just complaint. Yesterday it was so bad, that we both had to laugh, and your cousin’s face turned red.”

  Gunther laughed, and Anna looked at him. He never laughs, and here he is, laughing at Martin. For a moment, winter melted.

  Anna continued. “He’s not one to laugh at himself, but no one is quicker to laugh at others. Remember how he was with Thomas?”

  “Martin worked harder than anyone to teach that child to walk,” said Gunther.

  “Yes. I remember that. And he used to try to get Thomas to say words. But not at the end.”

  “Thomas was never going to learn. That was hard for Martin.”

  “He was awful to Thomas.”

  “Martin’s proud, like Agnes. Their standards are high.”

  “Too high, I think. Now he says he’ll be a soldier in the holy war. A knight someday.”

  “Martin?” Gunther shook his head.

  “He’s mean enough!”

  Anna saw her father frown and knew that she had gone too far.

  “Enough, Anna! You have cause to complain of his feet. I’ll talk to his mother. She is as skilled at healing as cooking.”

  After Gunther spoke to Agnes, she gave Martin dried marigold flowers and horsetail grass. Each evening, he soaked his feet in scalding water with some petals and grasses. He began to keep dried thyme leaves in his shoes. Soon, everyone was more comfortable, and they began to enjoy Martin’s tales of the knights who were gathering to fight the Pope’s holy war.

  As the month ended, the sun finally began to warm, and the wind softened. There were still snowy nights, and some mornings Anna would wake to find fresh, new snow to fill the buckets with and melt for water. By night the fallen snow lay gray with ash, soiled by passing animals and all that was tossed from the houses. But those mornings, she would have good clean water that she did not have to carry far. Their cow had calved toward the end of January, and there was milk. Sometimes she made a custard of the milk and egg yolks, and once, Gunther even said that Anna’s custard was as fine as the one her mother used to make. Often, he and Uncle Karl would hunt in the forest. Anna always prayed that they would have luck, for then they would have fresh meat.

  After one very good day, Gunther returned, his wind-chapped face brightened, and he gave Anna the skins from two large hares. Anna could make herself a warm shawl of the soft fur. When her father was lucky in the forest, it was easier to see how lucky they were.

  “Hey cousin, I hope you saved the blood of those hares,” said Martin one evening after a hunt.

  “For what?”

  “I’ve heard that a coating of hare’s blood will fade freckles. You should try it.”

  “Too bad hare’s blood can’t fix your rotten nature!” replied Anna furiously.

  11

  NOBLE COUSINS

  March 5, 1096

  A discouraging sleet prickled the thatch, glazing the house and spoiling the hope of spring. Anna was using the hearth light to darn her stocking yet again, when Martin returned with a damp sack slung over his shoulder. His head and face were slick from the cold rain, and as he rubbed his red hands over the fire, stomping his feet and shaking his wet curls, he said to Anna, “That’s bad luck, Cousin.”

  “What is?”

  “You should never sew anything while a person is wearing it.”

  “Well, I’m sure I stepped out of bed on my left foot this morning. I killed a spider yesterday. So I’m to blame for this miserable weather and my stupid stockings and anything else that goes wrong today,” said Anna angrily.

  “Whoa, enough! I have a treat from Mother’s storage,” said Martin, producing two heads of cabbage from the sack. “She said cabbage will help your father’s stiff knees. I hope it will fix your bad temper as well, Cousin. I’m off to the tanner now, but I’ll look forward to a fine dinner.” Martin slammed the door and was gone.

  Maybe today will turn out all right after all, she thought as she peeled the cabbage heads. There is still some rabbit meat and now this fresh cabbage. I can finally make a meal that will please everyone.

  Although the outside cabbage leaves were dark and spotted with black, Anna found the insides bright and fresh. She shredded the cabbages into pale green ribbons that she slipped into a simmering caldron of ale and water. When the cabbage was soft and wilted, she lugged the heavy pot to the table and began sifting in bits of salt. Anna hummed as she worked.

  There was a clatter of horses and voices. The door was flung wide by two boys. They were older than Anna and dressed in fine blue tunics trimmed at the sleeves with gray fur. With dread, Anna recognized her noble cousins, Magnus and Wilhelm.

  “Why look, it’s our bastard cousin,” snarled Magnus, the younger boy.

  “Hard at peasant work. It stinks in here,” added Wilhelm, wrinkling his nose. “Where is Gunther? ”

  “What do you want? ” asked Anna.

&nbs
p; “How rude! You ugly little wretch, where is your father, the famed swordsman and peasant groom? ” barked Magnus.

  Anna continued to stir the cabbage, “He’ll be back shortly.”

  Wilhelm advanced toward Anna. He pinned her wrists to the table with one hand and grabbed her hair with his other, pulling hard, snapping her head back. Anna cried out.

  “Quiet or I’ll cut you,” said Magnus, who flashed a small, mean dagger and grinned. “What do you think our little squab looks like under her grime and rags? ”

  Wilhelm began to giggle nervously. Anna jerked her head, and turning quickly, she clamped her teeth into Wilhelm’s soft flesh. He screamed and released her. Yelping and clutching his bruised wrist, Wilhelm jumped away from Anna.

  The door swung open a second time.

  “Lord Wilhelm, Lord Magnus,” said Uncle Karl, flanked by his two massive sons from the forge. “I see you have mistaken your uncle’s house for the forge.”

  “We don’t make mistakes, smith,” snapped Magnus. “We’ve come for swords.”

  “The girl is mad,” Wilhelm rubbed his wrist.

  “Our horses need water. We rode them hard,” said Magnus, ignoring his brother.

  “Of course, my lord. Just the next doorway, we’ll see to your weapons and your horses.” Karl held the door for the boys who swept past without further notice of Anna.

  When Martin returned shortly, he had already heard of Anna’s incident with her other cousins.

  “You bit one of them? ” asked Martin, wide eyed, amused, and surprised.

  “Wilhelm. He grabbed me by my hair, and that horrid Magnus had a knife, and they said they would cut me,” said Anna, trying to blink away tears.

  “They wouldn’t dare.”

  “How do you know? They insulted Father. They called me their bastard cousin.”

  “Of course! They’ve never recognized your father’s marriage. That would make you a bastard.”