The Silver Cup Read Free

who talked more than all his brothers combined, lived and traveled with Gunther, learning the roads and the trade. Martin brought noise to their very quiet household.
    â€œWhat are you dreaming about Anna? ” said Martin holding up his mug for more ale. “Jewish riches? You’d love their silks—colors as bright as bluebells and poppies, dandelions and violets. From the East, they bring splendid furs—softer and much warmer than the best rabbit.” Then Martin leaned forward and added menacingly, “I’ve also heard that they steal children and sell them to the dark-skinned Arabs.”
    Gunther protested, “That is untrue.”
    â€œBut they trade in slaves.”
    â€œYes, but so do others,” sighed Gunther. “Anyway, I’ve only seen them selling pagan Slav people from the East. The Jews don’t steal children.”
    â€œI’ve heard stories, Uncle.”
    â€œYou’ve heard tales,” corrected Gunther.
    â€œI’ve seen their tails, Uncle,” Martin said with a wicked grin.
    â€œClever and impossible boy.”
    Gunther rose and went into the house. When he returned to the garden, he handed Martin the small wooden box and said, “I have a new commission for your father from a rich Jewish merchant. Three knife blades for this.”
    Martin slipped the small latch; inside he found cinnamon bark, cardamom seedpods, and dried buds of clove. He raised his eyebrows and gave the box to Anna who carefully lifted each spice and held it gently under her nose, closing her eyes.
    â€œThis must be what heaven smells like,” said Anna holding a piece of cinnamon.
    â€œClose the box,” said Martin, rolling his eyes and taking the box back. “ This surely is not heaven.”
    â€œNo,” said Anna glumly. Then she brightened and added, “But when your mother cooks with these treasures, we’ll eat as well as the angels in heaven. That is, of course, unless you’re afraid to eat the Jew’s spices!”

3
    AGNES
    September 21, 1095
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Anna awakened before her father or her cousin, to the caw of crows and the sweetness of wood smoke seeping through the shutters and beneath the door. The earthen floor was cool, powdery soft under her feet, as she moved about the dim room. She raked the ashes, added twigs and straw, and blew the embers on the hearth. Soon a curl of smoke was threading its way from the stones on the floor, up through the hole at the peak of the roof. She unfastened the oak door and shutters to let in light and the freshness of the September morning. The household stirred with the new day.
    As Anna stood blinking at the pearl sky from the opened door, she was greeted by her aunt, who was already returning to her adjoining house with two full buckets of water, sloshing, but not spilling a drop.
    â€œSo you’re awake finally, Anna? The Lord grants you another day, and you squander his light? ”
    â€œGood morning, Aunt Agnes.”
    Anna smiled at her aunt, ducked back inside, and waited for her to pass. Aunt Agnes has to be the most perfect and the most unpleasant woman anywhere, she thought. Six years earlier, the newly motherless Anna had been added to her aunt’s responsibilities, and Aunt Agnes had stepped into the duties of motherhood but not the caring.
    Aunt Agnes was ten years older than Anna’s mother, and within a month of Anna’s mother’s death, she gave birth to Thomas, her seventh child. Everyone said it was a miracle. Her straw-colored hair was laced with white, and she squinted and struggled to thread a needle, yet she had found herself with child for the seventh time. No woman had ever survived seven births. Everyone believed Agnes was blessed. She already had four strapping sons and two beautiful daughters, but baby Thomas was not like the four older sons. When her sister died and when Thomas was not perfect, poor Agnes felt something she had never experienced: the