Zel Page 3

  It seems everyone wants to pay Zel today. Town is a place of give and take. But Mother has enough money for their town needs. And what would Zel do with money on the alm? “I’ll come again in winter. If I can be of use, that will be payment enough.”

  Mother arrives, her sack full. She looks sharply at the smith. “Come now, Zel. We mustn’t be a bother.”

  The smith shakes his head. “No bother.” He looks as if he would say more, but Mother’s eye is unmistakable: His words are unwelcome.

  Zel is annoyed at Mother’s protectiveness. Her first venture alone in town was fabulous. “I have to wait.” She chooses her words for the most effect: “Someone is coming with a gift for me.”

  “A gift?” Mother speaks slowly. Her tone shows her displeasure. “What kind of gift?”

  “A goose egg.” Zel laughs at her own words. She hopes Mother’s irritation will melt away, just as her own has. “A fertilized one.”

  Mother nods. “A gift for the goose, then, not really for you.”

  “You don’t have to wait.” The smith looks at Mother nervously. And now the mare turns a yellow, wary eye. The smith says, “When the egg comes, I’ll save it for you. You can stop by and get it on your way home this afternoon.”

  “But it must stay warm.” Zel clasps her hands together.

  The smith looks at Zel’s face. His own softens a bit. “Warm as a mother goose’s bottom, eh?” He points at her with a finger callous from work. “I’ll keep it safe.”

  Zel has no choice but to trust him. “Thank you.”

  Mother offers a hand to Zel. She smiles. “I guess this is a day for gifts.”

  The smith raises a brow.

  “It’s my birthday on the sixth,” says Zel, suddenly thrilled at the thought. But, in fact, giving the egg to the goose will be more wonderful than getting the papers and ink Zel knows are in Mother’s sack.

  “Let’s go find the farmer who sells that lettuce you love so much.” Mother wiggles the fingers of the extended hand.

  “Oh, yes.” Zel has a taste for a lettuce with small, round leaves that a traveling peddler once gave her. After that, whenever they came to the market, she sought it out and always from the same farmer, who calls her by name. She has asked Mother to grow this lettuce, but Mother refuses, without explanation. Zel can’t wait to make a salad of it tonight.

  Maybe today she’ll ask the farmer for seeds so that next spring she can grow it herself. It’s time she tended a garden. After all, in not too many years she’ll be making salad for her own children.

  And she must find that oxen cart that was covered with the oilskin and gaze upon its now revealed treasures. And she must listen for the melon crier. And she must drink from the well at the edge of the marketplace as she always does while Mother leans against the huge iron rock beside it. And she must gawk at the flower-bedecked central fountain. And she must visit the cheese-maker to see the giant copper pot where the milk scalds. And, oh, there’s so much to do.

  Zel brushes Mother’s hand without taking it as she leaves the smithy. She reaches into her pocket and draws out the licorice stick. She puts it in the side of her mouth and chews. The taste of market day enthralls her.

  Chapter 4Konrad

  hot goose egg. Konrad finds himself running. His feet are happy. He has met a remarkable girl, the friend of a goose, an enchantress of horses, who bakes bread heavy with molasses and looks at him with eyes dark and glowing.

  As Konrad passes the printer’s shop, the smell of leather and parchment makes him laugh for no reason. He shouts a greeting to the barber surgeon who extracted his father’s brown tooth and replaced it with an ivory one last fall. The man waves in a rush, his hand aglitter with rings.

  Konrad spins around and knocks into a woman coming out of the house of the scribe. Her bag falls to the ground. He picks it up, apologizes, races off. Faster, past all the bustling crowds. The whole world seems to rush, caught in errands, but none so wondrous as Konrad’s.

  Konrad arrives at the castle stables and there’s Franz, rubbing oil into a saddle. “Franz!”

  Franz blinks into the sunlight. “Yes, sire?”

  Konrad imagines himself placing the egg in the girl’s hands and the gratitude on her face. He can do it quickly, a little thing, a gallant gesture. “I need a goose egg.”

  Franz blinks again. “You’re hungry? The midday meal will be within the hour.”

  “It’s not for . . .” Konrad stops. He realizes he doesn’t want to explain to Franz that he’s on an errand for a mere country girl. “I need a goose egg.” He circles Franz, then stops by the saddle and drums his fingers.

  Franz moves his chin in and out. He reminds Konrad of a turtle. “We don’t keep geese.”

  “I know that.” Of course Konrad knows that.

  “But we’ve got chickens. I can get you a big chicken egg if that’ll do.”

  “That won’t do at all.” The girl would never accept a chicken egg. Konrad’s hands are now combing through his hair. He spins and looks out over the town toward the lake. “Maybe there’s a wild goose nest hereabouts?”

  “Wild geese have already hatched their broods.”

  Of course that’s so. The edge of the lake has had clusters of goslings for weeks now. Even Konrad, immersed in his lessons, has noticed that. The girl has tricked Konrad. She asked for a deceptively simple gift—and he arrogantly assured her he’d get it—but it’s impossible to find. Does she take him for a fool?

  “Annette could cook you up a dozen eggs.” Franz pats Konrad’s arm. “Go in the kitchen, sire.”

  Konrad remembers the girl’s boldness as she held Meta’s head still. Her long fingers were sure and quick and graceful. Her hair was pulled so tightly into those braids that there was a white line down the center of the back of her head. He imagines the girl with her hair loose.

  He has to get that egg.

  Annette, who knows about most practical matters, must know about geese. Konrad used to tag after her when he was little, and she’d show him so many wonders. Konrad runs for the kitchen.

  “Ah, and it’s a second good morning to you, young sire.” Annette bastes a pig over the fire. Fat drips from the spit with a hiss.

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “The count returns tonight. Earlier than expected.” Annette tucks a wisp of her hair behind her ear. She wipes her hands on a towel and pours him a mug of ale.

  Konrad takes the mug and gulps. “Annette, I need a goose egg.” He holds up a hand to ward off questions. “It’s urgent.”

  “A goose egg.” Annette purses her lips.

  Konrad puts down the mug and paces. He is used to solving problems quickly—and much more challenging problems than finding a goose egg. He slaps the fist of his right hand into his left palm over and over.

  But Annette is not to be rushed. “Have a bite to eat while I give this some thought.” She takes a strudel down from the high board and sets it on the table.

  Konrad has no time for eating.

  As though Annette can read his mind, she says, “Eat. It’s the kind you like best.”

  Konrad rips himself a hunk, rich with prunes and nuts. It chews more easily than the girl’s bread; it is sweeter and finer. Yet, given the choice, he’d take the girl’s black bread anytime. The girl. Why, oh, why is all this taking so long?

  Annette nods slowly. “There’s a farmer who raises geese just out of town, lakeside.”

  Konrad grabs her hands. “Which road do I take?”

  She steps back in confusion, but her hands are caught in his. “It’s faster to run the path behind the church.”

  Konrad kisses Annette’s cheek. “You’re wonderful.”

  She gives a small, hesitant smile. “He raises swans, too.” She turns for a peck on the other cheek.

  “Who gives a fig for swans?” But Konrad kisses Annette’s other cheek anyway.

  He descends the covered staircase at a run. He passes the church’s octagonal tower and barges his way thr
ough the crowds.

  He arrives at the path still running, though the loose rocks tumble away under his feet. The path narrows. Konrad has to use more care. He should have asked how far it would be. Sweat makes his shirt stick between his shoulders. He wipes at the back of his neck and runs. Too much time is passing. How long will the girl stay at the smithy? Why was she there in the first place? And where’s the cursèd goose farm?

  The path skirts downhill through high grasses. It turns, and Konrad comes upon the farm at the same moment that he hears the honking. Yes, there’s the goose yard, and the swans are mixed right in with them. Everything lies open before him. There’s not even a fence to climb over. Beside a small outbuilding is a giant nest. Konrad approaches, and the honks get louder. Two cobs come as one, on the attack, wings spread, necks out front full length, huge bills open.

  Konrad pivots on his heel and runs flat out. But the swans are upon him, beating with their wings, pecking at his ankles. “Help!” He falls, slams his chin in the dirt, birds on his back, honks louder than hell’s fury.

  The birds are suddenly off him, honking still, walking stupidly into each other.

  “Serves you right, thief,” says a small boy. He stands over Konrad, a long stick in his hand.

  “Thief?” Konrad rubs at his ankles, at his back. “Who are you calling a thief?”

  A cob approaches again. The boy whacks warningly at the bird. It trumpets. “Hush!” He turns to Konrad. “You wanted to take a bird, didn’t you?”

  “Only an egg. A goose egg.”

  The boy swings his stick. The cobs finally lose interest and wander off. “Can’t you tell swans from geese?”

  “Of course I can. I wasn’t looking at the birds.” Konrad points. “I was looking at that nest.”

  “That’s a swan’s nest.” There’s a poorly concealed edge of disgust in the boy’s voice.

  Konrad stands up. “Get me a goose egg. Now.”

  The boy puts his stick under his arm and holds out his hand. “Money first.”

  “I’m Count Konrad.”

  The boy eyes the simple cut of Konrad’s clothes dubiously. Then he seems to decide they’re fine enough. He nods. “It’ll cost you double, then.”

  Konrad snorts. It’s not the money; it’s the boy’s attitude that irritates him. “Who owns this farm?”

  “Doesn’t matter who owns it. We work it.” The boy still holds his hand outstretched.

  Konrad squares his shoulders. There is a disturbing element of truth in the boy’s words. “The egg’s got to be fertilized.”

  The boy nods.

  Konrad drops a coin in the boy’s hand.

  The boy turns and runs.

  “Hey, wait.” Konrad runs after him.

  The boy goes around the outbuilding, Konrad at his heels. He stops at a nest and lifts an egg with one hand, swinging his stick with the other. The geese attack immediately. He shoves the egg at Konrad. “Hold it.”

  Konrad cradles the egg in both hands. He stays close behind as the boy smacks at the geese with his stick.

  “Now take your egg and go,” says the boy in a half shout. He runs off toward the farmhouse.

  Konrad races for the path. The geese race after. He wraps both arms around the egg now. He is scrabbling up the rocky path and the honks are falling behind him, further and further. He finally stops for breath.

  Konrad looks at the egg. What if it’s a dud? There’s no way to tell from just looking. He smells it. It smells of grass and farmy dung. He holds it to his ear. Silent. But there is a heat and denseness about its silence. The gosling lives.

  Konrad wipes the sweat from his brow. He holds the egg before him and goes up the long path to the rear of the church. He takes the covered staircase down into town, slipping easily through the market crowds now, as though the mission of the egg has bestowed a new agility.

  The smith is shoeing a gelding.

  Konrad walks up behind him. “Where is she?”

  The smith straightens up. “In that stall right there. No problem at all.”

  Konrad looks in the stall. Meta looks back at him. “But where’s the girl?”

  “Oh, she left with her mother long ago.”

  “She didn’t wait for her egg?”

  The smith looks at the egg. “They’ll come for it.”

  Konrad clutches the egg to his chest. “When?”

  “After they’ve finished their marketing, I suppose.”

  Anger rushes at Konrad with the sudden fierceness of the farm birds. “I can’t be expected to wait. I have important tasks. And I went through a lot of trouble to get this egg.”

  The smith knits his brows. He reaches for the egg with anxious hands. “Of course not, sire. You’re to leave it with me. I’ll give it to them.”

  Konrad twists his body away from the smith’s hands. No peasant girl can treat him this way: ask for an egg, then run off before he brings it back. The girl is impudent. Maddening. Konrad stands speechless in his wrath.

  The smith lowers his head a bit. “The egg, sire. I’ll make sure she gets it.”

  Konrad doesn’t want to part with the egg. Not this way. He has imagined the response of the girl as she receives the egg. He has seen her face light up before—he expected to see it light up again. And now he is to be cheated of that response and in such a humiliating way.

  The smith gestures to a small pile of straw not far from the furnace. “That’s where I’ll set it. The lass and I agreed.” His voice coaxes. “Give it here, sire.”

  Konrad walks to the straw and puts the egg down. A sudden urge to snatch it back seizes him. He clasps his hands together and tries to look calm. It would never do for anyone to know that a peasant girl, a simple child with braids, could upset him. He thinks of her high brow; her thin, long nose; her questioning eyes; and then tries to shake her image from his head.

  Konrad puts the blanket and saddle on Meta. He slaps his hat on his head and rides out, down to the main road. It’s past time for the midday meal, but Konrad is too impatient to sit at the table. He’ll go directly to his afternoon task. Today he is to inspect crops. One-tenth of those crops belong to him, as landlord. He must approximate their yield, so the farmer can’t cheat. Then he will go for a country ride. This is his mare. An early birthday present from his father, the count, who went to Baden for a meeting of the legislature. Annette said Father returns tonight. Konrad will greet him along this very road, astride Meta. He sits tall now. If he held a lance, he would look like one of the soldiers of Christ in the beloved red-and-blue stained-glass window of the church directly across from his bedroom balcony.

  After more than an hour, Konrad cuts off the main road and follows a country track that twists and turns with the rising curves of the foothills. A quiet heat hovers above the neat rows of cultivation. Summer is lush.

  Yes, Konrad will definitely take a long ride later. He can stop at an inn for a drink and a light meal. And he will forget the goose-egg girl. With her country shoes and country smock. He will forget the braids, the eyes.

  He rides up to the farmhouse at last.

  But he doesn’t dismount. All he can think of is the eyes. Blackest of eyes. Eyes that follow him.

  When Konrad looked at the girl this morning, she seemed unaware that he watched; yet she couldn’t be. She’s old enough to know the attentions of men. She must have some country boy who gawks at her. A bumbling boy who chews grass.

  Konrad’s jaw tenses at the thought. His throat thickens. He turns around and rides back to the smithy, urging Meta faster and faster.

  The smith’s face drops at the sight of Konrad. His eyes dart to Meta’s legs. “Ah, sire. Will you be needing something?”

  “Did the girl collect her egg?”

  Relief eases the smith’s face. “With much happiness.”

  Of course. How stupid of him not to have found an excuse to wait for her. He swings his leg over Meta’s neck and jumps to the ground. “Is she coming back today?”

  “No,
sire.” The smith waits. His eyes seem to appraise Konrad. “There’s something you need, sire?”

  Konrad gives a little snort. The girl owes him a thank you. “The girl, what’s her name?”

  The smith sticks his finger in his ear, as though the act will improve his memory. He looks like a dolt. Konrad would like to see him attacked by a goose. “Ah, yes.” The smith points his dirty finger at Konrad. “Zel. That’s what her mother called her.”

  “That’s an odd name. Where does this Zel live?”

  “Don’t know, sire.”

  Konrad sees a hint of mirth in the smith’s eyes. What insolence. He climbs up on Meta. “Find out.” He leaves.

  Frustration gnaws. Konrad can inspect the crops tomorrow, before his classics tutor comes. For now, he needs distraction—song and dance. But the new church has banned secular music. Damn.

  His mind goes to Zel’s braids. Why is he thinking of that wretched girl’s braids?

  He rides Meta around to the castle stables. In an instant he knows Father is back, for there is Franz rubbing down Father’s horse.

  Konrad slides off the horse. He bursts into the kitchen and races through to the Knights’ Hall. “Father!” The heavy tapestries on the walls absorb his shout. “Father!”

  Father and son embrace. They kiss one another on alternating cheeks, three times. Then the men who have gathered at Father’s return, the men of the small council that governs their city-state, greet Konrad with kisses.

  “I have another birthday surprise for you.” The count beams.

  Konrad smiles. Another present is exactly what he needs to salvage this day from a rotten ending.

  The count turns to the men. “An announcement.”

  Konrad’s chest swells in delighted anticipation.

  The count smiles benevolently at Konrad. “Konrad is betrothed.”

  Konrad stands stock-still and stares at Father.

  The count laughs. “Dumbfounded with joy, are you? Let me tell you about the young lady.”

  No. Konrad won’t hear about this unknown girl. Not today. Definitely not today.

  “Ah, she’s a beauty, she is,” the count is saying.