The Gaming Booth
Ursula stood with a cup of glühwein warm in her hands watching two little boys play games in the Christmas Market. They were tossing wooden rings at a wall of pegs in the hopes of winning a little whittled cat with its barky tail curled winsomely around its belly. She couldn’t believe she was standing there, and she couldn’t believe why….
That afternoon while the sun still had a bit of warmth in it, she had trudged out to the edge of the woods west of the burg to pick up kindling blown down by the previous night’s winds. It was cold, miserable work, and she loved every minute of it because it got her out of the attic. She had just trussed up her bundle and was heading back toward town when a horse and rider materialized in front of her, galloping straight at her across the meadow. She recognized the graf’s great silver stallion immediately. Surely, she thought, they would turn off, circle back toward the road. But they kept coming on, charging through the snow at a shocking rate, burnished in the sunset like the gilded statue of St. George that Ursula had seen once atop the minster in Salzburg. At last, she had no choice but to throw her arms up and cry, “Stop! Your Grace!”
The stallion reared and slid, spraying snow into Ursula’s face. His forelegs writhed overhead like great, black-headed serpents, and she thought, amazed: This is really not at all how I expected to die. But then by some miracle, the stallion jumped backward on his hind legs and landed foursquare with his nose not a foot from hers. He blew a blast of hot, hay-smelling breath into her face, and Ursula laughed, giddy, her heart hammering in her ears, because it was so clear to her that the horse was scolding her for being in his way.
“Sorry,” she chuckled, wiping ice and snow from her eyes.
The graf was off his mount by now and had her by the arm, looking her up and down, brushing at her skirts. “You’re unhurt, my lady?”
My lady. She bit back a second laugh. Could he not see the bundle of sticks on her back? Her raw cheeks and fingers? Her ratty shawl and homespun? But Leopold didn’t give her a chance to respond. He released her and bowed: “I beg your pardon. The sun was in my eyes, and to think I nearly….” He shook his head. “I should not let my mood overmaster me so.”
Ursula reached up and patted the stallion’s nose. He lowered his head so she could scratch his forehead and blew a rippling sigh of contentment when she did. “Fortunately, your horse looked out for us both.”
Leopold looked back and forth between Ursula and Gletscher, frowning; then, he smiled, and it was like the sun coming back up a little. “Well now. He never lets anyone but me touch him. What’s this, old friend?” Leopold thumped the stallion’s monstrous shoulder, “We’re doomed if we ever go to war against an army of maidens?”
Ursula watched the graf as he petted his stallion. The girls in town said good thing he was rich, because he wasn’t pretty. Certainly, his nose was bold and hooked like an hawk’s. A scar ran down one cheek, and he was missing the best part of the opposite ear, in which he still defiantly wore a gold ring. But he had a stillness, a solidity to him that was as appealing as a fire on a cold night. Ursula realized that as a result, she had been talking to him like one of her neighbors. “My apologies, your Grace,” she said. “I’ve been forward and rude.” She curtsied.
He dismissed her apology with a wave of a gloved hand. “Do you know how much I wish for my subjects to speak to me as you have? Instead of like some sort of idol that dispenses gold coins if you rub it right and say the magic word? Come on–” He mounted up. “I’ll give you a ride back to town. It’s getting dark, and I’m not compounding my sins against you this evening by leaving you for the wolves.” He reached down for her. Ursula looked up at him doubtfully, then at Gletscher, who gave her what she thought was an encouraging wink. She put her hand in the graf’s, and he swung her up behind him as easily as if she were a bale of wool. She didn’t know where to put her hands, but he said over his shoulder, “Hold tight!” and then it was either that or tumble backward into the snow as the stallion’s powerful haunches bunched beneath them and they shot off across the meadow.
“You live here?” Leopold eyed the tower as they stood astride in front of it. It did indeed look a bit penitentiary–Aunt Elisabeth was likely out making deliveries to customers, and the fire was cold. Ursula swallowed memories of her father’s house with its lanterns always lit, the gay wreath on the door this time of year. Before she could say anything, Leopold said, “I’m not leaving you here to freeze to death. Here, give me the firewood.”
Not knowing what else to do, she obeyed, awkwardly shrugging out of the rope harness and passing the bundle to Leopold, who tossed it neatly down onto the doorstep. Then, he turned Gletscher and rode onward into town, straight to the Christmas Market. He stopped by one of the big bonfires at the edge, kicked a leg over his mount’s neck, jumped down, and held his arms up to her. Ursula’s face burned, and she looked round, but fortunately this part of the market was half in the dark and not well trod. Only a few stared, mouths agape at the raggedy girl sitting astride the graf’s prize warhorse. Ursula clumsily slipped off Gletscher’s back, and Leopold caught her and set her on her feet gently, then steered her over to the fire. “Stay here,” he commanded and strode off. He was back a few moments later with a steaming earthenware mug of glühwein. “Drink this and stay by the fire until you’re warm and dry, all right? Or my mother’s angel will visit me in my dreams tonight with not a kind word for her only son.”
Ursula nodded and opened her mouth to thank him, but he was already back up on Gletscher and riding out of the market, saluting the small crowd that had gathered at that point. Fortunately, the stallion’s massive frame had blocked her from view for most of them, so when he left, so did they, drifting back to their merrymaking. Ursula drifted with them, drinking it all in with the glühwein–the fragrant stacks of lebkuchen in all shapes, the dried oranges and pomegranates, the brushes and rosaries and stockings and glossy wooden toys for sale. She paused in front of the ring game and wondered what she would say to her aunt when she went back to the tower. The graf almost killed me, and then we went for a ride, and he bought me a mug of glühwein. She giggled. Her stomach felt warm, her head light. Was it the wine? No, I remember this, she thought. I remember this feeling. She hid her tears in her mug until they stopped. Then, she wiped her cheeks quickly and shouted along with the rest of the little crowd of spectators as one of the boys finally landed a ring on a peg and won himself a wooden cat.
The Rookery 