The Beautiful Pretender

by Melanie Dickerson

  “Thank you. Maybe tonight. I only imbibe strong drink after the sun goes down.” Avelina started working the wooden staff up and down in the tall churn.

  Gerhaws worked with one hand while she held the flask in the other and frequently took a drink. The work was dull and monotonous, and Avelina did her best to get Gerhaws to talk, asking her about her life, how long she had been at Thornbeck Castle, and what she knew about the other inhabitants.

  “I’ve been at Thornbeck Castle two years now. Most people don’t know that I came here from a little village in the Geitbart region.” She took another drink. “I’m not supposed to tell anyone, but it won’t matter soon.”

  “It won’t?” Avelina’s heart beat faster. “Why won’t it matter?”

  Gerhaws chuckled and shook her head, moving the staff up and down in her churn. She took another drink and stared at the floor, as if she had forgotten Avelina’s question.

  Avelina kept churning. It had been a very long time since she had churned butter, since she was a girl of nine or ten years, so her arms were already getting tired from the unaccustomed motion.

  “Lady Fronicka is taking me back to my home,” Gerhaws said, her words slow and labored.

  “Why is Lady Fronicka taking you back to your home?”

  “I don’t know why Cook sent you here to work with me. I always work alone.”

  “Why do you always work alone?” Avelina kept her eyes on her.

  “Is it warm in here?” Gerhaws blew out a breath, then touched the back of her hand to her forehead.

  “Why is Lady Fronicka taking you back to your home, Gerhaws? Gerhaws, can you hear me?”

  “Of course I hear . . . She’s taking me back . . .”

  The woman’s face was flushed. Avelina had seen Lord Plimmwald when he had overindulged in strong drink, and this was how he looked—red nose and cheeks, red-rimmed eyes, and slow movements and speech.

  “Why is she taking you back, Gerhaws?” Avelina asked the question again very calmly, as if it was the first and not the third time she’d asked.

  “She wanted me to do it one more time, but I told her I . . . I don’t want to do it again.”

  “To do what again, Gerhaws?”

  “To . . .” Gerhaws took a deep breath and let it out—and let out a loud belch. Then she leaned forward, holding on to the butter churn as if to keep from falling face forward.

  “What does Lady Fronicka want you to do one more time, Gerhaws?”

  “I killed the margrave.”

  Avelina’s heart shot to her throat and nearly choked her. “Wha-what?”

  Without warning, a tear tracked down Gerhaws’s cheek. “I killed the margrave. I killed his lover. I killed them, and she was with child.”

  Avelina’s face tingled as all the blood drained away. She waited for Gerhaws to go on, and after several seconds, her patience was rewarded.

  “The duke told me to do it. He told me to. I was just like you.” She paused to wipe her large nose on the back of her wrist while she sniffed. “Your lord told you to come here and pretend to be Lady Dorothea. My lord told me to kill the margrave. I had no choice. I had to do it.”

  “What did you do, Gerhaws?” She asked the question softly.

  “I set the fire. I hid in their room, and when they went to sleep, I set their bed curtains on fire.” She started sobbing, a deep-throated sound. “I didn’t think I would feel guilty about it. I thought if my lord told me to do it, God would not hold me to account for it. It would be on my lord’s head and not mine.” She rubbed her nose on both wrists now, making a high-pitched mewling sound before going on. “The priest told me it was a sin to disobey my lord, so I did it. I killed the margrave.”

  Avelina alternately felt pity for the woman, horror at what she had done, and anger that she could be so stupid. But she was right. Avelina had also done something wrong because her lord told her to.

  “What was Lady Fronicka saying to you this morning?”

  “Lady Fronicka?”

  “Yes. She was talking to you. What was she saying?”

  More tears ran down Gerhaws’s red cheeks, and she wiped her face on her sleeves. She put her flask to her lips and turned it upside down. She held it up and the last drop dripped onto her lip. She licked it off. “She said . . . she was taking me home because I could not do this one last thing for her.”

  “What else did she say?”

  “She said . . . I don’t remember.” Gerhaws belched again.

  Avelina stood. She had to tell Lord Thornbeck the truth about what had happened to his brother. “I have to go to the privy.”

  Avelina slipped out of the dark room. She made use of the garderobe, and as she was leaving, on a sudden whim, she sneaked behind the screen at the back of the Great Hall. She heard hushed voices nearby, male voices, and peeked around the edge of the wooden screen.

  Geitbart was standing with four guards in front of him. “Go apprehend him now. Lady Fronicka saw him enter the library earlier and he should still be there. If he puts up a fight, kill him with the sword. I shall tell the king he attacked you and you were only defending yourselves.”

  One of the guards asked a question, but Avelina did not wait to hear what was said. She slipped back through the door to the outside, her heart pounding. She ignored the pain in her ankle and ran. She ran past the kitchen and back into the castle through another door. She ran through the servants’ passage and into the corridor, past several rooms, and into the library.

  “Lord Thornbeck!” she cried in a loud whisper. “They are coming for you! You must hurry!”

  24

  REINHART STOOD UP from his desk. Avelina ran to him and grabbed his arm, pulling him forward. “Quickly! Please, you must.”

  Several men’s footsteps were coming down the corridor, drawing closer. Avelina gasped. “Hurry!”

  If the men found her here, they would likely do to her whatever they intended to do to him.

  “Come. This way.” Reinhart hurried toward the opposite wall and pulled on the end of one bookcase. The wooden shelves swung out, revealing a hidden space behind it. He pushed Avelina inside and followed her into the darkness. Then he pulled the bookcase back into place.

  Avelina held on to his arm with both hands in the complete darkness of the tiny hidden chamber. A voice in the other room said, “Lord Thornbeck, you are requested by the Duke of Geitbart to come with us.”

  For a moment there was no sound except Avelina’s breathing, which was a bit labored, no doubt from running to warn him.

  “Search the room,” came the command from the other side of the bookcase.

  The men stomped across the floor, followed by a loud crash—they must have upended his desk. Footsteps came toward them. Did they know of their hiding place? They came closer. At any moment they would yank open the bookcase-wall. He tensed, preparing to defend Avelina.

  The steps moved away.

  More voices, but this time they were too quiet to make out any words. The sounds gradually died out.

  He whispered, “You should not have been running on that ankle.”

  “I did not want them to hurt you.” Her voice was strained.

  “We are only prolonging the inevitable.” He shook his head, but of course, she could not see him in the dark room. Not even her outline was visible.

  “What are you saying? Are you going to let Geitbart take you? He wants to kill you.”

  “Be calm and tell me what you heard.”

  “I heard the Duke of Geitbart tell four of his guards to come here to the library and take you. He said if—” Her voice hitched and she stopped talking. After a few moments she went on. “If you resisted, they were to kill you.”

  Her hands tightened around his arm. Did she care so much for him?

  “I wish you would leave this place and go to the king.”

  “A margrave running away from danger? That would not impress the king.”

  “Your men can fight. They can defeat Geitbart’s
guards.”

  “He has a larger force of men nearby. My scouts have seen them. If I had known of his treachery I could have gathered enough men to defeat him. But if my men were to fight now, they would be slaughtered.” And maimed, like me. And a soldier who could no longer fight would rather have died fighting than to be crippled for the rest of his life.

  She said nothing. Her breathing had calmed. He could smell the lavender she used to wash her hair, bringing back the memories of the two times he had held her in his arms. How he longed to hold her again . . .

  “You should go back to your chamber.” His voice was harsh and more abrupt than he meant.

  He placed his hand on the bookcase to push it forward and send her away.

  Geitbart’s voice barked, “Search the castle. He is here somewhere.”

  He pulled the bookcase closed, leaving one inch for him to look through.

  Footsteps entered the room again. “I want two guards posted here in the library at all times. Search his papers. Bring to me anything that looks important.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Reinhart peered through the crack. A single guard knelt by his overturned desk, picking up the papers scattered on the floor.

  Avelina whispered, “I have something else I need to tell you.”

  He turned. With the crack of light coming in, he could just make out her eyes and mouth. “Sit down,” he whispered.

  “I will sit, but only if you listen to what I have to say.”

  He imagined the sparks that were shooting from those pretty blue eyes. “We shall both sit. Put your back against that wall.”

  She probably could not see where he was pointing, so he touched her shoulder and nudged her until her back was against the shorter wall. He held on to her arm while she slid slowly to the floor, her legs stretched out in front of her. He leaned against the wall and slid down beside her.

  The tiny chamber was only about three feet wide and seven feet long, and they were sitting shoulder to shoulder at one end.

  “What is this room?” she asked.

  “My father used it to store valuables, until some things went missing. My brother and I also played in here. But I don’t think anyone has used it for years.” He combed a spiderweb out of his hair with his fingers.

  “Is there another way out?”

  “There is only one way in and out. We shall wait until the guards fall asleep or leave. Now what did you want to tell me?”

  She sighed. “It is rather somber news. But I was speaking with a maidservant, Gerhaws, while we were churning butter—”

  “What were you doing churning butter? Did someone say you had to work?”

  “No. I did it to see if I could find out something about what Geitbart was plotting against you. And I did find out something, as it turned out. But first . . . Gerhaws was very drunk. I don’t know where she got such strong drink, but she was crying and saying that Geitbart told her to . . . kill your brother, the margrave.”

  Reinhart’s blood went cold in his veins. “Explain.”

  “She said she hid in his bedchamber, and when he—when they—went to sleep, she set the bed curtains on fire.”

  Geitbart. He must have thought it would make it easier to take over Thornbeck. Rage and heat rose to his forehead.

  “I am very sorry to tell you.”

  Reinhart forced himself to take a deep breath. He could think much more clearly if he allowed his emotions to go cold. Someday Geitbart would pay for having his brother killed. The assurance helped the heat to dissipate and him to think calmly.

  “You must not tell anyone else what you have just told me. If Geitbart finds out you know, he will kill you. I am surprised he has not killed Gerhaws yet.”

  “Did you already suspect Geitbart?”

  He did not reply immediately. Avelina had already deceived him once. How could he know if he could trust her? But she had come and warned him, had run to him on her injured ankle . . .

  “No, I did not suspect Geitbart. I thought it was an accident, a stray spark from the fireplace.”

  “He must have wanted people to think that you had killed your brother.” Avelina sighed. “I cannot comprehend anyone so evil.”

  “Greed and lust for power will make a man do almost anything.”

  They sat in silence as he took in this new information. He was sick at the thought of someone deliberately murdering his brother, his brother’s lover, and their unborn child. Henrich never had a chance to fight back—or repent of his sins.

  Avelina broke the silence. “I don’t want him to kill you.”

  “Thank you for that.” He was very aware of her shoulder pressed against his. He should have sat on the other side.

  The guard in the next room made enough noise to cover the sound of their voices as he continued shuffling papers and banging around.

  “My lord?”

  “Yes?”

  “Your people need you. I want you to escape and go to Jorgen and Odette’s manor house.”

  Because of her, he had been humiliated in front of powerful people, some of whom were plotting against him and one who murdered his brother and unborn child. Why did she have to sound so good and kind and sweet?

  “I have a question to ask you.” If he were wise, he would not ask. But if Geitbart was going to kill him, it wouldn’t matter anyway. “In the two weeks when I thought you were Lady Dorothea, when you always tried to turn the conversation to Lady Magdalen, I thought it was because you were timid. But it was not. Why were you so afraid to talk to me?”

  “I was afraid. I . . . I wanted you to admire Lady Magdalen, not me.”

  “Ah.” He should dwell on that. She did not want him to love her, did not feel anything for him.

  “I enjoyed talking to you,” she whispered softly. “I wanted to talk to you. But I was afraid if I drew your attention to me, you might . . . that is . . . I knew I could not marry you.”

  Could he hear regret in her voice? No, he didn’t want to hear that, did not want to believe the best about her or to think about her pain.

  “I would be punished if you chose me,” she went on, “and so would my family.”

  For whom she had asked for a goose and a side of pork every month. How considerate and compassionate she was . . . and poor.

  “Of course. I understand.” He tried to sound dispassionate and unconcerned.

  There was a long pause. Then she said, “I admired you. Very much. So I tried not to talk to you or look at you. I was afraid you would see how much I admired you.”

  Her words buoyed him—and twisted the knife in his heart at the same time.

  As his eyes had grown accustomed to the low light, he could see her hands were limp in her lap, her head slightly bowed.

  “You could have trusted me with the truth about who you were and what Lord Plimmwald had made you do.”

  “I know that now. But I could not have known that I could trust you not to be angry and tell Lord Plimmwald. I never wanted to hurt you. But you should not have been so angry with me, and you should not treat your servants the way you do. You yell at them, even when they have not done anything wrong. They may be your servants, but you can at least treat them with respect.”

  For a moment he was speechless. “Did you just rebuke me for not being respectful enough to my servants?”

  “Yes, I did. And for being angry with me even after you knew I did not mean to hurt you and never wanted to deceive you.” Her voice had lost some of its forceful tartness. Still, she sounded like her old self, when she had boldly proclaimed her opinions about love and marriage and duty and everything else he’d asked her about.

  “Perhaps you are right. I should not have sent you to the servants’ quarters in anger, with an injured ankle. I regret it.”

  She was very still, and he imagined his answer had shocked her into silence.

  The outline of her shoulders in the dark room showed how small and frail she was. He imagined his arm embracing her, pulling her back
against his chest, her head resting against him, her temple against his cheek. How good it would feel to turn her face toward him and kiss her.

  A sharp ache stabbed his chest. He must not think such things. She was a servant and he was a margrave.

  He could neither love her nor marry her. Besides, she was impertinent and opinionated, two of the very worst traits a woman could have. So why could he not stop thinking that she was the only woman he would ever want?

  Avelina was getting cold sitting in the unheated room. The only part of her that was warm was her arm and shoulder, pressed against Lord Thornbeck. If only she was Lady Dorothea. She would shamelessly tell him she was cold, ask for his embrace, and rest her head against his chest.

  Doing such a thing would be an invitation to Lord Thornbeck to make her his mistress, and she would never do that. She might only be a servant, but she deserved respect, even from a margrave, like Lady Magdalen believed. She was a human being, created by God to do good works. So she was not sorry she had rebuked him for being disrespectful to his servants, but she was shocked to hear him agree with her and say he regretted sending her to the servants’ quarters out of anger.

  He had still been angry with her for deceiving him, so why had he saved her from the wolves?

  “Did you know I was the one being attacked by wolves when you came to my rescue? Or did you only hear screams, unaware of who was in danger?”

  He spoke slowly, pausing between sentences. “My guards told me they saw you leaving with Irma, so I knew it might be you. We were getting ready to set out to hunt the wolves, and my horse was saddled first. So I was able to reach you first.”

  Perhaps he did think it was her, screaming for help. At least she had the memory of his taking her back to Thornbeck on his horse, carrying her in his arms despite his bad ankle, until he was able to hand her off to one of his guards. Then he had held her against his chest to stop her shaking. He was so warm. If only he would hold her again.

  Lord Thornbeck leaned forward, straining to see through the tiny crack into the library.