The Medieval Fairy Tale Collection

by Melanie Dickerson

  Her sleepy eyes flew wide. No wonder she felt a sense of anticipation. Today was her wedding day!

  She jumped out of bed as Anna came into her room, bearing a tray of food.

  “I was astonished at you sleeping late on your wedding day!” Anna said. “I did not sleep at all the night before my wedding.”

  While they ate breakfast together, Odette was thinking that she would never wake up in this room again. Already she shared it with two other girls. With Odette married and gone, more girls could come and have a home here. It felt so good and so fitting. Odette sighed.

  When they were finished, Anna helped Odette on with her dress. A shade of blue green, the dress was made from Flemish fabric Rutger had brought home eight or nine months ago. The fabric itself was decorated with a repeating pattern of silver and green stitching, with a matching border around the neck and a belt that settled below her waist on her hips.

  The style of the gown was simple and fitted, with sleeves that hung down to the floor. When she had first tried it on, Anna said, “It brings out the color in your eyes.”

  “I will go see if the children are getting ready to go to the church.” Anna hurried out of the room while a servant finished preparing Odette’s hair.

  A few minutes later, her hair was ready and Anna was running up the stairs. “Jorgen is here! And he is impatient to see you. He sent me to hurry you down. Odette, you look beautiful.” Anna stood staring at her from head to toe. “That dress is perfect.”

  “Thank you.” Odette gathered her skirt to go.

  “No, don’t go yet!” Anna held up a hand to stop her.

  “Why not?”

  “You should make him wait.”

  “But you said he was impatient.”

  “That is why you should make him wait.” Anna winked. “Husbands need to know right away that we will not be rushed. And they like it when we stand up to them and do not let them order us around.”

  “And you know this how?” Odette couldn’t decide whether to laugh or look shocked.

  “Because Peter and I have been married four years.” Anna winked. “And my mother and father have been married for thirty years and they are still in love. I used to hear them laughing together every night, and I don’t have ten brothers and sisters for nothing.” She gave Odette a knowing look. “My mother never lets my father tell her what to do without telling him what she thinks.”

  “Does she do what he tells her?”

  Anna shrugged. “Usually. But he is never left to wonder what she thinks about it.”

  Odette laughed. “It sounds like it works for them. But I see no reason to keep Jorgen waiting. I am ready.”

  Odette made her way down the steps, holding up her skirt so she wouldn’t tread on the hem. As she neared the bottom, Jorgen stared up at her. He brought his lips together as if he were about to whistle, then put his hands behind his head. “You take the breath from my chest, you are so beautiful.”

  “Thank you.”

  The look in his eyes was everything she could have wanted. He didn’t even blink. But while he couldn’t take his eyes off her, he seemed reluctant to touch her. So she stood on the tips of her toes and kissed him on the lips.

  He gazed into her eyes while lifting her hand to his chest. He pressed her palm over his heart and she felt it pounding. She smiled as she took his other hand and placed it over her heart.

  “I am ready to marry you,” she whispered.

  “Are you marrying me because you want to or because the margrave ordered you to?” There was a twinkle in his eye because he already knew the answer to that question.

  “Neither.”

  He raised an eyebrow at her.

  “I’m marrying you because . . .” She frowned and looked up at the ceiling, as though she were trying to think of a reason. “Because you are the only person I know who is as good with a longbow as I am.”

  He snorted, grinned, then kissed her.

  “Can you not wait until after the wedding?” Anna was standing behind Odette, frowning and shaking her head at them.

  When everyone had gathered on the ground floor of the now-lively house, including all the orphans living there, they set out for the church.

  Thornbeck Cathedral had never looked more radiant, its stained glass windows sparkling in the midday sun and its turrets rising into the blue sky. Odette squeezed Jorgen’s hand and didn’t let go as the priest met them on the steps. Soon she would be the wife of the Margrave of Thornbeck’s chancellor, the wife of the former forester, the wife of Jorgen Hartman.

  As they said their vows, she couldn’t stop glancing at him, with his thick brows low over his eyes, his perfect face serious and even reverent. When she had met him at the Midsummer festival, she could never have imagined everything that would happen. Now she was marrying the right man at the right time for the right reasons.

  Because love was the best reason of all.

  1

  The year 1363, Thornbeck Forest, The Holy Roman Empire

  REINHART STOLTEN, MARGRAVE of Thornbeck, spotted the pack of wolves devouring their fresh kill at the bottom of the ravine. He nudged his horse in their direction as he let go of the reins and readied his bow and arrow. He was still too far away for a good shot, but he urged him closer, until his horse brought him into range of the bloodthirsty killers.

  Reinhart took aim and let the arrow fly, striking one of the wolves in the neck. It let out a shriek, causing the other animals to look up. Two of them kept their teeth in their meal even as they snarled and searched for the source of the danger.

  Reinhart quickly nocked another arrow and shot, striking another wolf in the shoulder instead of the intended kill shot to the head.

  The wolves had spotted him and started to run. Only one of them was more interested in his food than in the danger pursuing him. He kept hold of the carcass as he ran away with the others. Reinhart aimed and shot at the one lagging behind, dragging the dead animal, but the arrow missed him.

  The wolf let go of his kill and ran harder.

  Reinhart urged his horse after them. The wolf with the arrow in his shoulder ran along with the other six wolves.

  Reinhart and his horse chased them up the ravine, through the heavily wooded hills of Thornbeck Forest, and eventually the injured wolf grew tired and fell behind. Reinhart was able to finish it off, but there was no use going after the others. They were too far ahead now.

  He put his longbow away and turned his horse back in the direction of Thornbeck Castle. The sun was just coming up, sending a glow through the trees as he neared the castle mount.

  His castle mount. He was in charge of Thornbeck—the town, the region, and the castle. He was responsible for all of it, and he did not want this pack of wolves roaming the forest, which would lead to tragedy when they ended up attacking and killing someone.

  He arrived in front of the stable and dismounted, holding on to the saddle with one hand while he waited for the stable boy to retrieve his walking stick.

  Where was that boy? Reinhart growled at having to wait, at the humiliation of needing a cane to walk.

  Finally, the boy came around the horse with his cane. Reinhart took it and limped toward the castle.

  He had been a powerful knight who could sword fight, joust, and anything any other soldier could do, and better. Now he had to depend on a cane, walking with a limp, with even the servants staring at him in pity.

  He held on to the railing with one hand and his cane with the other as he very slowly made his way up the steps to the castle door. The pain in his ankle and lower leg was as bad as ever, and his scowl became a growl.

  No one could pity him if he was growling at them.

  “Lord Thornbeck.” Jorgen Hartman, his young chancellor, met him at the door.

  “What is it, Jorgen?”

  “My lord, a letter from the king has just arrived. His courier awaits your reply.”

  “Well, where is this letter?”

  “It’s in your libr
ary, my lord.”

  Reinhart made it to the top of the steps and stumped down the long passageway that led to several rooms on the lowest floor of the castle.

  “My lord,” Jorgen said, walking beside him, “were you out hunting wolves this morning? Alone?”

  “I was.”

  “Should you not take someone with you? A pack of wolves can pull a grown man off his horse.”

  “Are you suggesting that because I’m now a cripple, I am unable to hunt alone?”

  “No, my lord.” Jorgen did not look intimidated by Reinhart’s angry tone and scowl. “Any man would be in danger against a wolf pack. I also mention it because I think Odette—who you know is an excellent shot with a bow—misses hunting, and she and I could help you kill twice as many.”

  Reinhart frowned at him. “I am surprised you are so quick to allude to your new wife’s lawbreaking activities.”

  “She would not be breaking any laws by accompanying you on your wolf hunts, my lord.”

  Reinhart grunted.

  Finally, with his slow, halting limp, they arrived at his desk in the library. There lay the missive from the king, wax seal, ribbon, and all.

  Reinhart broke it open and read it. He threw it down on his desk and walked a few steps. He leaned his shoulder against the wall, staring out the window.

  “What does it say, my lord, if I may ask?”

  “Read it for yourself.”

  There was a rustle of parchment behind him, then Jorgen said, “My lord, the king is asking you to marry.”

  Reinhart’s new role as margrave certainly came with a price.

  “Do you know any of these ladies he’s suggesting you marry?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have one in mind you would like to ask?”

  When he was the captain of the guard for the Duke of Pomerania, he could take all the time he wanted to choose a wife. But everything was different now.

  “I do not believe I shall choose anyone . . . for now.”

  “But, my lord.” Jorgen came to stand beside him and held out his hand to him, palm up. “You cannot ignore a command from the king.”

  “I would not call it a command. It’s more of a . . . suggestion.”

  “A suggestion from most people is a suggestion, but a suggestion from the king is a command. No, my lord, I believe you must choose a wife, and you must choose one from among the noble ladies in his letter. He particularly mentions the daughters of the Duke of Geitbart and the Earl of Plimmwald.”

  He was expected to choose a wife based on who her father was, and the king had suggested the ladies whose fathers had feuded the most with the margraves of Thornbeck before him—his brother and father. The king wanted peace and unity among his noblemen, and there had been more contention than peace in the last thirty or forty years.

  The Duke of Geitbart had once controlled both Thornbeck and Plimmwald, but when Geitbart’s father defied the king’s wishes and married a woman the king did not approve, the king had taken Thornbeck away from him and given it to the Margrave of Thornbeck, Reinhart’s father, and he gave Plimmwald to the present Earl of Plimmwald. And now Geitbart wanted them back.

  Reinhart would be expected to purchase peace and unity for the people of his country by marrying a lady without ever seeing her or knowing anything of her character or temperament. This wife would be thrust upon him, for as long as they both lived, for his personal good or for ill.

  “You should choose a wife as soon as possible,” Jorgen said.

  “And how do you propose I do that?”

  “Perhaps . . .” He turned to pace in a short path from the window to the middle of the floor and back. “So you could meet these ladies and choose which of them you deem worthiest, we could arrange to have them all come to Thornbeck Castle. It could be a ball, or better yet, a party lasting many days. Odette could help plan it. We could invite every lady on the king’s list and even put them through a series of tests, based on what you want in a wife.”

  Jorgen stopped his pacing and turned to him, his brows raised. “What do you think of this plan, my lord?”

  “I think . . . I hate it.”

  “But is it not better than choosing without knowing anything about them?”

  Of course it was better. But how did he know how to choose a wife? He knew nothing of women. His own parents’ marriage had been arranged for them, and they had hated each other. They rarely spoke more than two words to each other, and both of them had lovers. Reinhart certainly had no desire for that kind of marriage. But neither did he believe that husbands and wives “fell in love” before they married.

  Believing there was one woman among many with whom he could fall in love was a naive concept invented by traveling minstrels and addled youths. And yet, Jorgen and his wife had chosen each other. Though neither of them had anything of material value to gain from the marriage, they had chosen each other solely because of a fondness for each other. And even Reinhart had to admit, they seemed very content.

  Perhaps he should trust Jorgen’s judgment. But at the same time . . .

  “I shall feel a fool, holding a party to choose my own wife.”

  “You shall not feel a fool, my lord, and the ladies will feel very flattered that you invited them. Odette and I can arrange it so the ladies do not know you are putting them through tests. And Odette, as a woman, can give you her thoughts and can help you discern—that is, if you wish it. The ladies will enjoy the party, and you can observe them and see who would make the most ideal wife.”

  But would they consider him an ideal husband? A man who couldn’t even walk without a cane? Reinhart stared down at the floor, at his maimed ankle. His blood went cold at the thought of appearing pitiable to the woman he would marry, of her scorning his weakness. But he had little choice but to try and choose wisely from among the ten.

  “When should we plan it? Next summer?”

  “Oh no, my lord. That’s nearly a year away. I believe the king will expect you to marry much sooner than that.”

  “There is no knowing what the king expects. But even though I have more important things I should be doing with my time . . . you may begin the process now. I am leaving it in your hands.” Reinhart turned away from the window.

  “Of course, my lord.”

  Two weeks later, Plimmwald Castle, The Holy Roman Empire

  Avelina stood behind Lady Dorothea, brushing her long golden hair.

  What were Jacob and Brigitta doing today? Had they found the breakfast of bread and pea porridge she’d left for them? Would they remember to tend the vegetable garden and milk the goat? She would have to ask them if they had washed—

  “Ow! What are you doing?” Dorothea spun around and snatched the brush out of Avelina’s hand. “Are you trying to tear out my hair?”

  “No, of course not.” Avelina knew from experience that it was better not to cower but to look Dorothea in the eye when she was in a passion.

  Dorothea frowned and handed her back the brush. “My ride this afternoon has my hair in a snarl. See that you don’t tear it out of my head.”

  Dorothea turned back around on her stool, and Avelina continued brushing her thick, honey-colored hair, Dorothea’s fairest feature.

  A knock sounded at the door, and Hildegard, one of the older maidservants, entered the room carrying a tray. “Lady Dorothea, Cook sent this up for you.” She smiled, flashing all her teeth. “She made it from the last of the cherries. A perfect tart for my lady.”

  The last of the cherries. Avelina tried to keep her eyes off the tart, but the smell of warm fruit made her take a deep breath through her nose. Her mouth watered. She could almost taste it.

  “It does look good.” Dorothea picked it up and took a bite.

  She waved her hand. Did she want Hildegard to leave? Avelina continued brushing.

  Dorothea turned and snatched the brush out of her hand again, glaring at her while her mouth was full. Hildegard glared at her too.

  Avelina shrugged
, smiling apologetically.

  Another knock sounded on the door. Dorothea swallowed the bite of cherry tart and called, “Enter.”

  One of her father’s guards opened the door and bowed. “The earl wishes to speak with you.”

  Dorothea’s face turned pale. She put the tart back on the tray, brushed her hands off with a cloth, then preceded the guard out the door.

  Was Dorothea worried her father had found out about her trysts with his knight Sir Dietric? The earl never punished her, so why did she look so afraid?

  Hildegard followed her out, leaving Avelina alone.

  Cherries were Avelina’s favorite fruit. The tart drew her closer. It was rather small, but if she took a tiny bite, no one would notice.

  She leaned over it. Did she dare? Another whiff of the warm, tangy cherries filled her head. She reached down and pinched off a small piece, making sure to cradle a whole cherry on the bit of pastry crust. She placed it in her mouth and closed her eyes.

  Tart and sweet melded together and spread over her tongue.

  Hildegard burst back into the bedchamber. Narrowing her eyes at Avelina, as if she knew she was contemplating eating the rest of the tart in two bites, Hildegard snatched the tray up and carried it back out, her leather shoes making shushing sounds on the flagstones.

  Avelina swallowed, sighed, and went to work putting away Dorothea’s sewing materials that she had been searching through, as well as the hair ribbons she had strewn everywhere before finding the one she wanted. Avelina put away the tightly fitted bliaud Dorothea had discarded in favor of a looser cotehardie, and finding nothing else to do, sat on the cushioned bench by the tall, narrow window clutching her gray mantle around her shoulders, staring out at the foggy night.

  The light of the moon cast a pale glow on the fog that was rolling up to the castle walls. She hoped Brigitta would be able to heat the frumenty she had left for them without burning herself, and Jacob would be able to keep the fire going. Father’s back always pained him more on foggy and rainy days.

  Footsteps sounded on the stone floor in the corridor. Avelina turned her head just as Dorothea rushed into the room—and burst into tears. She bent forward at the waist, her hands covering her face.