The Fairytale Keeper: Avenging the Queen

by Andrea Cefalo

  “I love you, Vatti,” I whimper into his cloak.

  “And I love you,” he whispers so quietly no one could possibly hear.

  I look at his face one more time, turn, and step into the carriage. He stands and watches as we ride away down Severin’s Strasse. I do not even bother to keep my composure in front of Galadriel, giving in to tears and sobs which I fear shall never end. I can feel her piteous stares. I am anguished with memories stirred by the places we pass on our way home and terribly worried for Father’s safety.

  11 March, 1247 Night

  A rich man’s wife became sick, and when she felt that her end was drawing near, she called her only daughter near to her bedside and said, “Dear child, remain pious and good, and then our dear God will always protect you.” With this she closed her eyes and died….

  The girl went out to her mother’s grave every day and wept, and she remained pious and good. When winter came the snow spread a white cloth over the grave, and when the spring sun had removed it again, the man took himself another wife.

  This wife brought two daughters into the house with her. They were beautiful, with fair faces, but evil and had dark hearts. Time soon grew very bad for the poor stepchild….

  Now it happened that the King proclaimed a festival …. All the beautiful young girls in the land were invited, so that his son could select a bride for himself. When the two stepsisters heard that they too had been invited, they were in high spirits.

  They called Cinderella saying, “We are going to the festival at the King’s castle.”

  Cinderella too would have liked to go to the dance with them. She begged her stepmother to allow her to go.

  “You, Cinderella?” she said. “You, all covered with dust and dirt, and you want to go to the festival? You have neither clothes nor shoes, and yet you want to dance...! It’s no use. You are not coming with us….”

  -Cinderella

  ***

  I stack the kindling and light the long extinguished fire. Little things cruelly remind me my mother is dead. I remember the way she stacked wood. Her eating knife sits alone on the mantle beside the lavender she loved to collect and dry. I pick up a bunch and smell it. It smells like her. Anguish settles like lead in my stomach and I feel I may start crying again, but I am too weary and my head throbs from all the crying I’ve done already. I put the lavender back and sit at the table across from Galadriel, looking away from the hearth and its painful reminders.

  “Will I ever be happy again?” I ask hoarsely, barely breaking Galadriel’s deep gaze into the fire.

  “Yes,” she says, distractedly.

  “It doesn’t feel possible.”

  “It gets… ‘better’ is not the word for it,” she rolls her eyes as they glimmer with tears. “It gets easier. I felt the same when my mother died, but I can remember her fondly now. I cannot do that yet with Ulrich and Lars.” She sighs hopelessly and forces a smile.

  “Oh.” I feel guilty for bringing up the death of her infant son and husband who had died four months ago from fever. The thought of feeling this way for four months is not comforting. “Allow yourself to be sad and when you cannot bear it a moment longer, find a way, anyway, to occupy your thoughts. That helps,” she says with a thick voice, nodding her head and folding her lips in as she avoids my gaze. “You shall forget for a while, almost too well sometimes. Every now and then, something reminds me of them, and I think I shall turn around to see them standing there. Then, I remember they are…” Gone. She swallows hard and tears roll down her cheeks. She takes in a deep breath and sighs.

  “We don’t have to speak of this.”

  “It is fine,” she chokes, then composes herself with a deep breath. She straightens and flicks tears from each cheek.

  I think of Father. Is he burying her now, I wonder? Are there thieves watching him, waiting to strike him dead for his boots and cloak? Are wolves stalking him from beneath the hill? Is he fighting them off with a pick in one hand and a shovel in the other? I could have helped him. What if he is dying right now, all alone? I should have found a way to go with him. I could have gotten out of the carriage and run for Pantaleon’s gate. The man at that gate does not know me. He would have let me out. Thoughts race through my mind and I grip my temples in a vain attempt to silence my thoughts. But I cannot.

  My thoughts only linger on Father for a moment. So many horrible images occupy my mind. I sit across from Galadriel, but I am not there at all. My thoughts travel to the past, to two nights ago. I am in my parents’ bedroom, watching my mother fight for life.

  ***

  Her purple lips had gasped for breath. I knelt at her side, praying all night for God to save her. If I had only prayed harder, if only I had sinned less, surely He would have answered my prayers.

  Father lost hope before I did. I thought she was too strong to die, too stubborn, but the fever claimed almost everyone it touched. Father knew this. I knew it too, but I thought Mother was different. I didn’t want to believe it would kill her.

  My heart broke each time I thought she had died, but she came back to us dozens of times, fighting for breath. Eventually, I stopped praying for her to live and prayed instead for God to end her suffering. Yet we continued to relive her death over and over throughout the night as friends tried to find a priest for her last rites. But no one would come.

  Finally, Father whispered a few words into her ear. I do not know what he said, but he kissed her hands and cheeks, and she let herself die.

  ***

  I try to distract myself. Keep occupied, Galadriel says. I watch the flames grow and fall, from blinding white to an orange flicker. It sparks memories of the funeral pyre, but I shall not let that hurt me now. I try to relive Mother’s funeral in my mind in a hundred different ways, somehow changing its tragic end.

  ***

  I stare down at Mother’s shrouded body, my eyes cloudy with tears. I think I see something, but I know it cannot be so. She is dead. I watched her die, but did I see her left hand twitch? I shake my head in denial, yet hope it to be true. I wipe the tears from my eyes. I stare, possessed with hope, fixated on her hand, hoping to see another twitch so I can stop the funeral.

  The priest quickly finishes his service and silence lingers. Time slows as Father Soren orders Johan to light the fire, pointing his chubby fingers at the stacks of wood and straw. My eyes widen with desperation and my legs shake.

  “Move!” my thoughts beg, yearning for Mother to stir again. “Move!”

  Still, she does not stir. Johan drops his torch to ignite the fire and my head throbs with indecision. Perhaps, she hadn’t moved at all, I think. Perhaps, I have gone mad? The flames begin to grow. The tallest peaks lap at the bottom of the wooden pyre.

  Her finger pulses again. I run and press my face against hers. I grab her cheeks and shake.

  “Please! Wake up!” I shout, but she does not respond. Father runs for me. I turn around, guarding her. “Her finger moved! She is not dead!” I shout.

  Father’s feet anchor into the ground for a moment. His face displays a range of emotions. He shakes them from his head and runs for me again, ready to pull me from the pyre. As his arms wrap around me, ready to take me away... she moans.

  His eyes widen and he pushes me from the fire. He scoops her up and sets her gently on the ground. Everyone gathers around in awe and Father Soren crosses himself. Father pulls a large knife from its holster, delicately slicing through the shroud. She moans again.

  “Katrina!” Father gasps and hugs her limp, but alive body to his chest. He rubs his face gently against hers and roughly kisses her cheeks and forehead. He quickly stands with her cradled in his arms—

  A loud pop from the hearth fire snaps me out of my daydream.

  Galadriel puts her head in her hands and cries. I rise and grab two mugs, filling them with ale.

  She sighs as I set the mug before her.

  “Thank you,” she says between cries. “We usually only have wine back home. I have missed
ale.”

  We drink in an uncomfortable silence.

  “Did your mother ever tell you how Ulrich and I met?” Galadriel offers with a sniffle.

  I sip the ale slowly to consider my answer. It irritates me that she brings up her dead husband again. It makes me wonder why she has come here to my mother, her cousin’s, funeral if all she cares to think about is her own dead family. But perhaps a story will distract me.

  “No. Mother never told me that story.”

  “Oh.” She smiles and looks up.

  “Ulrich was the third son of the Duke and Duchess of Lorraine. He was supposed to be a bishop or abbot, you know.”

  I nearly choke on my ale. If Galadriel’s husband was the son of a duke, that meant he was a nobleman, which makes Galadriel a noblewoman.

  “So what does that make you?” I ask bluntly.

  “Hmmm?” She asks in a daze.

  “Your husband…he was a duke or lord.” I prompt, but she looks at me with confusion.

  “Ulrich was the Count of Bitsch.” She replies.

  “So that makes you—”

  “A countess,” she interrupts, staring into her mug before jumping quickly into her story. “Ulrich’s siblings were taught by tutors at the castle until they were old enough to be sent to other courts. But not Ulrich.” She lifts the mug to her mouth again and gulps heartily.

  “Why not?”

  “Because his mother spoiled him terribly. He grew so wicked that people called him Ulrich the Devil so the Duke sent him away to a monastery. The Duchess didn’t like that very well. I heard she had awful fits. She is quite a spoiled brat, too, the Duchess of Lorraine,” Galadriel confesses, the corners of her eyes starting to relax from the drink.

  “Will you pour me another mug, Adelaide? Mine is empty already.” I fill her cup. “Where was I? I have lost myself,” she says with a slight slur.

  “You were telling me about—”

  “I remember now,” she interrupts. “Ulrich grew up at the monastery. When Ulrich was grown, he wrote his mother and pleaded with her to come home. He didn’t wish to be a cardinal or bishop so she sent for him. However, they did not have a wife ready for Ulrich as they thought he’d stay with the Church.”

  Galadriel takes a sip of her ale.

  “The Duke was at war with his brother and hadn’t a title to give to Ulrich. So they made up a title for him, the Count of Bitsch, hoping it would attract a girl whose father had a lot of money or a big army. But no one wanted to go to war just so their daughter could marry a third son with a made-up title,” she pauses briefly.

  “So the Duchess decided to hold a festival in Ulrich’s honor so he could choose his bride. She invited every eligible maiden from Lorraine, but the girls could only attend if their fathers paid five guilders apiece to help pay for the war. I still have our family’s invitation. It rained cats and dogs when it was delivered. I was sitting by the mantle, picking peas from the fireplace…”

  “Picking peas from the fireplace?” I ask.

  Galadriel nods.

  “Why would you pick peas from the fireplace?”

  Galadriel looks down. “When my mother died, my father remarried. He was a merchant and gone most of the year. My stepmother Gisla hated me and made me a slave in my own home. I do not know why she treated me so badly for I never gave her reason.

  “But my mother had always told me that if I was a good and pious girl, the Lord would provide for me. So I tended to Gisla’s daughters and did the same household chores as our servants. Still, Gisla would throw my supper of peas into the soot of the fire. I would have to pick them from the ashes or go hungry.”

  “That is horrible!” I cry.

  Galadriel shrugs, takes another gulp of ale, and continues. “I was sitting by the fireplace when I heard the knock on the door. It was a dwarf. I had never seen a dwarf before, you know.

  “He had the deepest voice and demanded to speak to the man of the house, but my Father was off on his travels, as usual, so I called for Gisla. I watched as the half man reached into a satchel on his back and pulled out a rolled piece of parchment tied with a little gold ribbon. He read the invitation then handed it to Gisla.

  “The girls in the village had two months to ready themselves, and it was all anyone spoke of. The richest families raced to the tailor’s, but our father traded in fine fabrics. Gisla had a letter sent so that he would bring Ebba and Dorthe, my stepsisters, beautiful dresses and jewels from his travels. Gisla told him not to get me a dress, saying I was an insolent girl and not ready for marriage even though I was nineteen, practically a spinster.

  “I begged Gisla to let me go to the festival, but she just laughed at me. I’ll never forget what she said. She told me that there was not enough water in the Rhine to wash the cinder soot from my face, and that it was better that I did not go for everyone would laugh at me. Still, I asked her every day until, one day, she agreed.

  “She scraped several days of uneaten peas into the soot of the fireplace and told me that if I could fetch every last pea from the soot by morning, then I could go.

  “I stayed up late into the night picking peas from the soot, but each time I thought I had gotten the last pea, I found another and then another. I don’t remember falling asleep, but I must have for I remember waking the next morning to a rustling in the room. Three pigeons were foraging in the soot. At first I thought to chase them away, but then I noticed they were eating the peas! When the pigeons finished, I dug through the ashes looking for peas, but there were none left. The pigeons flew away, and I ran to follow them, wondering where they’d come from. I followed them through town, past Saint Viktor’s, all the way to hallowed ground where each pigeon landed on the tree just above my mother’s grave.”

  “Really?” I ask in disbelief and she nods.

  “I went back home just as the cock crowed and waited for Gisla to awaken. When they came to break their fast, I begged them to check the hearth. Gisla searched and searched but did not find a single pea. She was very angry, but Ebba and Dorthe just laughed at how foolish I would look going to the festival in my sooty chainse and surcote.

  “That night, two days before the festival, Gisla came to me again and told me I could wear one of my nice dresses, which she had taken from me, if I could pick all of the peas out of the ashes again. I was so very tired. I remember lying on the cold, hard ground by the hearth with a candle, picking through the ashes while I fought to keep my eyes open.

  “The cock’s crow awoke me in the morning. There was a pigeon sitting on the window sill, but the hearth was filled with peas. I wanted to cry, but as my stepmother and sisters were still sleeping, I raced to pick out the rest. But they woke soon after and caught me digging through the ashes, delighted that I had failed.

  “I ran from the house, crying. Mother had told me if I was pious and good that God would answer my prayers, but she was wrong. I was good, they were wicked, and yet they were the ones who got to go to the festival, not I. I kept thinking how unfair it all was.

  “But when I arrived at my mother’s grave, two doves were sitting in the tree, and a third landed between them. At first, I felt I’d gone mad or maybe I was dreaming, for hanging from the tree by my mother’s grave was the most beautiful silk cotehardie I had ever seen. The sleeves were fitted to the wrist, and the fabric of the tippet cascaded to the bottom of the dress. The elbows and shoulders were trimmed in royal purple velvet and silver embroidery with little pearls. A velvet cloak trimmed in furs hung next to it. Inside the cloak were two pockets. One held a riband necklace with a large amethyst pendant and a pair of earrings. The other held ten guilders!”

  I look at Galadriel with doubt, thinking she had had too much ale. “I thought you were going to tell me a true story.”

  “It is true!” she says. “I swear it on my own soul. It’s true.”

  “Very well,” I say, suspiciously.

  “So I grabbed it all, the dress, the cloak, the coins, and ran to the nearest inn. I paid them
for the night. I ate, I bathed, and I braided my hair so it would be perfectly waved in the morning.

  “The next day a caravan of beautiful carriages came to the village to pick up all the girls. I paid the driver my five guilders and he let me into the carriage with the others.

  “What did it look like? The castle, I mean,” I ask, for although I have heard jongleurs and minstrels tell of them at the market, I have never seen one with my own eyes.

  “It was the most beautiful castle I have ever seen. The stone walls seemed to grow right out of the side of the mountain. Its towers rose higher than the clouds. The walls were tall and lined with tapestries,” she said, making swift gestures with her hands to illustrate the height. “Chandeliers bigger than carriage wheels and lit with dozens of candles dangled from the ceiling. There were flowers everywhere, and the tables were covered with fruits and meats, breads, cheeses, and tarts.

  “The great hall was filled with girls, more than a thousand, I would say. But when the trumpet sounded the hall grew completely silent. The half man who delivered the invitations now announced our challenge. We had to discover the Count’s real name. The Duke, Duchess, and Count were announced as they walked to a long table at the other end of the hall.

  “The girls charged like men on the battlefield, but not me. A good, pious girl gets her prayers answered, Mother had always said, and so I stayed in the back. I laughed with the jongleurs and tried to solve their riddles. I spoke with the cooks and tried foods I had never tasted.

  “Girls would pass by and say how handsome the Count was with his black hair and green eyes. They were disappointed not to have learned his name, but most decided to make merry anyway. The girls flirted with the minstrels and sang to their songs. They danced, and drank, and laughed. I ate the food with glee, happy to eat something besides peas.