“I think I would have stayed until I had eaten the entire house,” Ivo says. I’d never really thought of that and I nod for I would do the same. I rather like cakes.
“The forest seemed to become more and more familiar to them, and at length they saw from afar their father’s house. They ran as fast as they could and rushed into the house, throwing themselves around their father’s neck. The man had not known one happy hour since he had left the children in the forest. Their stepmother was dead. Gretel emptied her pockets until pearls and precious stones ran about the room, and Hansel threw one handful after another from his pocket to add to them. Then all anxiety was at an end, and they lived together in perfect happiness.”
I finish the story just as we arrive at the market.
“Did your mother make it up?” he asks.
“I’m not sure. I never asked.” I wish I could ask her now. I swallow hard. “She always told the story so well. I’d imagine someone else must have told her the same story when she was a little girl.”
He nods. “It is a strange tale.”
“It makes you wonder how people come up with such things, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, I suppose. Either way, it was a good story and you’re a good storyteller, just like your mother.” He says the words honestly, nonchalantly, as if he is commenting on the weather. Little does he know, it is one of the greatest compliments I’ve ever received? He looks at the different bakers’ stands for the best price.
“Two cakes and two loaves,” Ivo orders. He gives up our pfennigs and hands me a loaf and a cake.
“So what about thieves?” Ivo said.
“What?”
“I doubt we’ll have to worry about witches when we live in the woods, but what about thieves.”
“Well, you beat that tree half to death today while you were asleep so you could probably handle a thief or two. Just teach me how to fight and we’ll be fine.”
“They travel in troupes! The two of us against eight or so criminals?”
“Well, I don’t know these things!” I say. “Maybe we find a place where no one else can find us.”
“That’s close to a city?”
“Fine, it’s not a great plan, but it’s better than the way things are now.” We eat one loaf and the cakes. Ivo stops at the front of my house.
“No, I want to walk you home. I can explain to your parents why we were so late so you don’t get into trouble,” I say.
“They’ll just think we’re lying or they’ll get into a fight over it. It’ll make things worse.”
“There has to be something we can do,” I say.
“Addie, he isn’t going to kill me. I can take a punch or two,” he says, and before I can argue he is walking toward his house. If it weren’t for me, he wouldn’t get the beating he’s going to get tonight and there is nothing I can do about it. The knot in my stomach twists with guilt and worry.
22 March, 1247
The week passes dreadfully slowly. Galadriel was gone by the time I returned home on Monday. Father buries himself in work which is just as well for I can’t stand to look at him. The only time I step foot in his workshop is when he’s at market or when I’m on my way out.
Ivo’s father has buried his whole family in work since he was too “sick” to work Monday. Luckily, Erik had passed out again Monday and that saved Ivo from a beating for returning home late. By Wednesday morning, I needed to be busy so I could keep from thinking about how much I missed my mother and how much I hated my father. I needed to escape the walls of this house, so I went to Ivo’s and offered to help them work.
I suppose I was less than helpful, for when I wasn’t looking one of the goats kicked over a nearly full milk pail. Erik screamed something about how his blind grandmother, God rest her soul, could milk a goat better than me and sent me home. Usually I would just take his insults, but now that I know what a bastard he is, I had screamed right back at him. So what if I cannot milk a goat? I doubt that whore-mongering drunkard could ever make a turn shoe.
I made shoes yesterday while Father was at the market, but that offered little distraction from my hatred for him and that whore Galadriel. But I earn a pfennig for each shoe I sell, and perhaps if I save enough coin Ivo and I can run away.
When Father returned, I went to the market. I talked to Michael as he packed his leather up for the night. He told me that Otto and his wife had taken sick with the fever. Otto’s mistress, Ilsa had taken sick as well. For a moment, I felt a little guilty for being so angry with Father for at least he’s still alive, but then I thought of how I found him in my mother’s bed with Galadriel and the sentiment quickly passed.
I haven’t spent a single pfennig on cakes this week which is a feat for me. Each time I walk by the confectioners’ stands and smell the doughy sweetness, I’ve had to tell myself that a coin spent on cakes is a moment longer in my father’s house. The house where he bedded a woman only a week after my mother’s death. The thought turns my stomach enough to keep the coins in my pocket.
My father had been coming home late each night so I ate every meal alone. But not this evening. This evening we eat sitting across from each other. It makes it hard to eat at all.
“How’d you get the welt on your face?” Father asks through a mouthful of cabbage.
“Erik threw a boot at me.”
“What did you do to make him do that?” he asks. Of course. It must have been my fault Erik threw a boot at me, I think angrily.
“Nothing. He mistook me for Ivo. His sight’s about as good as his dead grandmother’s.”
“He managed to hit you with the boot, didn’t he?” Father laughs, but I don’t think I shall laugh at anything he says ever again so I huff and roll my eyes.
Father drinks his ale and I get a piece of parchment I’ve been saving to make a list of supplies Ivo and I shall need when we run away together. Father doesn’t even know what I am writing since he can’t read so I don’t bother hiding it from him.
“Writing love letters to Ivo?”
“No,” I spit. “Shall I write a love letter to Galadriel for you?”
He grunts and looks down.
“Do you love her?” I continue.
“Addie, don’t.”
“I suppose it does not matter. It doesn’t change what you did. You bedded another woman in Mother’s bed. And you didn’t even have the decency to wait until Mother’s body was cold.”
His slap falls hard on my already welted cheek and knocks my head back. I rush my hand to the wound and my mouth falls open.
“I said don’t.”
“You struck me!” I say with surprise.
“You gave me cause,” he replies gruffly.
“What have I done, but defended my own mother? She isn’t here to defend herself!”
“Would you like another?” Father asks.
“Another wound for defending my mother?” I spit. “I’ll wear it like a badge of honor. Slap away if it makes you feel better,” I say through my teeth and look him directly in the face. I won’t give him the pleasure of seeing me brace for his strike.
He huffs and rises from the table.
“Are you going to marry her? Is she going to come live with us?” I say quickly. He stops where he stands and I think maybe I’ve put the thought in his head. I wish I could take it back.
“You think Galadriel’s…” he pauses to laugh, “… going to live with us? I must have hit you harder than I thought.”
It is a rather foolish idea once I think about it. Why would Galadriel leave her land and titles to live in a cobbler’s house? Perhaps the question I should have asked was: ‘Are we going to go live with her?’ But I don’t dare to put ideas in Father’s head, so I do not ask.
23 March, 1247
As I stir the pottage I wonder if anyone will go to St. Laurentius tomorrow. Father hasn’t said where we shall go and that worries me. I hope he doesn’t think I shall go to St. Laurentius. I’ll never go back there and if he, or anyone el
se for that matter, tries to make me, I shall walk right up to the altar and spit in Soren’s ugly face.
The steps creak as Father stomps up them slowly. He’s worked all day in his shop and we haven’t spoken since he struck me yesterday, which is fine for I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t want to see his face. I don’t want to hear him speak. I don’t want to smell that mix of leather and ale that announces his presence. My stomach is in knots for I deeply do not want to sit at the table with him. I would take my food in my room if it weren’t for my wanting to know where we shall go for tomorrow’s Mass.
Neither of us speaks and the entire meal is silent besides the occasional slurping. I do not dare to ask him my question for I am sure he’s still angry with me. He could make me go to St. Laurentius as punishment for yesterday. Neither of us speaks so I leave the table and go to bed not knowing. I am not tired. It isn’t even dark. I just want to sleep. I want to do nothing, to be nothing for just a little while.
***
I dream that we don’t go to church, but everyone else in the city does. There is a heavy pounding coming from the workshop, followed by a splintering crack as the door breaks in. The house shakes as a dozen pairs of feet stampede into Father’s workshop. Their hollers drown out my own screams and I rush down the stairs to see a mob of men whose fists rain down upon someone, something in the middle of them. I cannot see who they are beating, but I know it is Father. I scream, but no one looks. I run and slam into the pack, beating on the back of one of the men-at-arms. He turns, backhands me, and I fall to the ground.
Father is dragged, barely conscious, from our house and suddenly I am at the gallows in the middle of Hay Market. Soren declares Father a heretic. Those who do not know him throw garbage in his bruised and swollen face as he is dragged to a cross lying on its side. Rather than hang or burn him at the stake, he is to be crucified. Not upright like Christ, no that is too great an honor. Soren orders for Father to be crucified sideways, hanging from one arm, slowly melting into death.
Blood splatters as Soren’s henchman, Johan, hammers foot-long nails through Father’s wrists. Soren salivates over his revenge like a child salivates over hot cakes at the confectioner’s stand. Johan pounds the nails with a knock-knock-knock. The sound continues over and over. Knock-knock-knock, knock-knock-knock, knock-knock-knock….
***
I thrust upwards with a rush, escaping the nightmare and throwing my sheets several feet into the air. A cold sweat coats my skin and the cool air chills me to the bone. I hear the knocking again, though I know I am awake.
Father’s feet thump across the floor and down the steps. I sit frozen, paralyzed with the still-vivid fear from my nightmare. My mind relaxes enough to run through the people who would visit so late.
“Hello, Ansel,” says a calm voice. “May I come in?”
“Did anyone follow you, Elias?” Father asks.
“I don’t believe so,” Elias replies, with an air of feigned puzzlement.
“I respect what you’re doing and if it weren’t for Addie, I might’ve been with you,” Father sighs. “Of course, if you tell anyone I said that, I’ll deny it.”
“Can we at least talk about this?”
“I’m going to the cathedral tomorrow,” Father says slowly.
“Your wife—” Elias begins stupidly.
““Do not use her as a pawn in your rebellion!” Father bellows, no longer watching his volume. “What happened to her was one man’s fault.”
“That one man represents the Church and all that’s wrong with it. They live like princes while the people succumb to the fever. They won’t even give our loved ones funerals without bribes.”
“I’m going tomorrow.”
“But—” Elias interjects, trying desperately to win over a man who is immovable.
“I’m going,” my father says shortly.
“I understand. The people shall do what you do, Ansel. If you go, Airsbach goes, too,” Elias sighs.
“They’ll go anyway, Elias, for the safety of their families. Good night.”
Elias sighs. “Good night.”
I figure Father would slam the door in Elias’s face, but he shuts it gently. Does he think I am still asleep? I climb down the ladder into the main room as Father heads back to his bed.
“Don’t,” he snaps, walking past me.
“What?”
“We’re going tomorrow,” he orders, turning the corner to his bed.
I don’t hate him so much after the dream I just had and throw myself at him and hug him tightly.
“That won’t work.” His arms wrap around me slowly, like they’d forgotten how to.
“I’ll go,” I say looking into his face. “I want us to go as long as it isn’t to St. Laurentius.”
“Good. Then go to bed. Mass starts in a few hours.” He pats my back and I ease my vice-like grip on him. Both of us head to bed.
I turn and ask, “What kind of rebellion is Elias starting?”
“Go to bed. And don’t ever ask me that question when other people are around. Don’t talk about Elias at all,” Father says in a steady voice, walking toward me. His stare could have frozen boiling oil. It demands immediate compliance.
“Yes, Father.”
24 March, 1247
My sleep is riddled with nightmares so I rise early in the morning to escape them. My stomach is knotted and my eyes are puffy from exhaustion. I scrub my face with the cold water in my basin, untie my braid, run my fingers loosely through my crinkled hair, and re-braid it. Perhaps we can sit with Ivo’s family today at Mass. Surely they’ll go to the cathedral instead of St. Laurentius. The knots in my stomach release at the thought of seeing Ivo. I hope the sun comes out and we can spend the whole day in the shade of the trees outside Kunibert’s gate. The thought warms my stomach in a strangely pleasant way.
I let Father sleep as I sit on my bed and look out the window. The streets are still empty. The morning is cool so I wrap my cloak around my shoulders and slide my legs beneath the covers. I maintain my vigil over Airsbach, watching for parishioners heading to church.
An unfamiliar crowd of pilgrims approach, probably on their way to the cathedral to see the relics of the Three Magi. Still, there are no townspeople in the street. I haven’t heard the bells ring yet and worry for a moment that it is later than I think, yet it can’t be since I was up at dawn.
The pilgrims are always the first to Mass, but perhaps I should wake Father. I shed my nightshift and put on my hose and chainse when I hear faint voices in the distance. I wriggle my head through the neck hole and rush back to my window. A dozen or so guild members and their families are walking west on Filzengraben. Members of the group are almost unrecognizable in the distance and it takes me a moment to notice the two armed provincial guards among them. “Oh no,” I gasp. The guards have been dispatched to escort the people of Airsbach to church, though to which church I do not know. I throw on my surcote and rush to Father’s room.
“Get up! Get up! Get up!” I shout.
“What? What’s wrong?” he groans.
“The guards are escorting people to church.”
“What?” He stands in his night shift and rushes to the parlor window.
“We must go now! If the guards get here before we leave, they might make us go to St. Laurentius. I won’t go back there! I won’t!” I cry. The thought of having to go back feels like being forced to walk into an oven. My heart pounds and the sting of tears is heavy behind my eyes.
Father peers out the window and looks back at me angrily. “There are only a few people in the street.”
“Yes, but look, there are guards with them!” I say, following him back to his room.
“Fine, I’ll ready myself,” Father sighs. “Now go and—”
He’s interrupted by a thunderous pounding below us and a large snap in the workshop. Someone has broken in the door. Father throws a cloak over his shoulders and we are suddenly silent as church mice. The soft, slow tapping of
footsteps echoes from the workshop, followed by the clobbering of a heavier set of feet. I freeze. My heart drums off the bones in my chest.
“Oh, this is the right house, all right. Look at all the shoes,” a nasally voice declares as though he has solved some great mystery.
“Outstanding work, you’re a regular Albertus Magnus,” a deep voice jests sarcastically. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s here. They’ve probably already left.”
“No, I know they’re here,” says the nasally-voiced man while the other man sighs in annoyance. “I’ll check the girl’s bed… I mean the beds. You check the living quarters.”
“Listen, bastard, don’t mess with that girl—” the deep voice warns.
“My name’s not Bastard! It’s Haimo! One day my Father’ll be Archbishop of Cologne and he’ll claim me and you’ll be sorry you ever called me that.”
The other man roars with laughter and their boots pound up the steps. “Your father? Father Soren? Archbishop of Cologne!”
Father motions for me to turn around so he can quickly change into his chainse and surcote. My stomach twists and the air feels too thick to swallow. Before they reach the living quarters, Father walks out and I follow him. “Who’s there?” he calls.
“There they are! I told you they were here,” shouts the nasally voice, pointing a thin finger at us from the distance of a few feet. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“To church,” Father says matter-of-factly. “Walk with us if you must.”
“We have other orders,” Haimo says. “You’d better behave yourself, cobbler, or else I’ll—”
“Who gives your orders?” I ask with authority and Aldo laughs. He doesn’t have to say. I already know this is Soren’s doing. I just want to hear him say it. Who else would want to do this? Besides, Haimo seems terribly incompetent. No one but Soren would send him to do such a thing and believe the job might actually get done with some success.
“Everyone sit down,” the large man orders. I recognize his face, his voice, but I can’t pair them with a name.
The Fairytale Keeper: Avenging the Queen Page 14