This isn’t a terribly interesting scandal. Perhaps if he’d said we’d abandoned God, the people might be a little more interested in our crime. It also may have helped if he’d had us dragged out as prisoners, but we are in the stocks already. Our sentence has already been issued. The people know there isn’t to be a hanging, or a burning, or a cutting off of limbs.
Besides that, the Church has lost favor with the people, as its priests have stopped giving last rites and funerals, since its clergymen have grown fat from our tithes, and especially since the Archbishop had parchments nailed to the door of every man in the city ordering him to attend Mass or face punishment. I’ve heard the complaints myself.
The people who were given pfennigs for crossing and kneeling at the sight of our Archbishop now turn from him and make their way back into the market to spend his coins. His eyebrow raises and he snaps his fingers at the guard. A half-dozen of the men-at-arms toss pfennigs into the air to lure the crowd back to him and most of them return.
The Archbishop raises his arms to the sky as if he’s summoning the holy grace of God. “Like the great Shepherd, Our Heavenly Lord and Master, Jesus Christ, I have decided to show mercy and not burn these heretics at the stake, but guide them back into the good graces of the Lord.” There is applause from the crowd and the guards shower the crowd with coins again.
“But they must serve a penance to rectify their sin!” The crowd applauds and cheers louder. Their enthusiasm is rewarded with another showering of coins. “They have spent one night in the stocks and must spend another two.” The crowd boos and hisses us.
Two more nights, I think. I ache from head to foot already. I nearly froze last night. How am I to make it through two more nights?
“Good people of Cologne, let them suffer as they should to be absolved from their sins. Let us pray they reform so we shan’t have to burn them on the pyre. And let it be known that the next heretics I find shall be burned so all can see the horrors of an eternity of hellfire!” The crowd cheers its loudest.
The throng dissolves into the market stands to make purchases with their coins as dozens of other rush at the Archbishop to make requests of him. Soren walks over to me.
“You thought you were pretty smart, didn’t you? You didn’t think I would find out about your little plan, did you? Oh, but I did. You’d be surprised at how little I had to pay for that information. And now look at where you and your father are.” He cocks his head to the side. “I bet you’d like to throw another stone at me now, wouldn’t you? But you can’t with those pretty little hands bound, can you? No, no, no…” he tuts.
“You’ve become a thorn in my side, girl. And I think you’ll find that I can become a spear in yours.” He pulls a cloth from his robes and I recognize it immediately. “This was your mother’s, was it not?” He places it beneath his nostrils and breathes in deeply. “She smells lovely, nothing like that day we burned her.”
I’ll claw out his eyes, I think as I shove my hands through the holes as far as they can go.
“You are a feisty little witch!” he laughs. “This is the last of your mother’s things. I am having the rest of them burned in the streets right now. I am having all of your things burned in the streets.”
I pull backwards slamming the base of my head hard against the wood. My neck burns from the pain, but I try again desperately to break through the stock so I can get Mother’s clothes, her lavender satchels, anything that smells like her, anything that reminds me of her. Soren laughs.
“Do you want this back?” he asks smugly and I narrow my eyes at him. Of course I want it back. He knows I want it back. “Swear to me, on your mother’s soul, that you shall sit in my church every Mass for the rest of my days. I shall save you a seat in the first pew so I can look upon your angry, defeated face.”
I collect all the saliva in my mouth and spit, hitting him on the side of his nose. “Keep it,” I hiss.
He wipes my spit from his face with the cloth. “Very well then, I think I shall use this to wipe my arse.” He rises and walks away.
The tears are heavy behind my eyes. I shall not let him see me cry. I shan’t even hang my head so he can think that I am defeated. I huff angrily, desperate not to let the sobs or the tears surface. After a few moments, he disappears into the market and I put my head down and sob quietly.
As sunset turns to twilight, I hear a familiar set of footsteps and a tall thin waist pauses in front of me. Ivo.
“I heard you’re going to be in there for two more nights,” he says with pity.
“Yeah,” I reply hoarsely.
“I brought you something.” He reaches into a satchel and pulls out a chainse that belonged to my mother.
“How did you get this? All our things were burned,” I gasp. He places the garment in my hand. Had they not been pinned, I would have cradled it to my face.
“I saw the guards putting all of your things into a pile so I grabbed this before they set it on fire. Here, give it back so no one realizes it’s yours.” He pulls the tunic back and stuffs it in the bag. “Are you hungry?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Father might be.” Ivo checks on him, but he won’t eat either. Truth be told, hunger pains me, but none of us have the luxury of privacy or chamber pots and I refuse to defecate outside like a dog. It also doesn’t seem quite fair to eat when Elias and the others have nothing.
“I’ll be in the Giggling Pig again. Whistle three times if you need me or scream if you’re in danger, but I’ll be keeping an eye out.” I nod before he heads to the tavern.
“Wait,” I say and he turns. “Can you bring me some warm wine? I am so thirsty.”
If I am to bear another frigid night, I’ll need wine to warm my stomach and soothe my rigid muscles. Perhaps I might even find a way to sleep, though I don’t know how.
This night is just as cold as the last and I find no comfort in telling myself that after tonight there is only one more to go. My teeth chatter and my body shivers. I must tense my stomach and run in place to stay warm though I am beyond tired. I see and hear things that I know are not there. I am stiff all over and stretch as much as I can to keep the pain bearable. I try to roll my neck and wrists about to ease the stiffness in my arms and shoulders. But eventually I give in to the cold, the pain, and the exhaustion and try to rest. Unfortunately sleeping means hanging by my throat, knees dangling, so rest is impossible. I am frustrated into tears.
A whistle trills through the icy nighttime air as a pair of boots shuffle in the distance. The sounds come from behind me, making it impossible to see who makes them. It is hallucination from being overtired, I tell myself. Pay it no mind. Father, who is nearly a foot taller than me, rests his knees on the ground without strangling himself. Motionless, he appears to sleep.
The scuff of the boots grows louder and closer by the moment. My chest constricts as I debate whether or not I should scream for Ivo’s help.
The whistling pierces the air from directly behind me. I hold my breath. The warm breeze of a body passes me.
The scuffling grows quieter as the body veers off to my left. It is probably some drunkard making his way home after a long night of indulgence. I look over to see who the stranger is. A dark-haired, lanky figure stands next to Father, drawing back his fist.
Just as I am about to scream for Ivo, I see him run past me. The dark-haired man lands a punch on Father’s jaw and Ivo crashes into the man whose feet fly into the air as he lands on the hardened ground with a thud. The man gasps for air as Ivo rolls him over and starts punching. Father shakes the stock, trying to free himself and cheers on Ivo at the same time. The dark-haired man whimpers, curls into a ball, and cowers behind his arms, but Ivo doesn’t stop, landing blows on his sides and his back.
Ivo pauses for a moment, exhales a few hard breaths into the cold night air, and punches a few more times before he stands. The man rises to his hands and knees, coughing and spitting the blood from his mouth. Iv
o circles, ready to go at him again. The man stands and the moonlight shines upon his swelling face. I recognize him immediately. It’s the priest’s bastard, Haimo.
“What’s wrong, Haimo? Can’t land a punch unless a man is in chains?” Ivo says to Haimo who stumbles with his fists drawn shakily. A red trail trickles down his nose and stains his surcote.
He stumbles some more and a smirk spreads across his face, still smug despite his beating. “There is still one more night for them and I think I should like to keep that pretty little girlfriend of yours warm.”
Ivo’s eyes narrow when the word “pretty” passes Haimo’s lips and he charges again, barreling him to the ground once more. He punches his face, then focuses his blows on Haimo’s stomach. Father rattles the stocks as he fights to free himself, shouting curses at Haimo. Ivo stands and spits on his face as he groans in pain. He pulls back his foot and kicks him as hard as he can between the legs. Haimo howls, rolls to his side, and retches.
“That is a low blow!” Haimo cries.
“So is forcing yourself upon a girl in the stocks.”
“Good man! You’ve got a little of your father in you after all!” Father laughs.
Ivo nods his head, but I know he doesn’t see any comparison with his father as a compliment. He walks toward me.
“Thank you,” I say.
Ivo nods. His knuckles are bloodied, but other than that he hasn’t a scratch on him.
“How’d you know he’d come after us?”
“I knew someone would. Remember Anna Metzger?”
“Yes.” I pause as I remember Anna Metzger. Her father was one of the butchers, but three years ago he got sick and died. The family had no coin and she’d been caught stealing from the baker who turned her in immediately. They sentenced her to two days in the stocks at only thirteen years old. She had a baby less than a year later. It was a real scandal in the borough. People thought she had turned to selling herself to get enough coin to feed her family.
“She wasn’t a whore like people thought,” Ivo sighs. “She entered the stocks a maid, but she didn’t leave one.”
“No!” I gasp, not wanting to believe it. Poor, Anna. Ivo shakes his head, stands, and walks back to Haimo.
“If you speak of this to anyone, you shall lose your tongue and your testicles,” he says.
“I don’t know that I have any testicles left,” Haimo groans.
“I don’t think you ever had them to begin with, but my threat stands. If I am arrested or if they are harmed, I know people, many people, who shall see you tortured in ways you can’t imagine. Things shall be done to you that would make the executioner blush.” I am shocked to hear him sound so much like his father.
Haimo looks up with terrified eyes and nods. He stands and limps away. Ivo returns to me.
“You sure you’re alright?” He asks, kneeling to look into my face.
I nod. “Well enough for someone in the stocks.” I say and wave my hands to illustrate my confines. “Thank you.” I look at his face carefully and suddenly notice how much he has changed. The childish softness of his face has hardened. He is quiet, contemplative, and threatening men with torture. I am grateful for what he has done for me, but feel guilty that he has had to. These are hard times, indeed. I wonder if I shall ever again see his wide grin and the tiny lines that used to fan out on the sides of his eyelids.
“You should go back so no one can accuse you of helping us. Get some sleep. I’ll yell if we need you.”
He nods and begins to walk back to the tavern.
“But before you go can you scratch my nose?” I ask.
His shoulders droop and he sighs. He turns around and saunters back.
“Higher…. lower… left…. more left. It’s between my cheek and my nose…” He gets the spot and it feels absolutely heavenly.
“Anything else before I go?” he asks, pretending to be annoyed.
“No. Thank you though,” I say, trying to smile.
26 March, 1247
I am more vigilant now. Every snap of a twig, howl of the wind, and hoot of an owl makes my heart pound with fear. I am beyond fatigued and surely half the noises I hear aren’t real. I debate crying for Ivo a dozen times, but I don’t. I know he must be tired, but I doubt he’s as tired as me for I haven’t slept in two nights.
Each time I get into a comfortable position, my eyelids fail me. As soon as I fall asleep my legs collapse, forcing me to fall back. My head smacks painfully against the back of the stocks, wrenching my neck. I stumble back to my feet as the muscles in my neck twist into knots. I bite my lip to stifle whimpers of pain.
Eventually the tension dulls and I am left with a burning throb from head to hip. My feet shuffle as cramps shoot through my legs and back. I drift briefly into sleep over and over and I fall back again and again. One more night, I chant through chattering teeth, one more night.
The sky lightens and the artisans come to set up their stands. A dense fog seeps through the market and I can’t tell whether the day shall be sunny or cloudy. I lean into the stock and stretch my neck in small circles. The block chafes my neck terribly, but my head is too heavy for it to carry any longer so I reluctantly rest on the rough wood. The fog clears and the sun peaks through thick clouds, warming my back. Perhaps if I just close one eye I won’t fall asleep, but soon the other eye is heavy and I fight to keep it open. I can close my eyes for a moment, I think, just for a moment.
***
Thwap! The stock shakes and I awaken in just enough time to turn my face from the projectile. A rotten apple smashes against my cheek, spraying the putrid flesh across my nose and lips. I spit the slimly pieces from my mouth, but a few pieces stick to my tongue. I gag.
“I got her!” a filthy red-headed boy cries. His friends cheer and pat him on the back. A shorter urchin steps forward, aims, and throws his apple at me. This time I bow my head so the rotten fruit can land in my hair rather than near my nose or mouth, but his apple doesn’t even hit the stock. His friends laugh at him and the boy sulks.
I narrow my eyes. “Hey!” But before I can threaten them, they run off and disappear into the horde, squealing with laughter.
Once they are gone, I realize that I had been sleeping before they’d started throwing spoiled fruit at me. I sigh pleasantly, grateful to have finally learned how to sleep in this thing. If I lean into the stock, my legs don’t give when I fall asleep. To pass the time, the stiffness in my body, my thirst, and hunger pains, I fall asleep again and hope vainly I don’t rise until tomorrow when we shall be freed.
***
“Adelaide!” someone calls and I groan. “Adelaide!” It is Father’s voice. I open my eyes, but my vision is cloudy. The market is quieter than normal. My vision clears as I pull back on the stocks to give my legs and back a stretch.
I can hardly believe what I see. The Archbishop and his guard parade into the market again to the awe of the small crowd who again receive pfennigs for their reverence. Did I sleep through the day and the night, I wonder optimistically. Is it time to be set free?
Then I realize it can’t be morning. The sun is too far in the west and the crowd in the market is too small. It must be late in the afternoon which means it is not Wednesday morning and I have another night in these bloody stocks. I dully wonder why the Archbishop is here. I hope he’s here to set us free early, but I doubt he would ever be merciful. Perhaps he’s here to make further examples out of us.
If that was it, surely Soren would be in the front row to watch, but I don’t see him. I search through the crowd for his smug face and then I see her. I am dreaming, I think, but my body hurts and I am terribly hungry so I must be awake. I’d rub my eyes or pinch myself to check, but my hands are bound by the stocks.
Galadriel steps forward in a fine velvet gown. What is she doing here? She left days ago. How could she even be here? How would she even know to be here?
Her face is as regal as a stone sculpture. She looks at the Archbishop like she’s waiting for him t
o speak. Today she plays the role of a countess just as she did when we went to St. Pantaleon’s to guarantee Peter safety and freedom from his captors. The Archbishop raises his hands in the air and the people of the market hush immediately.
“People of Cologne,” he says loudly. “There has been a great injustice done to two of our own!”
The crowd gasps with disbelief and I can see their eagerness to hear the news. I shake my head for I’m sure the Archbishop has known of this injustice for two days now, but his threats against Father are still fresh in my mind so I won’t dare tempt him.
“Ansel Schumacher and his poor daughter Adelaide are victims of a terrible plot,” he says woefully, feigning pity for us.
The crowd edges closer to him, to us. The children stand on tiptoe as they wait to hear.
“Two of our own forced Ansel and Adelaide to miss Sunday Mass. The plot was confessed to me just this morning! God forgive me for not knowing and for punishing the innocent! But how, oh Lord, was I supposed to know of such wickedness among my own guards!” He places his head in his hands dramatically as the crowd looks upon him with pity and bewilderment.
I am sure the people wonder who among the Archbishop’s servants has betrayed him. I know and he does too. I am sure he has known since Father and I were brought to the North Tower but he didn’t care. I hope he intends to punish the real criminals now and not another pair of innocents like Father and me.
“Father Soren of St. Laurentius Church, Haimo Fitzoda, and Aldo Becker plotted to keep Ansel and his daughter Adelaide from Mass to settle personal scores! They were held prisoner in their own home!” The crowd boos and hisses as Haimo and Soren are pushed through the crowd by the guards with bound hands and gagged mouths. Haimo still limps from the beating he received last night. Soren is bruised and bloodied too. “These men led me to believe that you good people of Cologne planned a most heinous and wicked revolt against your Holy Mother Church led by this humble shoemaker!
The Fairytale Keeper: Avenging the Queen Page 16