The Fairytale Keeper: Avenging the Queen

by Andrea Cefalo

  “When I got to my estate, I had this horrible feeling,” she starts. “And it just kept getting worse. I could not sleep nor eat, so I had my things packed on Saturday and left for Cologne Sunday morning.”

  “Gregor was manning the gate when I arrived. He told me what happened so I went straight to the Archbishop as quickly as I could, but he was already on his way to free you.”

  “Thank you for what you did today,” Father says and grips her hand. He looks her in the eyes with gratitude and Galadriel blushes.

  I say nothing for I’m fuming. Really, I have nothing to thank her for. Father kicks my leg.

  “Thank you for trying to help. You and my Father seem to have a real connection, don’t you, for you to have had such a strong feeling that he was in danger when you were so far away. It must be love, and so soon after my mother’s death...” I say with all the venom I can muster.

  “What a miracle,” I sigh sarcastically, and Father slides his hand from Galadriel’s. I really should have stopped there, but I don’t.

  “I wonder if she knows what you both did.” Ivo nudges me in the ribs, cuing me to stop, but the rage takes me over. “I pray she doesn’t know her own cousin bedded her husband not even ten days after she died. I pray that every night. Do you Galadriel? How can she enjoy heaven after witnessing such a betrayal?”

  I push back my chair and stand before them. “If it was me, I think I would haunt you both for the rest of my days.”

  Galadriel’s eyes widen at my attack, but I don’t care to look upon her anymore so I turn to the stairs.

  “Adelaide!” Father shouts and I turn defiantly to stare him down. He rises from his chair and marches toward me. We are nose to nose and I no longer feel so brave. He grabs my chin and forces me to look at him. The ale on his breath burns my eyes.

  “I’ve told you not to mention that ever again, but you seem to have a stubborn streak lately,” he says through his teeth.

  “Are you going to hit me again?” It is more of an accusation than a question.

  “Apologize,” he growls.

  “No.”

  “Apologize!” he screams and his spit sprays on my face. I hear Ivo’s chair scrape across the floor and I turn my head just enough to see him rise. I don’t want a fight between them.

  “Fine,” I concede, and Father drops my chin. Ivo stands at his seat, leaning on his fists. He looks at Father severely, breathing hard.

  “I think you’ll find I have a bit of a temper,” I say, narrowing my eyes at her. “Sorry, my tongue can be wicked at times.” I don’t say sorry for hurting her feelings and I don’t apologize for defending my mother’s honor. I’ll never apologize for that. “May I go now, Father?”

  “No,” he snaps. “You and I leave tomorrow. Galadriel has offered to house us and we shall be gracious guests,” he says and limps back to the table to sit beside Galadriel.

  “What? I don’t want to leave!” I cry and he shoots me a look of daggers.

  “You’ll do as you’re told,” he barks and bangs his fist on the table. “Galadriel has a room for you at the White Stag tonight. Be in it by the time I get there. I wish to have words with you alone. Now leave us.

  26 March, 1247 Night

  I walk away as my anger toward Father, my hatred of Galadriel, and plans of revenge against the Archbishop spiral through my thoughts.

  How could Father want to leave Cologne and move in with that harlot? If his affair with Galadriel was like stabbing mother in the chest, going to live with her is like twisting the knife. How can he not be burdened by that? It makes no sense to me. Surely Haimo must have hit Father harder than I thought last night for he doesn’t think clearly at all. But all I can do now is hope that once he is rested and fed, he’ll come back to his senses and the seed of guilt I’ve planted shall grow quickly within his thoughts.

  If the guilt of his affair doesn’t shake him from his decisions, I shall have to remind him of what we’d be leaving behind. Cobbling in Cologne is our legacy. There are too many generations of us Schumachers to recall. Cobbling has always been what I’ve expected to do with my life and pass onto my children Besides that, if we leave, we’d abandon our friends while Cologne faces a crisis far worse than any of them realize. Our friends stood by us when we gave Mother’s second funeral and boycotted the church even though it endangered them. How could we just leave them behind to bear the fever and a tyrant alone?

  I know Cologne has become a dangerous place, and in the last fortnight I’ve thought to leave many times. But this is my home. This is all of our homes. We can’t surrender it to an old, power-hungry man who shall be gone in a month or less, who shall be dead in a decade or sooner. We have to stay and try to make this the Cologne it once was. If we don’t, the council and the people lose their voice. We can be condemned without hearings. Our dead shall be dumped in the pits without the sacraments they are owed, the sacraments we pay for with our tithes.

  But if Father stands by his decision to make us go, and he is more stubborn than I so he just may do that, I shall make sure we return to Cologne within a fortnight. I shall make Galadriel hate me more than I hate her. I’ll be rightfully cruel to her when Father can’t see, but when we are in front of him I shall be sickeningly sweet to her. I’ll make false complaints against her. If she doesn’t force us out, he shall want to leave. I’ll have to be quick about it though, before they do something hasty, like wed. But I have done all I can do tonight and Father is too angry with me to hear anything else I have to say.

  For now, I have other scores to settle. I have more seeds to plant so I may someday see the Archbishop fall. Vengeance has cost us, I know it. I feel the pain of it in my aching joints with every step I take. I feel it in my stomach as I watch Father and Galadriel grow closer, but I tire of being the pawn in someone else’s game of chess. I am the player now. I shall always be the player, I promise myself.

  “Where are you going?” Ivo asks, as I pass his house and head toward the cathedral. I pull the cloak over my head and hide my face.

  “To find Aldo,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “I have to tell him something.”

  “You’re not going to warn him, are you? He deserves what he gets, Addie.”

  “It’s not to protect him. He has a wife and a daughter to provide for. What shall happen to them if he dies? What if little Leah is put to the stocks for stealing bread to keep from starving. What if she is violated like Anna Metzger and ends up with child, a child she can’t provide for? What if she or her mother has to become a whore at the Gopher to provide for themselves? They didn’t do anything wrong. Why should they suffer for Aldo’s mistakes? Besides, he may be of use to me one day so I need him to live.” I continue toward the Archbishop’s palace. “Hide your face beneath your cloak so no one recognizes you.”

  I walk up to a guard and ask where Aldo lives. It isn’t far from the palace. I compose myself before I knock as I need to look strong and unafraid. I breathe deeply and knock on the door. Aldo answers with sword in hand.

  “I suppose you’re here to gloat,” he says.

  “No.”

  “What is it then?” he asks impatiently.

  “If you don’t leave tonight, you’ll be face down in the Rhine within the week. Take your family and go and don’t let anyone know where.” Besides that, if we leave, we’d abandon our friends while Cologne faces a crisis far worse than any of them realize. He steps outside his house and closes the door behind him.

  “What do you care if I’m killed?” he asks.

  “I don’t, but I should like to see the Archbishop squirm a little when he realizes you aren’t dead. Perhaps you could have a little revenge of your own on him in time. You could have a few letters written to the patrician families of the Cologne council about what really happened today. I doubt they are very happy right now that the Archbishop killed two men without their say. The council is very powerful and I think they should like to see Cologne without an Archbishop to co
mpete with for power. Or, if you don’t care for revenge, then I should like to know that your daughter Leah has a father to provide for her so she doesn’t turn to thievery or harlotry in order to survive, even if that Father is as despicable as you.”

  I turn and leave without parting words. Ivo looks at me with shock, as if he no longer recognizes me.

  Anger stays with me as I head back toward Filzengraben, not caring where that road shall take me. My vision haloes as I walk, though my legs have a mind of their own. I don’t feel them at all. It surprises me that I am still standing for I have slept and eaten so little these past three days, but I don’t feel tired at all and even Ivo struggles to keep up with me. My mind is full of hatred, anger, and revenge. It fuels me. I won’t accept the unfairness of the world. The world is only fair if we fight to makes it so, and even then there is no promise of justice.

  I stop before a charred circle of ashes in the road. I am jolted back to the present, the breath knocked from my chest. This marks the spot where all of our belongings had been burned; the blankets that smelled like the lavender of my mother, all of her clothing, her dried flowers, the spoon she’d used to stir the porridge that I couldn’t seem to make quite right.

  I am so engrossed in my daze that I had forgotten what I would come home to. I feel as though I look upon the world from afar, like I am here, but I am not. I look to the right and see the door to our house hanging crookedly on its hinges. Beyond that, leather scrap, an awl, lasts, and flax thread are strewn about the floor of Father’s disheveled workshop. My knees unhinge and I fold to the ground. The darkness tries to take me, but I fight it. I hear the light pounding of feet and the echoing shouts of my name. Ivo grabs me under the arms and my head falls onto his tunic. I breathe in the fresh grass, clean wind, and sweaty scent of him as I try to catch air, as I try to stay awake. He tries to force me up, but my legs refuse to hold me. I fold again and the darkness wins as I slip into dreams.

  Snow sprinkles down, dusting the tents and pathways into the Christmas market. The bushes and trees are already coated from several days of light snow. Every year Mother takes one night off from her normal chores right before twilight to take me to the market while Father works. We rarely buy anything, but it is nice to smell the different foods and spices so beautifully-prepared in time for Christmas, and to see the people come out in their brightly-colored cloaks. The lanterns at each tent glow, making the city a reflection of a clear night filled with stars. It is magical.

  We don our best cloaks, our only cloaks, and shuffle through the snow, trying not to slip. Our breath clouds in the air and my fingers and toes quickly grow cold from the chilly night air. The music of the many performers and glow from the thousands of candles flickering off the fresh snow and cream colored tents lure us. We can see it, hear it, though we are blocks away. Each tent serves something different: dried fruits, intricately twisted breads, spices I’d never heard of, cookies in the shapes of people, cakes and breads, wines, silks, furs, and so much more. Most of the vendors ignore us. We don’t look like we have lots of coins so why waste the time?

  But one of the spice men isn’t busy and smiles at me the way a father smiles at a girl who reminds him of a daughter he misses.

  “You-a like-a thee spices?”

  I nod quickly. I smile the way only a six year old can, widely, curiously, and innocently.

  “You-a smell, eh?”

  The man has leathery skin, like the color father uses to make most of his boots.

  I walk into the tent and peer into the myriad of barrels filled with spices as brightly-colored as the forest in fall: maple reds, burnt oranges, golden yellows, and warm browns. The smells are even richer and more varied. First, I smell the sweet, earthiness of cinnamon and then the sweet, woodsy heat of nutmeg. Next are the tiny black balls of clove; so strong, spicy, and syrupy. The large white bulbs of garlic smell bitter and buttery. It is a feast for the senses. The prices mean nothing to me for I am too young to know about that. The signs say 10 pfennig, 13 pfennig, and 25 pfennig.

  “Can we get some, Mutti?” I beg, tugging her cloak. “Pleeeeaaaasse.”

  In walks a round woman covered in a scarlet red cloak edged with furs, several small pages following her. Her chubby, bejeweled fingers dart back and forth between the barrels as she barks her order.

  “No! No! No! I said ten pounds of sugar! That’s not even five!” the woman grunts in frustration. The spice trader rushes back and forth trying to keep up, filling sack after sack with her order. “Surely, there’s another spice man in the market. If you can’t keep up, I’ll take my coins elsewhere!”

  “No! No! Don’ go! I give-a you-a free pound, eh?”

  Mother says a quick thank you to the spice man and hurries me out of the shop.

  “How come that lady gets to have lots of spices and we don’t even get any?” I pout.

  “Here,” Mother says and she places one of her three pfennigs in my hand. “You can get something you want with this.”

  “How many spices can I get with it?” I ask.

  “None,” Mother replies.

  “How come?” I cross my arms and pout.

  “Because you would need many, many more than that to buy spices. To buy one pound of spices, you would have to have one pfennig for each of your fingers and toes, that’s twenty. There are things in this market that you will like more than those spices but will only cost you the one pfennig. ”

  “Well, don’t you want some spices? They make your food taste really good, like the baker’s cakes.” I try to convince her so I can use my pfennig for something else.

  “I suppose so.”

  “Then why don’t you get some?”

  “Because I have two pfennigs and that’s not quite enough.”

  “Let’s go home and get some more and then we’ll get even more spices than that lady!” I throw my arms out to show my mother how many bags of spices we shall bring home. “Father would love that.”

  Mother laughs. “We don’t have enough pfennigs at home either.”

  “Yes we do. Father has a jar. We can use those!” My excitement turns to a whine.

  “We need to use those coins to pay for other things, like food, rent, tithing, and taxes. And even if we didn’t, we still wouldn’t have enough coins to buy as much spices as that woman.” Mother speaks slowly and sweetly, trying to help me understand, but I don’t.

  “Well, how come that lady has so many coins and we don’t?” I ask. “Does she work harder than Father?”

  “No,” Mother replies.

  “Then why does she have so many coins?”

  “Well… sometimes it’s not about how hard you work, but who you are.”

  “Who is she?”

  “She is kin of the Archbishop.”

  “So she gets more coins because God likes her better?”

  “No!” Mother laughs.

  “But we’re good people. We deserve lots of coins too.”

  “You’re right. We are good people, but that’s not the way things work, my little Snow White.”

  “It’s not fair,” I pout.

  “I know,” she sighs. We walk for a while, the shouts of vendors and the crunch of our boots in the snow being the only sound. I feel very sad that it doesn’t matter if one works hard or prays hard, or even does right. Some people shall do the opposite and have more for it. I know Mother sees the sadness on my face.

  “But you know what? There are some monks on the corner who have the best gingerbread in the whole world.”

  “Really?” I cry.

  “And they are only a pfennig,” she whispers as though she shares some grand secret with me.

  I run ahead of her in search of the gingerbread. I hold my pfennig in an iron grip though I shall give it away as soon as I get my hands on their confections.

  27 March, 1247

  My eyes flutter at the cerulean glow of the sky before dawn brightens the room. Dawn? Had I slept through the evening and the night? My stomach bu
rns, begging for food, but the heaviness of sleep wins as I sink back into the mat. I sleep until the radiance of the afternoon sun sneaks into the house and burns the back of my eyelids. I roll onto my stomach and cover my face with my arm. Sleep again. Familiar voices sneak into my slumber and weave themselves into my countless, forgotten dreams. It isn’t the rusty orange blush of sunset that wakes me, but an argument I pretend to sleep through.

  “Ivo, we hardly have food for us,” Greta says.

  “They have no food now. God would want us to be charitable,” Ivo reasons. Greta is devout and she sighs, knowing he is right, but he continues anyway. “She can have my food.”

  “You are not giving up your food. You’ll eat what the Lord has provided for you,” Greta huffs. “She doesn’t eat much and she’ll probably sleep through another night anyway,” she sighs.

  I pretend to sleep a while longer so they don’t suspect I’ve heard their discussion, not that Greta would feel bad about it. She would tell me plainly she didn’t want to feed me without any guilt for hurting my feelings, but she would never let on that it was because they didn’t have enough food. She is too proud for that and I don’t want her to know I’ve overheard her admit it to her son.

  I fake a yawn to warn them I am waking. I stretch, and a warm, heavenly burn flows from my arms into my shoulder blades. My back arches instead of hunching forward like it had been for two days in the stocks. I lay still for a moment, enjoying the feeling of being straight.

  “So, you’re finally awake?” Greta says as I sit up and brush the tangles of hair from my face.

  “Just in time for supper!” Levi yells gleefully.

  “Just in time for supper,” Greta’s repeats with less enthusiasm.