The Countess' Captive (The Fairytale Keeper Book 2)

by Andrea Cefalo

  “Milady…” he pleads.

  Galadriel widens her eyes in warning.

  Gregor approaches the gate with a heavy sigh. He struggles to grasp the cutters with his rheumatic fingers, dropping them twice. When he finally gets them within his grasp, he clamps down, shaking in an effort to cut a rope as thick as my forearm. He drops the cutters again and curses beneath his breath.

  Galadriel allows him a few more attempts before she approaches the rope, sliding her slender fingers along the strands. “He has not cut a single thread!” she concludes. Gregor’s shoulders fall. “And you two assume that this man could cut through an iron lock!? And with these cutters? Why they are nearly rusted through.” The smaller man’s face contorts. “Now, give me those cutters, gatekeeper,” Galadriel orders again. After a few attempts, he picks them up and hands them to her. “And you come here.” She summons the oaf. “Take this, and get this man a sharp pair of cutters so that if he needs them, he can use them. It is the least you can do after the fright you have given him.”

  Galadriel places two silver coins in his pudgy palm. It is more than enough to purchase good cutters and many flagons of good wine. The oaf’s red eyebrows rise as he salivates over the groschens. Even the smaller man’s face softens as he looks into his friend’s palm before taking the coins from his hand. Galadriel turns to the carriage, and at once her regal face pales, revealing the fear she hid so well.

  The shorter man bounces the coins in his hands. “What’s this gatekeeper to you?” he asks, and Galadriel halts. “Why do you care what happens to him?” Her face darkens and eyes narrow, fear boiling into rage.

  She turns on her heel and makes short work of the space between them. The guards’ eyes widen with fright. “How dare you address me so informally?!” she growls, shaking the cutters at him. “How dare you question me?! Who do you think you are?!” Then she rounds on the oaf who nearly cowers, though Galadriel is only two–thirds his height. “What is his name?” Galadriel demands of the oaf, pointing the cutters at the smaller man. He looks frightfully, pitifully to his friend. “Tell me, or I shall report you both to Konrad!”

  The short man falls to his knees. “My apologies, milady. It is no business of mine. Have mercy, please.”

  “It is too late for your apologies,” she hisses. “But now I should like to answer your question. This gatekeeper is no one to me, but to someone he is everything, and for that, he deserves protection from those who can give it, from men like you. As a guard, is it not your job to protect the people of this great city? Is it not your job to protect us from the heretic on the loose? And yet, here you stand, ready to send an obviously innocent man to torture and death. So it is either that you are lazy or stupid, and I have not yet figured out which, but I do know that Konrad deserves better guards than you to protect his city. That I do know.”

  “Please, milady. Have mercy.” He grasps Galadriel’s hand, but she rips it from him. “I have children to feed. My wife died of the fever, and they only have me to care for them.”

  “A desperate lie, I am sure.”

  “It’s true, milady, I swear it,” the man says. Galadriel looks to the oaf who vouches for his friend with a sad nod.

  “I shall have to think upon it. It is for the greater good of Cologne to have better guards, even if your children do starve.”

  “I shall be a better guard. I swear it.”

  “If I come back and find this man has been harassed, if I find his cutters have not been replaced, then I know you by sight, and I swear that I shall have more than your jobs.”

  “Yes, milady,” the men stammer, their voices overlapping. “Thank you, milady.”

  She shoos them with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Now go. Catch this heretic and fetch cutters for this man.”

  The men run past our carriage toward Hay Market. Galadriel stays with Gregor, his face the portrait of shame. She puts her hand in his, sliding her perfect fingers along his gnarled ones. They whisper quietly. Gregor’s lips purse, and he nods as she talks, surely explaining that she never meant to insult him, only to save him, save him from my folly. His gaze moves to the carriage, and he tips his head in greeting to us. The undeserved forgiveness only makes my guilt heavier.

  I owe him more than an apology, but since that is all I have to offer, I would like to give it. “Papa…” I start, but his fierce gaze silences me. I look down. “I would like to apologize…to Gregor.”

  “No. You can bear the burden of your guilt in silence. I won’t have you risking us all to ease it.”

  The door opens, and Galadriel’s shaky hand grips the driver’s. Her face whitens, and she collapses into her seat, shivering. She drops the cutters on the floor of the carriage and pounds on the wall, signaling the driver to leave in great haste.

  Father unties his cloak and wraps it around her. “Are you all right?”

  Her hand shakes as she clutches her chest. Sweat glistens on her forehead. She nods. “Do you think they believed me? Do you think Gregor is saved?”

  Father points to the cutters on the floor. “They gave you the only evidence against him.”

  Galadriel’s chest heaves with a great breath, and she sighs. “As long as Hochstaden doesn’t find out…”

  She drops her twitching hands between her knees. The droplets upon her forehead swell, her face pales unnaturally, and I could have predicted the faint before it came. Her eyes roll, and she folds, falling upon the floor of the carriage. Father jumps to catch her.

  She lies limp in his arms. “Galadriel!” He shakes her shoulders. “Galadriel!”

  I drop to the floor, untie the cloak, and open the shutters. Now that we are out of the city, the air is clean and brisk.

  Her eyelids flutter, and a sigh slips between her lips. Her eyes dart around the carriage, looking lost. Her gaze finds Father’s, and she smiles like a lovesick fool. Father folds his lips. The furrow in his brow melts away.

  Will he look at her the same way she looks at him: like some lovesick fool?

  He doesn’t. And I think he could never love her like he loved Mama. The thought warms me like strong wine.

  Father helps Galadriel into her seat, and rather than sit beside me, he joins her on the other side of the carriage. My taste of triumph turns quickly bitter.

  Serfs and villeins solemnly make their way through the light smoke to the fields. Ivo. I must warn him. I can’t let Elias get to him. I won’t see Ivo punished like a heretic. I peer out the left window. Many of the workers sow while others still plow.

  How many furlongs are we from the Bauer’s fields? I wonder, biting my lip. The heat of a stare bores into my cheek. I look up. Father watches my bouncing knee. His narrowed gaze darts from my face to the left window and back to my face again. Sometimes I think he can read my thoughts—though he only bothers himself when it’s most inconvenient.

  I still myself and gaze out the right window instead, an effort to ease Father’s suspicion. We’ve passed the Bauer’s fields by now. But by how much?

  I slide near the door and feign sleep, resting my head against the shift Ivo brought me days ago. It is the only reminder I have of my mother. The rest of them were burned in the street. I breathe in. The fabric still smells like lavender, still smells like her. A snore jostles me from thought.

  Father’s eyelids bounce, and his head nods forward. I watch. He is just barely asleep. Barely will have to be good enough.

  I bunch a length of skirt in my hand and lip a silent prayer before taking a deep breath and plunging through the door.

  My feet sink into the earth, but I spring up quickly. Father’s angry shout cuts through the snap of whips cracking at oxen. I pick up my skirts as I dart forward, dashing into the fields, heading toward the city wall. I run, but the space between us narrows. Father hollers after me again, his furious voice growing louder, closer. My legs burn, but fear churns them harder, faster. I look to either side, scanning the fields for Ivo’s silhouette, unable to find it.

  ”Ivo!�
�� I cry. ”Ivo!”

  But it isn’t Ivo I see. It is his father, Erik. His red hair beams like a lantern a few furlongs ahead.

  “Erik!” I call, pushing my legs harder.

  I feel the breeze of Papa’s hand as it swipes past my shoulder, and I cry out. I open my mouth to yell out for Erik again, but my toe catches on a jagged rock, and I gasp instead.

  I catch the sight of the stone just as the ground comes up to meet me. I shield my face, bracing for the fall. The crack of my skull against the rock sounds before the searing pain registers. I roll to my side with a moan. The cold ground embraces me as the darkness takes me away.

  A great crowd swarms Hay Market.

  Why? Why are so many people here?

  Smoke slinks heavily between their feet, and the fumes fill my nose. I put my hand to my face and cough.

  It is a dark, starless night, but a rich fiery light flickers off the sides of the throng of blank faces, each staring in the same direction.

  “What’s happening?” I nudge the moon–faced boy beside me, but he does not move. His eyes do not flinch at my touch.

  What is everyone looking at? I push up on the tops of my toes. A thousand heads block the view, fading into the smoke.

  A thought warns me: Turn around. Go home. I shake the words from my head and surge forward.

  I shimmy through the crowd, gently at first, excusing myself. No one moves aside. No one complains. No one acknowledges me at all. They are as stubborn and stupid as cattle. I push harder, shoving old ladies and burghers’ wives. And strangely, no one chides my ill manners.

  Smoke thickens, and I put my sleeve to my mouth and nose to filter the stench. The rich smoke reeks of burning flesh—like a hundred pigs cooked far too long over the spit. A gag rises in the back of my throat, and I turn my back to the cloud, hoping to catch clean air.

  I expect to look upon a sea of faces, but all I see are the backs of heads again. I whirl around, and the same sight is before me. Fear and foreboding push the hairs up on my arms and neck.

  I push on—faster now—making my way through the crowd, jumping up to see my progress. The throng extends into the horizon still, as far as my eyes can see, vanishing into a wall of smoke. I charge through the throng at a run, shouldering through them, holding one hand to my mouth to muffle the smoke. The silence is menacing. I run faster and harder until I unexpectedly, suddenly break through. I am falling.

  I land in the downy plume with a swoosh. It puffs up in a large splash, shooting up a thousand fireflies with it. They scatter into the darkness as the feathery substance snows down. I hold out my hand and capture a few flakes, rubbing the warm snow between my fingers, turning it to powder. I place the powder to my nose, inhaling its smoky odor.

  Ashes.

  I am swimming in ashes.

  The smell of burning flesh fills my nostrils again. A chill rides up my spine, and I jump up, brushing the ashes from the bottoms of my sleeve, my chainse. These aren’t the cinders of timbers. They are the cinders of people.

  The roar of fire, and the flicker of flames forces my gaze up.

  I see a boy, almost a man, tied to a stake. His head bows. His legs are withered, wrinkled, black. I hope the smoke has killed him, that he no longer suffers. A breeze blows the smoke toward me. I keel over, gagging at the stench. The wind turns, and I compose myself, drinking clean air in gulps.

  “Addie,” someone whispers, and I look up. The boy on the stake is still. “Addie,” it hisses again menacingly. I turn in every direction, looking for the whisperer. A firefly streaks by my face, and I swat at it.

  I hear my name again and again as a swarm builds, encircling me. I crouch and cover my ears, readying myself for what I know they shall call me, but their buzz fades. I peel open an eyelid. They spiral the stake, a glimmering eddy of eerie green–gold.

  WEAK! WEAK! WEAK!!! They chant louder and louder, pounding like the beat of a drum. One fly breaks from his swarm and lands on my shoulder. I swat him, and he whirls around, landing on the other side. “You cannot save him,” it whispers and giggles shrilly.

  I shudder and look up.

  This is no stranger on the pyre.

  “No, no, no!” I race to the pyre, looking up into Ivo’s unconscious, sooty face. The heat is a wall. It’s crackle: a roar that drowns out the chanting flies. I grab for the pyre, but my hands ignite with pain. I look around for something I can use to squelch the flames, but there is nothing. No water, nothing, but an ocean of ashes.

  The straw at the base crumbles, barely more than embers and cinders. The fire laps at Ivo’s chest and face, climbing far beyond my reach. Tears roll down my burning cheeks as I undo my belt, tear off my surcote, and use it to beat back the blaze.

  I swat at the flames, but they grow higher, swallowing my surcote. It is no use.

  Weak! Weak! Weak! WEAK! They chant, and they’re right. I crouch to the ground, trembling with heavy sobs. I cover my nose, muffling the awful stench. I seal my eyes tightly, hoping if I can make it dark enough, I won’t see the horrific image behind my eyelids every time I blink. And just as I think things couldn’t possibly be more horrid, a ghastly shriek pierces the chanting, followed by a wail of pain.

  I am falling.

  “Ivo!” I cry out, jerking upright. I look around through foggy eyes at unfamiliar surroundings. The floor rises and drops below me. My vision clears.

  I am on the floor of the carriage. It was just a dream, a nightmare. Ivo is safe—for now.

  Father sits ambivalently before me on the bench in the carriage. Galadriel sits, with a furrowed brow, beside me on the floor. I wipe sweaty tangles from my temples and skim a large bump on my forehead. A streak of pain stabs down my face, and I flinch. Memories return to me in a rush, and I quickly recall falling into the outcrop of stone near the Bauer’s field outside the city walls. And, that is all. I do not recall warning Ivo.

  “We must go back!” I expect a scowl from Father, but he doesn’t regard me at all. His elbow rests upon the sill of the window, and he stares outside. “Please, Papa,” I beg and grasp for the arm nearest me, but he whips it out of reach.

  “Do not ask a thing of me.” His lip curls. “If your lips continue to move, you shall find yourself in a convent where they can be put to good use.”

  “But, Papa!”

  He shoots me a glare of warning. I snap my mouth shut.

  Galadriel’s dress shuffles as she rises to her seat, brushing her skirt to straighten them with one hand, holding a cobblestone in the other. I gaze upon her looking for pity, for help, but she quickly shifts her eyes. She shall be no help to me.

  I take my seat beside Galadriel. She hands me the cobblestone. I roll it around in my hands, examining it for evidence of its importance. I look to her quizzically, but she gazes forward. I nudge her, but she does not move.

  I lean in close to her ear. “What is this?” I whisper as lowly as possible.

  “A stone,” she whispers even lower.

  “I know it is a stone. Why do you give it to me?”

  Her eyes widen in warning. “It’s from your mother’s grave. Now hush before you upset him further.”

  Mama’s grave. My stomach sinks. In my worry for Ivo, I hadn’t thought of missing the chance to say parting words at her grave. Who knows when I shall see it again?

  My fingers spread along the cool surface of the stone, and I close my eyes, conjuring Mama’s wide smile, soft, mousy hair, and mahogany eyes. The memory withers, and her warm skin pales to gray, her lively eyes cloud over. The image of her death mask tears at my insides. I shake away the thought, the feeling of pain that is now synonymous with her.

  The stone is heavy in my hands. Why would Galadriel do me such a kindness? Galadriel looks out the window upon the forest. Perhaps, the stone is an olive branch. Perhaps, she wants to make peace. She tried to save us from the stocks, and when we were freed, she gave us shelter. She risked herself to save Gregor, and now she thought to save this stone for me.

 
My hatred for her melts, emptying a spot for guilt to fill. I shake the moods from my head. Mama’s spot in the bed was hardly cold when Galadriel weaseled her way into it, I remind myself. Galadriel usurped my mother’s place and not a fortnight after her death. They were cousins, and she betrayed her. Any fondness I have for Galadriel is a betrayal, too.

  Even if this weren’t so, I cannot allow Galadriel’s few kind deeds to deter me from getting back to Cologne, and I have more pressing matters to attend to. I shall have time to change Father’s mind about Bitsch, even if it is a week after we arrive. But my time to warn Ivo wears thinner with each turn of the carriage wheel.

  I cannot send a letter directly to Ivo, for he may go out in search of Elias to read it for him. Perhaps, I should send the letter to Elias, voiding our deal, telling him he need not tutor Ivo and should, instead, flee for his own safety. Of course, I cannot address it to him, for he is a wanted man, and if the archbishop’s guards hunted down Gregor within a half–day, surely the archbishop would be motivated to put out a reward for Elias’ capture.

  I could address the letter to my room at The White Stag, where Elias shall stay again tonight, but by the time the letter reaches Cologne, Elias shall have left it. My only option seems to address the letter to Brother John who performed Mama’s good funeral. Surely he can find Ivo and warn him against any contact with Elias.

  We passed the end of the world or at least the end of the world as I knew it. The trees loom close, blotting out the sun. According to Mama’s tales a forest was a place as ominous as night, filled with wolves and witches, devils and brigands—and we haven’t a defense against any of them. The silence is disturbing, but not so disturbing as when something stirs. The shutters give the same false safety as a blanket gives a child frightened by shadows, but I keep them closed none–the–less. I’m not sure if the hours spin fast or slow, though I’d guess the latter. Without a sun rolling across the sky or bells tolling for masses, it’s hard to tell.

  By the time the forest clears into rolling hills, I venture to push the shutters open. A creek rambles alongside us, weaving its way into an ever–widening river. The sun begins its descent. Slices of silver dance across the peaks of the small river waves. The air is clear here, but cold. If I take too sharp a breath, the chill burns my nose.