I nod, force a smile, and swallow hard. “I’ll have to tell it before then, lest I forget it.”
“Just write it down and put it away for safe–keeping,” he says, and I nod.
The man and I share stories for a bit as I slowly drain my ale. My eyelids grow heavy. I thank the man for his generosity and excuse myself.
I tiptoe up the creaky steps and slip the key into its hole, turning it slowly to avoid any loud click when the lock releases. I take Mama’s stone and tunic, kneel at the foot of the bed, and pray for her and for Ivo until I cannot hold my head up any longer.
29 March 1248
The morning light and the noisy streets of Oppenheim made for restless sleep, keeping me between wake and anxious dreams. But a light knocking on the door coaxes me from slumber. I roll over with a groan. My face cracks against the wall. Sharp pain stabs at my forehead. I snap up and reach for the hardened knot on my head. The pain dulls to an angry throb. The knocker raps a little harder, and I curse beneath my breath.
“Adelaide…” Galadriel calls. I rise and throw open the door. “Oh, there you are.”
“Where else would I be?” The dig in my question fades as I look her up and down. She’s traded her velvet for home–spun cloth, her golden hair for an opaque shroud. “Why are you dressed like a peasant’s widow?”
The welcoming warmth on her face quickly cools. “I was wondering if you’d like to see Oppenheim with us.”
Us. Now they are an us? My flickering annoyance ignites, kindling rage. No, I should like to shout. No, I don’t care to see Oppenheim with you, you usurping traitor. I’ll never play daughter to you.
She knows this. She knows I haven’t the patience to bite my tongue. Surely she’d quite like me to go along with them and say something unpleasant, to put myself one step closer to a convent.
If only I could bite my tongue. I swallow hard.
Truly, I should go. Who else shall keep them from enjoying the day too much, from forming warm, bonding memories? Only I can do this, even in silence. I serve as a reminder of the life Father thinks he’s lost, though it isn’t utterly lost. He has abandoned it.
I resign with a sigh. I haven’t the will to stay silent.
“My head pounds, and the wound swells still.” I reach for the tender lump on my head. “I think it best that I rest for the day so I am ready for tomorrow’s travels.”
She reaches for the wound.
I recoil. “Don’t touch it.”
She purses her lips. “Perhaps, I should send for a doctor.”
“There is nothing they can do for it. It shall heal in time.”
“They could make a poultice for the swelling perhaps.”
“Don’t waste your coin.”
She gives a little laugh. “Wasting coin is something I rarely worry about.” She knits her brow and tilts her head. “Ansel should have a look at you at least.” She turns, and I grab her by the arm.
“No!” I cry out. Truthfully, I do not want him to see the wound. That would only remind him of yesterday’s defiance and make him think of sending me away. Galadriel looks down to my hand, and I release her. “I’d rather not worry him. If I could just rest—”
Doubt flickers in her gaze. She grips my arm and moves in close, her voice barely a whisper. “If I were you, I’d be sure that resting was all that I did. Last night, your father asked me if there were any convents near Bitsch.”
I draw up. She drops my arm and turns again. “Perhaps, you are right,” I say through a dry throat. “He should come to see me, to check the wound.”
“I’ll tell him you wish to see him.”
“Where is he?”
“Breaking his fast in the tavern.”
Breaking his fast. My stomach rumbles. It is Sunday, the only day in Lent when we can not only eat meat but can eat it thrice a day if we like. “I’ll go to him.”
“Then he shall think you well enough to come with us.” She sighs. “I shall tell him that you are exhausted from travels and that you need to rest for tomorrow. I shall send for a doctor to place a poultice on that wound to help it heal faster. Tonight you shall join us for supper and be a cheerful, obedient daughter. Do that, and perhaps he’ll forget about the convent.”
Her advice takes me aback. “Why are you helping me?”
She laughs. “It’s not out of any fondness for you.” Her face saddens for a moment but quickly hardens. “I know you hate me…”
“You bedded my father a week after my mother’s death. You were her cousin!”
“It was not planned, you know.” She looks away. “We had so much drink. I doubt we even knew…”
“Doubt you even knew what? What you were doing, or who you were with?” I give a short, wry laugh. “Well, I do not doubt that he hadn’t any idea of that either.”
Her slap falls hard on my cheek. She draws back, and for a heartbeat, she eyes the hand that slapped me with shock. One of my hands darts to my smarted cheek, the other curls into a fist as we stand in heated silence. Her countess mask returns as quickly as it had faltered.
“What’s done is done, Adelaide, and I cannot undo it.” Her voice is distant, almost sad. “I have tried to be kind to you. I came all the way back to Cologne to save you. I saved Gregor from you. I gave you a home when you had none, and I give you one still.” A shadow darkens her fair face. “But if you want me to be a villain like the ones from your Mama’s tales, I will gladly rise to your expectations.”
She comes close. Her voice lowers to a whisper. “You think me a fool, but you have no idea what you are up against with me. I know why you ran from the carriage. You had to warn your little peasant boy. Is there someone else besides us who knows he burned Cologne’s cathedral to the ground?”
Her words knock the air from my chest. “Ivo would never do such a thing,” I lie.
She laughs. “Oh, if Konrad ever got his hands on you again! Your face paints quite the picture, you know. Are you always so easily read or only when it has to do with the peasant boy?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, but I do.” Her voice is ice. “That night, I sat staring out the window as your Father slept off his drunken stupor. I had nothing else to do. And then I saw him. Your Ivo, he ran right below my window, panicked and covered in soot.
“So back to why I am helping you. I love your father, and he loves you. I know the pain of losing a child, and I wish to keep him from that. If you summon him this morning, it shall upset him. Seeing the welt on your head shall remind him of yesterday. Besides that, it is obvious you are well enough to join us. He will suspect you’re causing trouble again, and that may seal his decision to send you away. It would break his heart to do that, and his heart hasn’t yet mended from its last wound.
“I have offered you kindness, and you won’t take it.” The soft, feminine angles of her features sharpen. “Now I offer you a warning. Keep up with your defiance against your father, and he will send you away, but if you defy me in the walls of my home, I swear I will write a letter to Konrad, telling him you confessed to me a horrific secret about how your little villein burned the great cathedral of Cologne.”
“You’re wrong,” I say, withholding welling tears.
“And so what if I am? I am a countess, and he is a nobody. Who would Konrad believe?” She whirls around, heading down the hall, and adds without turning: “I think I shall have the letter written and kept in a safe place with a trusted person, just in case anything should happen to me.”
I dash into the hall after her. “You’d see him burned at the stake, burned like your sister?”
She stops, recoiling from the hit. She turns slowly and with all the coolness she embodies replies, “That, Adelaide, is up to you.” She turns again, sauntering toward the stairs.
I storm back into my room, slamming the door. My blood boils. Swarms of malicious bubbles dart frantically through my veins, desperate for escape. I pace the room, wearing a path into the old woode
n floors as my mind races.
I could slit her throat in her sleep. I could steal a horse and ride home, warn Ivo before she can even have a letter written.
Every plan that I muster, each scheme that I create ends with the same thought: What if it all goes wrong? What if she makes good on her threat? What if she has Ivo burned at the stake?
A giggling from the streets below steals my attention. A young couple of burghers stroll up the thoroughfare, arm–in–arm. The girl raven–haired like me and the boy fair–haired like Ivo. My lip curls. The girl rests her head on her suitor’s shoulder. I huff.
What a torrid thing to do in the streets, I think God’s teeth, what a trollop!
Scornful thoughts and ill–wishes for the brazen, young couple push aside my plans of escape. And then I realize…I’m jealous.
This girl doesn’t squander her Sundays like I did. She makes the most of these coveted hours between mass and Sunday supper when children are neither worked nor watched.
Ivo hinted at his affections, and I looked away, thinking what we had was somehow better than love. I shake my head. We could be married now if I hadn’t been so stupid. This Sunday would be so much better had I been a smart, torrid trollop like that girl in the street.
I plop onto the bed and lie back, indulging thoughts of what this Sunday could have been. A delicious ache rises in my stomach.
A hard knocking on the door frightens me, tears me from the fantasy with a cry. My hands rush to my flushed cheeks.
”Hello?” creaks an old voice.
I inch toward the door. “Who’s there?”
“I am a physician. I was sent for…to look at the wound on your head.”
I rush into my chainse and surcote before opening the door a crack. A towering, square–faced old man looks back at me through milky, silver eyes.
“Ooh, you did have quite a fall.” He eyes my forehead, and I reach for the lump. “May I come in?”
I open the door and step aside. The man shuffles into the room, places his leather satchel upon the desk, and holds an arm out to the seat before him, gesturing for me to sit. He places his thumbs upon my forehead, tilting my face up. “It’s not too bad…though there is little I can do for it. You should rest if you can. The swelling shall go down in time.”
I sigh. “That’s what I told the woman who sent for you.”
“But for now…” The man reaches into his satchel and pulls out a small bowl. He sprinkles a pinch of dried herbs, a bit of powder, and drizzles the concoction with oil, before pulling a stone from his satchel, and mashing the mixture into a paste. “Here we are now.” He places his thumb in the paste and anoints the knot on my head. I wince at his touch. “That should bring the swelling down a bit faster. Now where is that girl?”
Just as the words roll off his tongue, a petite, blond kitchen maid enters with a mug, sets it upon the desk, and scurries out. The physician reaches in his bag once more for another blend of herbs, placing them in the drink.
“Drink this. It shall ease the pain and help you sleep.”
I eye him suspiciously.
“Or do not drink it. It is up to you.” He turns to place his tools back in his bag and leaves.
I eye the drink.
Did Galadriel hire this man to poison me?
She could blame my death on yesterday’s fall, and since she has been nothing but kind to me in front of Father, he would not suspect her.
My head pounds dully with a tolerable, yet irritating pain. Some form of distraction would make it more bearable, but I haven’t any. A cold burn blazes around the knot and relief tempts me to try the potion.
I trace the brim of the mug.
Would she really poison me?
Well, there are only two ways to find out, and one of those I am not nearly stupid enough to try.
When Father and Galadriel return, I am sitting at a table set for supper in the tavern.
Father’s face is lax with annoyance. Perhaps, if I just allow Galadriel to bore him for a few more days, we’ll be heading back to Cologne within the week.
Galadriel dips into the chair next to mine. The scent of rosewater stings my eyes, and I blink back tears. Did she buy a dozen vials and dump them over her head? I suppose she truly does not count her coins. I lift my cup to my lips, hoping the wine’s woodsy fragrance might mask the pungent rose garden beside me.
“Are you feeling better?” Galadriel’s voice is shrill.
Father sits with a groan.
“Yes, thank you,” I say, evenly.
“Ready for our travels tomorrow?” she prods.
“Yes and you?”
“Yes, I am quite looking forward to getting home.”
Our feigned pleasantries could almost pass as honest.
I’d like to ask Father if he enjoyed the market. I can tell by his face that he did not. He used to hate people who tossed groschens about like they’re pfennigs. Now he plays house with one. Perhaps, he’s becoming one. I’d like to ask him what he bought. A pair of shoes? A brooch?
A dozen quips perch on my tongue. I drown them in wine. I must behave. Father’s threat of convents and everlasting virginity still stand. Neither sentence is worth the satisfaction of a single guilt-inducing jape.
I really am trying to behave. A bar maid brought a freshly baked loaf of bread and butter an hour ago. I guzzled my wine to keep hunger pangs at bay. I’ve valiantly fought the urge to eat it in hopes that Father notices my good manners. All the while, bearing the sweet, doughy scent. I can almost still smell it through Galadriel’s perfume.
Praise God, Father breaks the loaf in half. I clasp my hands below the table to keep from pouncing upon the half–loaf sitting before me. My mouth waters, and after a brief moment, I tear a piece and eat. Meat and cheeses follow.
We eat in near silence. A silence I find discomforting once my belly is filled, and so I chance speaking. Perhaps I can still bring Father some cheer.
“Papa, I learned a new story.”
He grunts in reply, but his sour expression softens.
“It’s called The Three Army Surgeons. Have you heard it? The man who told it to me learned it while on crusade.”
His face perks at the title. Anything to do with battles always sparks an interest in men. This isn’t the typical woman’s tale with a damsel in peril and a knight who saves her. “Would you like to hear it?”
Galadriel peruses Father’s face.
He tears a hunk of chicken from the bone with his teeth. “Surgeons, eh? Sounds like a bloody one.”
“Not so bloody that it would spoil your appetite.”
He jerks his head in Galadriel’s direction. “No, but it might spoil the lady’s.”
“I think I can handle it,” she says, insulted.
If it were indeed a gory tale, I doubt she could. I’ve made her retch before with little effort, but she was ill that morning from the near barrel of ale she’d consumed the night before.
I look to Father for his approval.
He shrugs, and I tell the story.
I’m half–way through the tale before Galadriel’s eyelids bob. She struggles to maintain her posture, and I pause the tale to ask her if she is well. Father turns to her and places one hand on her back, the other on her hand. He whispers in her ear, and she whispers back before patting his hand and bidding us good night.
I finish the tale, and at the end, Father laughs, but the cheer in his face quickly washes away, melting into sadness.
I remind him of Mama.
He swallows the grief hard, and though it pleases me to see her death still pains him, I hate to see him hurting so.
“Did you like it, Papa?” I ask, and he returns to me, leaving the dark recesses of his guilt and mourning.
“Yes, very good,” he says distantly.
He coughs and orders another round of wine. I lose count of all the mugs, but with each one he grows more jovial, and I, more tired. We reminisce until my eyelids grow heavy, and we stumble to our beds.
>
30 March 1248
I roll over toward the wall, more cautiously this morning, and pull the blankets over my head to keep the light, and hopefully the throbbing in my head, at bay.
Wine. Damn wine.
I lower the blankets, squinting open an eye to gauge the brightness and guess the time.
I immediately regret it.
Blinding is not a time of day. I draw the covers back up and roll away from the scorching light.
Weren’t we supposed to leave today at dawn? So why didn’t we?
My head throbs, and I groan. I rise, pushing the tangles of hair from my forehead and shielding my eyes from the bright morning sun. The coolness in the air feels good. I sigh and stretch. My eyes scan the room for my chainse and surcote, stopping on the mug sitting on the desk. A mug that had been there since the old physician left it for me yesterday.
Then, I remember what I did last night.
Yesterday afternoon, I poked my head into the tavern to make sure Father and Galadriel had not yet returned. It was empty. I made my way to the bar and sat on the stool. The pretty blond maid, who had brought my mug earlier, approached.
“Oh, my head. It aches,” I said, exaggerating the pain.
“Are the herbs not working yet?” she asked. “The physician you had is the best in the city. You must give the remedy more time.”
“Of course, do you think I could get two mugs of wine for the night? I doubt I shall come down for supper and would hate to bother you twice,” I asked, and she complied.
I nodded in appreciation and rushed to my room, locking the door behind me. I gulped down half the wine from one mug, and then mixed half the physician’s potion into the rest, filling it again.
When the sun began its decent, I returned to the tavern, taking the mugs with me. I found an empty table—and sat the tainted mug before Galadriel’s seat.
Galadriel, unsuspecting, drank the entire mug.
Not long after her eyelids drooped, and she excused herself to bed.
The Countess' Captive (The Fairytale Keeper Book 2) Page 4