The Countess' Captive (The Fairytale Keeper Book 2)

by Andrea Cefalo

  “She’s coming around now,” a man says. I look down to Ivo to ask him if he hears this, too, but he is gone, not even a flattening in the stalks left as evidence of his presence.

  Was he ever here at all?

  Is any of this real?

  No. No, this is a dream. My happiness withers at this cruelest of realizations.

  But if it’s my dream, why can’t I stay?

  I close my eyes tightly, conjuring Ivo: his lips stretched into a half–smile, the scent of wind and smoke in his silvery blond hair, the give of his ropey muscles beneath my roaming fingertips.

  I open my eyes, surrounded by wheat fields and endless night. The moon’s smile seems more like a mocking smirk. Was it mocking me all along? Did it know this was only a dream and that I would wake to a nightmare? I run my fingers along the stalks of wheat, hoping to hear them chime once more, but I feel nothing, hear nothing.

  “Adelaide,” beckons the girl. The weight of a dainty hand rests on my shoulder though no hand is there. My shoulder shakes with a shove, and all goes black.

  The blankets rustle as I shift to the side. A pop from the fire startles me. Galadriel’s hand gently shakes my shoulder, and I roll upon my back, opening my eyes. Father’s furrowed brow unravels. I’ve worried him. A guilty knot rises in my throat, but quickly melts away as flashes of my dream return.

  Father and Galadriel take Ivo away from me, and if I protest I may lose my freedom, Ivo, or both. I turn away from him, not bothering to mask my disappointment.

  Father brushes sweaty tangles of hair from my neck. “How do you feel?”

  I regard the question. I am sad, disappointed, and homesick, but this isn’t what he wants to know. I lift my heavy arm. Moving my limbs is like swimming through pottage. “I am tired.”

  “Just like I was, Ansel,” Galadriel remarks before turning to me and adding, “We caught a sleeping sickness.”

  “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Since yesterday afternoon,” Galadriel replies, “but I feel fine today, and you will tomorrow.”

  “She needs to rest at least another day,” Father says to Galadriel.

  “Of course,” Galadriel’s agreement is rapid and sweet like his words were a question and not a command. “Do you feel sick, Adelaide?”

  “No.”

  “Neither did I,” she says. I sigh, hoping her question stems from concern, not suspicion, and she truly believes a sleeping sickness plagued us. “I had the most wonderful dreams,” she adds dazedly. “Did you?”

  Father’s grey eyes darken at her question. They almost seem black. “Don’t press her,” he snaps.

  “It was a simple question,” she defends with a nonchalant laugh. “I meant no—”

  His glare silences her mid–sentence.

  This feigned illness did more than pass time. In Father’s heart, I outrank Galadriel now. The convent that felt so close, now feels far away, a speck on the horizon. But Father’s heart is fickle lately. His affections may turn at any moment.

  He rises and grips my foot through the blanket, wiggling it playfully. He brushes past Galadriel. “The sun sets. Supper will be in an hour.” He raises an eyebrow at me. “Do you think you’ll be well enough to join us?”

  There it is again. That word, us. I try not to cringe and nod obediently. He leaves. His footsteps drifting evermore silently down the hall until they hit the steps. He goes down into the tavern rather than back to his room with her.

  I expect Galadriel to scowl at me like a child bested in a game, but she does not. And unlike a child winning at a game, I do not gloat. We gaze upon each other expressionless. After a long silence, she leaves, closing the door behind her.

  I sink heavily into the bed. I could sleep for days. But Father wants me to join him for supper. I cannot disappoint him now.

  I prop myself up, leaning against the wall for support, and toss the covers off the bed. Perhaps, Father shall want to go home now. He seems disappointed with Galadriel again, and postpones our departure another day.

  I rush onto my legs, and they give. I fold, falling back onto the bed. I huff. My limbs take too long to wake. I plait my hair as I wait for them and dress slowly, the effort painstaking and deliberate. When my legs strengthen enough to support me, I make my way to the basin and dunk my head a half–dozen times into the cold water.

  Father sits alone at a table, hunched over his mug. I sink into the chair beside him, relieved to rest my shaky legs. My stomach roars loudly, so Father summons the kitchen maid to fetch bread and wine.

  “I am sorry I worried you,” I say, and I do mean it. If it had been him and not me, I’d surely have lost my wits with fear.

  He shrugs. “You’re well. That’s all that matters.”

  I keep my mouth stuffed with bread or sipping on wine to avoid losing Father’s favor with words. He remains silent, blindly staring forward. I squelch the urge to prod, letting his thoughts fester. Galadriel arrives an hour later, and we eat in a fermenting silence. Father rises from the table with a groan, and Galadriel follows him.

  I finish my wine alone. My back aches from lying in bed for so long. I nearly order a stronger wine to dull the soreness but remember the headache from yesterday’s indulgence and go to bed instead.

  I ascend the stairs with deliberate steps, feeling far beyond my fifteen winters. Raised voices come from Father’s room. I utter a curse, wishing I had tread the stairs more lightly. Perhaps they heard me coming and shall mind their tones. I inch toward the door when it whips open, Galadriel, red–faced and teary–eyed, nearly plows me over. She slams the door behind her.

  “I suppose you heard that.” She swipes tears from her cheeks.

  “I heard raised voices but not words.”

  “So are you here to find out what was said or to gloat?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “Oh, leave me alone!” she huffs and storms past me.

  “Is he going to send you to a convent, too?” I jest, following her out of interest not concern.

  “Your father is a beast!”

  I give a laugh. “And you’re a fool if you expect that to change.”

  “So he has always been like this, even with your—”

  Mother is what she doesn’t say. That unspoken word is like a punch in the stomach. My fists quickly curl in response. Galadriel’s eyes are immediately apologetic. Even she knows this was the cruelest of questions. I couldn’t answer Galadriel even if I wanted to, though if I did, the answer would be yes.

  Mama and Papa fought and argued, but Mama yelled back. She never cried over their fights. She got angry. So why does Galadriel cow to him? Why would a woman of her station let a man of his not only speak to her in such a manner, but take him and his unruly daughter into her home?

  “Why are you doing this?” I ask.

  “What do you mean?” she asks coolly.

  “Why are you taking us in?”

  She does not answer, so I inch forward, lowering my voice. “Do you plan on leaving your affair at the gates of Bitsch? If you do not, won’t your people speculate? Such a thing could ruin you in the eyes of other men, noble men. “

  “Since when do you know of such things?” Galadriel hisses before storming off toward the stairs.

  I smile.

  Their unnatural tryst unravels with little aid from me.

  I fight sleep, hoping to hear what happens next. An hour or so passes, and the steps creak. The hinge to Father’s room opens with a whine. I tip–toe toward the wall we share, pressing my ear against it. Galadriel giggles girlishly, and the blankets rustle.

  I cringe, swallowing a gag. Panic forces the disgust down. This is not good. I had to poison myself to make Father see reason. Galadriel disrobes, and he is blinded again. I shudder at the thought.

  She’s not the only one who can play on his heart strings.

  I stomp to my bed, announcing that I am awake. I sit on the bed and cough. I cough again louder, having a good fit. After the third spel
l, the door to their room creaks open. Someone knocks.

  “Who is it?” I say, my voice deliberately hoarse.

  “It’s Galadriel.” Her bell–like voice sounds more annoyed than concerned. “May I come in?” I open the door. “Are you unwell?”

  “I think I might retch,” I say with deep insinuation. “Perhaps, you should send for Father.”

  “Perhaps I should send for a doctor, as well.”

  “If you think it best. You can sit here and wait for him if you like. I don’t think I can stay awake. I am so very tired.”

  “You’re faking,” she says. “I know it. Do not forget what I warned you of. It shall only take one letter, Adelaide.”

  “You said I had to behave within the walls of Bitsch.”

  “Ah, that’s right, and we are not in the walls of Bitsch yet, are we?” She crosses her arms. “You so kindly reminded me of that moments ago. What was it that you said? That we should end our affair at the gates of Bitsch? That gives us one more night, does it not?” She smiles ruefully.

  I start coughing violently.

  “Stop it,” she hisses. “Or I’ll send that letter. I swear it.”

  “You can only send that letter once. Then how shall you make me behave?”

  “Yes, you are right about that. I can only send it once, but that is all it will take to send him to his death.”

  She’s right. The door to their room opens. “Should we send for the doctor?” Father asks.

  “No, Father.” I grip my throat. “I swallowed strangely. That’s all.”

  Galadriel smiles in triumph, and they both return to his room.

  I sleep with a pillow wrapped tightly around my ears, even though the potion is still heavy in my blood. Thank God I sleep deeply and dream of nothing, hearing nothing through these parchment–thin walls. At least nothing I can remember.

  2 April 1248

  Pleasant dreams elude me. I sleep dreamlessly, awoken by Galadriel’s light knocking on the door each morning.

  We spent last night in a smaller town. Many affectionately call it Barbarossa Town, for it was a beloved hunting ground of our former emperor. The common name for this place somewhere between Cologne and my future purgatory is Landstuhl.

  Galadriel knocks. I rise slowly and stretch. My head swims and stomach knots: tell–tale symptoms of too little sleep. Goose flesh rises along my arms. I yawn, and my breath clouds. I wrap the blanket about my shoulders and peek through the shutters. Night diminishes. I sigh, and tip–toe through the rushes on the cold floor to see what the dolt of Bitsch wants from me now.

  Galadriel’s hair is plaited. The tawny chainse linen and her matching surcote is velvet, trimmed in gilded ribbon. The color highlights the flecks of gold in her flaxen hair and contrasts with the blue–violet of her eyes.

  “Good morning, Adelaide,” she says.

  I don’t reply.

  “You’ll have to work on your manners if you’d like to see your peasant boy again.”

  “His name is Ivo. Does saying it make the idea of murdering him harder for you?”

  Her eyes are stone. “He threw his life and soul away the day he burned that cathedral, and you tempt me to expose him with every quip. For someone who is so in love, why can’t you bite your tongue to protect him?”

  The truth in her words smarts. “Good morning, milady.”

  “That’s better,” she says. “Take these.” She hands me a folded pile of fine green wool, topped with green ribbons, green jewelry, and, God forbid it, another cobbler’s shoes. “You will wear this.”

  “Father never allowed us to wear another cobbler’s shoes,” I say. Her lips pinch, and head tilts. I heed the warning. “Yes, milady. Thank you, milady.” Let the witch explain to Father why I wear another cobbler’s shoes, I think ruefully.

  “Make sure to scrub your hands and face well,” she commands before eying my forehead. I reach for the lump. It’s gone, though still tender to the touch. “I shall give you my brush. A hundred strokes each side. Then, plait it neatly.”

  “Yes, milady.”

  “My people know little of you and your father. I shall tell them that you are a wealthy merchant family, trading in leather and fabrics like my father once did. Schumacher shan’t be a fitting name, so it is to be von Cologne,” she says. My hand darts to my lips, stifling a cry. “Adelaide von Cologne and Ansel von Cologne.”

  She takes our name!

  How could Father let her do this?

  He would never.

  He must not know her plans.

  “Milady, I fear this is folly,” I offer, and her face darkens. “Do not be angry. I say this for your benefit. Cologne is home to tens of thousands of people. The only people bearing that name are those who are from there but no longer live there and—”

  “That is exactly what you and your father are. People who used to live in Cologne that no longer do,” she concludes. “The matter has already been discussed and decided.”

  My hands shake and tears pool. “But milady—”

  She grabs me hard by the wrist. “Listen hard, you insolent imp, for I shall explain this only once more to you. You are far below my station. You do not question my orders. You do not make requests of me. You simply say ‘Yes, milady. Thank you, milady.’ Do you understand?”

  I want to snap my hand from her. I want to smash it against her pretty nose, but I do not. “Yes, milady,” I reply weakly.

  “Good. And if anyone asks questions you do not know the answer to, play at being shy. If it comes out that you and your father are cobblers, I shall send you back to Cologne—so you can bear witness to Ivo, roasting like a pig on the spit.”

  “Yes, milady,” I reply. She turns on her heel.

  I run Galadriel’s brush through my hair as commanded, though my thoughts flit to memories of my fifth winter. I sat beside Father at his work table, the edge level with my chin. He stacked piles of folded leather on the chair, and propped me upon them so my little arms could rest on the table.

  A needle, awl, scraps of leather, and a spool of thread lay before me. We hunched over his table many nights, squinting against fading candlelight as he stitched shoes, and I perfected my stitching. My little fingers blistered, until finally hardening with calluses. I rub my forefinger and thumb together. Father was so proud of those silly calluses.

  I’ve earned those calluses, and I’ve earned our name.

  I put my hands to my nose and inhale, disappointed at the rosewater fragrance they carry—missing the leather scent they once held. If we are not Schumachers, what are we instead?

  I exit the tavern, carrying my skirts to keep them from getting filthy in the mud, though I’m not too careful about the gaudy, green shoes.

  They are like something the DeBelles would wear, with their silver buckles and threading to match, except the DeBelles would have had enough sense to order them from us. These things are merely decoration. They shall fall apart before Christmas. Although, if Galadriel plans for me to have new clothing for each day of the week, and a pair of shoes to match, perhaps they shall last a bit longer than that.

  I raise my skirts an inch higher than necessary as I duck into the carriage, displaying my garish, new shoes. The icy fingers of a frost sneak beneath the fabric, raising goose flesh along my legs. I shiver against the cold and softly clear my throat. Father doesn’t look. Something outside the carriage window holds his gaze, so I sit across from him, sliding out the toes of the shoes. They peek beneath the fine wool of my chainse and surcote, but he still doesn’t look.

  I cough.

  “Are you feeling ill again, Adelaide?” Galadriel’s words drip with warning. I shake my head, afraid to speak. She shoves a folded pile of fine green wool toward me. “Take this and wear it if you get cold. This is your cloak for today.”

  “Thank you, milady,” I reply, feeling more like a well–trained pup than a person.

  Father shifts away from the window. “Milady? Why is she calling you milady? You said we were
equals in your eyes.”

  I mask my pleasure at this inquisition, however tardy it is, and busy myself with the evergreen cloak.

  Galadriel’s smile is amused, placating. “You are,” she soothes, “but I am still a countess, and there are rules that even I must abide. It is not any different in the armies. Even if she were my daughter by blood, she would call me lady mother.”

  “And I?” he asks.

  “Ansel, I fear you make seas of puddles. What would you have called a countess in Cologne?”

  He pivots toward the window again. We all know the answer to her question. He would call her milady.

  Why had he expected anything else? Did he think sharing her bed made them equals?

  Once we enter her gates, he will be nearly as powerless as me. She might name him a merchant, but what will he have? He will no longer be a husband, the ruler of his own house. He won’t even be a member of the guild. Never again would he make a shoe—if we stayed.

  “You know how the world works. It is only words,” Galadriel adds. “You will have to call me by my title, too, but only when we are before my people.”

  “Then why must she call you that now?” he shoots back.

  “I thought it good practice so she does not forget. A woman hasn’t a man’s intellect. We must practice new skills. And she shall be around me more than you. Besides, she does not mind. Do you, Adelaide?”

  My compliance adds injury to his insult, making the lie strangely easy. “No, milady.”

  He unleashes a skeptical gaze on me. “Since when are you two getting along so well?”

  “I know it has taken a few days—” Galadriel starts.

  “I want to hear from her, milady.”

  “You said I must behave, or you shall send me to a convent. I am merely doing what you ask of me.”

  He shrugs away the intended sting in my words. Galadriel sits beside me. The carriage thumps downward as our driver jumps into his seat. He whips the horses, and we are off.

  “Are you not cold?” Galadriel asks Father, motioning to the garish mantle lying in a pile beside him.