Lutz and Linus enter, clumsily carrying a trunk. “Lutz, Linus,” Matthias barks, and the boys pause. “The sconces should be lit.”
“Grandfather told us to take the trunks to the rooms,” Lutz grunts, shifting the weight of the trunk. Matthias breathes a heavy sigh. The castle doors open. Tristan and the castellan slip in.
“Leave that to men who can handle such a task. Tristan, Crispin,” Matthias snaps, and the young men come like trained dogs. “See to it that these trunks make their way to the chambers.”
They beam at the challenge. Lutz smiles and shrugs his shoulders. The boys lower the trunk and head off. Tristan and Crispin carry it with ease, twisting it carefully, but quickly, around the corner and up the staircase without grimace or groan.
Lutz and Linus return with lighted sticks, lighting sconces in the hallway. The flickers of the tiny flames grow fainter as they head deeper into the hallway. Boyish laughter and the scuffing of leather soles echo off the stone.
“Shall we then?” Matthias suggests in his gruff voice. “The first floor of the castle is mainly used for servant quarters and storage.” Matthias points down the long, dark hallway across from us.
Father, disinterested, peers down the hall before nodding. Lutz and Linus return, pass us, and head up the stairs to light more sconces as we stand with Matthias in strained silence.
Candles flicker, dimly lighting the stairwell. Matthias holds his arm out and gestures for us to make our way up the stairs. He points right as we continue our ascent. “The great hall is that way, but you won’t be supping there tonight,” he says, hardly masking his irritation.
Tristan and Crispin turn the corner. Instinctively, I step out of their way, but Matthias turns, with pinched lips, facing the young men. They back up and halt, waiting for us to finish our ascent.
Never had strangers made a path for me before, especially when they were carrying something heavy.
I don’t like this feeling, this uneven footing in which I perch.
I think of all the crooked paths that converged to cause two men who I should have never met to pause on a stairwell like I am somehow more significant today than I was three days ago. It is an ugly, convoluted web of death, treachery, and betrayal.
The flashes of memory feel like a blow to the stomach. I change the subject of my thoughts and follow the light of the sconces, stepping up, up, up. The burn in my thighs is a new pain, a distraction from the throbbing wound in my soul. I slip into the third story hallway, ahead of Father and Matthias. The warmth hits me first and then the scent of smoke. A crisp wind whistles through glassless slits in the north wall, raising bumps on my arms and neck.
I look out despite the chill. A myriad of tiny, shimmering specks fill the voids between large stars. I’ve never seen so many. I could live a hundred winters and never count them all.
Another gust comes, and I catch the faint aroma of snow on the air. I close my eyes and inhale. I could be anywhere, anywhere with a hearth fire, anywhere but here.
I imagine it is a gust ripping through the shutters in my bedroom in Cologne. That the hearth fire comes from the solar below. That my eyes aren’t really closed. They were closed before. Bitsch is a nightmare, and this delusion is real.
Father’s and Matthias’ voices echo into the hall, and the fantasy dissolves.
I look down. The rocky hillside plummets, melding into the dense forest far below. It is the kind of height that makes me wonder what would happen if I jump. But that would be impossible. These windows are barely wide enough to stick my hand through. Why would anyone make a window so narrow?
“It’s a beautiful view,” Matthias says. I look over my shoulder and nod politely. Tristan and Crispin skirt pass behind us, disappearing into the dark hallway.
“The windows are so narrow,” I say. “Why is the sill wide on the inside and narrow on the out?”
“It keeps an enemy’s arrows from coming in but allows our archers many angles to shoot out.” He demonstrates a variety of stances an archer could take.
“Are you attacked often?” I ask.
“Not once in the two years that I have been here.”
“Then why are there so many defenses?”
Matthias turns to Father and raises his silver eyebrow, forcing deep lines to stretch across his forehead. “Your daughter asks a lot of questions, Herr.”
Father’s thin lips give a subtle arc. “That she does.”
Matthias turns to the hallway. “Onto the chambers then.”
Ludwig and Lutz stand beside a set of heavy wooden doors and open these for us.
“Herr, these are your chambers,” Matthias announces. “The presence chamber is, of course, closest to the stairs, and your bedchamber’s next.”
It is a lavish room. Fresh strewing herbs have been scattered across the floor, haloing a table with carved chairs. Heavy brown drapes rim tall windows. Hunting tapestries warm the opposing wall, and a large fireplace warms its adjacent. Father crosses the threshold and regards the room. He turns to Matthias and nods ambivalent approval.
Matthias points left. “Those doors lead to your bedchambers, Herr.” He shoves Lutz. “Go on, you louse. Open the door for him.”
“I’m capable of opening doors,” Father says and heads into his bedchamber alone.
Lutz follows and so do I, but Matthias blocks my path with an out–stretched arm. “A girl is not permitted into the lord’s bedchamber unless summoned,” he says.
My father is not the lord of this manor, I’d like to say, but I mind my tongue, thinking of Galadriel’s threats. Father returns. His indifferent expression—though not surprising—pleases me nonetheless. He always despised the wealthy. They were a necessary evil for all guild members, in his words, for they often spent their coin with little thought.
“Onto the Fraulein’s rooms,” he says.
We pass several doors, pausing at the end of the hallway. Hildegard stands at the threshold, a wide smile on her face.
Matthias gestures toward the opened door. “This, Fraulein, is your bedchamber and next to it your presence chamber.”
She shows me to a set of rooms, which are very much like Father’s except the fabrics are evergreen rather than brown.
“Very nice, isn’t it?” Hildegard asks, and I nod politely. “Homesick already, dear?”
I nod again. My head is likely to fall off from all these unspoken agreements.
“Come now,” she summons me toward a basin. “Let us clean your hands. Lady Galadriel may well be ready for supper.”
Galadriel cannot be upset with me for doing as Father does, I think, grabbing the loaf and tearing off a hunk. My stomach trembles at the sweet, buttery aroma. Father has made short work of the refreshments, gulping his wine and breaking the bread.
If I waited much longer there might not be anything left for me at all.
The brittle golden crust flakes in my fingers, and the white interior steams. I pop a morsel into my mouth. It melts on the tongue. I could moan in delight.
But these are Galadriel’s things. Delight in them feels like delight in her—the woman who usurped my mother’s place, who’s cast a spell on my father, who threatens Ivo. Even the strong, honeyed wine tastes sour after that.
Galadriel enters from the door that leads to her presence chamber, her damp plaited hair covered by a sheer veil. Her cheeks flush like the roses she smells of. She takes the empty chair beside Father and leans forward to grab her mug. “I hope the rooms are to your liking.”
I hope the rooms are to your liking. I mock her doltish voice in my thoughts.
Her fake concern makes me hate her even more. Is this the part where I am supposed to bolster her pride by singing the praises of Castle Bitsch?
I’ve spent most my nights on a straw mattress covered by a rough woolen blanket in a room without a hearth—and I would gladly go back to less rather than suffer her desperate prodding for compliments.
Luckily the mug is at my lips—so I can get away with the
slightest nod of my head, leaving Father the one to answer her. And I want him to answer her. I want him to feel her title rolling off his tongue.
“Yes, milady,” he says, before taking a gulp of wine to help him swallow his pride more easily.
“Lutz,” Galadriel summons. “Fill Herr Ansel’s mug. Pay attention.”
“Yes, milady.” He rushes forth with the pitcher.
A savory scent wafts into the room as a busty brunette enters, bringing bowls of beaver stew.
Many courses follow. Galadriel eats a little of each, trying all of them. Father eats every morsel set on his charger, gorging like a glutton. A tray of pastries comes, and his eyes follow it.
How much more can he eat? After wine, bread, and stews, how can he still have room for sweets?
Violet crescents rim Galadriel’s eyes, and she masks many yawns with her fingers. Her bouncing eyelids close until something, a nightmare perhaps, startles her. She excuses herself but gives us permission to stay in her presence chamber and eat until we’ve had our fill.
Galadriel enters her bedchambers, and Father finishes his pastry, reclining in his chair with a groan.
“More wine, Herr?” Lutz asks with a yawn of his own, and Father raises his mug to be filled again. “Would you like Ettiene to make more pastries?”
Father rises with a groan. “No, I’ve had my fill.” He places his hands on the small of his back and stretches. His back cracks, and he sighs.
“Should I show you to your rooms, Herr?” asks Lutz.
“No. I’m quite capable of finding it myself.”
He pats my shoulder on his way to the door. “Goodnight, Adelaide,” Father says. I look up. His face is lax from drink. Wine and ale always cause his iron mask to give. Usually he is a jovial drunkard, but there is a hint of sadness in his steely eyes.
The commonality of our shared sadness is strangely comforting. He turns to the door and heads into the hallway. “Goodnight Father,” I call after him.
I look around, unsure of what to do.
“Shall I show you to your room, Fraulein?” Lutz offers, and I follow him into the hall. Linus, so quiet and quick, seems to appear out of nowhere.
“You owe me a pfennig,” Lutz says to him.
“Oh, come now. We never shook on it,” Linus complains. The brothers walk side–by–side.
“You wagered, and I accepted. You owe me a pfennig.”
“I said it in passing.”
“Perhaps we should ask the Fraulein her opinion on the matter.” Lutz turns toward me, his rosebud lips pursed.
“Take your stupid pfennig if you need it so badly.” Linus reaches into a leather pouch and slaps a pfennig into his brother’s chubby palm.
“I shall be needing it. How else will I get enough to eat?”
“You eat too much already, though I have never seen a man so lean eat so much.”
“Scraps won’t be what they used to be with him around. In a month, I might be as lean as you.”
“It shall take more than a month.”
Lutz shrugs. “This is your room Fraulein. Sleep well.” He opens the door. Lutz elbows Linus in the ribs.
“Sleep well, Fraulein,” Linus mumbles.
I step through the door, and Lutz closes it behind me. Hildegard stands at the desk. She has been waiting on me for some time, I suppose. A large tub sits near the fire, and I approach it. It is filled two–thirds with water. The door to the presence chamber opens. The oldest laundress and one of her daughters enters, drying sheets in hand.
“Do not worry, Fraulein. The water is warmed.” Hildegard senses my apprehension and places a finger into the tub. “You’ve let it cool,” she snaps at the young eweress.
“We did not know when she would be finished with her supper, Hilde,” the mother of the younger laundress defends.
“I put a stone on the fire,” the girl snaps. “The nursemaid fusses over nothing.”
“Mind your tone,” Hildegard warns.
The girl turns on her heel and opens her mouth to argue, but the girl’s mother grabs her by the arm. “Imma,” the mother hisses, and the girl narrows her brown eyes, before returning to the fire.
She scoops a large stone between two shovels. The water hisses as she plops it into the tub. All three women turn expectant gazes on me.
“Do not be shy.” Hildegard gives a little laugh. “The countess bathes in front of us all the time.”
Hildegard approaches, and I take a step back, crossing my arms over myself.
It is not that I am unaccustomed to baths. Mama took me to the bathhouse weekly, but it feels strange that I will be the only one bathing, the only one without clothes.
“She is shy,” Hildegard says to the laundresses. “Wait in the presence chamber. I shall call if we need you.”
The mother tips her head and they go.
“I am tired,” I say. “Can I not bathe on the morrow?”
“The countess says you are to be bathed tonight, and we answer to her, dear. Things are different here than they are at home. I shall tell you what to do and leave you to it. You can lock the doors if you like. No one shall bother you while you bathe. When you are finished and dressed, unlock the door and call for us. We shall come in then.”
I nod, and she heads toward the tub. “Will you tell them?” I ask, calling after her.
She turns, her brow knit in confusion. “Will I tell who what, dear?” she asks with a compassionate laugh.
I catch myself biting my lip, afraid my unwillingness to bathe revealed my true station in life, and Galadriel shall find out. “Will you tell others that I—”
“That you are modest?” Hildegard smiles warmly. “That is an honorable trait in a young lady.”
With her kind words, my panic subsides. She hands me the tools to bathe: sponges, a bucket of herbed water, a bucket of rosewater, and drying sheets. She tells me what to do and then leaves the room.
I lock the doors and quickly get to it, afraid that even with the doors locked someone might walk in and see me naked. I scrub quickly with the herb water and submerge my scalp, scrubbing my hair. I rise and quickly douse myself with the rose water and tiptoe out of the tub, covering myself with the drying sheets as I shiver. Once dried, I slip into the sheer linen nightshift left for me on the bed. I unlock the doors and Hildegard comes. The laundresses follow, but Hildegard sends them away.
“Good night, ladies,” she says. “You can empty the tub on the morrow.”
With an obedient tip of the head, the elder laundress heads into the hall. The younger laundress follows.
Hilde picks up the chair from the desk with a groan. I fight the urge to take it from her and ask her where I should put it. That isn’t the kind of thing a lady would do for a servant—though it should be. It isn’t right for an old woman to carry heavy things. She huffs and sets the chair before the fireplace.
“Come and sit,” she says, and I do, shivering. Hildegard grabs a fur blanket from the trunk and a drying sheet from the edge of the tub.
“There you go, dear.” She wraps the blanket about my shoulders. “My, you have a mess of hair.” She twists the drying sheet around my locks to take out the wet. “Black as night, but your skin is snow white. Makes you an unusual girl—a very pretty girl though.”
Her words are a hot poker in my throat. Snow White. The name Mama called me. What would I not give to hear her say it again?
Of all the things that have happened today, those two words snuff out the flame of my resolve. Hildegard stops and leans over. Her small brown eyes peer into mine, darting with worry.
“Did I pull your hair, dear?”
“No,” I say and wipe the stray tears that run down my cheeks.
“What is it then?”
“My mother used to call me Snow White.”
“Oh.” Her thin lips fold and pout. “It’s a wicked thing that fever—sent by the devil himself.” She crosses herself.
“How did you know about my mother?” I ask.
“Lady Galadriel told us.”
“What else has she told you of us?”
“That your father is a merchant, trading in wool and fabrics.”
Why would Galadriel peddle this lie before she even knew we would return with her? I dig my nails into the arms of the chair. Was it her intention to bring us back here all along?
“She said the fever was worse in Cologne,” Hildegard continues. “She feared for you both. She didn’t want to see anymore kin claimed like her husband and son.”
Perhaps Galadriel was just trying to save us. Perhaps her threat against Ivo is an empty one, made to keep me from sharing her torrid secrets.
Still, the more it seems I learn about Galadriel, the more questions I have.
“Did many die here?” I ask.
“Too many. ‘Twas the strangest thing. It left the old and the young and killed half of everybody else. We are only now getting back to sorts. The countess’ father had to send for more servants. The huntsmen died, and so Tristan came. The castellan died, and so Crispin, the carpenter’s boy, took his place. A smart boy, that Crispin. The midwife’s apprentice died a week after the midwife herself. We still haven’t found anyone to take their places—though we haven’t reason to, I suppose. Many outside the walls died too. What about Cologne, dear? Did it claim so many there, too?” Hilde puts the brush down and starts plaiting my hair.
“Thousands,” I reply. “The poorest were paid to dig a pit outside the city wall to hold the bodies, but it wasn’t big enough, so they dug a second pit, a bigger pit.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”
“After a while the priests stopped performing funerals and last rites. Men roam the streets with a cart every day to load up the dead and take them to the pit.”
“Your mother—”
“No one would perform the last rites. We paid for a funeral. It did not go so well.”
In a flash, I am watching Mama burn on her pyre, seeing Soren kick the log from under it, and her corpse tumble to the ground. The rains pour down, squelching the flames, leaving her ashen body contorted.
The Countess' Captive (The Fairytale Keeper Book 2) Page 8