No matter how I try to forget it, I do not think I ever shall.
“We had a second funeral,” I add. “A monk performed the rite, and our friends came. He performs the funerals still, in secret.”
“I cannot imagine, dear. Not a soul here has died without last rites or a funeral. Our Father Hannes is a godly man. He’s gone to everyone who has fallen ill, prayed with them, given them their last rites, even buried a few himself when no one else could. He’s a good man, but I have heard stories of wicked priests before. Fat drunken louses who take tithes for their own good. A man like that wouldn’t have lived a week in Bitsch. If Lord Ulrich hated one thing, it was a man who did not live by his word.”
I nod and feel relief. “Will Father Hannes be at morning mass?”
“Of course, dear. ‘Tis always him unless someone is dying of the fever, but the fever left us months ago, and, praise God, ‘tis not returned.”
“You think he might say a prayer for my mother, if I ask him?”
“Of course, dear and if you’re feeling shy again tomorrow, I can ask him for you.”
I smile at her and get a warm feeling.
She might be someone I can trust.
Hildegard ties the plaits off with a ribbon. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, never have I plaited that much hair. You have enough hair for three maids, at least.” She rises with a groan and takes the chair back to the desk. “Do not take that wrong, dear. ‘Tis a joy to have a nice girl and to plait hair again. To bed now. You’ve got to be up early for matins.”
Hildegard removes a cobblestone from the hearth. She wraps it in a wet sheet and then a dry one. I pull back the blankets and slip into the cool, soft bed linens. Hildegard slides the wrapped stone into the bed.
“There you are now, dear. That’ll keep your toes warm for the night. I’ll leave you to your prayers and see you in the morning.”
I nod, and she leaves, offering another warm smile before closing the door.
The room seems so big and dark with no one in it but me. The bed is warm, and my eyelids grow heavy, but I reluctantly force myself from the sheets and kneel on the cool, hard floor to say my prayers.
I have so many, so much to pray for. My head bobs as I try to stay awake to say it all.
Late in the night, I wake, with my head on the bed and my knees on the ground, shivering and confused.
Where am I?
My eyes adjust to the dark and dart about the room.
A glass window, flanked by evergreen drapes, reflects embers from the dying fire. Large wooden columns rise from each corner of this bed like towers. Thick fabric makes a flat roof at the top.
I run my fingers along the coverlet, smooth, shimmering, and evergreen like the drapes. A great tub looms at the edge of the bed. The realization comes like a wave, leaving dread in its wake, but I’m tired, too tired to care.
3 April 1248
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, do you always wake in such tangles? You must thrash about your bed something awful,” Hildegard complains as she forces the brush through my unruly hair, yanking my head with each stroke. “You’d hardly know I plaited your hair at all.”
Hildegard’s knock came a little while ago, and it is still dark. I look to the bed longingly, not only because I am tired but because every moment I am awake is a reminder that I am not in Cologne and that I must not only do whatever Galadriel bids, I must anticipate what she wants me to do before she commands it.
Hildegard pulls the brush, and I grit my teeth. “Does it hurt? You have to tell me these things.” A childhood memory, long forgotten, returns to me in voices and sensations: the tug on my hair, the sharp pain in my scalp, the faint sound of my own crying, and Mama cooing to me, apologizing with each stroke of the brush.
Matins fills with faces: some familiar and most not, though two very familiar faces haven’t shown: Galadriel’s and Father’s.
That seems quite unfair.
Why must I rise before dawn for mass while they sleep until it pleases them? I suppose it is good that at least I am here. God hears our prayers best in a church, and a chapel is close enough.
A nobleman kneels in the first row, his head bowed in prayer. Does Galadriel have another guest, a man we haven’t yet met? He looks over his shoulder at my approach. I hesitate, for it is no strange nobleman but a sight even stranger: my father, sitting in the first row of a chapel, early to mass, his black, shoulder–length hair neatly combed back. He slides deeper into the pew, and I join him, bowing my head in prayer.
The mass is long, for there are many fever victims to pray for. When Mama’s name is uttered, I feel a sad smile creep upon my lips until I hear the surname that follows it: von Cologne.
Katrina von Cologne?!
What is the point in praying for Mama if every lip utters the wrong name?!
Anger boils in my blood. The searing heat rises to my cheeks, surely coloring them red.
I unleash an angry stare on Father. How could you, my glare says. How could you let that witch take Mama’s name, too!?
But his shocked, wounded eyes are downcast, unseeing. He looks like a man run through with a long sword. So he didn’t know. This was Galadriel’s doing. I grip the pew to keep from rising, from crossing the chapel, the stairs, the hall, and storming into Galadriel’s chambers to slap her across the face.
Of course, Galadriel would have Mama known as Katrina von Cologne, the dead wife of a wealthy merchant. It would raise questions if she did not.
Father’s stare burns into the side of my face, but I cannot bare to look at him. He gave up our home. He gave up our legacy. He gave up our name. And now, I cannot even pray for my own mother.
At the end of mass, I leave the chapel, fuming, storming past the chambermaids. But I catch an urgency in the tone of their whispers, and I hear the words “countess” and “unwell.” I dampen my pace so I can hear more.
Galadriel is unwell, they say, sick to her stomach and exhausted.
They mention Galadriel’s illness during our travels, the illness caused by my laced wine. Galadriel believes that it is this illness that returns to her. Only I know this to be impossible. The maids suggest everyone should pray for her at next mass until her health is restored.
This is what she gets for robbing my mother of needed prayers, for spewing lies like nonchalant observations, for seducing grieving widowers.
Her health shall be the last prayer on my lips.
Father approaches his presence chamber ahead of me, the soles of his fancy boots scuffling along the stone floor. I wish I could see his face. Is it pained? Is he angry at all for what Galadriel’s done? But all I can see is his slick, combed hair, his fine surcote, and the garish, new boots that take him quickly down the hallway. He is either hungry or angry. I hope it is the latter.
Galadriel sits at the table, waiting for us, her eyes following Father as we enter his presence chamber for dinner. A soft smile warms her pale face. I’d like to pick up one of the eating knives and stab it through her heart. Before she died, I’d ask her to find Katrina von Cologne in the afterlife and give her a kiss for me.
But I can’t say or do any of that. Father bows into his chair, and I wait for him to exact my vengeance, utter my words.
“I hear you are unwell, milady,” Father prods, placing a hunk of bread on his charger.
I hear you are unwell?!
These are his words to her.
I grit my teeth. Galadriel is merely sleepy with a sour stomach. Mama is dead and in far greater need of prayers, prayers she cannot have because of that trollop. I shake my head, thinking Ansel von Cologne buried Ansel Schumacher in a grave next to his wife.
“It is nothing, Herr,” Galadriel replies sweetly, breaking her loaf into tiny pieces. “Tired from travels. That is all.”
Father nods, and we eat in silence.
Without warning, Galadriel’s chair scrapes along the floor, and she clumsily rises. “Marianna,” she stammers, “I am…unwell.”
Marianna and Jo
hanna rush to her side. Father’s brow furrows, and he rises, standing dumbfounded, as the ladies help her from the room.
I return to my bedchamber and sit at the desk looking out the window. I run my finger along the cool glass, which distorts the view, making everything below seem so far away.
The door opens and Hildegard rushes in.
“Now do not be worried. The countess shall be fine,” Hildegard soothes.
I hope she dies, I think but don’t dare say. I hope she dies and everyone forgets her surname when they pray for her.
“‘Tis the traveling. She’s done too much of it,” Hildegard scolds as though Galadriel is here to hear it. She heaves a heavy sigh. “It will be a boring day for you, with no sewing, no music. I could bring you some sewing if you like.”
“No, thank you, Hildegard.”
A blond peasant boy, chasing a chicken in the bailey below, catches my gaze. I think of Levi and then of Ivo.
“Do you think you could get me pen and parchment, Hildegard?”
“I suppose but for what, dear?”
“I should like to write a friend.”
“Oh, of course.”
“May I have my own stack and my own ink well with pen?”
“For one letter?”
“It shan’t be the last one I write. Wouldn’t it be easier if I had my own stack rather than force someone to fetch a sheet each time I need it?”
“I shall have Linus fetch it from Herr Herrmann. Surely he shouldn’t mind.”
“Thank you, Hildegard,” I say, but before she leaves, I think about the letter I’d written a few days ago. “Have any letters come for me?”
She chuckles. “‘Tis a bit early for that, isn’t it now? You just got here yourself.”
“How long might it take to get a letter from Cologne?”
“I wouldn’t know. Sending out the letters is the steward’s duty, not mine, dear. Shall I have Linus ask him for you?”
“No, Hildegard,” I say.
“You can call me Hilde, dear. Saves you a breath.” She smiles warmly and waddles out of the room.
Not long after Hilde returns, there is a knock on the door. I turn, and Linus stands with a thick stack of parchment, a pen, and an ink well. Never before had I seen so much parchment.
My cheeks pinch.
I am smiling, a skill nearly forgotten. Linus blushes and averts his eyes before handing Hildegard the stack and shuffling back into the hallway.
Hilde sets the stack onto my desk. “Here you are.”
“Thank you,” I reply, and she hovers above me. “May I have privacy to write my letter, Hilde?”
She nods, pats me gently on the shoulder, and slips into the presence chambers. The hinges whine as Hilde closes the door behind her, and I sink into the soft chair.
Being around others exhausts me. I must sit straight. I must guard my words and expressions. I’d rather be alone than always cautious.
I stretch my arms over my head and peer down into the bailey through the distorted glass as another boy, short and thin, dawdles near his mother. She balances milk pails on a bar across her shoulders as her son skips circles around her. He nearly runs right into her, and she stumbles.
The pails rock from the jarring and small waves of cream splash over the rims. She chastises the boy, who bows his head as they walk toward the manor. She kneels and bows behind the bar. The boy picks up one pail and she, the other. Tristan exits, a bow and quiver slung across his shoulders. He nearly runs the pretty young woman down. He stops and reaches a hand out to steady her. They talk, and she smiles before he jogs toward the gate, but he stops and looks up toward the castle. I sink lower into the chair, afraid he might catch me watching.
His worried gaze turns to Galadriel’s window like a chivalrous knight worried for the lady of the castle.
What is it that makes men mad for her? If I believed in witches, I’d think her one.
Perhaps, this is a thing men do for their ladies to gain favor. Perhaps, it is because she is so pretty. I hope that Tristan, so innocent in his devotion, sees her for her true self and runs into those woods, never to return. For Galadriel is cursed, she poisons everyone, everything she touches.
The little boy and his pretty young mother return. She has dark hair. His is buttery gold.
Perhaps, they are not mother and son.
Hildegard said the fever claimed many of Bitsch’s young adults. This boy could be her young brother or a sibling’s child or, perhaps, be of no relation at all.
She saunters to the gate, and he runs circles around her again, flapping his arms like the little birds around him. I wonder where they shall go, and wish that wherever it was, I could follow.
Shall I sit in this room all day, every day unless it is time for mass or meals? And what shall I do if Galadriel’s health returns to her? Hilde mentioned music and sewing. Shall I be forced to sit at Galadriel’s feet like a trained pup? My God, I hope not.
I put my pen to the parchment a half–dozen times. Nothing I think seems worth writing, but just in case something happened to the first letter I sent Brother John, a second letter must be sent. Rather than write Brother John’s letter first, I write Ivo’s instead.
Dear Ivo,
Did you receive my first letter? I had a doctor send it for me nearly a week ago from Oppenheim. I suppose it might be too soon for me to receive a letter from you, but I worry that my first one did not get to Cologne.
Heed this warning, do not associate with the tutor I suggested, for it shall only put you in danger. If he comes to you, tell him that any debt between us is nullified, and he should worry for his own safety. I think that Brother John, your mother’s Benedictine friend, would prove a good tutor or at least be able to read my letters to you and help you write letters to me. I hope it is he who reads this letter to you now.
I have many questions for you. Has a cause to the Cathedral fire been discovered? How fairs your family? Does the fever cease? Has anyone moved into our home? Has anyone taken Father’s spot in the market? Are there plans for the Cathedral to be rebuilt? Is the archbishop still in Cologne, or has he finished his business and returned to Rome?
I suppose you wonder how I fair, as well. There is little to occupy my time. I pray like a nun that I might return home soon. That is all there is to do. Galadriel seems to be unwell, but the rest of us are in good health.
I miss you so. I long for your letters to liberate me from boredom and worry.
Love,
Adelaide
I reread the letter, so cold and empty. There seems too little written on this page that must travel so far. Ivo and I could fill hours with chatter, yet I cannot find a single profound thing to write. I fold up the letter, letting out my disappointment with a slow breath, and tuck it beneath the stack of parchment.
Hilde fetches me for Father’s presence chamber where we are to sup. I sigh, not wanting to go but knowing that I must. I turn into the hallway, bumping into Johanna, her lips give the slightest twist of disdain.
Uncle’s sharp features soften at our approach. “Ah, here comes my lovely niece.”
“She was in her rooms,” Johanna announces.
The scent of fish stew wafts into the room. My stomach rumbles as I take my seat between Father and Marianna. The buxom brunette maid crosses the threshold, a heavy platter of stew–filled bowls in hand.
Galadriel’s lip curls. She mentioned her dislike of fish once to me in Hay Market. Her hand rushes to her mouth, and her back rounds with a gag. Marianna and Johanna dash to her side. Uncle and Father rise from their seats.
“Take that away,” Johanna hisses at the kitchen maid as Marianna helps Galadriel to her rooms. “The countess is unwell. What were you thinking bringing fish?”
Galadriel’s guttural cough echoes through the hallway followed by comforting words from Marianna.
“My–my apologies, Lady Johanna.” The maid rushes away with the platter.
I’m sorry to see her go. Why shouldn’t
I get to have any stew just because Galadriel is unwell? She shall be in her rooms soon anyway.
Johanna slips into the hallway, leaving Father, Uncle, and myself standing in strained silence before our chairs. Father plops into his seat, yet Uncle looms, his glare full of scorn. Father takes his mug and drinks. The long, uncomfortable silence spins until Father kicks a chair from under the table. Its legs squeal across the floor. “Afraid you cannot sit and scowl at the same time, Herrmann?”
Uncle’s nostrils flare, and he looks to the chair Father offers, appalled. He pulls a different chair from the table and sits, his gaze composed and unrelenting.
“Leave us,” Uncle commands, and the servants file out into the hall. “Ansel von Cologne,” he says.
“Herrmann von Bitsch.” Father’s reply is nonchalant.
“No, no,” Uncle corrects. “My name has never been anything other than Herrmann Kauffmann, but I remember you by another name.”
Father fills his charger with sliced bread and stewed fruits, acting as though losing our name means little to him. I once thought the opposite was true. Now I’m not so sure.
“It seems like a strange name to take since up until a week ago you lived in Cologne,” Uncle continues. “And if every Ansel in Cologne were called Ansel von Cologne, there would be a hundred of them at the least.”
Father chomps on a stewed plum. His irked gaze shifts from Uncle to me. “Leave us, Adelaide,” he says. I rise and make my way for the door. Father reclines in his chair. “If you want to ask me a question, Herrmann, then ask it.”
The hint of a smirk rises on Uncle’s face. I think this is what a snake must look like before it sinks its fangs into flesh. “Why did you change your name, Schumacher?” he asks.
I open the door gently and close it behind me. I press my hand against the thick oak. The air smells like triumph, and I take it in.
Yesterday, Uncle regarded Father with disdain. Today, he digs at Father’s pride. What will tomorrow bring? If he truly hates Father, why not divulge our secret and tell everyone we are cobblers? I think, in time, he may.
The Countess' Captive (The Fairytale Keeper Book 2) Page 9