“Is all well, Fraulein?” Ludwig’s question startles me.
Ludwig, Lutz, and Linus stand beside an arrow slit across the hall. The pages look away for a moment, and I wonder how much they’ve heard through the doors. Linus’ brown, doe–eyes flicker with guilt. Either they’ve heard too much, or I’ve interrupted a conversation they shouldn’t be having. Lutz’s lips purse in a badly–masked smile.
What must they think of us? The only thing worse than being baseborn is pretending you’re not. If only they knew. I am like them, not her. I grit my teeth, biting back the truth.
This castle is my prison.
I am their countess’ captive.
And no one knows this but me.
“As well as can be expected.” I answer his question with a half–truth.
Why should I care what they think of me? In a fortnight, they’re likely to be a distant memory. In a month, I won’t even remember their faces. My thoughts shift to Galadriel, and I swallow a laugh. All her effort to keep our trade a secret shall be for naught. It shan’t even be us who betrays the secret but her own prideful father. What of Galadriel and Father’s affair now? What of any, God forbid the thought, wedding plans?
It all unravels.
I close my eyes and listen. I can hear the carriage wheels turning now, taking us back to Cologne. I can feel my invisible shackles breaking free.
4 April 1248
I dip my bread into the pottage, keeping my eyes on my food, as we dine in silence. Uncle’s disdain for Father lingers, but Father feigns indifference to the quips and judgmental stares. Uncle hasn’t exposed us as cobblers yet, but I suspect if we stay much longer, he shall.
Galadriel lives still, though she sleeps most of the day and only takes supper. Father shall join her to sup alone tonight, as he did last night after Galadriel was settled in her chambers.
I am not invited, not that I should like to be. Watching them grow closer wounds me, and I can only bite my tongue so hard. But I want to know what transpires between them. Does their love grow strong or weaken? I fear it is the first and not the latter, for why would she summon him, and why would he visit if it were not so?
Perhaps if I pray for Galadriel’s health, God shall take it. It seems God grants the opposite of my prayers. But still there is little I can do to remedy my situation, but pray, so this is how I spend my days, kneeling on the strewing herbs until I fall asleep or it is time to eat again.
I fold a fur blanket and place it on the floor to ease the chafing on my knees. I prop my elbows on the bed, interlace my fingers, and bow my head. A set of heavy knocks startles me.
Could it be a letter from Ivo already? My breath catches.
The knocker wraps again.
“Fraulein Adelaide?” calls a deep voice. I recoil. It is a voice I know well. I listen to it for an hour each and every morning.
I snap up from my prayers. “Come in, Father Hannes.”
He enters, grabbing a chair from the desk, sitting before me casually.
“I hear you are troubled,” he says.
I shake my head. “I’m not troubled.”
“Ah, good then. I just thought a girl who spent so much of the day alone at prayer might be troubled,” he prods. I say nothing. “But you’re not so…good. That is good.” He slaps his knees as he rises from the chair and makes his way toward the door. He halts and pivots, raising a finger in the air, “But I have to say, I find it strange that a girl who just lost her mother and had to move so far from home would be so…untroubled.”
He finds it strange, does he? Does he think me a silly girl who can be fooled by such manipulative remarks? My fingers curl into fists. “The problem with those who offer their ears to listen, Father Hannes, is that they also have mouths to speak.”
“I am a priest, Adelaide. Your confessions are sacred. I can share them with no one but God.”
“You can share them. You merely vowed not to. I assure you not all priests keep their oaths, Father.”
His brow furrows. “No, unfortunately not. Priests are men, too and not immune to sin.”
“How do I know you are any different?”
“You don’t,” he replies, unoffended. “You’re young yet. You have many days of sin before you and many days for penance. I am here if you change your mind.” He tips his head to me and turns for the door.
“Would you tell me your secrets if I swore to God before you now to keep them?” I call after him as he walks into the hall.
He turns, lips pursed in thought. “I would not want you to swear to God, unless I knew you could keep your oath. If recollection serves, young girls do not make the greatest of secret keepers.”
“Does this mean that you shan’t share your secrets with me even if I do swear?”
“It means that I shan’t stand here and wait for you to swear at all,” he says kindly. “Trust takes time to build, Fraulein, and time is something a young lady has much of. I shall see you tomorrow at matins.”
I nod, and he leaves me to my prayers. I bend to kneel at my bed once more, groaning from the rash on my knees. I place my head on my clasped hands. From the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Mama’s shift on my trunk and the cobble from her grave on the mantle. I rise and fetch them, putting them on my bed. My eyelids grow heavy just as the bells strike Vespers. I rest my head on the bed, uttering prayers until I succumb to sleep.
Leaves and snowflakes scatter in a crisp breeze, sliding across the cobble pile. A posy of red roses dangles from my wrist as I approach the weathered cross. Strips of the faded leather that once neatly enveloped it, fray, bending and swaying like weak branches. I unwind the twine from my wrist and tie the posy to the cross. A gust blows, strong with the scent of lavender, and I pivot.
Turned away from me, a woman sits on the frosted earth at the edge of the grave. Her field–mouse–brown hair floats on the wind.
Mama?
I approach her slowly, frightened and bewildered. She turns her head, looking up into my face. Her lips press into a warm smile, and my fears subside.
I drop to the ground and throw myself into her arms, squeezing her tightly. “I thought you died,” I say, elation filling a vessel within me that has lain painfully empty.
There is a rise and fall in her neck as she swallows hard. “I did,” she replies.
I break the embrace, taking a painful breath. Her lips fold, and she looks down.
“Why?” I ask.
She shakes her head and takes my hands in hers. “I don’t know, Snow White.” The warmth of her fingers seep into mine, flows through my veins. My joints unhinge and sadness ebbs, giving way to tranquil resignation and peace. She somehow answers my every question without a word, like I can feel her voice rather than hear it.
Yes, she is at peace in a place we call heaven.
This sensation, this lack of desire and longing is merely a taste.
No, I cannot go with her, and no, she does not know why, but there will come a time when heaven will open up for me, and I will go then.
She surges forward, squeezing me tightly, and I close my eyes. Her downy hair brushes my cheeks. Her silky gown glides between my fingers, milky and cool to the touch. I inhale her lavender scent deeply, hoping it shall never leave me.
The backs of my eyelids brighten from black to red. I peel open an eye. Scalding brightness blinds me. I bury my head in Mama’s neck and pinch my eyes shut. The light fades, and she is gone.
Fat snowflakes and strands of hair whip against my cheeks and lips. Clouds of warm breath escape my mouth. I shiver, and pull my cloak tighter around my shoulders.
I toss. The rustling of sheets stirs me. I shiver, pulling the covers higher, hot and cold at the same time from a night sweat. I open my eyes.
My breath clouds.
The fire has gone out.
I lie silently and close my eyes, recalling every facet of my dream: the warmth of Mama’s skin, the softness of her hair, the scent of lavender, the strange sensation of peaceful
ambivalence. Tears pool on my eyelashes, and I wipe them away.
6 April 1248
Hilde fishes through the chest for a riding dress as I shimmy out of my linen chainse and velvet surcote, tossing it across the bed.
“Is this the same child who four days ago would not bathe before me?” Hilde chides, smiling as she approaches.
I shiver, dancing in place for warmth. She places the riding dress over my head. The wool slips over me, and I fight the urge to itch. A week ago, rough homespun was all I had ever worn. Am I so spoiled already?
Yesterday, Tristan invited Father to join the hunt, but Father has never ridden a horse, so today, we shall both learn.
Galadriel gifts me a grey mare. I name her Storyteller after Mama. And she gifts Father a great chestnut hunter. Father, jovial from drink, allowed me to name his beast. Tristan described the creature as a haughty, clever horse, and so I named him Rumpelstiltskin after a character from one of Mama’s stories.
Truthfully, I chose the name for its absurdity, an underhanded attempt to make Father look foolish. But his face brightened, and he said he’d call it Stilt for short, before raising his mug to me in thanks.
Hilde slaps a pair of boots at the foot of my chair, and I plop into it. She unwinds the intricate plaits she made only an hour before, to craft a simple braid. I think upon the tapestries in Father’s chambers, trying to envision him charging on a great hunter into the forests, in search of a buck with large, gnarling antlers.
“Is that a smile on your face, dear?” she asks, delighted. “‘Tis a shame Lady Galadriel shan’t join you. She used to love her horse. Poor thing, stuck in her rooms on a day like this.”
Exhaustion and nausea plague Galadriel still, and she remains in her bedchambers. The words “sleeping sickness” have been uttered more than once. Each time I hear them, I pray she sleeps a little deeper. And, for once, it seems God answers my prayers.
Father’s knock comes early. I slip into my boots and rush across the room, opening the door for him.
“Come in, Father,” I pant, and he enters, pale–faced. “What is it?” I ask, fearing he’s intercepted a letter from Cologne, and someone has been hurt or captured or fallen sick. “What is it? Tell me! Is it Ivo? Is he hurt?”
Father shakes his head, averting his gaze. “No, it’s not that.”
“Then what? What is it?”
Father’s eyes dart to Hilde, and she skirts into the hall. The door thumps shut, and the silence spirals. He rubs his fingers hard along his forehead and takes a deep breath. “Let us sit.”
I loathe these three words. They are always the harbinger of bad news. I perch on the edge of the bed, and he sinks heavily beside me.
“It’s Galadriel…”
My breath catches. Bad news about Galadriel is surely good news for us. The fear vanquishes, making way for hope and a ravenous desire to know. The silence ferments. My eyes rove Father from face to foot. His lips fold into a hard line, and he grips his knees like a man reeling from a blow.
This is bad.
She’s grown worse for sure.
My triumph is his pain. I rest my fingers on his white knuckles. This is a second heartbreak for him—and I hate the thought that he could feel so deeply for that witch. When Galadriel is dead—if she isn’t already—I can finally tell him the truth about her. Then, perhaps, he will see her as an arrow dodged and not a lover lost. Still, he says nothing.
“Has she grown worse?” I prod.
He meets my gaze. “No.” His steely eyes are almost apologetic.
“Is she sending us away?”
“No.”
No?
My heart thumps, and blood whooshes in my ear.
My next question is caught in my throat. I am afraid of the answer. “Then…what is it?”
“Galadriel is with child.”
His words are a battering ram in the stomach. “No!” I gasp. “Are you sure? How can you be sure?”
“It is the child who makes her ill and tired,” he explains. “Marianna says it was the same with Galadriel’s first born.”
“She could lose it. Mama lost many children,” I argue. “And Mama was never so unwell during her time. Galadriel can’t even leave her bed.”
“She won’t leave her bed because she is shamed. She’s an unmarried woman with child, and a countess with an unsafe claim to her lands.”
These sound like Galadriel’s words not his. “Are you sure the child is yours?”
“Adelaide,” Father chides.
“Well, she hopped into your bed quite quickly,” I quip.
“You know what must be done.”
“What? You must make an honest woman out of her? It’s too late for that,” I huff. “She’s a harlot already. Besides you can’t marry during Lent…and when the child is born all will know you bedded and then wedded. She may as well shout from the bell tower that the child’s a bastard.”
“Would you speak so ill of your own blood?”
“I don’t know that it is my own blood.”
He shakes his head. “What would you have me do?”
I am taken aback. I expect him to tell me to mind my tongue or my tone, not ask my opinion. I sit for a moment in silence. “We could go back to Cologne,” I say.
“And leave Galadriel alone, with child?”
I’d like to suggest that Galadriel could marry someone else, and they can claim the child, or she could go to a convent for the rest of her days. If a convent is good enough punishment for disobedient urchins like me, why not for a usurping trollop like her? But I know Father shall never let her fall for a mistake he counts his own. “We could purchase a house in Cologne, a nicer house than before, and we could all live there,” I swallow hard before adding: “together.”
“If word reached Lorraine that Galadriel married a cobbler, she could lose Bitsch, and the coin that it brings. That fine house in Cologne would go with it.”
“She compromised herself, and now, she is with child,” I say. “What she loses is her own fault. I have done nothing wrong. Why must I lose everything for her indiscretions?!”
“You lost everything?” he spits, looking about the finery in my room.
“I lost my mother. I lost my home. Were those things not a loss to you?”
“Your mother was a great loss to us both.” He looks down for a moment before meeting my gaze. “Do you know how many times I worried that we could not pay the taxes or the tithes? And now there is no cathedral to draw pilgrims. A tenth of the city is dead. There is no way for us to make enough coin to live in Cologne, Adelaide.”
“Fine, then,” I say. “You stay, but if you ask me what I should like you to do, then I should like you to let me go. Ivo and I are betrothed. When his shop opens, I want to go to Cologne.”
He shakes his head. “You don’t know what you want.”
“I am a woman grown father. Fifteen winters! Many girls have been younger brides.”
“And young brides had their grooms picked for them by their fathers who have the wisdom of age and a man’s intellect.”
“Mother’s father didn’t pick you.”
He shrugs away my reasoning. “Galadriel mentioned sending you to court, and I think you should go.”
“You asked me what I wanted!”
“I hoped you would see reason.”
“I know who I want to marry, Father, and no man in any court in Christendom is going to change that.”
Father sighs. “Has a letter come from Ivo yet? I hear you have written him.”
He puts his hand on my shoulder, and I fight the urge to shrug it away. Father wants me to believe that Ivo has jilted me. Then perhaps I would go happily to court. That would make this all easier on him. But Ivo would never abandon me. He wouldn’t.
“I am sure a letter will come,” he soothes half–heartedly. “But, there are many months before he finishes his apprenticeship. Many things can happen in a few months, Adelaide.”
“A few months?” I scof
f. “So much has changed for us in far less than that. Within one month alone, Mama died, we were put in the stocks, our possessions were burned in the streets, and now you consider marriage to that, to that…”
Jezebel, harlot, witch. A thousand curses come to mind.
He folds his lips together. “You shall go to court when Galadriel finds one to take you,” he says evenly, rising without looking to me for a reaction.
“But what of Ivo?” I plead, grabbing his surcote. He pauses but doesn’t turn to face me. “He is a good man, Papa. He’ll have his own shop soon.”
His silence frightens me. Why did I ask him this? Why did I give him the opportunity to forbid it? He doesn’t reply, and I let his fine woolen surcote slip between my fingers.
“And Galadriel?” I ask, swallowing hard. “What shall you do about her?”
“We wed in four days.”
“Four days?! You can’t; it’s Lent. You have to—”
He grips my wrists, his glare hard and angry. “She’s the countess, and her chaplain permits it.”
“No, Papa! No!” I drop to me knees. “You do not know her.”
“I did not come here to ask permission, Adelaide.”
“I am not telling you what to do, but begging you, please, don’t marry her!” I search his face, trying to make his eyes meet mine, but they won’t. The truth burns in my throat. If he only knew of her threats, he would never marry her. But I can’t tell him. I can’t risk it.
“My mind is made.” He pulls his hand from my grip.
“Papa, please!”
He looks down at me, his gaze cold, his body rigid. “Ready yourself. Mind your tongue. Do not upset your stepmother,” he commands. “Do as I say, and you can go to court. Disobey and I may have to reconsider a convent for you.”
He heads out into the hall without another word, and I crumble, a pile of stunned silence on the cold stone floor.
7 April 1248
I place my sleeve to my nose and inhale. The brown wool smells of lavender. The subtle reminder of my mother brings a reminiscent smile—rather than pangs of grief.
The Countess' Captive (The Fairytale Keeper Book 2) Page 10