The Countess' Captive (The Fairytale Keeper Book 2)

by Andrea Cefalo

  Hilde placed satchels of rose petals in the trunk of clothes that now belongs to me. My nose shriveled at the fragrance synonymous with my future stepmother. Hilde asked me if I preferred another scent instead; I’ve smelled of lavender ever since.

  I run my fingers along the wool of this plain dress. Wool is good. Plain is good. Perhaps, it means I shall actually get to ride Storyteller today. It may be worth my while to master the skill. Once I am a steady rider, I can steal a horse and risk the rough roads to make it home.

  The pull of Hilde’s comb is sharp. I grit my teeth. God’s teeth, she plaits tightly, but she is nearly finished. She loops the braids into a nested coif and pins them into place.

  My scalp itches and head aches, but she says it is the only way to keep my unruly hair from falling into my face. She could just toss an opaque veil to hide the wayward strands, but she doesn’t. A veil would whip in my face as I rode and so would loose locks of hair.

  Now I am sure.

  Today, I shall finally get to ride my horse.

  A knock sounds on the door as I am slipping into my shoes. I draw up, and my breath catches.

  Could this be a letter from Ivo?

  Finally?

  Still, I have not heard from him. I worry at every tap on the door, fearing news of him as much as I long for it.

  Hilde orders the chambermaid to open the door with a flippant wave of her hand.

  Johanna stands in the threshold, regal, immovable, and draped in blue silks. From the neck, down she is the Virgin Mary. From the chin up, she is God standing in judgment. I swallow a disappointed sigh. Hilde gives a labored curtsy, and I, realizing I’ve forgotten to stand at Johanna’s presence, quickly rise to do the same. Lady Johanna is stone–faced at my misstep but quickly turns her hard gaze to Hilde.

  “What is it that causes you to grace us with your presence, milady?” Hilde asks.

  “The countess rises today.”

  Hilde crosses herself. “God be praised!”

  “Yes, God be praised,” Johanna echoes dryly.

  “Did she just now rise, Lady Johanna?”

  “This morning. After matins,” Johanna answers. “Herr Ansel came to her bedside with Father Hannes. He proposes marriage.”

  Hildegard slaps her hand to her bosom. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”

  Johanna’s grey–green eyes roam my face, searching with faint interest. She hides something behind her pinched smirk: a secret we share.

  She knows.

  I should have suspected as much. She knows Galadriel is with child, and she wants me to betray my knowledge to her. I swallow hard, trying to look like one of the blank pages among my stack of parchment. I will give nothing to Galadriel’s catspaw if I can help it.

  Johanna’s gaze flits to Hilde, but she gestures to me. “Where is she going?”

  “She was to go riding, milady.”

  Johanna raises a nostril. “When was she last bathed?”

  Hildegard stammers, looking for a good excuse but finding none.

  “One might think her some street urchin,” she says dryly, “not a burgher’s daughter.”

  She either knows I am a cobbler’s daughter—or suspects my base–birth. If she thinks I am ashamed of this, she is gravely mistaken. I meet her glare, and for once I don’t have to fight a blush or a flicker of shame in my eyes. I play at being a lady to keep Ivo safe, not because I am ashamed of what I am.

  Gaining nothing from our silent exchange, Johanna’s glare flits to Hilde. “Galadriel summons the girl for sewing and music.”

  “Now?!”

  “No, not now,” Johanna snaps. “Before dinner. The countess readies herself now.”

  “She shall be readied, Lady Johanna.”

  “See to it that she is,” Johanna snaps before making her way into the hall, dragging her skirt behind her.

  My fingers curl into fists. “Why is she such a, such a…”

  “Do not let her bother you, dear,” Hilde says in passing. She rushes into the hallway and yanks the chambermaid into our room by the arm. The girl cries out as Hilde’s pull causes the girl to drop laundered linens into the old strewing herbs.

  “Oh, Ermgilde!” Hilde cries. “I am sorry.”

  The blond sapling of a girl screws up her face in fury. Both of them kneel, but Hilde, even with her rheumatic knees, is first to snatch up the now soiled linens.

  “The countess wants her readied in less than an hour,” Hilde stammers desperately, “and I need a tub.”

  “Then I think you should have fetched a eweress,” Ermgilde shoots back.

  “I swear to it, I’ll have the sheets shaken out and will change the bed myself if you would fetch the eweresses for me. I must stay here to ready her.”

  The chambermaid’s pale lips twist, but she gives a resigning sigh before disappearing into the hallway.

  “Tell them to bring a tub and hot water and everything else for a proper bath,” Hilde calls after her before rushing to my trunk, flipping open the lid.

  I close the door, so no one shall see and shake out the linens myself. Hilde thanks me in one breath and warns me in the next. I should never be seen doing a servant’s work.

  It is all my fault. I am the one who wakes in sweats, forcing them to change and launder the bed linens. Galadriel hates anything the least bit fetid. I think she sees her base–birth as a constant spot of dirt and uses the cleanliness of this castle to mask this thing that cannot be hidden.

  “Johanna is a woman who has fallen far through no fault of her own and made cold by it,” Hilde says, continuing a conversation that I thought was ended.

  “What happened to her?” I ask.

  “Her husband, a count, died a traitor, cut down in battle with his father and hers.” Hilde fishes through surcotes, chainses, and dresses. “They followed Henry Raspe in the rebellion. She hasn’t a good name nor a dowry now.”

  “She could wed again. She is pretty…when she’s not scowling.”

  She chuckles and looks at me with endearing eyes. It was a naïve thing to say. “It matters little how pretty a girl is,” she remarks, before turning back to the wardrobe. “Her name and her dowry? Now that is what matters.”

  “Galadriel had neither and look how far she has risen.”

  Hilde turns from the trunk, her face severe. “You mean the countess.” She points a hard finger at me. It is not a question she asks but an order I must obey. I nod, surprised and chastened.

  Her face softens as quickly as it hardened. “You must call her my lady or the countess, always, dear. Even when not in her company. In any court, even the walls have ears. You would not want the lady of any house finding you speaking lowly of her.”

  I nod again, and Hilde yanks two items from the wardrobe: a tawny surcote trimmed in fox fur and an emerald dress lined in a patterned gold ribbon.

  “Johanna was matched before she was even ready for the marriage bed. Ulrich was not,” Hilde continues. “He was meant for the church, but he was a spoiled boy, so his mother allowed him to choose a bride. It was quite scandalous,” she whispers. “And Johanna, she is fair of face, yes, but no one is as fair as the countess. She is a great beauty.”

  Fury flashes through me. Someone as wicked as Galadriel should have a face to match.

  Hilde misreads my anger for jealousy. “As are you. You are a great beauty.” She holds the garments up to my chin, alternating them a half–dozen times. “Perhaps as pretty as the countess, perhaps the fairest of all, if only you’d give us a pretty smile.”

  I think it all a lie, but there is honesty behind her smile. I have thought myself many things but never a great beauty. I’d never thought much about beauty at all. It wasn’t something a cobbler’s daughter thought of. We hadn’t even a mirror. It is only here and within the waters of brooks and basins that I have ever seen my reflection.

  “Green favors you, but you have worn it before,” Hilde reasons.

  “I doubt the countess shall care which one I wear.”


  Hilde gasps, startling me. “I know!” She hastens back to the wardrobe. The dress she pulls is a river of velvet as richly red as Burgundian wine. “I bet you are lovely in red.” She holds the dress up to my neck and squeals with delight.

  She waddles back to the trunk and finds a carved wooden box. Cradling it like a child, she approaches me with wide–eyed excitement and pushes the box at me.

  I open the lid.

  Brooches and rings glitter, but these are glass jewels framed by copper and lesser metals. She removes the tray of trinkets, revealing the real treasure: a compartment, hiding things far more precious. I run my fingers along the silvers and golds, so cold. Spring sun shimmers off the garnets and emeralds, sapphires and amethysts. Such a thing should excite a girl from my station, but it does not. Hilde’s eyes are longing for my vicarious excitement. I nod my head, and her lit face falls with my indifference.

  I don’t care for these costumes, and I’ll never pretend to.

  My tub arrives. Hilde orders me in for a good washing. I must be perfectly presentable, the epitome of a noble young maiden. She personally sees to my cleaning, scrubbing me roughly, washing my hair, and then worrying over how she shall hide the dampness of my thick locks if Galadriel calls on me before they’ve dried.

  Galadriel does call on me before my hair has fully dried. Hildegard wraps the drying sheet around the locks and twists with all her might. I nearly cry out in pain.

  “Can you not put it up, Hilde? Hide it with a veil, if you must.”

  “But it is so pretty when it is tamed,” she sulks.

  “The countess shan’t care.”

  My hair is plaited tightly again but uncovered when Johanna knocks on the door.

  “We are nearly ready,” Hilde calls.

  “Hurry,” Johanna says impatiently. “The countess waits.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Hilde hisses. “Why must she always send Lady Johanna?”

  Hildegard rushes to the wardrobe and tosses a veil over the top of my head. I watch her rush to the trunk through the milky silk before I remove the fabric from my eyes. She adjusts my veil and secures it with a coronet.

  She steps back a moment, cocks her head to the side, and smiles. “A great beauty!” she whispers before stepping forward to grasp my hands. She looks me in the eyes. “Now remember to curtsy and to call them by their titles. Do not speak unless you are spoken to.”

  I nod my head to each of her commands. She rises, rushes to the door, and whips it open.

  Johanna stands before us, perturbed, and I curtsy slightly to her.

  “Let us go now. The countess waits on you.” Johanna turns on her heel and rushes through the hallway. I quickly follow. “Do you know how to sew?” Doubt is heavy in her voice.

  I have stitched leather all my life. Surely that’s easier than stitching thin fabrics. “Yes, milady.”

  “Good, then at least I shan’t have to teach you that. Sewing, then, is what you shall do today if it pleases the countess, for I doubt you can do much else.”

  “I can read,” I say, and she turns.

  “Do not address me so informally, Adelaide. You are in a countess’ court now, not some merchant’s hovel.”

  “Forgive me, milady,” I reply with a feigned apologetic smile.

  We pause at the door to Galadriel’s presence chamber, and a maid opens it. Johanna dips into a graceful curtsy, and I attempt to do the same.

  Galadriel looks up from her sewing. Her radiating joy is a blade, sinking straight into my bowels.

  “You look well, Adelaide,” she says.

  I dig my fingernails into my palms, fighting the urge to cross the room and claw out her eyes. Johanna prods me with her elbow.

  “As do you, milady,” I utter.

  And she does look well—too well for a woman coming from the sick bed. But that was all a rouse. Father said it himself. She was shamed. Shamed for getting herself with child with a man beneath her, a man whose wife she is not.

  Galadriel smiles and returns to her sewing. A young man plays flute in the corner. Johanna leads me to a cushion at Galadriel’s feet, and I sit. Johanna gives me some fabric, thread, and a needle.

  “Adelaide…do you not have something else you would like to say to the countess?” Johanna urges.

  “Perhaps she does not know,” Marianna says, her French accent thick. Galadriel’s face flushes.

  I look to Galadriel’s stomach and then back into her eyes. I want her to know that I know she is with child, that I see her for the harlot she is. “That my father proposes marriage?” I finally say.

  “And that I have said yes,” she adds, challenge in her voice.

  “That is kind of you.”

  Johanna gives a low chuckle. “What a strange thing to say. Are all girls from Cologne so strange?”

  Galadriel narrows her eyes and tilts her head in warning. They tug on the over–taught tether of my resolve.

  “I give you my congratulations, milady. It pleases Father that you have said yes.”

  “I am out of wine, already,” Marianna tuts. “Linus, fetch the best wine in the cellar. Today, we celebrate, for in a few days you are a married woman again, Countess, and sure to have a child in the cradle within the year.”

  Galadriel’s smiles widely. “Yes, Linus, get us only the best!”

  The boy tips his head and rushes from the room.

  “Tell us again how it happened, milady,” Marianna gushes.

  I think I should like to tell them all how it happened: a tawdry affair in a cobbler’s hovel after a night of too much ale in a lowly tavern.

  “Oh, it is the most wonderful story,” Marianna says. “A fair maiden falls into a deep sleep until her prince rides in, kisses her lips, and begs her to marry him. We shall find a minstrel to make a song of it for the wedding feast! Never has a grander tale been true!”

  Galadriel blushes. “Do you think so? It is quite extraordinary, is it not?” She admits, looking to Johanna.

  “People might think it too forward, Countess. A commoner kissing a countess in her bed while she sleeps? What if the duchess found out?”

  The glee falls from Galadriel’s face. “Oh, yes. You are probably right.”

  “Oh, milady. You shall make the most beautiful bride.” Marianna pounces on Galadriel, gripping her in a warm embrace. “Herr Ansel is the luckiest man in Christendom.”

  From the side, Marianna looks even more like Mama. It is like a strange scene from a foreboding dream brought on by too much wine: my mother hugs Galadriel and congratulates her for stealing her husband.

  Marianna, feeling the weight of my woeful gaze, turns. Her warm smile withers at the look on my face, and she winces with pity. A whiteness washes across my vision and instead of Marianna, I see Mama.

  She looks so sad.

  Sad that her husband marries so soon. Sad that her cousin betrayed her. Sad that her daughter does nothing to stop it.

  8 April 1248

  “What if the countess sends me to court?” I argue, coming up with any reason to escape another day of sewing with Galadriel. “Everyone shall laugh at me if I cannot ride a horse. Bitsch shall be the laughing stock of all of Christendom.”

  Hilde purses her lips. “Only for a little while.” She points a stern finger at me. “Only if you bathe after.”

  I nod, masking a triumphant smile. Little does Hilde know, I enjoy lying in the warm scented water, and I loathe the grime that coats my skin when it has gone too long between baths. But if I act as though I dislike the baths, I can use them as a point for bargaining.

  I toss a simple woolen dress over my head and drape the heavy hooded cloak over my shoulders before digging through the trunk to find my old shoes, a pair I’d made in Cologne long ago. A knock comes on the door. Hilde ushers the young man in. He bows to me, sending his shock of coarse red hair out of place. He rises, tall and sinewy.

  “This is Gundred,” Hilde says, “the groom of horse. He shall give you your riding lessons. Under my
supervision, of course.”

  He steps in the room and looks to Hildegard. His face has as many freckles as the night sky has stars. The two share mischievous smiles and a quick conversation in French. I look to Hilde for a translation that doesn’t come.

  Gundred steps forward and takes my hand. This is too forward. Should I pull my hand away? I look to Hilde for help, but she stares ahead, pretending not to see. This must be a custom I am not accustomed to. I shift, as he presses my fingers to his lips. “Milady,” he says in his syrupy, Burgundian accent. I duck into my hood to hide the color rising on my cheeks.

  He snaps up from his bow. “You win,” he concedes.

  Hilde laughs and claps her hands together.

  Gundred hands her a pfennig before offering his arm. “She really is the girl who never smiles,” he remarks, and Hilde nods as she tucks her hand in the crook of his elbow.

  “Call her Fraulein, Gundred,” Hilde orders.

  “My apologies, Hilde.” He turns his gaze to me. “Fraulein,” he adds with a tip of his head.

  I follow Gundred and Hilde through the castle and bailey to the stables. Gundred fetches the horse, and I pull Hilde by the arm. “What did you say to him?” I hiss.

  Feigned confusion washes over her face. “What, dear?”

  “In French. You were talking about me.”

  “He asked if you are the one they call the girl who never smiles, and I said yes. He thought he could make you smile. I simply wagered that he could not.”

  “Hilde—” I start, but the chastisement withers on my tongue. Gundred approaches, pulling a horse by the reins: a mare as gray as snow clouds with pewter freckles across her nose.

  “A beast makes her smile,” Gundred grumbles while looking to the horse. She snorts in protest and tosses her head back, nearly whipping the reins from Gundred’s grasp. “She is a pretty beast, oui? And with a with a pretty woman’s temperament.”

  To which Hilde replies with a pointed finger, “There is nothing a pretty girl hates more than another pretty girl. You better not put the fraulein on a horse that will throw her, Gundred.”