“I know you do, milady,” he resigns. His gaze shifts to my waist, where I hide a thick satchel beneath my cloak. “It is a warm morning for such a heavy cloak, Lady Adelaide.”
“But the breeze is cool, and the forest is shaded,” I say. “Gundred, now will you please ready my horse?”
He flashes me a knowing look. “Would you like me to also pack that satchel for you, milady?”
“Of course,” I say, sounding calmer than I feel.
He opens the bag. “Gundred?!” I surge forward, but he sidesteps my advance. “Give it back! You have no right to look through my things!”
“I am sorry, milady.” His lips twist with pity. “Your father paid me to ensure that you’d not run away.”
“I’ll pay you more.”
He fishes through the satchel and pulls out the jewelry. “You plan to pay me in stolen rings and brooches?”
“Take a brooch or don’t,” I say and snap the satchel from his grasp. “If I’m gone, the countess will assume that I took them. You can tell her that I stole the horse, too. I’ll saddle her myself.”
By the time Galadriel gets back, I will be in Cologne with enough coin in jewelry to see Ivo and myself safely to another city.
“I’m sorry, milady,” he calls, following me deeper into the stables. “It wouldn’t be right to let a girl on the roads alone.”
“You are free to come with me if you like,” I reply.
“I swore an oath of fealty to your father.”
I halt at Storyteller’s stall. It’s empty. I spin on my heel. “Gundred, where is my horse?”
“Your father was very concerned that you would run away…”
“Where is my horse?!” I demand.
“I assure you she is quite well and with the guards’ horses in the stables on the far side of the castle.” He stiffens and tries to look stern. “Please, milady, your father said that if you were disagreeable, I should have you locked in your rooms.”
I would have to get through two gates and past another horse groom in order to fetch Storyteller. My shoulders fall. This plan shan’t work. I hold out the satchel, and Gundred takes it with a relieved breath. “I am sorry, Gundred. I’ll be good. I was upset. That’s all. I know I cannot manage the roads alone,” I lie. “You won’t tell my stepmother, will you?”
“When your father asked me to swear that I would not let you run away, milady, he also made me swear not to tell anyone if you tried,” he says. “Your secret is safe.”
My father knows me better than I thought. I wonder what other plots he assumes I shall try. Perhaps I should ask Gundred and save myself the trouble.
“Did you still want to ride? I can lead you around the bailey. I’ll even let you hold the reins if you won’t tell Hilde,” he offers, an effort to cheer me, one I don’t deserve. I shake my head. He sighs. “Then, I should escort you back to the castle.”
I nod. “You can keep the food, but I think I’ll take back the jewels.”
His smile is wry. “As you will, milady.”
I pocket the jewels, and he escorts me to the castle entry.
I take the stairs two at a time, pondering the different ways I might escape this purgatory. Perhaps I could pay a serf to smuggle me away in a cart of onions.
Did Father think of that? I think as I cross the threshold. The stubborn priest sits at my desk. I stand and watch in silence, expecting to catch him reading my parchments, but he doesn’t. That doesn’t mean he hasn’t already. I clap the door closed behind me. Father Hannes starts at the sound.
“Are you here to seek my confession, Father?” I say, annoyed.
He rises. “I seek nothing but your company, milady. Would you join me in your presence chambers?”
I hesitate. He holds an arm open, motioning for me to head into the other room, and I go. Two chairs sit before the fireplace, and a small table between them holds a pitcher and two mugs.
I stand, waiting for him to sit, but he tips his head, reminding me that I am the lady. I sit as he fills both mugs with wine. We drink in strained silence.
“This union upsets you,” he prods.
“I thought you sought only my company?”
“I lied.”
I avert my gaze to the fire, entranced by the swaying flames. “Of course, it upsets me. My mother hasn’t been dead a month.” The confession feels detached. I wait for a lecture about finding fortune in misfortune, but Father Hannes says nothing. “And I must feign happiness and nobility every moment of the day,” I continue. “I hate it. I hate all of it. I want my old life. I want to go home.”
The silence between us lingers. The brilliance of the fire burns my eyes, and I shift my gaze to the priest. He is not like the priests of Cologne, who are fat, well–dressed, and hide from those they are supposed to serve. “What made you want to be a priest, Father Hannes?”
His eyebrows rise in surprise at the question. He leans toward me. “Here, feel my shoulder.”
Feel his shoulder? I wince at his request.
“Go on,” he coaxes, smiling fatherly.
I press my fingers lightly against the wool, unsure of what I’m to search for. Beneath the fabric, welted skin raises, not the scar of a wound, but a pattern. I recoil.
“You’re branded,” I gasp. “Are you—” I lower my voice to a whisper. “Are you an outlaw?”
He nods, rubbing the fabric around his shoulder like that shall somehow smooth the mark. “Most do not know it, but I live outside of the law. In the small town where I am from, anyone could have killed me, maimed me. The laws do not protect me there.”
“What did you do?”
“Oh, many things I shouldn’t have. I stole, I fought, I missed mass. I spent much time in the stocks, got whipped more times than I can remember. The local lord felt pity for me and gave me more chances than I deserved. My parents died before my fifth winter, and my mother’s sister tried to care for me the best that she could, but she had six children of her own and had been widowed twice.” He shrugs. “But I didn’t cease. I ended up with a brand, claimed sanctuary, and here I am. You could kill me right now and claim me as an outlaw, and no one could rightfully touch you. There is my secret. Keep it or not.”
“I stole Galadriel’s jewelry today,” I confess, “and I planned to run away to Cologne.” I remove the brooches and rings from my pocket. “If I had coin of my own, I would use it, but I gave it to a man who needed it before we left Cologne.”
He nods.
The truth tastes like foreign wine: harsh and bitter at first—but strained sips turn into silky gulps as the flavor shifts from strange to desired.
“I’m angry at God. I hate my father at times. More than anything, I hate Galadriel. I even hate that bastard brewing in her stomach.”
Gaze averted, he nods. I examine his face, looking for evidence of surprise, finding none. Of course, he knows Galadriel is with child. He is her confessor after all. She had to have told him. How else would she have convinced him to perform a wedding during Lent? But how can I fault him for keeping her secrets. That’s what priests are supposed to do. At least this one seems to keep his vows. I take and release a long breath. Speaking has eased a burden, but every indulgence has its consequences.
“Aren’t you going to tell me how horrible I am?” I ask, “that I am a spoiled, ungrateful urchin?”
He gives a one–shouldered shrug. “Your sins are no worse than my own and certainly no worse than the worst I’ve heard.”
“Well, aren’t you going to give me penance?”
“I suppose,” he sighs.
“Well, what shall it be?”
“What do you want in life, milady?”
“What? What do you mean?”
“What would bring you joy?”
“What has that to do with my penance?” I ask, but his chiding look bids me to answer his question. “I want to go back to Cologne. I want to have my own trade and marry my betrothed. I want to tell my mother’s stories so she lives on forever
.”
“Was your mother a good storyteller?”
“The best in Cologne.”
“Are you as good as she was?”
“No.”
“Then you need practice,” he says. “Your penance is to find joy during your time here. And since sharing your mother’s stories brings you joy, I bid you to share those stories with the children of Bitsch…when they have time to listen.” He rises with a groan and flashes me a folded–lip smile. “Then you not only bring yourself joy, you also spread it.”
To a priest this penance might seem light, easy, but to me it’s harsh. Mama’s death is a fresh wound. Telling her stories won’t bring me joy yet. It is too soon. It was hard enough to share one with Hilde.
“I absolve you, child, of your sins.” He makes the sign of the cross in front of me. “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”
I cross myself. “Amen.”
He pats my shoulder and heads toward the door. Resting his hand on the handle, he turns. “Lady Adelaide.”
“Yes, Father?”
“Let us invite the town in to sup tonight, and you can regal us all with one of your tales.”
Tonight? “I don’t know if I shall be ready by tonight, Father.”
“Oh, you will be.”
My mouth hangs agape as I hope for an excuse to roll of my tongue, but Father Hannes heads into the hallway and is gone before I utter a word.
This man doesn’t seem like any priest I’ve ever known. I rush back to my bedchamber, plopping into the chair before my desk. Pulling my parchment toward me, I dip the pen in the ink well and think. Which story shall I tell?
Hansel and Gretel was always my favorite—and the last tale that I told Ivo. My lips stretch into a smile at the thought of him.
Perhaps Galadriel shall stumble upon a witch on her way to Landstuhl, and the witch shall make her into gingerbread. My lips curve even higher. Then I shake the fantasy from my head and set to purpose. I have a story to tell tonight.
10 April 1248, Evening
“Dear father, do with me what you will. I am your child,” the girl said. With that she stretched forth both hands and let her father chop them off.
–The Girl Without Hands
I unshackle my hair from its tightly wound plaits and coils, letting it tumble over my shoulders. Hilde sighs, and I expect her to complain that she shall have to plait it all over, but she says nothing. The throb in my head dulls now that the tension is gone.
My knee bounces as I peruse my sloppily written version of Hansel and Gretel—though my mind ventures into anxious worry.
In one imagined scenario, I forget the tale mid–telling, standing dumbfounded before a hall filled with disappointed faces. In another, I am jeered, and the people throw their half–eaten food at me. Dozens of times, I banish such thoughts from my head and start reading again from the beginning. At least, I have that part good and memorized.
Hilde plays at being my audience. I stammer the tale a half–dozen times, trying to tell it without the parchment. But I make a mess of it—over and over. My throat burns, and frustrated tears sting at the backs of my eyelids, which only makes me angrier with myself.
How is it that I could tell the tale to Ivo with no practice? I close my eyes and take a few even breaths—picturing him in the chair by the hearth, rather than Hilde. And, finally, it comes out right.
I have recited it three times now. Once with my eyes open.
I can tell the tale—not as well as Mama could—but this will have to do. I bounce the stack of parchments on my knee, shifting them into place. I think I will take them with me—in case I forget.
The sour stench of unclean bodies fills the hall, and I chide myself for thinking such a thought. Bitsch hasn’t baths like Cologne. The streams are cold, and the poor covet their kindling too much to waste it on warming bath water. Heated voices echo off the stone as Hilde and I approach the stairwell.
“What is this?” Johanna spits at Father Hannes, gesturing to the villagers filing past her. “What are these filthy peasants doing in the great hall?” She crosses the hallway in a streak.
“Lady Johanna,” Marianna hisses, ushering the children past her, “keep your voice down.”
Hilde and I exchange knowing looks. The witch has poor Father Hannes cornered. Picking up my skirts, I rush down the stairs.
“It wounds me to hear you speak of God’s children in such a manner,” Father Hannes says.
Johanna’s shrewdly set jaw proves she isn’t wounded in the least. “I did not approve this. The countess placed me in charge of the house in her stead.”
“Her father is steward.” Father Hannes’ voice is calm. “I approached him, and he approved.”
“And who gave the orders to have the hall readied? We must have food for all these mouths, and you know there are to be festivities in less than a week.”
“Only what is allowed in Lent… bread and ale. And do not forget that their hands work the fields that provide the food for all of our mouths.”
“I wash my hands of this,” Johanna says. “If so much as a goblet is stolen, it shall fall on your shoulders, Priest, not mine.”
“Come now, Adelaide.” Father Hannes ushers me forward.
A young girl, as slender as a twig’s shadow, skirts around me at a run and trips on my train, nearly knocking over the boy in front of her.
“Watch where you go, changeling,” he snarls.
I recoil at the name. It conjures a memory long–forgotten. Mama once delivered a child who came out deformed. The babe’s back bones were exposed. I never saw her though. Father kept her wrapped in a linen sheet so I wouldn’t see, but an arm dangled out: blue, limp, lifeless.
The midwife said it was a changeling, that Mama’s true baby had been taken by the devil or fairies or trolls.
That was the last time Mama ever had a midwife.
Why must people believe in such things? I’ve heard tales of changelings. According to legend—and senseless midwives—a child is taken in the night by some fantastical creature, and one of their children, a changeling, is left behind.
But Mama’s baby came out of her deformed. The devil hadn’t time to make a switch. Some people truly do not try to make sense of anything. They hear a tale once and assume it to be truth.
A small crowd forms around the girl.
“Did fairies not give you wings to fly or feet to walk, changeling?” An older girl taunts.
There is a cruel harmony of snickers and laughter. The little girl’s lips trembles, and her eyes well.
“Stop that,” I command. “Or you can leave the castle without supper.” I hold out my hands to help the girl up, but she only holds out one jittery arm, hiding the other behind her back. Peering around her, I see the hidden arm ends in a rounded stump. I pull her up. “She isn’t a changeling,” I say and hold her to my side. “There is no such thing.”
The girl and the boy share a look that suggests I am the foolish one for not believing such nonsense.
“Apologize to her or go hungry,” I order.
“Sorry, Ava,” they chime, voices overlapping.
“Go on then,” I say, and they run into the great hall.
I crouch and brush tangles of ashy brown hair from the girl’s face. “Are you all right?”
She nods, her black–brown eyes still glassy with tears.
“There is no such thing as a changeling,” I say, and she nods. “Where is your mother?”
“Dead of the fever, milady.”
“Who cares for you?”
“My uncle.”
“Then go to him,” I say, and she runs into the great hall.
I hold the parchments in my hand. Several servants pass me with trays of warm bread. Only half the great hall is filled. Not only have the children come, but the grown have come, as well. I count the backs of heads, stopping at one–hundred–twenty. My stomach twists, and I swallow hard. Father Hannes leads a blessing. The bread is passed around the
tables, and servants fill mugs with ale. Smiles and conversations ease my nerves, as no one is paying much attention to me.
“Are you ready?” Father Hannes asks.
I look down at the parchment, to Hansel and Gretel. I have it memorized, but there is another story I should tell tonight. I hope I know it well enough. I nod.
“It’s probably better for you to tell the tale after the ale warms them,” he flashes a warm smile, “but before it runs dry.”
I nod again.
He anchors his hands on his knees, and rises with a groan. I put the mug to my lips and take several swallows. Papa once said a strong drink gave a man courage, but that was after we watched a drunkard try to steal a wineskin. The thief lost a finger for it.
I wipe the lingering foam from my lips. By the time Father Hannes is at the front of the room, the great hall is silent. In Cologne, only a man of great importance could get a throng of this size to put down their cups and quiet themselves.
“Good people of Bitsch, how are you enjoying your ale?” he asks, and the people reply with raised mugs and cheers. Father Hannes sloshes the ale in his mug. “I hope your sowing of our fields is equally as smooth.” He raises his cup to them in toast. “May the soil be soft, the rocks be few, and the harvest bountiful.” The people raise their mugs and drink again. “There is more than just ale and bread,” Father Hannes adds, and my stomach flutters with nerves. “We have a storyteller come all the way from Cologne.” He glances toward me and gestures for me to rise. “You may have seen her. Rise, Lady Adelaide.” The expectant stares of the crowd bore into me. “Her mother, God rest her soul, was a storyteller in Cologne, a gift she shared with her daughter and that Lady Adelaide would like to share with you. Please raise your mugs in toast to the count’s daughter and her generosity.”
All raise their cups again, before taking hearty gulps.
I center myself in the front of the great hall so all can see. Scanning the room, I foolishly measure the gazes that weigh upon me. A few brim with excited anticipation, but most are glazed with blank unfamiliarity or politely feigned interest. A heartbeat passes and then another. Fear festers.
The Countess' Captive (The Fairytale Keeper Book 2) Page 15