The door flies open, and I start. Hilde rushes in. “When did you last bathe?” she asks, frazzled.
“Yesterday,” I say.
She stands over me and sniffs me like a dog.
“Hilde, what are you doing?”
“The countess wants to see you before dinner. Well, before the time she would usually have dinner. She made it clear that you were to be clean.”
I sigh. “What have I done to dirty myself?” I ask. “I’ve spent the last two days in my rooms like everyone else.”
“You’d be surprised at how filthy an idle thing can get. Why do you think we have maids to dust?”
“Have them dust me if you like.” I give her a wry look, which she unabashedly reflects.
“Now, turn around so I can check your hair.” She unwinds my loose braid and runs her fingers through my hair. “What are you writing now, dear?”
“A story.”
“Oh? A new one?”
“It’s the one I told the other day.”
“About the maid with no hands?”
I nod. My stomach grumbles again. “Hilde—”
“Yes, dear.”
“Do you think I could have something to eat?”
I expect her to balk, to lecture me on Christ’s convictions and my lack thereof, but instead she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a stale loaf of bread.
“Oh, thank you, Hilde!” I tear the loaf and hand her half. “You are a saint.”
She chortles at my phrasing, for surely both of us are sinners for this. She rips off a chunk and pops it into her mouth. “God forgive us,” she says with a full mouth and crosses herself.
Hilde, declaring that today is a day for modesty, puts me in grey wool and veils my loosely plaited hair. We walk together to Galadriel’s rooms. In my effort to remember The Girl With No Hands, and in my delight at getting something to eat, I didn’t even think to ask why Galadriel summons me. But we are at the doors to her presence chamber now, which splay open. Marianna fawns over a brightly-colored stack of fabrics lying on one of the cushions.
Marianna turns. “Oh Adelaide, come have a look at the fine fabrics and furs, oui?” She rushes forward and reaches out for my hands.
“Are you having new dresses made, milady?” I ask Galadriel as Marianna drags me toward the pile. It seems a strange thing to do for a woman with child.
Galadriel proudly looms over the folded fine–spun and silk, damask and velvet. “Yes, but not for me.”
I almost ask if they are for the baby, but she has not announced that she is with child. My doing so would be great folly.
“For whom, milady?”
“For you,” she says, her smile almost motherly.
I fight the urge to recoil. “But why, milady?”
“Surely someone shall take you into their court soon. I shan’t having you looking the pauper.”
I swallow hard. A step toward court takes me a step farther from Ivo.
Johanna’s grey–green eyes narrow. “Are you not grateful?”
I dip into a curtsy. “I thank you, Lady Galadriel.”
“She is Lady Mother to you now,” Johanna says. “You should address your new mother properly.”
“I would not want to make her feel so much older than she is,” I say. “We are only five or six winters apart. She is young enough to be my sister.”
“I think I would much prefer milady,” Galadriel says.
“It is improper, Countess,” Johanna says.
A knock saves me from compliance. Marianna slips toward the door and opens it. Linus stands in the threshold, a pitcher of wine in one hand and a folded piece of parchment in the other. The scarlet seal is already broken. Linus gives a nervous bow. “Milady,” he utters, “a letter has arrived for the countess.”
Galadriel rises, her eyes vulnerable for a heartbeat. Then her countess mask returns, hardening her face. She holds her hand out coolly, and Linus rushes forward to hand her the letter.
“Who is it from?” Marianna asks.
Galadriel’s face pales for a moment. “It is from Lorraine.” She sighs. “It is a refusal. My mother–in–law never had any love for me. Here,” she hands the letter to Marianna, “you can read it aloud.” Galadriel sinks into her chair.
Johanna rips the letter from Marianna’s hands “I will read it. I cannot understand half of what you say.”
Dear Galadriel,
I congratulate you on your wedding. It seems just the other day that my Ulrich left us to be with our Lord and with your son. Their names are on all our lips during our daily masses. I hope they are still on the lips of those in your house, as well.
Johanna pauses, and her eyebrow flits up. She gives the letter a silent, cursory read. “Perhaps, I should read the rest of this with you in private, Countess.”
Galadriel runs her fingers sadly along the patterns on the sapphire damask that sits atop the pile of fine fabrics. “Read it aloud, Lady Johanna. I am quite used to her ill–treatment of me.”
Johanna gives an obeisant tip of her head and continues to read.
I had no news of your betrothal and not nearly enough of your wedding to have been able to attend. I would like to have come. I long to see what has come of your dower lands. Ulrich had such grand plans for Bitsch. I trust your father continues them. He seemed a wise man, though I cannot say the same for his last wife. She did not make it through the fever and neither did Dorthe. I believe Ebba still launders for us, not that you should care for your former stepsister. Your father should be pleased to know he is a widower now and can marry again.
I shall take in this stepdaughter of yours. It sounds as though she needs a lady born and bred in order to have any chance at running a proper household, given her common background. I am grooming twelve girls now from some of the greatest households in the empire. Two have gained most advantageous betrothals, though I am not at liberty to share to whom. The others shall no doubt be betrothed by next year’s end. I cannot promise you such a match for this girl, of course, but I shall take her and do my best with her as I do with all the ladies in my care.
See that she is here before May Day. I would like her to see how a true lady plans such festivities.
Your Former Mother–in–Law,
Duchess Agnes of Lorraine
Galadriel’s eyelids droop, heavy with sadness. An uncomfortable silence lingers. “Have Adelaide measured and the dresses made today, Marianna. I am quite tired and would like to retire to my rooms. I shall see you on the morrow to ready me before Easter Mass.”
She rises and walks stiffly into her bedchamber. Marianna starts toward the door, but Johanna puts out an arm to stop her.
“Let her be,” she commands, “for now. Let us get Lady Adelaide measured, and when she sees how quickly it is done, we’ll send her some sweetmeats and strong wine to cheer her.”
“But it’s Holy Saturday,” Marianna says with a gasp.
“I don’t care if it is the second coming,” Johanna quips. “And if anyone in the kitchen doesn’t see it my way, tell them to take their convictions with them on the North Road.”
Marianna stands in shock, her mouth agape.
“God’s blood, Marianna, close your mouth. You look like a frog catching flies.”
Marianna narrows her eyes, whips around, and storms into the hallway. Johanna snaps her fingers, and the seamstresses rush back into the room, measuring ropes and pins in hand. I shall be trapped in this room with Johanna all day. I think that might be worse than sewing. I raise my arms as they measure my waist, my chest, my height, my everything in great haste.
I turn my gaze toward Johanna, who smirks. “Most girls would give anything to be in your position right now. I fear these fine fabrics are wasted on you.”
“Your fear rightly, Lady Johanna. I am not deserving,” I agree. She raises her eyebrow. I think she’d rather I argue. She looks for a fight. If she keeps digging at me, she might get one.
“What is it like, Lady Adelaide,” she ask
s, “to rise so high, I wonder, to go from a burgher’s daughter to one of the finest courts in Christendom?”
“If it pleases you, I’ll send you a letter after I am settled in Lorraine. Then you can finally know for yourself.”
She laughs. “Yes, I should like to know how you are getting on. I hope you practice a lady’s decorum better in the duchess’ court than you do in this one.”
“Do you truly hope for such a thing, Lady Johanna?”
“I do, not for your sake, but for the countess’. I think you are an ungrateful urchin, undeserving of such finery, such titles.”
“It is good to finally hear the truth from your lips.”
“Then I have more truth for you.” Her sweet smile is a lie. “You cannot rise forever. The wheel of fortune descends as quickly as it rises.”
“Then it is a good that I do not care for rising.”
“Perhaps.”
I pity the seamstresses who have to listen to us peck at each other like hens. Once I am measured, they drop their cords and set to work on the fabrics, ribbons, and furs. I step down from the pedestal, happy to leave Johanna alone in the misery that she hovels.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Johanna says, a commandment, not a question.
I halt in my step. My teeth clench, and I smile before saying, “You regard me informally, Lady Johanna.”
Her lips pinch into a proud smirk, but shame flickers in her eyes. She takes a deep, steadying breath. “Where do you think you are going, Lady Adelaide?”
“Wherever my shoes shall like to take me.”
I turn for the hallway, as Marianna storms in, fuming. She slams the pitcher of wine and the tray of sweetmeat onto one of the tables. “Here are your precious sweetmeats,” she hisses at Johanna, her accent remarkably French. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I shall retire to my rooms and pray for the souls who were forced to make them on Holy Saturday!”
She dashes into the hall, slamming the door behind her. The seamstresses sit in shocked silence, their eyes wide as chargers. Johanna’s mouth should be agape, but pride has given her a steel mask. Sometimes I think the only moveable parts of her face are her flickering jaw, judgmental eyebrow, and venomous tongue.
20 April 1248, Afternoon
Now the besieged occupants were faced with starvation or surrender. Then the knight’s beautiful wife dared to present herself to the besieging soldiers and ask them for mercy for herself. The woman’s tears touched the enemy’s heart, and she was granted mercy. Then she asked for permission to remove from the castle whatever she could carry… This too was granted to her.
–The Wives of Weibertreu
The savory aroma of roasting meats, breads, and stews of all sorts waft into the room. The faint hum of harps, recorders, and singers seeps through the small gaps between the large carved wooden doors. The anticipation could be sliced and served on platters. After so many days of fasting, we might even eat it.
I sit, surrounded by nobles, in a solar beside the great hall, waiting for the doors to open, catching bits and pieces of whispered conversations. Based on what I hear, I do not think these men and women traveled so far to wish the Countess of Bitsch and her pauper husband well.
What grandeurs can this nowhere village of Bitsch possibly have to offer? What entertainments can a nobody like Galadriel provide? These are the questions these nobles have come to answer for themselves. I hope these men and women who look down upon us measure themselves against Galadriel, against Bitsch, and find themselves wanting.
Us, I think. Did I just align myself with Galadriel?
I shiver with disgust.
Linus and Lutz open the doors, and like cattle to a field of spring grass, we dawdle forward, ready to be fed and entertained. Grand evergreen garlands cascade from the chandeliers, candelabras, sconces, and mantels. A thousand candles flicker. Far at the end of the hall, sitting beside her new husband, sits the Countess of Bitsch herself, adorned in a gold chainse with green damask. She is a foxglove in a field of clover, so pretty, yet so utterly poisonous.
The nobles form a line, approaching Father and Galadriel to offer congratulations. Galadriel and Father beam. I haven’t seen him happy in weeks. Anger simmers. If only he truly knew her.
I am the last in the line, and I curtsy to them both. Father rises from his chair and grasps my hands, pulling me up onto their little stage. He places me on his lap and then reaches for Galadriel’s hand, which she gives. The scent of wine is heavy on his breath.
“We will be a happy family,” Father says. And then adds with a whisper, “All four of us.” He reaches for Galadriel’s belly. She playfully swats at his hand and shushes him.
Lady Johanna shoots Galadriel a disapproving glare. She snaps her fingers, and the musicians and singers start. A cheerful tune rings about the hall.
Marianna rushes to the floor, taking the hand of Uncle, as Lady Johanna finds a nobleman to lead about like a lost pup. A crowd rushes to the floor finding partners, and a dance seems to come from nowhere at all.
People dance until the courses come. Father and Galadriel rise to join us at the table, though they feel a furlong away, for the table is so long.
My mouth waters at the scent of stewing meat as the kitchen maid sets the bowl of venison stew with bread before me. I tear a hunk from the little white loaf and sop up the broth. It dissolves on my tongue: salty and sweet. I dig into the stew with my spoon, hunks of venison making it heavy in my hand. I barely have to chew, for the meat is so tender.
A new dish comes as I sop up the remnants of broth. A maid briskly snatches the bowl from in front of me. I watch Reinhilde, who sits to my left, for her response. She merely sits back and lets them take her food without a word—so I do the same.
Large platters of festively decorated ducks, pheasants, and chickens of all sorts are set before Father and Galadriel. Lady Johanna has them carved and diplomatically orders cuts of the birds to different nobles. A creamy peas porridge comes next, followed by stewed roots and cabbages, and then tarts with apples and soft cheese. As the last plate is taken away, Magdalene turns to her daughter and whispers in her ear. The girl turns pale.
“Why must I go first?” Reinhilde whimpers.
“It is better to go first than last,” she says icily. “Trust me in this. I feel for the count’s daughter, for she is the last to go. She will follow two great storytellers. Going first is best.”
I swallow hard.
“But I am afraid. What if I tell it wrong? What if—”
“Reinhilde,” Magdalene’s frigid eyes meet her daughter’s frightened stare. “You come from the wives of Weibertrue. You come from strong women, women who do not fail.” Magdalene’s back straightens. Her stern gaze eases. “You see these men and women around us?”
Reinhilde nods.
“Any one of them could take you into their home. Entertain them well, and you may wind up in a good house and your father will be able to make a good marriage for you. Who knows how far you could rise?”
Reinhilde shrinks into her chair.
“Sit up straight and stop wrinkling your brow. We need you to look pretty. Look now, the countess’ father rises to announce you. Be ready, and make us proud.”
Reinhilde pulls herself up, pinches her cheeks, and grabs her goblet for a long sip of strong wine just as Uncle reaches the little stage.
“I hope you haven’t had your fill yet,” Uncle says with the hint of a smile. “More courses are to come, but entertainment first, while we rest our bellies from food and fill them with wine.”
A cheer rises from the noblemen at this.
“From Weinsberg,” Uncle continues, “comes not only the wine you are about to drink, but a granddaughter of the wives of Weibertrue to tell us the tale of her fair city.”
Reinhilde rises from her chair, her face frightfully pale. She meets Uncle at the foot of the stage. Her chest rises with a deep breath, she straightens as tall as her slight frame allows and opens her mouth to speak.
“Many have heard tales of grand battles, near losses, and heroic victories.” Reinhilde says, her meek voice gaining strength. “Be warned for this story is one of loss, a story of what happens to the defeated. This is the story of a great struggle over a little castle on a large hill, but though the castle little, do not assume its legend is as well, for it is grand indeed.”
All in the hall are silent and every eye upon her as she pauses.
“This is the story of the castle Weibertrue.
“A century ago, when King Lothar died with no true heir, the German lands were torn between two men. Lothar’s named heir, Henry the Proud, and Lothar’s greatest enemy, Duke Conrad of Franconia, fought for the crown.
“The princes of the empire smiled upon the Duke of Franconia, swearing fealty to him in Aachen, and he was crowned. All accepted Conrad as king. All, that is, except for one, Henry the Proud.
“For four long years, war ravaged the lands. The fortunes of war smiled once again upon King Conrad.
“The battles were decided. The cities were taken. All but one city would fall—the little city of Weinsberg and its castle upon the hill.
“King Conrad demanded surrender or else he would destroy the city, burn the castle, and put everyone within it to the sword. Still, the people of Weinsberg, led by a steadfast knight, held the castle.
“For weeks the siege against the little city raged, but as the food ran out and the people lay starving, the knight was forced to surrender—just four days before Christmastide. King Conrad felt he had to make good on his threat, that he must destroy the city, burn the castle, and kill the people of Weinsberg.
“The knight’s wife ran from the castle and begged for mercy, saying it folly to kill women and children especially so close to Christmas. King Conrad, charmed by her beauty and sympathetic to her woe, ordered that she and all the other women and children of Weinsberg could leave the castle peacefully with all that they could carry. But that the men would still be put to the sword.
“The knight’s wife sadly returned to the castle, sharing the king’s offer, but this brought little comfort to the women of Weinsberg, who as loyal wives, cried woefully through the evening. But the knight’s wife had a grand idea. One woman after another whispered the plan until everyone in Weinsberg knew it.
The Countess' Captive (The Fairytale Keeper Book 2) Page 17