The Countess' Captive (The Fairytale Keeper Book 2) (10 page)

I chortle and shake my head. The beauty of Cologne is an epithet saved for flaxen‒haired princesses, not raven–haired cobblers.

“This, Adelaide, is your nursemaid, Hildegard.” Galadriel says.

A nursemaid?
I am fifteen years old and betrothed! What need have I for a nursemaid?

She releases me and straightens my surcote. “If you need anything, Fraulein, I’ll be the one to help,” she says. “But I don’t tolerate any nonsense,” she points a scolding finger at me.

I nod.

Galadriel glances past Hildegard to the door. “Where are the chambermaids?” she asks, annoyed.

“They ready the house, milady,” Marianna defends. “Forgive us. We were not sure when you would return, or who you would bring with you.”

“I told you who you might expect to return with me,” Galadriel snaps. “And I have been gone long enough for the castle to have been ready a fortnight ago.”

Marianna’s eyes flit down, and Johanna steps forward. “I shall send for them, Countess.” She pivots toward the castle, her skirts following as if commanded. There is hardly a rise and fall to her step. Her every gesture is graceful and unrushed.

“The scullions, Marianna, are they inside preparing supper?” Galadriel asks. “We have not dined today. I expect a hearty meal.”

“Yes, milady.”

“Very good.”

We finally approach the door. The porter darts forward to open it. Johanna stands stone–faced at the entry with the red–faced and sweaty chambermaids who we missed earlier.

Johanna steps aside for Galadriel. “Your rooms are readied, Countess.”

I suppose Galadriel no longer cares to introduce the chambermaid, for she rushes straight past them. Johanna turns to follow her and so do the chambermaids, the bailiff, and Father. A breath hangs in my throat as my foot crosses the threshold, but they move so quickly that I have to quicken my pace to keep up.

“Thank you, Lady Johanna,” Galadriel says. “I should like for us to sup in my presence chamber.”

“Very well—”

“Would you not rather dine in the hall, milady, or show them the castle first?” Matthias interrupts. “You have guests, and the hall has been readied for them.”

She waves her hand dismissively. “I think I know where I should and should not like to eat, Matthias, but surely they should like to see the castle. I trust you can manage a tour?”

“Of course, milady, but usually—”

“I do not care what is usually done and keep your tour short. I wish to eat before the Compline bells ring.”

“Yes, milady.”

Galadriel disappears up the staircase, chattering orders as her ladies and maids follow. My eyes roam the dank stone walls and ceiling of the cavernous threshold. A musty odor lurks in the air, but a frigid draft flows down the stairwell, chasing it away. I shiver and shrink into my cloak.

Lutz and Linus enter, clumsily carrying a trunk. “Lutz, Linus,” Matthias barks, and the boys pause. “The sconces should be lit.”

“Grandfather told us to take the trunks to the rooms,” Lutz grunts, shifting the weight of the trunk. Matthias breathes a heavy sigh. The castle doors open. Tristan and the castellan slip in.

“Leave that to men who can handle such a task. Tristan, Crispin,” Matthias snaps, and the young men come like trained dogs. “See to it that these trunks make their way to the chambers.”

They beam at the challenge. Lutz smiles and shrugs his shoulders. The boys lower the trunk and head off. Tristan and Crispin carry it with ease, twisting it carefully, but quickly, around the corner and up the staircase without grimace or groan.

Lutz and Linus return with lighted sticks, lighting sconces in the hallway. The flickers of the tiny flames grow fainter as they head deeper into the hallway. Boyish laughter and the scuffing of leather soles echo off the stone.

“Shall we then?” Matthias suggests in his gruff voice. “The first floor of the castle is mainly used for servant quarters and storage.” Matthias points down the long, dark hallway across from us.

Father, disinterested, peers down the hall before nodding. Lutz and Linus return, pass us, and head up the stairs to light more sconces as we stand with Matthias in strained silence.

Candles flicker, dimly lighting the stairwell. Matthias holds his arm out and gestures for us to make our way up the stairs. He points right as we continue our ascent. “The great hall is that way, but you won’t be supping there tonight,” he says, hardly masking his irritation.

Tristan and Crispin turn the corner. Instinctively, I step out of their way, but Matthias turns, with pinched lips, facing the young men. They back up and halt, waiting for us to finish our ascent.

Never had strangers made a path for me before, especially when they were carrying something heavy.

I don’t like this feeling, this uneven footing in which I perch.

I think of all the crooked paths that converged to cause two men who I should have never met to pause on a stairwell like I am somehow more significant today than I was three days ago. It is an ugly, convoluted web of death, treachery, and betrayal.

The flashes of memory feel like a blow to the stomach. I change the subject of my thoughts and follow the light of the sconces, stepping up, up, up. The burn in my thighs is a new pain, a distraction from the throbbing wound in my soul. I slip into the third story hallway, ahead of Father and Matthias. The warmth hits me first and then the scent of smoke. A crisp wind whistles through glassless slits in the north wall, raising bumps on my arms and neck.

I look out despite the chill. A myriad of tiny, shimmering specks fill the voids between large stars. I’ve never seen so many. I could live a hundred winters and never count them all.

Another gust comes, and I catch the faint aroma of snow on the air. I close my eyes and inhale. I could be anywhere, anywhere with a hearth fire, anywhere but here.

I imagine it is a gust ripping through the shutters in my bedroom in Cologne. That the hearth fire comes from the solar below. That my eyes aren’t really closed. They were closed before. Bitsch is a nightmare, and this delusion is real.

Father’s and Matthias’ voices echo into the hall, and the fantasy dissolves.

I look down. The rocky hillside plummets, melding into the dense forest far below. It is the kind of height that makes me wonder what would happen if I jump. But that would be impossible. These windows are barely wide enough to stick my hand through. Why would anyone make a window so narrow?

“It’s a beautiful view,” Matthias says. I look over my shoulder and nod politely. Tristan and Crispin skirt pass behind us, disappearing into the dark hallway.

“The windows are so narrow,” I say. “Why is the sill wide on the inside and narrow on the out?”

“It keeps an enemy’s arrows from coming in but allows our archers many angles to shoot out.” He demonstrates a variety of stances an archer could take.

“Are you attacked often?” I ask.

“Not once in the two years that I have been here.”

“Then why are there so many defenses?”

Matthias turns to Father and raises his silver eyebrow, forcing deep lines to stretch across his forehead. “Your daughter asks a lot of questions, Herr.”

Father’s thin lips give a subtle arc. “That she does.”

Matthias turns to the hallway. “Onto the chambers then.”

Ludwig and Lutz stand beside a set of heavy wooden doors and open these for us.

“Herr, these are your chambers,” Matthias announces. “The presence chamber is, of course, closest to the stairs, and your bedchamber’s next.”

It is a lavish room. Fresh strewing herbs have been scattered across the floor, haloing a table with carved chairs. Heavy brown drapes rim tall windows. Hunting tapestries warm the opposing wall, and a large fireplace warms its adjacent. Father crosses the threshold and regards the room. He turns to Matthias and nods ambivalent approval.

Matthias points left. “Those doors lead to your bedchambers, Herr.” He shoves Lutz. “Go on, you louse. Open the door for him.”

“I’m capable of opening doors,” Father says and heads into his bedchamber alone.

Lutz follows and so do I, but Matthias blocks my path with an out–stretched arm. “A girl is not permitted into the lord’s bedchamber unless summoned,” he says.

My father is not the lord of this manor, I’d like to say, but I mind my tongue, thinking of Galadriel’s threats. Father returns. His indifferent expression—though not surprising—pleases me nonetheless. He always despised the wealthy. They were a necessary evil for all guild members, in his words, for they often spent their coin with little thought.

“Onto the Fraulein’s rooms,” he says.

We pass several doors, pausing at the end of the hallway. Hildegard stands at the threshold, a wide smile on her face.

Matthias gestures toward the opened door. “This, Fraulein, is your bedchamber and next to it your presence chamber.”

She shows me to a set of rooms, which are very much like Father’s except the fabrics are evergreen rather than brown.

“Very nice, isn’t it?” Hildegard asks, and I nod politely. “Homesick already, dear?”

I nod again. My head is likely to fall off from all these unspoken agreements.

“Come now,” she summons me toward a basin. “Let us clean your hands. Lady Galadriel may well be ready for supper.”

Galadriel cannot be upset with me for doing as Father does, I think, grabbing the loaf and tearing off a hunk. My stomach trembles at the sweet, buttery aroma. Father has made short work of the refreshments, gulping his wine and breaking the bread.

If I waited much longer there might not be anything left for me at all.

The brittle golden crust flakes in my fingers, and the white interior steams. I pop a morsel into my mouth. It melts on the tongue. I could moan in delight.

But these are Galadriel’s things. Delight in them feels like delight in her—the woman who usurped my mother’s place, who’s cast a spell on my father, who threatens Ivo. Even the strong, honeyed wine tastes sour after that.

Galadriel enters from the door that leads to her presence chamber, her damp plaited hair covered by a sheer veil. Her cheeks flush like the roses she smells of. She takes the empty chair beside Father and leans forward to grab her mug. “I hope the rooms are to your liking.”

I hope the rooms are to your liking.
I mock her doltish voice in my thoughts.

Her fake concern makes me hate her even more. Is this the part where I am supposed to bolster her pride by singing the praises of Castle Bitsch?

I’ve spent most my nights on a straw mattress covered by a rough woolen blanket in a room without a hearth—and I would gladly go back to less rather than suffer her desperate prodding for compliments.

Luckily the mug is at my lips—so I can get away with the slightest nod of my head, leaving Father the one to answer her. And I want him to answer her. I want him to feel her title rolling off his tongue.

“Yes, milady,” he says, before taking a gulp of wine to help him swallow his pride more easily.

“Lutz,” Galadriel summons. “Fill Herr Ansel’s mug. Pay attention.”

“Yes, milady.” He rushes forth with the pitcher.

A savory scent wafts into the room as a busty brunette enters, bringing bowls of beaver stew.

Many courses follow. Galadriel eats a little of each, trying all of them. Father eats every morsel set on his charger, gorging like a glutton. A tray of pastries comes, and his eyes follow it
.

How much more can he eat? After wine, bread, and stews, how can he still have room for sweets?

Violet crescents rim Galadriel’s eyes, and she masks many yawns with her fingers. Her bouncing eyelids close until something, a nightmare perhaps, startles her. She excuses herself but gives us permission to stay in her presence chamber and eat until we’ve had our fill.

Galadriel enters her bedchambers, and Father finishes his pastry, reclining in his chair with a groan.

“More wine, Herr?” Lutz asks with a yawn of his own, and Father raises his mug to be filled again. “Would you like Ettiene to make more pastries?”

Father rises with a groan. “No, I’ve had my fill.” He places his hands on the small of his back and stretches. His back cracks, and he sighs.