The Countess' Captive (The Fairytale Keeper Book 2) (13 page)

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 scoff. “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.

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.

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.