The Countess' Captive (The Fairytale Keeper Book 2) (14 page)

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.

“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.”

“She won’t throw her. Not with me holding the reins.”

Hilde flashes him a doubtful look. “She had better not.”

The wispy white hairs of Storyteller’s tail flick, and she stomps a perturbed hoof. The horse’s ink–black eyes soften as I slide my fingers along her felt nose. Her light, downy lashes close and open.

“Are you ready, Fraulein?” Gundred asks, offering me a steadying hand as I crest the mounting block and clumsily get into the saddle.

“Have you chosen a name for her, Fraulein?” He takes the reins and clicks his teeth. The horse surges forward.

I rise and fall with her heavy strides. “Storyteller,” I reply.

“A pretty name for a pretty girl, Fraulein,” he says placatingly.

“Is it true what they say of Burgundians?” I ask.

“I have heard a great many things said of Burgundians, so that depends, Fraulein.”

“That you are terrible, unrelenting flirts.”

“Yes, that is true…of most Burgundians.” He shoots me an unabashed, half–smile. “But I am an excellent flirt, so it is not true of me, Fraulein.”

I shake my head at him and chortle.

“I want my pfennig back, Hilde,” Gundred calls, holding up two fingers. “I made her laugh and smile. You owe me two for this.”

“That was not the wager, and you know it, Gundred,” she says. “Do not let his flirtations fool you, Fraulein. You are practically a lady of the house now. Soon every servant will be singing of your virtues like a bunch of besotted troubadours.”

“Even you, Hilde?” I jest.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! No! The men, dear, the men.”

I cannot see Father accepting this custom well. I think back to his rage when he found me in Ivo’s arms. How will he respond to forward gestures and suggestive words directed toward his only daughter?

“Do you do this to gain favor?” I ask Gundred. It is an honest, yet ill–phrased question, and Hilde pouts at my lack of tact.

“It can’t hurt,” Gundred laughs.

“So you are married then, Gundred,” I say.

“I was betrothed once. The fever took her.”

The fever.
The very mention of it cinches my waist, robs me of breath. “I am truly sorry, Gundred.”

“Many have lost to the fever,” he replies as if this makes his pain more bearable.

“Yes,” I agree with a hard swallow. “I do not know any who have not.”

Gundred, clutching the reins, leads me in slow circles through the inner bailey. I am not some child, barely out of her infant’s gown, giggling in delight at riding her first pony. I think I could manage the reins quite well on my own. I keep my gaze on my surroundings, too embarrassed to meet the stares of those who watch me.

To the right, a great many buildings dot the flat landscape: a large stable, a barn, a forge, an oven, a few small silos, and a few others with purposes of which I am not sure. Serfs, donning rough–spun and sun–faded tunics, toil on hands and knees in the dark russet garden plots. The bleating of goats, eager for milking, sounds against the distant clangor of a hammer on steel. As we get further into the bailey, I notice shops built into the fortress wall beyond the gardens and workhouses. Maids and men scurry about, but none are too busy to catch a peek at me, the girl who never smiles.

I miss being busy, I think with a sigh. I am sure that any one of these servants would happily take my place, but this is a dull life. Whoever thought a person could grow weary from boredom?

“I think she’s ready for the reins,” Gundred says, passing me the leather straps.

“She most certainly is not!” Hilde’s eyes are severe as she snaps the reins from my hands and shoves them back at Gundred. He shoots me an apologetic look, and I ride until Hilde says I must ready for the afternoon’s sewing, which I dread, but it is either ride and survive Galadriel’s presence or feign illness and remain in these rooms. I am not yet sure which is worse.

The tub waits for me, steaming and scented. I soak in the scalding water, my muscles melting and skin turning pink. I scrub at the arches of my feet when a knock startles me. I gasp and sink into the tub. Did I remember to lock the door?

“Hilde?” I call.

“No, Fraulein. It is Linus.”

“Don’t come in!” The water splash in waves as I wrap my arms around my chest.

“Of course, Fraulein,” he stutters. “Your uncle sends me. A letter has come for you.”

I snap up and grab the drying sheets from the edge of the tub.

“Fraulein?” he calls with a crack in his voice. “Are you all right?”

“I am fine. Wait right there.”

“I can slide the letter under the door if it pleases you, Fraulein.”

“Oh, good,” I stammer. “Do that. Please. Thank you.”

I wrap myself in the drying sheet. The parchment slips across the floor. Running on tiptoe, I leave small puddles with each stride. I halt, a foot before the parchment. A single drip could cause the ink to run. Water streams from my sodden hair. I grab another drying sheet, wrapping it around my locks. I dry my hands once more, and pounce on the letter before rushing to the bed and crawling beneath the covers.

Hilde rushes in. “What is it? What is the matter? A maid said she heard splashing and saw Linus at the door. Is he pestering you, dear—” She pauses looking from my face to the letter and then back to my face again. She crosses the room in a matter of paces and plops next to me on the bed. “Well, go on. Open it up!”

“What if it bears bad news?”

“Oh, don’t think such things. You’ve waited so long for this letter, and now it is here. You must read it.” She pats me on the leg and rises before I can ask for the privacy I desire. “I’ll let you finish your bath, dear. Do not be too long now,” she says, flashing a warm smile. The door to my presence chamber claps closed behind her.

I take a deep breath and break the seal.

Dear Addie,

I imagine that you are chewing a hole through your lip as you read this. Am I right? I should like to tell you the other things I imagine when I think of you, but a monk writes this letter, not me.

As for my tutor, he never came. I do not know what has become of him. Brother John teaches me to read on Saturdays. He read me your letter, and he writes this letter now.

You can stop chewing your lip. There is nothing to worry for. The fever subsides. Rumors spread about what happened to the cathedral. Some say Father Soren’s ghost burned the church. Others say the loosened heretic did it. None of that matters though, for the archbishop blames the people. He says it was God’s punishment for our sinful ways. So that is that. Hopefully his words mark the end of the blackmail, torture, and hasty hangings that have plagued Cologne since his arrival; and he leaves for Rome. I hope he stays there.

Before you left, I placed some parchments in your cloak. Do you know what has become of them?

My family is well. We prepare the fields during the day, and I take to my apprenticeship at night. The knights ready themselves for spring tourneys, so Michael and I trade our steel for their silver. This year the lesser knights seem to all want mail so that is mostly what I make. I may have enough of it for everything we need by next winter. Then, I will come for you, and we will have a home of our own.

The past fortnight has felt like a year without you. This Sunday last, I was so desperate for fun that I took Levi out to climb trees. He did not make it up three limbs before slipping. He screamed, and I looked down to find him sprawled on the ground with his tunic over his head and a long red scratch going up his torso. His tunic had caught on a tree branch and another scraped him from navel to throat. I doubt that I have ever laughed so hard. Mother did not see the humor in it.

So what of you? Are you well? What is it like to live in a castle? Do you wear furs and and drink honeyed wine? Do you ride horses and eat game? Are troubadours singing songs of your beauty and grace? I wish I was there to see it all.

All My Love,

Ivo

I sigh and place the letter to my lips and breath in, hoping that his earthy scent might still be on it, but it smells of leather and horse.

I read it over and over.
He is safe.
An imagined corset that has bound my waist since the day we left loosens, and I can breathe deeply again. Still, it could be nine months before I see him. My father shall be a father again before then. Galadriel may be his wife, my stepmother. I could be sent to some far off court and forced into a betrothal to someone else. My shoulders fall with a heavy sigh, but Ivo is safe.
He’s safe.

I take to my desk and dip my pen in the ink well, sliding a piece of parchment toward me.

Dearest Ivo,

It relieves me to know that the fever subsides, and the archbishop leaves. Cologne manages itself better without him.

As for your parchments, I read them. Most of them were unimportant, so I burned them to keep my room warm. However, one was quite intriguing and scandalous. I saw to it that this letter found itself into capable hands.