The Countess' Captive (The Fairytale Keeper Book 2) (16 page)

“You are a countess. And your father can rub two guilders together and get a third. Surely these knights and lordlings are chomping at their bits waiting for your year of mourning for Ulrich to end. But if your father extends an offer to the right man…”

“Oh, Ulrich, “ Galadriel gives a sad sigh. “Truly, I have made a mess of things. Hardly six months a widow, and I am with child…”

“…marrying a commoner, during Lent, before her mourning year is ended.” Johanna finishes.

Galadriel shakes her head. “Could this look any worse?”

“I wouldn’t wear blue,” Johanna says dryly, and a wan smile rises on Galadriel’s lips. “And after this husband dies,” Johanna adds, “we should put a lock between your legs for precaution unless you warm to my herbal remedy for bastards.”

“Johanna! That is a terrible thing to say.”

“About you,” Johanna asks, “the swineherd, or the bastard?”

“All of it!”

“Lies are often sweeter on the tongue than truths. If that’s what you care to hear, let me fetch Marianna for you. She’ll gladly sing whatever song you should like.”

Galadriel’s nose shrivels. “The courts have made you cold, Johanna.”

“I think bitter would be the better word,” Johanna corrects. “A woman can grow to love a husband or at least tolerate him, but she cannot grow his wealth, his titles, or his ambitions.”

“Ansel’s wealth and titles will grow the day we are wed. Being a countess is enough for me.” Galadriel slings back. “I prefer a man without ambition especially when I see where your husband’s ambitions have gotten you.”

The long shadows cast by the setting sun fade. Dusk rises. They will head for supper soon, and it is best that I’m not in the hallway when they do. Father’s presence chambers are empty when I arrive. I drain the goblet of wine that sits before my empty charger.

As much as I hate Johanna, I wish Galadriel had listened to her. Sadness seems my only card to play. Perhaps if I am exceptionally sad, Father will postpone the wedding.

“Adelaide. What is it?” Father’s question snaps me from thought. “What is wrong? You’re chewing your lip.” My mind was so busy with plots, I hadn’t noticed him come in.

The truth sits heavy on my tongue. “Nothing, Father,” I lie.

“Are you unwell?”

“No.” A silence lingers between us. “I received a letter today.”

“From who?”

“From Ivo.”

Father’s eyes hint at longing before his gaze averts. “What did it say? Is he well?”

No,
I think, but don’t dare say.
And neither are you. An evil woman threatens his life—and you are about to marry her.

I nod instead. “Elias is gone. Ivo sees Brother John to read my letters and write his own.”

“What else does he say?”

“Cologne is at a new peace. The fever subsides, and the archbishop is heading to Rome.” I place my hand on his arm. “It is not too late, Father. We can still go home.”

His gaze turns cold. “This changes nothing.”

I brim with desire to tell him the truths that I keep from him: that Galadriel blackmails me into compliance and that the archbishop grows weaker by the moment, but if I tell him the first and he accuses Galadriel, Ivo could be in danger, and if I tell Father of the letter I intercepted, he’ll be angry that I disobeyed him.

The scuffle of Johanna’s soles, though whisper quiet, breaks our lengthening silence. I collect myself, brushing any wrinkles from my skirts before I fall under her measuring gaze. I swallow the truth. It’s as bitter as vinegar.

Father narrows an eye. “Where is Galadriel?” he asks her.

“The
countess
will be along shortly,” Johanna dips into her seat, “though unless my nose deceives me the kitchen makes fish, so perhaps she is keeling over her chamber pot having a second taste of dinner.”

Father regards her briefly with disgust before hastening from the room. She swirls the wine in her goblet and takes a long draft.

“I fear I interrupted you and your father’s whisperings.”

“I have nothing to whisper about,” I lie. But if I did, I’d be sure to do it behind
closed
doors.

Marianna and Uncle file in soon after. Neither mention the two empty chairs at the table. The goblets are drained, and the bread devoured before the kitchen maid sets a dish before me. The bundle of grains jiggle in a bath of almond cream. Flaky hunks of white meat poke through.

“Oh, blancmange with crayfish.” Marianna’s face lights. “I was growing so weary of beaver.”

The queen had a little daughter who was as white as snow, as red as blood, and as black as ebony wood, and therefore they called her Little Snow White. And fifteen winters later, the queen died.

Within the year the king took himself another wife. She was a beautiful woman, but she was proud and cunning, and she could not stand it if anyone might surpass her.

–Snow White

The stars lance the night’s shroud one by one. Each of them is a cruel reminder. I only have one night left. I wear the soles of my shoes thin as I pace about the bedchamber into the early hours, hoping a decent plan will come. One doesn’t. And so I take to my bed, hoping to dream a plan instead, and I do.

I rise with a gasp well before dawn, shivering, soaked with a slimy sweat. I throw the nearest chainse and cloak over my nightshift before rushing into the hall, looking for someone who can fetch Hilde. As soon as I have a bath and am dressed, I shall speak to the only person in this castle who can help me, Uncle Herrmann.

Uncle hates Father. Surely, this union disappoints him. Perhaps, he can speak some sense into his daughter. Perhaps, he can convince, or better yet, command her to call off this wedding. He may be able to find her a better match. As Johanna said, Bitsch is fruitful. Galadriel is fruitful. Surely, there is a nobleman out there who could look past Galadriel’s indiscretion and into her pretty blue eyes and heavy purse.

The silhouette of a young man at the end of the hallway catches my gaze. My cheeks burn, and I feel aware of my ragged appearance, closing the cloak tightly around me. His dark features give him away.

“Tristan,” I hiss. He whirls around, his face hot and eyes angry. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” he says.

“Do you know where Hilde is?”

“Surely asleep like the rest of the castle,” he snaps.

I chew my lip. “I hate to wake her, but…”

“Are you mad, or have you no sense of time?” He shakes his head. “Go back to bed, Fraulein.”

“I cannot sleep. I had a horrid dream and am covered in sweat.”

His dark eyes brim with disdain. “And so you wish to wake Hilde and Josepha at this early hour because of a sweat?”

“Well, I—”

“You never think of
us
. Do you?” he seethes.

I open my mouth, rationales perch on my tongue. He pinches his lips, challenging me to argue. “You’re right, Tristan.” I shake my head at myself. Memories rise of the many times Father and I were forced to work nights in a row to meet the demands of burghers and lordlings. “I…I am sorry.”

I look through the slit window at the dark sky. It will be many hours before Uncle will be ready to see me anyhow. There is no reason for me to wake half the castle now.

I nod my head, a goodnight gesture, but sudden panic flickers in his gaze. “I am sorry, Fraulein.” He reaches for my arm but quickly retracts it. “I should not have spoken to you so.”

He stinks of wine. I step backward, suddenly very aware that I am ill–dressed and not chaperoned. “I am tired. I should go to bed.”

“Fraulein, I can fetch whomever you like.”

The door to Galadriel’s room opens, and I start. “What are you two doing in the hallway at this hour?”

“I woke up in a sweat, milady,” I say, sounding more composed than I feel. “I was trying to find Hilde so she could get me a bath.”

“At this ungodly hour?” she cries.

“I was unaware of the hour, milady.”

She cranes her neck to look out the slit window and flashes a doubtful look that says any idiot with eyes could tell that it was many hours before dawn. “Both of you, go to bed.”

“Yes, milady,” our chastised voices overlap. We hasten in separate directions.

“And Adelaide,” Galadriel calls, and I turn.

“Yes, milady?”

“Ladies do not visit with men unaccompanied—especially in the middle of the night.”

With a glance at her bastard–filled stomach, I give a sniff of laughter before explaining. “Tristan was in the hallway when—” I start, but Galadriel’s irritated stare corrects me. “Yes, milady,” I say and return to my rooms.

I start another fire, and the room warms. I lie in bed, tossing in the sheets for some time. My mind spins with the possible conversations I shall have with Uncle, trying to anticipate his every rebuttal.

I rise, my head aching and stomach knotting from exhaustion. I pick up the chair from the desk and place it before the growing fire, staring into the blaze. My mind drifts into dreams, though I am not fully asleep.

You are weak,
they say.

Weak…weak…weak
, they hum, faster and louder, flying within reach and then circling me.

“I am not weak!” I growl.

They flit in a spiral and spell it out.
W. E. A. K
.

I put my hands to my ears and close my eyes until the buzz fades. I peel one eye open and then the other. Far across the muddy field, Ivo leaps into the air, his jar capturing fireflies in large gulps. The bright glow from his vessel shines from across the moonlit field.

A single fly escapes his grasp and flits toward me. I jump with all my strength and trap him. I peer into the jar and smirk, but it sneers back at me, fearless. Its teeth are long and pointed like daggers.

You’ll never save them
. Its voice is shrill.
You can’t even save yourself.
Its jaws open wide and snap down twice. I toss the jar to the ground and leap back.

“Adelaide.” It calls me by name.

The firefly’s tone sweetens. “Adelaide.”

I look around me.

“Adelaide. Get up, dear.” The voice comes from above. I look to the ground again. The jar is gone. The fireflies are gone.

I am trapped in a dark world, listening to whispers from the sky. The darkness turns white, and I wake.

Hilde looms over me, fretting. “Are you all right, dear? You are covered in sweat.” She presses her frigid hand to my clammy cheek.

“It was a nightmare. That is all. I’m all right.” I brush sweaty tangles of hair from my forehead. “I need a bath, and then I need to see my uncle.”

“But you’ll be late for matins.”

“I am covered in sweat, Hilde. You would not send me to mass smelling like a hog,” I say, knowing she won’t.

She narrows her eyes and, sensing the manipulation, pinches her lips to the side. “Oh, very well,” she huffs. “I shall send for the tub. You can miss matins this once, I suppose.”

I rush through my bath. Hilde readies me with haste. “Has someone checked to see if Uncle will allow me to come to him?”

“Yes, Fraulein.” Hilde sighs, waddling to the front of the chair so she can inspect my appearance. “He says he shall see you as soon as you are ready.” She brushes a few stray hairs back from my forehead. “You have not visited him once in all your days here. What makes you so eager to see him now?”

I look down and say nothing.

“Oh, do not answer, dear. Your business is your own. I shan’t pry anymore. There is certainly nothing wrong with a niece visiting her uncle.”

I head into the hallway and cross the chapel to the other half of the castle where Uncle’s chambers lie. Linus opens the door at my knock, his gaze on the floor.

“Yes, niece, come in,” Uncle permits. I sit in the chair before Uncle’s great desk as he sets aside a stack of parchment. His thin lips spread into a smile as he folds his hands. I look to Linus, hoping he shall leave us. Just as he departs, a hand slaps the door open, and I start.

“There you two are.” Johanna’s smile is wry.

“Where else would I be, Lady Johanna?” Uncle retorts, annoyed.

“Yes, this is where you always are.” She saunters into the chamber uninvited. “But today there is a wedding, and you are both going to be late.”

My breath catches at this.

Today?!

It cannot be today.

I scan my memory, counting the days.

“I assure you the wedding is not until tomorrow, Lady Johanna,” Uncle says.

“The bride said tomorrow would be a sad day for her bride–groom,” Johanna replies.

I hadn’t thought of the calendar days. Tomorrow marks a month from the day Mama died and the day after that, the anniversary of the funeral that went horribly wrong. Father attends matins every day. Until today, so did I. I swallow a guilty lump at the thought of missing it this morning, but I don’t have time for guilt, now especially.

“I need to speak with Uncle first, Lady Johanna.”

She cocks her head. “Now, Adelaide, you would not make a bride late for her own wedding?”

“Her wedding is not until tomorrow, Lady Johanna, so she is quite early,” I quip. “Please, Uncle, I think you should like to hear what I have to say.”

He rises with a groan and pats me on the shoulder. “Tell it to me after the wedding. It is then that I shall need cheering the most.”

“It is urgent.” I squeeze his arm. “Please.”

“Your daughter waits, Herr,” Johanna presses.

Uncle’s face hardens. “As a dutiful daughter should, Lady Johanna. Leave us.” He takes his seat again.

Johanna’s lips tighten, but she forces her head into an obeisant tip before retreating into the hallway. Uncle’s intrigued eyes meet mine, and his hands fold upon his desk.

“I know you do not want this wedding,” I say.

“Oh, is it so obvious?” Uncle replies wryly.

“What if I told you that it could be stopped?”

“I would say that your father has kept you in the dark, but I suspect you know of the situation he has put my daughter in.”

“There are ways to remedy her situation,” I utter, referencing the herbs Johanna mentioned last night. I avoid his gaze, afraid of the disgust it might bear.

Unaffected, he says, “Her situation is well–speculated already.”

“Speculation and knowledge are different things. Rumors can be dispelled, Uncle. Then, Galadriel could marry a man with land and titles.”

“It is too late. There is nothing that can be done about this ill–fated union but watch it and pray that something better than a bastard comes from it.”

“Please, hear me, Uncle,” I beg. “There must be something we can do. Have her postpone it for a week, a day!”

“Invitations to a feast in their honor have already been sent with haste.” He opens his arm, inviting me to take it. I hesitate, and he raises his eyebrows. I stand on weak legs, and he tucks my fingers into the crook of his elbow. “Now, let us go and see this over with.”

Uncle whips open the door, sidestepping Lady Johanna who stands in the threshold, using her small frame as an ineffective barrier. “Adelaide, I wish to have words with you,” she says.

“I thought we were to hurry to the chapel, milady.”

“Oh, this shall only take a moment.”

“But Uncle would like me to sit at his side. Surely, this can wait.”

“Do not worry, Herr,” she says. “I shall bring her to you.”

He tips his head and releases me, disappearing into the stairwell.

Johanna rounds on me, grabbing my arm, pinning me against the cold, stone wall.

I tear my arm from her grip. “Let go of me.”