The Countess' Captive (The Fairytale Keeper Book 2) (20 page)

“The miller’s daughter was a pious girl, and she lived the three years worshipping God without sin. Every day she washed herself. With neither sin on her soul nor dirt on her skin, the girl was too pure for the devil, and when finally he came to reap the miller’s daughter, he had no power over her.

“Red with fury, he seized the miller by his throat. “‘Keep water away from her,’ the devil ordered, ‘so she cannot wash herself anymore. Otherwise I cannot touch her.’

“The miller tried to give back the coins, but the devil refused them.

“‘Our deal was struck,’ the devil growled. ‘The girl is mine. I will have her, or I will have you in her place, and I will burn your mill to the ground so your wife and daughter starve.’

“The miller was frightened and did what he was told. The next morning the devil returned, but the girl had cried into her hand so that they were clean.

“Thus the devil still could not approach her, and he commanded the miller, ‘Chop off her hands. Otherwise I cannot get to her.’

“The miller was horrified. ‘How could I chop off my own child’s hands?’ he cried.

“Then the devil threatened him. ‘If you do not do it,’ he said, ‘then you will be mine, and I think I will take your wife, too.’

“This frightened the father, and he promised to obey. He sharpened his ax, went to the girl, and said, ‘My child, if I do not chop off both of your hands, then the devil will take me and your mother away. Forgive me.’

“With that, the girl pinched her eyes tight, and the miller sliced off both her hands.

“The devil came a third time, but, without hands, the girl could do no work to dirty herself, and she wept so long and so much onto the stumps, that they were entirely clean. The devil gave up on the girl, but in his fury, he took both parents in her stead. Then he set the mill and apple tree ablaze.

“The miller’s daughter ran from the fire and became lost in the woods. She walked three days, sure she would starve to death, until she smelled the sweet scent of apples on the night breeze. She followed the perfume to a royal garden. By the light of the moon, she saw that it held trees full of ripe, crimson fruit. But she could not get inside, for the castle was haloed by a moat.

“Having walked so long without eating a bite, she was terribly hungry and could think of nothing but the apples.

“Then she kneeled down and prayed to God for help. Suddenly an angel appeared. He closed a head gate so that the moat dried up, and she walked through.

“She entered the garden, and the angel went with her. She stepped up to a tree and ate from it, enough to satisfy her hunger, but no more.

“Blinking in disbelief, a gardener watched it all. He ran and fetched the king so his lord could see the miracle for himself, but by the time the king was in the garden, the girl was gone.

“The king said he would keep watch with the gardener the next night, but if the girl did not show, the gardener could chose to lose his tongue for lying or a finger for stealing his apples.

“The king entered the garden the next night, bringing a priest with him to talk to the angel. All three sat down under the tree and kept watch. At midnight, the girl came creeping out of the brush. She stepped up to the tree, and again, ate an apple off of it. An angel dressed in glowing white stood next to her.

“As the king approached, the angel disappeared. Still he asked the girl, ‘Who are you?’

“She answered, ‘I am no one, Your Grace, but a lost and hungry girl without hands or home or family or friends. I have been abandoned by everyone except God.’

“The king, transfixed by her beauty, said, ‘And now you have me, as well.’

“With that, he took her home with him to his royal castle, and because he saw in her the same beauty that God did, the king loved her with all his heart. He had silver hands made for her, and took her as his wife.

“There was great joy everywhere. The king and the queen conducted their wedding ceremony, and they lived happily ever after.”

“And that, good people of Bitsch, is called The Girl With No Hands.”

I am dizzy with nerves when the applause comes. To say my heart didn’t hum a little at their approval, would be a blatant lie. I peruse the sea of heads, glimpsing Father’s Hannes’ sandy–silver hair. The seat beside him is empty, and I hasten toward it, ready for the eyes of Bitsch to look elsewhere.

Not everyone is so shy as me. A handful of young men gladly take my place, entertaining us with homemade recorders. As I take the empty seat next to Father Hannes.

“That was well told. I believe storytelling is in your blood,” Father Hannes says. “But I thought you were going to tell a tale about two children who were lost in the woods?”

“I was.”

“But you changed the tale for Ava?”

I nod. His folded lips arc into a light smile, and his eyes brim with something. I think it’s pride.

It has been six days since Father and Galadriel left, and the castle had been in deep disarray up until yesterday morning.

There is no room for error under Uncle’s watch. When the poor, slow–witted bottler, Gustaf, started pulling from the poorer stocks of wine, Uncle threatened to cast him out on the North Road. Stories of Uncle’s threat quickly spread to all the servants, and ever since, they work at twice the pace, checking everything thrice over.

The only man happy with all the extra work has been the castellan, Crispin, who beams, delighted to see his lofty projects finally completed as all able–bodied men not needed for other tasks, have been recruited to help him.

Johanna oversaw the dressing of rooms and decoration of the castle. At her command, maids bustled about the west wing, bringing laundered linens, fresh strewing herbs, and firewood to each room.

Weeks ago, Uncle sent dozens of invitations for, what Johanna calls, a wedding festival barely modest enough for Lent. Has there ever been a wedding festival in Lent? I wonder. Even so, it seems these festivities celebrate Uncle’s management of Bitsch rather than his daughter’s marriage—which is a far step down when compared to her first.

Yesterday, well–dressed counts, landgraves, bishops, and ladies from the neighboring lands paraded in. Lady Johanna’s priorities quickly switched from readying the castle to organizing meals and entertainment for the expected guests—giving them much to choose from.

Those men who arrived by afternoon took to the forest with Tristan, hunting for bucks and boar. Meanwhile, we ladies played at bowls. I am quite terrible at the game, though, according to Johanna, this is good. I will be better liked by the lords and ladies if I graciously lose.

When their husbands returned, the women who once excelled at the game suddenly lost on purpose—sharing demure, knowing smiles with each other as they applauded their husbands’ success.

“We women may be called the weaker sex,
non
?” Marianna whispered to me. “But a man’s ego is about as fragile as the sack between his legs.” I bit my tongue to keep from laughing aloud at the bawdy jest.

Minstrels, musicians, and dancers provided entertainment during supper. Some headed into the gardens for a sunset stroll but most stayed in the great hall. The men played games of strategy like Alquerques and Chess, getting worse and worse with each guzzled mug of strong wine.

The sun crested the wall some time ago, yet the frost has a strong hold on the grass this morning. My tawny dress is hidden beneath a heavy, rust–colored cloak, and still, I fight the urge to shiver.

I feel the weight of stares upon me. “It is your turn, Lady Adelaide,” Johanna says, masking irritation with unnatural sweetness.

Johanna encourages me to lose, but she manages to make sure she pairs herself with the strongest player: Countess Lauretta. I pity Marianna who is paired with me.

I mask a smile as I toss my ball. It strikes Johanna’s with a
thwump
, launching it farthest from the jack. Her face falls. Marianna’s fingers rush to her lips, unsuccessful at stifling a laugh. We may not win, but I can make sure Johanna doesn’t either.

Lady Magdalene of Weinsberg and her daughter Reinhilde are next. But just as the spritely brunette gets into position, horns sound. Magdalene snatches the ball from her daughter’s hands.

“Is that them, Lady Mother?” Reinhilde asks her mother.

“Yes, I think so, the newly wed Count and Countess of Bitsch.” Magdalene emphasizes the title.

“The Count and Countess of Bitsch—milord and milady,” Reinhilde says, almost a question.

Magdalene nods.

Another set of horns blow. The carriage has reached the second set of gates. The third set of horns sound, and the gates to the inner bailey open. The sight of their carriage rips open a wound that had begun to heal in their absence. The ladies around me rise onto their toes.

Servants rush from the manor and quickly form two columns, much like they did on the day that Father and I arrived.

Magdalene picks up her skirts and takes her daughter’s hand. “Let us go, Reinhilde, to congratulate the newly wed count and countess.”

I follow Magdalene and Reinhilde toward the manor where I shall empty–heartedly feign happiness for the happy couple, though I haven’t a shred of happiness for them at all.

The driver jumps down from the top of the carriage and whisks open the door. Father steps out first. The servants cheer and toss tulip petals in the air. Father turns and holds out a hand, giving the driver a stern look. He steps back and allows Father to grasp Galadriel’s fingers, helping her out of the carriage like a knight from a minstrel’s song—salting my gaping wound.

Donning a feigned expression of joy, Uncle steps forward and shakes Father’s hand. I wonder if Uncle feels defeated. I wonder if it plagues him that the man he deemed beneath him shall command him now and pay his wages. If he does, his face doesn’t betray it.

Uncle passes Father for Galadriel, bowing in obeisance. He didn’t bow for Father. Was the slight intentional or a slip? I don’t know why I bother giving such gestures any notice. Galadriel and Father are married now, and if Uncle loathes him, it doesn’t matter anymore.

Father’s eyes fall upon me for the briefest moment. It is a blank stare, and I find myself resolute to reflect such ambivalence, but then he looks past me, and his face pales. I turn. Marianna smiles widely and warmly. With her dark hair veiled, she resembles Mama more than usual.

She rubs her hand reassuringly on my shoulder. “So happy,
non
?”

No,
I want to reply but bite back the words.

No.

Not happy at all.

Two rooms are set up in the west wing for dining. We ladies dine in one chamber, as the men dine in another. The meal is not long, for the courses are small in keeping with Lent. Still, I excuse myself early, for Father and Galadriel’s presence brings a taxing grief. It exhausts me, so I lurch to my room, dragging heavy limbs.

I sit before the desk, looking down upon the garden as the men now play at bowls while their wives watch. A familiar gait sounds through hallway, followed by an even more familiar knock.

I rise and compose myself. “Come in, milord.” My words intentionally drip with formality.

Father is dressed for the evening already, wearing a fine woolen surcote the color of emeralds trimmed with gold ribbon. A fur mantle warms his shoulders.

You look like a fool,
I think bitterly.
A cobbler playing at count.

“You look well, milord,” I lie, trying to sound indifferent.

He sighs and sinks into the chair by the hearth. “It is done, Adelaide. You have to stop this.”

I nearly ask what it is that he wishes me to stop doing, though I know quite well what he wants. He wants me stop pouting, to go to court, and to marry the nobleman of his choosing. If he says the words, then my doing otherwise is direct disobedience. If I don’t ask and do what I like, it is feigned stupidity—which, from a girl, is sometimes expected and forgiven.

“Yes, milord,” I reply.

He stares sightless into the fire. “Much has changed, I know, but I am still the same.” His gaze shifts to me. The corners of his eyes are lax from drink. “I am still your father.”

And
her
husband, I think but don’t say. “Yes, milord.”

“Stop calling me that,” he says gently, “and come here.”

My resolve melts a little at his sad expression. “You know I must call you that.” I approach and perch on the arm of the chair. “I’ll be in trouble if I do not.” There is so much he does not know about his new wife, that I answer to her above all others. I shake my head. Thoughts of her rekindle my anger. “We aren’t cobblers anymore. It isn’t the same. It will never be the same.”

“No, it won’t, but you won’t be in my house forever. You’ll wed soon enough, and then your husband shall rule over you.”

I give a sniff of laughter. “Like you ruled over Mama?”

His mouth curves into a half–smile.

“Not if it is Ivo,” I say. “He would never have me answer to him.”

At that, he sighs and looks tired. “Some husbands can have that privilege. It is a father’s duty to raise his children right and keep his family safe.” He gives a wan smile. “You are more like your mother than you know.”

He rises, and places his hand on my shoulder. “You hate me now, but you have your mother’s heart…”

“I do not hate you,” I say. “It’s
her
that I hate—and that will never change.”