The Countess' Captive (The Fairytale Keeper Book 2) (22 page)

Her lips pinch into a proud smirk, but shame flickers in her eyes. She takes a deep, steadying breath. “Where do you think you are going,
Lady Adelaide
?”

“Wherever my shoes shall like to take me.”

I turn for the hallway, as Marianna storms in, fuming. She slams the pitcher of wine and the tray of sweetmeat onto one of the tables. “Here are your precious sweetmeats,” she hisses at Johanna, her accent remarkably French. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I shall retire to my rooms and pray for the souls who were forced to make them on Holy Saturday!”

She dashes into the hall, slamming the door behind her. The seamstresses sit in shocked silence, their eyes wide as chargers. Johanna’s mouth should be agape, but pride has given her a steel mask. Sometimes I think the only moveable parts of her face are her flickering jaw, judgmental eyebrow, and venomous tongue.

Now the besieged occupants were faced with starvation or surrender. Then the knight’s beautiful wife dared to present herself to the besieging soldiers and ask them for mercy for herself. The woman’s tears touched the enemy’s heart, and she was granted mercy. Then she asked for permission to remove from the castle whatever she could carry… This too was granted to her.

–The Wives of Weibertreu

The savory aroma of roasting meats, breads, and stews of all sorts waft into the room. The faint hum of harps, recorders, and singers seeps through the small gaps between the large carved wooden doors. The anticipation could be sliced and served on platters. After so many days of fasting, we might even eat it.

I sit, surrounded by nobles, in a solar beside the great hall, waiting for the doors to open, catching bits and pieces of whispered conversations. Based on what I hear, I do not think these men and women traveled so far to wish the Countess of Bitsch and her pauper husband well.

What grandeurs can this nowhere village of Bitsch possibly have to offer? What entertainments can a nobody like Galadriel provide? These are the questions these nobles have come to answer for themselves. I hope these men and women who look down upon us measure themselves against Galadriel, against Bitsch, and find themselves wanting.

Us
, I think.
Did I just align myself with Galadriel?

I shiver with disgust.

Linus and Lutz open the doors, and like cattle to a field of spring grass, we dawdle forward, ready to be fed and entertained. Grand evergreen garlands cascade from the chandeliers, candelabras, sconces, and mantels. A thousand candles flicker. Far at the end of the hall, sitting beside her new husband, sits the Countess of Bitsch herself, adorned in a gold chainse with green damask. She is a foxglove in a field of clover, so pretty, yet so utterly poisonous.

The nobles form a line, approaching Father and Galadriel to offer congratulations. Galadriel and Father beam. I haven’t seen him happy in weeks. Anger simmers. If only he truly knew her.

I am the last in the line, and I curtsy to them both. Father rises from his chair and grasps my hands, pulling me up onto their little stage. He places me on his lap and then reaches for Galadriel’s hand, which she gives. The scent of wine is heavy on his breath.

“We will be a happy family,” Father says. And then adds with a whisper, “All four of us.” He reaches for Galadriel’s belly. She playfully swats at his hand and shushes him.

Lady Johanna shoots Galadriel a disapproving glare. She snaps her fingers, and the musicians and singers start. A cheerful tune rings about the hall.

Marianna rushes to the floor, taking the hand of Uncle, as Lady Johanna finds a nobleman to lead about like a lost pup. A crowd rushes to the floor finding partners, and a dance seems to come from nowhere at all.

People dance until the courses come. Father and Galadriel rise to join us at the table, though they feel a furlong away, for the table is so long.

My mouth waters at the scent of stewing meat as the kitchen maid sets the bowl of venison stew with bread before me. I tear a hunk from the little white loaf and sop up the broth. It dissolves on my tongue: salty and sweet. I dig into the stew with my spoon, hunks of venison making it heavy in my hand. I barely have to chew, for the meat is so tender.

A new dish comes as I sop up the remnants of broth. A maid briskly snatches the bowl from in front of me. I watch Reinhilde, who sits to my left, for her response. She merely sits back and lets them take her food without a word—so I do the same.

Large platters of festively decorated ducks, pheasants, and chickens of all sorts are set before Father and Galadriel. Lady Johanna has them carved and diplomatically orders cuts of the birds to different nobles. A creamy peas porridge comes next, followed by stewed roots and cabbages, and then tarts with apples and soft cheese. As the last plate is taken away, Magdalene turns to her daughter and whispers in her ear. The girl turns pale.

“Why must I go first?” Reinhilde whimpers.

“It is better to go first than last,” she says icily. “Trust me in this. I feel for the count’s daughter, for she is the last to go. She will follow two great storytellers. Going first is best.”

I swallow hard.

“But I am afraid. What if I tell it wrong? What if—”

“Reinhilde,” Magdalene’s frigid eyes meet her daughter’s frightened stare. “You come from the wives of Weibertrue. You come from strong women, women who do not fail.” Magdalene’s back straightens. Her stern gaze eases. “You see these men and women around us?”

Reinhilde nods.

“Any one of them could take you into their home. Entertain them well, and you may wind up in a good house and your father will be able to make a good marriage for you. Who knows how far you could rise?”

Reinhilde shrinks into her chair.

“Sit up straight and stop wrinkling your brow. We need you to look pretty. Look now, the countess’ father rises to announce you. Be ready, and make us proud.”

Reinhilde pulls herself up, pinches her cheeks, and grabs her goblet for a long sip of strong wine just as Uncle reaches the little stage.

“I hope you haven’t had your fill yet,” Uncle says with the hint of a smile. “More courses are to come, but entertainment first, while we rest our bellies from food and fill them with wine.”

A cheer rises from the noblemen at this.

“From Weinsberg,” Uncle continues, “comes not only the wine you are about to drink, but a granddaughter of the wives of Weibertrue to tell us the tale of her fair city.”

Reinhilde rises from her chair, her face frightfully pale. She meets Uncle at the foot of the stage. Her chest rises with a deep breath, she straightens as tall as her slight frame allows and opens her mouth to speak.

“Many have heard tales of grand battles, near losses, and heroic victories.” Reinhilde says, her meek voice gaining strength. “Be warned for this story is one of loss, a story of what happens to the defeated. This is the story of a great struggle over a little castle on a large hill, but though the castle little, do not assume its legend is as well, for it is grand indeed.”

All in the hall are silent and every eye upon her as she pauses.

“This is the story of the castle Weibertrue.

“A century ago, when King Lothar died with no true heir, the German lands were torn between two men. Lothar’s named heir, Henry the Proud, and Lothar’s greatest enemy, Duke Conrad of Franconia, fought for the crown.

“The princes of the empire smiled upon the Duke of Franconia, swearing fealty to him in Aachen, and he was crowned. All accepted Conrad as king. All, that is, except for one, Henry the Proud.

“For four long years, war ravaged the lands. The fortunes of war smiled once again upon King Conrad.

“The battles were decided. The cities were taken. All but one city would fall—the little city of Weinsberg and its castle upon the hill.

“King Conrad demanded surrender or else he would destroy the city, burn the castle, and put everyone within it to the sword. Still, the people of Weinsberg, led by a steadfast knight, held the castle.

“For weeks the siege against the little city raged, but as the food ran out and the people lay starving, the knight was forced to surrender—just four days before Christmastide. King Conrad felt he had to make good on his threat, that he must destroy the city, burn the castle, and kill the people of Weinsberg.

“The knight’s wife ran from the castle and begged for mercy, saying it folly to kill women and children especially so close to Christmas. King Conrad, charmed by her beauty and sympathetic to her woe, ordered that she and all the other women and children of Weinsberg could leave the castle peacefully with all that they could carry. But that the men would still be put to the sword.

“The knight’s wife sadly returned to the castle, sharing the king’s offer, but this brought little comfort to the women of Weinsberg, who as loyal wives, cried woefully through the evening. But the knight’s wife had a grand idea. One woman after another whispered the plan until everyone in Weinsberg knew it.

“The morning next, the gates of Weinsberg opened. At the head, was the knight’s wife carrying upon her shoulders that which she held most dear in this world—her husband. All the women of Weinsberg carried the same.

“One knight angrily gnashed his teeth and begged the king to slaughter the men right there before their deceitful wives. But the king laughed at the display, allowed the women to pass with their husbands, and let the castle stand, renaming it Weibertrue after the loyal wives of Weinsberg.

“So to those of you who choose sides, beware the side you choose. And for those of you who wed, wed true, for if you are not lucky in the first may you be lucky in the latter like the men of Weibertrue.”

Reinhilde dips into a deep curtsy, signaling the end of her tale. A round of applause builds. Reinhilde rises from her curtsy, and her eyes fall upon her mother who glances around the table, gauging the faces of the noblemen surrounding her. The room breaks into dozens of conversations, and the musicians play again.

“Well done, daughter.” Magdalene’s thin lips curl into a smile. “This is a good day for us. You are a prize now. Smile coyly and be agreeable for the rest of the night.”

“Yes, Lady Mother,” Reinhilde says. “Do you think the countess would have me in her court?”

She gives a sniff of laughter. “God willing, we can do better than to put you in the house of two upstarts. There are a half–dozen men eyeing you now.”

Reinhilde grips her mother’s sleeve. “You wouldn’t marry me away yet!”

Magdalene rips her arm away. “You are thirteen. Younger brides have been made.” Reinhilde’s brown eyes widen, and her lip quivers. “But, for now,” Magdalene adds, “your father and I are looking for an established house to take you in and make you into a
great
lady.”

Reinhilde’s shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath. I could not imagine being married and sent away so young.

“Quite a remarkable girl you have, Lady Magdalene,” remarks the Margrave of Baden, looking upon Reinhilde like he might a little sister. “Weinsberg must be a cheerful place with a daughter like Reinhilde.”

“It is cheerful for many reasons.” Magdalene raises the mug to her lips, batting her dark eyelashes as she sips her wine. “Weinsberg would love to host you so Reinhilde could tell you our other tales.”

He flashes a smile of white teeth framed by a russet, spade–shaped beard. “I might have to accept your kind offer, milady, for she has quite the gift of storytelling. Now I see why you have kept her for so long.”

Magdalene swallows hard, but her feigned smile quickly returns. “She is my greatest treasure. It shall sadden me greatly to see her go, but all good mothers must see their daughters off to good houses and good marriages.”

The margrave nods politely before joining a raucous conversation of hunting with the noblemen around him.

“That was a wonderful story. You told it well,” I whisper to Reinhilde, and she smiles lightly. “Do you like to tell stories?” I ask.

“Not before so many people, really. What story shall you tell, Lady Adelaide?”

“It’s a story about a countess…about before she was a countess.”

“Really? Like the Lady Galadriel?” she asks, and I nod.

Exactly like Galadriel.