The Countess' Captive (The Fairytale Keeper Book 2) (24 page)

“One day it happened that the father was going to the market, and he asked his two stepdaughters what he should bring back for them.

“‘Beautiful dresses,’ said the one.

“‘Pearls and jewels,’ said the other.

“‘And you, Cinderella,’ he asked, ‘what do you want?’

“The wicked stepmother roared that Cinderella deserved nothing, but the father persisted and meekly she answered him. ‘Dearest Father, if it would not be too much of a bother, break off for me the first twig that brushes against your shoulder on your way home.’

“So he bought beautiful dresses, pearls, and jewels for his two stepdaughters and broke off a hazel twig for Cinderella.

“Cinderella thanked him, went to her mother’s grave, and planted the branch upon it, weeping so heavily that her tears watered it so that it grew into a beautiful tree.

“Cinderella went to this tree every day, and beneath it she hoped and prayed until one day a white bird appeared, casting down the contents of a simple wish: a loaf of bread for this girl who was weary of ash–covered peas.  From then on, the bird would throw down to her what she had wished for.

“Now, it happened that the king proclaimed a festival. All the beautiful maidens in the land were invited so that his son could choose a bride.

“When the two evil stepsisters heard that they too had been invited, they were in the highest of spirits. ‘Cinderella,’ they called, ‘Launder our dresses and plait our hair. We must prepare ourselves for the festival.’

“Cinderella obeyed, but wept, because she too would have liked to go. She mustered the courage to ask her stepmother.

“‘You, Cinderella?’ laughed the cold–hearted woman. ‘You, all covered with soot and cinders, want to go to the festival?’’

“But, because Cinderella kept asking, the stepmother finally said, ‘I have scattered a bowl of peas into the ashes for you. If you can pick them all out again by morning, then I
may
let you go.’

“Cinderella went through the back door into the garden, and cast out a wishful prayer. ‘All you birds beneath the sky, come and help me to gather.’

“Two white pigeons flew in through the kitchen window. Then came the turtledoves, and finally all the birds beneath the sky. They swarmed the ashes, pecking and pecking until each pea was gathered Not an hour had passed before they finished, and they all flew out again.

“Thinking that now she would be allowed to go to the festival, Cinderella took the bowl to her stepmother and was happy.

“But the stepmother said, “What shall you wear? Your clothes are ash–stained and threadbare. Everyone would laugh at you.” At this, Cinderella began to cry, so the stepmother added,  ‘I may find a dress for you
if
you are able to pick two bowls of peas out of the ashes for me by morning.’ But, in truth, the stepmother thought the task impossible.

“The girl went through the back door into the garden and cast out a wishful prayer, ‘All you birds beneath the sky, come and help me to gather.’

“Two white pigeons flew in through the kitchen window. Then came the turtledoves and finally all the birds beneath the sky. They swarmed, pecking and pecking until each grain was gathered. Not two hours had passed before they finished and flew out again.

“The girl took the bowls to her stepmother and was happy, thinking that now she would be allowed to go to the festival.

“But, with a sneer, the stepmother said, ‘All the water in the Rhine couldn’t wash the cinder soot from your face. It is no use. You are not coming with us, lest you embarrass us all.’

“Cinderella ran and fell to her knees, crying beneath the hazel tree at her mother’s grave. Just then, from the depths of her sadness, the seedling of an idea sprouted, and she prayed.

“The two white pigeons returned, casting a gold and silver dress down to her with beautiful shoes to match. Cinderella raced back to the empty house, prepared herself, and went to the festival.

“To her relief, the revelry  had already begun. This allowed Cinderella to slip into the great hall unnoticed. Or so she thought. The song of laughter and conversation slid into silence until even the musicians put down their tabors and harps. One head after another turned in her direction. No one was more transfixed than the prince who rose out of his throne and parted the crowd in a streak.  He swept her a bow, took her hand in his, and for the rest of the night, danced with only her. 

“Cinderella blinked her eyes to ensure she wasn’t dreaming. Not for a moment had she expected this. But it was all true. It was all happening. And it was all happening for her.

“The next hours passed by quickly as they often do when two people fall in love—and feel like they are the only two people in the world.

“When the festival ended, the prince offered Cinderella an escort to her house. But Cinderella ran away, frightened that if he found her house, her wicked stepsisters would tell him who she truly was.

“As she ran down the stairs, her left shoe stuck in the pitch, and frightened he would catch her if she stopped, she left it behind. The prince picked up the dainty, golden shoe.

“The next morning, he went to a servant, and said to him, ‘No one shall be my wife except for the one whose foot fits this shoe.’

“The two stepsisters were happy to hear of this, for they had pretty feet. They forced Cinderella to wash their feet, plait their hair, and dress them in their finest silks and furs. When the servant came, the eldest sister took the shoe into her bedroom to try it on.

“Shove as she may, the shoe would not fit, for her big toe was too fat. The girl’s mother had an idea. Handing her daughter a   knife, the stepmother said, ‘Cut off your toe—for when you are queen, you will no longer have to go on foot.’

“Shocked and frightened the girl cried no, but Cinderella’s stepmother persisted.  The girl cut off her toe, swallowed the pain, forced her foot into the shoe, and went out to the servant. But blood seeped through the sole. The servant, red–faced and angry at her trickery, cast her away and summoned the younger sister.

“The youngest went into her bedchamber and slipped her toes into the shoe, but her heel was too thick.

“Then her mother gave her a knife, and said, ‘Cut a piece off your heel—for when you are queen you will no longer have to go on foot.’

“The girl sliced a piece off her heel, swallowed the pain, forced her foot into the shoe, and went out to the servant. He looked down at the shoe and saw blood seeping through.

“‘This is not the right one, either.’ the servant said, annoyed. ‘Haven’t you another daughter?’

“‘No,’ said the stepmother. ‘There is only the
dirty
Cinderella, but she cannot possibly be the one.’

“But the servant insisted, and they had to call Cinderella. She first washed her hands and face clean and then went before the servant, who gave her the golden shoe. She sat down on a stool and put her foot into the slipper. It fit her perfectly.

“The servant gasped and raced outside to bring in the prince. With a single glance into her face, he saw not a dirty Cinderella but the flaxen-haired beauty who had bewitched him days before.

“‘Here is my true bride,’ he proclaimed.

“The stepmother and the two sisters were horrified and turned pale with anger, but there was naught they could do to her now. The prince took Cinderella onto his horse and rode away with her.

“When Cinderella confessed her ill–treatment by her stepmother and sisters to the prince, he ordered that the stepmother lose a toe and a heel and that all three must walk from their home to the kingdom.

“There, he stripped them of their titles and forced them to work from dawn until dusk, as Cinderella had all those years: carrying water, making the fires, doing the cooking, and the washing.

“Their dinner of peas was scattered into the ashes each day so that they had to sit and pick them out again. In the evening when they had worked themselves weary, there was no bed for them. Instead they had to sleep by the hearth near the ashes.

“And after that day Cinderella was never called Cinderella again.” And I add, knowing the opposite is true, “Her and her prince lived
happily ever after
.”

I dip into a curtsy and glimpse at Galadriel from beneath my lashes. She sits straight, a feigned smile upon her lips. Applause breaks the silence, and I rise to see the guests still clapping and speaking to their neighbors with great smiles on their faces.

Galadriel’s gaze flits to Johanna, and they share an unspoken conversation. Johanna snatches Father by the hand, summoning him to a game of dice. He shrugs and follows as I make my way to my seat.

“Adelaide,” Galadriel chimes. “Join me for a moment.”

A triumphant smile pinches my cheeks, but I will it away. She cannot know that this was intentional. I turn slowly, giving myself another moment to savor her anger before painting a blank expression on my face. I crest the little stage, halting beside her makeshift throne. “Yes, milady?”

“What was that? You said you were telling a romance,” she says through her teeth—a feigned smile still painted on her face.

“It was a romance, milady. Did you not like it? I wrote it for you as a wedding present. Your guests seemed to have liked it quite well. Your name may forever be on the tongues of storytellers.”

Her cheeks flush. “As Cinderella?! As a girl who picked peas from the fireplace? Who would want to be remembered like
that
?”

“Well, I never said it was you, milady. Only you and I know who the
real
Cinderella is. Confess your identity or do not. I haven’t.”

“You certainly shall not! Or you know what shall happen.”

“Look around you, milady. Everyone speaks of the story. Every girl in here wants to be Cinderella, wants to be you. The girl sitting next to me asked if you were taking girls into your court.”

For a breath, she is a portrait of vulnerability and hope. Then she purses her lips. “Until they know Cinderella is me, and then I shall be even more of an upstart in their eyes. Then no one shall send their girls to me.”

“Then keep it in your heart that you are the girl they all long to be, and let them remember this wonderful festival so that they may forget you are an upstart, milady.”

She raises a suspicious eyebrow to me, not falling for my rouse of kindness. “The marriage is done, Adelaide. If you ruin me, we all fall.”

“You mistake a kind gesture for a cruel one, milady,” I lie.

Her knuckles blanch as she grips the arms of her chair. “Since when are you kind to me?”

I sigh. “As you said, milady, the marriage is done, and if you fall, we all fall, so I suggest a truce. I would not want a woman in such a delicate situation to worry herself.”

“A delicate situation? I assure you that I haven’t the slightest idea of what you are suggesting. A child in my womb? Oh, Adelaide, it takes much more than a fortnight for a baby to quicken, but that is the sort of thing a maid would not know. Count yourself blessed that you aren’t forced to pick peas from the fire like my stepmother forced me to. And I never once gave her cause. The causes you give me are as innumerable as the stars!”

I should like to say that my blessing lies in having a father who would never see his daughter so debased, but the tears begin to well in her eyes. I’ve stirred her too much. If anyone sees her upset, I’ll have Father’s wrath to contend with. As much as I’d like to fill buckets with Galadriel’s tears, I won’t have myself sent to a convent for them.

“I’ve upset you.”

She looks daggers at me.

“My apologies, milady. If it pleases you, I should like to spend the rest of the evening praying for forgiveness of my sins against you.”

“Then I bid you goodnight, Adelaide, and goodnight and goodnight and goodnight,” she huffs, “for I suppose, you shall have many nights’ worth of praying to do.”

I curtsy to her, masking a smile, biting my lips so I do not laugh out loud. “Goodnight, milady.”

So far, today has been a day of begging for me.

With the nobles gone now—and good riddance to them—I am either free to ride or forced to sew. I caught Hilde outside the chapel door as soon as matins ended and pleaded with her to let me ride. My begging was met with short hesitation, lasting as long as it took me to widen my eyes and pout. She bade me the rest of the morning to do as I pleased.

I hunt down Gundred and beg him to take me to the forest. Invulnerable to pouts and begging, Gundred bade me to prove my readiness instead.

After two laps at a canter and one at a gallop, I wheel Storyteller around and race her back to Gundred, a wry smile on my face.

He crosses his arms over his chest and sighs. “Find a lady who can offer chaperone, and I will take you to the woods myself.”

“Are you mad, Gundred?” The man’s voice comes from behind me, and I crane my neck. Tristan saunters toward the gate, a half–eaten apple in hand and a quiver slung over his shoulders. “Her smile can’t pay your wages any more than her frowns can cast you out. Only her father can do that. And that’s just what he’ll do if you let her take to the woods, and she runs off.” He looks to me with utter disdain. “She’ll have practice enough in the empty bailey on the far side of the fortress. Let the girl find a chaperone, and you can take her there for riding.”

“I won’t run away. I swear it!” I look to Gundred, but his gaze has shifted to the ground.

“I wouldn’t trust her as far as that horse could throw her,” Tristan adds.

I wheel Storyteller around. Her snort forms a frosty cloud in the huntsman’s face. “You forget yourself, huntsman,” I hiss.

He laughs. “Ah yes, milady. I forget myself.” He flashes Gundred a knowing look. “But I remember so much else.”

Gundred clears his throat, and at once, I see the meaning in Tristan’s words. Gundred told Tristan that I tried to run away. So much for oaths and honor. “The bailey is wide,” Gundred offers weakly. “Best you practice there, milady.”

“Gundred!” I plead. “I swear I won’t run away.”

And I mean it. I won’t run away… not today. But if ever I need to, I will need to know how to ride a horse through the forests.

“The bailey is better. There are no trees to dodge nor wolves to chase you.”

I give Tristan a look of daggers. “The bailey it is then,” I say coolly.

Unfazed, the huntsman rips a hunk of flesh from his apple and saunters out the gate.

The Sext bells sing. Storyteller slows to a trot and exhales a quick breath. Her disappointment is palpable. Sext always marks the end of our ride.

The smell of baking bread lures me now, although somewhat hesitantly. Ettienne’s bread is good, but freedom is better. The walk from the empty bailey to the castle entry was longer than I thought. The castle door yawns open, and mousy Josepha slips into the bailey. “Hilde waits on you, milady,” she says, and I hasten my pace.

Curse Galadriel’s huntsman and his stupid suggestions! If I don’t make it to my rooms well before dinner, Hilde may not let me ride tomorrow.

I plop onto my bed, removing mud–caked boots. Whimpers echo in the hallway, and Hilde crests the threshold. Her cheeks are tear–stained and eyes red. I look about the room. The trunk splays open. Half of its contents are missing.

“Hilde—” I say, my throat clenching.

She crumbles into sobs. I cross the room and embrace her, knowing without a word why she cries. I swallow hard. I did not think it would be so soon.

“It will be all right. There will be a babe in your arms soon. I know it. And I shan’t be gone for too long.”

The look in her cloudy eyes is imploring. “Do you think so, dear?”

“I really do.” It is a half–truth. I have no idea when I shall return, but I know that a baby grows in Galadriel’s belly, and when it is born, it will bring Hilde purpose and cheer.

“Well, you had better get dressed for dinner.” Hilde sniffles.

I nod and put on the dress she has laid out for me.

“Do you think there shall be a joust at the May Day festivities?” I ask as Hilde straightens my skirts.

Hilde looks up from her crouched position. “In a ducal palace? Of course, dear. Why do you ask?”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a joust,” I reply, another half–truth.

“I suppose I should check on those laundresses and see to it that your dresses are cleaned and dried for tomorrow.” Her voice falters. She places her hand to her lips, stifling a cry, as she rushes from the room.

As soon as the latch to the door closes, I rush to my desk, pulling out a piece of parchment and an ink well. I write hastily.

Dearest Ivo,

I know this is sudden, but I thought of a way that we may see each other again.

I am being sent to Nancy in the duchy of Lorraine. I asked if there were to be any tournaments and discovered that there is to be a joust on May Day. Perhaps, you could convince Michael to come to sell his wares.

Knights from all over shall come, and there shall be sword fighting, too. He could make much coin. It is a journey of six days, though. Your father would have to be willing to give you up for a fortnight, and Michael would have to be willing to leave the market for the same.

You would need coin for inns and a horse and wagon. It has been nearly a month since I have last seen you. Come and you shall make me the happiest woman in Christendom, but I know it would take a miracle for all these things to fall into place, so know that I do not expect it. In the meantime, I will pray for a miracle.

Love,

Adelaide

I quickly seal the letter and tuck it beneath my sleeve.

I venture the narrow, unknown corridors of Castle Bitsch. The darkness and damp form an unwelcome embrace along the windowless path. It isn’t the fastest route, but I am less likely to be seen, and even less likely to be stopped. I utter a curse when I find the chapel empty, and then say a quick prayer of contrition for my wicked tongue.
Where is he?
I think, slipping through a doorway behind the altar. Light spills in long, thin strands at the end of this hallway.

“You shouldn’t be behind the altar,” Father Hannes says, startling me.

I whirl around. “I know. I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t know where to find you,” I say, and his forgiveness is given with a nod. “Do you know how to get a letter out at great haste?”

His brow furrows. “I can find out. Is everything all right?”

“I need to get a letter to Cologne—soon.”

He pauses, pursing his lips. “That shouldn’t be so difficult. In sending this letter, you are not forcing me into sin, are you, Lady Adelaide?”

“No, Father,” I lie, banishing thoughts of all the sin I shall commit if I get Ivo alone.

He sighs. “It shall take coin.”

“I have none, but Galadriel won’t want me looking the pauper in Nancy. She’s sure to give me an allowance.”

“Pay the chapel treasury if you can upon your return.”

I jump into his arms, hugging him tightly. “Thank you, Father Hannes.”

He laughs and pats my back. “It is a pleasure to see you in such happiness, milady.”

“I don’t know that anyone has made me this happy in all my time here.”

He nods and smiles fatherly at me. I hand him the letter, and we head in separate directions.

Johanna dips her bread into the lamb stew, the suggestion of a smirk rising on her face. “Are you looking forward to your travels?” She places the morsel into her mouth.

“I am a little nervous, Lady Johanna.”

Father gulps his wine audibly, and Galadriel’s nose crinkles a little at his less–than–perfect manners.

“That is good,” Johanna says. “Better to be nervous than too confident. You are going to the home of a duchess. The other maids shall surely come from the best houses in the empire.”

Marianna, spoon perched before her mouth, huffs and her utensil dings as she angrily sets it on her charger. “Oh, Johanna why must you scare her?” Marianna chides before turning to me. “Be quiet and watch what the other girls do. Find a friendly girl who shall help you and someone to teach you French.”

“Scaring her was not my intent,” Johanna excuses. “I only mean to prepare her for what is coming.”

“I did not even think to have her learn French!” Galadriel cries.

“It is too late now,” Johanna adds.

Father masks his lips with a hand as Galadriel has instructed him to do if he is going to speak with a mouthful of food. “Why? When does she leave?”

Galadriel utters an inaudible reply.

“When?” Father gives a hard swallow and leans in close to her. “I couldn’t hear you.”

“Tomorrow, husband.” Galadriel’s voice falters.

“Tomorrow?” Fathers says with surprise. “Why wasn’t I made aware of this?”

“Usually a girl’s mother arranges such things,” Johanna intercepts. “It isn’t customary for a girl’s father to be involved in such decisions.”

“You should have told me,” Father’s says to Galadriel, his face coloring with anger.

“It isn’t customary for a father to be so concerned, milord,” Johanna reiterates.

Father shoots her a look as hard and sharp as steel. “I am speaking to my wife, not you. Leave us. All of you. And close the door behind you.”

I rise with everyone else. With a point of his finger, Father orders me to stay. The room empties quickly.

“And what of our lives is customary, Galadriel? Why did you keep this from me?”

“Johanna said—”

Father slams his hand down on the table. “I do not care what Johanna says! I won’t have things kept from me within my house.”

Tears pool upon her lids, and she places her hand to her stomach as a reminder of her delicate condition. “I am sorry, husband.” The anger in his gaze melts away. I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “I told you of the letter and the dresses I had made,” she adds. “I did not know the date mattered so. It is an opportunity that no girl like her has ever had.”

“The letter came only a few days ago,” he reasons more gently. “I only thought I might have her for another week.”

“It takes days to get to Nancy from here. The duchess demands that Adelaide arrive before May Day. I should have sent her as soon as her dresses were made, but you wanted her here for our wedding feast. If we make the duchess wait, she is likely to send Adelaide back, and no one else has replied to my letters. I thought I was doing as you wished. It pains me to see you so…so… displeased.”