The Countess' Captive (The Fairytale Keeper Book 2) (9 page)

Most sigils are birds or beasts. Things that are fearsome, yet beautiful. But there’s nothing lovely or even admirable about a snake. Surely Galadriel’s dead husband chose the serpent for their banner, but why? Why choose the most loathsome of creatures for your sigil?

My cheeks pinch with a smile. It is a rather perfect symbol for Galadriel. Does she not tempt men with forbidden fruit? I watch her greet an auburn–haired guard, flashing a regal, yet pleasant smile. She is
unnaturally
beautiful. The devil would have been wise to make a witch out of her. Who would suspect something so beautiful could be so evil? Chains clink and crank as the portcullis rises and doors open. Once inside, we ride between stone barricades until arriving at yet another gate. The doors open, and we roll slightly downhill into a wider bailey.

A stone manor pokes out of the north wall, built directly into the edifice that haloes the rock mound this fortress sits upon. A spire rises out of the manor’s end. Another barricade connects this spire to the south wall—and so we approach a third gate.

How many of these gates must we pass through? My eyes roam, looking for something worth guarding so heavily. Cologne, which is surrounded by only one wall, could be seized easier than this place. Surely nothing within these walls could be as valuable as the gold, cloth, and spices traded at home.

We pass through the third entry with ease. The manor continues, extending from the same spire as the first—though this half of the dwelling is twice as long and adorned with stone statues, archways, and ornately carved wooden doors.

It is a manor, trying to be a castle. It used to be a hunting lodge, Galadriel told us, though work has gone on for the better part of two years to make it a fitting home for a countess and—she swallowed hard at this part—a count.

The stone reflects the gleaming golds and gingers of sunset. Blinding shimmers race across the three rows of glass window panes. The manor’s length makes it appear unusually short, though it is three stories. Still I can think of a half–dozen church spires in Cologne that far exceed the height of the towers along the fortress and even the spire of the chapel that splits the manner into two, very unequal parts.

It isn’t a castle like those from Mama’s tales: a great stone building with brilliant stained glass windows haloed by a great moat with jewel–toned banners perched on towers, whipping in the wind.

Perhaps had I been plucked from some wheat field in the middle of the countryside, I might find this fortress, perched above boggy land and sheep pastures, remarkable. But I am a girl from the great city of Cologne—where the spires pierce the clouds and the wealthiest own the better part of a street.

The carriage slows, and my stomach flutters with nerves. Galadriel’s threat from a few days ago plays like an indelible song in my thoughts.
If you defy me in the walls of my home, I swear I will write a letter to Konrad, telling him you confessed to me a horrific secret about how your peasant boy burned the great cathedral of Cologne.

If her words were the tune, my nightmare of Ivo is the play to go with it. I told Galadriel she could only write that letter once. Without so much of a blink, she replied that that one letter would result in Ivo roasting on the spit like a pig. I can’t get the image out of my head. Panic thumps hard in my chest. I can feel it pulsing in my ears.

The carriage stops. Our driver opens the door, and Galadriel takes his hand. I wait for Father, but he motions for me to go first, and I rise on trembling knees.

Two rows of men and women form a hallway that we must pass through to make our way to the doors. From so close, the manor seems more like a castle. I look up and suddenly feel very small. Galadriel embraces an older man who smiles warmly.

“Father.” Her pink lips curve into an honest smile. “I missed you so very much.”

“And I, you.” He steps back from their embrace taking her hands in his. “You gave me quite a scare,” he chides in mock discipline. “Any longer and I would have ridden out in search for you myself.”

She pouts playfully. “Now you know how it feels. All those months I spent worried after you while you were on your travels.”

He tosses his head with touché, not a tendril of his thinning golden hair falling out of place. They release each other’s hands. Galadriel ushers me closer, and I step toward this man who must be Mama’s uncle. “Father, this is Adelaide, Katrina’s daughter.”

My uncle’s long thin face and angular features give him the frightening gaze of a hawk. “My God, she has grown,” he says to Galadriel, smiling, “though I haven’t seen her since she was just a babe.” He bends down. I steady my feet, fighting the urge to back away from him. “Do you remember me?”

“No, milord,” I reply.

“Call me Uncle,” he bids. “No, of course you wouldn’t. You were much too young. I was your mother’s uncle, your great uncle.”

“Yes, Uncle,” I say.

He smiles and rises to his full height. “She has a little look of her mother but none of her coloring,” he remarks to Galadriel and bends again toward me. “I am sorry about your mother. She was a good girl, a feisty girl if I remember rightly. She had to marry your father no matter what anyone else said. Are you a feisty girl like her?”

I look down and fight a smile. He chortles at my silent admission. “Well, you’ll have to be on your best behavior here.”

“Yes, Uncle,” I say. Father comes closer, standing beside me.

Uncle’s face darkens, and the angles of his face sharper. “Ansel,” he says coolly. His nostrils flare.

“Herrmann.” Father’s voice is no warmer. He extends a hand to shake. Uncle takes it but not without eyeing it like it belongs to a leper.

They hate each other.

I can use this man to my advantage. If Galadriel cares at all what her father thinks, this affair will end.

Galadriel stops before a towering man with a full head of silver hair and beard to match. The man tilts his head in obeisance at her approach.

“Adelaide, Ansel,” Galadriel says, “this is Matthias, the castle bailiff. Matthias, this is Herr Ansel von Cologne and his daughter, Fraulein Adelaide.”

“Welcome to Castle Bitsch, Herr Ansel, Fraulein Adelaide.” He tips his head to us though not as deeply as he did to Galadriel.

Am I to tip my head, as well? I look to Father to see what he does, and he does nothing. Then I look to Galadriel who offers no cue either way.

Galadriel turns to a man dressed in monk’s robes, extending her hand. His thin lips spread into a wide, warm smile, lines folding around his deep–set eyes, as he takes her hand in both of his.

“This is Father Hannes,” Galadriel says.

My breath catches.

His title conjures memories in harsh flashes of another priest—the man who defiled Mama’s corpse, who framed us for a crime we didn’t commit, who saw to our public humiliation and the burning of our every possession—Father Soren.

“Adelaide.” Galadriel nudges my arm. “Adelaide.”

I shake the thoughts away and extend a limp hand to the priest.

“Father—”
What was his name?

He kneels down, peering into my eyes. He grips my flaccid hand between his. I catch the scent of incense, heavy on his robes. “Hannes.” At least his tone is comforting.

“Father Hannes,” I echo.

“It is nice to meet you, Fraulein.”

“And you, Father,” I lie, fighting the urge to yank my hand from his.

He releases me and rises, turning to Galadriel. “It is good to have you home, Countess.” He bows, sandy hair with hints of silver falling into his face. He runs his hand through it as he rises, and it parts perfectly in the middle, each side arching up before falling loosely to his shoulders.

“And it is good to be home—at last.” Galadriel replies before turning to Father. “This is Ansel.” Father extends a hand, and they shake.

Galadriel slips farther down the line, gesturing to a broad–shouldered older man. “Ansel, this is Ludwig, yours and Father’s chamberlain. If you are in need of anything, send for him.”

“Ludwig.” Father nods, extending a hand for shaking again.

Ludwig looks to the boys standing beside him. The rounder of the two boys whispers something into the ear of the other, who smiles. Ludwig slaps the back of the round boy’s head. His mop of mousy curls bounce from the blow. The boy gives the man a strange look and rubs his crown. Girlish giggles come from behind me, and a quick hush from an older woman silences it immediately.

“Sorry, milady,” Ludwig says in his gruff, crackling voice. The man then slaps the boy on the back of the head again.

“Sorry, milady,” the boy mumbles.

Galadriel shakes her head.

“This, Herr Ansel, I am sorry to say, is your page and my grandson, Lutz,” Ludwig introduces the pudgy, doe–faced boy he’d just smacked across the head. “He’s got a lot of lazy and stupid in him.”

Father narrows his eyes. “Is that true, boy?”

“Yes, Herr,” Lutz admits, his shoulders falling.

“I don’t tolerate lazy and stupid. Do I, Adelaide?” Father says.

“No, Father,” I reply.

Lutz’s lips twist, and he nods.

“This is my other grandson, Linus,” Ludwig says. “He’s a bit brighter than his brother. A year younger. Very quiet though. He’s Herrmann’s page. Greet Herr Ansel, Linus.”

“Welcome, Herr Ansel and Fraulein Adelaide,” he utters, barely audible.

Galadriel shifts down the line, pausing at a handsome young man with wavy chestnut hair and the ruddy skin of a man who labors out of doors. “This is Tristan, our huntsman,” she says.

The young man grasps her hand and presses his lips to the back of her fingertips. “You have been greatly missed, milady.”

Galadriel’s cheeks flush, and she pulls her fingers from his. “Or perhaps I should call you our troubadour,” she teases. Tristan’s dark, deep–set eyes flicker with amusement at her jest. “Rise, Tristan,” she commands, the cool countess mask falling over her face. “What have you for me?”

“Venison for this Sunday, if it pleases you, milady.”

“Very good, Tristan.” Galadriel turns to Father. “Ansel, this is Tristan.”

“Welcome, Herr Ansel.”

I pause, waiting for Galadriel to introduce me, but she does not. She merely moves further down, and we follow.

The golds of sunset have shifted to the violets, pinks, and blues of dusk. The air grows cooler and our breath forms soft clouds. A few of the servants shiver against the cold. They haven’t cloaks. I pity them, wishing I could prod Galadriel faster through this long line. The door looms ahead, so heavy and oppressive. I imagine the deep echo of the heavy wood shutting behind us, like the closing of a coffin—so final. We can still leave, I remind myself. It’s not too late. Nothing binds us to Bitsch. Yes, it would have been better if we had turned back at Oppenheim or Landstuhl. But it’s not too late. I extend my hand absently time and time again to greet yet another face whom I won’t bother to remember because remembering is like assuming I will need to remember them. It is like willing us to stay.

A familiar face flickers from the corner of my gaze. I glance toward her. Downy brown hair frames a heart–shaped face and large eyes.

Mama?
A pang of heartache robs me of breath, but I push it down. I blink and narrow my eyes.
No, It can’t be.
This woman’s hair is a shade darker, her skin a shade lighter, and her eyes blue rather than Mama’s mahogany brown. Still, this woman could easily be mistaken for Mama’s sister.

“This is Marianna, my first maid–in–waiting,” Galadriel introduces. I glance to Father. His gaze lingers on her—his eyes longing and vulnerable.

“Welcome, Herr Ansel, Fraulein Adelaide,” this woman, Marianna, says in a French accent as thick and fluid as honey. She averts her eyes from Father’s long stare. Her cheeks flush and lips pinch to stifle a giggle.

Father glances away, his jaw clenched. Galadriel’s gaze darts between her maid–in–waiting and her lover. She coils her arm in Father’s and moves him along. I fight a smile.

“Thank you, Lady Marianna,” I say. “Are you French?” I ask but feel Galadriel’s hand on my shoulder, firmly pushing me forward.

“Come along, Adelaide,” Galadriel says, feigning sweetness. “It grows dark, and there is still so much more for you to see.”

We pause before a slender woman with a taught face and set jaw. “This is my lady–in–waiting, Johanna.” Johanna dips into what one might think was a curtsy had she dropped more than an inch. The motion sends a lock of her straight, golden hair swinging forward. She brushes the back of her fingers against her forehead and high, narrow cheekbones, casting the hair to its proper place.

“Herr Ansel, Fraulein Adelaide,” she says.

“Lady Johanna.” I dip into a curtsy, and Father tips his head. Her measuring gaze follows us as we move along.

A short, round, woman bursts forth from the line, her wiry, pewter coif bouncing with each step. She snares me in a bear–like grip. “Oh, give me a hug, dear,” she says. “No sense in formalities, I say.”

I wrap my arms around her, patting her back to signify the end of the hug. She pushes back and looks upon me with a sincere beaming smile full of yellow teeth. “You’re a pretty one, aren’t you, Fraulein? The beauty of Cologne, I bet they called you.”