Forest of Whispers (22 page)

W
e have stopped moving. Instead of the cool damp of the forest upon my skin, I feel the warmth of the sun. I open my eyes to find that we are on a narrow bridge. It hovers over a deep ravine and we face the entrance to a large stone castle. The very size of the shadow it casts steals my breath. I can’t help feeling frightened, because what I see before me looks like another prison—carefully and skillfully disguised as something appealing.

“There she is, Burg Eltz,” the boy I am holding onto announces proudly. “She’s the finest castle in all of Germany.” The horse responds to the pressure he places against her sides with his legs and resumes her steady trot forward.

On either side of us the ground drops steeply, making it feel like the bridge is magickally suspended in the air, and I cling to Laurentz tightly. Around us are trees and sky; below, more trees, and a rushing stream at the very bottom. From what I can see, this is the one and only entrance in and out of the castle that towers over us, and I already feel closed in.

“You’ll be safe here,” Laurentz whispers encouragingly. “I wouldn’t have brought you here if I didn’t believe so.”

I fear my head will fall straight off my neck if I bend it any higher, but I can’t help trying to take it all in. The stones are enormous; each one is the size of a man’s head, or larger. The windows and turrets reach as far as my eyes can see and become lost in the low, hovering clouds. I take Laurentz’s hand, and soon I am settling my feet on solid ground. I am stiff from riding and am grateful he is here to help hold me steady.

Inside the castle, I am surprised to find a cold, sterile atmosphere. I suppose I expected it to be warm and homey, much like my old home, and I am disappointed in a way. Laurentz seemed to speak of it with such fondness, but perhaps he was only reassuring me that my safety was a matter I needn’t concern myself with—that Burg Eltz would protect me with the mighty arms of the fortress she is, and that is all I need right now.

The room we enter is full of tapestries and paintings that cover nearly every square inch of the walls. There are vases on tables, and the smell of freshly cut flowers fills the air with a heady sweetness. That alone reminds me of home. There are tall, polished men of armor and shields—and eyes.

Of course I should have realized a castle would have a staff to run it, only I didn’t prepare myself for how they would react when they saw me.

“Pay no mind to them,” his reassuring voice comes to my ear. “You’re simply something new to look at.”

I nod and tilt my face but am caught by the light catching his eyes, and find myself off-balance. In a swift movement, his hand steadies me.

“I’m just tired from the ride,” I say, convincing both of us that what I’ve gone through today is taking its toll. At least, that is what I tell myself.

“I’ll have a room prepared for you,” he tells me. In response to a wave of his hand, a girl my age crosses the hall. “Draw a bath, Elsie, and prepare a room in the left wing for our guest.”

I watch as he gives the girl the instructions. He is neither bossy nor commanding, but instead it’s as if he is genuinely pleased to ask her to do this for me, as if he is happy I am here. And when the maid obliges, I too manage a little smile for her, just to show how appreciative I am.

“Go ahead, you’re in good hands.” Laurentz nods that I am supposed to follow the girl. “I’ll come for you in a while, after I’ve spoken to my father.”

The wonder of Eltz has me mesmerized, and I’ve forgotten that I will soon meet the Electorate. Suddenly, I am a bundle of nerves again, but I follow Elsie, who stands patiently at the foot of a tall and winding staircase for me. Soon I am in an endless hallway with doors and oil paintings in between. She opens one but waits just outside of it, expecting me to enter first. It is a bath with a large porcelain basin in the center of the room. Everything is white. Stark. Clean. A fire heats a kettle in the corner of the room, and I watch as she begins to pour it into the tub. She adds flowers and oil to the bath, creating a lovely aroma that permeates the room as the steam rises; then, she motions for me to undress.

With trembling hands I begin to loosen the ties of my dress and am relieved when she leaves the room. If I undress quickly I can step into the water before she returns. I dip a toe into the swirling water, hastily testing its incredible warmth while hoping I can be fully submerged by the time I hear her on the other side of the door. Just as I bend my knee and am lifting my other leg to step into the tub, Elsie returns. I don’t know which sound shocks me most—her gasp, or the pitcher shattering when it is dropped, smashing to pieces across the stone floor.

“Gnädig! Gracious!”

I sink into the tub, but I’ve moved too quickly and water sloshes over the sides, spilling onto the floor. I stare down at my bare legs beneath the water and wait for her to ask me, but what I expect does not come. A few minutes perhaps, and her curiosity will win out and she will ask to know what the gashes and bruises are from. I can tell her I fell from a horse, which I imagine is very easy to do. Or I can say I was running through the forest, that I was lost and tripped, that Laurentz was kind enough to help me.

Her head down, she collects the broken pieces of the ruined pitcher, and the floor is as tidy as it was when we arrived. She places a soft-looking pile of towels on the vanity and leaves without saying another word.

I can’t help myself. I can’t stop it. The tears come without warning, and when they’ve left me feeling spent and worn, I splash the water to my face with my hands, hoping any trace of them is gone.

I cannot survive if I am weak. I cannot cry for what I’ve lost, because that will not bring any of it back.

I pull myself up and let the water run from my limbs, back into the tub with the bits of flowers. The sound reminds me of when the rain would drip into the stream from the trees overhead after a rain shower, and it calms me, until I realize I am not alone. There is a strange girl staring at me, reflected in a large gilt-framed looking glass. Her wet hair clings to her head and trails down her bony shoulders. I stare and she stares back. I turn and she turns, and when she does I see the marks that sent the poor servant girl fleeing from the room.

My back is a canvas of criss-crossed lashes that match the purple circles on my arms. My skin is marked and tender, like the hides that are treated by the tanner in the village back home.

I am hideous. I am vile.

I stare until the lines bleed into a map that travels across my skin, telling my tale, telling all who might step into this room what I’ve endured, what I am.

And though my skin screams, my head is blissfully quiet. The silly notion that it’s because I am standing in water crosses my mind, but I dismiss that. I know the truth. My mother, the witch, is mad. Not because of what they’ve done to me.

She is furious because I’m still alive.

Chapter 31
Laurentz

I
‘ve left Rune in the care of our quietest maid, hoping not only to put her at ease in an unfamiliar place, but also to avoid the gossip I know will eventually surface. I venture downstairs in search of my father. Behind my back I know Eltz’s servants are speculating who she is, where she’s come from, and most of all, why she is here. They will just have to wonder for now.

I probably should have told my father of my intention to ride to Bamberg, but he would have stopped me before I reached the door, and I couldn’t take the risk of not going at all. I hope he understands. I hope he can see the plan I have brewing inside me—the plan that includes Rune.

But any hope of that happening quickly deteriorates as he looks upon me with cold eyes from across the dining hall when I enter.

“What have you done?” His knuckles are white against the edge of the table.

I am not a fool to entertain the fact that I left earlier believing my father and I reached an understanding. What transpired between us was more of a door creaking open ever so slightly, letting in the notion of possibility, and I don’t intend to let that door slam shut, not when I’ve come this far.

He doesn’t wait for me to begin, but draws in a deep sigh. “It’s unethical…” he begins.

“And so is what they’ve done to her.” I approach the table calmly, ready to state my plea. “You yourself said that you don’t agree with the bishop’s actions. Look at what is happening. Look at what he has caused. Women, even children, everywhere, are being accused simply because there is something about them the bishop does not like.”

My father’s jaw is set tight. “Still, you never should have interfered. Why? Because she’s pleasing to the eye? Has she offered you anything?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I’ve interfered because they’d nearly destroyed her life.”

My father runs a hand through his salted hair. “Laurentz,” he says, voice tight with anger. “You aided someone who is accused of witchcraft.”

“Yes, I have,” I admit. “And do you realize the Plague has spread no further than Pyrmont? If she is a witch, then why hasn’t it affected her own village? Why do they believe she is to blame?”

I know well that I cannot take back what I have just said. My words have decisively piqued interest in my father’s eyes. I also know that Cook and the scullery staff listen to us from behind the kitchen door, but it’s too late to talk my father into discussing this elsewhere. What’s done is done. They will all know who and what Rune is soon enough.

“What do you know, Laurentz? Have you witnessed anything that resembles sorcery?”

I step closer until I too am leaning across the table. “All who inhabit Württemberg seem to thrive on the idea that the ‘witch-proof ’ hedge growing around them will keep out a true witch, yet she has crossed it, time and time again. I nearly trampled her with my horse while she was doing so, and my arm ended up cut and bleeding. Father,” I take a deep breath, “she
healed
it.”

He offers nothing, so I go on.

“They burned her home to the ground. They executed her guardian. All because the bishop placed the seeds in everyone’s minds that she was a witch. Father, this girl is not evil. Yes, I do believe she is magickal, but she is
not
what the bishop makes her out to be.”

“And what makes you so sure she is not capable of causing harm?”

“Because she would have done so by now,” I tell him.

He sighs deeply and stares down at his hands. “And you’ve brought her here because you assume my position will grant her security.”

“I brought her here because of what she can do.”

I have his full attention now. He knows what I am getting at. In my head I hear the door between us opening a little more, because my father has grown so very desperate not to lose someone else he loves.

“This girl shines with a light I’ve only ever seen once in my life.”

He’s skeptical, and I don’t blame him for his disapproving frown, as if I am nothing but a hopeless dreamer.

“You used to be married to it, Father,” I say carefully.

“That light is a memory, Laurentz. You were three when your mother died, and I doubt very much you can recall anything about her that the oil painting in the library cannot give you.”

“You’re wrong—I do remember. I remember she meant everything to me, and you, and right now there are two women upstairs—one whose life was nearly extinguished, who is capable of doing the impossible, and the other who has only moments left to hold onto hers.”

The nod is barely perceptible, but he seems to agree.

“There’s more.” I pull at the small cloth bag fixed to my belt and spill its contents across the table, praying Cook isn’t eavesdropping too closely.

My father carefully extends a hand to pick up one of the small, rounded stones, then cautiously recoils. With guarded eyes, he asks me, “Do you have any idea who you are dealing with here?”

“Actually,” I unfold the cloth and lay it flat across the wood. “I was hoping you might.”

He studies the aged cloth closely and before long his face registers with the same gleam of recognition I felt when I first saw it. “Pyrmont’s coat of arms. Where did you get this?”

“The runes were wrapped in it. It was confiscated by the Burgermeister of Württemberg shortly after Rune’s arrest.”

“Rune?”

“The girl,” I explain.

My father stares at the stones, knowing the coincidence is too great. He carefully lifts the cloth by the corners and carries it to the brighter light at the window.

“The stitches were removed on purpose,” I offer.

“Yes, I see that. If the threads had fallen out naturally from age or overuse, the holes would have been ripped larger; the cloth would be thin. These holes are just as small as the day the sampler was stitched. The embroidery must have been removed shortly after.”

“Are you familiar with the type of cloth that is?”

“Of course I am,” he replies. “It’s a portion of an infant’s mantle. You were wrapped in one just like it when you were born. But look here.” He walks the cloth back to the table so I can see it. “This is a little different than the coat of arms Pyrmont has now.” He shows me the way a line of stitching would have extended up, rather than over, as the Pyrmont shield appears now.

“This is the original coat of arms.” My father’s finger traces past the stitchery holes to show me, then looks at me, realizing I know nothing about our neighbor’s past. “A family’s crest is only ever changed when there is a threat to the ruling heir.”

“But Pyrmont had no heirs.”

“Exactly,” my father agrees.

I stare at the cloth, wishing its secret to jump out of it. “Was it to protect the Electorate of Pyrmont when he was a child?”

“The crest was altered just after you were born,” my father explains. “That would have been too late to protect the Electorate. It was obviously changed for another reason.”

I shake my head. There is something here, I’m sure of it. I lean my chin into my hand as I think of all I know about Pyrmont, about witches and plagues, and everything else in between, trying to find some way to allow it all to make sense.

“Tell me, Father, is there a reason why Pyrmont is the only castle to succumb to Plague? There is no word of the infection amongst the villages.”