The Countess' Captive (The Fairytale Keeper Book 2) (12 page)

Perhaps, they are not mother and son.

Hildegard said the fever claimed many of Bitsch’s young adults. This boy could be her young brother or a sibling’s child or, perhaps, be of no relation at all.

She saunters to the gate, and he runs circles around her again, flapping his arms like the little birds around him. I wonder where they shall go, and wish that wherever it was, I could follow.

Shall I sit in this room all day, every day unless it is time for mass or meals? And what shall I do if Galadriel’s health returns to her? Hilde mentioned music and sewing. Shall I be forced to sit at Galadriel’s feet like a trained pup? My God, I hope not.

I put my pen to the parchment a half–dozen times. Nothing I think seems worth writing, but just in case something happened to the first letter I sent Brother John, a second letter must be sent. Rather than write Brother John’s letter first, I write Ivo’s instead.

Dear Ivo,

Did you receive my first letter? I had a doctor send it for me nearly a week ago from Oppenheim. I suppose it might be too soon for me to receive a letter from you, but I worry that my first one did not get to Cologne.

Heed this warning, do not associate with the tutor I suggested, for it shall only put you in danger. If he comes to you, tell him that any debt between us is nullified, and he should worry for his own safety. I think that Brother John, your mother’s Benedictine friend, would prove a good tutor or at least be able to read my letters to you and help you write letters to me. I hope it is he who reads this letter to you now.

I have many questions for you. Has a cause to the Cathedral fire been discovered? How fairs your family? Does the fever cease? Has anyone moved into our home? Has anyone taken Father’s spot in the market? Are there plans for the Cathedral to be rebuilt? Is the archbishop still in Cologne, or has he finished his business and returned to Rome?

I suppose you wonder how I fair, as well. There is little to occupy my time. I pray like a nun that I might return home soon. That is all there is to do. Galadriel seems to be unwell, but the rest of us are in good health.

I miss you so. I long for your letters to liberate me from boredom and worry.

Love,

Adelaide

I reread the letter, so cold and empty. There seems too little written on this page that must travel so far. Ivo and I could fill hours with chatter, yet I cannot find a single profound thing to write. I fold up the letter, letting out my disappointment with a slow breath, and tuck it beneath the stack of parchment.

Hilde fetches me for Father’s presence chamber where we are to sup. I sigh, not wanting to go but knowing that I must. I turn into the hallway, bumping into Johanna, her lips give the slightest twist of disdain.

Uncle’s sharp features soften at our approach. “Ah, here comes my lovely niece.”

“She was in her rooms,” Johanna announces.

The scent of fish stew wafts into the room. My stomach rumbles as I take my seat between Father and Marianna. The buxom brunette maid crosses the threshold, a heavy platter of stew–filled bowls in hand.

Galadriel’s lip curls. She mentioned her dislike of fish once to me in Hay Market. Her hand rushes to her mouth, and her back rounds with a gag. Marianna and Johanna dash to her side. Uncle and Father rise from their seats.

“Take that away,” Johanna hisses at the kitchen maid as Marianna helps Galadriel to her rooms. “The countess is unwell. What were you thinking bringing fish?”

Galadriel’s guttural cough echoes through the hallway followed by comforting words from Marianna.

“My–my apologies, Lady Johanna.” The maid rushes away with the platter.

I’m sorry to see her go. Why shouldn’t I get to have any stew just because Galadriel is unwell? She shall be in her rooms soon anyway.

Johanna slips into the hallway, leaving Father, Uncle, and myself standing in strained silence before our chairs. Father plops into his seat, yet Uncle looms, his glare full of scorn. Father takes his mug and drinks. The long, uncomfortable silence spins until Father kicks a chair from under the table. Its legs squeal across the floor. “Afraid you cannot sit and scowl at the same time, Herrmann?”

Uncle’s nostrils flare, and he looks to the chair Father offers, appalled. He pulls a different chair from the table and sits, his gaze composed and unrelenting.

“Leave us,” Uncle commands, and the servants file out into the hall. “Ansel von Cologne,” he says.

“Herrmann von Bitsch.” Father’s reply is nonchalant.

“No, no,” Uncle corrects. “My name has never been anything other than Herrmann Kauffmann, but I remember you by another name.”

Father fills his charger with sliced bread and stewed fruits, acting as though losing our name means little to him. I once thought the opposite was true. Now I’m not so sure.

“It seems like a strange name to take since up until a week ago you lived in Cologne,” Uncle continues. “And if every Ansel in Cologne were called Ansel von Cologne, there would be a hundred of them at the least.”

Father chomps on a stewed plum. His irked gaze shifts from Uncle to me. “Leave us, Adelaide,” he says. I rise and make my way for the door. Father reclines in his chair. “If you want to ask me a question, Herrmann, then ask it.”

The hint of a smirk rises on Uncle’s face. I think this is what a snake must look like before it sinks its fangs into flesh. “Why did you change your name, Schumacher?” he asks.

I open the door gently and close it behind me. I press my hand against the thick oak. The air smells like triumph, and I take it in.

Yesterday, Uncle regarded Father with disdain. Today, he digs at Father’s pride. What will tomorrow bring? If he truly hates Father, why not divulge our secret and tell everyone we are cobblers? I think, in time, he may.

“Is all well, Fraulein?” Ludwig’s question startles me.

Ludwig, Lutz, and Linus stand beside an arrow slit across the hall. The pages look away for a moment, and I wonder how much they’ve heard through the doors. Linus’ brown, doe–eyes flicker with guilt. Either they’ve heard too much, or I’ve interrupted a conversation they shouldn’t be having. Lutz’s lips purse in a badly–masked smile.

What must they think of us? The only thing worse than being baseborn is pretending you’re not. If only they knew. I am like them, not
her
. I grit my teeth, biting back the truth.

This castle is my prison.

I am their countess’ captive.

And no one knows this but me.

“As well as can be expected.” I answer his question with a half–truth.

Why should I care what they think of me? In a fortnight, they’re likely to be a distant memory. In a month, I won’t even remember their faces. My thoughts shift to Galadriel, and I swallow a laugh. All her effort to keep our trade a secret shall be for naught. It shan’t even be us who betrays the secret but her own prideful father. What of Galadriel and Father’s affair now? What of any, God forbid the thought, wedding plans?

It all unravels.

I close my eyes and listen. I can hear the carriage wheels turning now, taking us back to Cologne. I can feel my invisible shackles breaking free.

I dip my bread into the pottage, keeping my eyes on my food, as we dine in silence. Uncle’s disdain for Father lingers, but Father feigns indifference to the quips and judgmental stares. Uncle hasn’t exposed us as cobblers yet, but I suspect if we stay much longer, he shall.

Galadriel lives still, though she sleeps most of the day and only takes supper. Father shall join her to sup alone tonight, as he did last night after Galadriel was settled in her chambers.

I am not invited, not that I should like to be. Watching them grow closer wounds me, and I can only bite my tongue so hard. But I want to know what transpires between them. Does their love grow strong or weaken? I fear it is the first and not the latter, for why would she summon him, and why would he visit if it were not so?

Perhaps if I pray for Galadriel’s health, God shall take it. It seems God grants the opposite of my prayers. But still there is little I can do to remedy my situation, but pray, so this is how I spend my days, kneeling on the strewing herbs until I fall asleep or it is time to eat again.

I fold a fur blanket and place it on the floor to ease the chafing on my knees. I prop my elbows on the bed, interlace my fingers, and bow my head. A set of heavy knocks startles me.

Could it be a letter from Ivo already? My breath catches.

The knocker wraps again.

“Fraulein Adelaide?” calls a deep voice. I recoil. It is a voice I know well. I listen to it for an hour each and every morning.

I snap up from my prayers. “Come in, Father Hannes.”

He enters, grabbing a chair from the desk, sitting before me casually.

“I hear you are troubled,” he says.

I shake my head. “I’m not troubled.”

“Ah, good then. I just thought a girl who spent so much of the day alone at prayer might be troubled,” he prods. I say nothing. “But you’re not so…good. That is good.” He slaps his knees as he rises from the chair and makes his way toward the door. He halts and pivots, raising a finger in the air, “But I have to say, I find it strange that a girl who just lost her mother and had to move so far from home would be so…untroubled.”

He finds it strange, does he? Does he think me a silly girl who can be fooled by such manipulative remarks? My fingers curl into fists. “The problem with those who offer their ears to listen, Father Hannes, is that they also have mouths to speak.”

“I am a priest, Adelaide. Your confessions are sacred. I can share them with no one but God.”

“You
can
share them. You merely vowed not to. I assure you not all priests keep their oaths, Father.”

His brow furrows. “No, unfortunately not. Priests are men, too and not immune to sin.”

“How do I know
you
are any different?”

“You don’t,” he replies, unoffended. “You’re young yet. You have many days of sin before you and many days for penance. I am here if you change your mind.” He tips his head to me and turns for the door.

“Would you tell me your secrets if I swore to God before you now to keep them?” I call after him as he walks into the hall.

He turns, lips pursed in thought. “I would not want you to swear to God, unless I knew you could keep your oath. If recollection serves, young girls do not make the greatest of secret keepers.”

“Does this mean that you shan’t share your secrets with me even if I do swear?”

“It means that I shan’t stand here and wait for you to swear at all,” he says kindly. “Trust takes time to build, Fraulein, and time is something a young lady has much of. I shall see you tomorrow at matins.”

I nod, and he leaves me to my prayers. I bend to kneel at my bed once more, groaning from the rash on my knees. I place my head on my clasped hands. From the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Mama’s shift on my trunk and the cobble from her grave on the mantle. I rise and fetch them, putting them on my bed. My eyelids grow heavy just as the bells strike Vespers. I rest my head on the bed, uttering prayers until I succumb to sleep.

Leaves and snowflakes scatter in a crisp breeze, sliding across the cobble pile. A posy of red roses dangles from my wrist as I approach the weathered cross. Strips of the faded leather that once neatly enveloped it, fray, bending and swaying like weak branches. I unwind the twine from my wrist and tie the posy to the cross. A gust blows, strong with the scent of lavender, and I pivot.

Turned away from me, a woman sits on the frosted earth at the edge of the grave. Her field–mouse–brown hair floats on the wind.

Mama?

I approach her slowly, frightened and bewildered. She turns her head, looking up into my face. Her lips press into a warm smile, and my fears subside.

I drop to the ground and throw myself into her arms, squeezing her tightly. “I thought you died,” I say, elation filling a vessel within me that has lain painfully empty.

There is a rise and fall in her neck as she swallows hard. “I did,” she replies.

I break the embrace, taking a painful breath. Her lips fold, and she looks down.

“Why?” I ask.

She shakes her head and takes my hands in hers. “I don’t know, Snow White.” The warmth of her fingers seep into mine, flows through my veins. My joints unhinge and sadness ebbs, giving way to tranquil resignation and peace. She somehow answers my every question without a word, like I can feel her voice rather than hear it.

Yes, she is at peace in a place we call heaven.

This sensation, this lack of desire and longing is merely a taste.

No, I cannot go with her, and no, she does not know why, but there will come a time when heaven will open up for me, and I will go then.

She surges forward, squeezing me tightly, and I close my eyes. Her downy hair brushes my cheeks. Her silky gown glides between my fingers, milky and cool to the touch. I inhale her lavender scent deeply, hoping it shall never leave me.

The backs of my eyelids brighten from black to red. I peel open an eye. Scalding brightness blinds me. I bury my head in Mama’s neck and pinch my eyes shut. The light fades, and she is gone.

Fat snowflakes and strands of hair whip against my cheeks and lips. Clouds of warm breath escape my mouth. I shiver, and pull my cloak tighter around my shoulders.

I toss. The rustling of sheets stirs me. I shiver, pulling the covers higher, hot and cold at the same time from a night sweat. I open my eyes.

My breath clouds.

The fire has gone out.

I lie silently and close my eyes, recalling every facet of my dream: the warmth of Mama’s skin, the softness of her hair, the scent of lavender, the strange sensation of peaceful ambivalence. Tears pool on my eyelashes, and I wipe them away.