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

“Sorry, milady,” apologizes the smaller, mousy–haired guard, his Roman nose bobbing with each word. “We must arrest the gatekeeper. Come now.” The larger man shoves Gregor forward.

“But I ain’t done nothin’ wrong. Lady—”

“What has he done?” Galadriel interrupts, widening her eyes in warning, before Gregor reveals that he knows her. Turning to the larger guard, she rests her hand on his arm. His cheeks flush nearly as red as his hair. The small guard’s face twists with jealousy. “Is he a thief?”

“I ain’t no thief,” Gregor croaks, choking on anger.

Galadriel retracts her hand, crossing her arms. “Then what is the matter here? What has he done? Why is the gate blocked? Why can I not pass?” She fires the questions like arrows.

Galadriel’s expectant gaze darts from one guard to the other as though the one to answer her question will appease her anger, perhaps even win her affections. She wields power and feminine wiles like a blacksmith wields his hammer. These poor fools are the molten iron, and she’ll bend them to her will.

The fox–haired oaf leans close to Galadriel. “We are not supposed to tell our orders, milady.”

The shorter man flashes him a look as sharp as swords and gruffly gestures for the oaf to come along. “It is no worry of yours, milady.” He puffs out his chest. “We have our man now, and he shan’t be bothering you or anyone else.”

The oaf shoves Gregor forward, and Gregor’s gaze shoots to Galadriel: desperate, horrified, helpless.

“Well, my interest is piqued now,” she says. “What could this feeble, old man have done to warrant two strong guards hauling him away?”

“We have orders from the archbishop himself to keep our mission a secret, milady,” the shorter man says. “We are a part of his personal guard—”

“Konrad gives your orders?”

“Yes, milady, the archbishop.”

“I assure you that Konrad and I are
good
friends. I know him
very
well,” she lies. Insinuation drips from her words. “Did you not see me at his side at the hanging of the priest Soren and his bastard? Who do you think convinced him to be so severe?” Both guards faces pale. Galadriel’s eyes rove them with faint disgust. “At my whisper, I can have your jobs. Perhaps even more than that.”

“Please, milady,” stammers the red–head, his panicked gaze darting from Galadriel to his friend.

“The heretic escaped last night,” confesses the shorter guard. “Someone freed him. Cut the lock right off the stocks.”

“God in Heaven!” Galadriel breathes, crossing herself. “First the cathedral and now this. The devil’s work indeed!”

“Not the devil, milady,” the shorter man points to Gregor. “The gatekeeper.”

Galadriel feigns confusion.

The short guard holds up the cutters, sliding his fingers along a small gap. “He used the cutters to break the lock. You can see the divot left from the lock right there.”

Galadriel laughs aloud. “This feeble old man broke through an iron lock?” The guards share confused looks. “A good jest. I may be a woman, but I am not a fool.”

A shadow darkens the shorter guards face. “It is no jest, milady.”

“It must be. Look at his hands. They’re as twisted as a lady’s plaits.”

The men’s gazes dart to Gregor’s rheumatic hands. Gregor crosses his arms, hiding his mangled fingers.

Galadriel feigns an amused smile. “Old man,” she calls.

“Yes, milady.”

“Take the cutters.”

“But…”

“Do it,” she barks.

Gregor’s face falls. “Yes, milady.”

The oaf holds out the cutters, and Gregor takes them clumsily, putting them beneath the pit of his arm.

Galadriel motions to the rope that opens the gate. “Now cut the rope.”

“Milady…” he pleads.

Galadriel widens her eyes in warning.

Gregor approaches the gate with a heavy sigh. He struggles to grasp the cutters with his rheumatic fingers, dropping them twice. When he finally gets them within his grasp, he clamps down, shaking in an effort to cut a rope as thick as my forearm. He drops the cutters again and curses beneath his breath.

Galadriel allows him a few more attempts before she approaches the rope, sliding her slender fingers along the strands. “He has not cut a single thread!” she concludes. Gregor’s shoulders fall. “And you two assume that this man could cut through an iron lock!? And with these cutters? Why they are nearly rusted through.” The smaller man’s face contorts. “Now, give me those cutters, gatekeeper,” Galadriel orders again. After a few attempts, he picks them up and hands them to her. “And you come here.” She summons the oaf. “Take this, and get this man a sharp pair of cutters so that if he needs them, he can use them. It is the least you can do after the fright you have given him.”

Galadriel places two silver coins in his pudgy palm. It is more than enough to purchase good cutters and many flagons of good wine. The oaf’s red eyebrows rise as he salivates over the groschens. Even the smaller man’s face softens as he looks into his friend’s palm before taking the coins from his hand. Galadriel turns to the carriage, and at once her regal face pales, revealing the fear she hid so well.

The shorter man bounces the coins in his hands. “What’s this gatekeeper to you?” he asks, and Galadriel halts. “Why do you care what happens to him?” Her face darkens and eyes narrow, fear boiling into rage.

She turns on her heel and makes short work of the space between them. The guards’ eyes widen with fright. “How dare you address me so informally?!” she growls, shaking the cutters at him. “How dare you question me?! Who do you think you are?!” Then she rounds on the oaf who nearly cowers, though Galadriel is only two–thirds his height. “What is his name?” Galadriel demands of the oaf, pointing the cutters at the smaller man. He looks frightfully, pitifully to his friend. “Tell me, or I shall report you both to Konrad!”

The short man falls to his knees. “My apologies, milady. It is no business of mine. Have mercy, please.”

“It is too late for your apologies,” she hisses. “But now I should like to answer your question. This gatekeeper is no one to me, but to someone he is everything, and for that, he deserves protection from those who can give it, from men like you. As a guard, is it not your job to protect the people of this great city? Is it not your job to protect us from the heretic on the loose? And yet, here you stand, ready to send an obviously innocent man to torture and death. So it is either that you are lazy or stupid, and I have not yet figured out which, but I do know that Konrad deserves better guards than you to protect his city. That I do know.”

“Please, milady. Have mercy.” He grasps Galadriel’s hand, but she rips it from him. “I have children to feed. My wife died of the fever, and they only have me to care for them.”

“A desperate lie, I am sure.”

“It’s true, milady, I swear it,” the man says. Galadriel looks to the oaf who vouches for his friend with a sad nod.

“I shall have to think upon it. It is for the greater good of Cologne to have better guards, even if your children do starve.”

“I shall be a better guard. I swear it.”

“If I come back and find this man has been harassed, if I find his cutters have not been replaced, then I know you by sight, and I swear that I shall have more than your jobs.”

“Yes, milady,” the men stammer, their voices overlapping. “Thank you, milady.”

She shoos them with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Now go. Catch this heretic and fetch cutters for this man.”

The men run past our carriage toward Hay Market. Galadriel stays with Gregor, his face the portrait of shame. She puts her hand in his, sliding her perfect fingers along his gnarled ones. They whisper quietly. Gregor’s lips purse, and he nods as she talks, surely explaining that she never meant to insult him, only to save him, save him from my folly. His gaze moves to the carriage, and he tips his head in greeting to us. The undeserved forgiveness only makes my guilt heavier.

I owe him more than an apology, but since that is all I have to offer, I would like to give it. “Papa…” I start, but his fierce gaze silences me. I look down. “I would like to apologize…to Gregor.”

“No. You can bear the burden of your guilt in silence. I won’t have you risking us all to ease it.”

The door opens, and Galadriel’s shaky hand grips the driver’s. Her face whitens, and she collapses into her seat, shivering. She drops the cutters on the floor of the carriage and pounds on the wall, signaling the driver to leave in great haste.

Father unties his cloak and wraps it around her. “Are you all right?”

Her hand shakes as she clutches her chest. Sweat glistens on her forehead. She nods. “Do you think they believed me? Do you think Gregor is saved?”

Father points to the cutters on the floor. “They gave you the only evidence against him.”

Galadriel’s chest heaves with a great breath, and she sighs. “As long as Hochstaden doesn’t find out…”

She drops her twitching hands between her knees. The droplets upon her forehead swell, her face pales unnaturally, and I could have predicted the faint before it came. Her eyes roll, and she folds, falling upon the floor of the carriage. Father jumps to catch her.

She lies limp in his arms. “Galadriel!” He shakes her shoulders. “Galadriel!”

I drop to the floor, untie the cloak, and open the shutters. Now that we are out of the city, the air is clean and brisk.

Her eyelids flutter, and a sigh slips between her lips. Her eyes dart around the carriage, looking lost. Her gaze finds Father’s, and she smiles like a lovesick fool. Father folds his lips. The furrow in his brow melts away.

Will he look at her the same way she looks at him: like some lovesick fool?

He doesn’t. And I think he could never love her like he loved Mama. The thought warms me like strong wine.

Father helps Galadriel into her seat, and rather than sit beside me, he joins her on the other side of the carriage. My taste of triumph turns quickly bitter.

Serfs and villeins solemnly make their way through the light smoke to the fields.
Ivo. I must warn him.
I can’t let Elias get to him. I won’t see Ivo punished like a heretic.
I peer out the left window. Many of the workers sow while others still plow.

How many furlongs are we from the Bauer’s fields? I wonder, biting my lip. The heat of a stare bores into my cheek. I look up. Father watches my bouncing knee. His narrowed gaze darts from my face to the left window and back to my face again. Sometimes I think he can read my thoughts—though he only bothers himself when it’s most inconvenient.

I still myself and gaze out the right window instead, an effort to ease Father’s suspicion. We’ve passed the Bauer’s fields by now.
But by how much?

I slide near the door and feign sleep, resting my head against the shift Ivo brought me days ago. It is the only reminder I have of my mother. The rest of them were burned in the street. I breathe in. The fabric still smells like lavender, still smells like
her
. A snore jostles me from thought.

Father’s eyelids bounce, and his head nods forward. I watch. He is just barely asleep.
Barely
will have to be good enough.

I bunch a length of skirt in my hand and lip a silent prayer before taking a deep breath and plunging through the door.

My feet sink into the earth, but I spring up quickly. Father’s angry shout cuts through the snap of whips cracking at oxen. I pick up my skirts as I dart forward, dashing into the fields, heading toward the city wall. I run, but the space between us narrows. Father hollers after me again, his furious voice growing louder, closer. My legs burn, but fear churns them harder, faster. I look to either side, scanning the fields for Ivo’s silhouette, unable to find it.

”Ivo!”
I cry.
”Ivo!”

But it isn’t Ivo I see. It is his father, Erik. His red hair beams like a lantern a few furlongs ahead.

“Erik!” I call, pushing my legs harder.

I feel the breeze of Papa’s hand as it swipes past my shoulder, and I cry out. I open my mouth to yell out for Erik again, but my toe catches on a jagged rock, and I gasp instead.

I catch the sight of the stone just as the ground comes up to meet me. I shield my face, bracing for the fall. The crack of my skull against the rock sounds before the searing pain registers. I roll to my side with a moan. The cold ground embraces me as the darkness takes me away.