The Countess' Captive (The Fairytale Keeper Book 2) (21 page)

My stomach trembles, for I haven’t eaten since Thursday. Today is Holy Saturday. Tomorrow is Easter. And the day after that is the wedding feast. My mouth waters at the thought of all the beasts slayed this week by noblemen on the hunt, cooked in pastries and stews. Why is it always on fast days that my mind torments me with thoughts of food?

I grab a piece of parchment. The best defense against hunger is distraction. I press the tip of the pen against the parchment. An ugly orb of ink pools.

I utter a curse as I shove the piece of parchment to the bottom of the stack.

I reach for a thinner pile of parchments, the one containing my sloppily–written Hansel and Gretel.

I could copy it and write it more neatly.

I peruse the tale, pausing at the part where Hansel and Gretel stumble upon the gingerbread house with its sugar pane windows. I’d wager they shall have myriad sweets at tomorrow’s Easter feast. My stomach howls. I press my hands into my belly.

Truth be told, if I copy Hansel and Gretel, I am being lazy. It is far easier to copy a story I’ve already written than to remember one I have not. And I, for certain, do not wish to plague myself with thoughts of sweets, so it’s best to write a tale from memory—a tale without food.

I sigh and dip the pen into the ink well once more, but this time I know what I shall write before I press the pen to the parchment.
The Girl with No Hands
, I transcribe.

Once upon a time, a man fell into poverty
, I continue,
until finally he had nothing more than his mill and an apple tree behind it.

“God’s nails!” I hiss. He wasn’t a man, but a miller. I cross out
man
and write
miller
above it, cringing at the error. What a waste of parchment to write a story twice because I cannot get it right the first time.

Oh well, Galadriel pays for the parchment. Why should I care?

The door flies open, and I start. Hilde rushes in. “When did you last bathe?” she asks, frazzled.

“Yesterday,” I say.

She stands over me and sniffs me like a dog.

“Hilde, what are you doing?”

“The countess wants to see you before dinner. Well, before the time she would usually have dinner. She made it clear that you were to be clean.”

I sigh. “What have I done to dirty myself?” I ask. “I’ve spent the last two days in my rooms like everyone else.”

“You’d be surprised at how filthy an idle thing can get. Why do you think we have maids to dust?”

“Have them dust me if you like.” I give her a wry look, which she unabashedly reflects.

“Now, turn around so I can check your hair.” She unwinds my loose braid and runs her fingers through my hair. “What are you writing now, dear?”

“A story.”

“Oh? A new one?”

“It’s the one I told the other day.”

“About the maid with no hands?”

I nod. My stomach grumbles again. “Hilde—”

“Yes, dear.”

“Do you think I could have something to eat?”

I expect her to balk, to lecture me on Christ’s convictions and my lack thereof, but instead she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a stale loaf of bread.

“Oh, thank you, Hilde!” I tear the loaf and hand her half. “You are a saint.”

She chortles at my phrasing, for surely both of us are sinners for this. She rips off a chunk and pops it into her mouth. “God forgive us,” she says with a full mouth and crosses herself.

Hilde, declaring that today is a day for modesty, puts me in grey wool and veils my loosely plaited hair. We walk together to Galadriel’s rooms. In my effort to remember
The Girl With No Hands,
and in my delight at getting something to eat, I didn’t even think to ask why Galadriel summons me. But we are at the doors to her presence chamber now, which splay open. Marianna fawns over a brightly-colored stack of fabrics lying on one of the cushions.

Marianna turns. “Oh Adelaide, come have a look at the fine fabrics and furs,
oui
?” She rushes forward and reaches out for my hands.

“Are you having new dresses made, milady?” I ask Galadriel as Marianna drags me toward the pile. It seems a strange thing to do for a woman with child.

Galadriel proudly looms over the folded fine–spun and silk, damask and velvet. “Yes, but not for me.”

I almost ask if they are for the baby, but she has not announced that she is with child. My doing so would be great folly.

“For whom, milady?”

“For you,” she says, her smile almost motherly.

I fight the urge to recoil. “But why, milady?”

“Surely someone shall take you into their court soon. I shan’t having you looking the pauper.”

I swallow hard. A step toward court takes me a step farther from Ivo.

Johanna’s grey–green eyes narrow. “Are you not grateful?”

I dip into a curtsy. “I thank you, Lady Galadriel.”

“She is Lady Mother to you now,” Johanna says. “You should address your new mother properly.”

“I would not want to make her feel so much older than she is,” I say. “We are only five or six winters apart. She is young enough to be my sister.”

“I think I would much prefer milady,” Galadriel says.

“It is improper, Countess,” Johanna says.

A knock saves me from compliance. Marianna slips toward the door and opens it. Linus stands in the threshold, a pitcher of wine in one hand and a folded piece of parchment in the other. The scarlet seal is already broken. Linus gives a nervous bow. “Milady,” he utters, “a letter has arrived for the countess.”

Galadriel rises, her eyes vulnerable for a heartbeat. Then her countess mask returns, hardening her face. She holds her hand out coolly, and Linus rushes forward to hand her the letter.

“Who is it from?” Marianna asks.

Galadriel’s face pales for a moment. “It is from Lorraine.” She sighs. “It is a refusal. My mother–in–law never had any love for me. Here,” she hands the letter to Marianna, “you can read it aloud.” Galadriel sinks into her chair.

Johanna rips the letter from Marianna’s hands “I will read it. I cannot understand half of what you say.”

Dear Galadriel,

I congratulate you on your wedding. It seems just the other day that my Ulrich left us to be with our Lord and with your son. Their names are on all our lips during our daily masses. I hope they are still on the lips of those in your house, as well.

Johanna pauses, and her eyebrow flits up. She gives the letter a silent, cursory read. “Perhaps, I should read the rest of this with you in private, Countess.”

Galadriel runs her fingers sadly along the patterns on the sapphire damask that sits atop the pile of fine fabrics. “Read it aloud, Lady Johanna. I am quite used to her ill–treatment of me.”

Johanna gives an obeisant tip of her head and continues to read.

I had no news of your betrothal and not nearly enough of your wedding to have been able to attend. I would like to have come. I long to see what has come of your dower lands. Ulrich had such grand plans for Bitsch. I trust your father continues them. He seemed a wise man, though I cannot say the same for his last wife. She did not make it through the fever and neither did Dorthe. I believe Ebba still launders for us, not that you should care for your former stepsister. Your father should be pleased to know he is a widower now and can marry again.

I shall take in this stepdaughter of yours. It sounds as though she needs a lady born and bred in order to have any chance at running a proper household, given her common background. I am grooming twelve girls now from some of the greatest households in the empire. Two have gained most advantageous betrothals, though I am not at liberty to share to whom. The others shall no doubt be betrothed by next year’s end. I cannot promise you such a match for this girl, of course, but I shall take her and do my best with her as I do with all the ladies in my care.

See that she is here before May Day. I would like her to see how a true lady plans such festivities.

Your Former Mother–in–Law,

Duchess Agnes of Lorraine

Galadriel’s eyelids droop, heavy with sadness. An uncomfortable silence lingers. “Have Adelaide measured and the dresses made today, Marianna. I am quite tired and would like to retire to my rooms. I shall see you on the morrow to ready me before Easter Mass.”

She rises and walks stiffly into her bedchamber. Marianna starts toward the door, but Johanna puts out an arm to stop her.

“Let her be,” she commands, “for now. Let us get Lady Adelaide measured, and when she sees how quickly it is done, we’ll send her some sweetmeats and strong wine to cheer her.”

“But it’s Holy Saturday,” Marianna says with a gasp.

“I don’t care if it is the second coming,” Johanna quips. “And if anyone in the kitchen doesn’t see it my way, tell them to take their convictions with them on the North Road.”

Marianna stands in shock, her mouth agape.

“God’s blood, Marianna, close your mouth. You look like a frog catching flies.”

Marianna narrows her eyes, whips around, and storms into the hallway. Johanna snaps her fingers, and the seamstresses rush back into the room, measuring ropes and pins in hand. I shall be trapped in this room with Johanna all day. I think that might be worse than sewing. I raise my arms as they measure my waist, my chest, my height, my everything in great haste.

I turn my gaze toward Johanna, who smirks. “Most girls would give anything to be in your position right now. I fear these fine fabrics are wasted on you.”

“Your fear rightly, Lady Johanna. I am not deserving,” I agree. She raises her eyebrow. I think she’d rather I argue. She looks for a fight. If she keeps digging at me, she might get one.

“What is it like, Lady Adelaide,” she asks, “to rise so high, I wonder, to go from a
burgher’s
daughter to one of the finest courts in Christendom?”

“If it pleases you, I’ll send you a letter after I am settled in Lorraine. Then you can finally know for yourself.”

She laughs. “Yes, I should like to know how you are getting on. I hope you practice a lady’s decorum better in the duchess’ court than you do in this one.”

“Do you truly hope for such a thing, Lady Johanna?”

“I do, not for your sake, but for the countess’. I think you are an ungrateful urchin, undeserving of such finery, such titles.”

“It is good to finally hear the truth from your lips.”

“Then I have more truth for you.” Her sweet smile is a lie. “You cannot rise forever. The wheel of fortune descends as quickly as it rises.”

“Then it is a good that I do not care for rising.”

“Perhaps.”

I pity the seamstresses who have to listen to us peck at each other like hens. Once I am measured, they drop their cords and set to work on the fabrics, ribbons, and furs. I step down from the pedestal, happy to leave Johanna alone in the misery that she hovels.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Johanna says, a commandment, not a question.

I halt in my step. My teeth clench, and I smile before saying, “You regard me informally, Lady Johanna.”