The Fairytale Keeper: Avenging the Queen
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Authors: Andrea Cefalo
Avenging the Queen
Andrea Cefalo
Scarlet Primrose Press
Greenville, South Carolina
Copyright © 2012 Andrea Cefalo
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should be submitted to the following address: Scarlet Primrose Press. PO Box 80926, Simpsonville, SC 29680.
http://www.andreacefalo.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Cefalo, Andrea
Scarlet Primrose Press/Andrea Cefalo
Summary: Her mother called her Snow White, but her mother’s dead now. Adelaide hates that name anyway. The fever claimed Adelaide’s mother just like a thousand others in Cologne where the people die without Last Rites and the dead are dumped in a large pit outside of the city walls. Adelaide’s father won’t let that happen to his wife though, but the only way to obtain a funeral is by bribing the parish priest. An atrocity at the funeral forces the breaking point for Adelaide. But seeking justice against the cruel Father Soren may mean sacrificing everything: her father, her friends, her first love, and maybe even her life.
LCCN: 2012932754
ISBN: 0985167815
ISBN-13: 978-0-9851678-1-3
For my husband,
Ken
Thank you for never saying ‘no’ to my dreams.
My mother, Nancy, for being my first reader, my best friend, giver of amazing advice, and provider of great books.
My father, Greg, for great advice, believing in my writing, and showing me the benefits of working hard.
My sister, Katie, for being the first person interested in this story.
My Meme, Nancy, for fostering a love of literature in me and showing me how to make lemons from lemonade.
My Nana, Joann, for her completely unconditional love.
Ken, Lisa, Curt, and Katelyn for their interest, enthusiasm, and for being the world’s greatest in-laws.
Linda for being a cheerleader to all she knows.
Lydia, Selena, Nic, Kaydra, and Xander for helping me be a kid again when I really needed it.
Nina for sharing her amazing books and writing with me.
Stephen for showing me the value in valuing one’s self and inspiring me with his amazing talents and epic adventures.
Quigley and Pretty Girl for their wagging tails, sloppy kisses, and hours of sitting by me as I typed away.
Aunt Karen who I know is with me and has something to do with these stories I write.
My Lord and Savior for giving me hope and solace when I need it.
Once upon a time in the middle of winter, when the flakes of snow were falling like feathers from the sky, a queen sat at a window sewing, and the frame of the window was made of black ebony. And whilst she was sewing and looking out of the window at the snow, she pricked her finger with the needle, and three drops of blood fell upon the snow. And the red looked pretty upon the white snow, and she thought to herself, would that I had a child as white as snow, with lips as red as blood, and hair as black as the wood of the window frame.
…she had a little daughter, whose skin was as white as snow with lips as red as blood, and her hair was as black as ebony, and she was therefore called little Snow White. And when the child was born, the queen died.
-Snow White
***
I place my hand on the nose of the brown work horse as Father and Johan remove her dead body from its carriage. He shakes his head and snorts, the steam of his breath floating into the cold March fog.
I am not supposed to be motherless. That happens to other children. Yet here I am, watching Father place my Mutti on a pyre. My legs shake as I approach her for the last time. I haven’t slept in days.
A loosely-knit ivory shroud is tightly wound around her lifeless skin. Her once pink lips are violet and flattened. My Mutti is dead, I think. Seeing her again makes it all very real and knocks the breath from my chest.
I brush my fingers along the waves of her clay-colored hair and trace her high cheek bones, resting them on her cold, hard hands folded gently across the waist of the cream-colored tunic she was wearing when she died.
The bouquet of wild flowers I had plucked for the funeral is now wilting in my iron grip and the leaves have browned. She is too good for wilted flowers, I think, and toss the bouquet to the ground. I return to Father’s side where he stands with my mother’s cousin, Galadriel.
The dead flowers begin to roll away with an icy gust of wind, but Father kneels quickly to collect them. He pushes them against my stomach and muffles a cough. Men do not cry in Cologne, at least not outside the walls of their homes, so he stares straight ahead stoically, his jaw tightly clenched.
Father Soren moves hurriedly through the funeral rites. His face twists with disgust and I imagine he fears contracting the great fever that has killed so many in Cologne. His callous eyes stare through us, void of compassion.
He speaks faster as the heavy clouds darken and the roar of thunder builds. I despise him and his church. In this, I know I am not alone. These vile men hide in their churches as the people of Cologne succumb to the fever without last rites. They are the ones who order the bodies of our family and friends to be dumped like refuse into an enormous pit far outside the city walls.
Yesterday, Father had sent friends to find a priest who could serve Mother her last rites. St. Severin, St. Kunibert, St. Gereon… even the cathedral’s priests all refused and stated that as it was Sunday they were busy preparing for Mass. But I know better. No priest would come to our home for fear of catching the fever himself. I pray Saint Peter shall pardon this missing sacrament and grant Mother entry to Heaven.
I hope these men all perish without their last rites. I hope they are placed on that horrid cart destined for the pit outside the city, their crooked bodies hanging from the edge of the cart with the poorest and most decayed victims, mouths agape, surrounded by flies.
Father says we are lucky to have a funeral at all. We are lucky 1247 was a fruitful year for us. We are lucky to live in a city where a cobbler can earn enough to bribe a priest into giving a funeral service. We are lucky Father comes from a long line of cobblers and that the wealthiest families of Cologne purchase his shoes. We are lucky the fever hasn’t stopped pilgrims from coming to Cologne and buying from our booth in the market.
But I do not feel lucky today.
Father Soren quickly bows his head in silence. Then, with a snap of his chubby fingers, he summons his dark-haired associate, Johan, to light the pyre. The straw below Mother ignites and flames lap at her like the devil’s tongue. An anxious twitch possesses my leg. She isn’t really dead, I think. She wouldn’t leave me.
I run to the pyre and pet her hair, but she doesn’t wake. I kiss her cold hard face and plea for her to get up, but she doesn’t hear me so I beg louder.
Father Soren gasps with disgust.
“Stupid imp! She’s infected herself now!” He backs farther from the smoking pyre and points a shaking finger toward me. “She’ll give us all the fever.”
I shake Mother’s shoulders and cry for her to wake up. My flowers fall and are swallowed by the growing flames as unbridled sobs burst from my throat. I embrace her body tightly, knowing now she shall not rise.
Smoke stings my lungs and fire smarts my skin like hundreds of tiny whips. But the burns are nothing compared to the wicked pains of grief that wring my stomach like a wet rag, that smite the breath from my lungs, and put a hardened lump at the back of my throat.
Father pries my arms loose and pulls me backward. I fall to the ground coughing. A rim of ambers glows along the hems of my chainse and surcote which I smother in the cold, soggy ground.
“Take your silver, you coward,” Father spits as he pitches a small bag of coins on the ground by the growing flames in disgust.
Johan retrieves the bag before it catches fire.
“I would have had your wench placed on the cart and disposed of properly had I known your true feelings, shoe-maker,” the priest declares. He stares straight into Father’s eyes and spits on my mother’s corpse.
Father roars, his face flashing a violent scarlet as he charges. Johan stands reluctantly between them as Galadriel grabs Father’s shoulders.
“No! Katrina would not want this, Ansel!” she pleads and steps in front of him.
Galadriel’s eyes are wide with terror as she attempts to calm him, but he looks past her to Soren. It is a long moment, and emotion hangs heavily in the air. Galadriel is right. Mother would not want this.
But the bastard spat on my mother and deserves to be punished. I’d like to see Father beat him to a bloody pulp.
The priest weasels his way to the carriage and Father lets him go. I bend down, pick up a cobblestone, and charge at him. Johan grabs me by the cloak, but I undo the clasp and escape. I pitch the stone, aiming for the back of Soren’s bald head. He yelps as it strikes his shoulder. He turns and narrows his eyes at me.
“You little witch!”
I run back to Father, narrowly escaping Johan’s grip.
“You shall pay for this,” Father promises, pointing a finger over Galadriel’s shoulder toward the carriage. Galadriel removes her hands from Father’s shoulders and steps away, sighing with relief.
“It looks as though my pay has already been secured, shoe-maker,” the priest shouts with a grin. He tosses the bag of coins in the air and Johan laughs. “Saint Laurentius thanks you for your
generous
gift. May your wife fare well in Heaven.”
He motions to the burning pyre and his man-servant kicks it over. Mother’s burning remains tumble to the ground. Johan races to the carriage and jumps aboard. The priest whips the horses and they speed off. Father races after them in vain for the horses are too fast.
I drop to my knees, wailing in anguish. I cry as the dark, moaning clouds pour down upon us, rain sizzling in the flames. Mother’s charred remains extinguish under the cold deluge.
Father runs to me and falls to his knees. He turns me away from the defiled corpse. “Do not look,” his voice cracks, and he embraces me tightly. He cries violently, angrily, as I sob into his shoulder. I had never heard my Father cry like that before and I hope I never have to hear it again.
***
Father stands, and pulls me with him. He urges me forward, forcing my gaze on the long road ahead of us back to the city. “Night approaches.”
“We cannot leave her here like this,” I cry in protest as Galadriel hands me the cloak which Johan had tossed into the mud. But Father does not reply and continues to push me forward. I know now he shall return to bury her.
“I hope you do not intend to do this alone.” I say quietly, fastening my cloak. “There are wolves and thieves outside the gate at night.” He does not answer. I fight the urge to beg him to reconsider for I know my protests shall fall on deaf ears.
My crying ebbs and flows from violent bawling to whimpers. I don’t think I shall ever be happy again, that I shall ever stop crying. The tears still pool and flow down my face which is raw from the water, the wind, and whips from the long black strands of my hair that can’t be tamed in this weather. But my throat grows painful and tired and my cries slowly abate. My anguish is locked away and I feel nothing, not even the sting of the cold March rain.
The sky slowly darkens from grey to black as we approach Severin’s gate, which, like all the gates, is closed every night. Father knocks on the heavy wood. The window slides open and a one-eyed old man appears from behind it. “State yer business,” he says matter-of-factly. His long, wet, silver hair blows out from the window.
“Gregor, it’s us,” Father says.
“Ansel?” The man squints with his one good eye.
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry about yer missus,” Gregor says gently. He continues with his condolences as he jumps from his stand. I wonder if he knows we can no longer hear him. The chains crank as the massive gate rises revealing Gregor, a sweet old man barely as tall as my shoulder.
He and my grandfather, whom I never met, were childhood friends. Plagued with rheumatism, Gregor was forced to give up masonry long ago. He now mans the gate for little pay. When Father noticed Gregor’s toes poking out from beneath his shoes a fortnight ago, he made him a new pair without charge.
“Do the shoes fit well?” Father asks, looking down at his work. Gregor does not answer and looks past Father to Galadriel, staring at her as though she is the Holy Grail.
Even in her soaked, drab, grey tunic and cloak, Galadriel is beautiful. Her blonde hair shimmers even on a stormy day like this. She has the same heart-shaped face and fair skin as me. Her light blue eyes are wide and I can imagine jongleurs composing songs in her name.
“Gregor? Are you all right?” I ask to snap him from his awkward stares.
“Oh, yes!” Gregor finally answers. “Oh! My feet are as warm an’ dry as the Holy Land itself, Ansel!” Gregor’s pointed nose passes his lips, bobbing up and down when he talks. He parades his footwear, and then looks up at Father with concern. “I’m really sorry ’bout Katrina, Ansel. She was a queen among women.”
“She shall be missed,” Father sighs, casting his gaze downwards again. “Is there a carriage that can take them back? I would not want them to walk alone in the rain.”
“Oh, yes. Of course, Ansel. Ivan! Get one of the carriages over ’ere and take these girls back to the cobbler’s!” Gregor shouts at a tall, young, blonde man whose pale skin makes me look Arabian. “Shouldn’t ya accompany the ladies back ’ome, Ansel? Tis a cold night ta be out.”
“No, Gregor. I have business to attend to.”
“Anythin’ I can be a ’elp with?” Gregor asks with deep sincerity.
“Have you got any shovels?”
“Course, but what would ya be needing ’em for?”
“Our funeral did not go as planned. I need a pick, as well.” Father coughs to cover the crack in his voice.
Ivan ambles over, pulling the horses and carriage behind him. He straightens upon the sight of Galadriel and stares for several moments, though she does not seem to notice.
“It’s not safe ta be outside ’a the gates after dark, Ansel. Oh, a drunkard was cut through outside the Weier gate on ’is way ’ome last week,” Gregor says.
Father opens his mouth to argue, but Gregor continues, shrugging his shoulders. “But if it’s a shovel and a pick ya want, we ’ave ’alf a dozen back in the stables. I could send Ivan with ya if ya like.”
Ivan appears angered and shakes his head slowly and sternly. It is difficult to believe anyone of his impressive stature would be afraid of anything. He is taller than my father by a head.
“Thank you for getting them home and for the shovel.”
“I wish I could do more. Are ya sure you shan’t accept any ’elp?” Gregor asks.
“Yes,” Father sighs as he walks toward the stables to get the shovel and pick.
Ivan opens the carriage door, but I am planted where I stand. “I shall see you both soon.”
My heart pounds and the air thins. If I go home without Father, I might never see him again. I can’t lose him too. Not now. I imagine him being overcome by a large band of thieves or a pack of ravenous wolves. I must make him stay, even at the risk of scavengers getting to Mother before she can be buried.
I barrel into him and squeeze him hard. “Please, don’t go,” I cry into his wet cloak. “We can all go in the morning,” I plead, looking into his eyes.
“Get in the carriage, Adelaide,” he replies somberly and pushes me backward. “I have fought much worse than vagabonds and wolves alone and survived.”
Gregor hobbles to the stables and returns with a crossbow. Father straps it to his arm.
Father turns toward the gate and I dive to the ground, squeezing his legs in an effort to keep him there. “Don’t go!” I cry.
“Adelaide! That is enough!” he scolds and shakes me from his leg. “Get in the carriage!”
Father has made his choice and there is nothing I can do to change it. I stand and stare at his face for a moment, trying to memorize it in case he doesn’t come back. I hug him tightly, sobbing again.
“I love you, Vatti,” I whimper into his cloak.
“And I love you,” he whispers so quietly no one could possibly hear.
I look at his face one more time, turn, and step into the carriage. He stands and watches as we ride away down Severin’s Strasse. I do not even bother to keep my composure in front of Galadriel, giving in to tears and sobs which I fear shall never end. I can feel her piteous stares. I am anguished with memories stirred by the places we pass on our way home and terribly worried for Father’s safety.
