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The

C Captive

A Fairytale Keeper Novel

ANDREA CEFALO

Scarlet Primrose Press

Copyright © 2014

Andrea Cefalo

ISBN: 0985167815

ISBN–13: 978–0985167813

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012932754

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First Edition

First Printing, February 2015

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Praise and Reviews

“A…resonant tale set late in the 13th century… with unexpected

plot twists. An engaging story of revenge and redemption… An

opener to a future series.”

Publisher’s Weekly

“Really great story. The author’s style reminds me of many great

historical fiction pieces that I’ve read. Strong emotion injected

into almost every page.”

Amazon Vine Reviewer

“…a unique twist on the Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Part fairy tale

retelling, part historical fiction…. The Fairy Tale Keeper is a story

of corruption, devotion, and tough decisions.”

Copperfield Review

“The story that Cefalo weaves is intriguing and leaves you

hanging on, wanting more.”

Hooked to Books Book Review Blog

“…it doesn’t feel like any retelling. Because it’s not. The Fairytale

Keeper is its own unique story…very entertaining, containing a

strong female role, a sweet romance, and much more.”

Lulu The Bookworm Book Review Blog

~ Acknowledgements ~

First to my amazing husband, Ken, who supports me as I follow

my dreams and believes in them whole–heartedly even when I

don’t. This work is lovingly dedicated to you.

My mother and father, Nancy and Greg, thank you for providing

me with great books, an appreciation of writers and reading …

and for expecting greatness from your children.

My sister, Katie, for always believing in me and your undying

support.

My nieces and nephews and in-laws, Ken, Lisa, Curt, Katelyn

Selena, Nic, Xander, Kaydra, and Lydia for all of your interest

and support.

My wonderful writer friends Rick, Julie, and Jan, for sharing their

opinions and wisdom with me.

My Lord and Savior for giving me hope and solace.

Finally to Quigley and Pretty Girl for their wagging tails, sloppy

kisses, and hours of sitting by me as I typed away.

28 March 1248

Passing clouds of smoke roll through Hay Market. By now, the

flames smolder, lapping at the blackened, brittle skeleton of

Cologne’s famous cathedral. Soon, nothing but cinders will be left

of her. May the flakes of ash roll past the glass windows of our

overreaching archbishop’s palace, so he can see them for what I

hope they are: the remnants of his power flitting away like

snowflakes on a frigid gust.

Father and I wait in his harlot’s halted carriage in front of

the White Stag, only a few blocks from the cathedral’s remains. I

hold my sleeve to my nose to keep the ashes from my throat and

close the shutters to keep the smoke from slithering in, but that

confines the noxious cloud. Father shoves open the shutters, his

deep–set eyes narrow at me.

How long will it take him to forgive me?

Truly, it is he who should seek forgiveness, not I.

Sneaking out of my room worried him, and finding me in

Ivo’s arms enraged him. But I did not betray him. Not like he

betrayed Mama and me. The way I found Father and Galadriel,

my mother’s cousin, ten days ago is etched on the back of my

ANDREA CEFALO

2

eyelids. Her head on his bare shoulders. The silhouette of their

unclothed bodies beneath the blankets. The stupid grin on her harlot

face.

Another cloud of smoke rolls in, and I cough. “Must we

sit here and wait?” I ask.

The smoky breeze jostles Father’s black hair. He says

nothing and peers through a slit in the shutters, inhaling the

smoke as though he isn’t bothered. The set in his jaw tells me

otherwise.

“This smoke will be the death of us. We should head to

the fields,” I argue. “The air will be clearer there.

And I might see Ivo. My Ivo. One last time before we go.

My thoughts shift to last night, our first night alone. I

breathe in, embracing the scent of smoke filling our carriage, for

that aroma was so heavy in his white–blond hair.

I close my eyes tightly, summoning memories. His lips arc

into a boyish grin, pushing up his cheeks so lines fan his blue eyes,

deep–set and large. A curtain of hair falls into his gaze, and with a toss

of his head, the silvery strands flit away. With it comes that Ivo look: so

mischievous and playful.

”One horse is not enough to pull four people, a carriage,

and our trunks.” Galadriel’s impatient explanation jolts me into

the present. “We need another. The beast should have been here

before Prime.”

The fire has everyone out of sorts. Who knows if this

horseman will even show? “Are you sure this horseman hasn’t

run off with your gilder?” I droll.

“I retained the horse with a groschen. The rest of his

payment shall come when the horse is delivered. Really,

Adelaide,” she sighs. “It is only a little smoke.”

I hope he has run off with your groschen, I think. Hatred

surges through my veins, a river of molten iron.

Another cloud of smoke rolls in. Father coughs, and my

breath catches—like it does now anytime anyone coughs. A

THE COUNTESS’ CAPTIVE

3

cough: that is the first sign of the fever. The fear passes as the

haze rolls by, and Father’s cough subsides. My anxieties shift

back to anger.

He bedded her, too, I think. The thought is far more

painful. I expected better from Father. I hardly know Galadriel.

It is easier to hate her. He’s the only parent I have left,

and a part of me fears that ill–thoughts of him are as poisonous as

ill–wishes. No matter how angered I am with Father, I love him

and couldn’t bare for the fever to claim him like it did Mama—

and thousands of others in Cologne.

An eerie quiet encompasses the market. The clomping of

hooves against hardened earth breaks the silence, growing louder

with each step. A horse whinnies, and two men exchange

greetings. The door flies open, and the carriage driver peaks in.

“The horse arrives, milady. Is this the one you want?” He brushes

his wiry, black and silver hair from his sooty forehead.

Galadriel peers through the opened shutter. “Yes. Give

the man his coin, strap up the beast, and let us go.”

The man nods and shuts the door. The tug of the horses

surges the carriage forward.

My stomach clenches as we turn onto Filzengraben,

passing what was once my home. The door hangs crookedly from

a single hinge. A charred circle marks the spot where our every

possession was burned. I swallow hard, and my gaze averts to

Father, hoping for a wince, a flicker of pain in his iron eyes, any

reaction rather than an empty stare.

A torrent of memories race through my mind: Mama

slipping next to me between the blankets of my bed ready with a myriad

of stories to lull me into dreams. Father hunching over a table littered

with leather scraps and half–made turn shoes, chiding my sloppy

stitching. The flitting of fireflies in glass jars, which mysteriously

managed to find their way to my bedside table on hot summer nights.

Father snaps the shutters closed, jarring me into the

present.

ANDREA CEFALO

4

The carriage turns onto Severin Strasse, mere blocks from

the gate. Over the crunching of carriage wheels onto stone and

hooves against dirt, I hear voices shout in the distance. One

familiar and one not.

“What’d I do? Nothin’! That’s what I done,” Gregor

defends. His cries cut sharply through our silence. My breath

catches.

Oh God, please let this be nothing. Please let this be two

worthless drunkards pestering Gregor and nothing else. Please

let this have nothing to do with last night.

“Look, gatekeeper, there. There is a divot in the cutters,”

a deep voice notes with authority. “How did it get there?”

I bite my lip to keep from cursing.

This has everything to do with last night, everything to

do with me.

“You’re arrestin me for havin’ a divot in my cutters!”

Gregor exclaims.

The breath escapes me. Gregor shall surely be thrown in

the North Tower for this, for me, for my carelessness. Lunging

forward, I stick my head out the window. Father yanks me by the

surcote, and I fall onto the seat. His unforgiving glare burns, and

I look away.

I am no longer in the carriage, but kneeling on the cold,

puddled stone floor of the North Tower. Shrieks of tortured men

pierce my ears, and I try not to imagine what horrors they

endure, but I cannot help it no matter how tightly I close my eyes,

how tightly I cover my ears. I envision Gregor upon the wrack,

the shrieks coming from him. His face contorts with confusion

and terror as he gapes upon a masked man and a table of tools

designed by the devil himself, constructed for one purpose:

torture.

What must I do? How can I fix this? Do I confess and save

him?

I can’t go back to the stocks! I can’t.


5

But if the archbishop finds out what I did, I can forget the

stocks. Last night I freed a heretic. The archbishop hangs and

burns heretics. What will he do to someone who frees them? I

imagine the punishment for heretics and their liberators is the

same.

On the stake, flames engulf the flesh, crawling up the legs

like a thousand thrashing leather whips. Suffocating, by noose or

smoke, would be the best for which I could hope.

The arguments from the gate grow louder.

“That’s Gregor.” Father peeks through the open shutters.

“What would the guards want with him?”

I swallow hard. Each roll of the carriage wheel is another

moment lost. Gregor may not have many left.

But would my confession serve enough to save him? The

archbishop might still torture him for a false confession and burn

him anyway. My fingers grip the edge of the seat like the ledge of

a tall building, letting go will likely lead to a horrible death. What

is the sense in us both suffering such a fate? My resolve withers at the

thought, but I shake this coward’s rationale from my head, take a

deep breath, and pounce for the door.

Someone grabs me by the arm and reels me back. I fall

hard on the carriage floor. “What do you know of this?” Father

looms above me.

I avert my gaze. Should I tell him?

“Adelaide!”

“I freed Elias last night…and I used Gregor’s cutters to do

it.”

“Stop the carriage!” Father barks.

The carriage halts abruptly, rocking Galadriel and Father

forward.

“How am I to fix this, Adelaide?” Silence lingers between

us, for I haven’t an answer he’ll accept. He snatches me up by the

collar. “Answer me, girl.” The heat of his scream scalds the side

of my face, and I brace for his strike.

ANDREA CEFALO

6

It doesn’t come.

I peel one eye open and then the other. Galadriel’s hand

rests lightly upon Father’s arm, the arm that holds me in a steel

grip.

Her voice, thin as a whisper, says, “I know what to do.”

Father’s grip lightens, and I slip to the ground. “Wait.”

His angry gaze darts to me for a moment. Then, his face falls.

“She is my daughter. She is my responsibility.”

She grasps the sides of Father’s face, her pretty blue eyes

catching his gaze. “Ansel, look at me. I am a countess. They shall

listen to me, and if not–” She looks down, her full lips curling

into a girlish grin. “Well, there is nothing in this world that coin

cannot buy.”

She rises, knocking on the carriage to summon the driver.

She takes a deep breath and straightens her back. The door opens,

and she ducks out. The driver holds out his hand, and she takes it

like a queen. I push my back against the seat and watch her

through a slit in the shutter from the safety of a carriage.

“You should have come to me,” Father hisses.

“You were angry with me.” A weak defense.

“I am still angry with you! You do not think. Of course,

Konrad would have his guards searching Airsbach for the culprit.

It is where he thought this rebellion started. How could you not

have thought of that?” He shakes his head. “Freeing Elias was a

selfish and reckless thing to do.”

“Selfish?! I saved a man’s life and risked my own to do

it.”

“You saved yourself from a guilty conscience. By saving

Elias from the stocks, you’ve sent him to the stake, and you may

send Gregor with him.”

Galadriel saves him as we speak, I think, but the words

are too bitter to speak.

“What if we parted earlier or later, Adelaide?” Father

continues. “Do you think the archbishop will be a forgiving man


7

today, after his cathedral has burned?”

“No,” I reply.

“What do you think would have happened if those

guards had already arrested Gregor?” he asks. “Let me tell you.

Gregor would be in the North Tower right now. Konrad would

have him tortured. If Gregor yielded, then there’d be a bounty on

your head. If Gregor did not, then Konrad would burn him at the

stake. Did you think of that?

“No, you didn’t,” he continues before I have chance to

speak. “And Elias, he shall never yield, Adelaide. He’s a heretic

according to every law. He’ll die a heretic’s death, taking any

followers, any associates with him. He’ll not think twice for doing

so. The man believes himself a martyr.”

“You didn’t see him last night. So many days in the stocks

would make any man cautious,” I say.

“Did so many days in the stocks make you cautious?”

His words plant seeds of doubt.

Elias might never cease. My fingers rush to my lips,

stifling a gasp. Ivo! I’ve asked Elias to teach Ivo to read and write.

If Father speaks the truth, then I’ve put Ivo in danger. The

screams from the North Tower echo in my mind again. The

groans, the wails, the begging, the pleading that I’d heard less

than a week ago, come from Ivo. My Ivo.

“You have no mind for these ventures, Adelaide,” Father

chides, and I concede with a shameful nod. “You are a woman

and have a woman’s mind. You too often forget that.”

The sting of his words barely register. Ivo. I have to warn

him.

I turn my gaze to the outside of the carriage. Galadriel’s

flaxen hair, made wavy by last night’s plait, ripples in the wind.

Her cloak blows aside, revealing the subtle curve of her hips, her

chest. The larger of the two guards catches sight of her. His eyes

widen, and he nudges the shorter man next to him. Surely it’s not

every day a lady speaks with them and certainly none so

ANDREA CEFALO

8

beautiful as Galadriel.

“I wish to leave, and yet the gate is blocked,” Galadriel

coldly notes.

The shorter guard bows quickly, his mop of mousy curls

falling into his eyes. His larger counterpart clumsily follows,

strands of his thinning, fox–colored hair sliding out of place.

“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 peaked now,” she says. “What could


9

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.

ANDREA CEFALO

10

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


11

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.”

ANDREA CEFALO

12

“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


13

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 sew 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

ANDREA CEFALO

14

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


15

darkness takes me away.

A great crowd swarms Hay Market. Why? Why are so many people

here? Smoke slinks heavily between their feet, and the fumes fill

my nose. I put my hand to my face and cough.

It is a dark, starless night, but a rich fiery light flickers off

the sides of the throng of blank faces, each staring in the same

direction.

“What’s happening?” I nudge the moon–faced boy beside

me, but he does not move. His eyes do not flinch at my touch.

What is everyone looking at? I push up on the tops of my

toes. A thousand heads block the view, fading into the smoke.

A thought warns me: Turn around. Go home. I shake the

words from my head and surge forward.

I shimmy through the crowd, gently at first, excusing

myself. No one moves aside. No one complains. No one

acknowledges me at all. They are as stubborn and stupid as

cattle. I push harder, shoving old ladies and burghers’ wives.

And strangely, no one chides my ill manners.

Smoke thickens, and I put my sleeve to my mouth and

nose to filter the stench. The rich smoke reeks of burning flesh—

like a hundred pigs cooked far too long over the spit. A gag rises

in the back of my throat, and I turn my back to the cloud, hoping

to catch clean air.

I expect to look upon a sea of faces, but all I see are the

backs of heads again. I whirl around, and the same sight is before

me. Fear and foreboding push the hairs up on my arms and neck.

I push on—faster now—making my way through the

crowd, jumping up to see my progress. The throng extends into

the horizon still, as far as my eyes can see, vanishing into a wall

of smoke. I charge through the throng at a run, shouldering

through them, holding one hand to my mouth to muffle the

ANDREA CEFALO

16

smoke. The silence is menacing. I run faster and harder until I

unexpectedly, suddenly break through. I am falling.

I land in the downy plume with a swoosh. It puffs up in a

large splash, shooting up a thousand fireflies with it. They scatter

into the darkness as the feathery substance snows down. I hold

out my hand and capture a few flakes, rubbing the warm snow

between my fingers, turning it to powder. I place the powder to

my nose, inhaling its smoky odor.

Ashes.

I am swimming in ashes.

The smell of burning flesh fills my nostrils again. A chill

rides up my spine, and I jump up, brushing the ashes from the

bottoms of my sleeve, my chainse. These aren’t the cinders of

timbers. They are the cinders of people.

The roar of fire, and the flicker of flames forces my gaze

up.

I see a boy, almost a man, tied to a stake. His head bows.

His legs are withered, wrinkled, black. I hope the smoke has

killed him, that he no longer suffers. A breeze blows the smoke

toward me. I keel over, gagging at the stench. The wind turns,

and I compose myself, drinking clean air in gulps.

“Addie,” someone whispers, and I look up. The boy on

the stake is still. “Addie,” it hisses again menacingly. I turn in

every direction, looking for the whisperer. A firefly streaks by my

face, and I swat at it.

I hear my name again and again as a swarm builds,

encircling me. I crouch and cover my ears, readying myself for

what I know they shall call me, but their buzz fades. I peel open

an eyelid. They spiral the stake, a glimmering eddy of eerie

green–gold.

WEAK! WEAK! WEAK!!! They chant louder and louder,

pounding like the beat of a drum. One fly breaks from his swarm

and lands on my shoulder. I swat him, and he whirls around,

landing on the other side. “You cannot save him,” it whispers and


17

giggles shrilly.

I shudder and look up.

This is no stranger on the pyre.

“No, no, no!” I race to the pyre, looking up into Ivo’s

unconscious, sooty face. The heat is is a wall. It’s crackle: a roar

that drowns out the chanting flies. I grab for the pyre, but my

hands ignite with pain. I look around for something I can use to

squelch the flames, but there is nothing. No water, nothing, but

an ocean of ashes.

The straw at the base crumbles, barely more than embers

and cinders. The fire laps at Ivo’s chest and face, climbing far

beyond my reach. Tears roll down my burning cheeks as I undo

my belt, tear off my surcote, and use it to beat back the blaze.

I swat at the flames, but they grow higher, swallowing

my surcote. It is no use.

Weak! Weak! Weak! WEAK! They chant, and they’re right. I

crouch to the ground, trembling with heavy sobs. I cover my

nose, muffling the awful stench. I seal my eyes tightly, hoping if I

can make it dark enough, I won’t see the horrific image behind

my eyelids every time I blink. And just as I think things couldn’t

possibly be more horrid, a ghastly shriek pierces the chanting,

followed by a wail of pain.

I am falling.

“Ivo!” I cry out, jerking upright. I look around through foggy

eyes at unfamiliar surroundings. The floor rises and drops below

me. My vision clears.

I am on the floor of the carriage. It was just a dream, a

nightmare. Ivo is safe—for now.

Father sits ambivalently before me on the bench in the

carriage. Galadriel sits, with a furrowed brow, beside me on the

floor. I wipe sweaty tangles from my temples and skim a large

ANDREA CEFALO

18

bump on my forehead. A streak of pain stabs down my face, and

I flinch. Memories return to me in a rush, and I quickly recall

falling into the outcrop of stone near the Bauer’s field outside the

city walls. And, that is all. I do not recall warning Ivo.

“We must go back!” I expect a scowl from Father, but he

doesn’t regard me at all. His elbow rests upon the sill of the

window, and he stares outside. “Please, Papa,” I beg and grasp

for the arm nearest me, but he whips it out of reach.

“Do not ask a thing of me.” His lip curls. “If your lips

continue to move, you shall find yourself in a convent where they

can be put to good use.”

“But, Papa!”

He shoots me a glare of warning. I snap my mouth shut.

Galadriel’s dress shuffles as she rises to her seat, brushing

her skirt to straighten them with one hand, holding a cobblestone

in the other. I gaze upon her looking for pity, for help, but she

quickly shifts her eyes. She shall be no help to me.

I take my seat beside Galadriel. She hands me the

cobblestone. I roll it around in my hands, examining it for

evidence of its importance. I look to her quizzically, but she gazes

forward. I nudge her, but she does not move.

I lean in close to her ear. “What is this?” I whisper as

lowly as possible.

“A stone,” she whispers even lower.

“I know it is a stone. Why do you give it to me?”

Her eyes widen in warning. “It’s from your mother’s

grave. Now hush before you upset him further.”

Mama’s grave. My stomach sinks. In my worry for Ivo, I

hadn’t thought of missing the chance to say parting words at her

grave. Who knows when I shall see it again?

My fingers spread along the cool surface of the stone, and

I close my eyes, conjuring Mama’s wide smile, soft, mousy hair,

and mahogany eyes. The memory withers, and her warm skin

pales to gray, her lively eyes cloud over. The image of her death


19

mask tears at my insides. I shake away the thought, the feeling of

pain that is now synonymous with her.

The stone is heavy in my hands. Why would Galadriel do

me such a kindness? Galadriel looks out the window upon the

forest. Perhaps, the stone is an olive branch. Perhaps, she wants

to make peace. She tried to save us from the stocks, and when we

were freed, she gave us shelter. She risked herself to save Gregor,

and now she thought to save this stone for me.

My hatred for her melts, emptying a spot for guilt to fill. I

shake the moods from my head. Mama’s spot in the bed was

hardly cold when Galadriel weaseled her way into it, I remind

myself. Galadriel usurped my mother’s place and not a fortnight

after her death. They were cousins, and she betrayed her. Any

fondness I have for Galadriel is a betrayal, too.

Even if this weren’t so, I cannot allow Galadriel’s few

kind deeds to deter me from getting back to Cologne, and I have

more pressing matters to attend to. I shall have time to change

Father’s mind about Bitsch, even if it is a week after we arrive.

But my time to warn Ivo wears thinner with each turn of the

carriage wheel.

I cannot send a letter directly to Ivo, for he may go out in

search of Elias to read it for him. Perhaps, I should send the letter

to Elias, voiding our deal, telling him he need not tutor Ivo and

should, instead, flee for his own safety. Of course, I cannot

address it to him, for he is a wanted man, and if the archbishop’s

guards hunted down Gregor within a half–day, surely the

archbishop would be motivated to put out a reward for Elias’s

capture.

I could address the letter to my room at The White Stag,

where Elias shall stay again tonight, but by the time the letter

reaches Cologne, Elias shall have left it. My only option seems to

address the letter to Brother John who performed Mama’s good

funeral. Surely he can find Ivo and warn him against any contact

with Elias.

ANDREA CEFALO

20

We passed the end of the world or at least the end of the world as

I knew it. The trees loom close, blotting out the sun. According to

Mama’s tales a forest was a place as ominous as night, filled with

wolves and witches, devils and brigands—and we haven’t a

defense against any of them. The silence is disturbing, but not so

disturbing as when something stirs. The shutters give the same

false safety as a blanket gives a child frightened by shadows, but I

keep them closed none–the–less. I’m not sure if the hours spin

fast or slow, though I’d guess the latter. Without a sun rolling

across the sky or bells tolling for masses, it’s hard to tell.

By the time the forest clears into rolling hills, I venture to

push the shutters open. A creek rambles alongside us, weaving

its way into an ever–widening river. The sun begins its descent.

Slices of silver dance across the peaks of the small river waves.

The air is clear here, but cold. If I take too sharp a breath, the chill

burns my nose.

“We shall be in Oppenheim just before Compline,”

Galadriel announces, her face lighting with child–like excitement

as she reaches across me to pull the shutters closed. Father gives

her a quizzical look. “The view from the south of the city is far

better than it is from the north,” she explains. “I want you to be

surprised.”

My stomach rolls as the carriage twists and turns, rises

and falls, along this meandering, hilly road that skirts

Oppenheim. I take a slow breath to ease the nausea. That only

makes matters worse. The soft perfume of forest has faded,

giving way to the less forgiving scents of a city: refuse, manure,

and hearth smoke. Bleating rings close, and I peek through a

shutter slit. A shepherd in rough homespun and a tawny skullcap

steers his flock of sheep through a treeless field.

He veers north, and we crest another high hill. The river’s


21

splashings soften to a brook’s babblings. Galadriel leans over me

and throws open the shutters.

The view would be breathtaking—if I cared to see it.

Oppenheim’s hill is crowned with a great stone castle, banners of

the onyx eagle flapping over its towers. Each level below is older,

less arranged. Wide, tree–lined streets halo stone manors and a

half–built cathedral. If I close my eyes and listen close, I can hear

the song of chisels on stone. Galadriel says the unfinished church

will be dedicated to Saint Catherine. Below this the streets

narrow, wandering into alleys that twist around timbered inns,

merchants’ stands, cloisters, and monasteries. In their shadows

hide the taverns, brothels, and hovels.

We added an hour to our journey just for this eagle’s nest

view. If I was a willing traveler, say a girl on pilgrimage, it would

have been worth it. But I’m not. This city, which I must sadly

admit is far, far fairer than Cologne, elicits no excitement, no

wonder. Sometimes I think my heart has grown hard as stone. I

am not yet sure if that’s a good thing or not.

“It is beautiful, is it not?” Galadriel prods.

I wait for Father to say something, but he looks to me.

Now he wants me to speak? I bite my tongue out of spite alone.

This heartbeat of silence quickly snuffs Galadriel’s

excitement.

Father clears his throat. “It is the finest city I’ve seen in all

my days.”

Father’s pleasantries are too late. The air in the carriage

hangs heavy with her disappointment. Did she really think we’d

be happy? That a pretty view would make us forget all we’d lost?

If anything, it serves as a reminder. My eyes roam the city,

catching on places similar to Cologne’s Hay Market, Cologne’s

Gilded Gopher, Cologne’s City Hall. I brace for a grief that

doesn’t come. It seems I am just as numb to sadness as I am to

joy.

The rushing of water grows loud as we near the Rhine

ANDREA CEFALO

22

Gate. A hundred boats, from trading galleys to fishing vessels, lie

empty along the great river’s shore. The gate to the city lies open

before us. From inside the walls, this city looks much more like

Cologne, except there are no carts filled with the dead, and I

recall, no large pits outside the city walls to dump them in. The

fever has passed this city. I gape out the windows, finally finding

a child–like awe.

“There’s no fever here,” I stammer, and look to Galadriel.

She brightens at my happy expression. “And the people are

cleaner and dressed in finer clothes. Is everyone in this city a

burgher?”

“Burgmannen,” she says.

“What are burgmannen?”

“The lord here has no real power. Galadriel points to a

man in a scarlet surcote with well–crafted boots and a fine

woolen mantle. “He pays the burgmannen to protect him from

invasion and to stay loyal to him. Oppenheim is a Free Imperial

City, you know,” she adds. “It was a See of the Church before,

but now it belongs to the people.”

A free city? A city for the people? Could the same ever

happen for Cologne? ”How did they did they make such a thing

happen?”

She shrugs her shoulders in reply.

The carriage stops at another tattered inn such as The

White Stag, but at least it is finer than the Gilded Gopher. The

driver’s feet fall into the hard ground with a thud, and he shuffles

to the door. He holds out his hand to Galadriel and tips his head

in obeisance. “My lady,” he says, but she shushes him.

“I am a burgher’s wife tonight,” she whispers, and I

cringe at the thought.

“Well, neither of you is dressed for that title, milady,” he

notes.

She looks down at her fine clothes and then back to

Father, in his rough woolen chainse and surcote. “Yes, I suppose


23

you are right. Well, I doubt I shall be seen by anyone who knows

me in this place.”

So she keeps us in these lowly establishments on purpose.

God forbid she would run into anyone from her station

gallivanting with a shoemaker and his orphan.

She places two groschens in his hand. “Here, after you’ve

taken in my trunk, find a warm bed and an even warmer girl to

keep you for the next two nights. Be ready to depart the

following dawn.”

He bows and dashes to the back of the carriage, lugging

her trunk through the door. I barely have my feet planted before

he jumps back onto the carriage, whips the horses, and

disappears into the city.

Galadriel rushes to her room and changes into something

a little more common. We eat in a dark corner of the tavern in

near silence, and I excuse myself for bed to keep my wicked

tongue from saying something that might force Father to make

good on his threat.

I lay upon the bed, staring at the ceiling, looking for

patterns in the wood like Ivo and I once used to do when staring

at clouds. Father’s familiar gait sounds up the stairs, followed by

a softer saunter. A hinge wines, and the door to the room next to

mine shuts with a clap. How can he share a room with her? I huff

and rise from the bed.

At least they’re out of the tavern.

28 March 1248, Night

Three army surgeons who thought they knew their art perfectly, were

travelling about the world, and they came to an inn where they wanted

to pass the night. The host asked whence they came and whither they

were going?

“We are roaming about the world and practicing our art.”

“Just show me for once in a way what you can do,” said the

host.

Then the first said he would cut off his hand and put it on again

early next morning; the second said he would tear out his heart and

replace it next morning; the third said he would cut out his eyes and

heal them again next morning.

“If you can do that,” said the innkeeper, “you have learnt

everything.”

–The Three Army Surgeons

Every creek of the old wood floors seems to amplify as I tiptoe

across the room. I slowly push the door open. The hinges

squeaks. I utter a curse and pause, listening for any stirrings from

Father’s room. It remains silent. I descend the steps lightly into

the tavern.


25

With the exception of a table of drunkards and a few men

hunched over mugs of ale at the end of the bar, the place is

empty. I perch upon a stool and reflect on Galadriel’s use of

feminine wiles to cast spells on men. The barkeep returns from

the back, carrying two mugs, which he sets before the men sitting

beside me. A rim of black hair haloes his bald head. Lines run

across his forehead and along the side of his mouth, so deep a

serf could sew wheat in them. I swallow hard before forcibly

softening my gaze, pushing my lips into a girlish smile, leaning

forward.

He slaps his large, hairy hands on the bar. “What’ll it be,

girl?” he asks, exposing teeth as sullied as rotten cheese and

breath as pungent. “We have anything you like as long it’s ale,”

he adds. I laugh, a bit too heartily at the jest, before reaching out

to touch his sleeve. His face darkens. “I only take coin for drink,”

he snaps.

I recoil, and feel my face twist with a sneer. Using

feminine wiles is harder than it looks. ”All I want is pen and

parchment. You can add it to the cost of our rooms.”

The man chortles. “Does this look like a monastery?” He

grabs the empty mugs from the men next to me. “Even if I did

have it, how do I know that your mistress would pay?”

“My mistress?” He thinks I am Galadriel’s maid. “She’s not

my mistress.”

He snorts. “And the pauper’s not her lover.”

My jaw clenches. I imagine grabbing the mug to my right

and slamming it into the his temple. I close my eyes and take a

breath. I need to get a letter to Brother John. I need to warn Ivo.

”You’re right about that, barkeep. The pauper is her lover, but I

am his daughter not her maid. Any debts I incur tonight will be

promptly paid on the morrow. Please, I need pen and

parchment.”

He leans in close, narrowing his wiry eyebrows. “Then

become a nun,” he hisses and walks away.

ANDREA CEFALO

26

A round, rosy–cheeked man at the end of the bar slides

my way. “Now what would a pretty little maid like you be

needing with pen and parchment?”

“The same thing any man would do with pen and

parchment,” I say. “I can read and write, you know.”

He laughs aloud. “A wicked tongue, this one has. Is that

how you wound up with that knot up side your head?” He points

his sausage–thick finger at my temple. “Was it your wicked

tongue that put it there?”

I say nothing, brooding.

“Ah, don’t take no offense, girl. It’s not every day that a

man of my station runs into a girl who can read.” He slaps my

shoulder playfully. “Barkeep!” he hollers to the kitchen. “Fetch us

two ales.”

“Keep your pfennig. I don’t care to patron a tavern that

keeps such rude help,” I say loudly, hoping the miserable bastard

shall hear it.

The man chuckles, his great belly jiggling. “Ah, don’t

mind him. There’s always someone in here wanting something

for nothing. Makes him harsh, even with pretty little maids like

you.”

“Well, he shouldn’t make assumptions.”

“You’re right, you’re right.” The man nods.

The barkeep returns, glaring at me. He sets the jovial

man’s ale before him but pounds my mug into the wood of the

bar. A third of the ale splashes out around my fingers.

“Oh come on now,” the man says as the barkeep lurches

back to the kitchen. “Let’s call a truce!”

The barkeep doesn’t so much as turn his head. I look into

the mug for any spit in the ale, but I suppose if the barkeep was

going to sully my drink, he probably wouldn’t have caused so

much of it to spill.

“So you like to write do you?” The man puts his mug to

his lips. Foam hangs on his tiny lips.


27

“I only ever write to keep records for Father’s shop.”

“Ah, I see. What kind of shop does your father have?”

“He’s a cobbler. So am I.”

“You read and write and cobble then. Cut your hair off,

and we might think you a lad.” I frown at the suggestion, and he

slaps me on the back again letting out another roar of laughter.

He looks up with thought and purses his lips before adding: “A

shame you don’t have time to write nothing else but records,

though.”

“What else is there to write?”

“Them monks, they copy the Bible and things of that

nature.”

“That sounds horrendously dull.”

He laughs. “That it does.” He takes a hearty gulp. “If it

were me, I’d write stories.”

“Stories? What’s the point in writing stories?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose there’s not much point. Not

too many who can read around here.”

“What kind of stories would you write?”

“I would write an old tale I heard on crusade.”

“You went on crusade?” I ask, and he nods. “I’d never left

the city of Cologne until today. The only stories I’d ever been told

were my mother’s. Will you tell it to me?”

“Ah, you don’t want to hear it.”

“Yes, I do.”

He takes a long draft from his mug and wipes the ale

from his lips. “I’m no true storyteller to be sure, and my memory

ain’t hardly what it used to be. God’s teeth, I haven’t even

counted my cups tonight.”

“Nine!” shouts the keep from the kitchen.

“Nine,” he echoes.

I give him the withering look of a sad child. “Please,” I

say.

“All right, all right now. Let me think of how it goes.” He

ANDREA CEFALO

28

pauses for a moment and then clears his throat, “Now it’s called

The Three Army Surgeons.”

“Three army surgeons, who thought they knew their

craft all perfect, went travelling about the world. They

came to an inn where they wanted to pass the night. The

keep asked where they come from and where they was

going, so they said to him, ‘We are roaming about the

world to practice our surgeoning.’

“So the keep said to them, ‘Just show me for once

what you can do.’ Then the first said he would cut off his

hand and put it on again early next morning; the second

said he would tear out his heart and replace it next

morning; the third said he would cut out his eyes and

heal them, too. ‘If you can do that,’ said the innkeeper,

‘you have learnt everything.’”

The jovial man leans in close. The scent of ale is heavy

on his breath as he lowers his voice to a whisper. “But

they had a trick, you see, a salve, they rubbed themselves

with, which joined parts together, and they carried the

little bottle of it everywhere they went,” he confesses

before sitting pert again. “Then they cut the hand, heart,

and eyes from their bodies as they had said they would,

laid them all together on a plate, and gave it to the

innkeeper.

“The innkeeper gave it to a servant girl who was to

set it in the cupboard and take good care of it. The girl

had a lover though, who was a soldier. So when the

innkeeper, the three army surgeons, and everyone else in

the inn was asleep, the soldier came and wanted

something to eat. The girl opened the cupboard and

brought him some food, but she forgot to shut the

cupboard door.

“She sat by the soldier, and they chattered away, but

while she was sitting there, a cat came creeping in, found


29

the cupboard open, took the hand and heart and eyes of

the three army surgeons, and ran off with them.

“When the soldier had done eating, and the girl was

taking away his scraps, she saw the cupboard was empty.

She cried to her lover and told him what was the matter.

“And so he said, ‘I will help you out of your troubles.

There is a thief hanging outside on the gallows, I will cut

off his hand. Which hand was it?’

“‘The right one,’ she said to him.

“Then the girl gave him a sharp knife, and he went

and cut the poor sinner’s right hand off and brought it to

her. After this he caught the cat and cut its eyes out. Now

nothing but the heart was wanting.

“‘Have you not been slaughtering pigs, and are not

the dead animals in the cellar?’ he asked her.

“‘Yes,’ said the girl.

“‘That will be easy enough,’ said the soldier, and he

went down and fetched a pig’s heart.

“The girl put it all together on the plate and put it in

the cupboard. After that he left, and she went up to bed.

“In the morning when the three army surgeons got

up, they told the girl to fetch them the plate with the

hand, heart, and eyes on it, so she brought it out of the

cupboard.

“The first fixed the thief’s hand on and smeared it

with his salve, and it grew to his arm directly. The second

took the cat’s eyes and put them in his own head. The

third fixed the pig’s heart firm in the place where his own

had been. All the while, the innkeeper stood by, admired

their skill, and said he had never seen such a thing as that

and would sing their praises.

“Then they paid their bill, and travelled on.

“As they were on their way, the one with the pig’s

heart did not stay with them at all, but wherever there

ANDREA CEFALO

30

was a corner, he ran to it and rooted about in it with his

nose as pigs do. The other two wanted to hold him back

by the tail of his cloak, but that did no good; he tore

himself loose and ran wherever the dirt was thickest.

“The second also behaved very strangely; he rubbed

his eyes and said to the others, ‘I can’t see nothing at all.

Will one of you lead me so that I do not fall.’

“Then they travelled on till evening, when they

reached another inn. They went into the tavern together,

and there at a table in the corner sat a rich man counting

his winnings. The one with the thief’s hand walked round

about him, and at last when the stranger turned away, he

grabbed the pile of coins. One of them saw this, and said,

‘Stealin’ from people is a sin and a crime. You’ll lose your

hand if not your head!’

“‘Would that I could stop myself,’ said he, ‘My hand

twitches, and I am forced to snatch things whether I like it

or not.’

“After this, the three army surgeons lied down to

sleep, and while they were lying there it was so dark that

no one could see his own hand. All at once the one with

the cat’s eyes awoke, aroused the others, and said,

‘Brothers, just look up; do you see the white mice running

about there?’

“The two sat up but could see nothing. Then said he,

‘Things are not right with us, we have not got back again

what is ours. We must return to the innkeeper. He’s

tricked us somehow.’

“The next morning they returned to the inn and told

the keep they had not gotten what was their own again:

that the first had a thief’s hand, the second cat’s eyes, and

the third a pig’s heart. The innkeeper said that the girl

must be to blame for that. He called to her, but when she

had seen the three coming, she had run out by the


31

backdoor. Then the three army surgeons said he must

give them a great deal of money, or they would set his

house on fire.

“He gave them what he had and whatever he could

get together, and the three went away with it. It was

enough for the rest of their lives, but they would rather

have had their own proper organs.

“And that there is the tale of the three army

surgeons.” He gives a wave of his hand and a tip of his

head.

“Told like a true storyteller.” I raise my mug. He raises

his, and we both drink.

“You’ll have to remember it now for one of these days

when you have children of your own.”

It is a sweet sentiment that sinks in my heart like lead, for

there is only one man whom I can imagine having children by,

and he is in the gravest of danger because of me. Worst of all, I

haven’t any way to warn him.

I nod, force a smile, and swallow hard. “I’ll have to tell it

before then, lest I forget it.”

“Just write it down and put it away for safe–keeping,” he

says, and I nod.

The man and I share stories for a bit as I slowly drain my

ale. My eyelids grow heavy. I thank the man for his generosity

and excuse myself.

I tiptoe up the creaky steps and slip the key into its hole,

turning it slowly to avoid any loud click when the lock releases. I

take Mama’s stone and tunic, kneel at the foot of the bed, and

pray for her and for Ivo until I cannot hold my head up any

longer.

29 March 1248

The morning light and the noisy streets of Oppenheim made for

restless sleep, keeping me between wake and anxious dreams.

But a light knocking on the door coaxes me from slumber. I roll

over with a groan. My face cracks against the wall. Sharp pain

stabs at my forehead. I snap up and reach for the hardened knot

on my head. The pain dulls to an angry throb. The knocker raps a

little harder, and I curse beneath my breath.

“Adelaide…” Galadriel calls. I rise and throw open the

door. “Oh, there you are.”

“Where else would I be?” The dig in my question fades as

I look her up and down. She’s traded her velvet for home–spun

cloth, her golden hair for an opaque shroud. “Why are you

dressed like a peasant’s widow?”

The welcoming warmth on her face quickly cools. “I was

wondering if you’d like to see Oppenheim with us.”

Us. Now they are an us? My flickering annoyance ignites,

kindling rage. No, I should like to shout. No, I don’t care to see

Oppenheim with you, you usurping traitor. I’ll never play


33

daughter to you.

She knows this. She knows I haven’t the patience to bite

my tongue. Surely she’d quite like me to go along with them and

say something unpleasant, to put myself one step closer to a

convent.

If only I could bite my tongue. I swallow hard.

Truly, I should go. Who else shall keep them from

enjoying the day too much, from forming warm, bonding

memories? Only I can do this, even in silence. I serve as a

reminder of the life Father thinks he’s lost, though it isn’t utterly

lost. He has abandoned it.

I resign with a sigh. I haven’t the will to stay silent.

“My head pounds, and the wound swells still.” I reach for

the tender lump on my head. “I think it best that I rest for the day

so I am ready for tomorrow’s travels.”

She reaches for the wound.

I recoil. “Don’t touch it.”

She purses her lips. “Perhaps, I should send for a doctor.”

“There is nothing they can do for it. It shall heal in time.”

“They could make a poultice for the swelling perhaps.”

“Don’t waste your coin.”

She gives a little laugh. “Wasting coin is something I

rarely worry about.” She knits her brow and tilts her head. “Ansel

should have a look at you at least.” She turns, and I grab her by

the arm.

“No!” I cry out. Truthfully, I do not want him to see the

wound. That would only remind him of yesterday’s defiance and

make him think of sending me away. Galadriel looks down to my

hand, and I release her. “I’d rather not worry him. If I could just

rest—”

Doubt flickers in her gaze. She grips my arm and moves

in close, her voice barely a whisper. “If I were you, I’d be sure

that resting was all that I did. Last night, your father asked me if

there were any convents near Bitsch.”

ANDREA CEFALO

34

I draw up. She drops my arm and turns again. “Perhaps,

you are right,” I say through a dry throat. “He should come to see

me, to check the wound.”

“I’ll tell him you wish to see him.”

“Where is he?”

“Breaking his fast in the tavern.”

Breaking his fast. My stomach rumbles. It is Sunday, the

only day in Lent when we can not only eat meat but can eat it

thrice a day if we like. “I’ll go to him.”

“Then he shall think you well enough to come with us.”

She sighs. “I shall tell him that you are exhausted from travels

and that you need to rest for tomorrow. I shall send for a doctor

to place a poultice on that wound to help it heal faster. Tonight

you shall join us for supper and be a cheerful, obedient daughter.

Do that, and perhaps he’ll forget about the convent.”

Her advice takes me aback. “Why are you helping me?”

She laughs. “It’s not out of any fondness for you.” Her

face saddens for a moment but quickly hardens. “I know you

hate me…”

“You bedded my father a week after my mother’s death.

You were her cousin!”

“It was not planned, you know.” She looks away. “We

had so much drink. I doubt we even knew…”

“Doubt you even knew what? What you were doing, or

who you were doing it with?” I give a short, wry laugh. “Well, I

do not doubt that he hadn’t any idea of that either.”

Her slap falls hard on my cheek. She draws back, and for

a heartbeat, she eyes the hand that slapped me with shock. One of

my hands darts to my smarted cheek, the other curls into a fist as

we stand in heated silence. Her still mask returns as quickly as it

had faltered.

“What’s done is done, Adelaide, and I cannot undo it.”

Her voice is distant, almost sad. “I have tried to be kind to you. I

came all the way back to Cologne to save you. I saved Gregor


35

from you. I gave you a home when you had none, and I give you

one still.” A shadow darkens her fair face. “But if you want me to

be a villain like the ones from your Mama’s tales, I will gladly rise

to your expectations.”

She comes close. Her voice lowers to a whisper. “You

think me a fool, but you have no idea what you are up against

with me. I know why you ran from the carriage. You had to warn

your little peasant boy. Is there someone else besides us who

knows he burned down the cathedral?”

Her words knock the air from my chest. “Ivo would never

do such a thing,” I lie.

She laughs. “Oh, if Konrad ever got his hands on you

again! Your face paints quite the picture, you know. Are you

always so easily read or only when it has to do with the peasant

boy?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, but I do.” Her voice is ice. “That night, I sat staring

out the window as your Father slept off his drunken stupor. I had

nothing else to do. And then I saw him. Your Ivo, he ran right

below my window, panicked and covered in soot.

“So back to why I am helping you. I love your father, and

he loves you. I know the pain of losing a child, and I wish to keep

him from that. If you summon him this morning, it shall upset

him. Seeing the welt on your head shall remind him of yesterday.

Besides that, it is obvious you are well enough to join us. He will

suspect you’re causing trouble again, and that may seal his

decision to send you away. It would break his heart to do that,

and his heart hasn’t yet mended from its last wound.

“I have offered you kindness, and you won’t take it.”

Malice hardens her face, the soft, feminine angles of her features

sharpen. “Now I offer you a warning. Keep up with your

defiance against your father, and he will send you away, but if

you defy me in the walls of my home, I swear I will write a letter

to Konrad, telling him you confessed to me a horrific secret about

ANDREA CEFALO

36

how your little villein burned the great cathedral of Cologne.”

“You’re wrong,” I say, withholding welling tears.

“And so what if I am? I am a countess, and he is a

nobody. Who would Konrad believe?” She whirls around,

heading down the hall, and adds without turning: “I think I shall

have the letter written and kept in a safe place with a trusted

person, just in case anything should happen to me.”

I dash into the hall after her. “You’d see him burned at

the stake, burned like your sister?”

She stops, recoiling from the hit. She turns slowly and

with all the coolness she embodies replies, “That, Adelaide, is up

to you.” She turns again, sauntering toward the stairs.

I storm back into my room, slamming the door. My blood

boils. Swarms of malicious bubbles dart frantically through my

veins, desperate for escape. I pace the room, wearing a path into

the old wooden floors as my mind races.

I could slit her throat in her sleep. I could steal a horse

and ride home, warn Ivo before she can even have a letter

written. Every plan that I muster, each scheme that I create ends

with the same thought: What if it all goes wrong? What if she

makes good on her threat? What if she has Ivo burned at the

stake?

A giggling from the streets below steals my attention. A

young couple of burghers stroll up the thoroughfare, arm–in–

arm. The girl raven–haired like me and the boy fair–haired like

Ivo. My lip curls. The girl rests her head on her suitor’s shoulder.

I huff.

What a torrid thing to do in the streets, I think God’s

teeth, what a trollop!

Scornful thoughts and ill–wishes for the brazen, young

couple push aside my plans of escape. And then I realize…I’m

jealous.

This girl doesn’t squander her Sundays like I did. She

makes the most of these coveted hours between mass and Sunday


37

supper when children are neither worked nor watched. Ivo

hinted at his affections, and I looked away, thinking what we had

was somehow better than love. I shake my head. We could be

married now if I hadn’t been so stupid. This Sunday would be so

much better had I been a smart, torrid trollop like that girl in the

street.

I plop onto the bed and lie back, indulging thoughts of

what this Sunday could have been. A delicious ache rises in my

stomach.

A hard knocking on the door frightens me, tears me from

the fantasy with a cry. My hands rush to my flushed cheeks.

”Hello?” creaks an old voice.

I inch toward the door. “Who’s there?”

“I am a physician. I was sent for…to look at the wound

on your head.”

I rush into my chainse and surcote before opening the

door a crack. A towering, square–faced old man looks back at me

through milky, silver eyes.

“Ooh, you did have quite a fall.” He eyes my forehead,

and I reach for the lump. “May I come in?”

I open the door and step aside. The man shuffles into the

room, places his leather satchel upon the desk, and holds an arm

out to the seat before him, gesturing for me to sit. He places his

thumbs upon my forehead, tilting my face up. “It’s not too

bad…though there is little I can do for it. You should rest if you

can. The swelling shall go down in time.”

I sigh. “That’s what I told the woman who sent for you.”

“But for now…” The man reaches into his satchel and

pulls out a small bowl. He sprinkles a pinch of dried herbs, a bit

of powder, and drizzles the concoction with oil, before pulling a

stone from his satchel, and mashing the mixture into a paste.

“Here we are now.” He places his thumb in the paste and anoints

the knot on my head. I wince at his touch. “That should bring the

swelling down a bit faster. Now where is that girl?”

ANDREA CEFALO

38

Just as the words roll off his tongue, a petite, blond

kitchen maid enters with a mug, sets it upon the desk, and leaves

in a hurry. The physician reaches in his bag once more for

another blend of herbs, placing them in the drink.

“Drink this. It shall ease the pain and help you sleep.”

I eye him suspiciously.

“Or do not drink it. It is up to you.” He turns to place his

tools back in his bag and leaves.

I eye the drink. Did Galadriel hire this man to poison me? She

could blame my death on yesterday’s fall, and since she has been

nothing but kind to me in front of Father, he would not suspect

her.

My head pounds dully with a tolerable, yet irritating

pain. Some form of distraction would make it more bearable, but

I haven’t any. A cold burn blazes around the knot and relief

tempts me to try the potion.

I trace the brim of the mug. Would she really poison me?

Well, there are only two ways to find out, and one of those I am

not nearly stupid enough to try.

When Father and Galadriel return, I am sitting at a table set for

supper in the tavern.

Father’s face is lax with annoyance. Perhaps, if I just

allow Galadriel to bore him for a few more days, we’ll be heading

back to Cologne within the week.

Galadriel dips into the chair next to mine. The scent of

rosewater stings my eyes, and I blink back tears. Did she buy a

dozen vials and dump them over her head? I suppose she truly

does not count her coins. I lift my cup to my lips, hoping the

wine’s woodsy fragrance might mask the pungent rose garden

beside me.

“Are you feeling better?” Galadriel’s voice is shrill.


39

Father sits with a groan.

“Yes, thank you,” I say, evenly.

“Ready for our travels tomorrow?” she prods.

“Yes and you?”

“Yes, I am quite looking forward to getting home.”

Our feigned pleasantries could almost pass as honest.

I’d like to ask Father if he enjoyed the market. I can tell by

his face that he did not, but I can think of so many quips. He used

to hate people who tossed groschens about like they’re pfennigs.

Now he plays house with one. Perhaps, he’s becoming one. I’d

like to ask him what he bought. A pair of shoes? A brooch?

But I must behave. Convents and everlasting virginity

loom in the back of my thoughts. Neither sentence is worth a

guilt–inducing quip.

I really am trying to behave. A bar maid brought a freshly

baked loaf of bread and butter an hour ago. The loaf steamed,

wafting its doughy sweetness, and I guzzled my wine to keep

hunger pains at bay. I’ve valiantly fought the urge to eat it in

hopes that Father notices my good manners. All the while,

bearing the scent of roasting chicken and stewing mutton. I can

almost still smell it through Galadriel’s perfume.

Praise God, Father gulps his wine and breaks the loaf in

half. I clasp my hands below the table to keep from pouncing

upon the half–loaf sitting before me. My mouth waters, and after

a brief moment, I tear a piece and eat. Meat and cheeses follow.

We eat in near silence. A silence I find discomforting once

my belly is filled, and so I chance speaking. Perhaps I can still

bring Father some cheer.

“Papa, I learned a new story.”

He grunts in reply, but his sour expression softens.

“It’s called The Three Army Surgeons. Have you heard it?

The man who told it to me learned it while on crusade.”

His face perks at the title. Anything to do with battles

always sparks an interest in men. This isn’t the typical woman’s

ANDREA CEFALO

40

tale with a damsel in peril and a knight who saves her. “Would

you like to hear it?”

Galadriel peruses Father’s face, gauging his interests,

surely noting on how to entertain him in the future. She lifts the

mug to her lips and drains it before summoning a kitchen maid to

bring her more. I mask a smile.

He tears a hunk of chicken from the bone with his teeth.

“Surgeons, eh? Sounds like a bloody one.”

“Not so bloody that it would spoil your appetite.”

He jerks his head in Galadriel’s direction. “No, but it

might spoil the lady’s.”

“I think I can handle it,” she says, insulted. If it were

indeed a gory tale, I doubt she could. I’ve made her wretch before

with little effort, but she was ill that morning from the near barrel

of ale she’d consumed the night before.

I look to Father for his approval.

He shrugs, and I tell the story.

I’m half–way through the tale before Galadriel’s eyelids

bob. She struggles to maintain her posture, and I pause the tale to

ask her if she is well. Father turns to her and places one hand on

her back, the other on her hand. He whispers in her ear, and she

whispers back before patting his hand and bidding us good

night.

I finish the tale and, at the end, Father laughs, but the

cheer in his face quickly washes away, melting into sadness. I

remind him of Mama. He swallows the grief hard, and though it

pleases me to see her death still pains him, I hate to see him

hurting so.

“Did you like it, Papa?” I ask, and he returns to me,

leaving the dark recesses of his guilt and mourning.

“Yes, very good,” he says distantly.

He coughs and orders another round of wine. I lose count

of all the mugs, but with each one he grows more jovial, and I,

more tired. We reminisce until my eyelids grow heavy, and we


41

stumble to our beds.

30 March 1248

I roll over toward the wall, more cautiously this morning, and

pull the blankets over my head to keep the light, and hopefully

the throbbing in my head, at bay. Wine. Damn wine.

I lower the blankets, squinting open an eye to gauge the

brightness and guess the time.

I immediately regret it.

Blinding is not a time of day. I draw the covers back up

and roll away from the scorching light.

Weren’t we supposed to leave today at dawn? So why

didn’t we?

My head throbs, and I groan. I rise, pushing the tangles of

hair from my forehead and shielding my eyes from the bright

afternoon sun. The coolness in the air feels good. I sigh and

stretch. My eyes scan the room for my chainse and surcote,

stopping on the mug sitting on the desk. A mug that had been

there since the old physician left it for me yesterday.

Then, I remember what I did last night.


43

Yesterday afternoon, I poked my head into the tavern to make

sure Father and Galadriel had not yet returned. It was empty. I

made my way to the bar and sat on the stool. The pretty blonde

maid, who had brought my mug earlier, approached.

“Oh, my head. It aches,” I said, exaggerating the pain.

“Are the herbs not working yet?” she asked. “The

physician you had is the best in the city. You must give the

remedy more time.”

“Of course, do you think I could get two mugs of wine for

the night? I doubt I shall come down for supper and would hate

to bother you twice,” I asked, and she complied.

I nodded in appreciation and rushed to my room, locking

the door behind me. I gulped down half the wine from one mug,

and then mixed half the physician’s potion into the rest, filling it

again.

When the sun began its decent, I returned to the tavern,

taking the mugs with me. I found an empty table—and sat the

tainted mug before Galadriel’s seat.

Galadriel, unsuspecting, drank the entire mug.

Not long after her eyelids drooped, and she excused

herself to bed.

The physician said the potion caused sleep, so I enjoyed

my time with Father, but now I wonder. Was it poison? What if it

killed her? I gave it to her. What if I killed her?

I dart to the other side of the room, pressing my ear

against the rough wooden wall between us, listening for several

moments, but hearing nothing. I sniff for the rancid, sickly sweet

stench of death, finding the sharp scent of manure and

smoldering embers of last night’s fire thick in the air instead.

Surely if she’d died someone would have come to tell me by now.

I give up on eavesdropping and toss my surcote over my head.

ANDREA CEFALO

44

My thoughts race too fast to process.

I could be a killer. It is a line that once crossed, cannot be

uncrossed. What if I am on the other side of that line? Will God

damn me for it? Will I burn for eternity in hellfire? Will I never

see Mama again?

But it isn’t really murder, is it? I didn’t really know what

was in that mug, so it couldn’t be murder. Besides, if she

intended to poison me, and in turn I accidentally poisoned her,

she’d be getting what she deserved. Really I would be defending

myself, and Father, from a mad woman.

Her death might be the best outcome. Father and I would

have to return to Cologne. We wouldn’t have anywhere else to

go. I could warn Ivo to stay away from Elias myself.

We have no possessions, no coin. Soren, the vile priest

who framed us for uncommitted crimes, had all our possessions

burned in the streets only a week ago. But I could apprentice with

another cobbler, earning coin that I could use to buy another set

of cobbling tools. Then Father and I could return to our trade. In

time, we could save enough coin to pay the rent on our home. Ivo

would finish his apprenticeship, and we could be married. All in

all, it would be best if I knocked on the door to Galadriel and

Father’s room to find him saddened over her corpse.

I shake these wicked, calculating thoughts from my head.

No matter how much I hate Galadriel, no matter how many

empty threats she makes, I can’t let her turn me into a killer.

If I kill for my own gains, if I sentence a person to death

without trial, then I am no better than Konrad Von Hochstaden—

the man who sent us to the stocks knowing we were innocent and

then used Soren’s crime against us to hang him without a trial.

I run my fingers quickly through my hair, braid it hastily,

and start to head for the hallway. Caution, from a thought not

fully formed, stops me at the door. If I enter the room in a panic,

she’ll know what I did. I cannot tempt her to harm Ivo. I take a

few deep breaths and look into the water basin for my reflection.


45

Tendrils of my black hair branch out of my sloppy braid, and my

brow furrows with worry.

I no longer have the privilege of transparency.

I unbraid my wild hair, run my fingers carefully through

it, and neatly plait it again. I stick my whole face in the basin, the

shock of the cold easing my anxiety. I dry my face and wait for

the splotchy redness on my nose and cheeks to fade. I place my

hand on the door, taking one more deep breath, and I push it

open, heading out into the hall, to Galadriel and Father’s room.

I knock lightly, and Father opens the door.

“Oh, it’s you,” he says, and I feel stung.

“Who else would it be? I thought you might have left

without me,” I muse, trying inconspicuously to look past him to

Galadriel. He follows my gaze. “What is the matter with her?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs, his worried eyes upon her.

“She won’t rise.”

I kneel down next to her and shake her shoulder.

“Galadriel,” I say loudly, but she hardly stirs. “Galadriel!” I slap

at her cheek.

She grumbles and rolls away from me. I feel her head for

fever, but there is none. I turn to Father. “What are her

symptoms?”

“I only woke a little while ago.”

“Has she wretched?” I ask. “She hasn’t a fever. She isn’t

pale. Does she have chills?”

He shakes his head. “She just cannot wake.”

“Then, let her sleep. If she isn’t well by tomorrow,

summon the doctor.”

“I’ve already summoned him,” he says.

His words turn my stomach to water. That doctor is no

fool. He’ll take one look at Galadriel and know what I did, that I

gave Galadriel the potion meant for me. What if he tells Father?

What if Galadriel finds out? My heart thuds hard in my chest.

Think, Adelaide. Think.

ANDREA CEFALO

46

”Galadriel had a doctor visit me yesterday,” I confess.

“He did nothing but rob her of coin. The man said he could make

my knot disappear by this morning,” I lie. “Look at it, just as

horrid as the day I got it. I hope that is not the doctor you sent

for.”

Father narrows his eyes. “Galadriel didn’t tell me of this.”

“We didn’t want to worry you.”

His lips form a hard line. “Go to the tavern and see who

the barkeep sent for.”

I descend the stairs just in time to see the elderly doctor

shuffle his way through the door. I rush over to him.

“Your services are no longer needed,” I say.

He eyes me suspiciously. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve taken too long to get here. We’d sent for another

doctor some time ago, and he sees her as we speak,” I lie.

His silver, caterpillar eyebrows knit. “Oh, and which

doctor is that?”

“I did not get his name,” I say. He’ll keep asking

questions if I don’t get rid of him. “I must attend to my mistress.

Now be off.”

He huffs and turns around, grumbling beneath his breath

as he lurches back into the street. I inhale, close my eyes, and

release the breath. Praise God, it worked.

Should I send for another doctor? I suppose so. Better to

send for a doctor than to have Father catch me lying about

sending for one, but there’s no reason to be too quick about it I

sink into a chair at one of the empty tables. I catch the gaze of two

serving girls who must have caught my heated exchange with the

doctor. One heads to the kitchen. The other heaves an annoyed

sigh as she approaches. It is too late to break my fast and not near

dinner. The place is empty, and I’ve interrupted this lull in her

day. The maid returns with the mug of ale, and I ask her to seek a

doctor.

“Dinner won’t be for many hours. Ale or wine?”


47

“A doctor actually.”

A shadow of irritation darkens her face. “You’d already

summoned one—and then you sent him away.”

“That man is a bit old to be a doctor.”

“He’s the most reputable doctor in the city.”

“I don’t doubt that he was—twenty years ago. Please

send for another one,” I say. “And I will need diluted wine—and

bread if you have any left. My father hadn’t a chance to break his

fast.”

The kitchen maid marches off, her blond braid swaying

back and forth. She returns shortly after, shoving the bread and

wine at me. “I sent for another doctor,” she huffs. “God knows

when he’ll get here. I hope your friend isn’t dead by then.”

“Thank you,” I say.

Her face pinches for a moment before she shakes her head

and walks away.

Good. The longer it takes for a doctor to get here, the

longer we are in Oppenheim. Father shall have time to change his

mind about this cursed trip and the fragile creature he’s decided

to bed with. We might be home sooner than I thought.

Or maybe Galadriel shall die. I swallow hard at the thought.

I take the bread and wine to Father, urging him to eat. He

sits in vigil at the top of the bed, his jaw clenched and brow knit. I

bend and feel Galadriel’s forehead. She’s neither feverish nor

clammy. Her porcelain skin glows healthily, but she sleeps like

the dead. Realizing there is nothing I can do, not that I would do

much of anything even if I could, I leave him with her.

I keep my door cracked and perch along the edge of my

bed. The mug left by the doctor yesterday still sits on the desk. I

really should have thrown out the rest of its contents after I

tainted Galadriel’s wine. It is evidence against me, if anyone

should think to examine it, though I doubt anyone shall.

I’ve approached the potion a dozen times but hesitate at

tossing out the remnants. It glares at me accusingly, and I look

ANDREA CEFALO

48

away, but the weight of its stare burns into me. ”You did this to

her,” it says. ”If she dies it is your fault.”

“If she dies, it is her own fault,” I say, sounding more

ambivalent than I feel.

”You could find out if I’m poison,” the mug beckons. ”Just a

little taste won’t hurt you too badly. If I am not poison, that is.”

I approach the desk and look into the mug, staring at the

mixture of wine and herbs. I see my own frighteningly curious

reflection staring back at me and take a step back.

“She’s sick,” I say. “That’s all. She caught something. You

were only meant to make her sleep.”

”That’s not what you thought when you slipped me into her

drink,” the malicious potion laughs, and I escape into the hallway.

I knock on Father’s door. It swings open, for it was

already ajar. A doctor still has not arrived.

“Papa…” I say. He turns his head but hasn’t moved from

his spot beside Galadriel.

I don’t know how to ask what I intend to, so I just stand

before him, opening my mouth to speak and then closing it again.

“What?” Father huffs. He looks so tired.

“I was wondering if you would allow me to go into the

city and fetch a doctor myself. I worry if it takes too long…”

A resigning sigh breaks the long silence. “Yes.”

That is all he says.

I expect him to warn me, to tell me to do nothing else, but

he does not, and so after a few moments of waiting for further

instructions that do not come, I turn on my heel.

I pound my fist on the door to the old doctor’s office. A sweet–

faced, matronly woman answers. I ask to see the doctor, saying it

is an emergency. She says that it usually is but allows me

anyway. He turns to look at me and immediately orders the


49

woman to make me leave, explaining that I was the rude urchin

that summoned him and then turned him away. The woman’s

sweet–face pinches, and she shoos me out like a stray cat. I duck

below her arm.

“What was in the potion? I have to know. What did you

give me last night?”

The woman grasps my arm and pulls me back. I grip the

door frame. The doctor turns and raises an eyebrow quizzically.

He turns back to his work and waves his hand in the air,

dismissing the woman.

“I told you it was for sleep and pain, but obviously you

did not take it.”

“No, I didn’t, but someone else did…and now she won’t

rise.”

“So that’s why you rushed me away. Thought your

mistress was trying to poison you, eh? So you decided to slip her

the potion instead?”

“She’s not my mistress,” I spit. “She’s my father’s lover,

though my mother hasn’t been dead a month. We’re cobblers,

and she’s a countess. And we hate each other.” Why am I telling

him this? “She threatened me yesterday morning, and then you

came with your potion. So I thought…you can see how I might

have assumed…”

“That I was paid to poison you,” he finishes, and I nod.

“If you hate her so much, why do you care if she lives or dies?”

“I, I don’t know.”

“It’s because you’re not a killer,” he concludes. “You see,

girl, these things happen. A wife dies. A husband remarries.” He

waves his hand dismissively. “Your father may marry a countess.

I suggest you accept your good fortune and stop fighting the

inevitable.”

I ball my fists and bite my lip, fighting to confine the fury

that boils within me at this suggestion: that my mother’s death

and my father’s affair is somehow a blessing.

ANDREA CEFALO

50

His bristled eyebrows raise. “Now when did she take the

wine?”

“Last night near Compline.”

“Oh, then it should wear off soon.” He shrugs and then

turns back to his papers.

“So it was not poison?”

“No, it was medicine. Just as I said.”

“So she’ll live?”

“Of course.” He laughs. “You see, I am no killer either, no

matter how much coin is offered to me.”

“Did she offer you coin to kill me?”

He raises his eyes from the parchments at his desk and

faces me. “No,” he says evenly. “She offered me coin to heal

you.” He turns back around, hunching over his desk.

The soft indifference in his aged voice convince me that

he tells the truth.

If Galadriel wakes before I return, a doctor may be at her

side. What if he discovers her deep sleep was induced by herbs?

Who else, besides me, could have, would have slipped her such a

potion? I have to keep her from finding out, and I know just how

to do it, but first there is something else I must do.

“I know I am in your debt, and that I have nothing to

give,” I say. “ But I have one other favor to ask of you. I’ll forever

be grateful and keep you in my prayers, if you grant me this.”

The doctor chortles. “I think, between the two of us, I am

not the one in need of prayers.” He slowly turns from his chair

again, purses his lips, and gives me the annoyed, yet triumphant

look of a man once wronged who is now in need of a favor. “But

you’ve piqued my curiosity. What is it you want?”

The doctor grants my request. With that finished, I race back to

the tavern, praying the entire way for the old doctor, for Ivo, for


51

Mama, and for myself, that I do not get caught in this scheme.

I push through the door to the tavern, nearly running

down a drunkard who curses me, but I continue toward the

stairs. Quiet voices come from our rooms, and I slow my pace,

tiptoeing up the stairs. I peek in through the doorway, unseen. A

man barely old enough to be a doctor looks Galadriel over, his

face muddled with confusion.

Galadriel slips in and out of sleep, answering the boy’s

questions. He feels her for fever and chills. He offers to bleed her,

but she declines, saying she feels better. Then he asks something

nightmarishly awful, something I had never considered. I dig my

fingernails deep into my palms to keep from gasping aloud.

The boy doctor asks lowly, discreetly, if Galadriel might

be with child.

The silence is piercing. I hold my breath and wait for

them to both adamantly, fervently say no and finally Galadriel

does. I exhale and quietly peel the door open, entering my room.

Father may ask me why I never came to check on her and

why I didn’t bring a doctor. Of course I shall lie to him later,

telling him I could not get a doctor to come with me. I’ll tell him

that when I returned, a doctor was already in the room, and I

heard Galadriel speaking, so I assumed it best to give them

privacy.

Now it is time to enact the second part of my plan. To

show Father that this trip to Bitsch is cursed, that the heavens

above do not want it to be.

I take the potion from yesterday’s wine, still half–full, and

before it can mock or goad me anymore, drink the entire thing.

31 March 1248

Wheat tickles my arms as I run, giggling through the fields. The

stalks sway lazily in the timid breeze ahead of me, but their

brilliant blonde heads part just before I reach them.

His long shadow grows closer to me.

If I slow down, he’ll catch me. Perhaps, I should let him.

A wanton smile pinches my cheeks. No, not yet.

With another giggle, I sprint ahead. The swipe of his

hand tosses a tendril of my hair. Almost, Ivo.

I laugh aloud and veer right, running straight into the

sun. The searing pink orb and the illuminated edges of the

mountainous plumes of clouds scald my eyes. I turn left,

avoiding the blinding brilliance. The wheat goes on and on until

the fiery firmament and the gilded fields embrace at some point

beyond forever.

The night sky and stars roll down upon the sunset,

squeezing it into the horizon until it is nothing but the faintest

lavender line. The moon hangs by a string, swaying in the breeze.

It grins widely and beams down upon the stalks, casting silver

highlights and pewter shadows.

I open my hand, running my fingers along the billowy


53

heads of wheat. I expect to hear the brushing sound as I pass

through, but instead the stalks ring like whispering bells. A set of

fingers brushes lightly against my open palm, and I slow. I can’t

wait a moment longer. His fingers wrap around my hand. Our

fingers weave together. Panting, I come to a quick stop. He

doesn’t expect it and tries to halt, but it’s too late. He yanks me

forward. I fall into him, laughing as we plummet into the chiming

stalks of wheat.

I rise up on my hands, the weight of my body upon him.

His face reflects the smile that cramps my cheeks. His hand

presses into my lower back. A stray strand of hair falls into my

face, and he brushes it away, his fingers warm against my cool

cheek.

The happy creases that frame his mouth and eyes have

gone, relaxing away. His hand slithers behind my neck, pulling

my face toward his.

His lips brush mine, resting upon my top lip. His fingers

sink into my lower back, and I melt into him. The rest is a

passionate rush. One sensation flows for the briefest moment

before it ebbs behind a stronger one: his hand running through

my hair, the scent of his neck, the sweet taste of his lips, the

tickling of his hair as it dances against my skin when the wind

rises. Sensations merge, an alloy of bliss.

I lie on my side with my head tucked into his shoulder,

his chin resting upon the top of my head. Every joint, muscle, in

my body unhinges. The silver wheat stalks swing to–and–fro, at

the whim of the cool, night breeze. The moon swings as well, still

brilliant, still smiling. Stars diminish like candle flames with too

little wick, and just as one burns out, another illuminates.

Swollen creatures rise from the wheat, floating lazily like

sud bubbles from a laundress’s tub. Fireflies.

I duck into the crook of Ivo’s shoulder, afraid, worried,

though I do not know why. I peer through a squinted eye. Ivo

holds out his hand, and a fat firefly lands clumsily upon it,

ANDREA CEFALO

54

examining us with large, pup–like eyes.

“Adelaide,” a voice whispers, nearly imperceptible, on

the roll of the wind. Ivo grips me tighter, and I shake the thought

away. I nuzzle my head deeper into his shoulder.

“Adelaide,” the voice calls more clearly, no longer

coming from the wind, but the heavens. I sit up quickly, startling

the firefly who bumbles away.

“She stirs,” a bell–like voice says excitedly. I stand,

looking around for a prankster hiding among the wheat, but the

voices come from above. I look to the sky for explanation.

“She’s coming around now,” a man says. I look down to

Ivo to ask him if he hears this, too, but he is gone, not even a

flattening in the stalks left as evidence of his presence. Was he ever

here at all? Is any of this real?

No. My happiness withers. No, this is a dream. But if it’s

my dream, why can’t I stay?

I close my eyes tightly, conjuring Ivo: his lips stretched

into a half–smile, the scent of wind and smoke in his silvery

blonde hair, the give of his ropey muscles beneath my roaming

fingertips, the silky, sweet taste of his lips.

I open my eyes, surrounded by wheat fields and endless

night. The moon’s smile seems more like a mocking smirk. Was it

mocking me all along? Did it know this was only a dream and

that I would wake to a nightmare? I run my fingers along the

stalks of wheat, hoping to hear them chime once more, but I feel

nothing, hear nothing.

“Adelaide,” beckons the girl. The weight of a dainty hand

rests on my shoulder though no hand is there. My shoulder

shakes with a shove, and all goes black.

The blankets rustle as I shift to the side. A pop from the fire

startles me. Father’s rough hand gently shakes my shoulder, and


55

I roll upon my back, opening my eyes. His furrowed brow

unravels. I’ve worried him. A guilty knot rises in my throat, but

quickly melts away as flashes of my dream return.

Father and Galadriel take Ivo away from me, and if I

protest I may lose my freedom, Ivo, or both. I turn away from

him, not bothering to mask my disappointment.

Father brushes sweaty tangles of hair from my neck.

“How do you feel?”

I regard the question. I am sad, disappointed, and

homesick, but this isn’t what he wants to know. I lift my heavy

arm. Moving my limbs is like swimming through pottage. “I am

tired.”

“Just like I was, Ansel.” Galadriel remarks before turning

to me and adding, “We caught a sleeping sickness.”

“How long have I been asleep?”

“Since yesterday afternoon,” Galadriel replies, “but I feel

fine today, and you will tomorrow.”

“She needs to rest at least another day,” Father says to

Galadriel.

“Of course,” Galadriel’s agreement is rapid and sweet

like his words were a question and not a command. “Do you feel

sick, Adelaide?”

“No.”

“Neither did I,” she says. I sigh, hoping her question

stems from concern, not suspicion, and she truly believes a

sleeping sickness plagued us. “I had the most wonderful

dreams,” she adds dazedly. “Did you?”

Father’s grey eyes darken at her question. They almost

seem black. “Don’t press her,” he snaps.

“It was a simple question,” she defends with a nonchalant

laugh. “I meant no—”

His glare silences her mid–sentence.

This feigned illness did more than pass time. In Father’s

heart, I outrank Galadriel now. The convent that felt so close,

ANDREA CEFALO

56

now feels far away, a speck on the horizon. But Father’s heart is

fickle lately. His affections may turn at any moment.

He rises and grips my foot through the blanket, wiggling

it playfully. He brushes past Galadriel. “The sun sets. Supper will

be in an hour.” He raises an eyebrow at me. “Do you think you’ll

be well enough to join us?”

There it is again. That word, us. I try not to cringe and

nod obediently. He leaves. His footsteps drifting evermore

silently down the hall until they hit the steps. He goes down into

the tavern rather than back to his room with her.

I expect Galadriel to scowl at me like a child bested in a

game, but she does not. And unlike a child winning at a game, I

do not gloat. We gaze upon each other expressionless. After a

long silence, she leaves, closing the door behind her.

I sink heavily into the bed. I could sleep for days. But

Father wants me to join him for supper. I cannot disappoint him

now.

I prop myself up, leaning against the wall for support,

and toss the covers off the bed. Perhaps, Father shall want to go

home now. He seems disappointed with Galadriel again, and

postpones our departure another day.

I rush onto my legs, and they give. I fold, falling back

onto the bed. I huff. My limbs take too long to wake. I plait my

hair as I wait for them and dress slowly, the effort painstaking

and deliberate. When my legs strengthen enough to support me, I

make my way to the basin and dunk my head a half–dozen times

into the cold water.

Father sits alone at a table, hunched over his mug. I sink into the

chair beside him, relieved to rest my shaky legs. My stomach

roars loudly, so Father summons the kitchen maid to fetch bread

and wine.


57

“I am sorry I worried you,” I say, and I do mean it. If it

had been him and not me, I’d surely have lost my wits with fear.

He shrugs. “You’re well. That’s all that matters.”

I keep my mouth stuffed with bread or sipping on wine

to avoid losing Father’s favor with words. He remains silent,

blindly staring forward. I squelch the urge to prod, letting his

thoughts fester. Galadriel arrives an hour later, and we eat in a

fermenting silence. Father rises from the table with a groan, and

Galadriel follows him.

I finish my wine alone. My back aches from lying in bed

for so long. I nearly order a stronger wine to dull the soreness but

remember the headache from yesterday’s indulgence and go to

bed instead.

I ascend the stairs with deliberate steps, feeling far

beyond my fifteen winters. Raised voices come from Father’s

room. I utter a curse, wishing I had tread the stairs more lightly.

Perhaps they heard me coming and shall mind their tones. I inch

toward the door when it whips open, Galadriel, red–faced and

teary–eyed, nearly plows me over. She slams the door behind her.

“I suppose you heard that.” She swipes tears from her

cheeks.

“I heard raised voices but not words.”

“So are you here to find out what was said or to gloat?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“Oh, leave me alone!” she huffs and storms past me.

“Is he going to send you to a convent, too?” I jest,

following her out of interest not concern.

“Your father is a beast!”

I give a laugh. “And you’re a fool if you expect that to

change.”

“So he has always been like this, even with your—”

Mother is what she doesn’t say. That unspoken word is

like a punch in the stomach, but my fists quickly curl in response.

Galadriel’s eyes are immediately apologetic. Even she knows this

ANDREA CEFALO

58

was the cruelest of questions. I couldn’t answer Galadriel even if I

wanted to, though if I did, the answer would be yes.

Mama and Papa fought and argued, but Mama yelled

back. She never cried over their fights. She got angry. So why

does Galadriel cow to him? Why would a woman of her station

let a man of his not only speak to her in such a manner, but take

him and his unruly daughter into her home?

“Why are you doing this?” I ask.

“What do you mean?” she asks coolly.

“Why are you taking us in?”

She does not answer, so I inch forward, lowering my

voice. “Do you plan on leaving your affair at the gates of Bitsch?

If you do not, won’t your people speculate? Such a thing could

ruin you in the eyes of other men, noble men. “

“Since when do you know of such things?” Galadriel

hisses before storming off toward the stairs.

I smile.

Their unnatural tryst unravels with little aid from me.

I fight sleep, hoping to hear what happens next. An hour

or so passes, and the steps creak. The hinge to Father’s room

opens with a whine. I tip–toe toward the wall we share, pressing

my ear against it. Galadriel giggles girlishly, and the blankets

rustle.

I cringe, swallowing a gag. Panic forces the disgust down.

This is not good. I had to poison myself to make Father see

reason. Galadriel disrobes, and he is blinded again. I shudder at

the thought.

I stomp to my bed, announcing that I am awake. I sit on

the bed and cough. She’s not the only one who can play on his heart

strings. I cough again louder, having a good fit. After the third

spell, the door to their room creaks open. Someone knocks on my

door.

“Who is it?” I say, my voice deliberately hoarse.

“It’s Galadriel.” Her bell–like voice sounds more annoyed


59

than concerned. “May I come in?” I open the door. “Are you

unwell?”

“I think I might wretch,” I say with deep insinuation.

“Perhaps, you should send for Father.”

“Perhaps I should send for a doctor, as well.”

“If you think it best. You can sit here and wait for him if

you like. I don’t think I can stay awake. I am so very tired.”

“You’re faking it,” she says. “I know it. Do not forget

what I warned you of. It shall only take one letter Adelaide.”

“You said I had to behave within the walls of Bitsch.”

“Ah, that’s right, and we are not in the walls of Bitsch yet,

are we?” She crosses her arms. “You so kindly reminded me of

that moments ago. What was it that you said? That we should

end our affair at the gates of Bitsch? That gives us one more

night, does it not?” She smiles ruefully.

I start coughing violently.

“Stop it,” she hisses. “Or I’ll send that letter. I swear it.”

“You can only send that letter once. Then how shall you

make me behave?”

“Yes, you are right about that. I can only send it once, but

that is all it will take to send him to his death.”

She’s right. The door to their room opens. “Should we

send for the doctor?” Father asks.

“No, Father.” I grip my throat. “I swallowed strangely.

That’s all.”

Galadriel smiles in triumph, and they both return to his

room. I sleep with a pillow wrapped tightly around my ears,

even though the potion is still heavy in my blood. Thank God I

sleep deeply and dream of nothing, hearing nothing through

these parchment–thin walls. At least nothing I can remember.

2 April 1248 Pleasant dreams elude me. I sleep dreamlessly, awoken by

Galadriel’s light knocking on the door each morning. We’ve

spent last night in a smaller town. Many affectionately call it

Barbarossa Town, for it was a beloved hunting ground of our

former emperor. The common name for this place somewhere

between Cologne and my future purgatory is Landstuhl.

Galadriel knocks. I rise slowly and stretch. My head

swims and stomach knots: tell–tale symptoms of too little sleep.

Goosebumps rise along my arms. I yawn, and my breath clouds. I

wrap the blanket about my shoulders and peek through the

shutters. Night diminishes. I sigh and tip–toe through the rushes

on the cold floor to see what the dolt of Bitsch wants from me

now.

Galadriel’s hair is plaited. She dons a tawny, linen

chainse and her matching surcote is velvet trimmed in gilded

ribbon. The color highlights the flecks of gold in her flaxen hair

and contrasts with the blue–violet of her eyes.

“Good morning, Adelaide,” she says. I don’t reply.

“You’ll have to work on your manners if you’d like to see your

peasant boy again.”

“His name is Ivo. Does saying it make the idea of


61

murdering him harder for you?”

Her eyes are stone. “He threw his life and soul away the

day he burned that cathedral, and you tempt me to expose him

with every quip. For someone who is so in love, why can’t you

bite your tongue to protect him?”

The truth in her words smarts. “Good morning, milady.”

“That’s better,” she says. “Take these.” She hands me a

folded pile of fine green wool, topped with green ribbons, green

jewelry, and, God forbid it, another cobbler’s shoes. “You will

wear this.”

“Father never allowed us to wear another cobbler’s

shoes,” I say. Her lips pinch, and head tilts. I heed the warning.

“Yes, milady. Thank you, milady.” Let the witch explain to Father

why I wear another cobbler’s shoes, I think ruefully.

“Make sure to scrub your hands and face well,” she

commands before eying my forehead. I reach for the lump. It’s

gone, though still tender to the touch. “I shall give you my brush.

A hundred strokes each side. Then, plait it neatly.”

“Yes, milady.”

“My people know little of you and your father. I shall tell

them that you are a wealthy merchant family, trading in leather

and fabrics like my father once did. Schumacher shan’t be a

fitting name, so it is to be von Cologne,” she says. My hand darts

to my lips, stifling a cry. “Adelaide von Cologne and Ansel von

Cologne.”

Anger simmers. She takes our name! How could Father

let her do this? He would never. He must not know her plans.

“Milady, I fear this is folly,” I offer, and her face darkens.

“Do not be angry. I say this for your benefit. Cologne is home to

tens of thousands of people. The only people bearing that name

are those who are from there but no longer live there and—”

“That is exactly what you and your father are. People

who used to live in Cologne that no longer do,” she concludes.

“The matter has already been discussed and decided.”

ANDREA CEFALO

62

My hands shake and tears pool. “But milady—”

She grabs me hard by the wrist. “Listen hard, you

insolent imp, for I shall explain this only once more to you. You

are far below my station. You do not question my orders. You do

not make requests of me. You simply say ‘Yes, milady. Thank

you, milady.’ Do you understand?”

I want to snap my hand from her. I want to smash it

against her pretty nose, but I do not. “Yes, milady,” I reply

weakly.

“Good. And if anyone asks questions you do not know

the answer to, play at being shy. If it comes out that you and your

father are cobblers, I shall send you back to Cologne—so you can

bear witness to Ivo, roasting like a pig on the spit.”

“Yes, milady,” I reply. She turns on her heel.

I run Galadriel’s brush through my hair as commanded,

though my thoughts flit to memories of my fifth winter. I sat

beside Father at his work table, the edge level with my chin. He

stacked piles of folded leather on the chair, and propped me

upon them so my little arms could rest on the table.

A needle, awl, scraps of leather, and a spool of thread lay

before me. We hunched over his table many nights, squinting

against fading candlelight as he stitched shoes, and I perfected

my stitching. My little fingers blistered, until finally hardening

with calluses. I rub my forefinger and thumb together. Father was

so proud of those silly calluses.

I’ve earned those calluses, and I’ve earned our name.

I put my hands to my nose and inhale, disappointed at

the rosewater fragrance they carry—missing the leather scent

they once held. If we are not Schumachers, what are we instead?

I exit the tavern, carrying my skirts to keep them from getting

filthy in the mud, though I’m not too careful about the gaudy,


63

green shoes.

They are like something the DeBelles would wear, with

their silver buckles and threading to match, except the DeBelles

would have had enough sense to order them from us. These

things are merely decoration. They shall fall apart before

Christmas. Although, if Galadriel plans for me to have new

clothing for each day of the week, and a pair of shoes to match,

perhaps they shall last a bit longer than that.

I raise my skirts an inch higher than necessary as I duck

into the carriage, displaying my garish, new shoes. The icy

fingers of a frost sneak beneath the fabric, raising goose pimples

along my legs. I shiver against the cold and softly clear my throat.

Father doesn’t look. Something outside the carriage window

holds his gaze, so I sit across from him, sliding out the toes of the

shoes. They peek beneath the fine wool of my chainse and

surcote, but he still doesn’t look.

I cough.

“Are you feeling ill again, Adelaide?” Galadriel’s words

drip with warning. I shake my head, afraid to speak. She shoves

another folded pile of fine green wool toward me. “Take this` and

wear it if you get cold. This is your cloak for today.”

“Thank you, milady,” I reply, feeling more like a well–

trained pup than a person.

He shifts away from the window. “Milady? Why is she

calling you milady? You said we were equals in your eyes.”

I mask my pleasure at this inquisition, however tardy it

is, and busy myself with the evergreen cloak.

Galadriel’s smile is amused, placating. “You are,” she

soothes, “but I am still a countess, and there are rules that even I

must abide. It is not any different in the armies. Even if she were

my daughter by blood, she would call me lady mother.”

“And I?” he asks.

“Ansel, I fear you make seas of puddles. What would you

have called a countess in Cologne?”

ANDREA CEFALO

64

He pivots toward the window again. We all know the

answer to her question. He would call her milady.

Why had he expected anything else? Did he think sharing

her bed made them equals?

Once we enter her gates, he will be nearly as powerless as

me. She might name him a merchant, but what will he have? He

will no longer be a husband, the ruler of his own house. He won’t

even be a member of the guild. Never again would he make a

shoe—if we stayed.

“You know how the world works. It is only words,”

Galadriel adds. “You will have to call me by my title, too, but

only when we are before my people.”

“Then why must she call you that now?” he shoots back.

“I thought it good practice so she does not forget. A

woman hasn’t a man’s intellect. We must practice new skills. And

she shall be around me more than you. Besides, she does not

mind. Do you, Adelaide?”

My compliance adds injury to his insult, making the lie

strangely easy. “No, milady.”

He unleashes a skeptical gaze on me. “Since when are

you two getting along so well?”

“I know it has taken a few days—” Galadriel starts.

“I want to hear from her, milady.”

“You said I must behave, or you shall send me to a

convent. I am merely doing what you ask of me.”

He shrugs away the intended sting in my words.

Galadriel sits beside me. The carriage thumps downward as our

driver jumps into his seat. He whips the horses, and we are off.

“Are you not cold?” Galadriel asks Father, motioning to

the garish mantle lying beside him.

“No,” he snaps, and then his face warms as he looks upon

her. “You should wear it, milady, to keep off the chill.”

She beams. “Thank you, milord.”

With this slip of the tongue, my fears are confirmed. I


65

know why she makes us give up our name and pretend to be

merchants.

Their affair shan’t end at the gates of Bitsch.

I wrap Mama’s shift into a pillow and lean against the

window, hoping to sleep rather than endure conversation with

Galadriel. But perhaps I should stay awake in the hopes that

Galadriel and Father fall asleep.

Then, I can run away. I’ll hop right out of the carriage and

hide in the grass.

Who would ever find me in the sea of green, I think

sardonically, looking down at the green fabric of my dress, my

cloak, my shoes.

I’d blend right in.

Galadriel’s fingers fidget with the trim of her cloak. She senses

my stare and ceases the nervous habit, brushing any wrinkles

from the embroidered ribbon. “We will make Bitsch within the

hour,” she announces, breaking a silence that had stretched from

morning to afternoon.

As the sun descends, we pass from wooded forest to

wide, musty–scented marshes. Bare, monumental trees sprout

from the bog, fading from grey to black as the blinding sun dips

behind them. The carriage wheels splash through puddles on this

little–traveled, mud–caked road. I catch the fragrance of hearth

smoke on a breeze. We are close. Galadriel leans in, lecturing me

in whispers on how I should act once we are within the city

walls.

A small mountain rises from sheep pastures like a

bulbous toadstool in the middle of a short grass. A tremulous

smile creeps along Galadriel’s lips, and she points proudly to her

home: a massive stone fortress that crowns the rounded

mountain.

ANDREA CEFALO

66

Until now there was a chance that we would turn around,

but we are here. My stomach clenches at the thought.

My back presses against the wall of the carriage as we

ascend the zigzagging road toward the gate. Towers flank the

portcullis. The Bitsch sigil wriggles at their peaks. Goose pimples

raise on my neck and arms at the strange banner: two onyx

serpents slithering around a black diamond.

Most sigils are birds or beasts. Things that are fearsome,

yet beautiful. But there’s nothing lovely or even admirable about

a snake. Surely Galadriel’s dead husband chose this beast for

their banner, but why? Why put the most loathsome of creatures

on your banner?

My cheeks pinch with a smile. It is a rather perfect

symbol for Galadriel. Does she not tempt men with forbidden

fruit? I watch her greet an auburn–haired guard, flashing a regal,

yet pleasant smile. She is unnaturally beautiful. The devil would

have been wise to make a witch out of her. Who would suspect

something so beautiful could be so evil? Chains clink and crank

as the portcullis rises and doors open. Once inside, we ride

between stone barricades until arriving at yet another gate. The

doors open, and we roll slightly downhill into a wider bailey.

A stone manor pokes out of the north wall, built directly

into the edifice that haloes the rock mound this fortress sits upon.

A spire rises out of the manor’s end. Another barricade connects

this spire to the south wall—and so we approach a third gate.

How many of these gates must we pass through? My eyes

roam, looking for something worth guarding so heavily. Cologne,

which is surrounded by only one wall, could be seized easier

than this place. Surely nothing within these walls could be as

valuable as the gold, cloth, and spices traded at home.

We pass through the third entry with ease. The manor

continues, extending from the same spire as the first—though this

half of the dwelling is twice as long and adorned with stone

statues, archways, and ornately carved wooden doors.


67

It is a manor, trying to be a castle. It used to be a hunting

lodge, Galadriel told us, though work has gone on for the better

part of two years to make it a fitting home for a countess and—

she swallowed hard at this part—a count.

The stone reflects the gleaming golds and gingers of

sunset. Blinding shimmers race across the three rows of glass

window panes. The manor’s length makes it appear unusually

short, though it is three stories. Still I can think of a half–dozen

church spires in Cologne that far exceed the height of the towers

along the fortress and even the spire of the chapel that splits the

manner into two, very unequal parts.

It isn’t a castle like those from Mama’s tales: a great stone

building with brilliant stained glass windows haloed by a great

moat with jewel–toned banners perched on towers, whipping in

the wind.

Perhaps had I been plucked from some wheat field in the

middle of the countryside, I might find this fortress, perched

above boggy land and sheep pastures, remarkable. But I am a girl

from the great city of Cologne—where the spires pierce the

clouds and the wealthiest own the better part of a street.

The carriage slows, and my stomach flutters with nerves.

Galadriel’s threat from a few days ago plays like an indelible

song in my thoughts. If you defy me in the walls of my home, I swear I

will write a letter to Konrad, telling him you confessed to me a horrific

secret about how your peasant boy burned the great cathedral of

Cologne.

If her words were the tune, my nightmare of Ivo is the

play to go with it. I told Galadriel she could only write that letter

once. Without so much of a blink, she replied that that one letter

would result in Ivo roasting on the spit like a pig. I can’t get the

image out of my head. Panic thumps hard in my chest. I can feel

it pulsing in my ears.

The carriage stops. Our driver opens the door, and

Galadriel takes his hand. I wait for Father, but he motions for me

ANDREA CEFALO

68

to go first, and I rise on trembling knees.

Two rows of men and women form a hallway that we

must pass through to make our way to the doors. From so close,

the manor seems more like a castle. I look up and suddenly feel

very small. Galadriel embraces an older man who smiles warmly.

“Father.” Her pink lips curve into an honest smile. “I

missed you so very much.”

“And I, you.” He steps back from their embrace taking

her hands in his. “You gave me quite a scare,” he chides in mock

discipline. “Any longer and I would have ridden out in search for

you myself.”

She pouts playfully. “Now you know how it feels. All

those months I spent worried after you while you were on your

travels.”

He tosses his head with touché, not a tendril of his

thinning golden hair falling out of place. They release each

other’s hands. Galadriel ushers me closer, and I step toward this

man who must be Mama’s uncle. “Father, this is Adelaide,

Katrina’s daughter.”

My uncle’s long thin face and angular features give him

the frightening gaze of a hawk. “My God, she has grown,” he

says to Galadriel, smiling, “though I haven’t seen her since she

was just a babe.” He bends down. I steady my feet, fighting the

urge to back away from him. “Do you remember me?”

“No, milord,” I reply.

“Call me Uncle,” he bids. “No, of course you wouldn’t.

You were much too young. I was your mother’s uncle, your great

uncle.”

“Yes, Uncle,” I say.

He smiles and rises to his full height. “She has a little look

of her mother but none of her coloring,” he remarks to Galadriel

and bends again toward me. “I am sorry about your mother. She

was a good girl, a feisty girl if I remember rightly. She had to

marry your father no matter what anyone else said. Are you a


69

feisty girl like her?”

I look down and fight a smile. He chortles at my silent

admission. “Well, you’ll have to be on your best behavior here.”

“Yes, Uncle,” I say. Father comes closer, standing beside

me.

Uncle’s face darkens, and the angles of his face sharper.

“Ansel,” he says coolly. His nostrils flare.

“Herrmann.” Father’s voice is no warmer. He extends a

hand to shake. Uncle takes it but not without eyeing it like it

belongs to a leper. They hate each other. I can use this man to my

advantage. If Galadriel cares at all what her father thinks, this

affair will end.

Galadriel stops before a towering man with a full head of

silver hair and beard to match. The man tilts his head in

obeisance at her approach.

“Adelaide, Ansel,” Galadriel says, “this is Matthias, the

castle bailiff. Matthias, this is Herr Ansel von Cologne and his

daughter, Fraulein Adelaide.”

“Welcome to Castle Bitsch, Herr Ansel, Fraulein

Adelaide.” He tips his head to us though not as deeply as he did

to Galadriel.

Am I to tip my head, as well? I look to Father to see what

he does, and he does nothing. Then I look to Galadriel who offers

no cue either way.

Galadriel turns to a man dressed in monk’s robes,

extending her hand. His thin lips spread into a wide, warm smile,

lines folding around his deep–set eyes, as he takes her hand in

both of his.

“This is Father Hannes,” Galadriel says.

My breath catches.

His title conjures memories in harsh flashes of another

priest: the man who made defiled Mama’s corpse, who framed us

for a crime we didn’t commit, who saw to our public humiliation

and the burning of our every possession. Father Soren.

ANDREA CEFALO

70

“Adelaide.” Galadriel nudges my arm. “Adelaide.”

I shake the thoughts away and extend a limp hand to the

priest.

“Father—” What was his name?

He kneels down, peering into my eyes. He grips my

flaccid hand between his. I catch the scent of incense, heavy on

his robes. “Hannes.” His tone is comforting.

“Father Hannes,” I echo.

“It is nice to meet you, Fraulein.”

“And you, Father,” I lie, fighting the urge to yank my

hand from his.

He releases me and rises, turning to Galadriel. “It is good

to have you home, Countess.” He bows, sandy hair with hints of

silver falling into his face. He runs his hand through it as he rises,

and it parts perfectly in the middle, each side arching up before

falling loosely to his shoulders.

“And it is good to be home—at last.” Galadriel replies

before turning to Father. “This is Ansel.” Father extends a hand,

and they shake.

“Ansel, this is Ludwig, yours and Father’s chamberlain.”

Galadriel gestures to a broad–shouldered older man. “If you are

in need of anything, send for him.”

“Ludwig.” Father nods, extending a hand for shaking

again.

Ludwig looks to the boys standing beside him. The

rounder of the two boys whispers something into the ear of the

other, who smiles. Ludwig slaps the back of the round boy’s

head. His mop of mousy curls bounce from the blow. The boy

gives the man a strange look and rubs his crown. Girlish giggles

come from behind me, and a quick hush from an older woman

silences it immediately.

“Sorry, milady,” Ludwig says in his gruff, crackling

voice. The man then slaps the boy on the back of the head again.

“Sorry, milady,” the boy mumbles.


71

Galadriel shakes her head.

“This, Herr Ansel, I am sorry to say is your page and my

grandson, Lutz,” Ludwig introduces the pudgy, doe–faced boy

he’d just smacked across the head. “He’s got a lot of lazy and

stupid in him.”

Father narrows his eyes. “Is that true, boy?”

“Yes, Herr,” Lutz admits, his shoulders falling.

“I don’t tolerate lazy and stupid. Do I, Adelaide?” Father

says.

“No, Father,” I reply.

Lutz’s lips twist, and he nods.

“This is my other grandson, Linus,” Ludwig says. “He’s a

bit brighter than his brother. A year younger. Very quiet though.

He’s Hermann’s page. Greet Herr Ansel, Linus.”

“Welcome, Herr Ansel and Fraulein Adelaide,” he utters,

barely audible.

Galadriel shifts down the line, pausing at a handsome

young man with wavy chestnut hair and the ruddy skin of a man

who labors out of doors. “This is Tristan, our huntsman,” she

says.

The young man grasps her hand and presses his lips to

the back of her fingertips. “You have been greatly missed,

milady.”

Galadriel’s cheeks flush, and she pulls her fingers from

his. “Or perhaps I should call you our troubadour,” she teases.

Tristan’s dark, deep–set eyes flicker with amusement at her jest.

“Rise, Tristan,” she commands, the cool countess mask falling

over her face. “What have you for me?”

“Venison for this Sunday, if it pleases you, milady.”

“Very good, Tristan.” Galadriel turns to Father. “Ansel,

this is Tristan.”

“Welcome, Herr Ansel.”

I pause, waiting for Galadriel to introduce me, but she

does not. She merely moves further down, and we follow.

ANDREA CEFALO

72

The golds of sunset have shifted to the violets, pinks, and

blues of dusk. The air grows cooler and our breath forms soft

clouds. A few of the servants shiver against the cold. They

haven’t cloaks. I pity them, wishing I could prod Galadriel faster

through this long line. The door looms ahead, so heavy and

oppressive. I imagine the deep echo of the heavy wood shutting

behind us, like the closing of a coffin—so final. We can still leave,

I remind myself. It’s not too late. Nothing binds us to Bitsch. Yes,

it would have been better if we had turned back at Oppenheim or

Landstuhl. But it’s not too late. I extend my hand absently time

and time again to greet yet another face whom I won’t bother to

remember because remembering is like assuming I will need to

remember them. It is like willing us to stay.

A familiar face flickers from the corner of my gaze. I

glance toward her. Downy brown hair frames a heart–shaped

face and large eyes.

Mama? A pang of heartache robs me of breath, but I push

it down. I blink and narrow my eyes. No, It can’t be. This woman’s

hair is a shade darker, her skin a shade lighter, and her eyes blue

rather than Mama’s mahogany brown. Still, this woman could

easily be mistaken for Mama’s sister.

“This is Marianna, my first maid–in–waiting,” Galadriel

introduces. I glance to Father. His gaze lingers on her—his eyes

longing and vulnerable.

“Welcome, Herr Ansel, Fraulein Adelaide,” this woman,

Marianna, says in a French accent as thick and fluid as honey. She

averts her eyes from Father’s long stare. Her cheeks flush and lips

pinch to stifle a giggle.

Father glances away, his jaw clenched. Galadriel’s gaze

darts between her maid–in–waiting and her lover. She coils her

arm in Father’s and moves him along. I fight a smile.

“Thank you, Lady Marianna,” I say. “Are you French?” I

ask but feel Galadriel’s hand on my shoulder, firmly pushing me

forward.


73

“Come along, Adelaide,” Galadriel says, feigning

sweetness. “It grows dark, and there is still so much more for you

to see.”

We pause before a slender woman with a taught face and

set jaw. “This is my lady–in–waiting, Johanna.” Johanna dips into

what one might think was a curtsy had she dropped more than

an inch. The motion sends a lock of her straight, golden hair

swinging forward. She brushes the back of her fingers against her

forehead and high, narrow cheekbones, casting the hair to its

proper place.

“Herr Ansel, Fraulein Adelaide,” she says.

“Lady Johanna.” I dip into a curtsy, and Father tips his

head. Her measuring gaze follows us as we move along.

A short, round, woman bursts forth from the line, her

wiry, pewter coif bouncing with each step. She snares me in a

bear–like grip. “Oh, give me a hug, dear,” she says. “No sense in

formalities, I say.”

I wrap my arms around her, patting her back to signify

the end of the hug. She pushes back and looks upon me with a

sincere beaming smile full of yellow teeth. “You’re a pretty one,

aren’t you, Fraulein? The beauty of Cologne, I bet they called

you.”

I chortle and shake my head. The beauty of Cologne is an

epithet saved for flaxen haired princesses, not raven–haired

cobblers.

“This, Adelaide, is your nursemaid, Hildegard.”

Galadriel says.

A nursemaid? I am fifteen years old and betrothed! What

need have I for a nursemaid?

She releases me and straightens my surcote. “If you need

anything, Fraulein, I’ll be the one to help,” she says. “But I don’t

tolerate any nonsense,” she points a scolding finger at me.

I nod.

Galadriel glances past Hildegard to the door. “Where are

ANDREA CEFALO

74

the chambermaids?” she asks, annoyed.

“They ready the house, milady,” Marianna defends.

“Forgive us. We were not sure when you would return, or who

you would bring with you.”

“I told you who you might expect to return with me,”

Galadriel snaps. “And I have been gone long enough for the

castle to have been ready a fortnight ago.”

Marianna’s eyes flit down, and Johanna steps forward. “I

shall send for them, Countess.” She pivots toward the castle, her

skirts following as if commanded. There is hardly a rise and fall

to her step. Her every gesture is graceful and unrushed.

“The scullions, Marianna, are they inside preparing

supper?” Galadriel asks. “We have not dined today. I expect a

hearty meal.”

“Yes, milady.”

“Very good.”

We finally approach the door. The porter darts forward to

open it. Johanna stands stone–faced at the entry with the red–

faced and sweaty chambermaids who we missed earlier.

Johanna steps aside for Galadriel. “Your rooms are

readied, Countess.”

I suppose Galadriel no longer cares to introduce the

chambermaids, for she rushes straight past them. Johanna turns

to follow her and so do the chambermaids, the bailiff, and Father.

A breath hangs in my throat as my foot crosses the threshold, but

they move so quickly that I have to quicken my pace to keep up.

“Thank you, Lady Johanna. I should like for us to sup in

my presence chamber.”

“Very well—”

“Would you not rather dine in the hall, milady, or show

them the castle first?” Matthias interrupts. “You have guests, and

the hall has been readied for them.”

She waves her hand dismissively. “I think I know where I

should and should not like to eat, Matthias, but surely they


75

should like to see the castle. I trust you can manage a tour?”

“Of course, milady, but usually—”

“I do not care what is usually done and keep your tour

short. I wish to eat before the Compline bells ring.”

“Yes, milady.”

Galadriel disappears up the staircase, chattering orders as

her ladies and maids follow. My eyes roam the dank stone walls

and ceiling of the cavernous threshold. A musty odor lurks in the

air, but a frigid draft flows down the stairwell, chasing it away. I

shiver and shrink into my cloak.

Lutz and Linus enter clumsily carrying a trunk. “Lutz,

Linus,” Matthias barks, and the boys pause. “The sconces should

be lit.”

“Grandfather told us to take the trunks to the rooms,”

Lutz grunts, shifting the weight of the trunk. Matthias breathes a

heavy sigh. The castle doors open. Tristan and the castellan slip

in.

“Leave that to men who can handle such a task. Tristan,

Crispin,” Matthias snaps, and the young men come like trained

dogs. “See to it that these trunks make their way to the

chambers.”

They beam at the challenge. Lutz smiles and shrugs his

shoulders. The boys lower the trunk and head off. Tristan and

Crispin carry it with ease, twisting it carefully, but quickly,

around the corner and up the staircase without grimace or groan.

Lutz and Linus return with lighted sticks, lighting

sconces in the hallway. The flickers of the tiny flames grow

fainter as they head deeper into the hallway. Boyish laughter and

the scuffing of leather soles echo off the stone.

“Shall we then?” Matthias suggests in his gruff voice.

“The first floor of the castle is mainly used for servant quarters

and storage.” Matthias points down the long, dark hallway across

from us.

Father, disinterested, peers down the hall before nodding.

ANDREA CEFALO

76

Lutz and Linus return, pass us, and head up the stairs to light

more sconces as we stand with Matthias in strained silence.

Candles flicker, dimly lighting the stairwell. Matthias

holds his arm out and gestures for us to make our way up the

stairs. He points right as we continue our ascent. “The great hall

is that way, but you won’t be supping there tonight,” he says,

hardly masking his irritation.

Tristan and Crispin turn the corner. Instinctively, I step

out of their way, but Matthias turns, with pinched lips, facing the

young men. They back up and halt, waiting for us to finish our

ascent.

Never had strangers made a path for me before,

especially when they were carrying something heavy.

I don’t like this feeling, this uneven footing in which I

perch.

I think of all the crooked paths that converged to cause

two men who I should have never met to pause on a stairwell like

I am somehow more significant today than I was three days ago.

It is an ugly, convoluted web of death, treachery, and betrayal.

The flashes of memory feel like a blow to the stomach. I

change the subject of my thoughts and follow the light of the

sconces, stepping up, up, up. The burn in my thighs is a new

pain, a distraction from the throbbing wound in my soul. I slip

into the third story hallway, ahead of Father and Matthias. The

warmth hits me first and then the scent of smoke. A crisp wind

whistles through glassless slits in the north wall, raising bumps

on my arms and neck.

I look out despite the chill. A myriad of tiny, shimmering

specks fill the voids between large stars. I’ve never seen so many.

I could live a hundred winters and never count them all.

Another gust comes, and I catch the faint aroma of snow

on the air. I close my eyes and inhale. When I close my eyes, I can

be anywhere, anywhere with a hearth fire, anywhere but here.

I imagine it is a gust ripping through the shutters in my


77

bedroom in Cologne. That the hearth fire comes from the solar

below. That my eyes aren’t really closed. They were closed

before. Bitsch is a nightmare, and this delusion is real.

Father and Matthias’s voices echo into the hall, and the

fantasy dissolves.

I look down. The rocky hillside plummets, melding into

the dense forest far below. It is the kind of height that makes me

wonder what would happen if I jump. But that would be

impossible. These windows are barely wide enough to stick my

hand through. Why would anyone make a window so narrow?

“It’s a beautiful view,” Matthias says. I look over my

shoulder and nod politely. Tristan and Crispin skirt past us,

disappearing into the dark hallway.

“The windows are so narrow,” I say. “Why is the sill wide

on the inside and narrow on the out?”

“It keeps an enemy’s arrows from coming in but allows

our archers many angles to shoot out.” He demonstrates a variety

of stances an archer could take.

“Are you attacked often?” I ask.

“Not once in the two years that I have been here.”

“Then why are there so many defenses?”

Matthias turns to Father and raises his silver eyebrow,

forcing deep lines to stretch across his forehead. “Your daughter

asks a lot of questions, Herr.”

Father’s thin lips give a subtle arc. “That she does.”

Matthias turns to the hallway. “Onto the chambers then.”

Ludwig and Lutz stand beside a set of heavy wooden

doors and open these for us.

“Herr, these are your chambers,” Matthias announces.

“The presence chamber is, of course, closest to the stairs, and

your bed chamber’s next.”

It is a lavish room. Fresh strewing herbs have been

scattered across the floor—haloing a table with carved chairs.

Heavy brown drapes rim tall windows. Hunting tapestries warm

ANDREA CEFALO

78

the opposing wall, and a large fireplace warms its adjacent.

Father crosses the threshold and regards the room, seeming

ambivalent. He turns to Matthias and nods as though he is saying

that the room shall do.

Matthias points left. “Those doors lead to your private

chambers, Herr.” He shoves Lutz. “Go on, you louse. Open the

door for him.”

“I’m capable of opening doors,” Father says and heads

into his private chamber alone.

Lutz follows and so do I, but Matthias blocks my path

with an out–stretched arm. “A girl is not permitted into the lord’s

bed chamber unless summoned,” he says.

My father is not the lord of this manor, I’d like to say, but

I mind my tongue, thinking of Galadriel’s threats. Father returns.

His indifferent expression—though not surprising—pleases me

nonetheless. He always despised the wealthy. They were a

necessary evil for all guild members, in his words, for they often

spent their coin with little thought.

“Onto the Fraulein’s rooms,” he says.

We pass several doors, pausing at the end of the hallway.

Hildegard stands at the threshold, a wide smile on her face.

Matthias gestures toward the opened door. “This,

Fraulein, is your private chamber and next to it your presence

chamber.”

She shows me to a set of rooms, which are very much like

Father’s except the fabrics are evergreen rather than brown.

“Very nice, isn’t it?” Hildegard asks, and I nod politely.

“Homesick already, dear?”

I nod again. My head is likely to fall off from all these

unspoken agreements.

“Come now,” she summons me toward a basin. “Let us

clean your hands. Lady Galadriel may well be ready for supper.”


79

Galadriel cannot be upset with me for doing as Father does, I

think, grabbing the loaf and tearing off a hunk. My stomach

trembles at the sweet, buttery aroma. Father has made short work

of the refreshments, gulping his wine and breaking the bread.

If I waited much longer there might not be anything left

for me at all.

The brittle golden crust flakes in my fingers, and the

white interior steams. I pop a morsel into my mouth. It melts on

the tongue. I could moan in delight.

But these are Galadriel’s things. Delight in them feels like

delight in her—the woman who usurped my mother’s place,

who’s cast a spell on my father, who threatens Ivo. Even the

strong, honeyed wine tastes sour after that.

Galadriel enters from the door that leads to her presence

chamber, her damp plaited hair covered by a sheer veil. Her

cheeks flush like the roses she smells of. She takes the empty

chair beside Father and leans forward to grab her mug. “I hope

the rooms are to your liking.”

I hope the rooms are to your liking? I mock her doltish voice

in my thoughts.

Her fake concern makes me hate her even more. Is this

the part where I am supposed to bolster her pride by singing the

praises of Castle Bitsch?

I’ve spent most my nights on a straw mattress covered by

a rough woolen blanket in a room without a hearth—and I would

gladly go back to less rather than suffer her desperate prodding

for compliments.

Luckily the mug is at my lips—so I can get away with the

slightest nod of my head, leaving Father the one to answer her.

And I want him to answer her. I want him to feel her title rolling

off his tongue.

ANDREA CEFALO

80

“Yes, milady,” he says, before taking a gulp of wine to

help him swallow his pride more easily.

“Lutz,” Galadriel summons. “Fill Herr Ansel’s mug. Pay

attention.”

“Yes, milady.” He rushes forth with the pitcher.

A savory scent wafts into the room as a busty brunette

enters, bringing a great bowl of beaver pottage.

Many courses follow. Galadriel eats a little of each, trying

all of them. Father eats every morsel set on his charger, gorging

like a glutton. A tray of pastries comes, and his eyes follow it.

How much more can he eat? After wine, bread, and

pottages, how can he still have room for sweets?

Violet crescents rim Galadriel’s eyes, and she masks

many yawns with her fingers. Her bouncing eyelids close until

something, a nightmare perhaps, startles her. She excuses herself

but gives us permission to stay in her presence chamber and eat

until we’ve had our fill.

Galadriel enters her bed chambers, and Father finishes his

pastry, reclining in his chair with a groan.

“More wine, Herr?” Lutz asks with a yawn of his own,

and Father raises his mug to be filled again. “Would you like

Ettiene to make more pastries?”

Father rises with a groan. “No, I’ve had my fill.” He

places his hands on the small of his back and stretches. His back

cracks, and he sighs.

“Should I show you to your rooms, Herr?” asks Lutz.

“No. I’m quite capable of finding them myself”.

He pats my shoulder on his way to the door. “Goodnight,

Adelaide,” Father says. I look up. His face is lax from drink. Wine

and ale always cause his iron mask to give. Usually he is a jovial

drunkard, but there is a hint of sadness in his steely eyes.

The commonality of our shared sadness is strangely

comforting. He turns to the door and heads into the hallway.

“Goodnight Father,” I call after him.


81

I look around, unsure of what to do.

“Shall I show you to your room, Fraulein?” Lutz offers,

and I follow him into the hall. Linus, so quiet and quick, seems to

appear out of nowhere.

“You owe me a pfennig,” Lutz says to him.

“Oh, come now. We never shook on it,” Linus complains.

The brothers walk side–by–side.

“You wagered, and I accepted. You owe me a pfennig.”

“I said it in passing.”

“Perhaps we should ask the Fraulein her opinion on the

matter.” Lutz turns toward me, his rosebud lips pursed.

“Take your stupid pfennig if you need it so badly.” Linus

reaches into a leather pouch and slaps a pfennig into his brother’s

chubby palm.

“I shall be needing it. How else will I get enough to eat?”

“You eat too much already, though I have never seen a

man so lean eat so much.”

“Scraps won’t be what they used to be with him around.

In a month, I might be as lean as you.”

“It shall take more than a month.”

Lutz shrugs. “This is your room Fraulein. Sleep well.” He

opens the door. Lutz elbows Linus in the ribs.

“Sleep well, Fraulein,” Linus mumbles.

I step through the door, and Lutz closes it behind me.

Hildegard stands at the desk. She has been waiting on me for

some time, I suppose. A large tub sits near the fire, and I

approach it. It is filled two–thirds with water. The door to the

presence chamber opens. The oldest laundress and one of her

daughters enters, drying sheets in hand.

“Do not worry, Fraulein. The water is warmed.”

Hildegard senses my apprehension and places a finger into the

tub. “You’ve let it cool,” she snaps at the young eweress.

“We did not know when she would be finished with her

supper, Hilde,” the mother of the younger laundress defends.

ANDREA CEFALO

82

“I put a stone on the fire,” the girl snaps. “The nursemaid

fusses over nothing.”

“Mind your tone,” Hildegard warns.

The girl turns on her heel and opens her mouth to argue,

but the girl’s mother grabs her by the arm. “Imma,” the mother

hisses, and the girl narrows her brown eyes, before returning to

the fire.

She scoops a large stone between two shovels. The water

hisses as she plops it into the tub. All three women turn expectant

gazes on me.

“Do not be shy.” Hildegard gives a little laugh. “The

countess bathes in front of us all the time.”

Hildegard approaches, and I take a step back, crossing

my arms over myself.

It is not that I am unaccustomed to baths. Mama took me

to the bathhouse weekly, but it feels strange that I will be the only

one bathing, the only one without clothes.

“She is shy,” Hildegard says to the laundresses. “Wait in

the presence chamber. I shall call if we need you.”

The mother tips her head and they go.

“I am tired,” I say. “Can I not bathe on the morrow?”

“The countess says you are to be bathed tonight, and we

answer to her, dear. Things are different here than they are at

home. I shall tell you what to do and leave you to it. You can lock

the doors if you like. No one shall bother you while you bathe.

When you are finished and dressed, unlock the door and call for

us. We shall come in then.”

I nod, and she heads toward the tub. “Will you tell

them?” I ask, calling after her.

She turns, her brow knit in confusion. “Will I tell who

what, dear?” she asks with a compassionate laugh.

I catch myself biting my lip, afraid my unwillingness to

bathe revealed my true station in life, and Galadriel shall find

out. “Will you tell others that I—”


83

“That you are modest?” Hildegard smiles warmly. “That

is an honorable trait in a young lady.”

With her kind words, my panic subsides. She hands me

the tools to bathe: sponges, a bucket of herbed water, a bucket of

rosewater, and drying sheets. She tells me what to do and then

leaves the room.

I lock the doors and quickly get to it, afraid that even with

the doors locked someone might walk in and see me naked. I

scrub quickly with the herb water and submerge my scalp,

scrubbing my hair. I rise and quickly douse myself with the rose

water and tiptoe out of the tub, covering myself with the drying

sheets as I shiver. Once dried, I slip into the sheer linen nightshift

left for me on the bed. I unlock the doors and Hildegard comes.

The laundresses follow, but Hildegard sends them away.

“Good night, ladies,” she says. “You can empty the tub

on the morrow.”

With an obedient tip of the head, the elder laundress

heads into the hall. The younger laundress follows.

Hilde picks up the chair from the desk with a groan. I

fight the urge to take it from her and ask her where I should put

it. That isn’t the kind of thing a lady would do for a servant—

though it should be. It isn’t right for an old woman to carry heavy

things. She huffs and sets the chair before the fireplace.

“Come and sit,” she says, and I do, shivering. Hildegard

grabs a fur blanket from the trunk and a drying sheet from the

edge of the tub.

“There you go, dear.” She wraps the blanket about my

shoulders. “My, you have a mess of hair.” She twists the drying

sheet around my locks to take out the wet. “Black as night, but

your skin is snow white. Makes you an unusual girl—a very

pretty girl though.”

Her words are a hot poker in my throat. Snow White. The

name Mama called me. What would I not give to hear her say it

again?

ANDREA CEFALO

84

Of all the things that have happened today, those two

words snuff out the flame of my resolve. Hildegard stops and

leans over. Her small brown eyes peer into mine, darting with

worry.

“Did I pull your hair, dear?”

“No,” I say and wipe the stray tears that run down my

cheeks.

“What is it then?”

“My mother used to call me Snow White.”

“Oh.” Her thin lips fold and pout. “It’s a wicked thing

that fever—sent by the devil himself.” She crosses herself.

“How did you know about my mother?” I ask.

“Lady Galadriel told us.”

“What else has she told you of us?”

“That your father is a merchant, trading in wool and

fabrics.”

Why would Galadriel peddle this lie before she even

knew we would return with her? I dig my nails into the arms of

the chair. Was it her intention to bring us back here all along?

“She said the fever was worse in Cologne,” Hildegard

continues. “She feared for you both. She didn’t want to see

anymore kin claimed like her husband and son.”

Perhaps Galadriel was just trying to save us. Perhaps her

threat against Ivo is an empty one, made to keep me from sharing

her torrid secrets. I shake the thought from my head. Asking

questions of Galadriel is probably as dangerous as defying her.

The more it seems I learn about Galadriel, the more

questions I have.

“Did many die here?” I ask.

“Too many. ‘Twas the strangest thing. It left the old and

the young and killed half of everybody else. We are only now

getting back to sorts. The countess’s father had to send for more

servants. The huntsmen died, and so Tristan came. The castellan

died, and so Crispin, the carpenter’s boy, took his place. A smart


85

boy, that Crispin. The midwife’s apprentice died a week after the

midwife herself. We still haven’t found anyone to take their

places—though we haven’t reason to, I suppose. Many outside

the walls died too. What about Cologne, dear? Did it claim so

many there, too?” Hilde puts the brush down and starts plaiting

my hair.

“Thousands,” I reply. “The poorest were paid to dig a pit

outside the city wall to hold the bodies, but it wasn’t big enough,

so they dug a second pit, a bigger pit.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”

“After a while the priests stopped performing funerals

and last rites. Men roam the streets with a cart every day to load

up the dead and take them to the pit.”

“Your mother—”

“No one would perform the last rites. We paid for a

funeral. It did not go so well.”

In a flash, I am watching Mama burn on her pyre, seeing

Soren kick the log from under it, and her corpse tumble to the

ground. The rains pour down, squelching the flames leaving her

ashen body contorted.

No matter how I try to forget it, I do not think I ever shall.

“We had a second funeral,” I add. “A monk performed

the rite, and our friends came. He performs the funerals still, in

secret.”

“I cannot imagine, dear. Not a soul here has died without

last rites or a funeral. Our Father Hannes is a godly man. He’s

gone to everyone who has fallen ill, prayed with them, given

them their last rites, even buried a few himself when no one else

could. He’s a good man, but I have heard stories of wicked

priests before. Fat drunken louses who take tithes for their own

good. A man like that wouldn’t have lived a week in Bitsch. If

Lord Ulrich hated one thing, it was a man who did not live by his

word.”

I nod and feel relief. “Will Father Hannes be at morning

ANDREA CEFALO

86

mass?”

“Of course, dear. ‘Tis always him unless someone is

dying of the fever, but the fever left us months ago, and, praise

God, ‘tis not returned.”

“You think he might say a prayer for my mother, if I ask

him?”

“Of course, dear and if you’re feeling shy again

tomorrow, I can ask him for you.”

I smile at her and get a warm feeling.

She might be someone I can trust.

Hildegard ties the plaits off with a ribbon. “Jesus, Mary,

and Joseph, never have I plaited that much hair. You have

enough hair for three maids, at least.” She rises with a groan and

takes the chair back to the desk. “Do not take that wrong, dear.

‘Tis a joy to have a nice girl and to plait hair again. To bed now.

You’ve got to be up early for matins.”

Hildegard removes a cobblestone from the hearth. She

wraps it in a wet sheet and then a dry one. I pull back the

blankets and slip into the cool, soft bed linens. Hildegard slides

the wrapped stone into the bed.

“There you are now, dear. That’ll keep your toes warm

for the night. I’ll leave you to your prayers and see you in the

morning.”

I nod, and she leaves, offering another warm smile before

closing the door.

The room seems so big and dark with no one in it but me.

The bed is warm, and my eyelids grow heavy, but I reluctantly

force myself from the sheets and kneel on the cool, hard floor to

say my prayers.

I have so many, so much to pray for. My head bobs as I

try to stay awake to say it all.

Late in the night, I wake, with my head on the bed and

my knees on the ground, shivering and confused.

My eyes adjust to the dark and dart about the room.


87

A glass window, flanked by evergreen drapes, reflects

embers from the dying fire. Large wooden columns rise from

each corner of this bed like towers. Thick fabric makes a flat roof

at the top.

I run my fingers along the coverlet, smooth, shimmering,

and evergreen like the drapes. A great tub looms at the edge of

the bed. The realization comes like a wave, leaving dread in its

wake, but I’m tired, too tired to care.

3 April 1248 “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, do you always wake in such tangles?

You must thrash about your bed something awful,” Hildegard

complains as she forces the brush through my unruly hair,

yanking my head with each stroke. “You’d hardly know I plaited

your hair at all.”

Hildegard’s knock came a little while ago, and it is still

dark. I look to the bed longingly, not only because I am tired but

because every moment I am awake is a reminder that I am not in

Cologne and that I must not only do whatever Galadriel bids, I

must anticipate what she wants me to do before she commands it.

Hildegard pulls the brush, and I grit my teeth. “Does it

hurt? You have to tell me these things.” A childhood memory,

long forgotten, returns to me in voices and sensations: the tug on

my hair, the sharp pain in my scalp, the faint sound of my own

crying, and Mama cooing to me, apologizing with each stroke of

the brush.

Matins fills with faces: some familiar and most not, though two

very familiar faces haven’t shown: Galadriel’s and Father’s.


89

That seems quite unfair.

Why must I rise before dawn for mass while they sleep

until it pleases them? I suppose it is good that at least I am here.

God hears our prayers best in a church, and a chapel is close

enough.

A nobleman kneels in the first row, his head bowed in

prayer. Does Galadriel have another guest, a man we haven’t yet

met? He looks over his shoulder at my approach. I hesitate, for it

is no strange nobleman but a sight even stranger: my father,

sitting in the first row of a chapel, early to mass, his black,

shoulder–length hair neatly combed back. He slides deeper into

the pew, and I join him, bowing my head in prayer.

The mass is long, for there are many fever victims to pray

for. When Mama’s name is uttered, I feel a sad smile creep upon

my lips until I hear the surname that follows it: von Cologne.

What is the point in praying for Mama if every lip utters the wrong

name?!

I unleash an angry stare on Father. How could you, my

glare says. How could you let that witch take Mama’s name, too!?

But his shocked, wounded eyes are downcast, unseeing.

He looks like a man run through with a long sword. So he didn’t

know. This was Galadriel’s doing. I grip the pew to keep from

rising, from crossing the chapel, the stairs, the hall, and storming

into Galadriel’s chambers to slap her across the face. Of course,

Galadriel would have Mama known as, Katrina von Cologne, the

dead wife of a wealthy merchant. It would raise questions about

us if she did not.

Father’s stare burns into the side of my face, but I cannot

bear to look at him. He gave up our home. He gave up our

legacy. He gave up our name. And now, I cannot even pray for

my own mother.

At the end of mass, I leave the chapel, fuming, storming

past the chambermaids. But I catch an urgency in the tone of their

whispers, and I hear the words “countess” and “unwell.” I

ANDREA CEFALO

90

dampen my pace so I can hear more.

Galadriel is unwell, they say, sick to her stomach and

exhausted.

They mention Galadriel’s illness during our travels, the

illness caused by my laced wine. Galadriel believes that it is this

illness that returns to her. Only I know this to be impossible. The

maids suggest everyone should pray for her at next mass until

her health is restored.

This is what she gets for robbing my mother of needed

prayers, for spewing lies like nonchalant observations, for

seducing grieving widowers.

Her health shall be the last prayer on my lips.

Father approaches his presence chamber ahead of me, the soles of

his fancy boots scuffling along the stone floor. I wish I could see

his face. Is it pained? Is he angry at all for what Galadriel’s done?

But all I can see is his slick, combed hair, his fine surcote, and the

garish, new boots that take him quickly down the hallway. He is

either hungry or angry. I hope it is the latter.

Galadriel sits at the table, waiting for us, her eyes

following Father as we enter his presence chamber for dinner. A

soft smile warms her pale face. I’d like to pick up one of the

eating knives and stab it through her heart. Before she died, I’d

ask her to find Katrina von Cologne in the afterlife and give her a

kiss for me.

But I can’t say or do any of that. Father bows into his

chair, and I wait for him to exact my vengeance, utter my words.

“I hear you are unwell, milady,” Father prods, placing a

hunk of bread on his charger.

I hear you are unwell. These are his words to her. I grit my

teeth Galadriel is merely sleepy with a sour stomach. Mama is

dead and in far greater need of prayers, prayers she cannot have


91

because of that trollop. I shake my head, thinking Ansel von

Cologne buried Ansel Schumacher in a grave next to his wife.

“It is nothing, Herr,” Galadriel replies sweetly, breaking

her loaf into tiny pieces. “Tired from travels. That is all.”

Father nods, and we eat in silence.

Without warning, Galadriel’s chair scrapes along the

floor, and she clumsily rises. “Marianna,” she stammers, “I

am…unwell.”

Marianna and Johanna rush to her side. Father’s brow

furrows, and he rises, standing dumbfounded, as the ladies help

her from the room.

I return to my private chamber and sit at the desk looking

out the window. I run my finger along the cool glass, which

distorts the view, making everything below seem so far away.

The door opens and Hildegard rushes in.

“Now do not be worried. The countess shall be fine,”

Hildegard soothes.

I hope she dies, I think but don’t dare say. I hope she dies

and everyone forgets her surname when they pray for her.

“‘Tis the traveling. She’s done too much of it.” Hildegard

scolds as though Galadriel is here to hear it. She heaves a heavy

sigh. “It will be a boring day for you, with no sewing, no music. I

could bring you some sewing if you like.”

“No, thank you, Hildegard.”

A blond peasant boy, chasing a chicken in the bailey

below, catches my gaze. I think of Levi and then of Ivo.

“Do you think you could get me pen and parchment,

Hildegard?”

“I suppose but for what, dear?”

“I should like to write a friend.”

“Oh, of course.”

“May I have my own stack and my own ink well with

pen?”

“For one letter?”

ANDREA CEFALO

92

“It shan’t be the last one I write. Wouldn’t it be easier if I

had my own stack rather than force someone to fetch a sheet each

time I need it?”

“I shall have Linus fetch it from Herr Herrmann. Surely

he shouldn’t mind.”

“Thank you, Hildegard,” I say, but before she leaves, I

think about the letter I’d written a few days ago. “Have any

letters come for me?”

She chuckles. “‘Tis a bit early for that, isn’t it now? You

just got here yourself.”

“How long might it take to get a letter from Cologne?”

“I wouldn’t know. Sending out the letters is the steward’s

duty, not mine, dear. Shall I have Linus ask him for you?”

“No, Hildegard,” I say.

“You can call me Hilde, dear. Saves you a breath.” She

smiles warmly and waddles out of the room.

Not long after Hilde returns, there is a knock on the door. I turn,

and Linus stands with a thick stack of parchment, a pen, and an

ink well. Never before had I seen so much parchment.

My cheeks pinch.

I am smiling, a skill nearly forgotten. Linus blushes and

averts his eyes before handing Hildegard the stack and shuffling

back into the hallway.

Hilde sets the stack onto my desk. “Here you are.”

“Thank you,” I reply, and she hovers above me. “May I

have privacy to write my letter, Hilde?”

She nods, pats me gently on the shoulder, and slips into

the presence chambers. The hinges whine as Hilde closes the

door behind her, and I sink into the soft chair.

Being around others exhausts me. I must sit straight. I

must guard my words and expressions. I’d rather be alone than


93

always cautious.

I stretch my arms over my head and peer down into the

bailey through the distorted glass as a boy, short and thin,

dawdles near his mother. She balances milk pails on a bar across

her shoulders as her son skips circles around her. He nearly runs

right into her, and she stumbles.

The pails rock from the jarring and small waves of cream

splash over the rims. She chastises the boy, who bows his head as

they walk toward the manor. She kneels and bows behind the

bar. The boy picks up one pail and she, the other. Tristan exits, a

bow and quiver slung across his shoulders. He nearly runs the

pretty young woman down. He stops and reaches a hand out to

steady her. They talk, and she smiles before he jogs toward the

gate, but he stops and looks up toward the castle. I sink lower

into the chair, afraid he might catch me watching.

His worried gaze turns to Galadriel’s window like a

chivalrous knight worried for the lady of the castle.

What is it that makes men mad for her? If I believed in

witches, I’d think her one.

Perhaps, this is a thing men do for their ladies to gain

favor. Perhaps, it is because she is so pretty. I hope that Tristan,

so innocent in his devotion, sees her for her true self and runs

into those woods, never to return. For Galadriel is cursed, she

poisons everyone, everything she touches.

The little boy and his pretty young mother return. She has

dark hair. His is buttery gold.

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.

ANDREA CEFALO

94

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


95

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, and her eyes the slightest flicker of

disgust. She turns without a word, and I follow her in silence.

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 pottage 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 bowl of

pottage 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

pottage just because Galadriel is unwell? She shall be in her

rooms soon anyway.

ANDREA CEFALO

96

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


97

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’s 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 the countess’s 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.

4 April 1248 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 chamber.

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.


99

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?”

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“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


101

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 thin 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.

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102

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.

I smile, knowing she has found peace.

6 April 1248 Hilde fishes through the chest for a riding dress as I shimmy out

of my linen chainse and velvet surcote, tossing it across the bed.

“Is this the same child who four days ago would not

bathe before me?” Hilde chides, smiling as she approaches.

I shiver, dancing in place for warmth. She places the

riding dress over my head. The wool slips over me, and I fight

the urge to itch. A week ago, rough homespun was all I had ever

worn. Am I so spoiled already?

Yesterday, Tristan invited Father to join the hunt, but

Father has never ridden a horse, so today, we shall both learn.

Galadriel gifts me a grey mare. I name her Storyteller

after Mama. And she gifts Father a great chestnut hunter. Father,

jovial from drink, allowed me to name his beast. Tristan

described the creature as a haughty, clever horse, and so I named

him Rumpelstiltskin after a character from one of Mama’s stories.

Truthfully, I chose the name for its absurdity, an

underhanded attempt to make Father look foolish. But his face

brightened, and he said he’d call it Stilt for short, before raising

his mug to me in thanks.

Hilde slaps a pair of boots at the foot of my chair, and I

plop into it. She unwinds the intricate plaits she made only an

ANDREA CEFALO

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hour before, to craft a simple braid. I think upon the tapestries in

Father’s chambers, trying to envision him charging on a great

hunter into the forests, in search of a buck with large, gnarling

antlers.

“Is that a smile on your face, dear?” she asks, delighted.

“‘Tis a shame Lady Galadriel shan’t join you. She used to love her

horse. Poor thing, stuck in her rooms on a day like this.”

Exhaustion and nausea plague Galadriel still, and she

remains in her bed chambers. The words “sleeping sickness”

have been uttered more than once. Each time I hear them, I pray

she sleeps a little deeper. And, for once, it seems God answers my

prayers.

Father’s knock comes early. I slip into my boots and rush

across the room, opening the door for him.

“Come in, Father,” I pant, and he enters, pale–faced.

“What is it?” I ask, fearing he’s intercepted a letter from Cologne,

and someone has been hurt or captured or fallen sick. “What is it?

Tell me! Is it Ivo? Is he hurt?”

Father shakes his head, averting his gaze. “No, it’s not

that.”

“Then what? What is it?”

Father’s eyes dart to Hilde, and she skirts into the hall.

The door thumps shut, and the silence spirals. He rubs his fingers

hard along his forehead and takes a deep breath. “Let us sit.”

I loathe these three words. They are always the harbinger

of bad news. I perch on the edge of the bed, and he sinks heavily

beside me.

“It’s Galadriel…”

My breath catches. Bad news about Galadriel is surely

good news for us. The fear vanquishes, making way for hope and

a ravenous desire to know. The silence ferments. My eyes rove

Father from face to foot. His lips fold into a hard line, and he

grips his knees like a man reeling from a blow. This is bad. She’s

grown worse for sure.


105

My triumph is his pain. I rest my fingers on his white

knuckles. This is a second heartbreak for him—and I hate the

thought that he could feel so deeply for that witch. When

Galadriel is dead—if she isn’t already—I can finally tell him the

truth about her. Then, perhaps, he will see her as an arrow

dodged and not a lover lost. Still, he says nothing.

“Has she grown worse?” I prod.

He meets my gaze. “No.” His steely eyes are almost

apologetic.

“Is she sending us away?”

“No.”

No. My heart thumps, and blood whooshes in my ear.

My next question is caught in my throat. I am afraid of

the answer. “Then what is it?”

“Galadriel is with child.”

His words are a battering ram in the stomach. “No!” I

gasp. “Are you sure? How can you be sure?”

“It is the child who makes her ill and tired,” he explains.

“Marianna says it was the same with Galadriel’s first born.”

“She could lose it. Mama lost many children,” I argue.

“And Mama was never so unwell during her time. Galadriel can’t

even leave her bed.”

“She won’t leave her bed because she is shamed. She’s an

unmarried woman with child, and a countess with an unsafe

claim to her lands.”

These sound like Galadriel’s words not his. “Are you sure

the child is yours?”

“Adelaide,” Father chides.

“Well, she hopped into your bed quite quickly,” I quip.

“You know what must be done.”

“What? You must make an honest woman out of her? It’s

too late for that,” I huff. “She’s a harlot already. Besides you can’t

marry during Lent…and when the child is born all will know you

bedded and then wedded. She may as well shout from the bell

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tower that the child’s a bastard.”

“Would you speak so ill of your own blood?”

“I don’t know that it is my own blood.”

He shakes his head. “What would you have me do?”

I am taken aback. I expect him to tell me to mind my

tongue or my tone, not ask my opinion. I sit for a moment in

silence. “We could go back to Cologne,” I say.

“And leave Galadriel alone, with child?”

I’d like to suggest that Galadriel could marry someone

else, and they can claim the child, or she could go to a convent for

the rest of her days. If a convent is good enough punishment for

disobedient urchins like me, why not for a usurping trollop like

her? But I know Father shall never let her fall for a mistake he

counts his own. “We could purchase a house in Cologne, a nicer

house than before, and we could all live there,” I swallow hard

before adding: “together.”

“If word reached Lorraine that Galadriel married a

cobbler, she could lose Bitsch, and the coin that it brings. That

fine house in Cologne would go with it.”

“She compromised herself, and now, she is with child,” I

say. “What she loses is her own fault. I have done nothing wrong.

Why must I lose everything for her indiscretions?!”

“You lost everything?” he spits, looking about the finery

in my room.

“I lost my mother. I lost my home. Were those things not

a loss to you?”

“Your mother was a great loss to us both.” He looks

down for a moment before meeting my gaze. “Do you know how

many times I worried that we could not pay the taxes or the

tithes? And now there is no cathedral to draw pilgrims. A tenth

of the city is dead. There is no way for us to make enough coin to

live in Cologne, Adelaide.”

“Fine, then,” I say. “You stay, but if you ask me what I

should like you to do, then I should like you to let me go. Ivo and


107

I are betrothed. When his shop opens, I want to go to Cologne.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t know what you want.”

“I am a woman grown father. Fifteen winters! Many girls

have been younger brides.”

“And young brides had their grooms picked for them by

their fathers who have the wisdom of age and a man’s intellect.”

“Mother’s father didn’t pick you.”

He shrugs away my reasoning. “Galadriel mentioned

sending you to court, and I think you should go.”

“You asked me what I wanted!”

“I hoped you would see reason.”

“I know who I want to marry, Father, and no man in any

court in Christendom is going to change that.”

Father sighs. “Has a letter come from Ivo yet? I hear you

have written him.”

He puts his hand on my shoulder, and I fight the urge to

shrug it away. Father wants me to believe that Ivo has jilted me.

Then perhaps I would go happily to court. That would make this

all easier on him. But Ivo would never abandon me. He wouldn’t.

“I am sure a letter will come,” he soothes half–heartedly.

“But, there are many months before he finishes his

apprenticeship. Many things can happen in a few months,

Adelaide.”

“A few months?” I scoff. “So much has changed for us in

far less than that. Within one month alone, Mama died, we were

put in the stocks, our possessions were burned in the streets, and

now you consider marriage to that, to that—” Jezebel, harlot, witch.

A thousand curses come to mind.

He folds his lips together. “You shall go to court when

Galadriel finds one to take you,” he says evenly, rising without

looking to me for a reaction.

“But what of Ivo?” I plead, grabbing his surcote. He

pauses but doesn’t turn to face me. “He is a good man, Papa.

He’ll have his own shop soon.”

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His silence frightens me. Why did I ask him this? Why

did I give him the opportunity to forbid it? He doesn’t reply, and

I let his fine woolen surcote slip between my fingers.

“And Galadriel?” I ask, swallowing hard. “What shall

you do about her?”

“We wed in four days.”

“Four days?! You can’t; it’s Lent. You have to—”

He grips my wrists, his glare hard and angry. “She’s the

countess, and her chaplain permits it.”

“No, Papa! No!” I drop to me knees. “You do not know

her.”

“I did not come here to ask permission, Adelaide.”

“I am not telling you what to do, but begging you, please,

don’t marry her!” I search his face, trying to make his eyes meet

mine, but they won’t. The truth burns in my throat. If he only

knew of her threats, he would never marry her. But I can’t tell

him. I can’t risk it.

“My mind is made.” He pulls his hand from my grip.

“Papa, please!”

He looks down at me, his gaze cold, his body rigid.

“Ready yourself. Mind your tongue. Do not upset your

stepmother,” he commands. “Do as I say, and you can go to

court. Disobey and I may have to reconsider a convent for you.”

He heads out into the hall without another word, and I

crumble, a pile of stunned silence on the cold stone floor.

7 April 1248 I place my sleeve to my nose and inhale. The brown wool smells

of lavender. The subtle reminder of my mother brings a

reminiscent smile—rather than pangs of grief.

Hilde placed satchels of rose pedals in the trunk of

clothes that now belong to me. My nose shriveled at the fragrance

synonymous with my future stepmother. Hilde asked me if I

preferred another scent instead; I’ve smelled of lavender ever

since.

I run my fingers along the wool of this plain dress. Wool

is good. Plain is good. Perhaps, it means I shall actually get to

ride Storyteller today. It may be worth my while to master the

skill. Once I am a steady rider, I can steal a horse and risk the

rough roads to make it home.

The pull of Hilde’s comb is sharp. I grit my teeth. God’s

teeth, she plaits tightly, but she is nearly finished. She loops the

braids into a nested coif and pins them into place.

My scalp itches and head aches, but she says it is the only

way to keep my unruly hair from falling into my face. She could

just toss an opaque veil to hide the wayward strands, but she

doesn’t. A veil would whip in my face as I rode and so would

loose locks of hair. Now I am sure. Today, I shall finally get to

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ride my horse.

A knock sounds on the door as I am slipping into my

shoes. I draw up, and my breath catches. Could this be a letter from

Ivo? Finally? Still, I have not heard from him. I worry at every tap

on the door, fearing news of him as much as I long for it.

Hilde orders the chambermaid to open the door with a

flippant wave of her hand.

Johanna stands in the threshold, regal, immovable, and

draped in blue silks. From the neck, down she is the Virgin Mary.

From the chin up, she is God standing in judgment. I swallow a

disappointed sigh. Hilde gives a labored curtsy, and I, realizing

I’ve forgotten to stand at Johanna’s presence, quickly rise to do

the same. Lady Johanna is stone–faced at my misstep but quickly

turns her hard gaze to Hilde.

“What is it that causes you to grace us with your

presence, milady?” Hilde asks.

“The countess rises today.”

Hilde crosses herself. “God be praised!”

“Yes, God be praised,” Johanna echoes dryly.

“Did she just now rise, Lady Johanna?”

“This morning. After matins,” Johanna answers. “Herr

Ansel came to her bedside with Father Hannes. He proposes

marriage.”

Hildegard slaps her hand to her bosom. “Jesus, Mary, and

Joseph!”

Johanna’s grey–green eyes roam my face, searching with

faint interest. She hides something behind her pinched smirk: a

secret we share. She knows. I should have suspected as much. She

knows Galadriel is with child, and she wants me to betray my

knowledge to her. I swallow hard, trying to look like one of the

blank pages among my stack of parchment. I will give nothing to

Galadriel’s catspaw if I can help it.

Johanna’s gaze flits to Hilde, but she gestures to me.

“Where is she going?”


111

“She was to go riding, milady.”

Johanna raises a nostril. “When was she last bathed?”

Hildegard stammers, looking for a good excuse but

finding none.

“One might think her some street urchin,” she says dryly,

“not a burgher’s daughter.”

She either knows I am a cobbler’s daughter—or suspects

my base–birth. If she thinks I am ashamed of this, she is gravely

mistaken. I meet her glare, and for once I don’t have to fight a

blush or a flicker of shame in my eyes. I play at being a lady to

keep Ivo safe, not because I am ashamed of what I am.

Gaining nothing from our silent exchange, Johanna’s

glare flits to Hilde. “Galadriel summons the girl for sewing and

music.”

“Now?!”

“No, not now,” Johanna snaps. “Before dinner. The

countess readies herself now.”

“She shall be readied, Lady Johanna.”

“See to it that she is,” Johanna snaps before making her

way into the hall, dragging her skirt behind her.

My fingers curl into fists. “Why is she such a, such a…”

“Do not let her bother you, dear,” Hilde says in passing.

She rushes into the hallway and yanks the chambermaid into our

room by the arm. The girl cries out as Hilde’s pull causes the girl

to drop laundered linens into the old strewing herbs.

“Oh, Ermgilde!” Hilde cries. “I am sorry.”

The blonde sapling of a girl screws up her face in fury.

Both of them kneel, but Hilde, even with her rheumatic knees, is

first to snatch up the now soiled linens.

“The countess wants her readied in less an hour,” Hilde

stammers desperately, “and I need a tub.”

“Then I think you should have fetched a eweress,”

Ermgilde shoots back.

“I swear to it, I’ll have the sheets shaken out and will

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change the bed myself if you would fetch the eweresses for me. I

must stay here to ready her.”

The chambermaid’s pale lips twist, but she gives a

resigning sigh before disappearing into the hall.

“Tell them to bring a tub and hot water and everything

else for a proper bath,” Hilde calls after her before rushing to my

trunk, flipping open the lid. I close the door, so no one shall see

and shake out the linens myself. Hilde thanks me in one breath

and warns me in the next. I should never be seen doing a

servant’s work.

It is all my fault. I am the one who wakes in sweats,

forcing them to change and launder the bed linens. Galadriel

hates anything the least bit fetid. I think she sees her base–birth as

a constant spot of dirt and uses the cleanliness of this castle to

mask this thing that cannot be hidden.

“Johanna is a woman who has fallen far through no fault

of her own and made cold by it,” Hilde says, continuing a

conversation that I thought was ended.

“What happened to her?” I ask.

“Her husband, a count, died a traitor, cut down in battle

with his father and hers.” Hilde fishes through surcotes, chainses,

and dresses. “They followed Henry Raspe in the rebellion. She

hasn’t a good name nor a dowry now.”

“She could wed again. She is pretty…when she’s not

scowling.”

She chuckles and looks at me with endearing eyes. It was

a naïve thing to say. “It matters little how pretty a girl is,” she

remarks, before turning back to the wardrobe. “Her name and

her dowry? Now that is what matters.”

“Galadriel had neither and look how far she has risen.”

Hilde turns from the trunk, her face severe. “You mean

the countess.” She points a hard finger at me. It is not a question

she asks but an order I must obey. I nod, surprised and

chastened.


113

Her face softens as quickly as it hardened. “You must call

her my lady or the countess, always, dear. Even when not in her

company. In any court, even the walls have ears. You would not

want the lady of any house finding you speaking lowly of her.”

I nod again, and Hilde yanks two items from the

wardrobe: a tawny surcote trimmed in fox fur and an emerald

dress lined in a patterned gold ribbon.

“Johanna was matched before she was even ready for the

marriage bed. Ulrich was not,” Hilde continues. “He was meant

for the church, but he was a spoiled boy, so his mother allowed

him to choose a bride. It was quite scandalous,” she whispers.

“And Johanna, she is fair of face, yes, but no one is as fair as the

countess. She is a great beauty.”

Fury flashes through me. Someone as wicked as Galadriel

should have a face to match.

Hilde misreads my anger for jealousy. “As are you. You

are a great beauty.” She holds the garments up to my chin,

alternating them a half–dozen times. “Perhaps as pretty as the

countess, perhaps the fairest of all, if only you’d give us a pretty

smile.”

I think it all a lie, but there is honesty behind her smile. I

have thought myself many things but never a great beauty. I’d

never thought much about beauty at all. It wasn’t something a

cobbler’s daughter thought of. We hadn’t even a mirror. It is only

here and within the waters of brooks and basins that I have ever

seen my reflection.

“Green favors you, but you have worn it before,” Hilde

reasons.

“I doubt the countess shall care which one I wear.”

Hilde gasps, startling me. “I know!” She hastens back to

the wardrobe. The dress she pulls is a river of velvet as richly red

as Burgundian wine. “I bet you are lovely in red.” She holds the

dress up to my neck and squeals with delight.

She waddles back to the trunk and finds a carved wooden

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box. Cradling it like a child, she approaches me with wide–eyed

excitement and pushes the box at me. I open the lid. Brooches

and rings glitter, but these are glass jewels framed by copper and

lesser metals. She removes the tray of trinkets, revealing the real

treasure: a compartment, hiding things far more precious. I run

my fingers along the silvers and golds, so cold. Spring sun

shimmers off the garnets and emeralds, sapphires and amethysts.

Such a thing should excite a girl from my station, but it does not.

Hilde’s eyes are longing for my vicarious excitement. I nod my

head, and her lit face falls with my indifference.

I don’t care for these costumes, and I’ll never pretend to.

My tub arrives. Hilde orders me in for a good washing. I

must be perfectly presentable, the epitome of a noble young

maiden. She personally sees to my cleaning, scrubbing me

roughly, washing my hair, and then worrying over how she shall

hide the dampness of my thick locks if Galadriel calls on me

before they’ve dried.

Galadriel does call on me before my hair has fully dried.

Hildegard wraps the drying sheet around the locks and twists

with all her might. I nearly cry out in pain.

“Can you not put it up, Hilde? Hide it with a veil, if you

must.”

“But it is so pretty when it is tamed,” she sulks.

“The countess shan’t care.”

My hair is plaited tightly again but uncovered when

Johanna knocks on the door.

“We are nearly ready,” Hilde calls.

“Hurry,” Johanna says impatiently. “The countess waits.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Hilde hisses. “Why must she

always send Lady Johanna?”

Hildegard rushes to the wardrobe and tosses a veil over

the top of my head. I watch her rush to the trunk through the

milky silk before I remove the fabric from my eyes. She adjusts

my veil and secures it with a coronet.


115

She steps back a moment, cocks her head to the side, and

smiles. “A great beauty!” she whispers before stepping forward

to grasp my hands. She looks me in the eyes. “Now remember to

curtsy and to call them by their titles. Do not speak unless you

are spoken to.”

I nod my head to each of her commands. She rises, rushes

to the door, and whips it open.

Johanna stands before us, perturbed, and I curtsy slightly

to her.

“Let us go now. The countess waits on you.” She turns on

her heel and rushes through the hallway. I quickly follow. “Do

you know how to sew?” Doubt is heavy in her voice.

I have stitched leather all my life. Surely that’s easier than

stitching thin fabrics. “Yes, milady.”

“Good, then at least I shan’t have to teach you that.

Sewing, then, is what you shall do today if it pleases the countess,

for I doubt you can do much else.”

“I can read,” I say, and she turns.

“Do not address me so informally, Adelaide. You are in a

countess’ court now, not some merchant’s hovel.”

“Forgive me, milady,” I reply with a feigned apologetic

smile.

We pause at the door to Galadriel’s presence chamber,

and a maid opens it. Johanna dips into a graceful curtsy, and I

attempt to do the same.

Galadriel looks up from her sewing. Her radiating joy is a

blade, sinking straight into my bowels.

“You look well, Adelaide,” she says.

I dig my fingernails into my palms, fighting the urge to

cross the room and claw out her eyes. Johanna prods me with her

elbow.

“As do you, milady,” I utter.

And she does look well—too well for a woman coming

from the sick bed. But that was all a rouse. Father said it himself.

ANDREA CEFALO

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She was shamed. Shamed for getting herself with child with a

man beneath her, a man whose wife she is not.

Galadriel smiles and returns to her sewing. A young man

plays flute in the corner. Johanna leads me to a cushion at

Galadriel’s feet, and I sit. Johanna gives me some fabric, thread,

and a needle.

“Adelaide…do you not have something else you would

like to say to the countess?” Johanna urges.

“Perhaps she does not know,” Marianna says, her French

accent thick and flowing like honey. Galadriel’s face flushes.

I look to Galadriel’s stomach and then back into her eyes.

I want her to know that I know she is with child, that I see her for

the harlot she is. “That my father proposes marriage?” I finally

say.

“And that I have said yes,” she adds, challenge in her

voice.

“That is kind of you.”

Johanna smiles and gives a low chuckle. “What a strange

thing to say. Are all girls from Cologne so strange?”

Galadriel narrows her eyes and tilts her head in warning.

They tug on the over–taught tether of my resolve.

“I give you my congratulations, milady. It pleases Father

that you have said yes.”

“I am out of wine, already,” Marianna tuts. “Linus, fetch

the best wine in the cellar. Today, we celebrate, for in a few days

you are a married woman again, Countess, and sure to have a

child in the cradle within the year.”

Galadriel’s smiles widely. “Yes, Linus, get us only the

best!”

The boy tips his head and rushes from the room.

“Tell us again how it happened, milady,” Marianna

gushes.

I think I should like to tell them all how it happened: a

tawdry affair in a cobbler’s hovel after a night of too much ale in


117

a lowly tavern.

“Oh, it is the most wonderful story,” Marianna says. “A

fair maiden falls into a deep sleep until her prince rides in, kisses

her lips, and begs her to marry him. We shall find a minstrel to

make a song of it for the wedding feast! Never has a grander tale

been true!”

Galadriel blushes. “Do you think so? It is quite

extraordinary, is it not?” She admits, looking to Johanna.

“People might think it too forward, Countess. A

commoner kissing a countess in her bed while she sleeps? What if

the duchess found out?”

The glee falls from Galadriel’s face. “Oh, yes. You are

probably right.”

“Oh, milady. You shall make the most beautiful bride.”

Marianna pounces on Galadriel, gripping her in a warm embrace.

“Herr Ansel is the luckiest man in Christendom.”

From the side, Marianna looks even more like Mama. It is

like a strange scene from a foreboding dream brought on by too

much wine: my mother hugs Galadriel and congratulates her for

stealing her husband.

Marianna, feeling the weight of my woeful gaze, turns.

Her warm smile withers at the look on my face, and she winces

with pity. A whiteness washes across my vision and instead of

Marianna, I see Mama.

She looks so sad.

Sad that her husband marries so soon. Sad that her cousin

betrayed her. Sad that her daughter does nothing to stop it.

8 April 1248 “What if the countess sends me to court?” I argue, coming up

with any reason to escape another day of sewing with Galadriel.

“Everyone shall laugh at me if I cannot ride a horse. Bitsch shall

be the laughing stock of all of Christendom.”

Hilde purses her lips. “Only for a little while.” She points

a stern finger at me. “Only if you bathe after.”

I nod, masking a triumphant smile. Little does Hilde

know, I enjoy lying in the warm scented water, and I loathe the

grime that coats my skin when it has gone to long between baths.

But if I act as though I dislike the baths, I can use them as a point

for bargaining.

I toss a simple woolen dress over my head and drape the

heavy hooded cloak over my shoulders before digging through

the trunk to find my old shoes, a pair I’d made in Cologne long

ago. A knock comes on the door. Hilde ushers the young man in.

He bows to me, sending his shock of coarse red hair out of place.

He rises, tall and sinewy.

“This is Gundred,” Hilde says, “the groom of horse. He

shall give you your riding lessons. Under my supervision, of

course.”

He steps in the room and looks to Hildegard. His face has


119

as many freckles as the night sky has stars. The two share

mischievous smiles and a quick conversation in French. I look to

Hilde for a translation that doesn’t come.

Gundred steps forward and takes my hand. This is too

forward. Should I pull my hand away? I look to Hilde for help,

but she stares ahead, pretending not to see. This must be a

custom I am not accustomed to. I shift, as he presses my fingers

to his lips. “Milady,” he says in his syrupy, Burgundian accent. I

duck into my hood to hide the color rising on my cheeks.

He snaps up from his bow. “You win,” he concedes.

Hilde laughs and claps her hands together.

Gundred hands her a pfennig before offering his arm.

“She really is the girl who never smiles,” he remarks, and Hilde

nods as she tucks her hand in the crook of his elbow.

“Call her Fraulein, Gundred,” Hilde orders.

“My apologies, Hilde.” He turns his gaze to me.

“Fraulein,” he adds with a tip of his head.

I follow Gundred and Hilde through the castle and bailey

to the stables. Gundred fetches the horse, and I pull Hilde by the

arm. “What did you say to him?” I hiss.

Feigned confusion washes over her face. “What, dear?”

“In French. You were talking about me.”

“He asked if you are the one they call the girl who never

smiles, and I said yes. He thought he could make you smile. I

simply wagered that he could not.”

“Hilde—” I start, but the chastisement withers on my

tongue. Gundred approaches, pulling a horse by the reins: a mare

as gray as snow clouds with pewter freckles across her nose.

“A beast makes her smile,” Gundred grumbles while

looking to the horse. She snorts in protest and tosses her head

back, nearly whipping the reins from Gundred’s grasp. “She is a

pretty beast, oui? And with a with a pretty woman’s

temperament.”

To which Hilde replies with a pointed finger, “There is

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120

nothing a pretty girl hates more than another pretty girl. You

better not put the fraulein on a horse that will throw her,

Gundred.”

“She won’t throw her. Not with me holding the reins.”

Hilde flashes him a doubtful look. “She had better not.”

The wispy white hairs of Storyteller’s tail flick, and she

stomps a perturbed hoof. The horse’s ink–black eyes soften as I

slide my fingers along her felt nose. Her light, downy lashes close

and open.

“Are you ready, Fraulein?” Gundred asks, offering me a

steadying hand as I crest the mounting block and clumsily get

into the saddle.

“Have you chosen a name for her, Fraulein?” He takes the

reins and clicks his teeth. The horse surges forward.

I rise and fall with her heavy strides. “Storyteller,” I reply.

“A pretty name for a pretty girl, Fraulein,” he says

placatingly.

“Is it true what they say of Burgundians?” I ask.

“I have heard a great many things said of Burgundians,

so that depends, Fraulein.”

“That you are terrible, unrelenting flirts.”

“Yes, that is true…of most Burgundians.” He shoot me an

unabashed, half–smile. “But I am an excellent flirt, so it is not true

of me, Fraulein.”

I shake my head at him and chortle.

“I want my pfennig back, Hilde,” Gundred calls, holding

up two fingers. “I made her laugh and smile. You owe me two for

this.”

“That was not the wager, and you know it, Gundred,” she

says. “Do not let his flirtations fool you, Fraulein. You are

practically a lady of the house now. Soon every servant will be

singing of your virtues like a bunch of besotted troubadours.”

“Even you, Hilde?” I jest.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! No! The men, dear, the men.”


121

I cannot see Father accepting this custom well. I think

back to his rage when he found me in Ivo’s arms. How will he

respond to forward gestures and suggestive words directed

toward his only daughter?

“Do you do this to gain favor?” I ask Gundred. It is an

honest, yet ill–phrased question, and Hilde pouts at my lack of

tact.

“It can’t hurt,” Gundred laughs.

“So you are married then, Gundred,” I say.

“I was betrothed once. The fever took her.”

The fever. The very mention of it cinches my waist, robs

me of breath. “I am truly sorry, Gundred.”

“Many have lost to the fever,” he replies as if this makes

his pain more bearable.

“Yes,” I agree with a hard swallow. “I do not know any

who have not.”

Gundred, clutching the reins, leads me in slow circles

through the inner bailey. I am not some child, barely out of her

infant’s gown, giggling in delight at riding her first pony. I think I

could manage the reins quite well on my own. I keep my gaze on

my surroundings, too embarrassed to meet the stares of those

who watch me .

To the right, a great many buildings dot the flat

landscape: a large stable, a barn, a forge, an oven, a few small

silos, and a few others with purposes of which I am not sure.

Serfs, donning rough–spun and sun–faded tunics, toil on hands

and knees in the dark russet garden plots. The bleating of goats,

eager for milking, sounds against the distant clangor of a hammer

on steel. As we get further into the bailey, I notice shops built into

the fortress wall beyond the gardens and workhouses. Maids and

men scurry about but not too busy to catch a peek at me, the girl

who never smiles.

I miss being busy, I think with a sigh. I am sure that any

one of these servants would happily take my place, but this is a

ANDREA CEFALO

122

dull life. Whoever thought a person could grow weary from

boredom?

“I think she’s ready for the reins,” Gundred says, passing

me the leather straps.

“She most certainly is not!” Hilde’s eyes are severe as she

snaps the reins from my hands and shoves them back at

Gundred. He shoots me an apologetic look, and I ride until Hilde

says I must ready for the afternoon’s sewing, which I dread, but it

is either ride and survive Galadriel’s presence or feign illness and

remain in my room. I am not yet sure which is worse.

The tub waits for me, steaming and scented. I soak in the

scalding water, my muscles melting and skin turning pink. I

scrub at the arches of my feet when a knock startles me. I gasp

and sink into the tub. Did I remember to lock the door?

“Hilde?” I call.

“No, Fraulein. It is Linus.”

“Don’t come in!” The water splash in waves as I wrap my

arms around my chest.

“Of course, Fraulein,” he stutters. “Your uncle sends me.

A letter has come for you.”

I snap up and grab the drying sheets from the edge of the

tub.

“Fraulein?” he calls with a crack in his voice. “Are you all

right?”

“I am fine. Wait right there.”

“I can slide the letter under the door if it pleases you,

Fraulein.”

“Oh, good,” I stammer. “Do that. Please. Thank you.”

I wrap myself in the drying sheet. The parchment slips

across the floor. Running on tiptoe, I leave small puddles with

each stride. I halt, a foot before the parchment. A single drip

could cause the ink to run. Water streams from my sodden hair. I

grab another drying sheet, wrapping it around my locks. I dry

my hands once more, and pounce on the letter before rushing to


123

the bed and crawling beneath the covers.

Hilde rushes in. “What is it? What is the matter? A maid

said she heard splashing and saw Linus at the door. Is he

pestering you, dear—” She pauses looking from my face to the

letter and then back to my face again. She crosses the room in a

matter of paces and plops next to me on the bed. “Well, go on.

Open it up!”

“What if it bears bad news?”

“Oh, don’t think such things. You’ve waited so long for

this letter, and now it is here. You must read it.” She pats me on

the leg and rises before I can ask for the privacy I desire. “I’ll let

you finish your bath, dear. Do not be too long now,” she says,

flashing a warm smile. The door to my presence chamber claps

closed behind her.

I take a deep breath and break the seal.

Dear Addie,

I imagine that you are chewing a hole through your lip as you

read this. Am I right? I should like to tell you the other things I imagine

when I think of you, but a monk writes this letter, not me.

As for my tutor, he never came. I do not know what has become

of him. Brother John teaches me to read on Saturdays. He read me your

letter, and he writes this letter now.

You can stop chewing your lip. There is nothing to worry for.

The fever subsides. Rumors spread about what happened to the

cathedral. Some say Father Soren’s ghost burned the church. Others say

the loosened heretic did it. None of that matters though, for the

archbishop blames the people. He says it was God’s punishment for our

sinful ways. So that is that. Hopefully his words mark the end of the

blackmail, torture, and hasty hangings that have plagued Cologne since

his arrival; and he leaves for Rome. I hope he stays there.

Before you left, I placed some parchments in your cloak. Do you

know what has become of them?

My family is well. We prepare the fields during the day, and I

take to my apprenticeship at night. The knights ready themselves for

ANDREA CEFALO

124

spring tourneys, so Michael and I trade our steel for their silver. This

year the lesser knights seem to all want mail so that is mostly what I

make. I would rather make swords, but it is hard to complain when the

coin comes and comes. I may have enough of it for everything we need

by next winter. Then, I will come for you, and we will have a home of

our own.

The past fortnight has felt like a year without you. This Sunday

last, I was so desperate for fun that I took Levi out to climb trees. He did

not make it up three limbs before slipping. He screamed, and I looked

down to find him sprawled on the ground with his tunic over his head

and a long red scratch going up his torso. His tunic had caught on a tree

branch and another scraped him from navel to throat. I doubt that I have

ever laughed so hard. Mother did not see the humor in it.

So what of you? Are you well? What is it like to live in a

castle? Do you wear furs and and drink honeyed wine? Do you ride

horses and eat game? Are troubadours singing songs of your beauty and

grace? I wish I was there to see it all.

All My Love,

Ivo

I sigh and place the letter to my lips and breath in, hoping

that his earthy scent might still be on it, but it smells of leather

and horse.

I read it over and over. He is safe. An imagined corset that

has bound my waist since the day we left loosens, and I can

breathe deeply again. Still, it could be nine months before I see

him. My father shall be a father again before then. Galadriel may

be his wife, my stepmother. I could be sent to some far off court

and forced into a betrothal to someone else. My shoulders fall

with a heavy sigh, but Ivo is safe. He’s safe.

I take to my desk and dip my pen in the ink well, sliding

a piece of parchment toward me.

Dearest Ivo,

It relieves me to know that the fever subsides, and the

archbishop leaves. Cologne runs itself better without him.


125

As for your parchments, I read them. Most of them were

unimportant, so I burned them to keep my room warm. However, one

was quite intriguing and scandalous. I saw to it that this letter found

itself into capable hands.

It does not surprise me that the archbishop heads to Rome. It is

where he spends most of his time. His good friend, the pope, shall surely

grant him a new cathedral. The construction will bring builders, and

that means more people to support the market with their coin.

During my travels to Bitsch, we passed through a city called

Oppenheim. It is a Free Imperial City. It used to be a See of the Church

like Cologne. Oppenheim has no archbishop or duke or count. Its lord

has little power. He pays his people well for their fealty in the case that

he needs them for battle. I never knew such things existed. I wonder if

Cologne might one day be a Free Imperial City, too. I wonder how one

makes such a thing happen.

It pains me to think of you working so hard. If the reading

lessons consume too much time, do not bother. When we are together

again, I shall teach you to read. I miss you more than you can know.

Nine months cannot come quickly enough for me.

To answer your questions, I am well. Living in a castle is

strange. The luxuries of fine fabrics and private baths and rich foods is

met with expectations to which I am unaccustomed. No troubadours

sing of my beauty. And grace? It shocks me that I have not yet tripped

over my skirts and fallen on my face.

With love,

Adelaide

There is so much I think to write him.

Father allowed Galadriel to take our name, our trade. I

am no longer Adelaide Schumacher but Adelaide von Cologne.

We now pose as wealthy merchants and cannot cobble. Father

proposes marriage, his wedding is mere days away, and he’s put

a bastard in Galadriel’s belly.

It is all too horrible to write, and I worry that if I do, tears

shall drip on the parchment, leaving ugly splotches in my neatly

ANDREA CEFALO

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written letter.

Some details I avoid to keep Ivo from worry, others I

avoid to keep him from danger. The parchments Ivo mentioned

went far beyond scandal. Within them, the archbishop commits

treason. He wrote Count William of Holland and offered him the

king’s crown, urging William of Holland to sack Aachen and

crown himself.

Ivo found those letters the night he burned the cathedral

and tucked them in my cloak. Most were useless, but that one

was not. I gave the archbishop’s treasonous letter to Wilthelm

Aducht, one of the most powerful men in Cologne. I don’t know

what Wilthelm has done with the letter, if he has done anything

with it at all. He could use it to blackmail the archbishop. Or he

could see that the letter reaches King Conrad, gaining favor,

riches, and titles for himself.

I hope for the latter because that might mean a quick and

well–deserved demise for Konrad von Hochstaden. Perhaps,

Wilthelm might have some say in the appointing of Cologne’s

next archbishop, a weak puppet who will keep to Rome and

allow the people of Cologne to rule themselves. Perhaps

Wilthelm shall help see Cologne grow from a Church See beneath

the thumb of an archbishop to a Free Imperial City like

Oppenheim. If he does, then, in a way, Ivo and I helped Cologne

to a freedom it has never known.

Imagine that? A cobbler and a villein seeing Cologne to a

Free Imperial City.

“Adelaide, are you all right?” Hilde calls. I fold my letter

and tuck it away.

“Yes,” I shout and slip back into the cold tub, rushing

through my bath and drying with haste. Hilde enters and readies

my damp hair, covering it with a heavy veil and coif.

“I do not know who glows more radiantly today, you or

the countess,” she says.

I bristle at this and hide my happiness behind an


127

ambivalent mask. Surely Galadriel knows I’ve received a letter. If

I am sullen, she may think I no longer care for Ivo and find him

an unsuitable pawn.

I absent–mindedly stir my stew, lentils and roots parting for the

spoon. Quiet conversation buzzes over the song of utensils

scraping up the last slurps of broth. A sweet, buttery aroma rises

as the buxom servant girl brings the next course. My bowl is still

full, and the kitchen maid takes the uneaten dish with a furrow in

her brow.

“Are you unwell?” Galadriel coolly prods.

“Well or not, it is ill–manners not to at least try the dishes

set before her.” Johanna straightens as the servant lays the fourth

course before her. “Really Countess, you are too easy on the girl.”

“I am worried for my father, milady,” I explain, looking

to the empty chair at the head of the table. “Shouldn’t he be

here?” We dine in Father’s presence chamber. The first, second,

and third courses have come, but Father has not shown.

“He has taken to the forest with Tristan—on that horse he

foolishly let you name,” Galadriel says.

The kitchen maid rests the next course before me. Pastries

float in a thick almond cream. My stomach makes a hollow growl

as I pierce the golden dough with my spoon. Steaming dates and

almonds pour from the casing.

“Yes, what exactly was it you named his hunter?”

Johanna asks with frigid amusement.

I scoop a heaping spoonful of the pastry into my mouth

and chew. I chew and chew and chew before condescending to

answer her. “Rumpelstiltskin,” I finally say.

“And what is a Rumpelstiltskin?” she asks.

“He’s an imp who steels babies,” I quickly answer before

turning to Galadriel. “May I join Father and Tristan?”

ANDREA CEFALO

128

Galadriel rubs a bit of wayward cream between her

thumb and finger. “No, it is more important that you see how a

lady runs her home,” she replies before looking to Marianna. “I

have eaten enough. Let us retire to our sewing. I think I should

like to try weaving again.”

At this, we rise and follow Galadriel into her presence

chamber. Marianna helps Galadriel try her hand at weaving, but

Galadriel grows weary and retires to her chair. I sit at Galadriel’s

feet, as Johanna reads from the Bible. I focus on stitching and

avoid thoughts of Ivo for fear someone may catch me smiling.

“I hear you received a letter today, Adelaide,” Galadriel

prods.

“Yes, milady. I did.”

“A letter already?” Marianna remarks with excitement.

“Have you a suitor back home?”

“I thought so, but Cologne is no longer my home,” I lie,

nearly choking on the words. “We cannot marry for a year, and

so many things can change in a month. Who knows what shall

happen by next spring?”

“This is true, Adelaide,” Marianna concedes. “But good

changes can come, too. A month ago I thought our sadnesses

would never end. And now we have reason to celebrate again.

The difference a month can make, oui?”

I glance at Galadriel. “I certainly could not have foreseen

it.” The words taste like ashes.

Marianna puts down her sewing and turns her attention

to me. “Tell us about this suitor of yours. He is handsome, non?

And rich?”

I should like to tell her that he is poor in coin but rich in

every way that matters to me, but I know that is unwise. Still,

every lie I tell of Ivo shall have to be remembered. It is best to say

nothing at all. I look to Galadriel. Certain she shall change the

subject. But she does not. She simply stares forward, blissful and

unseeing.


129

Johanna coughs loudly. “Countess, my voice tires. Can

someone else do the reading?”

“Yes, Adelaide. Would you?” Galadriel asks.

“Yes, milady,” I reply, glad to escape this inquisition.

I take Johanna’s place. The Bible smells of must and

incense like the oldest churches in Cologne. My fingers slide

across the rim of the worn leather binding as my eyes peruse the

Latin. Half of the phrases are unfamiliar to me. I swallow hard,

but a realization eases my anxiety. Who would expect a

merchant’s daughter to be fluent in Latin? Besides, all that

matters is that I can pronounce the words. No one shall ask for a

translation.

“Her Latin needs practice,” Johanna notes before I finish

reading a full page.

Marianna’s disappointed gaze darts to Johanna. “And so

does my flute,” she says.

“I think I would rather listen to Adelaide butcher The

Holy Book than you assaulting our ears with that flute,” Johanna

drolls.

Marianna shrugs away the insult and summons the flute

player who gives her a lesson she badly needs as we sew. We

break before supper, and I head for my rooms with hasty steps so

I can read Ivo’s letter once more before supper.

I sink into the chair before my desk and slip my fingers

between the parchments where Ivo’s letter pokes out from the

rest. I shouldn’t read it, I think. If I loved him, I would never

write him again. Galadriel would think I no longer loved him,

and he would be safer.

But never again would I feel the weave of his fingers

between mine or smell the scent of metal and wind and smoke in

his hair. I would only hear his laughter or see his smile in

memories. And even those would fade with time. The thought is

a searing lance to the stomach. How would I feel if Ivo did the

same to me? If he robbed me of that choice?

ANDREA CEFALO

130

Isn’t that a convenient and selfish logic, I think, chastising

myself. Springing up from the chair, I race to the hearth and push

Ivo’s letter toward the flames. The corners blacken and curl,

smoldering as the hot copper tongues lick at the edges. I toss the

letter to the ground and stomp out the glowing embers.

I snatch up the letter and cradle it to my chest. Part of me

wants to cry. Most of me wants to shove my pen through

Galadriel’s throat. Why must I lose everything, everyone I love

because of her ?

A knock startles me, and Hilde calls through the door. I

snap up and shake the fury from my head.

“Give me a moment, Hilde,” I call back.

“Are you ready for supper, dear?”

“Yes,” I call before glancing at my reflection in the mirror.

My face is colored with anger.

“Very well,” her voice sounds through the door. “It is in

your Father’ presence chambers.”

I dunk my face into the cool water of the basin. I breath

out, and bubbles flutter along my cheeks, but my chest longs for

air, and I come up. My face is flushed from the cold. I blot my

cheeks with a night shift and give myself a few moments for the

pale color to return. Then, with a heavy sigh, I pick up my skirts

and slip into the hallway.

I sniff at the air, catching the scent of salt and cream and a

hint of fish. I imagine we are having blancmange with crayfish

for supper. Perhaps with enough almond cream, salt, and grains,

Galadriel shall manage to stomach a few morsels of fish. The

sound of hushed voices snaps me from thoughts of food.

Galadriel’s bedchamber door is opened a crack. I duck into the

shadows and peek through.

“If you send her to court, you put yourself at risk,”

Johanna says with a yawn as she leans back in the cushioned

chair. “Even if you can keep her silenced about her past, she is

less a lady than you were when Ulrich found you. Bitsch will be


131

the laughing stock of Christendom.”

Galadriel fixes her with panicked eyes as she paces the

room. “I cannot keep her here,” she hisses. “Her Father sulks like

a child at her temperament. What if he changes his mind?”

“Threaten her,” Johanna says. “Make the street urchin

feign happiness.”

“I have threatened her.” Galadriel freezes in her steps.

“She obeys, but the girl is transparent. You’ve heard what they

call her.”

Johanna gives a flippant shrug. “She put on a brave face

today.”

“Were you fooled?”

“No,” Johanna chortles.

Galadriel plops onto her bed, knee bouncing. “Then her

father shan’t be either.”

“He might be just as miserable if you send her away.”

“Not under the guise of securing a better marriage for

her,” Galadriel says.

A silence lingers between them. “Have you had letters

sent to the nearest courts?”

“Yes, Father sent them the day after we returned.”

“Then, you shan’t hear anything for a while still.”

“Do you think anyone shall take her?” Galadriel’s brow

knits.

“I couldn’t say.”

“Can you think of anyone who might?”

Johanna releases a slow breath. “My name is of no good

to anyone, and the girl has neither title nor coin.”

“I can supply the coin.”

Johanna grabs Galadriel by the wrists. “Then use the coin

to secure a better marriage for yourself.”

Galadriel recoils. “I will not!”

“You are not far into your time. Surely some lordling or

country knight would still have you.”

ANDREA CEFALO

132

Galadriel crosses her arms. “Surely? Where are these

lordlings and knights then?”

“You are a countess. And your father can rub two

guilders together and get a third. Surely these knights and

lordlings are chomping at their bits waiting for your year of

mourning for Ulrich to end. But if your father extends an offer to

the right man…”

“Oh, Ulrich, “ Galadriel gives a sad sigh. “Truly, I have

made a mess of things. Hardly six months a widow, and I am

with child…”

“…marrying a commoner, during Lent, before her

mourning year is ended.” Johanna finishes.

Galadriel shakes her head. “Could this look any worse?”

“I wouldn’t wear blue,” Johanna says dryly, and a wan

smile rises on Galadriel’s lips. “And after this husband dies,”

Johanna adds, “we should put a lock between your legs for

precaution unless you warm to my herbal remedy for bastards.”

“Johanna! That is a terrible thing to say.”

“About you,” Johanna asks, “the swineherd, or the

bastard?”

“All of it!”

“Lies are often sweeter on the tongue than truths. If that’s

what you care to hear, let me fetch Marianna for you. She’ll

gladly sing whatever song you should like.”

Galadriel’s nose shrivels. “The courts have made you

cold, Johanna.”

“I think bitter would be the better word,” Johanna

corrects. “A woman can grow to love a husband or at least

tolerate him, but she cannot grow his wealth, his titles, or his

ambitions.”

“Ansel’s wealth and titles will grow the day we are wed.

Being a countess is enough for me.” Galadriel slings back. “I

prefer a man without ambition especially when I see where your

husband’s ambitions have gotten you.”


133

The long shadows cast by the setting sun fade. Dusk rises.

They will head for supper soon, and it is best that I’m not in the

hallway when they do. Father’s presence chambers are empty

when I arrive. I drain the goblet of wine that sits before my empty

charger.

As much as I hate Johanna, I wish Galadriel had listened

to her. Sadness seems my only card to play. Perhaps if I am

exceptionally sad, Father will postpone the wedding.

“Adelaide. What is it?” Father’s question snaps me from

thought. “What is wrong? You’re chewing your lip.” My mind

was so busy with plots, I hadn’t noticed him come in.

The truth sits heavy on my tongue. “Nothing, Father,” I

lie.

“Are you unwell?”

“No.” A silence lingers between us. “I received a letter

today.”

“From who?”

“From Ivo.”

Father’s eyes hint at longing before his gaze averts. “What

did it say? Is he well?”

No, I think, but don’t dare say. And neither are you. An evil

woman threatens his life—and you are about to marry her.

I nod instead. “Elias is gone. Ivo sees Brother John to read

my letters and write his own.”

“What else does he say?”

“Cologne is at a new peace. The fever subsides, and the

archbishop is heading to Rome.” I place my hand on his arm. “It

is not too late, Father. We can still go home.”

His gaze turns cold. “This changes nothing.”

I brim with desire to tell him the truths that I keep from

him: that Galadriel blackmails me into compliance and that the

archbishop grows weaker by the moment, but if I tell him the first

and he accuses Galadriel, Ivo could be in danger, and if I tell

Father of the letter I intercepted, he’ll be angry that I disobeyed

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him.

The scuffle of Johanna’s soles, though whisper quiet,

breaks our lengthening silence. I collect myself, brushing any

wrinkles from my skirts before I fall under her measuring gaze. I

swallow the truth. It’s as bitter as vinegar.

Father narrows an eye. “Where is Galadriel?” he asks her.

“The countess will be along shortly,” Johanna dips into

her seat, “though unless my nose deceives me the kitchen makes

fish, so perhaps she is keeling over her chamber pot having a

second taste of dinner.”

Father regards her briefly with disgust before hastening

from the room. She swirls the wine in her goblet and takes a long

draft.

“I fear I interrupted you and your father’s whisperings.”

“I have nothing to whisper about,” I lie.

But if I did, I’d be sure to do it behind closed doors.

Marianna and Uncle file in soon after. Neither mention the two

empty chairs at the table. The goblets are drained, and the bread

devoured before the kitchen maid sets a dish before me. The

bundle of grains jiggle in a bath of almond cream. Flaky hunks of

white meat poke through.

“Oh, blancmange with crayfish.” Marianna’s face lights.

“I was growing so weary of beaver.”

9 April 1248 The queen had a little daughter who was as white as snow, as red as

blood, and as black as ebony wood, and therefore they called her Little

Snow–White. And fifteen winters later, the queen died.

Within the year the king took himself another wife. She was a

beautiful woman, but she was proud and cunning, and she could not

stand it if anyone might surpass her.

–Snow White

The stars lance the night’s shroud one by one. Each of them is a

cruel reminder. I only have one night left. I wear the soles of my

shoes thin as I pace about the bedchamber into the early hours,

hoping a decent plan will come. One doesn’t. And so I take to my

bed, hoping to dream a plan instead, and I do.

I rise with a gasp well before dawn, shivering, soaked

with a slimy sweat. I throw the nearest chainse and cloak over my

nightshift before rushing into the hall, looking for someone who

can fetch Hilde. As soon as I have a bath and am dressed, I shall

speak to the only person in this castle who can help me, Uncle

Herrmann.

Uncle hates Father. Surely, the union disappoints him.

Perhaps, he can speak some sense into his daughter. Perhaps, he

can convince, or better yet, command her to call off this wedding.

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He may be able to find her a better match. As Johanna said, Bitsch

is fruitful. Galadriel is fruitful. Surely, there is a nobleman out

there who could look past Galadriel’s indiscretion and into her

pretty blue eyes and heavy purse.

The silhouette of a young man at the end of the hallway

catches my gaze. My cheeks burn, and I feel aware of my ragged

appearance, closing the cloak tightly around me. His dark

features give him away.

“Tristan,” I hiss. He whirls around, his face hot and eyes

angry. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” he says.

“Do you know where Hilde is?”

“Surely asleep like the rest of the castle,” he snaps.

I chew my lip. “I hate to wake her, but…”

“Are you mad, or have you no sense of time?” He shakes

his head. “Go back to bed, Fraulein.”

“I cannot sleep. I had a horrid dream and am covered in

sweat.”

His dark eyes brim with disdain. “And so you wish to

wake Hilde and Josepha at this early hour because of a sweat?”

“Well, I—”

“You never think of us. Do you?” he seethes.

I open my mouth, rationales perch on my tongue. He

pinches his lips, challenging me to argue. “You’re right, Tristan.”

I shake my head at myself. Memories rise of the many times

Father and I were forced to work nights in a row to meet the

demands of the wealthy. “I…I am sorry.”

I look through the slit window at the dark sky. It will be

many hours before Uncle will be ready to see me anyhow. There

is no reason for me to wake half the castle now.

I nod my head, a goodnight gesture, but sudden panic

flickers in his gaze. “I am sorry, Fraulein.” He reaches for my arm

but quickly retracts it. “I should not have spoken to you so.”

He stinks of wine. I step backward, suddenly very aware


137

that I am ill–dressed and not chaperoned. “I am tired. I should go

to bed.”

“Fraulein, I can fetch whomever you like.”

The door to Galadriel’s room opens, and I start. “What

are you two doing in the hallway at this hour?”

“I woke up in a sweat, milady,” I say, sounding more

composed than I feel. “I was trying to find Hilde so she could get

me a bath.”

“At this ungodly hour?” she cries.

“I was unaware of the hour, milady.”

She cranes her neck to look out the slit window and

flashes a doubtful look that says any idiot with eyes could tell

that it was many hours before dawn. “Both of you, go to bed.”

“Yes, milady,” our chastised voices overlap. We hasten in

separate directions.

“And Adelaide,” Galadriel calls, and I turn.

“Yes, milady?”

“Ladies do not visit with men unaccompanied—

especially in the middle of the night.”

With a glance at her bastard–filled stomach, I give a sniff

of laughter. “Tristan was in the hallway when—” I start, but

Galadriel’s irritated stare corrects me. “Yes, milady,” I say and

return to my rooms.

I start another fire, and the room warms. I lie in bed,

tossing in the sheets for some time. My mind spins with the

possible conversations I shall have with Uncle, trying to

anticipate his every rebuttal.

I rise, my head aching and stomach knotting from

exhaustion. I pick up the chair from the desk and place it before

the growing fire, staring into the blaze. My mind drifts into

dreams, though I am not fully asleep.

You are weak, they say.

Weak…weak…weak, they hum, faster and louder, flying

within reach and then circling me.

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“I am not weak!” I growl.

They flit in a spiral and spell it out. W. E. A. K.

I put my hands to my ears and close my eyes until the

buzz fades. I peel one eye open and then the other. Far across the

muddy field, Ivo leaps into the air, his jar capturing fireflies in

large gulps. The bright glow from his vessel shines from across

the moonlit field.

A single fly escapes his grasp and flits toward me. I jump

with all my strength and trap him. I peer into the jar and smirk,

but it sneers back at me, fearless. Its teeth are long and pointed

like daggers.

You’ll never save them. Its voice is shrill. You can’t even save

yourself. Its jaws open wide and snap down twice. I toss the jar to

the ground and leap back.

“Adelaide.” It calls me by name.

The firefly’s tone sweetens. “Adelaide.”

I look around me.

“Adelaide. Get up, dear.” The voice comes from above. I

look to the ground again. The jar is gone. The fireflies are gone.

I am trapped in a dark world, listening to whispers from

the sky. The darkness turns white, and I wake.

Hilde looms over me, fretting. “Are you all right, dear?

You are covered in sweat.” She presses her frigid hand to my

clammy cheek.

“It was a nightmare. That is all. I’m all right.” I brush

sweaty tangles of hair from my forehead. “I need a bath, and then

I need to see my uncle.”

“But you’ll be late for matins.”

“I am covered in sweat, Hilde. You would not send me to

mass smelling like a hog,” I say, knowing she won’t.

She narrows her eyes and, sensing the manipulation,

pinches her lips to the side. “Oh, very well,” she huffs. “I shall

send for the tub. You can miss matins this once, I suppose.”

I rush through my bath. Hilde readies me with haste.


139

“Has someone checked to see if Uncle will allow me to come to

him?”

“Yes, Fraulein.” Hilde sighs, waddling to the front of the

chair so she can inspect my appearance. “He says he shall see you

as soon as you are ready.” She brushes a few stray hairs back

from my forehead. “You have not visited him once in all your

days here. What makes you so eager to see him now?”

I look down and say nothing.

“Oh, do not answer, dear. Your business is your own. I

shan’t pry any more. There is certainly nothing wrong with a

niece visiting her uncle.”

I head into the hallway and cross the chapel to the other

half of the castle where Uncle’s chambers lie. Linus opens the

door at my knock, his gaze on the floor.

“Yes, niece, come in,” Uncle permits. I sit in the chair

before Uncle’s great desk as he sets aside a stack of parchment.

His thin lips spread into a smile as he folds his hands. I look to

Linus, hoping he shall leave us. Just as he departs, a hand slaps

the door open, and I start.

“There you two are.” Johanna’s smile is wry.

“Where else would I be, Lady Johanna?” Uncle retorts,

annoyed.

“Yes, this is where you always are.” She saunters into the

chamber uninvited. “But today there is a wedding, and you are

both going to be late.”

My breath catches at this. Today! It cannot be today. I scan

my memory, counting the days.

“I assure you the wedding is not until tomorrow, Lady

Johanna,” Uncle says.

“The bride said tomorrow would be a sad day for her

bride–groom,” Johanna replies.

I hadn’t thought of the calendar days. Tomorrow marks a

month from the day Mama died and the day after that, the

anniversary of the funeral that went horribly wrong. Father

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attends matins every day. Until today, so did I. I swallow a guilty

lump at the thought of missing it this morning, but I don’t have

time for guilt, now especially.

“I need to speak with Uncle first, Lady Johanna.”

She cocks her head. “Now, Adelaide, you would not

make a bride late for her own wedding?”

“Her wedding is not until tomorrow, Lady Johanna, so

she is quite early,” I quip. “Please, Uncle, I think you should like

to hear what I have to say.”

He rises with a groan and pats me on the shoulder. “Tell

it to me after the wedding. It is then that I shall need cheering the

most.”

“It is urgent.” I squeeze his arm. “Please.”

“Your daughter waits, Herr,” Johanna presses.

Uncle’s face hardens. “As a dutiful daughter should,

Lady Johanna. Leave us.” He takes his seat again.

Johanna’s lips tighten, but she forces her head into an

obeisant tip before retreating into the hallway. Uncle’s intrigued

eyes meet mine, and his hands fold upon his desk.

“I know you do not want this wedding,” I say.

“Oh, is it so obvious?” Uncle replies wryly.

“What if I told you that it could be stopped?”

“I would say that your father has kept you in the dark,

but I suspect you know of the situation he has put my daughter

in.”

“There are ways to remedy her situation,” I utter,

referencing the herbs Johanna mentioned last night. I avoid his

gaze, afraid of the disgust it might bear.

Unaffected, he says, “Her situation is well–speculated

already.”

“Speculation and knowledge are different things. Rumors

can be dispelled, Uncle. Then, Galadriel could marry a man with

land and titles.”

“It is too late. There is nothing that can be done about this


141

ill–fated union but watch it and pray that something better than a

bastard comes from it.”

“Please, hear me, Uncle,” I beg. “There must be

something we can do. Have her postpone it for a week, a day!”

“Invitations to a feast in their honor have already been

sent with haste.” He opens his arm, inviting me to take it. I

hesitate, and he raises his eyebrows. I stand on weak legs, and he

tucks my fingers into the crook of his elbow. “Now, let us go and

see this over with.”

Uncle whips open the door, sidestepping Lady Johanna

who stands in the threshold, using her small frame as an

ineffective barrier. “Adelaide, I wish to have words with you,”

she says.

“I thought we were to hurry to the chapel, milady.”

“Oh, this shall only take a moment.”

“But Uncle would like me to sit at his side. Surely, this

can wait.”

“Do not worry, Herr,” she says. “I shall bring her to you.”

He tips his head and releases me, disappearing into the

stairwell.

Johanna rounds on me, grabbing my arm, pinning me

against the cold, stone wall.

I tear my arm from her grip. “Let go of me.”

“I know what you are up to,” she hisses.

“And what is that, milady? Am I not allowed to speak

with my own uncle?”

Fury flickers in her eyes. “Do not feign innocence with

me! Or I shall tell her everything.”

“And what shall you tell her?”

“That you tried to stop her wedding.”

“I did no such thing, milady.”

“I heard you.”

“He didn’t even hear me. I was silenced before I was able

to say anything of importance at all. This marriage is bad for us

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all. It is bad for Galadriel. We have no titles, no coin, no lands to

offer. You know this. I was hoping her father could find her a

better husband, a richer husband.”

“It’s too late for her now.”

“It doesn’t have to be–”

Her expression darkens. “I am doing you a kindness, so

listen closely, street urchin, for I shan’t do it again. The countess

holds something over you, and if you do anything to displease

her today, she will use it. This wedding will happen today.”

I take a deep breath and swallow my utter hatred for

Galadriel’s hench–woman. “Now, follow me,” she says. “I shall

take you to your uncle.”

Johanna turns and heads to the chapel, not even ensuring

that I follow her—but I do.

“I have wondered what it is that she holds over you to

make you behave,” Johanna goads. “It cannot be your father’s

safety. She loves him too much to harm him, and I doubt you fear

for your own safety or name. Your mother is dead, so no harm

can be done there. Then that letter came yesterday,” she looks

over her shoulder with the slightest smirk, “and I knew exactly

what it was. She knows something about that suitor of yours,

does she not?”

I try to put on a mask of ambivalence, of confusion, but

the anger brims.

“Oh, Galadriel was right about you,” she says with

amusement. “Your face tells all.”

I ignore the dig. I haven’t time for this game of quips. I

must find more time to think.

We walk up the steps, Johanna’s grey–green train flowing

upward like a backwards brook. I place my shoe on the hem of

her skirt. The tear is audible. So is Johanna’s horrified gasp.

Her hair whips, a golden curtain, as she whirls around,

reaching for the tear at her waist. “My dress! You’ve ripped it!”

“I am sorry, milady,” I say. “My mind was elsewhere.


143

How clumsy of me.”

“Clumsy indeed! You did it on purpose!” she hisses. “If

you think this shall buy you time, I assure you it will not. Now,

come with me.”

I tip my head and follow her up the stairs to my room.

She throws open my trunk and pulls out one dress after another.

My eyes rove across the room for anything that can save me, but

the only thing to catch my gaze is the cobblestone on my mantle.

And what am I going to do with that? Bash Johanna over the

head and then do the same to Galadriel? Think, Addie. Think! My

thoughts are a useless spiral of panic.

“You should know that there are guards waiting in the

stairwell to lock you in your rooms if you do anything rash, “

Johanna says.

“That is a lie.”

“Oh, is it? Run away and see for yourself.” Johanna yanks

out the burgundy velvet that I wore a few days ago. She sneers.

“I suppose this will have to do.” She peels off her silk and slips

into the dress. It is too short, and her shift peeks from beneath.

“Perhaps we should go to your rooms and find

something a little…longer,” I suggest.

She ignores me and hastens to the mirror, quickly

regarding her appearance. Tearing Johanna’s dress only bought

me moments, and none of them were useful. Johanna’s rueful

eyes fall upon my dissatisfied reflection. She smiles.

“Now, cheer up, street urchin.” She blinks back at me.

“Many things can change in a month or more—like you said.

Maybe fate will smile upon you, and Galadriel shall die in

childbirth. Then your father will be a rich man, a titled man, and

you can go marry your Colognian stallion and bring him back

with you.”

“I would think someone of your station would take more

care with the things she says, milady.”

“My station?” She laughs harder. “Oh, Adelaide, you

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144

should be our courtly fool. Do you honestly think you could

repeat what I’d just said to the countess and anyone would

believe you?”

“I was once told that even the walls have ears in a court

and that one should be careful what she says.”

“That is good advice. Now let me give you some.” She

steps forward, her jaw set and eyes hooded in shadow.

“Sometimes you can fight fate and sometimes you cannot.

“You are a woman of the courts now, and fate shall hand

you what it will. As a lady, it is your duty to hold your head up

high, to show fate, and everyone else, that you are not beaten.

This is all you can do.

“But you won’t heed my advice. I can see it in your

stubborn eyes. Some people must learn their lessons the hard

way, I suppose.” She sighs. “Let us go. Fate is calling.”

Johanna races through the hallways ahead of me but

pauses at the stairwell. I stand and wait for her to go ahead. She

shakes her head at me. “Do not think I shall fall for that trick

again. You go first this time.”

Just as I place my foot on the first step, a door creaks

open. I crane my neck, looking past Johanna into the hallway. It’s

Father. His black hair is slicked back and his chin freshly shaved.

The sleeves of his scarlet damask tunic peek through a quilted

surcote, the color of cream. I barely recognize him.

Johanna’s lips purse. “We should wait here for your

father,” she whispers. “When he comes, you will tell him how

well he looks, and then you will congratulate him.”

I swallow hard. Father closes the door gently, and when

he turns, I notice the sigil of Bitsch, a black writhing serpent,

stitched in inky velvet across his heart. At the sight of it, all the

fight in me wilts. He’s going to marry her. And it doesn’t matter

what I say or feel or do.

His footsteps sound through the empty hallway. Still, he

hasn’t noticed us. His fingers fumble with the edge of his sleeve.


145

“Good morning, milord.” Johanna curtsies.

Startled, he clears his throat. “Good morning.”

“We thought we might escort you to the chapel, milord,”

Johanna offers.

He narrows his eyes at me. “You two should have been in

the chapel already.”

I fight the rising disdain on my face, the urge to pounce

and beat him with my fists for doing this to us.

“Forgive us, milord. I had a tear in my dress, and Lady

Adelaide was kind enough to lend me one of hers.”

“Oh.” Father sounds surprised. “I am glad to hear it.”

Johanna nudges me in the ribs.

“You are looking well this morning, Father,” I lie. A

groom usually beams on his wedding day. Or sulks at being

forced to marry an ugly mare. Father’s face is blank. “I

congratulate you on your wedding. May it bring you much

happiness.”

“May it bring us all happiness,” he replies.

“Amen,” Johanna says.

Father descends the stairs. I surge forward to follow, but

Johanna points up. We climb the stairs and cross to the other side

of the castle, taking routes that were unknown to me. She pauses

at a locked door and knocks. A man–at–arms opens the door, and

we slip into a narrow hallway to another set of stairs.

The clouds are thick today, and the hallway as dim as

night. I feel as though I am walking further and further into an

unescapable abyss. The wind whistles. A whisper sings shrilly on

its frigid breeze. I know what it says. If Johanna weren’t behind

me, I’d cover my ears.

Weak. It whistles. Weak, weak, weak.

And then I remember what the firefly said next. You’ll

never save them. You can’t even save yourself.

Johanna’s irritated huff jars me into the present. “Hurry

along, Adelaide,” she chimes. “Fate is calling on us…and you’re

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making us late.”

9 April 1248, Evening Father Hannes excused the sin of this Lenten wedding. “Does

God not smile at babes born and flowers blooming in Lent,” he

asked. “Then why not give Him another reason to rejoice. I say let

this man and this woman whom he brought together to wed.”

Galadriel grinned stupidly at his words.

My fingers curled into fists. Father and Galadriel’s sins

played through my mind like a mummer’s whirlwind. After that,

I kept my head down and silently prayed the rosary for my

mother.

Now that the wedding is ended, feelings reminiscent to

those after her death stir within me. Sadness at the recognition of

my absolute powerlessness. Relief at no longer needing to fight.

But more than anything I am tired. The walk from the the chapel

to the bedchamber has never felt so long.

My fingers rest on the door handle, and a realization

stops me short. This is not the bedchamber. It is my bedchamber.

The thought sinks heavy in my stomach.

I open the door, and Hilde cries out, slapping her hand to

her bosom. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! You startled me, dear…er,

Lady Adelaide.”

“Please…don’t call me that,” I say, peeling off my shoes

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and plopping onto the bed.

She waves her hand dismissively, and I notice her red

nose and swollen eyes.

“Are you all right, Hilde?”

She sniffles. A handkerchief peeks out from her chubby

fingers. “Lord Ulrich,” she stammers, fiddling with the fabric.

“He’s not been dead a year.” She breaks into sobs.

My mother hasn’t been dead a month, I think, but the

exhausting numbness shields me, and this thought that should

bring tears, brings nothing. I cross the room and wrap my arms

around her.

“Oh, listen to me. ‘Tis I who should be comforting you.

Your mother’s hasn’t been gone but a month.” Her red eyes

search mine for something between forgiveness and

commonality. “Come here, let us grieve together.”

I sit at her feet as she unfurls the plaits in my hair. We

share a flagon of strong wine. Each swallow warms me from

throat to stomach.

“Did Galadriel tell you much about Ulrich, dear?” Hilde

asks.

“Only a little,” I reply.

“They called him the devil you know.” She giggles. “He

would pull his sister’s hair and blame it on their cousin and

wouldn’t they all fight like tomcats.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Oh, one sibling always causes trouble.”

“I would never have done that,” I say. “I always wanted a

sister…or brother.”

“You’ll have one soon enough,” she says.

Yes, I think. At my mother’s death, my father’s affair, and

the loss of my home, I will finally have the sibling that I always

coveted. I wonder if Hilde knows how soon it will actually be.

“So tell me about your mother, dear. What was she like?”

“She looked like Marianna,” I say. “But Mama’s hair was


149

lighter, and her eyes were brown. She was the best storyteller in

all of Cologne.”

Hilde asks me to tell her one of Mama’s stories, so I recite

Rumpelstiltskin for her—stumbling through the tale.

Hilde applauds my effort, her puffy eyes filled with

genuine pride. It was a terrible retelling, and I don’t deserve the

praise. I’m forgetting Mama’s stories, I think. The guilt is a hard

lump in my throat. But Hilde is like a doting mother: proud of the

smallest accomplishments and blind to everything but the most

apparent of faults.

We sit in a comfortable silence before the fire. My eyelids

grow heavy as she gently twirls the tendrils of my hair around

her soft fingers until I resign to sleep.

It is warm, and the air is thick.

I toss sleeplessly when it is too warm to coil beneath the

false safety of the blankets, but I am tired tonight, so perhaps I

shall sleep well. At least I hope so.

I have three fireflies in a jar next to my bed thanks to Ivo.

He tries to convince me to join him in the DeBelle fields at dusk

to catch them, but Father won’t allow it.

I peer through my open window. A cool breeze rolls on

the night wind and brushes my cheek. The fireflies rise and fall

like fat flitting golden stars. I rest my chin on the sill of the

window and watch, wondering if Ivo is in the DeBelle fields right

now with a glass jar, catching more fireflies for me.

Mama climbs the ladder to my room. Her eyes are worn

and puffy. A good daughter would tell her to go to bed, but I

look forward to her story each night and so I selfishly say

nothing.

I wonder if she has trouble sleeping like me. I know

sleeping beside Father is much like sleeping too close to the

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hearth. When I was first put to my own room and had

nightmares, I would climb down the ladder and sneak into their

bed. If I slept between them, I woke in the night covered in sweat.

I wonder if she does the same and if it robs her of sleep,

especially now that it is summer.

I slide over, giving her the larger part of my small bed.

She slips in and sets the candle next to my fireflies. They flit

towards the flame, tinking against the sides of the jar.

“I’m tired,” Mama says through a yawn. “You tell the

story tonight, my little Snow White.”

“But I don’t tell them right.”

“It takes practice,” she slips deeper into the covers,

“which is why you should tell the story tonight.”

“You tell it. You’re the best storyteller in all of Cologne,” I

don my best fake pout. “Please.”

“No,” she coos and yawns again. “How shall you ever

remember them if you never tell them?”

“I am too little still,” I reason. “When I am older, when I

have a little brother or sister.”

Mama stiffens. “And what if you do not?” She rolls back

over, propping herself up on one arm. “What if you always wait

for something that never comes? Our stories shall be lost with no

one to tell them.”

I sigh. “Why don’t you write them down? Then, I won’t

have to remember them. I can just read them. I can give them to

my children and they to their children. People will know them

forever.”

“You are a silly girl,” she says with a smile, fine lines

creasing around her lips.

“When I am older, I shall write them down, every single

one.”

“How shall you write them if you haven’t remembered

them?” She raises her chestnut eyebrows.

“You can tell them, and I’ll write down what you say.”


151

“Oh, I suppose that would work, but how shall you ever

afford so much parchment?”

“I shall be the richest cobbler in all of Cologne.”

She gasps in jest at this. “And what of your father?”

“He can be the second richest.”

She laughs. “Did you hear that, husband?” Mother calls

down the ladder.

“What now?” he calls cheerfully.

“Adelaide says that she shall be the richest cobbler in all

of Cologne one day!”

“God willing!” Father hollers back.

“And she says that you can be her second!” Mother adds.

There is a silence and then a loud chuckle.

10 April 1248 Father and Galadriel left for Landstuhl this morning, a

honeymoon done under the guise of business. Everyone rose to

see them off, and so did I as ordered.

Hilde put my hair in a pretty plait, covered me in a pretty

dress, and adorned me with pretty jewels, so I could be a pretty

thing for Father and his witch bride to see as they rode off.

Pretending wears me thin.

Father is wed. It is done. There is nothing I can do for it.

My prayers went unanswered like they did when Mama fell ill. It

was a month ago today that she died. This is the only reason I

attend mass. I kneel, sit, and stand in the precise time, the exact

order as everyone else does. Sometimes I think these recited

words and prayers are like the soft clouds of breath that form in

the frigid chapel air: meaningless and soon forgotten.

After mass, I walk the hallways alone, meandering the

narrow paths that no one else ventures. What shall happen to me

now? I wonder. Galadriel and Father wish to send me away so I

can wed some strange nobleman. Ivo slaves over his forge so he

can fetch me next winter. But for the next six days Johanna and

Marianna are busy with the upcoming festivities and Galadriel

and Father are gone. I have nothing but time.


153

The thought freezes me in my step. Six days…

The brazen idea is born with a gasp.

I hasten to my rooms, rush to the trunk, whip out my

riding dress and change quickly. I pocket the loaf of bread on the

table as well as a few brooches and rings. I rush to the kitchen

and ask a maid to pack a dinner for two and a few wineskins. She

does. And as she is turned, I grab the biggest knife that I can find

and pocket that, as well.

I head out of the castle through the first gate and to the

horse stalls looking for Gundred.

“Good morning, Lady Adelaide,” he calls, clapping mud

from his hands. “Going for a ride this morning?”

“Yes, ready Storyteller for me, will you please?”

He tips his head. “Where shall we ride today, milady?”

“We shall ride nowhere,” I reply, “but I shall take to the

woods.”

Gundred shakes his head. “I cannot allow it. You are not

skilled enough. What if she throws you or you fall?”

“If I am not back by nightfall, send a search for me.”

He sighs.

“My mother died a month ago today, Gundred, and my

father is already married. Though Lady Galadriel is a gracious

stepmother,” I lie, “you can understand, I am sure, as someone

who has lost due to this fever, how I need time to be alone and

grieve for my losses.”

“I know you do, milady,” he resigns. His gaze shifts to

my waist, where I hide a thick satchel beneath my cloak. “It is a

warm morning for such a heavy cloak, Lady Adelaide.”

“But the breeze is cool, and the forest is shaded,” I say.

“Gundred, now will you please ready my horse?”

He flashes me a knowing look. “Would you like me to

also pack that satchel for you, milady?”

“Of course,” I say, sounding calmer than I feel.

He opens the bag. “Gundred?!” I surge forward, but he

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sidesteps my advance. “Give it back! You have no right to look

through my things!”

“I am sorry, milady.” His lips twist with pity. “Your

father paid me to ensure that you’d not run away.”

“I’ll pay you more.”

He fishes through the satchel and pulls out the jewelry.

“You plan to pay me in stolen rings and brooches?”

“Take a brooch or don’t,” I say and snap the satchel from

his grasp. “If I’m gone, the countess will assume that I took them.

You can tell her that I stole the horse, too. I’ll saddle her myself.”

By the time Galadriel gets back, I will be in Cologne with

enough coin in jewelry to see Ivo and I safely to another city.

“I’m sorry, milady,” he calls, following me deeper into

the stables. “It wouldn’t be right to let a girl on the roads alone.”

“You are free to come with me if you like,” I reply.

“I swore an oath of fealty to your father.”

I halt at Storyteller’s stall. It’s empty. I spin on my heel.

“Gundred, where is my horse?”

“Your father was very concerned that you would run

away…”

“Where is my horse?!” I demand.

“I assure you she is quite well and with the guards’

horses in the stables on the far side of the castle.” He stiffens and

tries to look stern. “Please, milady, your father said that if you

were disagreeable, I should have you locked in your rooms.”

I would have to get through two gates and past another

horse groom in order to fetch Storyteller. My shoulders fall. This

plan shan’t work. I hold out the satchel, and Gundred takes it

with a relieved breath. “I am sorry, Gundred. I’ll be good. I was

upset. That’s all. I know I cannot manage the roads alone,” I lie.

“You won’t tell my stepmother, will you?”

“When your father asked me to swear that I would not let

you run away, milady, he also made me swear not to tell anyone

if you tried,” he says. “Your secret is safe.”


155

My father knows me better than I thought. I wonder what

other plots he assumes I shall try. Perhaps I should ask Gundred

and save myself the trouble.

“Did you still want to ride? I can lead you around the

bailey. I’ll even let you hold the reins if you won’t tell Hilde.” He

offers, an effort to cheer me, one I don’t deserve. I shake my head.

He sighs. “Then, I should escort you back to the castle.”

I nod. “You can keep the food, but I think I’ll take back

the jewels.”

His smile is wry. “As you will, milady.”

I pocket the jewels, and he escorts me to the castle entry.

I take the stairs two at a time, pondering the different

ways I might escape this purgatory. Perhaps I could pay a serf to

smuggle me away in a cart of onions. Did Father think of that? I

think as I cross the threshold. The stubborn priest sits at my desk.

I stand and watch in silence, expecting to catch him reading my

parchments, but he doesn’t. That doesn’t mean he hasn’t already.

I clap the door closed behind me. Father Hannes starts at the

sound.

“Are you here to seek my confession, Father?” I say,

annoyed.

He rises. “I seek nothing but your company, milady.

Would you join me in your presence chambers?”

I hesitate. He holds an arm open, motioning for me to

head into the other room, and I go. Two chairs sit before the

fireplace, and a small table between them holds a pitcher and two

mugs.

I stand, waiting for him to sit, but he tips his head,

reminding me that I am the lady. I sit as he fills both mugs with

wine. We drink in strained silence.

“This union upsets you,” he prods.

“I thought you sought only my company?”

“I lied.”

I avert my gaze to the fire, entranced by the swaying

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156

flames. “Of course, it upsets me. My mother hasn’t been dead a

month.” The confession feels detached. I wait for a lecture about

finding fortune in misfortune, but Father Hannes says nothing.

“And I must feign happiness and nobility every moment of the

day,” I continue. “I hate it. I hate all of it. I want my old life. I

want to go home.”

The silence between us lingers. The brilliance of the fire

burns my eyes, and I shift my gaze to the priest. He is not like the

priests of Cologne, who are fat, well–dressed and hide from those

they are supposed to serve. “What made you want to be a priest,

Father Hannes?”

His eyebrows rise in surprise at the question. He leans

toward me. “Here, feel my shoulder.”

Feel his shoulder? I wince at his request.

“Go on,” he coaxes, smiling fatherly.

I press my fingers lightly against the wool, unsure of

what I’m to search for. Beneath the fabric, welted skin raises, not

the scar of a wound, but a pattern. I recoil.

“You’re branded,” I gasp. “Are you—” I lower my voice

to a whisper. “Are you an outlaw?”

He nods, rubbing the fabric around his shoulder like that

shall somehow smooth the mark. “Most do not know it, but I live

outside of the law. In the small town where I am from, anyone

could have killed me, maimed me. The laws do not protect me

there.”

“What did you do?”

“Oh, many things I shouldn’t have. I stole, I fought, I

missed mass. I spent much time in the stocks, got whipped more

times than I can remember. The local lord felt pity for me and

gave me more chances than I deserved. My parents died before

my fifth winter, and my mother’s sister tried to care for me the

best that she could, but she had six children of her own and had

been widowed twice.” He shrugs. “But I didn’t cease. I ended up

with a brand, claimed sanctuary, and here I am. You could kill


157

me right now and claim me as an outlaw, and no one could

rightfully touch you. There is my secret. Keep it or not.”

“I stole Galadriel’s jewelry today,” I confess, “and I

planned to run away to Cologne.” I remove the brooches and

rings from my pocket. “If I had coin of my own, I would use it,

but I gave it to a man who needed it before we left Cologne.”

He nods.

The truth tastes like foreign wine: harsh and bitter at

first—but strained sips turn into silky gulps as the flavor shifts

from strange to desired.

“I’m angry at God. I hate my father at times. More than

anything, I hate Galadriel. I even hate that bastard brewing in her

stomach.”

Gaze averted, he nods. I examine his face, looking for

evidence of surprise, finding none. Of course, he knows Galadriel

is with child. He is her confessor after all. She had to have told

him. How else would she have convinced him to perform a

wedding during Lent? But how can I fault him for keeping her

secrets. That’s what priests are supposed to do. At least this one

seems to keep his vows. I take and release a long breath.

Speaking has eased a burden, but every indulgence has its

consequences.

“Aren’t you going to tell me how horrible I am?” I ask,

“that I am a spoiled, ungrateful urchin?”

He gives a one–shouldered shrug. “Your sins are no

worse than my own and certainly no worse than the worst I’ve

heard.”

“Well, aren’t you going to give me penance?”

“I suppose,” he sighs.

“Well, what shall it be?”

“What do you want in life, milady?”

“What? What do you mean?”

“What would bring you joy?”

“What has that to do with my penance?” I ask, but his

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158

chiding look bids me to answer his question. “I want to go back

to Cologne. I want to have my own trade and marry my

betrothed. I want to tell my mother’s stories so she lives on

forever.”

“Was your mother a good storyteller?”

“The best in Cologne.”

“Are you as good as she was?”

“No.”

“Then you need practice,” he says. “Your penance is to

find joy during your time here. And since sharing your mother’s

stories brings you joy, I bid you to share those stories with the

children of Bitsch…when they have time to listen.” He rises with

a groan and flashes me a folded–lip smile. “Then you not only

bring yourself joy, you also spread it.”

To a priest this penance might seem light, easy, but to me

it’s harsh. Mama’s death is a fresh wound. Telling her stories

won’t bring me joy yet. It is too soon. It was hard enough to share

one with Hilde.

“I absolve you, child, of your sins.” He makes the sign of

the cross in front of me. “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.

Amen.”

I cross myself. “Amen.”

He pats my shoulder and heads toward the door. Resting

his hand on the handle, he turns. “Lady Adelaide.”

“Yes, Father?”

“Let us invite the town in to sup tonight, and you can

regal us all with one of your tales.”

Tonight? “I don’t know if I shall be ready by tonight,

Father.”

“Oh, you will be.”

My mouth hangs agape as I hope for an excuse to roll of

my tongue, but Father Hannes heads into the hallway and is gone

before I utter a word.

This man doesn’t seem like any priest I’ve ever known. I


159

rush back to my bedchamber, plopping in the chair before my

desk. Pulling my parchment toward me, I dip the pen in the ink

well and think. Which story shall I tell?

Hansel and Gretel was always my favorite—and the last

tale that I told Ivo. My lips stretch into a smile at the thought of

him.

Perhaps Galadriel shall stumble upon a witch on her way

to Landstuhl, and the witch shall make her into gingerbread. My

lips curve even higher. Then I shake the fantasy from my head

and set to purpose. I have a story to tell tonight.

10 April 1248, Evening “Dear father, do with me what you will. I am your child,”the girl said.

With that she stretched forth both hands and let her father chop them

off.”

–The Girl Without Hands

I unshackle my hair from its tightly wound plaits and coils,

letting it tumble over my shoulders. Hilde sighs, and I expect her

to complain that she shall have to plait it all over, but she says

nothing. The throb in my head dulls now that the tension is gone.

My knee bounces as I peruse my sloppily written version

of Hansel and Gretel—though my mind ventures into anxious

worry.

In one imagined scenario, I forget the tale mid–telling,

standing dumbfounded before a hall filled with disappointed

faces. In another, I am jeered, and the people throw their half–

eaten food at me. Dozens of times, I banish such thoughts from

my head and start reading again from the beginning. At least, I

have that part good and memorized.

Hilde plays at being my audience. I stammer the tale a

half–dozen times, trying to tell it without the parchment. But I

make a mess of it—over and over. My throat burns, and

frustrated tears sting at the backs of my eyelids, which only


161

makes me angrier with myself.

How is it that I could tell the tale to Ivo with no practice? I

close my eyes and take a few even breaths—picturing Ivo in the

chair by the hearth, rather than Hilde. And, finally, it comes out

right.

I have recited it three times now. Once with my eyes

open.

I can tell the tale—not as well as Mama could—but this

will have to do. I bounce the stack of parchments on my knee,

shifting them into place. I think I will take them with me—in case

I forget.

The sour scent of unclean bodies fills the hall, and I chide myself

for thinking such a thought. Bitsch hasn’t baths like Cologne. The

streams are cold, and the poor covet their kindling too much to

waste it on warming their bath water. Heated voices echo off the

stone as Hilde and I approach the stairwell.

“What is this?” Johanna spits at Father Hannes, gesturing

to the villagers filing past her. “What are these filthy villeins

doing in the great hall?” She crosses the hallway in a streak.

“Lady Johanna,” Marianna hisses, ushering the children

past her, “keep your voice down.”

Hilde and I exchange knowing looks. The witch has poor

Father Hannes cornered. Picking up my skirts, I rush down the

stairs.

“It wounds me to hear you speak of God’s children in

such a manner,” Father Hannes says.

Johanna’s shrewdly set jaw proves she isn’t wounded in

the least. “I did not approve this. The countess placed me in

charge of the house in her stead.”

“Her father is steward.” Father Hannes’ voice is calm. “I

approached him, and he approved.”

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162

“And who gave the orders to have the hall readied? We

must have food for all these mouths, and you know there are to

be festivities in less than a week.”

“Only what is allowed in Lent… bread and ale. And do

not forget that their hands work the fields that provide the food

for all of our mouths.”

“I wash my hands of this,” Johanna says. “If so much as a

goblet is stolen, it shall fall on your shoulders, Priest, not mine.”

“Come now, Adelaide.” Father Hannes ushers me

forward.

A young girl, as slender as twig’s shadow, skirts around

me at a run and trips on my train, nearly knocking over the boy

in front of her.

“Watch where you go, changeling,” he snarls.

I recoil at the name. It conjures a memory long–forgotten.

Mama once delivered a child who came out deformed. The babe’s

back bones were exposed. I never saw her though. Father kept

her wrapped in a linen sheet so I wouldn’t see, but an arm

dangled out: blue, limp, lifeless.

The midwife said it was a changeling, that Mama’s true

baby had been taken by the devil or fairies or trolls.

That was the last time Mama ever had a midwife.

Why must people believe in such things? I’ve heard tales

of changelings. According to legend—and senseless midwives—a

child is taken in the night by some fantastical creature, and one of

their children, a changeling, is left behind.

But Mama’s baby came out of her deformed. The devil

hadn’t time to make a switch. Some people truly do not try to

make sense of anything. They hear a tale once and assume it to be

truth.

A small crowd forms around the girl.

“Did fairies not give you wings to fly or feet to walk,

changeling?” An older girl taunts.

There is a cruel harmony of snickers and laughter. The


163

little girl’s lips trembles, and her eyes well.

“Stop that,” I command. “Or you can leave the castle

without supper.” I hold out my hands to help the girl up, but she

only holds out one jittery arm, hiding the other behind her back.

Peering around her, I see the hidden arm ends in a rounded

stump. I pull her up. “She isn’t a changeling,” I say and hold her

to my side. “There is no such thing.”

The girl and the boy share a look that suggests I am the

foolish one for not believing such nonsense.

“Apologize to her or go hungry,” I order.

“Sorry, Ava,” they chime, voices overlapping.

“Go on then,” I say, and they run into the great hall.

I crouch and brush tangles of ashy brown hair from her

face. “Are you all right?”

She nods, her black–brown eyes still glassy with tears.

“There is no such thing as a changeling,” I say, and she

nods. “Where is your mother?”

“Dead of the fever, milady.”

“Who cares for you?”

“My uncle.”

“Then go to him,” I say, and she runs into the great hall.

I hold the parchments in my hand. Several servants pass

me with trays of warm bread. Only half the great hall is filled.

Not only have the children come, but the grown have come, as

well. I count the backs of heads, stopping at one–hundred–

twenty. My stomach twists, and I swallow hard. Father Hannes

leads a blessing. The bread is passed around the tables, and

servants fill mugs with ale. Smiles and conversations ease my

nerves, as no one is paying much attention to me.

“Are you ready?” Father Hannes asks.

I look down at the parchment, to Hansel and Gretel. I

have it memorized, but there is another story I should tell

tonight. I hope I know it well enough. I nod.

“It’s probably better for you to tell the tale after the ale

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164

warms them,” he flashes a warm smile, “but before it runs dry.”

I nod again.

He anchors his hands on his knees, and rises with a

groan. I put the mug to my lips and take several swallows. Papa

once said a strong drink gave a man courage, but that was after

we watched a drunkard try to steal a wineskin. The thief lost a

finger for it.

I wipe the lingering foam from my lips. By the time

Father Hannes is at the front of the room, the great hall is silent.

In Cologne, only a man of great importance could get a throng of

this size to put down their cups and quiet themselves.

“Good people of Bitsch, how are you enjoying your ale?”

he asks, and the people reply with raised mugs and cheers.

Father Hannes sloshes the ale in his mug. “I hope your sewing of

our fields is equally as smooth.” He raises his cup to them in

toast. “May the soil be soft, the rocks be few, and the harvest

bountiful.” The people raise their mugs and drink again. “There

is more than just ale and bread,” Father Hannes adds, and my

stomach flutters with nerves. “We have a storyteller come all the

way from Cologne.” He glances toward me and gestures for me

to rise. “You may have seen her. Rise, Lady Adelaide.” The

expectant stares of the crowd bore into me. “Her mother, God

rest her soul, was a storyteller in Cologne, a gift she shared with

her daughter and that Lady Adelaide would like to share with

you. Please raise your mugs in toast to the count’s daughter and

her generosity.”

All raise their cups again, before taking hearty gulps.

I center myself in the front of the great hall so all can see.

Scanning the room, I foolishly measure the gazes that weigh

upon me. A few brim with excited anticipation, but most are

glazed with blank unfamiliarity or politely feigned interest. A

heartbeat passes and then another. Fear festers.

To them, it matters little if I butcher the tale, I remind

myself, for they’ve each been paid a half–gallon of ale and a slice


165

of white bread to listen. They shan’t boo or jeer me. And then I

realize, it’s not their approval I long for. At this, the fear takes

flight and flits away.

I clear my throat and straighten up.

“This is the story of a girl who was flawed,

marred, and some might have looked upon her and

declared her a changeling, a criminal for her deformities,

but they couldn’t have been more wrong about her.

“Once upon a time, there lived a poor miller who

had nothing more than his mill and an apple tree behind

it. One day, as he collected sticks for his hearth, a strange

man approached him.

“‘Why do you bother yourself with collecting

wood,’ the strange man asked, ‘when I can make you

rich.’

“The miller eyed the man in his rough–spun and

said, ‘You look a beggar. ‘Tis little you can do to change

my lot. Now be gone.’

“The strange man pulled a heavy sack from his

cloak and opened it. Sunlight glittered off the thousand

golden coins it held.

“‘I will give you my coins,” said the strange man,

‘if you promise me that which is behind your mill.’

“Thinking there was nothing but an apple tree

behind his mill, the miller happily agreed.

“The strange man laughed, gave the miller his

treasure, and said he would return in three years to fetch

what was his.

“Excited to share the good fortune with his

family, the miller called to his wife and daughter. The

wife came from the house while the girl jumped down

from a branch in the apple tree where, on that morning,

her father had bid her to pick the season’s fruit.

“The man went white as a toadstool when he

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realized his folly, but there was little he could do to hide

the bag of coins, and when his wife asked from whence

they’d come, he said, ‘I traded them to a man who I met

in the woods.’

“‘For what,’ asked the wife. ‘Our mill?’

“‘He asked for that which stands behind the mill,’

the miller replied sadly. “I was happy to give up the

apple tree for such riches…until I remembered our

daughter was climbing the tree’s branches.’

“The girl shuddered with fear, and the basket

slipped from the girl’s fingers as the girl shuddered with

fear. The fruit rolled red across the forest ground, and the

miller’s daughter began to cry.

“The miller was determined to undo what was

done. He kept every guilder and went to the forest each

day in search of the strange man, but the wife said it

would not matter, for the man must have been the devil,

and devil’s deals can hardly be unstruck.

“The miller’s daughter was a pious girl, and she

lived the three years worshipping God without sin. Every

day she washed herself. With neither sin on her soul nor

dirt on her skin, the girl was too pure for the evil one, and

when finally he came to reap the miller’s daughter, he

had no power over her.

“Red with fury, he seized the miller by his throat.

“‘Keep water away from her,’ the evil one ordered, so she

cannot wash herself anymore. Otherwise I cannot touch

her.’

“The miller tried to give back the coins, but the

devil refused them.

“‘Our deal was struck,’ the evil one growled. ‘The

girl is mine. I will have her, or I will have you in her

place, and I will burn your mill to the ground so your

wife and daughter starve.’


167

“The miller was frightened and did what he was

told. The next morning the devil returned, but the girl

had cried into her hand so that they were clean.

“Thus the devil still could not approach her, and

he commanded the miller, ‘Chop off her hands.

Otherwise I cannot get to her.’

“The miller was horrified. ‘How could I chop off

my own child’s hands?’ he cried.

“Then the evil one threatened him. ‘If you do not

do it,’ he said, ‘then you will be mine, and I think I will

take your wife, too.’

“This frightened the father, and he promised to

obey. He sharpened his ax, went to the girl, and said, ‘My

child, if I do not chop off both of your hands, then the

devil will take me and your mother away. Forgive me.’

“With that, the girl pinched her eyes tight, and the

miller sliced off both her hands.

“The devil came a third time, but, without hands,

she could do no work to dirty herself, and she wept so

long and so much onto the stumps, that they were

entirely clean. The devil gave up on the girl, but in his

fury, he took both parents in her stead. Then he set the

mill and apple tree ablaze.

“The miller’s daughter ran from the fire and

became lost in the woods. She walked three days, sure

she would starve to death, until she smelled the sweet

scent of apples on the night breeze. She followed the

perfume to a royal garden. By the light of the moon she

saw that it held trees full of ripe, crimson fruit. But she

could not get inside, for the castle was haloed by a moat.

“Having walked so long without eating a bite, she

was terribly hungry and could think of nothing but the

apples.

“Then she kneeled down and prayed to God for

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help. Suddenly an angel appeared. He closed a head gate

so that the moat dried up, and she walked through.

“She entered the garden, and the angel went with

her. She stepped up to a tree and ate from it, enough to

satisfy her hunger, but no more.

“Blinking in disbelief, a gardener watched it all.

He ran and fetched the king so his lord could see the

miracle for himself, but by the time the king was in the

garden, the girl was gone.

“The king said he would keep watch with the

gardener the next night, but if the girl did not show, the

gardener could chose to lose his tongue for lying or a

finger for stealing his apples.

“The king entered the garden the next night,

bringing a priest with him to talk to the angel. All three

sat down under the tree and kept watch. At midnight, the

girl came creeping out of the brush. She stepped up to the

tree, and again, ate an apple off of it. An angel dressed in

glowing white stood next to her.

“As the king approached, the angel disappeared.

Still he asked the girl, ‘Who are you?’

“She answered, ‘I am no one, Your Grace, but a

lost and hungry girl without hands or home or family or

friends. I have been abandoned by everyone except God.’

“The king, transfixed by her beauty, said, ‘And

now you have me, as well.’

“With that, he took her home with him to his

royal castle, and because he saw in her the same beauty

that God did, the king loved her with all his heart. He had

silver hands made for her, and took her as his wife.

“There was great joy everywhere. The king and

the queen conducted their wedding ceremony, and they

lived happily ever after.”

“And that, good people of Bitsch, is called The


169

Girl With No Hands.”

I am dizzy with nerves when the applause comes.

Though to say my heart didn’t hum a little at their approval,

would be a blatant lie. I peruse the sea of heads, glimpsing

Father’s Hannes’ sandy–silver hair. The seat beside him is empty,

and I hasten toward it, ready for the eyes of Bitsch to look

elsewhere.

Not everyone is so shy as me. A handful of young men

gladly take my place, entertaining us with homemade reeds. As I

take the empty seat next to Father Hannes.

“That was well told. I believe storytelling is in your

blood,” Father Hannes says. But I thought you were going to tell

a tale about two children who were lost in the woods.”

“I was.”

“But you changed the tale for Ava?”

I nod. His folded–lips arc into a light smile, and his eyes

brim with something. I think it’s pride.

16 April 1248 It has been six days since Father and Galadriel left, and the castle

had been in deep disarray up until yesterday morning.

There is no room for error under Uncle’s watch. When the

poor, slow–witted bottler, Gustaf, started pulling from the poorer

stocks of wine, Uncle threatened to cast him out on the North

Road. Stories of Uncle’s threat quickly spread to all the servants,

and ever since, they work at twice the pace, checking everything

thrice over.

The only man happy with all the extra work was the

castellan, Crispin, who beamed, delighted to see his lofty projects

finally completed as all able–bodied men not needed for other

tasks, have been recruited to help him.

Johanna oversaw the dressing of rooms and decoration of

the castle. At her command, maids bustled about the west wing,

bringing laundered linens, fresh strewing herbs, and firewood to

each room.

Weeks ago, Uncle sent dozens of invitations for, what

Johanna calls, a wedding festival barely modest enough for Lent.

Has there ever been a wedding festival in Lent? I wonder. Even

so, it seems these festivities celebrate Uncle’s management of

Bitsch rather than his daughter’s marriage—which is a far step


171

down when compared to her first.

Yesterday, well–dressed counts, landgraves, bishops, and

ladies from the neighboring lands paraded in. Lady Johanna’s

priorities quickly switched from readying the castle to organizing

meals and entertainment for the expected guests—giving them

much to choose from.

Those men who arrived by afternoon took to the forest

with Tristan, hunting for bucks and boar. Meanwhile, we ladies

played at bowls. I am quite terrible at the game, though,

according to Johanna, this is good. I will be better liked by the

lords and ladies if I graciously lose.

When their husbands returned, the women who once

excelled at the game suddenly lost on purpose—sharing demure,

knowing smiles with each other as they applauded their

husbands’ success.

“We women may be called the weaker sex, no?”

Marianna whispered to me. “But a man’s ego is about as fragile

as the sack between his legs.” I bit my tongue to keep from

laughing aloud at the bawdy jest.

Minstrels, musicians, and dancers provided

entertainment during supper. Some headed into the gardens for a

sunset stroll but most stayed in the great hall. The men played

games of strategy like Alquerques and Chess, getting worse and

worse with each guzzled mug of strong wine.

The sun crested the wall some time ago, yet the frost has a strong

hold on the grass this morning. My tawny dress is hidden

beneath a heavy, rust–colored cloak, and still, I fight the urge to

shiver.

I feel the weight of stares upon me. “It is your turn, Lady

Adelaide,” Johanna says, masking irritation with unnatural

sweetness.

ANDREA CEFALO

172

Johanna encourages me to lose, but she manages to make

sure she pairs herself with the strongest player: Countess

Lauretta. I pity Marianna who is paired with me.

I mask a smile as I toss my ball. It strikes Johanna’s with a

thwump, launching it farthest from the jack. Her face falls.

Marianna’s fingers rush to her lips, unsuccessful at stifling a

laugh. We may not win, but I can make sure Johanna doesn’t

either.

Lady Magdalene of Weinsberg and her daughter

Reinhilde are next. But just as the spritely brunette gets into

position, horns sound. Magdalene snatches the ball from her

daughter’s hands.

“Is that them, Lady Mother?” Reinhilde asks her mother.

“Yes, I think so, the newly wed Count and Countess of

Bitsch.” Magdalene emphasizes the title.

“The Count and Countess of Bitsch—milord and milady,”

Reinhilde says, almost a question.

Magdalene nods.

Another set of horns blow. The carriage has reached the

second set of gates. The third set of horns sound, and the gates to

the inner bailey open. The sight of their carriage rips open a

wound that had begun to heal in their absence. The ladies around

me rise onto their toes.

Servants rush from the manor and quickly form two

columns, much like they did on the day that Father and I arrived.

Magdalene picks up her skirts and takes her daughter’s

hand. “Let us go, Reinhilde, to congratulate the newly wed count

and countess.”

I follow Magdalene and Reinhilde toward the manor

where I shall empty–heartedly feign happiness for the happy

couple, though I haven’t a shred of happiness for them at all.

The driver jumps down from the top of the carriage and

whisks open the door. Father steps out first. The servants cheer

and toss tulip petals in the air. Father turns and holds out a hand,


173

giving the driver a stern look. He steps back and allows Father to

grasp Galadriel’s fingers, helping her out of the carriage like a

knight from a minstrel’s song—salting my gaping wound.

Donning a feigned expression of joy, Uncle steps forward

and shakes Father’s hand. I wonder if Uncle feels defeated. I

wonder if it plagues him that the man he deemed beneath him

shall command him now and pay his wages. If he does, his face

doesn’t betray it.

Uncle passes Father for Galadriel, bowing in obeisance.

He didn’t bow for Father. Was the slight intentional or a slip? I

don’t know why I bother giving such gestures any notice.

Galadriel and Father are married now, and if Uncle loathes him,

it doesn’t matter anymore.

Father’s eyes fall upon me for the briefest moment. It is a

blank stare, and I find myself resolute to reflect such

ambivalence, but then he looks past me, and his face pales. I turn.

Marianna smiles widely and warmly. With her dark hair veiled,

she resembles Mama more than usual.

She rubs her hand reassuringly on my shoulder. “So

happy, non?”

No, I want to reply but bite back the words. No. Not

happy at all.

Two rooms are set up in the west wing for dining. We ladies dine

in one chamber, as the men dine in another. The meal is not long,

for the courses are small in keeping with Lent. Still, I excuse

myself early, for Father and Galadriel’s presence brings a taxing

grief. It exhausts me, so I lurch to my room, dragging heavy

limbs.

I sit before the desk, looking down upon the garden as

the men now play at bowls while their wives watch. A familiar

gait sounds through hallway, followed by an even more familiar

ANDREA CEFALO

174

knock.

I rise and compose myself. “Come in, milord.” My words

intentionally drip with formality.

Father is dressed for the evening already, wearing a fine

woolen surcote the color of emeralds trimmed with gold ribbon.

A fur mantle warms his shoulders. You look like a fool, I think. A

cobbler playing at count.

“You look well, milord,” I lie, trying to sound indifferent.

He sighs and sinks into the chair by the hearth. “It is

done, Adelaide. You have to stop this.”

I nearly ask what it is that he wishes me to stop doing,

though I know quite well what he wants. He wants me stop

pouting, to go to court, and to marry the nobleman of his

choosing. If he says the words, then my doing otherwise is direct

disobedience. If I don’t ask and do what I like, it is feigned

stupidity—which, from a girl, is sometimes expected and

forgiven. “Yes, milord,” I reply.

He stares sightless into the fire. “Much has changed, I

know, but I am still the same.” His gaze shifts to me. The corners

of his eyes are lax from drink. “I am still your father.”

And her husband, I think but don’t say. “Yes, milord.”

“Stop calling me that,” he says gently, “and come here.”

My resolve melts a little at his sad expression. “You know

I must call you that.” I approach and perch on the arm of the

chair. “I’ll be in trouble if I do not.” There is so much he does not

know about his new wife, that I answer to her above all others. I

shake my head. Thoughts of her rekindle my anger. “We aren’t

cobblers anymore. It isn’t the same. It will never be the same.”

“No, it won’t, but you won’t be in my house forever.

You’ll wed soon enough, and then your husband shall rule over

you.”

I give a sniff of laughter. “Like you ruled over Mama?”

His mouth curves into a half–smile.

“Not if it is Ivo,” I say. “He would never have me answer


175

to him.”

At that, he sighs and looks tired. “Some husbands can

have that privilege. It is a father’s duty to raise his children right

and keep his family safe.” He gives a wan smile. “You are more

like your mother than you know.”

He rises, and places his hand on my shoulder. “You hate

me now, but you have your mother’s heart…”

“I do not hate you,” I say. “It’s her that I hate—and that

will never change.”

19 April 1248 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,

I think, 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


177

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.

“Damn it!” 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—”

ANDREA CEFALO

178

“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

woolen dress 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.


179

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

further 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

ANDREA CEFALO

180

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


181

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 the

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, her face

shrewd, “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.”

ANDREA CEFALO

182

“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.”

Her lips pinch into a proud smirk, but shame flickers in

her eyes. She takes a deep, steadying breath. “Where do you

think you are going, milady?”

“Wherever my shoes shall like to take me.”

I turn for the hallway, as Marianna storms in, fuming. She

slams the pitcher of wine and the tray of sweetmeat onto one of

the tables. “Here are your precious sweetmeats,” she hisses at

Johanna, her accent remarkably French when she’s angry. “Now,

if you’ll excuse me, I shall retire to my rooms and pray for the

souls who were forced to make them on Holy Saturday!”

She dashes into the hall, slamming the door behind her.

The seamstresses sit in shocked silence, their eyes wide as

chargers. Johanna’s mouth should be agape, but pride has given

her a steel mask. Sometimes I think the only moveable parts of

her face are her flickering jaw, judgmental eyebrow, and

venomous tongue.

20 April 1248, Afternoon Now the besieged occupants were faced with starvation or surrender.

Then the knight’s beautiful wife dared to present herself to the besieging

soldiers and ask them for mercy for herself. The woman’s tears touched

the enemy’s heart, and she was granted mercy. Then she asked for

permission to remove from the castle whatever she could carry… This

too was granted to her.

–The Wives of Weibertreu

The savory aroma of roasting meats, breads, and stews of all sorts

waft into the room. The faint hum of a lute and singers seeps

through the small gaps between the large carved wooden doors.

The anticipation could be sliced and served on platters. After so

many days of fasting, we might even eat it.

I sit, surrounded by nobles, in a solar beside the great

hall, waiting for the doors to open, catching bits and pieces of

whispered conversations. Based on what I hear, I do not think

these men and women traveled so far to wish the Countess of

Bitsch and her pauper husband well.

What grandeurs can this nowhere village of Bitsch

possibly have to offer? What entertainments can a nobody like

Galadriel provide? These are the questions these nobles have

come to answer for themselves. I hope these men and women

ANDREA CEFALO

184

who look down upon us measure themselves against Galadriel,

against Bitsch, and find themselves wanting.

Us, I think. Did I just align myself with Galadriel?

I shiver with disgust.

Linus and Lutz open the doors, and like cattle to a field of

spring grass, we dawdle forward, ready to be fed and

entertained. Grand evergreen garlands cascade from the

chandeliers, candelabras, sconces, and mantels. A thousand

candles flicker. Far at the end of the hall, sitting beside her new

husband, sits the Countess of Bitsch herself, adorned in a gold

chainse with green damask. She is a foxglove in a field of clover,

so pretty, yet so utterly poisonous.

The nobles form a line, approaching Father and Galadriel

to offer congratulations. Galadriel and Father beam. I haven’t

seen him happy in weeks. Anger simmers. If only he truly knew

her.

I am the last in the line, and I curtsy to them both. Father

rises from his chair and grasps my hands, pulling me up onto

their little stage. Father places me on his lap and then reaches for

Galadriel’s hand, which she gives. The scent of wine is heavy on

his breath.

“We will be a happy family,” Father says. And then adds

with a whisper, “All four of us.” He reaches for Galadriel’s belly.

She playfully swats at his hand and shushes him.

Lady Johanna shoots Galadriel a disapproving glare. She

snaps her fingers, and the musicians and singers start: a cheerful

tune rings about the hall.

Marianna rushes to the floor, taking the hand of Uncle, as

Lady Johanna finds a nobleman to lead about like a lost pup. A

crowd rushes to the floor finding partners, and a dance seems to

come from nowhere at all.

People dance until the courses come. Father and Galadriel

rise to join us at the table, though they feel a furlong away, for the

table is so long.


185

My mouth waters at the scent of stewing meat as the

kitchen maid sets the bowl of venison stew with bread before me.

I tear a hunk from the little white loaf and sop up the broth. It

dissolves on my tongue: salty and sweet. I dig into the stew with

my spoon, hunks of venison making it heavy in my hand. I barely

have to chew, for the meat is so tender.

A new dish comes as I sop up the remnants of broth. A

maid briskly snatches the bowl from in front of me. I watch

Reinhilde, who sits to my left, for her response. She merely sits

back and lets them take her food without a word—so I do the

same.

Large platters of festively decorated ducks, pheasants,

and chickens of all sorts are set before Father and Galadriel. Lady

Johanna has them carved and diplomatically orders cuts of the

birds to different nobles. A creamy peas porridge comes next,

followed by stewed roots and cabbages, and then tarts with

apples and soft cheese. As the last plate is taken away,

Magdalene turns to her daughter and whispers in her ear. The

girl turns pale.

“Why must I go first?” Reinhilde whimpers.

“It is better to go first than last,” she says icily. “Trust me

in this. I feel for the count’s daughter, for she is the last to go. She

will follow two great storytellers. Going first is best.”

I swallow hard.

“But I am afraid. What if I tell it wrong? What if—”

“Reinhilde,” Magdalene’s frigid eyes meet her daughter’s

frightened stare. “You come from the wives of Weibertrue. You

come from strong women, women who do not fail.” Magdalene’s

back straightens. Her stern gaze eases. “You see these men and

women around us?”

Reinhilde nods.

“Any one of them could take you into their home.

Entertain them well, and you may wind up in a good house and

your father will be able to make a good marriage for you. Who

ANDREA CEFALO

186

knows how far you could rise?”

Reinhilde shrinks into her chair.

“Sit up straight and stop wrinkling your brow. We need

you to look pretty. Look now, the countess’ father rises to

announce you. Be ready, and make us proud.”

Reinhilde pulls herself up, pinches her cheeks, and grabs

her goblet for a long sip of strong wine just as Uncle reaches the

little stage.

“I hope you haven’t had your fill yet,” Uncle says with

the hint of a smile. “More courses are to come, but entertainment

first, while we rest our bellies from food and fill them with wine.”

A cheer rises from the noblemen at this.

“From Weinsberg,” Uncle continues, “comes not only the

wine you are about to drink, but a granddaughter of the wives of

Weibertrue to tell us the tale of her fair city.”

Reinhilde rises from her chair, her face frightfully pale.

She meets Uncle at the foot of the stage. Her chest rises with a

deep breath, she straightens as tall as her slight frame allows and

opens her mouth to speak.

“Many have heard tales of grand battles, near losses, and

heroic victories.” Reinhilde says, her meek voice gaining strength.

“Be warned for this story is one of loss, a story of what happens

to the defeated. This is the story of a great struggle over a little

castle on a large hill, but though the castle little, do not assume its

legend is as well, for it is grand indeed.”

All in the hall are silent and every eye upon her as she

pauses.

“This is the story of the castle Weibertrue.

“A century ago, when King Lothar died with no true

heir, the German lands were torn between two men.

Lothar’s named heir, Henry the Proud, and Lothar’s

greatest enemy, Duke Conrad of Franconia, fought for the

crown.

“The princes of the empire smiled upon the Duke of


187

Franconia, swearing fealty to him in Aachen, and he was

crowned. All accepted Conrad as king. All, that is, except

for one, Henry the Proud.

“For four long years, war ravaged the lands. The

fortunes of war smiled once again upon King Conrad.

“The battles were decided. The cities were taken. All

but one city would fall—the little city of Weinsberg and

its castle upon the hill.

“King Conrad demanded surrender or else he would

destroy the city, burn the castle, and put everyone within

it to the sword. Still, the people of Weinsberg, led by a

steadfast knight, held the castle.

“For weeks the siege against the little city raged, but

as the food ran out and the people lay starving, the knight

was forced to surrender four days before Christmastide.

King Conrad felt he had to make good on his threat, that

he must destroy the city, burn the castle, and kill the

people of Weinsberg.

“The knight’s wife ran from the castle and begged for

mercy, saying it folly to kill women and children

especially so close to Christmas. King Conrad, charmed

by her beauty and sympathetic to her woe, ordered that

she and all the other women and children of Weinsberg

could leave the castle peacefully with all that they could

carry. But that the men would still be put to the sword.

“The knight’s wife sadly returned to the castle,

sharing the king’s offer, but this brought little comfort to

the women of Weinsberg, who as loyal wives, cried

woefully through the evening. But the knight’s wife had a

grand idea. One woman after another whispered the plan

until everyone in Weinsberg knew it.

“The morning next, the gates of Weinsberg opened.

At the head, was the knight’s wife carrying upon her

shoulders that which she held most dear in this world—

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her husband. All the women of Weinsberg carried the

same.

“One knight angrily gnashed his teeth and begged the

king to slaughter the men right there before their

deceitful wives. But the king laughed at the display,

allowed the women to pass with their husbands, and let

the castle stand, renaming it Weibertrue after the loyal

wives of Weinsberg.

“So to those of you who choose sides, beware the side

you choose. And for those of you who wed, wed true, for

if you are not lucky in the first may you be lucky in the

latter like the men of Weibertrue.”

Reinhilde dips into a deep curtsy, signaling the end of her

tale. A round of applause builds. Reinhilde rises from her curtsy,

and her eyes fall upon her mother who glances around the table,

gauging the faces of the noblemen surrounding her with. The

room breaks into dozens of conversations, and the musicians play

again.

“Well done, daughter.” Magdalene’s thin lips curl into a

smile. “This is a good day for us. You are a prize now. Smile

coyly and be agreeable for the rest of the night.”

“Yes, Lady Mother,” Reinhilde says. “Do you think the

countess would have me in her court?”

She gives sniff of laughter. “God willing, we can do better

than to put you in the house of two upstarts. There are a half–

dozen men eyeing you now.”

Reinhilde grips her mother’s sleeve. “You wouldn’t

marry me away yet!”

Magdalene rips her arm away. “You are thirteen.

Younger brides have been made.” Reinhilde’s brown eyes widen,

and her lip quivers. “But, for now,” Magdalene adds, “your

father and I are looking for an established house to take you in

and make you into a great lady.”

Reinhilde’s shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath. I


189

could not imagine being married and sent away so young.

“Quite a remarkable girl you have, Lady Magdalene,”

remarks the Margrave of Baden, looking upon Reinhilde like he

might a little sister. “Weinsberg must be a cheerful place with a

daughter like Reinhilde.”

“It is cheerful for many reasons.” Magdalene raises the

mug to her lips, batting her dark eyelashes as she sips her wine.

“Weinsberg would love to host you so Reinhilde could tell you

our other tales.”

He flashes a smile of white teeth framed by a russet,

spade–shaped beard. “I might have to accept your kind offer,

milady, for she has quite the gift of storytelling. Now I see why

you have kept her for so long.”

Magdalene swallows hard, but her feigned smile quickly

returns. “She is my greatest treasure. It shall sadden me greatly to

see her go, but all good mothers must see their daughters off to

good houses and good marriages.”

The margrave nods politely before joining a raucous

conversation of hunting with the noblemen around him.

“That was a wonderful story. You told it well,” I whisper

to Reinhilde, and she smiles lightly. “Do you like to tell stories?” I

ask.

“Not before so many people, really. What story shall you

tell, Lady Adelaide?”

“It’s a story about a countess…about before she was a

countess.”

“Really? Like the Lady Galadriel?” she asks, and I nod.

Exactly like Galadriel.

“She is so pretty,” Reinhilde says longingly.

“I am sure she would like to have a girl like you in her

court.”

The girl’s eyes are longing. She seems so much younger

than thirteen. “Do you think so?” she asks.

“Oh, yes.”

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190

“Will you stay here or shall your stepmother send you

away, too?” she asks.

I am in the midst of sipping my wine when she asks. It

goes down hard, and I cough before answering her. “She’ll send

me away.”

“Do you know where?”

I shake my head, unsure of whether I should share the

news of the Duchess of Lorraine’s reluctant invitation.

“Mother says it is not the business of a girl to know what

her orders shall be but to do what she is bid when she is bid it.”

Her words drips with sadness and resignation.

“Oh,” I blurt, feeling quite bad for her. It is a thought

most girls resign to, especially those of her station.

Perhaps, I, too, resigned to fate long ago. I was born to a

cobbler, an only child. And like all little girls, my fate was

determined by my father.

I would be a cobbler. I would marry a craftsman. These

words were stitched into the fabric of my soul when I was too

young and obedient to question them. And now they are ripped

away, leaving a gaping hole surrounded by tattered strings.

I hate the thought. The desire for these things felt like a

choice, and now I’m not sure it ever was. Even if it was, why

should I get the privilege so few girls get? It almost feels wrong

that I should choose my own fate when girls like Reinhilde

cannot. Almost.

There is so much wine. It could make the Rhine bleed red. It

comes and comes and comes. I wait for someone to announce that

we have run out, but that announcement is never made. I abstain.

I have a story to tell. To be drunk when telling it would shame

my mother…and infuriate Galadriel.

A man rushes to the corner and wretches from the


191

window. Laughter and teasing follow. The smell of vomit begins

to mix with that of baking bread. Surely, Uncle orders more food

to sober these over–indulgent drunkards. I slip into the hallway,

though no one seems to notice or care.

A faint cry echoes through the stairwell, coming from

above. I crest the stairs two at a time and find a large man

pressed against the wall. The cry sounds again, and I crane my

neck. He’s not pressed against the wall. He’s pressed against a

woman. The man slides sausagey fingers along the curves of her

chest. It is the pretty, buxom kitchen maid who usually serves our

meals.

“Milord, the next courses come and I…” she trails off as

she catches my gaze. Her eyes are pleading.

“Maid!” I cry out, a bit shamed that I haven’t yet learned

her name. The man turns for a moment, his eyes lax from drink.

“There you are,” I hiss. “You’re needed downstairs, and here you

are acting the harlot with our guest! You shame yourself and this

household. Now get to the kitchen!”

The kitchen maid scoots from the man’s arms, curtsies

before me, and rushes down the stairs, her face painted with

relief.

The nobleman’s chubby lips, glistening with spit, pinch

into a spoiled pout. “She’s just having a bit of fun,” he slurs.

I say nothing, straightening my posture so he thinks I am

his equal, even if I am not. I march toward my room, but he grabs

me by the arm and whips me toward him. He looks upon me,

hungrily, like he’s a starving street urchin, and I am a slice of

sweating cheese.

I narrow my eyes and grit my teeth. I almost want him to

say something vile. I’ll kick him so hard between his hose that

he’d never think to look lustily upon an unwilling maid again.

No one could punish me for it, for protecting my virtue. He

releases me with a backward shove. I brush his appalling touch

from the sleeve of my chainse.

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“You think you are grand now, do you, girl?”

“That is Lady Adelaide to you, milord.”

“Pfft. You and your father are nothing but upstarts.”

“If that is how you feel, you should not have come. Since

it is you, milord, who think yourself so grand, go to your own

grand estate, have your own grand harlots, and drink your own

grand wine. Although from the looks and smell of you, I would

say you’ve had enough of our upstart wine to last you a year.”

His eyes widen with shock.

I turn like Johanna would, whipping my skirts around

and walking with the straight confidence of a lady. I pass Father’s

rooms and see another man with his hands on a very willing

woman. I sigh, and they do not seem a bit disturbed by my

presence. I reach my room, open the door, and lock it behind me.

The bells toll once, and there is a knock on the door.

So much for a moment’s peace.

22 April 1248, Evening When Cinderella appeared at the festival in this dress, everyone was

astonished at her beauty. The prince had waited until she came, then

immediately took her by the hand, and danced only with her.

–Cinderella

I ignore the rapping at the door. Perhaps, whoever it is shall just

go away if I don’t answer. The lock clicks, and the hinges whine.

My thoughts turn to the lusty drunkard in the hall. Could he

have bribed a servant for the key?

I scan the room looking for a weapon. My eyes rest upon

the hearth. I grab a poker from the fireplace and a candlestick

from the mantle.

“Who is it?” I ask, warning heavy in my voice.

“It’s me, dear.” Hilde’s voice is shaken. “Are you all

right?”

I toss my makeshift weapons to the floor and throw open

the door. Hilde rushes in, panicked. “I just saw Mary! She’s quite

upset.” She takes my hands in hers. Her eyes, wide as a doe’s,

brim with pride. “That was very brave— what you did for her.”

“Oh, Mary. I can never remember her name,” I say. “Why

did she not fight the whoreson off herself? She is bigger than I.”

Hilde releases my hands with a sigh. “She could be put

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out for that.”

“God’s teeth! That’s horrid! Do you think Galadriel

would do something so cruel?” I shake my head at the stupidity

of my own question. If she could see Ivo burned at the stake, she

could easily cast out a servant.

“You would be surprised what a noblewoman would do

when pressed by her betters.”

“That man is no one’s better.”

Hilde nods, and then approaches the hearth, plopping

into a chair. She looks, befuddled and concerned, at the poker

and candlestick sprawled across the ground. I quickly return

them to their rightful place.

“I didn’t know who was at the door,” I excuse, and she

nods.

“Are you still going to tell your story?” Hilde asks.

I sit with a heavy sigh. “Is there anyone sober enough to

hear it?”

She smiles warmly. “They’re not so soused as they were.

Your uncle ordered the wine to be watered, Etienne’s bread has

come, and Hedy rushes the next courses.”

The heat of the fire is comforting and fatigue weighs

heavy on my shoulders. “Must I go now?”

“No, I suppose we can wait a little while, milady.”

I cringe. She sometimes forgets and calls me dear. I much

prefer that over my new title.

“Are you nervous, dear?” Hilde asks.

I heave another sigh. “Yes. I don’t know that I have the

story by memory.”

“The Strasburg girl shall read her tale from a book.”

“Will she really?”

“Of course. Her story is quite long.” Hilde nods. “Just

write your story down, dear, and read it from the parchment.”

“She is the girl telling the tale of Tristan and Isolde?”

“Yes, her grandfather wrote it, dear.”


195

“That is a lie. Tristan and Isolde is an old French tale, and

her grandfather was German. He may have written it down, but

he didn’t write it.”

“You’d better not let the countess catch you being so

contrary,” Hilde warns.

“I speak the truth.”

Her gaze is challenging. “How many times must I tell you

that no one cares to hear a woman’s truths?”

I tire of the debate and return to the subject of

storytelling. “I know the Romance of Tristan. Mama used to tell.”

A lump of grief rises in my throat. “She never needed a book to

read from.”

”Your mother wasn’t born telling stories, Lady Adelaide.

She learned them. Perhaps she read them. Perhaps they were told

to her, but she learned them, and you shall learn them, as well.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, you remember her stories well enough

to have written them down now, don’t you?” She fusses. “All you

need is a little strong wine for courage.” She leans back into the

chair and then rocks herself forward so she can rise.

“No, Hilde. No wine. Just stay here with me a moment

longer,” I say, and her brow knits again. I rise and grab the

parchment from the desk, perusing a tale I call Cinderella, born of

a conversation Galadriel and I had a month ago. “Will you listen

to me tell it…and let me know if it sounds all right?”

“Of course,” she groans as she sinks back into the chair.

“An old woman like me could use a few moments off her feet,

but we cannot stay too long.”

A wan smile pinches my cheeks. “Then I’ll be quick.”

Hilde walks beside me as I repeat the tale of Cinderella over and

over in my head. She squawks about something: the dangers of

roaming the castle alone, how I should stand up straight, or stop

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chewing my lip. I don’t know which. I bar her out of my mind,

her voice distant yet grating like the chatter of mice in the ceiling

when one is trying desperately to sleep. I nod, hoping my

resignation silences her. It doesn’t.

The doors to the great hall swing open. The multitudes of

conversation rise from hum to noise. Maids bustle out carrying

empty trays, rushing into the stairwell. I look past Hilde to the

throng of nobles. My throat clenches and rib cage constricts.

“You did well the other day,” Hilde soothes as the doors

close. “And you didn’t even practice that tale.”

“That was in front of villagers…and children.”

“Then imagine them as children.” She lowers her voice,

and her eyes dart about, looking for unwelcome listeners. “For

that’s all they truly are. A bunch of blubbering children who can

hardly wipe their chins or arses without help.”

I laugh despite myself.

She shushes me, before breaking into laughter herself.

“‘Tis true.”

She releases my arms and takes me by the hand, leading

me to the door, but leaving me to enter the great hall alone.

Men lean back in their chairs, hands upon their swollen

bellies. Clarity and awareness wash over the once lax faces of

these drunkards.

As the dessert courses come, a tall red–haired girl with

fair skin rises from the table, and Uncle once again heads toward

Galadriel and Father to announce her. She cradles a book with

her heavily freckled hands and sits on a chair at the head of the

hall, near Galadriel and Father.

The story of Tristan and Isolde is dull. It’s a tale of a

man’s life and his tragic love for a woman married to his kin and

king, but by the end you don’t feel like you know either of them

at all. They do not speak to each other, the events are stated, not

described. Reading it is like listening to someone give you

directions from Hay Market to church. I do not see how it is such


197

a legend to us. Mama’s stories were more interesting by far.

I lift my charger and tuck the parchment beneath it,

leaving it behind. A good storyteller, a storyteller by blood like

me, should never read her stories from parchment.

The Strasburg girl doesn’t tell the tale. She reads it. She

doesn’t look up from the pages. She doesn’t pause to create

suspense. My attention ebbs, and it isn’t her story that passes the

time but my own rambling thoughts. A short silence and polite

applause signifies the end to the tale.

It is then, when Uncle’s expectant gaze meets mine, that

the anxiety flutters through me. His nose crinkles, and I realize I

am chewing my cheek, contorting my face. A deep breath brings

resolve, and as much as I wish I could expel the nerves with an

exhale, I can’t.

I rise ever so straightly as expected and smooth any

wrinkles in my skirts.

I hide beneath this velvet dress, a wolf in sheep’s

clothing. No, I am a sheep in wolf’s clothing, for these nobles are

wolves, ruthless and calculating. Willing to sell their daughters to

old men in order to rise, willing to violate a servant simply

because they can.

I was a cobbler, a storyteller, a commoner once upon a

time, and now I am one of them. A loathsome part of me wants

these nobles to measure me and deem me good. What truly

scares me is how I hate myself less and less each time I pretend

for them.

Dozens of uninterested eyes fall upon me. I look to

Father, glad now to make these people wait on me. He smiles

proudly back. I think upon what Hilde said: Imagine them all as

children.

I don’t need to.

Everyone in the room seems to disappear, everyone but

one, Galadriel. This story is for her.

“A rich man’s wife became sick, and when she felt her

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end drawing near, she called her only daughter to her

bedside and said, ‘Dear child, remain pious and good,

and then our dear God will always protect you, and I will

look down on you from heaven and be near you always.’

“With this, the woman closed her eyes and died.

“The daughter went out to her mother’s grave every

day and wept. And, just as her mother had told her to do,

she remained pious and good.

“When winter came, the snow spread like a white

cloth over the grave, and when the spring sun had

removed it again, her father took himself another wife.

“This wife brought with her two daughters who were

beautiful, with fair faces, though their hearts were dark

and wicked.

“Times soon grew very bad for the poor step–child.

“The stepsisters would ask, ‘Why should that trollop

sit with us to sup? If she wants to eat bread, then she will

have to earn it.’ And with her merchant father gone, the

evil stepsisters had their way.

“They took her beautiful clothes and shoes away,

dressing her in servant’s clothes.

“‘Just look at the proud princess!’ The poor girl’s

stepsisters teased. ‘How adorned she is!’ They laughed

and laughed.

“There the girl worked from morning until evening,

getting up before dawn, carrying water, making the fires,

cooking, and washing.

“They scattered her supper of peas into the ashes so

that she had to sit and pick them out again. This was all

she had to eat each day.

“And in the evening, when she had worked herself

weary, there was no bed for her. Instead she had to sleep

by the hearth in the ashes. Because she always looked

dusty and dirty, they called her…”


199

My gaze flits to Galadriel, “Cinderella.”

Galadriel’s smile falters at the name. It was the name she

was tormented with at the hands of her stepmother and sisters.

Surely, she saw similarities between this tale and hers, but from

now until the end of the tale, she will squirm, wondering if today

is the day that I expose her for what she is.

I look to Johanna from across the room and wonder if she

knows this story, too. Her wrathful eyes say yes. Marianna stands

beside her, face blanched, gripping Johanna’s forearm like she

might swoon. I shift my gaze back to the audience, starting where

I left off.

“One day it happened that the father was going to the

market, and he asked his two stepdaughters what he

should bring back for them.

“‘Beautiful dresses,’ said the one.

“‘Pearls and jewels,’ said the other.

“‘And you, Cinderella,’ he asked, ‘what do you

want?’

“The wicked stepmother roared that Cinderella

deserved nothing, but the father persisted and meekly she

answered him. ‘Dearest Father, if it would not be too

much of a bother, break off for me the first twig that

brushes against your shoulder on your way home.’

“So he bought beautiful dresses, pearls, and jewels for

his two stepdaughters and broke off a hazel twig for

Cinderella.

“Cinderella thanked him, went to her mother’s grave,

and planted the branch upon it, weeping so heavily that

her tears watered it so that it grew into a beautiful tree.

“Cinderella went to this tree every day, and beneath it

she hoped and prayed until one day a white bird

appeared, casting down the contents of a simple wish: a

loaf of bread for this girl who was weary of ash–covered

peas. From then on, the bird would throw down to her

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200

what she had wished for.

“Now, it happened that the king proclaimed a

festival. All the beautiful maidens in the land were

invited so that his son could choose a bride.

“When the two evil stepsisters heard that they too

had been invited, they were in the highest of spirits.

‘Cinderella,’ they called, ‘Launder our dresses and plait

our hair. We must prepare ourselves for the festival.’

“Cinderella obeyed, but wept, because she too would

have liked to go. She mustered the courage to ask her

stepmother.

“‘You, Cinderella?’ laughed the cold–hearted woman.

‘You, all covered with soot and cinders, want to go to the

festival?’’

“But, because Cinderella kept asking, the stepmother

finally said, ‘I have scattered a bowl of peas into the ashes

for you. If you can pick them all out again by morning,

then I may let you go.’

“Cinderella went through the back door into the

garden, and cast out a wishful prayer. ‘All you birds

beneath the sky, come and help me to gather.’

“Two white pigeons flew in through the kitchen

window. Then came the turtledoves, and finally all the

birds beneath the sky. They swarmed the ashes, pecking

and pecking until each pea was gathered Not an hour had

passed before they finished, and they all flew out again.

“Thinking that now she would be allowed to go to the

festival, Cinderella took the bowl to her stepmother and

was happy.

“But the stepmother said, “What shall you wear?

Your clothes are ash–stained and threadbare. Everyone

would laugh at you.” At this, Cinderella began to cry, so

the stepmother added, ‘I may find a dress for you if you

are able to pick two bowls of peas out of the ashes for me


201

by morning.’ But, in truth, the stepmother thought the

task impossible.

“The girl went through the back door into the garden

and cast out a wishful prayer, ‘All you birds beneath the

sky, come and help me to gather.’

“Two white pigeons flew in through the kitchen

window. Then came the turtledoves and finally all the

birds beneath the sky. They swarmed, pecking and

pecking until each grain was gathered. Not two hours

had passed before they finished and flew out again.

“The girl took the bowls to her stepmother and was

happy, thinking that now she would be allowed to go to

the festival.

“But, with a sneer, the stepmother said, ‘All the water

in the Rhine couldn’t wash the cinder soot from your face.

It is no use. You are not coming with us, lest you

embarrass us all.’

“Cinderella ran and fell to her knees, crying beneath

the hazel tree at her mother’s grave. Just then, from the

depths of her sadness, the seedling of an idea sprouted,

and she prayed.

“The two white pigeons returned, casting a gold and

silver dress down to her with beautiful shoes to match.

Cinderella raced back to the empty house, prepared

herself, and went to the festival.

“At the festival, the prince approached her, took her

by the hand, and danced with no one else.

“When the festival ended, the prince offered

Cinderella an escort to her house. But Cinderella ran

away, frightened that if he found her house, her wicked

stepsisters would tell him who she really was.

“As she ran down the stairs, her left slipper stuck in

the pitch, and frightened he would catch her if she

stopped, she left it behind. The prince picked up the

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dainty, golden shoe.

“The next morning, he went to a servant, and said to

him, ‘No one shall be my wife except for the one whose

foot fits this shoe.’

“The two stepsisters were happy to hear of this, for

they had pretty feet. When the servant came, the eldest

sister took the shoe into her bedroom to try it on.

“She could not fit her big toe into it, for the shoe was

too small. Then, handing her daughter a knife, the

stepmother said, ‘Cut off your toe—for when you are

queen, you will no longer have to go on foot.’

“The girl cut off her toe, swallowed the pain, forced

her foot into the shoe, and went out to the prince. But

blood seeped through the sole. The prince, red–faced and

angry at her trickery, cast her away and summoned the

younger sister.

“The youngest went into her bedchamber and slipped

her toes into the shoe, but her heel was too thick.

“Then her mother gave her a knife, and said, ‘Cut a

piece off your heel—for when you are queen you will no

longer have to go on foot.’

“The girl sliced a piece off her heel, swallowed the

pain, forced her foot into the shoe, and went out to the

prince. He looked down at the shoe and saw blood

seeping through.

“‘This is not the right one, either.’ he said, annoyed.

‘Haven’t you another daughter?’

“‘No,’ said the stepmother. ‘There is only the dirty

Cinderella, but she cannot possibly be the one.’

“But the prince insisted, and they had to call

Cinderella. She first washed her hands and face clean and

then went before the prince, who gave her the golden

shoe. She sat down on a stool and put her foot into the

slipper. It fit her perfectly.


203

“When she stood up the prince looked into her face,

and he recognized the beautiful girl who had danced with

him.

“‘Here is my true bride,’ he proclaimed.

“The stepmother and the two sisters were horrified

and turned pale with anger, but there was naught they

could do to her now. The prince took Cinderella onto his

horse and rode away with her.

“When Cinderella confessed her ill–treatment by her

stepmother and sisters to the prince, he ordered that the

stepmother lose a toe and a heel and that all three must

walk from their home to the kingdom.

“There, he stripped them of their titles and forced

them to work from dawn until dusk, as Cinderella had all

those years: carrying water, making the fires, doing the

cooking, and the washing.

“Their dinner of peas was scattered into the ashes

each day so that they had to sit and pick them out again.

In the evening when they had worked themselves weary,

there was no bed for them. Instead they had to sleep by

the hearth near the ashes.

“And after that day Cinderella was never called

Cinderella again.” And I add, knowing the opposite is

true, “Her and her prince lived happily ever after.”

I dip into a curtsy and glimpse at Galadriel from beneath

my lashes. She sits straight, a feigned smile upon her lips.

Applause breaks the silence, and I rise to see the guests still

clapping and speaking to their neighbors with great smiles on

their faces.

Galadriel’s gaze flits to Johanna, and they share an

unspoken conversation. She snatches Father by the hand,

summoning him to a game of dice. He shrugs and follows as I

make my way to my seat.

“Adelaide,” Galadriel chimes. “Join me for a moment.”

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204

A triumphant smile pinches my cheeks, but I will it away.

She cannot know that this was intentional. I turn slowly, giving

myself another moment to savor her anger before painting a

blank expression on my face. I crest the little stage, halting beside

her makeshift throne. “Yes, milady?”

“What was that? You said you were telling a romance,”

she says through her teeth—a feigned smile still painted on her

face.

“It was a romance, milady. Did you not like it? I wrote it

for you as a wedding present. Your guests seemed to have liked it

quite well. Your name may forever be on the tongues of

storytellers.”

Her cheeks flush. “As Cinderella?! As a girl who picked

peas from the fireplace? Who would want to be remembered like

that?”

“Well, I never said it was you, milady. Only you and I

know who the real Cinderella is. Confess your identity or do not.

I haven’t.”

“You certainly shall not! Or you know what shall

happen.”

“Look around you, milady. Everyone speaks of the story.

Every girl in here wants to be Cinderella, wants to be you. The

girl sitting next to me asked if you were taking girls into your

court.”

For a breath, she is a portrait of vulnerability and hope.

Then she purses her lips. “Until they know Cinderella is me, and

then I shall be even more of an upstart in their eyes. Then no one

shall send their girls to me.”

“Then keep it in your heart that you are the girl they all

long to be, and let them remember this wonderful festival so that

they may forget you are an upstart, milady.”

She raises a suspicious eyebrow to me, not falling for my

rouse of kindness. “The marriage is done, Adelaide. If you ruin

me, we all fall.”


205

“You mistake a kind gesture for a cruel one, milady,” I lie.

Her knuckles blanch as she grips the arms of her chair.

“Since when are you kind to me?”

I sigh. “As you said, milady, the marriage is done, and if

you fall, we all fall, so I suggest a truce. I would not want a

woman in such a delicate situation to worry herself.”

“A delicate situation? I assure you that I haven’t the

slightest idea of what you are suggesting. A child in my womb?

Oh, Adelaide, it takes much more than a fortnight for a baby to

quicken, but that is the sort of thing a maid would not know.

Count yourself blessed that you aren’t forced to pick peas from

the fire like my stepmother forced me to. And I never once gave

her cause. The causes you give me are as innumerable as the

stars!”

I should like to say that my blessing lies in having a father

who would never see his daughter so debased, but the tears

begin to well in her eyes. I’ve stirred her too much. If anyone sees

her upset, I’ll have Father’s wrath to contend with. As much as

I’d like to fill buckets with Galadriel’s tears, I won’t have myself

sent to a convent for them.

“I’ve upset you.”

She looks daggers at me.

“My apologies, milady. If it pleases you, I should like to

spend the rest of the evening praying for forgiveness of my sins

against you.”

“Then I bid you goodnight, Adelaide, and goodnight and

goodnight and goodnight,” she huffs, “for I suppose, you shall

have many nights’ worth of praying to do.”

I curtsy to her, masking a smile, biting my lips so I do not

laugh out loud. “Goodnight, milady.”

23 April 1248 So far, today has been a day of begging for me.

With the nobles gone now—and good riddance to them—

I am either free to ride or forced to sew. I caught Hilde outside

the chapel door as soon as matins ended and pleaded with her to

let me ride. My begging was met with short hesitation, lasting as

long as it took me to widen my eyes and pout. She bade me the

rest of the morning to do as I pleased.

I hunt down Gundred and beg him to take me to the

forest. Invulnerable to pouts and begging, Gundred bade me to

prove my readiness instead.

After two laps at a canter and one at a gallop, I wheel

Storyteller around and race her back to Gundred, a wry smile on

my face.

He cross his arms over his chest and sighs. “Find a lady

who can offer chaperone, and I will take you to the woods

myself.”

“Are you mad, Gundred?” The man’s voice comes from

behind me, and I crane my neck. Tristan saunters toward the

gate, a half–eaten apple in hand and a quiver slung over his

shoulders. “Her smile can’t pay your wages any more than her

frowns can cast you out. Only her father can do that. And that’s


207

just what he’ll do if you let her take to the woods, and she runs

off.” He looks to me with utter disdain. “She’ll have practice

enough in the empty bailey on the far side of the fortress. Let the

girl find a chaperone, and you can take her there for riding.”

“I won’t run away. I swear it!” I look to Gundred, but his

gaze has shifted to the ground.

“I wouldn’t trust her as far as that horse could throw

her,” Tristan adds.

I wheel Storyteller around. Her snort forms a frosty cloud

in the huntsman’s face. “You forget yourself, huntsman,” I hiss.

He laughs. “Ah yes, milady. I forget myself.” He flashes

Gundred a knowing look. “But I remember so much else.”

Gundred clears his throat, and at once, I see the meaning

in Tristan’s words. Gundred told Tristan that I tried to run away.

So much for oaths and honor. “The bailey is wide,” Gundred

offers weakly. “Best you practice there, milady.”

“Gundred!” I plead. “I swear I won’t run away.”

And I mean it. I won’t run away… not today. But if ever I

need to, I will need to know how to ride a horse through the

forests.

“The bailey is better. There are no trees to dodge nor

wolves to chase you.”

I give Tristan a look of daggers. “The bailey it is then,” I

say coolly.

Unfazed, the huntsman rips a hunk of flesh from his

apple and saunters out the gate.

The Sext bells sing. Storyteller slows to a trot and exhales a quick

breath. Her disappointment is palpable. Sext always marks the

end of our ride.

The smell of baking bread lures me now, although

somewhat hesitantly. Etienne’s bread is good, but freedom is

ANDREA CEFALO

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better. The walk from the empty bailey to the castle entry was

longer than I thought. The castle door yawns open, and mousy

Josepha slips into the bailey. “Hilde waits on you, milady,” she

says, and I hasten my pace.

Curse Galadriel’s huntsman and his stupid suggestions! If

I don’t make it to my rooms well before dinner, Hilde may not let

me ride tomorrow.

I plop onto my bed, removing mud–caked boots.

Whimpers echo in the hallway, and Hilde crests the threshold.

Her cheeks are tear–stained and eyes red. I look about the room.

The trunk splays open. Half of its contents are missing.

“Hilde—” I say, my throat clenching.

She crumbles into sobs. I cross the room and embrace her,

knowing without a word why she cries. I swallow hard. I did not

think it would be so soon.

“It will be all right. There will be a babe in your arms

soon. I know it. And I shan’t be gone for too long.”

The look in her cloudy eyes is imploring. “Do you think

so, dear?”

“I really do.” It is a half–truth. I have no idea when I shall

return, but I know that a baby grows in Galadriel’s belly, and

when it is born, it will bring Hilde purpose and cheer.

“Well, you had better get dressed for dinner.” Hilde

sniffles.

I nod and put on the dress she has laid out for me.

“Do you think there shall be a joust at the May Day

festivities?” I ask as Hilde straightens my skirts.

Hilde looks up from her crouched position. “In a ducal

palace? Of course, dear. Why do you ask?”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a joust,” I reply,

another half–truth.

“I suppose I should check on those laundresses and see to

it that your dresses are cleaned and dried for tomorrow.” Her

voice falters. She places her hand to her lips, stifling a cry, as she


209

rushes from the room.

As soon as the latch to the door closes, I rush to my desk,

pulling out a piece of parchment and an ink well. I write hastily.

Dearest Ivo,

I know this is sudden, but I thought of a way that we may see

each other again.

I am being sent to Nancy in the duchy of Lorraine. I asked if

there were to be any tournaments and discovered that there is to be a

joust on May Day. Perhaps, you could convince Michael to come to sell

his wares.

Knights from all over shall come, and there shall be sword

fighting, too. He could make much coin. It is a journey of six days,

though. Your father would have to be willing to give you up for a

fortnight, and Michael would have to be willing to leave the market for

the same.

You would need coin for inns and a horse and wagon. It has

been nearly a month since I have last seen you. Come and you shall

make me the happiest woman in Christendom, but I know it would take

a miracle for all these things to fall into place, so know that I do not

expect it. In the meantime, I will pray for a miracle.

Love,

Adelaide

I quickly seal the letter and tuck it beneath my sleeve.

I venture the narrow, unknown corridors of Castle Bitsch.

The darkness and damp form an unwelcome embrace along the

windowless path. It isn’t the fastest route, but I am less likely to

be seen, and even less likely to be stopped. I utter a curse when I

find the chapel empty, and then say a quick prayer of contrition

for my wicked tongue. Where is he? I think, slipping through a

doorway behind the altar. Light spills in long, thin strands at the

end of this hallway.

“You shouldn’t be behind the altar,” Father Hannes says,

startling me.

I whirl around. “I know. I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t know

ANDREA CEFALO

210

where to find you,” I say, and his forgiveness is given with a nod.

“Do you know how to get a letter out at great haste?”

His brow furrows. “I can find out. Is everything all

right?”

“I need to get a letter to Cologne—soon.”

He pauses, pursing his lips. “That shouldn’t be so

difficult. In sending this letter, you are not forcing me into sin, are

you, Lady Adelaide?”

“No, Father,” I lie, banishing thoughts of all the sin I shall

commit if I get Ivo alone.

He sighs. “It shall take coin.”

“I have none, but Galadriel won’t want me looking the

pauper in Nancy. She’s sure to give me an allowance.”

“Pay the chapel treasury if you can upon your return.”

I jump into his arms, hugging him tightly. “Thank you,

Father Hannes.”

He laughs and pats my back. “It is a pleasure to see you

in such happiness, milady.”

“I don’t know that anyone has made me this happy in all

my time here.”

He nods and smiles fatherly at me. I hand him the letter,

and we head in separate directions.

Johanna dips her bread into the lamb stew, the suggestion of a

smirk rising on her face. “Are you looking forward to your

travels?” She places the morsel into her mouth.

“I am a little nervous, Lady Johanna.”

Father gulps his wine audibly, and Galadriel’s nose

crinkles a little at his less–than–perfect manners.

“That is good,” Johanna says. “Better to be nervous than

too confident. You are going to the home of a duchess. The other

maids shall surely come from the best houses in the empire.”


211

Marianna, spoon perched before her mouth, huffs and her

utensil dings as she angrily sets it on her charger. “Oh, Johanna

why must you scare her?” Marianna chides before turning to me.

“Be quiet and watch what the other girls do. Find a friendly girl

who shall help you and someone to teach you French.”

“Scaring her was not my intent,” Johanna excuses. “I only

mean to prepare her for what is coming.”

“I did not even think to have her learn French!” Galadriel

cries.

“It is too late now,” Johanna adds.

Father masks his lips with a hand as Galadriel has

instructed him to do if he is going to speak with a mouthful of

food. “Why? When does she leave?”

Galadriel utters an inaudible reply.

“When?” Father gives a hard swallow and leans in close

to her. “I couldn’t hear you.”

“Tomorrow, husband.” Galadriel’s voice falters.

“Tomorrow?” Fathers says with surprise. “Why wasn’t I

made aware of this?”

“Usually a girl’s mother arranges such things,” Johanna

intercepts. “It isn’t customary for a girl’s father to be involved in

such decisions.”

“You should have told me,” Father’s says to Galadriel, his

face coloring with anger.

“It isn’t customary for a father to be so concerned,

milord,” Johanna reiterates.

Father shoots her a look as hard and sharp as steel. “I am

speaking to my wife, not you. Leave us. All of you. And close the

door behind you.”

I rise with everyone else. With a point of his finger, Father

orders me to stay. The room empties quickly.

“And what of our lives is customary, Galadriel? Why did

you keep this from me?”

“Johanna said—”

ANDREA CEFALO

212

Father slams his hand down on the table. “I do not care

what Johanna says! I won’t have things kept from me within my

house.”

Tears pool upon her lids, and she places her hand to her

stomach as a reminder of her delicate condition. “I am sorry,

husband.” The anger in his gaze melts away. I fight the urge to

roll my eyes. “I told you of the letter and the dresses I had made,”

she adds. “I did not know the date mattered so. It is an

opportunity that no girl like her has ever had.”

“The letter came only a few days ago,” he reasons more

sensitively, reaching for her quivering hand. “I only thought I

might have her for another week.”

“It takes days to get to Nancy from here. The duchess

demands that Adelaide arrive before May Day. I should have

sent her as soon as her dresses were made, but you wanted her

here for our wedding feast. If we make the duchess wait, she is

likely to send Adelaide back, and no one else has replied to my

letters. I thought I was doing as you wished. It pains me to see

you so…so… displeased.”

“You do not displease me.” He rises and kisses her on the

forehead. Her gaze meets his, and he kisses her gently on the lips.

I avert my gaze so I do not vomit stew all over the table.

“But since I expected another week with Adelaide, I shall

get it,” he says firmly. “I’ll take her to Lorraine myself.”

“Is that wise, husband?” she implores, her eyes following

Father as he rises and returns to his seat.

“It would not be wise to send her unprotected.”

“I have four men–at–arms going with her. More than I

had for my own protection when I left for Cologne.”

“My mind is made.”

She rests her hand on her stomach, but she’s overplayed

the gesture, and it doesn’t have the same effect. “Then who shall

oversee Bitsch?”

“The same people who oversee it still,” Father quips.


213

“Your father and Johanna.”

Galadriel purses her lips into a little pout. “Then go,

husband. I cannot stop you.”

25 April 1248 As the crow flies, Nancy is not far from Bitsch, but with a

carriage, we are stuck to the roads. A trip that may have taken

two days, shall now take four. Father has ridden his horse, Stilt,

with the guards and still does. Storyteller had to be tethered to a

number of horses until they found a mare she wouldn’t bite. The

men force me to stay in the carriage, claiming the roads too

dangerous for a maid to ride. Yet, we haven’t crossed a single

wolf, boar, or brigand.

The road follows the mountains. The constant ups and

downs slow us even more. Tonight we shall stay at an inn in

Trier, a welcome change from the monastery where we sought

refuge last night. The bites from their flea–ridden beds still

plague me. Hopefully tonight’s tavern hasn’t an aversion to flea

bane.

The bench is hard, and my back aches, so I lay on the

floor of the carriage and tell Mama’s stories to the roof. While in

the midst of my own tale, I notice that the once blinding slices of

light that filter through the shutters have faded to a burnished

gold. I pop up and throw open the shutters. The air is musky and

sweet as the scent of warm earth and new blossoms stir in the

wind. I don’t smell hearth fire, not yet.


215

Still, the shadows of trees grow longer and their trunks

darken. We must be nearing Trier, for Father would never have

us travel after dark.

The Vesper bells of myriad churches chime a distant

chorus as we crest a large hill. I stick my head out the carriage

window, looking down upon Trier like a bird in flight.

Fishermen lower wind–whipped sails and drag their

vessels onto the Moselle River shore. Waves lick at the

weathered, wooden boats. The scent of the day’s catch and

refuge, too long in the sun, corrupts the perfume of hearth fire

and spring. Had Galadriel been in the carriage, she’d surely have

retched.

Banners striped with gold and scarlet snap in the wind

from atop the towers, beckoning the city’s serfs and villeins from

their labors. They walk alongside our carriage, disinterested.

Through the slits in the shutters, I watch them. Children, don

little more than threadbare tunics, as they follow their elders on

bare feet. Their faces are gaunt, and their blank, ghostly stares

send a chill through me.

The wind stills, and the banners go limp. Upon the gold

and scarlet, a saint carries a large key. I would wager Trier is a

Church see. This city is more like Cologne than any other I’d

seen. The thought sinks in my stomach like stones—and I briskly

shake it from my head.

Cologne is Mama telling stories and cobbling. It is

summer nights and Ivo and eating pastries at the Christmas

Market. Was, my thoughts say. Cologne was those things—and

without them, Cologne is Trier—a filthy city, filled with misery,

stink, corruption, and fever.

My gaze catches on a russet–haired young man with

ropey muscles like Ivo. I shiver and wonder if Father Hannes

found someone who could see my letter to Ivo. Perhaps he is on

the road already. But more than likely, he is not.

ANDREA CEFALO

216

A brightly painted wooden sign hangs above the tavern entrance:

The Three Swords. This is either a tavern for the armorer and

sword–making guilds or a tavern for the men who can afford

such weapons.

The door to the tavern opens, and the hum of voices

within grows to a dull roar. For a heartbeat, one man’s raucous

laughter drowns out the conversations. He slaps a large hand on

the table, his belly pulsing with his cackling. The smell of roasting

meat overpowers that of hearth smoke. My stomach rumbles.

“Are you hungry?” Father asks.

I nod.

He takes my fingers and tucks them into the crook of his

elbow—a demonstrative gesture I’m not used to. Not ever since I

truly became his apprentice. Since that day an invisible door rose

between us, one we rarely cross.

Why today? I look up into his face, searching for the

answer to my question. His lips fold inward. Fear and pride

flicker in his eyes. I read him, a man who, unless drunk or

angered, is emotionally mute when it comes to his daughter. He’s

worried for me, proud of me, and saddened that soon I shall

leave him. I pat his arm, and he escorts me into the tavern.

We find a long table in the corner. Within a half–hour our

rooms are secured, and we sup.

“How far are we from Cologne?” Father asks, popping a

hunk of mutton into his mouth.

I nearly choke on my stew.

“Tis far, Milord,” says one of the men–at–arms. “The

safest route is three days of hard riding.”

A disappointed oh is all Father replies. Any effort on my

part to urge him to go and take me with him shan’t go over well,

especially not in front of a crowd. I change the subject instead.


217

“Have any of you been to Trier before?” I ask.

Most of the men nod.

“What is it like?”

“It’s like any city, milady,” one of the men–at–arms

replies.

“Not like Bitsch though,” I prod. “It looks like Cologne.

Don’t you think, Lord Father?”

Father shrugs.

“Does it have an archbishop like Cologne, too?”

“Oh, yes,” an older man–at–arms says. “Trier’s

archbishop is a kingmaker just like the archbishop of Cologne.”

“So Trier is a See of the church, then. Not a Free Imperial

City?”

The man opens his mouth, and then snaps it shut. One of

his eyes squints, and he looks to the men around him. “What is a

Free Imperial City?” he chortles. “I’ve never heard of that

before.”

I open my mouth, ready to educate them all, but the heat

of an angry gaze silences me. I turn my head and look to Father.

His chewing slows to a stop.

“I thought being away from Bitsch might mean a break

from such topics.” He raises his mug to his lips and empties it in

three gulps. “No more of it, Adelaide. Tell us that story that you

told me in Oppenheim.”

“The Three Army Surgeons?”

“Yes, that one.”

***

I get polite applause once I finish the tale. After that, it is

strangely silent. I’m sure the men long to speak freely and cannot

do that with a maid around.

I feign a yawn.

“Are you tired, Lady Adelaide?” one of the men–at–arms

asks—a bit too eagerly.

I say that I am and ask to be excused to my rooms. Father

ANDREA CEFALO

218

rises, so do I, and everyone else at the table, for that is what is

expected of them. I request a flagon of wine for my room, and I

am told it will be sent. Father escorts me up the stairs.

“No one will have me, Father,” I say as he sticks the key

in the lock. “This is a farce and, I think you know it.”

The lock clicks. He says nothing. He won’t even look at

me.

“You could summon Ivo to Bitsch when he finishes his

apprenticeship, and we can all live there together.”

I know what he’s thinking, What will Galadriel say? She’s

in a delicate condition. He cannot lose another child, another

wife.

“He’ll be an armorer by spring,” I add. “ You can make

him a knight. Or we can just say he’s a knight. Who in Bitsch

would know any different? Galadriel shall have the baby next

winter, and you can tell her then. You are her husband. You are

the count. You give the orders, not her.”

“Just as you are my daughter, and I am the count.” He

sighs and crosses his arms. “I give the orders, not you.”

“I am not giving orders, merely offering suggestions,” I

reply with a wry smile.

Father laughs. “Tell me, Adelaide, is that how it shall be

when you are married? Will you expect from yourself what you

expect of Galadriel? You’ll bend to your husband’s will with a

smile on your face?”

“I’m not Galadriel.”

“Yet you both are very good at pouting and sewing

misery when you do not get your way.”

I draw up at the insult. “Do you think so ill of me? Did I

not stand by, biting my tongue as you both said your vows? Have

I said an ill word against her to anyone since I discovered your

betrothal?”

Skepticism washes over his face. “Why did you stand by

and say nothing? It isn’t like you.”


219

“You said you would send me to a convent if I did not,” I

lie.

He narrows his eyes in disbelief.

I shake my head. He hasn’t had enough wine to be

reasonable. “Goodnight, Father.”

“Goodnight.” He turns away and starts for the steps, but

pauses, taking a heavy breath. “Someday when you have

children, you’ll know what it’s like to break their hearts to do

what’s best for them.”

“No I won’t,” I call after him. “If you and Galadriel have

it your way, I won’t even know my children. A nursemaid will

raise them. They’ll be sent to a stranger’s household, and I to

serve in another woman’s court. I won’t end up a countess like

Galadriel. I’ll end up Lady Nobody, servant to Duchess

Somebody, with children she never knows.”

Father says nothing, and I slam the door.

I brood, pacing a path into the floor as I contemplate bribing a

groom to ready Storyteller so I can run off to Cologne. But it is

dark, and the men have made sure to tell me of every

unimaginably horrible thing that has ever happened to a woman

unguarded on the roads.

I flop onto the bed. Perhaps Ivo will meet me in Nancy,

and I can leave with him from there. With the thought my lips

stretch into a smile. I close my eyes, conjuring sleep and, with it,

dreams of Ivo and the Cologne that I used to know.

But sleep doesn’t come, for Father’s insensibility runs

through my mind.

How can he think I might make some grand marriage out

of the courts of Nancy? Who would want me? I am not a born

and bred noblewoman. I do not speak French nor read Latin well.

I do not curtsy like a noblewoman. I do not bat my eyelashes like

ANDREA CEFALO

220

a noblewoman. I haven’t the slightest idea on how to run a noble

house. I am an only child to a mother who miscarried one child

after another, so there is little hope that I shall be a brood mare.

The best Father could hope for is a steward or lowly knight. But I

shall try my hardest to make sure no one takes interest in

courting me. I shall bide my time, trying to be unseen.

A knock comes on the door. Perhaps, it’s Father. He’s

seen sense and changed his mind. But as I open the door, it isn’t

his steely eyes that peer back at me—just the meek gaze of a

kitchen maid.

“Your wine, milady,” she says.

I step aside, and she enters, placing the flagon and mug

on the bedside table before skirting from the room. I plop onto

the bed and fill the mug, gulping it down and filling it again. The

heat stretches through my chest—in warm, delightful fingers—

until my head swims and my joints unhinge.

In three days, it will be a month since we left Cologne.

And tomorrow, I will be in a place as foreign as Bitsch.

So this is the middle of my tale. I am the fair maiden: a

noble girl with a wicked stepmother and foolish father. I cringe. It

sounds too much like Cinderella. I once thought myself like

Gretel: the common girl who saves her kin. Though, for now, I am

a Cinderella: a girl stuck grieving, praying, and waiting. I shake

the thought from my head. Even Gretel was trapped, for a time,

ensnared by the witch. She had to wait, too.

But I’m not a Gretel, and I’m not a Cinderella. I yawn

again. My lashes are like lead. I close my eyes, and see a baby

born. She is black as night, red as blood, and white as snow,

cradled in the arms of a storyteller who has high hopes for her

child’s tale. I am a Snow White, whoever she will be.

COMING SUMMER 2015

The Baseborn Lady

BOOK THREE

IN THE FAIRYTALE KEEPER SERIES

Author’s Note

Inventing The Fairytale Keeper

The premise for The Fairytale Keeper series came to me during a

children’s literature class. While we compared the fairytales of

different nations, the professor noted that most cultures had their

own versions of Cinderella.

This fact peaked my curiosity. If so many cultures have a

Cinderella story, did a real Cinderella—living hundreds or

thousands of years ago—inspire the tale? Or is something so

compelling about this legend that most cultures created their

own?

I was more interested in Grimm’s fairytales—specifically

Snow White. So my questions soon became: Could Grimm’s

fairytales have a single origin? The Fairytale Keeper series

assumes that they did, that Grimm’s fairytales are based on a real

person. And I posit that person is the real Snow White.

Fact Verses Fiction

As I’ve explained in the author’s note of my previous novel, I

write novels that I want to read. To market them, I must put them


223

into a genre category. Historical fiction felt like the best fit. I think

readers often don't know what to expect from this genre. Some

novels adhere to the facts, adding little more than dialogue to

history. Others blend history and fiction to craft a unique plot.

Either way, most readers--myself included--want to know what

was real and what wasn't. In the following sections, I separate

fact from fantasy.

The Characters

The Countess’s Captive trails people from all treads of Medieval

society. Sadly, thirteenth century peasants and the lower nobility

are often—at best—genealogical footnotes. For this reason,

everyone below the rank of duke or duchess is fictional. Even

Galadriel.

Agnes of Bar, wife to Duke Frederick II, was a duchess of

Lorraine. Besides a date of birth, marriage, and death, I have

found nothing on her. Thus, her traits and appearance are all

products of my imagination. Agnes died in 1226, but I really

wanted Galadriel’s crotchety, dowager duchess mother-in-law to

be alive. So if she is mostly fictional, why didn’t I change her

name? Because I liked it. To me, the name Agnes is synonymous

with the pompous, opinionated matriarch I created.

Ulrich is also fictional: the fourth son that Frederick and

Agnes never had. Their first and second sons were dukes. Their

third son was a churchmen. Frederick and Agnes likely would

have steered Ulrich in the same direction as their third son. It

benefited noblemen to have sons in both secular and church

positions. Steering didn't always work. Mothers had favorites,

and sons didn’t always do as they were told. Luckily for the Duke

of Lorraine, he had the lordship of Bitsch to gift his son.

ANDREA CEFALO

224

Konrad von Hochstaden, who is only mentioned in this

novel, is also real. He served as Archbishop of Cologne from 1248

to 1261.

The Plot

Though I’ve found no evidence of a great fever sweeping Europe

during this time, terrible illnesses certainly existed. Bubonic

plague hit Europe twice, once in the sixth century and again in

the fourteenth. Historians debate whether influenza existed

before the sixteenth century, but illnesses called “fevers” afflicted

European cities throughout history, killing many people.

Galadriel’s rise from merchant’s daughter to countess

would have been improbable. But Anne Boleyn rose from a

steward’s daughter to queen of England, so such things were

possible.

Lenten weddings were also rare as they were forbidden

by the church. But in my research, I've found that people of the

Middle Ages were just as good at bending their strict rules as

they were at creating them.

I do believe that a countess with a chaplain certainly

could have convinced him to perform a Lenten wedding. And if

he refused, she could have cast him out and found a chaplain

who would.

How likely is it that a countess would marry a

shoemaker? Not likely—but also not impossible. Things like this

did happen. In the fifteenth century, the Dowager Duchess of

Bedford, Jaquetta Rivers, married a squire. As punishment, the

king fined her and cast her out of court.


225

So why wasn’t Galadriel punished? The Hohenstaufen

kings lacked the central power that English kings wielded. The

Holy Roman Empire spanned a larger area, housing powerful

nobles and churchmen who wanted power of their own. King

Conrad and his emperor father dealt with anti-kings and

excommunications. I feel it’s safe to say that a countess’ marriage

would have been a low priority to them.

So if you’ve noticed, a few plot points from The

Countess’ Captive are unlikely. It was also unlikely that a French

peasant like Joan of Arc would lead the French army to victory.

Or that a queen consort of France like Eleanor of Aquitaine could

divorce her husband and become queen of England two years

later. These are only two examples in a sea of Medieval

unlikelihoods. In my opinion, good stories aren’t composed from

what is expected, but what is not.

The Setting

Bitsch was a fiefdom of the Dukes of Lorraine. In 1297, Eberhard I

traded three castle to Duke Frederick III of Lorraine for the area.

From then on, Eberhard called himself the Count of Zweibrücken

and Lord of Bitsch.

I’ve found some evidence that Frederick I, Duke of Upper

Lorraine, was named Lord of Bitsch in the twelfth century and

later Duke of Bitsch. Frederick was a second son and only

inherited the Dukedom of Lorraine after his brother’s death in

1206. He had taken the fiefdom of Bitsch several decades earlier.

This makes sense. Frederick would have wanted land and

a title of his own. Strangely, it appears that none of his many

children inherited the fiefdom or the title of Bitsch.

ANDREA CEFALO

226

If this is true, I feel it safe to assume that the fiefdom

reverted back to the dukedom of Lorraine. This gap would have

opened up a period of time for Agnes of Bar to gift Bitsch to her

make-believe son, Ulrich.

Bitsch’s hill has held a castle, now a fortress, since the

twelfth century. Its coat of arms is a white banner with two

serpents coming out of a black diamond. I used historical maps

and existing castles to recreate what I think Bitsch would have

been like in the mid-thirteenth century.

With the settings, I strive for accuracy. Historical maps

and descriptions inspired every place from Cologne, to Bitsch, to

the stops Galadriel’s carriage made on its journey. That being

said, the names of all the taverns are fictional.

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