The Captive Maiden Page 11

  “Come.” She motioned at Gisela with her hand and started down the steps, but when Gisela didn’t follow her, she said, “You aren’t afraid of your own stepmother, are you? Come, we must go home. The roads will be crowded and you must get your sleep so you can be ready for the ball tomorrow night. We must all be ready, as we were all invited. Didn’t you hear?”

  Chapter

  13

  Was Evfemia sincere? Did she now want to show respect to Valten’s “Queen of Beauty and Love”? Had she decided to truly be kind, at least on the outside? Gisela didn’t dare believe it. Nevertheless, she followed her stepmother and stepsisters across the grassy slope toward their carriage.

  Surely Evfemia wouldn’t harm her with the duke’s family all expecting her to come to the ball tomorrow night. She was the tournament queen, after all. Even Evfemia wouldn’t dare keep her away.

  Was she foolish to think that?

  She walked slightly behind the three as they made their way down the steps and across the lists. Irma and Contzel kept taking peeks over their shoulders at Gisela, like skittish horses spying something moving in the grass. Were they only biding their time until they got her into the carriage? Would they make her walk home after all? They’d never let her ride in the carriage before.

  Soon they found Wido with the horses, waiting patiently. Gisela and Wido exchanged glances. His eyes were wide and curious, and darted briefly at her stepmother waiting by the door.

  “After you, my dear.” She graciously allowed Gisela to enter the carriage ahead of her.

  Gisela hesitated, but afraid of angering Evfemia, she stepped onto the first step, then the second, and entered the carriage and sat down on the seat cushion.

  Her stepmother came in next, then Irma, both of them sitting across from Gisela. Contzel took the only remaining seat next to Gisela.

  She studied their faces, trying not to stare. What was their plan? She suspected by the look on Contzel’s face that she was wondering the same thing, while Evfemia and Irma wore smug expressions. Wido’s weight made the carriage sway as he climbed onto his perch and started the horses forward.

  The silence was like a fifth person inside the carriage, taking up all the breathable air. Gisela stared out the tiny window, but she couldn’t seem to focus on anything, and out of the corner of her eye she watched for any sign of violence from her stepmother.

  “My dear.” Evfemia broke the silence, still sounding as she had in front of Margaretha. “We are so proud of you. It is quite an honor to be chosen by the duke’s own son to be the tournament queen.”

  Since when had she ever been proud of Gisela? When had she ever said a kind word to her? If Evfemia thought Gisela would forget all her cruelty and injustice since her father died, she was mistaken.

  Gisela gave her a blank stare, the one she used when she didn’t want Evfemia knowing what she was thinking.

  “I know I haven’t always been as kind to you as I could have, but you didn’t make it easy for me, either.” Evfemia raised her eyebrows, as though the truth of her statement were indisputable. “You were always so hostile to me and my girls, from the first day we entered your father’s house.”

  It was a lie. The truth was that Evfemia had hated Gisela from the moment she set eyes on her.

  “But we won’t quarrel about that. What’s past is past.” There was something sinister hiding behind those thin lips — probably adder venom, or some other deadly poison.

  Irma squirmed a bit in her seat, her gaze flicking all around the inside of the carriage, anywhere except at Gisela or her mother. And Contzel was as still as a statue, but there was a wariness behind her eyes, a watchfulness that was a rarity in the girl who seldom stirred from her bed or her most comfortable chair unless forced to.

  Perhaps Gisela could sneak out tonight, after they were all asleep, and spend the night at Ava’s house. For now, it was probably best to let them think they were fooling her. They would reveal their intentions sooner if she pretended to believe they were sincere. But she also wouldn’t make it too easy for them. It might be fun to see them squirm.

  “Valten would not like to see you mistreating me.”

  “Mistreating you? Why, foolish girl, when have I ever mistreated you? But as I said, we won’t quarrel about it. You are our own dear Gisela and we wouldn’t want it any other way.”

  With those words, Irma fidgeted even more, and Contzel’s eyes darted around like frightened chickadees. Oh yes. She’s scheming something, and her girls know it.

  “Of course.” Gisela gave her stepmother a fake smile. “Perhaps, if Valten marries me, you and Lady Rose could become bosom friends.”

  Evfemia’s face turned red as she stared hard at Gisela. Trying to tell if I’m lying. Or despising me, and despising the thought of me marrying Valten. But even now, if her stepmother could put her cruel ways behind her, Gisela would not retaliate against her. She would not want revenge against Evfemia, if only Evfemia could lay aside her own malice.

  But that was a big “if.”

  “Has the duke’s son asked you to marry him?” Evfemia ran her hand over the material of her skirt, as if trying to smooth out a wrinkle, finally glancing back up at Gisela with low-hanging eyelids.

  “Not yet.”

  “Who knows whether he will.” Evfemia shrugged. “Rich men like the Earl of Hamlin can be fickle, especially about a mere orphan girl with no title and no wealth.” The corners of her mouth turned down, as if to say, “Such a pity.”

  “Very true, stepmother.”

  “But we shall hope for better things, shan’t we?” Evfemia brightened, sitting up straighter in the carriage. “After all, it would benefit all of us if you should marry the duke’s son. However unlikely that might be.”

  Yes. However unlikely. Margaretha had said Valten behaved differently toward her, and that she hoped Gisela would be her sister someday. Perhaps he was ready to get married. That was the rumor that had circulated before the tournament. And he could marry anyone he wanted to. But would he want to marry her badly enough to give up marrying a titled lady, with wealth and connections to the king?

  She couldn’t think about that now. She had to keep up her guard while in her stepmother’s presence.

  “Irma,” Evfemia said, “don’t you think that dress looks beautiful on your sister Gisela?”

  Irma’s eyes got big. Her mouth opened, and then closed, as if she’d just swallowed a fly. “Oh-oh, yes, Mother. She looks … very … beautiful.” She looked as if the fly she’d swallowed was coming back up.

  “Is that Lady Margaretha’s dress? I saw that she was talking with you.”

  “As a matter of fact, it is. I shall return it to her tomorrow.”

  “What shall you wear to the ball then?” Evfemia’s evil smile was back on her face.

  “I’m sure I have something suitable. Don’t worry, stepmother.” Gisela grinned to hide her own panic. She hadn’t thought about what she would wear to the all-important event tomorrow night. She knew every dress in her mother’s trunk, and there was nothing that looked as good as the blue one … which she had left at the castle, in Margaretha’s chamber.

  The carriage was nearing their home. It was already dark, with the last vestige of sunlight glowing in the sky. Wido stopped the horses, and Irma threw the carriage door open, flouncing out before anyone else. Contzel got out next, moving faster than normal, then Evfemia motioned for Gisela to go next. Once they were all out, Gisela started to help Wido unhitch the horses.

  “There’s no need for you to do that.” Evfemia seemed amused. “Come inside, Gisela, and we shall eat something and go to bed. You must not concern yourself with the horses.” She laughed, as if the idea were absurd.

  It had never been absurd before. Evfemia had always expected her to take care of their animals. One of the many things her stepmother expected her to do. But she would play along. She was curious to see how far Evfemia would take this farce of Gisela being part of the family.

  Gi
sela went inside, where their middle-aged, white-haired servant, Miep, was setting out the cold meat, cheese, and bread on the large wooden table in the dining hall. Gisela wasn’t even allowed in the room except to clean, and she never ate with Evfemia and her daughters. All her meals since her father’s death had been taken in the kitchen with the other servants. She watched her stepmother and stepsisters from the doorway until Evfemia seemed to notice her there.

  “Come.” She motioned Gisela in, as if there was nothing strange about it.

  Gisela cautiously stepped inside. She pulled up a simple stool beside Contzel, cut herself some bread, expecting every minute that her stepmother would snatch it away from her. She then helped herself to some cold roast pork and some cheese. She ate, silently watching her stepsisters and stepmother. Irma and Evfemia seemed to make an effort to smile at her every so often, but Contzel just stared.

  When Gisela had eaten, she poured herself some water from the pitcher into a small cup while Evfemia poured from a wine cask.

  “Would you like some wine, Gisela?” Evfemia raised her eyebrows.

  “No, thank you.”

  Gisela drank her water, watching over the rim of the cup. When she finished, she took her cup to the kitchen. Miep gave her a questioning look but said nothing.

  Gisela hurried up to her chamber at the top of the stairs. Her stepmother had trapped her inside before. Standing outside her door, she looked behind her down the long staircase. Nobody was in sight. She took the crossbar that was resting beside her door and carried it into her chamber, hiding it in her oldest trunk.

  She left her door ajar so no one could sneak up on her. Gisela lifted the old blanket that hid her mother’s trunk. Inside it were all her mother’s possessions that had not been lost, sold, or taken over by her stepmother. She picked up one of her mother’s old dresses, a lovely pink silk, but a bad stain marred the front. Gisela couldn’t wear that. The next was emerald green, but it had a tear in the bodice. She could mend it, but it would show, and the bodice seam would be noticeably crooked. She looked through the rest of the dresses. One by one she reluctantly rejected them for some serious flaw. Lastly, she went back to the green dress with the tear. She would simply have to make it do.

  She searched for her needle and thread. Sitting by her little window with the shutter open, she began to mend the gash.

  Footsteps on the stairs, coming closer to her room, made Gisela put the dress down and stand. What if her stepmother had another crossbar?

  Miep came in carrying a pitcher of water.

  “Frau Evfemia bid me bring this to you.” Miep set the pitcher on the scarred table that was actually nothing more than a plank of wood propped up with two stools. She gave Gisela a sullen look that seemed to say, “Gisela has always helped me with my work, and must I serve her too now?” She went away, shaking her head and muttering.

  Gisela went over and looked into the pitcher. Was her stepmother trying to poison her? She sniffed it. It looked and smelled like water from the well.

  She poured a bit of water into a small cup made from a hollow gourd and put it to her lips. She took the tiniest sip. It tasted like water. She waited to see if it would have a bitter aftertaste, or if her throat would suddenly constrict. Nothing happened. But she had better wait to make sure.

  She suddenly realized how much she wanted a bath. In the far corner of the room, she poured most of the water in a basin and hurriedly washed herself, keeping an eye on the door.

  When she was finished and had put on her best chemise, she sat back down by the window to keep working on her dress. The rip was jagged and frayed. She did her best to conceal her stitches, to prevent the bodice from looking skewed, but even the best she could do still made the dress look quite flawed.

  She bit her lip to keep it from trembling. How could Valten be proud to be seen with her if she was wearing this dress? How could she make him see that she was good enough, pretty enough, to be worthy of him?

  A tear dripped onto the dark green fabric. Now it would be stained too. She flung the salty drops off her cheeks. Who was she fooling? She was only a servant. When she was seven, her father often told her she was special, that she was beautiful, that she was born to be someone extraordinary. At seven it had seemed possible that she would marry the heir to the duchy of Hagenheim. But her father’s words now seemed a foolish jest and not at all the way her life had turned out. At some point she had realized her father, whom she had always adored, had been wrong.

  Gisela carefully laid the dress aside and walked to the fireplace. She took out the loose brick and pulled his small portrait out of its hiding place. Somehow his memory had gotten entwined with the memory of Valten as a fourteen-year-old boy, coming to her home to buy a horse. At the time she hadn’t seen anything farfetched about her marrying the future duke of Hagenheim. Now …

  “Father, I didn’t want you to die.” She touched his portrait face with her fingertip. But he did die, and she must face her problems and take care of them herself.

  She sighed and put the picture away, hiding it behind the brick and turning back to the dress. Perhaps she could find something pretty to sew onto the bodice, some kind of border, to disguise the rip. She had to.

  Turning back to the trunk, she searched through every inch of it. She decided she could cut up the pink dress and use it to make a border around the hem, the neckline, the waist, and the cuff of the sleeves. She stood staring at the two fabrics. She could work all night, could finish the sewing by morning, but what would it look like when she finished? More like a jester or jongleur’s costume than a lady’s dress!

  Gisela groaned and dropped both dresses back into the trunk. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It was already late. She walked to her open doorway and stood still, but she didn’t hear a peep. Evfemia must be in bed.

  God, what am I to do? She tilted her head back and looked up at the ceiling.

  Wear the red dress again. Yes, she could wear the red dress that she’d borrowed from Margaretha. Of course she could. Her shoulders felt lighter, and she sat down on her little straw-filled bed.

  She’d wear the red dress. Her stepmother, if she was still pretending to be kind, might even insist she ride in the carriage with them back to the tournament festivities tomorrow. Gisela would see Margaretha again. She might even insist on letting her borrow another dress. But somehow it would all turn out well.

  Gisela yawned. Perhaps she should sneak out and ask Ava if she could sleep at her house tonight, but she was so exhausted after the long day. She had sat in full view of practically everyone in the region, been tense and terrified for Valten, and now her bed was the only place she’d like to be.

  Her door was still open. I mustn’t sleep too hard or too long. She had to remain on her guard in case her stepmother tried to keep her from going to the tournament or the ball tomorrow. Truth be told, she didn’t care about the tournament. Men would be engaged in competitions of archery and feats of strength, but Gisela had no interest. All she truly cared about was the ball and dancing with Valten, to see him again and talk to him.

  She sighed, lying down on her bed in her chemise. She pulled the worn-thin blanket over herself, laid her head on the pillow, and drifted to sleep.

  Valten awoke the next morning and immediately felt the pain in his hand. He lifted it and examined the bandage. Frau Lena’s wood-and-cloth splint fit snugly to his hand, and was wrapped tightly so that his hand looked like an enormous white stump. The tips of his fingers were barely visible at the end of it, and it came past his wrist, halfway to his elbow.

  He growled. Must he put up with such a conspicuous appendage when he was the tournament champion? But he would upset not only Frau Lena but also his mother if he took it off. His mother would cry, and he would put up with almost anything to not make her cry.

  He growled again. He’d have to have this thing on his hand when he danced with Gisela at the ball tonight. But he could still dance. He could still hold Gisela with his ri
ght hand.

  Thinking about Gisela made him restless. He threw the covers off and got up.

  “Hugo!”

  His young squire came running into Valten’s chamber from the small one next to his, blinking and rubbing his face. “Yes, my lord?”

  “Find the captain of the guard and tell him I need a report. After you help me get dressed, I won’t need you any more today.” He winked at the boy. “Go have some fun.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Hugo, with wide eyes, ran back to his little adjoining chamber.

  Valten would see Gisela tonight. In spite of the pain in his hand, it was going to be a great day.

  Gisela awoke with a start. Her door was closing. She jumped out of bed, but by the time she was halfway across the floor, the door shut and a heavy thud sounded on the other side.

  She pushed on the door, but it didn’t budge. Despite the fact that Gisela had hidden the crossbar, her stepmother must have found another one to lock her in.

  Of course she had.

  “Who is there?” Gisela tried to keep her voice calm but forceful. “Who is there? Open this door!”

  She listened, but heard nothing. “Who dares to lock me in?” Tears choked her words as despair gripped her.

  She pressed her ear against the solid wood door but heard nothing, not even footsteps.

  I should have known. What a fool I am. She should have sneaked away to spend the night at Ava’s, or even in the stable. Now she was trapped! How would she ever get to the ball now? She would miss her chance to be with Valten. What would he think of her? What would his family think if she didn’t show up?

  “Let me out!” Gisela pounded on the door. “I’ll tell Duke Wilhelm what you did! You’ll be thrown into the dungeon.”

  Evfemia’s cackling laugh came from the other side of the door. “You won’t be telling anyone. I have sold you to a man who promises to make sure you are never heard from in Hagenheim again.”

  Gisela’s heart pounded harder than her fists. “What man? You’re lying!”