“I ran from the house, crying. Mother had told me if I was pious and good that God would answer my prayers, but she was wrong. I was good, they were wicked, and yet they were the ones who got to go to the festival, not I. I kept thinking how unfair it all was.
“But when I arrived at my mother’s grave, two doves were sitting in the tree, and a third landed between them. At first, I felt I’d gone mad or maybe I was dreaming, for hanging from the tree by my mother’s grave was the most beautiful silk cotehardie I had ever seen. The sleeves were fitted to the wrist, and the fabric of the tippet cascaded to the bottom of the dress. The elbows and shoulders were trimmed in royal purple velvet and silver embroidery with little pearls. A velvet cloak trimmed in furs hung next to it. Inside the cloak were two pockets. One held a riband necklace with a large amethyst pendant and a pair of earrings. The other held ten guilders!”
I look at Galadriel with doubt, thinking she had had too much ale. “I thought you were going to tell me a true story.”
“It is true!” she says. “I swear it on my own soul. It is true.”
“Very well,” I say, suspiciously.
“I grabbed it all, the dress, the cloak, the coins, and ran to the nearest inn. I paid them for the night. I ate, I bathed, and I plaited my hair so it would be perfectly waved in the morning.
“The next day a caravan of beautiful carriages came to the village to pick up all the girls. I paid the driver my five guilders and he let me into the carriage with the others.
“What did it look like? The castle, I mean,” I ask, for, although I have heard jongleurs and minstrels tell of them at the market, I have never seen one with my own eyes.
“It was the most beautiful castle I have ever seen. The stone walls seemed to grow right out of the side of the mountain. Its towers rose higher than the clouds. The walls were tall and lined with tapestries,” she said, making swift gestures with her hands to illustrate the height. “Chandeliers, bigger than carriage wheels and lit with dozens of candles, dangled from the ceiling. There were flowers everywhere, and the tables were covered with fruits and meats, breads, cheeses, and tarts.
“The great hall was filled with girls, more than a thousand, I would say. But when the trumpet sounded, the hall grew completely silent. The half-man who delivered the invitations now announced our challenge. We had to discover the Count’s real name. The Duke, Duchess, and Count were announced as they walked to a long table at the other end of the hall.
“The girls charged like men on the battlefield, but not me. A good, pious girl gets her prayers answered, Mother had always said, and so I stayed in the back. I laughed with the jongleurs and tried to solve their riddles. I spoke with the cooks, and tried foods I had never tasted.
“Girls would pass by and say how handsome the Count was with his black hair and green eyes. They were disappointed not to have learned his name, but most decided to make merry anyway. The girls flirted with the minstrels and sang to their songs. They danced, and drank, and laughed. I ate the food with glee, happy to eat something besides peas.
“A dark-haired man stepped out from the kitchen carrying a platter of cheeses. He asked me my favorite dish, and I pointed to the elderberry tarts. He shook his head and took me to a silver platter of little stacked cakes. I’d never seen such beautifully decorated cakes, and each was small enough to fit into the palm of my hand.” Galadriel draws a circle in her palm with a finger.
“He handed me a little white one with pink roses made of frosting and plum curd in the middle. I took a bite, and we smiled at each other. He had the most beautiful green eyes.
“I looked to the front of the hall and noticed that the Count’s chair was empty. My mouth was full of cake when I realized who this man really was. I swallowed hard, but as I stepped forward to confront him, my foot slipped on spilled wine. I thought I would fall, but he caught me by the arm and pulled me up slowly.” Galadriel sips again from her fourth cup of ale, her face speaking greater volumes than her words.
“I was so embarrassed, and he looked at me with such worry, so I did the most brazen thing. I asked his name!” She pauses to take another gulp of ale. I find myself on the edge of the bench, waiting for her to continue.
“And, then, he whispered it in my ear. Ulrich.” She sighs. “One of the girls must have noticed and soon a swarm of them headed for us, so he ran off through the kitchen.
“Ulrich returned to his seat, but the festival was nearly over. The trumpet sounded, signaling the end, and all the maidens headed toward the hundred or so carriages that waited to take them back to their villages. I stayed behind until the trumpeter noticed I was the only maiden left in the great hall.
“He called after me harshly and ordered me to leave. Ulrich was walking toward us, and as I was about to say his name, I heard Ebba shout from the stairwell. I turned to see her pushing her way through the crowd, charging toward me.
“I felt the cold stare of a hundred girls upon me as I ran for the staircase on the opposite side of the castle. One of my shoes slipped from my foot, but I left it behind. I quickly found a carriage and returned to Metz, knowing I would have to go back to Gisla.”
“Why did you run?” I ask.
“I thought Ebba would embarrass me in front of everyone. I thought she would tell them all that I was just a servant girl who picked her supper from the ashes.”
Galadriel is now loose in speech and posture. Her expressions are dramatic, like a child’s, as she tells her story. She stumbles as she rises from the table and meanders to the barrel to fill her mug. I wonder if Father shall be angry when he finds she’s drunk us dry, but I say nothing. She sits and sips from her mug, the corners of her eyes softening further.
“How did Ulrich find you?” I ask.
“He found me at Gisla’s. I had to go back. I hid my cloak and gown beneath the floorboards so Gisla would not take them from me. Ebba and Dorthe swore I was at the festival wearing a beautiful silk gown. Gisla thought the girls had gone mad, but she still punished me for running away.
“Three days later, the half-man came to our door with the shoe that had slipped from my foot, ordering us each to try it on. Gisla demanded a moment to give her daughters a chance to wash their feet.
Ebba, being the eldest, was to be the first to try on the shoe. Gisla knew the shoe would not fit. Even though Ebba had slight feet, her largest toe was long and fat, so Gisla grabbed a knife and ordered her to cut off her toe.”
“No!” I gasp.
“She did! Ebba didn’t want to do it. I suppose I could have cried out that the shoe was mine and asked the little man to place it on my foot, but I bit my tongue instead so I could watch them suffer like they’d made me suffer.
“Gisla tried to convince her that a toe was worthless, that she’d be rich and noble and have land if she could fit into that shoe, but Ebba cried. And while Ebba’s head was in her hands, Gisla raised the knife and chopped off her toe.
“Ebba bit into her knuckle to keep from screaming. Blood squirted straight from the end of her foot, and her face went white. She fell back in a faint, and Dorthe caught her. Gisla wrapped the foot while Dorthe fetched the shoe.
“Dorthe jammed the shoe on Ebba’s foot, which must have hurt terribly. She awoke screaming, and Dorthe put a hand over her mouth to silence her.
“Gisla’s eyes were as wild as a madwoman’s when she saw that the shoe fit. She forced Ebba to stand and told her to walk. Ebba limped, and Gisla slapped her and told her that if she couldn’t walk like a lady then she had lost a toe for nothing.
“Ebba walked as best she could, and the half-man was fooled at first. But when he approached her to take back the shoe, she quickly pulled her foot away. Gisla argued that the shoe belonged to Ebba and it was hers to keep, but the half-man said it would be returned to her in time.
“He reached for the shoe again and discovered the trickery, for blood had begun to soak through the shoe. The half-man pulled it from Ebba’s foot to reveal a bl
eeding wound where her toe should have been.
“He was very angry, but Gisla swore it was an old wound that had reopened, and so the half-man said if she was truly the owner of the shoe then she would know the Count’s real name. Ebba guessed his name was Roger or Edward, and the half-man ordered Ebba and Gisla to be arrested.
“Gisla, as slippery as a snake, asked the man if it wasn’t enough that Ebba had lost a toe due to her undying love for the handsome Count. He conceded and even granted Dorthe her chance to try on the shoe. Gisla took Dorthe to the back to try on the shoe, but her heel was too wide, so Gisla ordered her to slice off the edges of her foot.
“Dorthe refused, but Ebba held Dorthe down and placed a hand over her mouth to muffle the screams. Gisla grabbed the knife and shaved the skin off each side of her foot. Dorthe’s eyes widened from the shock of the pain and screamed into Ebba’s hand. Tears welled in her eyes. Blood flowed from the wounds, so Gisla wrapped the injury in linen. Gisla placed the shoe on Dorthe’s foot and forced her to enter the hall.
“The half-man’s eyebrow rose suspiciously. Dorthe stood so he could not take the shoe from her foot, but he asked why her ankle was wrapped in linen. But before Gisla could reply, Dorthe fainted. The shoe fell from her foot, and the wound was revealed.
“I ran toward the shoe and grabbed it. I placed it on my foot and, though I was in rags, I could see recognition wash over the half-man’s face. ‘The Count of Bitsch’s name is Ulrich, and I am the maiden for whom he seeks. My father is a merchant, and I am his true daughter. These women make me a slave in my father’s home as he travels and have deceived you with trickery,’ I said.
“The half-man snapped his fingers, and two large guards entered the house again. He ordered the arrest of all three women, and asked me to gather my belongings and join him in the carriage. I packed my gown, shoe, cloak, and jewels. This left no doubt in the half-man’s mind that he had found Ulrich’s true bride.
“Gisla, Ebba, and Dorthe were forced to walk the entire route from Metz to the castle at Nancy. When the Duke heard of their treachery and cruelty, he stripped them of their freedom and made them serfs at another of his castles. He also ordered that Gisla be stripped of a toe and the skin of her heel.
“Ulrich and I were officially betrothed, and the half-man, whose name was Derk, was sent on one last mission: to find my father. Derk was successful and happy to be finished with his travels. Father arrived and when told of my harsh treatment, apologized and begged my forgiveness, which I gave immediately. He did not know of Gisla’s callous nature.
“Ulrich and I were married the Tuesday next with my father in attendance. We set off for Bitsch the next day. By winter, I was with child, and, by fall, Lars had arrived. He was a happy child with my fair hair and his father’s green eyes. By the next winter, this one past, it was all taken from me. My greatest loves perished.” A tear streams down Galadriel’s cheek.
“I’m sorry.” I say, for I don’t know of any words that could console such pain.
She nods and swallows hard.
“Did you ever find out who placed the dress at your mother’s grave?”
“I used to think it was my mother’s angel watching over me,” Galadriel replies. “But where was she when I lost my husband and my baby? Where was God then? What was the reason in giving me that dress so that I could go to the festival; so Ulrich would marry me and give me a son, just to have them die months later?” Galadriel puts her head in her hands and sobs.
12 March, 1247, Early Morning
Galadriel’s cries have stopped and she has fallen asleep, but not for long. She jerks her head from the table and glances frightfully around the room. She looks lost until our gazes meet.
“You should go to bed. It’s late,” she yawns.
“I’m not tired,” I lie. “You can have my bed.” She waits for my reassurance. “I shall sleep in Father’s bed if I tire.”
She groggily climbs the ladder to my room, and I am relieved to be alone. My back feels blistered from sitting by the fire for so long, and I move to the other side of the table where Galadriel had sat.
I watch the fire and wonder where Father is and when he shall return. The worry should consume me, but I feel nothing but weariness.
I rest my head on the table, and, just as my eyes close, I hear the tapping of footsteps. I wake with a start and scan the room for Father until I realize the footsteps are coming from above, their soft, slow beat quickly giving them away. It is Galadriel.
She yawns loudly and clumsily descends the ladder.
“Do you always keep insects by your bedside?” An eyebrow arches in disgust at the two fireflies dancing in the glass jar she holds at a distance.
I shrug.
“I shall get you a candle this week,” she replies.
“Father has a candle in his room. Shall I fetch it for you?”
“No.” She looks down at the jar, wrinkling her forehead. “I sleep best in the dark. I don’t suppose you shall need these with a fire like that, but I prefer not to spend the night with them.” She sets the jar on the table, turns, and stumbles back to bed.
“Ivo,” I sigh, shaking my head and feeling a grin spread across my face. I lift the jar of lazy flies, each one sitting on opposite walls of the jar. I slowly lift the cap and watch as each firefly escapes and flits around the room until they find an exit through the hearth.
I am so sleepy, but tell myself I shall not go to bed, even though my head feels too heavy for my neck to support. My hands make a comfortable resting place. It is not long before my hands shake, weary from the weight of my head. The waves of the fire hypnotize me, and I surrender to the weight of exhaustion. I surrender to dreams.
~
Tink. Tink. Tink. Three fireflies smack forcefully against the sides of the jar. I will be late, I think. With jar in hand, I sneak down the ladder, down the steps, and out the door, taking Filzengraben. Tall shadows of row houses lean over me, making the night even darker. The road feels eerily empty until the glow of a night watchman’s swaying lantern in the distance catches my eye. He takes Severin’s Strasse heading toward the Priest’s gate and his light is gone just as quickly as it had come.
I turn left onto Foller Strasse, at the first manor that makes up the vast DeBelle’s estate. I climb the vines on a low wall and jump into the DeBelle fields where Ivo’s family farms.
The glow from the jar lights my way through the deserted fields. The crunch of my feet through the stalks stresses the silence of the night. I fly through the small wheat field to the apple trees on the other side, searching for the tallest and most gnarly tree at the end of the meadow where we always meet.
The spark of a hundred fireflies radiates through the mist, and yet I am alone. I pace, frightened, hoping he will appear. The wind blows and macabre shadows dance. A chill crawls up my back, and I close my eyes tightly from fear.
I hide behind the tree and listen for footsteps, only to hear howls and whistles. It is only the wind and the roar of thunder in the distance. It is only the wind, I tell myself. It is only the wind.
SNAP. I stumble and grip the tree.
A breeze rushes violently down my body as something falls from the tree and lands inches from my feet. A frightened cry slips from my lips.
“What took you so long?” he asks, his grin wide, for he knows he has startled me. His voice is an echo.
I turn and shove him, “That’s not funny, Ivo” I say angrily, my voice echoing after his.
“What? Did I scare you?” he teases and tosses his white blonde hair from his eyes. “Here, I brought you a jar,” he says, but I push the jar away.
“I brought my own,” I reply, waving the jar an inch from his face.
“My eyes must betray me. You actually remembered to bring your own jar.” He feigns surprise.
The mist rises from the soggy ground as we make our way farther from the manor, deeper into the fields. We banter, jest, and boast as we normally do, but we bot
h know Ivo shall be the victor of our hunt for fireflies. He’s always the victor now that his legs and arms have grown so long. He’s faster than me. He jumps higher than me.
“Did your parents hear you?” I whisper.
“No. Yours?”
“No,” I say with a smirk.
I am normally an obedient daughter, but the thrill of sneaking out is too delicious to ignore. My parents shall sleep through the night and never know, I tell myself. Besides, I am safe here and doing nothing wrong.
“I’m glad you brought your own jar. Now I can fill up two of them,” Ivo boasts, his wide lips curve, pinching his cheeks so tiny lines fan from the corners of his eyes.
“Ivo Bauer, you’re such a braggart.” I hiss and go to shove him. He recoils with a smile. “I think I know why the flies circle about you so,” I tease.
“Is it because they are attracted to the smelly girl who’s always following me about?” he replies. I roll my eyes and punch him in the arm. He grins and I notice a split in his lower lip. He turns on his heel and bolts toward a swarm of fireflies, laughing.
I follow as quickly as I can, but my feet turn to lead, sinking ankle deep into the sludge. I pull them out one at a time with a thick slurp. My arms flow sluggishly through the mist as though I am fighting my way through swamp water. I leap forward, determined to catch more fireflies than Ivo, yet catching nothing but air. The swarm moves as one, avoiding my clumsy attempts. The hum of their wings grows louder and seems to whisper to me.
You are weak, they say.
Weak…weak…weak, they hum, faster and louder, flying within reach and then circling me.
“I am not weak!” I growl.
They flit in a spiral and spell it out. WEAK. 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, capturing flies with his jar in large gulps. The bright glow from his vessel shines from across the mud-caked meadow.
A single fly escapes his grasp and flits toward me. I jump with all my strength and trap it. I peer into the jar and smirk ruthlessly, but it sneers fearlessly back at me, its teeth long and pointed like daggers.