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Lady Graves is my NaNoWriMo novel in progress.

Chapter One begins here: Lady Graves - ch. 1 - NaNoWriMo 2018 - freewritemadness: Day One

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE-ish

Two days and two nights

the travelers walked, only occasionally taking a seat in the horse-drawn carriage. There was magic in the mountains, and madness, as April bowed her head and got ready to pass the torch to May. Throughout Europe, the final days of April and the first of May were commemorated with feasting, dancing, and a general uproar as spring turned the winter-weary into revelers bursting with new life. Shrill fifes, tin trumpets, and tintarrems carved from the young branches of sycamore-trees whistled night and day in the final hours of April.

Lindenstein lay in the Harz mountain range between the Weser and Elbe rivers. Irregular plateaus of slate, sandstone, and limerock rose into rounded summits, intersected by steep-walled, narrow valleys and crystal streams rushing past moss-green rocks. It was the heart of fairy tale country, the inspiration for the Brothers Grimm. Little towns tucked away in deep, wooded valleys came to life from familiar scenes of childhood stories. Here dwelled the poor woodcutters in lonely cottages, the peasants, the sons and daughters of millers and lowly workers, the kings and queens, the wicked witches, the dwarves digging deep in the earth for silver and gold. Mining had enriched the area for a thousand years. Snow White was born here; Cinderella lost her glass slipper there; Hansel and Gretel tossed bread crumbs along that path, and Sleeping Beauty awoke in yonder castle on the hill. Rapunzel, Rumpelstiltskin, Little Red Riding Hood, The Frog Prince, and the big bad wolf had sprung from this land. The Brocken, a mountain of granite made famous in folklore, sported barren white summits but the lower slopes were laced with rivers and dotted by forests and moors. Living deep in the beech, oak, and walnut forests were the wolf, lynx, fox, deer, nightingales, and canaries. The human inhabitants descended from the Franks, Saxons, and Thuringians, divided by High and Low German languages. The fanciful names and stories of the region reflected the last stronghold of paganism in Europe.

Helga was in her element. Still a baroness in fortune if not in name, she had the means to procure garments worthy of a festival that drew attracted revelers from far and wide, from high and low stations in life. These were duly packed and in the carriage, but she would don courtly attire no sooner than absolutely necessary, nor would her companions, for whom she generously provided.

Not for want of being generous did she have them bypass the inns. Best they not be seen, she said. Evelyn argued for a roof over her head and a warm bed, but Helga pointed out that she had not yet paid her dues or put in her time as a fugitive fleeing for her life. The English lady was still too innocent and trusting to comprehend the need of precautions and subterfuge. And so it was that along the way, they camped in the woods and lived like wild things, the way Stangler’s much-vaunted tribes did in America--and they could have it, as far as Evelyn was concerned; sleeping under the stars was romantic but cold and damp, even with Herr Doktor to warm her. Helga apparently had enough body fat to warm an igloo all night, and nothing seemed to afflict her, nothing interfered with her intentions, and nothing could soften her resolve except her own reasoning and her own reading of nature’s signs and portents.

As Lindenstein drew near, the three travelers were dressed for the road, but not for much longer. The carriage stopped in the shadows of a setting sun. Evelyn entered the woods in her white shift and emerged dressed as a Fräulein in a Dirndl, a black vest laced in the front over a white bodice cut so low, her breasts swelled near to overflowing. Her hair was braided on two sides, the new chestnut hue detracting from her Germanic blood, and and she missed her original shade of golden-dark-blonde. But not for long. Stangler emerged in Lederhosen, snug fitting leather trousers with suspenders, and a soft white cotton shirt that would soon take on his scent, she hoped, and a green hat with a feather.

“Lady Elizabeth of Edinburgh, cousin of Lady Evelyn,” she said with a curtsey. "Es freut mich sehr, sich kennen zu lernen," she addded in plausibly lame German with a Scottish accent.

Stangler doffed his hat and bowed. "I speak but a little German," he claimed in Scottish-English.

Lindenstein. The old, austere castle on the rocky plateau overlooking a stream loomed into view. Even from afar, merry shouts and blaring music heralded the way. Their progress slowed as the road filled with other travelers, and stabling the horse and carriage took some negotiating.

Lindenstein! She was here!

They walked narrow cobblestone streets lined with high-peaked shops and houses. Flowers bloomed from window boxes at every home. Not even in Cornwall had she seen so many bright colors and such animated crowds. Torches cast flickering shadows that made her recall the stone cottage with its cozy hearth and shadow-dancing on the walls. What was Emil doing now? She tried to picture Fritz Lanza reading by the fire with the dog at his feet, but she could only see Herr Doktor in that chair. Barely six weeks had passed but it seemed she had known him all her life, so much easier it was to recall every moment with him, so hard it was to call up memories of her life before she was born anew as die Dame der Steinhütte, Lady Graves of the stone cottage.

With so many strangers hurrying to Lindenstein, there was little hope of finding an old friend in the crowd even if one were expecting to do so. Proud knights on strong-hoofed chargers thundered into town, ready to show off their prowess; many a smiling maiden and elegant matron greeted them. The courtyards rang with clanking armor, clashing swords, and a multitude of cheers as exultant knights jousted. Dancing spilled into the streets as bands played.

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The timing was so fortuitous, Helga would not hear of it being anything but the work of the gods. At no other time would it be so easy to walk unnoticed among the town folk of Lindenstein.

Helga’s confident, graceful stride and her ringing voice diverted attention from her companions, the slender young lady with chestnut tresses and the slim, agile man with three days’ beard stubble and dark hair falling to his shoulders. Helga appeared to be coming home, reuniting with beloved friends, wherever she roamed.

They followed the crowd to an arena, where garlands and potted flowers supplied vibrant colors and fresh floral scents, where banners waved as a fervent crowd assembled to watch the competitions. Women in bright Dirndls speckled the perimeter along with men in Lederhosen and green hats.

“And I thought May Day was about purging the village of witches,” Evelyn said. “What is all this?”

Stangler grimaced. “This is Lindenstein, home of show-offs and would-be Napoleonic conquerors. What looks like a contest of horsemanship is just another game of political chess.”

She braced herself for another lecture and was disappointed when Stangler just cast his melancholy gaze over the crowd. “Go on,” she said. “Don’t spare me your insights and observations.”

He faced her, smiling that small, familiar, restrained smile, but his eyes gave away all that he tried to hold back; that sad, poetic gaze, when he shifted it to her, transformed like the sparkle of dewdrops in the morning sun. No military prowess, no victory in battle, no herculean feat of man could compare with the thrill Evelyn felt on seeing this melancholy men light up like a sunrise when she but said his name or glanced at him.

“Princes, barons, and lords from near and far descend on Lindenstein to show off for the ladies,” Stangler was saying. Her gaze shifted to his lips and she tried to focus on the words she had invited. “What they really come for,” he said, “is to assert who is who in the art of defending one’s estate--and perhaps expanding upon it as well. In a sense, every combatant is a little version of Napoleon, seeking to shine in battle and build his own empire.”

Stangler and his war-loving redskins in America no longer sounded so unusual. Here in Europe, the Old World, the valor of war was exalted and treasured. What was the Iliad but a long saga of an epic battle? What was the Nibelungenlied but a tale of conquerors, hordes of treasure, the spoils of war, and the women that men would fight to the death for?

She pressed herself closer and, exaggerating a legitimate case of being travel weary, she shifted the weight of her head to his shoulder. His breath quickened; he drew her into his cloak. The outside world melted and she was back at the stone cottage, watching him undress by the fire.

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All too soon,

the jostle of elbows and other revelers maneuvering past them reminded her she and he were not the only man and woman on earth.

“Men measure their military might by the worth of their horses, even more so than by the beauty of their brides,” she thought aloud. “I was betrothed to a prince, sight unseen. My value lay in my grandmother being born to a prince at Lindenstein. With too many siblings ahead of her in line for the throne, she was married off to the Duke of Everleigh, and her sister to a Duke in Edinburgh. Here I am, playing the part of my own far-flung cousin, Lady Elizabeth McGugan, while Vee is pretending to be Lady Evelyn, bride of Prince Hal. My maid, Vee, a princess! If my mother could see this! I wish I were unable to remember how angrily she chastised a thirteen-year-old Vee for coming to dinner dressed as my imaginary twin sister.”

“Sssh,” Stangler warned. “You may be whispering to me in English with a very convincing Scottish accent, but you never know who might have good hearing and good enough English to eavesdrop.”

He was right, but she took that as an invitation to raise her lips against his ear so that no other human could overhear. “This would be my home, right now, at this very hour,” Evelyn whispered in awe, “if not for the landmark event, the dreadful incident I have yet to remember, that which left Reginald dead in a ravine and me in a shallow grave.”

Stangler squeezed his eyes shut. “Speak of it no more.”

Helga, hoisting a hefty beer, glanced back at them. “Bier, her!” she sang out. Not missing a beat, she resumed her flirtation with a ring of four men who’d gathered around her. A chorus of voices sang with her: “Bier, her, oder ich fall um!”

“We need to keep an eye on her,” Evelyn worried.

Stangler laughed. “You don’t know Helga. She could drink those men under the table and ten more besides. And she wins those stein-holding contests every time.” He noted the blank look Evelyn gave him. “Where you extend your arm and see who can hold a five-pound stein of beer the longest without wavering.”

The revelry continued, leaving Evelyn to wonder how she would ever catch sight of Prince Hal and his bride. Finally, a trumpet blared, and quiet reigned over the court. Now annoying choirs started singing, and jesters in harlequin tumbled across a temporary stage erected in the city square. Curtains parted, revealing two thrones high above the crowd, and all were commanded to welcome the newlyweds of the kingdom, Prince Hal and Princess “Evelyn.”

The cheering of the crowd did not drown out the rush of blood in her ears. She had come for this purpose, to see for herself what had become of her maid Vee and Vee’s mother Hannah, and here the story unfolded before her eyes in full color, and the color was red.

Murderous red.

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word count 1,882

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