“I went in search of Elizabeth and found her by the pond, feeding six swans and sewing together six small shirts.
“‘That witch has turned them into swans,’ she’d say. She thought my mother was a witch and that we had six brothers who Mother had turned into swans so Father wouldn’t be able to see them anymore. She said Mother had sewn those cursed shirts and that she planned to kill us next.
“She was mad. I know it. She thought if she could make them shirts of aster, she could break the spell and turn the swans back into her brothers. But we’d never had any brothers. I know it hurt my mother that Elizabeth thought her a witch, but she took it so gracefully. She had nothing but pity for her stepdaughter, God bless her.
“‘I tried to get Elizabeth to come home. I even pretended to believe her stories and told her to tell our Father of the spell, but she refused, believing Mother would kill her.
“The story got wilder and wilder. She said that the swans told her she couldn’t laugh or smile for six years, so Elizabeth stopped talking altogether. It broke my heart to watch. Mother tried to come to her, to convince Elizabeth to come home, but she looked at her with such fear. I begged Mother and Father to find an asylum where she could be cared for, but they refused.
“They said Elizabeth was harmless and that she wasn’t a bother to anyone. Elizabeth never spoke to us again. She whispered only to her swans. She sat at the pond all day, sewing the little shirts for the six swans. Every day, Mother had me take her lunch and ensure she wore her cloak on cold days, but it didn’t take long before people whispered about Elizabeth and her strange behavior.
“She really was harmless. Sometimes little children would come to the pond and help her feed the swans. As the children grew, Elizabeth lost her whimsical appeal to them, and the same children who had helped her, began to laugh and call her names. I doubt Elizabeth ever noticed it, for she never looked hurt. It hurt me though, and I reprimanded the malicious little imps, but I couldn’t watch Elizabeth all day, and they teased her more and more.
“Around his tenth spring, one of these wicked beasts thought to humor himself by throwing rocks at the swans. The little bastard nearly killed one of them. Elizabeth thought these swans were her brothers. Imagine if someone tried to kill your brother. What would you do?
“The children ran to get help, but they were too late. When I got to her, Elizabeth still had her hands around the boy’s throat though he was lifeless, his face frozen in terror.
“I tried to pull her from the boy. I tried to pry her hands from his throat, but she was so strong. I begged her to let go. I told her the boy was dead. I told her he couldn’t hurt our brothers anymore, but she wouldn’t let go.
“The shouts of a small mob were close, so I quickly closed the boy’s eyes. A group of men arrived first and, thank God, they pulled Elizabeth off the boy so his mother didn’t have to see Elizabeth strangling her dead son. Then the boy’s mother arrived and fell at his side, wailing in grief.
“The men dragged Elizabeth away. For a moment, I feared they’d hang her on the spot, and, now, I wish they had.
“Elizabeth was arrested and accused of witchcraft. Mother, Father, and I begged to have her committed to an asylum where she could be cared for and could never hurt anyone else, but it was useless.
“She was sentenced to be… to be…” Galadriel gasps and puts her hands to her quivering lips. “They ordered that she be burned at the stake.” She places her head in her hand and cries. I rise and grab the wine, pouring two full-strength glasses for us. She drinks and composes herself.
“On the day she was set to die, we prayed over her and hugged her tightly. We found a priest from another town to perform her last rites. He had a brother of his own who had been committed to the asylum. God bless him for his understanding. I still pray every day for Elizabeth that she is with God and at peace.
“I brought Elizabeth the shirts that she had worked on so hard, but she pushed them back at me, and I knew what she wanted me to do.
“She was set on the pyre, and thank God the wood was dry and stacked high. I placed my hands on her feet until the fire was lit. Just before Mother pulled me away, she spoke.
“‘Have our brothers returned to us?’ she asked me.
“I lied and told her they had. It made her so happy.
“Long after she’d expired and the town retired to bed, I went back to collect a small amount of her ashes. The town refused to bury her in hallowed ground, so we did that ourselves. As we rose, up the hill to the spot, I noticed a white cloud below the pyre. The six swans lay below Elizabeth, even the injured one, sleeping beneath her ashes. They stayed through the night.”
“That is the saddest thing I think I have ever heard,” I say.
Galadriel nods. “I still wonder how it all might have ended so differently for Elizabeth had we placed her in an asylum. It is what we should have done.”
“You didn’t know what was going to happen,” I reassure her. “You’ve honored her today by saving that man in the cage.”
We dine on cheese and bread at the noon bells. After the third mug of wine, I am warmed and mellow. I feel great pity for Galadriel who has lost a husband, a son, a sister, and a mother. She has little kin but us. And even we are but distant relations, barely more than strangers.
I excuse myself from the table to work and make more men’s shoes for the Saturday market. As I get back into practice, I work more quickly, but get little done by the two o’clock bell. Galadriel descends the stairs in a red velvet gown with bands of gold embroidery around the wrists, upper arms, and trim. At her hips rests a matching belt. A deep brown cloak cascades past her shoulders and down her back, clipped at her collar with a morse. The cloak is so light; its only purpose must be a simple accompaniment to the gown that is extravagant enough on its own. Having an elaborate cloak seems frivolous to me, as does the gown. A red velvet ribbon with gold embroidery circles the front of her crown and is then intertwined with a plait that finishes the back. One large braid flows down her back, specks of the opulent ribbon’s ruby and gold peeking through.
“We are going to an asylum, and yet I feel underdressed,” I exclaim.
“Having a title may help my cause. Tell me I look better than a simple burgher’s wife headed to market.”
I nod, though her words sting. A simple burgher’s wife. Almost every girl in Cologne could only hope to elevate herself to such status. Not me, though. I am happy to be an artisan. But at one time, it was what Galadriel could have hoped for herself, and yet she spits the words out as though they are flies on her tongue. I cannot help but wonder what I am. Am I less than a fly? The dung of a fly perhaps?
“I think we shall pretend you are one of my ladies, but we shall have to clean you up a bit and quickly at that. You can wear a gown of mine.”
I do her a favor by escorting her to St. Pantaleon’s, and she has the gall to not only insult my station, but she also expects me to wait on her! I am insulted, but I accept out of pity for her and for the man in the cage. This is but a game we shall play to help an unfortunate man.
Galadriel leaves me with the water, and I scrub myself quickly. She enters with the dress. It is the color of emeralds and made of fine linen with a finely fashioned leather belt. I put it on, and Galadriel brushes my hair roughly before braiding it.
“We shall have to find a mirror on the way back, but we haven’t time for that now,” she says.
~
We hear the Hay Market still buzzing loudly with activity though we are a block away. We head east on Filzengraben, walking past manors and fields, but mostly row houses like my own. The streets are as congested as one might expect. Carts come and go. Beggars, monks, and nuns mix in the throng as people rush from one place to another. We pass through the gate at Rotgerberbach and veer onto St. Pantaleon’s Strasse.
Upon entering the grounds of the church, neither of us knows where to go, so a monk takes us to the monastery connected to the asylum.
Galadriel asks him the name of the abbot and if she can speak with the him about donations she would like to make. He leaves us in the large hall and hurries away, but returns shortly after to escort us to the abbot.
“Abbot Thaddeus, I presume,” Galadriel says sweetly.
“I am,” the abbot replies coolly. “I hear that you wish to speak with me about a donation.” He is composing a letter of some form and does not even stop to look at us. I laugh to myself about all the time Galadriel took to ready herself, for it seems to matter little.
“I do. However, I wish to ask a favor in return,” she confesses.
“As donors usually do,” the abbot returns. He drops his pen and looks up, his eyes narrow as he measures Galadriel up for a moment, but his face softens like most men’s seem to do when their eyes fall upon Galadriel’s face. “What is it you want?”
“There is a sick man being tormented in a cage at Hay Market. I purchased him from his captors in hopes that you would take him into your care with the appropriate donation.”
“That is very charitable of you. What is this man to you?” he asks. His voice is laced with fatherly suspicion.
“He is a child of God to me. Is that not enough?” Galadriel replies smoothly.
“So are all the beggars, and lepers, and thieves. Shall you give them all a plot of land to sow?”
“I wish I could. I can only hope that my charity inspires charity in others,” she says, and I admire her quick wit.
The abbot purses his lips in defeat. “How much did you pay for this man?”
“Upon his delivery, I shall pay his captors three guilders.”
“Donate what God inspires you to, and we shall take him into our care.”
“Your charity is greatly appreciated, Abbot.” Galadriel hands him a velvet bag of coins. “I asked the men to meet me at the church. May we wait for them there?”
“Yes, and I shall send a few brothers to accompany you for your own safety.”
Four monks escort us to the church which, though I have lived in Cologne all my life, I have never set foot inside.
Galadriel stands patiently at the entrance, but I predict the men won’t be prompt -- if they come at all. They may simply take Galadriel’s guilder and their captive and leave Cologne today. I decide to explore as she waits.
The nave is long, and the ceilings are tall and flat. Banded arches surround the nave, and there are aisles on either side. Through the arches to my left, there is an elaborately adorned shrine to Saint Maurinus, the martyred abbot. To my right, lies a shrine to Saint Albinus, an abbot and bishop who performed miracles and ransomed slaves. Perhaps it is St. Albinus who was working through Galadriel earlier, inspiring her to free the man in the cage. I had forgotten that his shrine is here.
I walk down the aisle between the pews, bow before the crucifix, and cross myself. To the right is Saint Pantaleon’s Altar. Saint Pantaleon was a Greek doctor and saint. His peers grew jealous of him when he came into wealth and exposed his faith. The emperor Maximian favored him, though, and tried to convert Pantaleon. He refused, so Maximian ordered his execution, but Christ appeared many times, and Pantaleon could not be burned, boiled, racked, ravaged by wild animals, nor beheaded. It was not until Pantaleon wanted to die that the executioner could behead him.
Oddly, though, it is Saint Pantaleon’s Altar that is adorned with brightly painted murals of the life of the Virgin Mary. I suddenly think of Mama, who told me the stories of so many saints, and kneel to pray for her.
I am nearly finished with my prayers when I hear the echo of voices through the nave. I cross myself quickly, rise, and hurry down the aisle toward Galadriel. The men have honored their word and brought the sick man after all. Galadriel hands the men their coins, and the monks take the man to the asylum. Galadriel follows to ensure his safety and insists on seeing the asylum. The monks oblige and we enter. There are many beds and many sick men. Monks patrol the aisles and care for the sick with kindness. Some of the sick are ghosts of men with empty eyes while others appear to be normal, and I wonder why they are here. We learn the sick man’s name is Peter. He is shown to his bed and sits for a moment before getting up to pace the aisles. Understandably, he is still agitated. The cage and the captors were his home for God knows how long. It shall take him time to get used to this place. Galadriel waits for him to settle, but I tell her we can check on him the following afternoon, which satisfies her enough to leave. The church bells strike five before we are halfway home, and I suspect Father is worried about us. I should have stopped to tell him where we were going, not that he would extend us the same courtesy had our roles been switched.
~
Returning home, I hear Father pounding at something before we even open the door. We enter the workshop; he looks up, and stares at me in Galadriel’s fine clothing. He stands and bows before me as if I were the countess. His cheeks are rosy, and I can smell the ale on his breath, although I would not have needed to as he is a kind, silly man when he drinks. I curtsy clumsily and tell him about Galadriel’s dress. He jumps from his stool, wraps one arm around my waist and grabs my hand with the other. We dance clumsily around the room as he slurs a tavern song. I laugh, and Galadriel watches us. Father stops and bows to her before starting our dance again.
He is the only man I know who doesn’t measure her with his stare, and this pleases me, for I know he only has eyes for Mama. Galadriel climbs the stairs, changes her clothes, and prepares the sweetmeats for dinner. I pull a stool next to Father so I can help with the shoes and notice he has propped up the cross I made for Mama in the corner, displaying it like an altar piece. While constructing it, I had been worried he might be angry with me for working on it instead of shoes, using the expensive colored leather, but he isn’t. I can see he is proud of it and has set it aside so as not to ruin it while he works. We work together with smiles on our faces until Galadriel calls us for dinner. We eat well and drink until our bellies are warm. Galadriel and I share a bed again, and for the first time since Mama’s passing, Father sleeps in his bed.
15 March, 1247
Father wakes us before sunrise. I scrub the grime from my face and shiver as I throw off my night shift. I hurry into my hose, chainse, and surcote and slip on my boots. Rather than break my fast, I race down to the workshop. The daffodils and tulips are still fresh, and I gather them together, drying the stems with my surcote. I wrap the stems with green leather and bind the bouquet to the cross.
Mama has been buried like a Christian and had a funeral. Now she’ll have my cross to adorn her grave and our kind words to send her into the next life. I pray this is enough for God. Saint Pantaleon was not buried in hallowed ground, given last rites, or funeral rites, yet there is no doubt he is in Heaven. I know Mama wasn’t a saint or a martyr, but she was a good woman. That should be enough for God. If I were God, it would be enough for me, but if I were God, this world would be a very different place.
Father calls, and I take the stairs two at a time with Mama’s cross in one hand and bunches of my skirt in the other. I grab a crust and gulp some watered-down wine while Father waits with as much patience as he can muster.
“Let’s go,” he says.
“My cloak!” I exclaim and head for the ladder to my room.
“It is around your shoulders,” Father huffs.
“Oh.”
A carriage awaits, and we descend the stairs to it. Thankfully, Galadriel has paid the fee so we won’t have to walk the hour in the cold. The rooftops are covered with frost and the breath of the horses steams in the morning chill. The sun rises before us and soon the fields shall be busy with the bustle of tilling and sowing.
We set off toward the rising sun before turning onto Severin’s Strasse and out the gate. There are farmers in the fields already at work. We ride past the hill where Mama’s first funeral took place, and I am glad we don’t pass it directly. Eight chimes of the many church bells ring in the distance, and I realize we have ridden for a little more
than an hour.
“This is it,” Father calls to the driver, and we stop. Galadriel speaks with the driver who moves off, halting his carriage a little further down the road. His horse tears up hunks of grass with its strong jaw.
The rounded mound of earth is fresh and undisturbed. My stomach knots.
She’s dead. She’s really dead.
Sometimes it still feels like a dream that I shall awaken from, but not now, not when I am standing before her grave. Now, it is all very real. How could God do this to us? How could he send a fever and kill all these people? How could he let Mama die? Were we not good enough Christians? She especially, who dragged Father drunk to Mass every Sunday.
I cry as much out of anger as out of sadness and hug Father. He wraps his arm around my back and squeezes me tightly. I cannot speak without sobbing. I doubt any of us can, and so we are silent.
I look up at Father whose eyes are red and glassy. He must be haunted by having to bury her the way he did only a few nights ago. I cannot imagine having such a memory, and I am reminded of the world’s cruelty. I thought God was supposed to smite wicked men like Soren, but it seems to me only the good people of Cologne suffer. I look at the cross I’ve made, and it is nothing more than a marker to me now. I squeeze Father one more time, and place the cross at the head of Mother’s grave.
I kneel in the frosted grass beside her grave and brush the dirt back and forth lightly with my fingers the same way I did when I ran my fingers through her soft hair as a child. I arrange the stones so they are neat, and I move to the end of the grave to kneel before the cross and pray for her in the hope someone in Heaven is listening.
Galadriel gasps. “Who is that?”
“It looks like a Benedictine,” Father replies.