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Edward and the witch parted ways at the gates of Frankfort. As Edward made his way through the bustling town, Nathalie slipped into the quieter streets. Passers-by greeted Edward, drawn to the mysterious allure surrounding the young doctor of rhetoric. His mind, however, was preoccupied with thoughts of Jacobea of Martzburg and the possibilities for Thomas or Sybilla, the steward’s wife.
He passed by the college with its tapping trees and crossed the bridge over the Main’s flowing waters. The imposing walls of the Emperor’s castle loomed ahead, and Edward paused briefly to observe the fluttering Imperial flag against the evening sky. His mood lifted, and he whistled a tune as he walked down the long street towards the witch’s house.
At her gate, he spotted Thomas, flushed and breathless. Excitedly, he approached his friend and touched his arm.
“Thomas, my friend! What brings you here?” Edward exclaimed.
Thomas explained, “My master and most of the Court were at the tourney today. I thought it safe to come.”
Edward’s expression hardened slightly. “Ah, you’re becoming cautious in your visits here.”
Thomas defended himself, “You word it unkindly. Let’s go inside and talk comfortably.”
They entered the witch’s dwelling and settled in a room overlooking the garden of red roses. Edward lit a green glass lamp, casting a soft glow in the dim room, and studied Thomas intently.
Thomas, dressed in rich black and crimson attire, seemed uneasy, his usual charm marred by a hint of discomfort. Edward’s plea broke the silence.
“Thomas, come back to me,” he urged with a touch of melancholy.
“I’m content at Court,” Thomas replied quickly. “My master is kind, and my duties are manageable.”
Edward observed him closely, resting his cheek on his hand. “It’s clear you’re content, rarely venturing away from Court.”
“It’s not easy for me to visit often,” admitted Thomas, looking out of the window towards the roses.
Edward pressed on, “Your desires bind you to the Court. I fear you’re becoming a faithless friend.”
Thomas bristled at the accusation. “That’s unfair, Edward. You know my loyalty to you. Is it disloyalty to appreciate and serve a lady?”
Edward’s dry response cut through the tension. “Or perhaps a woman?”
Thomas turned to Edward with a charming smile, his voice softening in an attempt to soothe.
“She’s truly the sweetest of her kind, Edward; if you knew her—evil itself cowers before her—”
Edward’s response was grim. “It’s probably best that I don’t know her. You speak strangely—you and I both know we’re not saints—but perhaps you’re considering reforming—perhaps you’ve repented a second time.” Thomas appeared uneasy.
“No, no—not quite so far. Have I not gone too deep? Do I not still hope to gain something—maybe everything?” His tone dropped, “But I wish I’d never meddled with the monk. I wish I hadn’t touched God’s money—and when I see her, I can’t help but feel the sting of my sins.”
“How often do you see her?” Edward inquired calmly.
“Rarely,” Thomas replied sadly. “And perhaps it’s better that way—what could I ever be to her?” Edward’s smile was somber.
“That’s the truth. Yet you waste your time lingering where you might catch a glimpse of her face.”
Thomas bit his lip, conflicted. “You think me foolish—for hesitating, for regretting—but what have my sins brought me? There are plenty of honest men in better situations than I am, without the fear of damnation haunting them.”
Edward’s gaze darkened. “You were content before you met this lady.”
“Enough of her,” Thomas sighed wearily. “You make too much of it. I don’t think I love her; but one who has fallen must feel sorrow and yearning at the sight of such sweetness, such purity.”
Edward leaned forward, his hand gripping the table’s edge. “Maybe she’s not as pure or gentle as you think. Perhaps she’s like any other woman, as you might see one day.”
Thomas turned from the window, torn between protest and justification. “Can’t you understand holding something beautiful dear—worshipping—even loving?”
“Yes,” Edward’s voice was tinged with emotion. “But if I loved”—he said the word with a delicate reverence, rising from his seat as he spoke—“I would bind their soul to mine for eternity; neither devil nor angel could separate us. But—but that’s not our concern—there are other matters to attend to.”
“If only I had never laid eyes on those wicked books or her face,” Thomas muttered restlessly. “Then at least my thoughts would be undivided.”
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He approached the table, meeting Edward’s gaze across the flickering lamp’s flame. In his hazel eyes was a plea, a call for guidance from the strong to the weak, and Edward reached out his hands impulsively.
“Ah, I’m foolish to bother you with my troubles, my friend,” Thomas confessed, his voice touched with affection. “You’re headstrong and unpredictable, caring little for me, I’m sure—yet you have power over this foolish heart of mine.”
There was a tender grace in Edward’s demeanor, his words, and his outstretched hands that moved Thomas deeply. He clasped Edward’s slender fingers warmly, though they were soon withdrawn. Edward, who disliked physical contact, smiled warmly.
“I have news that will please your impatience,” Edward announced, fetching a large red copper candlestick from a wall cabinet. Three half-burnt candles illuminated the room as he lit them, casting a brighter and more comforting light.
Setting the candlestick on the table, its flickering light enhancing Thomas’s imposing figure, Edward returned to the cupboard and fetched a tall bottle of golden wine and two glasses with delicate white lines tracing their rims.
Thomas settled into his chair, removing his gloves and smoothing back his hair. “Have you seen the Empress?” inquired Edward as he poured the wine.
“Yeah,” Thomas replied disinterestedly.
“She’s quite a beauty?”
“Sure, but too sugary sweet—lacks that touch of nobility,” Thomas remarked.
Edward passed the wine across the table and took his seat. “I’ve heard she’s ambitious,” he remarked.
“Ay, she won’t give the Emperor any peace; always pushing him toward Rome, wanting him crowned by the Pope as Emperor of the West; but he’s more fond of the North, not eager for rule in Italy.”
“The nobles aren’t happy with his indecision?” Edward probed.
“Mostly, I reckon—we all dream of Rome’s golden glory, don’t we? Balthasar—you remember him, Margrave of East Salem now since his father’s boar hunt demise—he’s itching to cross those Alps, has sway over the Emperor. Indeed, he’s fond of him.”
Edward set down his untouched wine. “Balthasar loves the Emperor!” he exclaimed.
“Indeed, why not? The Margrave’s always been affectionate, and the Emperor is lovable.”
Edward raised the glass again, this time draining it. “This is ripe for plots,” he declared, dabbing at his lips. “Opportunity for us to profit. You said the Devil was a harsh master?—listen to this.”
Thomas shifted the candlestick, its golden glow dazzling his eyes. “What concern are Emperor and Empress to us?” he asked, brows furrowing with a growing apprehension.
“She’s been here,” Edward disclosed. “Lady Ysabeau.”
Thomas stared, a sharp inhale parting his lips, his cheeks flushing with excitement.
“She’s aware,” Edward continued, “that I, Doctor Constantine of Frankfort College, and you, humble secretary to her Chamberlain, are the two scholars chased from Basle University.”
Thomas recoiled in the ornate chair, a pained sound escaping him. “So,” said Edward gravely, “she has the power to ruin us—especially here in Frankfort.”
“How can I show my face at Court again!” Thomas burst out bitterly.
Edward noted the selfish concern but refrained from mentioning how he had shielded Thomas from suspicion. “It’s more than that,” he replied calmly. “She could have us burned in the town square—Joris of Thuringia perished from his ‘illness’ that very night.”
“Oh!” Thomas gasped, turning pale.
“But she won’t,” Edward assured. “She needs us—me, us. That threat is just her way of ensuring our obedience; she attended my lectures in secret—picked up some hints—found out more.”
Thomas refilled his glass, repeating with uncertainty, “She needs us?”
“Can’t you guess how?” Edward prompted.
Thomas drank, placed the half-empty glass down, and looked troubled, avoiding Edward’s keen gaze. “How could I know?” he asked, sounding hesitant to speak at all.
Edward suppressed a hint of impatience.
“Come on, you know. Should I speak plain?” Edward’s voice was low and insistent.
“Yeah, sure,” Thomas replied, still avoiding direct eye contact.
“There’s a man standing in her path,” Edward continued, his tone darkening.
Thomas met his gaze now, his eyes stark against his flushed face. “Who’s got to die like Joris of Thuringia?”
“That’s right,” Edward confirmed.
Thomas swallowed hard. “You want me to help?”
“Aren’t we one, inseparable? The reward will be grand,” Edward urged.
Thomas ran a hand over his sweaty forehead. “Who’s the man?”
“Quiet!” Edward whispered urgently, peering through the candle’s glow. “It’s the Emperor.” Thomas jerked back in shock.
“Her husband! I won’t do it, Edward!”
“You might not have a choice,” Edward replied icily. “You gave yourself to the Devil and to me—and now you’ll serve us both.”
“I won’t do it,” Thomas repeated, his voice shaking.
Edward’s eyes blazed with anger. “Watch how you say that. There are two already—what about the monk? You can’t turn back now.”
Thomas looked desperate. “Why did you drag me into this? You’re deeper in the devil’s dealings than I am.”
“That’s a curious thing to say,” Edward retorted, his face pale but resolute. “You pledged companionship with me—together we sought success, fame, power—you knew the means, you knew whose aid we needed to rise. Together we cast spells that killed Joris of Thuringia, together we stole from the monk; now—now when I tell you our opportunity has come—this is how you thank me!”
“An opportunity! To aid in secret murder for a woman?” Thomas spat out.
“You never thought we’d take the saintly path—you weren’t so particular when we bound Ambrose of Menthon to that tree,” Edward reminded him sharply.
“How many times will you bring that up?” Thomas snapped back. “I wouldn’t have done it if not for you.”
“Well, same goes for this; if you’re weak, I’m strong enough for both of us,” Edward declared.
Thomas tugged at the tassels on his sleeves, visibly agitated. “It’s not about fear,” he argued, his face reddening.
“Sure, you’re afraid,” Edward taunted. “Afraid of God, of justice, maybe even of man—but none of that matters to us. Our fate isn’t ours to mold; we use the tools at hand as we’re bid. Life and death, they’ll serve us to our ends.”
Thomas crossed to the other side of the table, his eyes full of fear as he faced Edward. “Who are you?” he asked softly.
Edward didn’t reply, a look of despair overtaking his features, sending a chill through Thomas. “Ah!” Thomas recoiled, repulsed.
Edward covered his eyes with his hand, a pained expression crossing his face. “Do you hate me, Thomas? Do you?”
“I—I don’t know,” Thomas stammered, unable to comprehend his own sudden aversion as he witnessed the change in Edward.
The room had darkened, shadows creeping into the corners, leaving only the table and Edward’s figure illuminated by the candlelight and lamp’s faint glow.
As Thomas paced, Edward lowered his hand, fixing him with an intense gaze. “This will make us more powerful than anyone,” he declared. “Forget me and focus on that.”
He dropped his hand, revealing pale lips and a haunted look in his eyes. “What does that mean?” Thomas exclaimed, torn by confusion.