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The two visitors stood before him, one resplendently attired and the other cloaked in darkness, his hat held respectfully in hand. “You ain’t expecting us,” the youth remarked, eyeing them skeptically. “And there ain’t nobody else around here.” His voice carried a soft, somber tone, tinged with a hint of coldness.
The finely dressed stranger replied, “If you’re Master Edward Bensouda, we’ve come to speak with you.” His voice was smooth and commanding, contrasting sharply with the youth’s subdued demeanor.
Edward widened the door slightly. “I am Edward Bensouda, but I don’t know either of you!”
“I reckoned as much,” the other replied. “Still, we have a matter to discuss. I’m Balthasar of Nola, and this here’s my friend, you can call him Thomas from Dendermonde.”
“Balthasar of Nola,” Edward murmured, stepping aside to let them in. As they entered the hall, he bolted the door securely, then turned to them with a grave, focused air.
“Will you follow me?” he asked, leading them to his workroom.
Though the sun had departed from the chamber and garden, its warmth lingered, casting a golden hue over the surroundings. Edward moved St. Michael from the chair and cleared a stool for his guests, who took their seats in silence.
“You’ll have to wait until supper’s ready,” Edward informed them, settling himself by the pot and stirring it with an iron spoon, all the while studying the two men openly.
Balthasar of Nola was a vision of extravagance, his large frame adorned in vibrant colors and intricate designs. His features were bold, with a high color in his cheeks and deep, expressionless blue eyes. His attire, a flamboyant display of gold, orange, and vivid blue, was accented with daggers and a short sword strapped to his belt.
His companion, dressed in somber black and violet, exuded a different charm. With hazel eyes that sparkled with intelligence and a smile that hinted at hidden thoughts, he observed the room with keen interest, his hat laid beside him on the floor.
Edward regarded them both with a cool appraisal, taking in their contrasting appearances and the unspoken tension that hung in the air.
Balthasar of Nola maintained eye contact with Master Edward Bensouda, his gaze piercing and assertive. “You know of me?” he inquired abruptly.
“Indeed, I do,” came the immediate response.
“In that case, you might have an inkling of my purpose here?” Balthasar pressed further.
“Not at all,” Master Edward replied with a frown, puzzled by the sudden interrogation.
Balthasar glanced at his companion, who appeared more intrigued by the half-gilded devil than the conversation at hand. Deciding to speak for himself, Balthasar adopted a tone that was both defiant and arrogantly confident.
“I hail from East Salem, my father being the Margrave, and I was knighted by the Emperor at the tender age of fifteen. But now, I’m weary of Nola, its castle, and my father’s dominion. I’ve taken to the road,” he declared.
Master Edward attended to the pot on the hearth, his curiosity piqued. “Where does this road lead you?” he inquired.
Balthasar gestured grandly. “To Cologne, perhaps Rome, even Constantinople, Turkey, or Hungary.”
“A knight on a quest,” remarked Master Edward.
Balthasar shook his head emphatically. “Not merely a wandering knight. I have ambitions,” he asserted.
Master Edward chuckled. “And what of your companion?” he inquired.
“A scholar, weary of Nola’s confines, dreaming of fame,” Balthasar explained with a smile. “He seeks the renowned Universities—Paris, Basle, Padua. You’re familiar with them?”
The youth’s eyes lit up. “Indeed, I am,” he replied eagerly.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
“I yearn for knowledge,” Thomas added quietly, drawing attention to himself.
Balthasar, ever restless, fidgeted with the ribbons and tassels on his extravagant attire. “Yes, knowledge, but I seek more,” he interjected.
Meanwhile, Master Edward continued with preparations for supper. He arranged the clay knights on the windowsill and casually discarded drawings, paints, and brushes onto the floor.
A hush descended upon the room, the atmosphere tense and distant, discouraging further conversation. Master Edward, composed and detached, retrieved a fine cloth from a wall press, laying it meticulously on the rugged table. He then set out earthenware dishes, painted drinking glasses, and agate-handled forks, the clatter of utensils against the table the only sound in the solemn air.
In the dimly lit dining room, Edward Bensouda served his guests a modest yet respectable meal, far from the opulent feasts that Balthasar of Nola was accustomed to. Honey in a gleaming silver jar, apples with dew-kissed leaves, woven baskets of wheaten cakes, grapes on a gilded tray, and fresh lettuces and radishes adorned the table, brought forth from Edward’s own provisions. As he assisted his guests with their servings, Balthasar struck up conversation.
“You live a solitary life here,” he remarked.
“I prefer solitude. It allows me to focus on my work, and I find pleasure in it. My art—paintings, carvings, sculptures for churches—they find eager buyers,” Edward explained.
“You’re skilled with your craft. Who trained you?” Thomas inquired with genuine interest.
“I was apprenticed to Old Master Lukas, a renowned artist from Ghent who worked in Italy. Upon his passing, he bequeathed this house and all within it to me,” Edward replied.
Conversation ebbed into quietude as they dined. Balthasar ate heartily but with refinement, while Edward, seated near the window, ate sparingly, his gaze fixed on the changing hues of the sky and the serene yet decaying surroundings outside. Thomas, observing Edward’s demeanor keenly, seemed more intrigued by his host’s enigmatic presence than by Balthasar’s flamboyance.
As the evening wore on, Balthasar boldly requested wine, prompting Edward to rise and fetch the bottles—white, red, and yellow, encased in wicker, alongside an amber-hued beer akin to what the locals drank.
Balthasar, now invigorated by the wine, broached the purpose of his visit. “Why have you chosen this secluded life?” he inquired.
Edward, unfazed, responded, “I am married,” lifting his glass in a gesture of acknowledgment.
“Many men are,” Edward remarked casually.
Balthasar, undeterred, leaned forward. “It concerns my wife. That’s why I’m here,” he declared.
Edward’s expression turned serious. “I’m aware of your wife,” he stated.
“Tell me about her,” Balthasar demanded, his interest piqued.
Edward leaned back in his chair, a faint smile playing on his lips. “What do you know?” he countered.
Balthasar, slightly taken aback, pressed for information. “I want to hear from you,” he insisted.
Edward obliged, recounting the familiar tale with a detached air, his gaze fixed on the outside world. “She was Ursula, daughter of the Lord of Rosewood, sent to the convent of the White Sisters in this town. Educated for the nunnery, she was destined for the Order of the White Sisters. However, her brother’s death changed her fate. Many sought her hand, leading to your betrothal,” Edward narrated.
Balthasar toyed with the tassels on his sleeve. “Without my consent,” he muttered.
Edward continued, unperturbed.
He delved into the dark tale that brought Balthasar of Nola to his doorstep. "They sent a guard to retrieve her back to Rosewood, fearing the dangers of the journey and the schemes of fortune hunters. To secure her swiftly, they wedded her to you by proxy," Edward recounted, his voice carrying a somber tone.
Balthasar's eyes hardened behind his fair lashes as Edward continued. "Ursula, desiring a life of devotion as a nun, fell ill with grief. In her despair, she confided in the Abbess," Edward explained.
"I know this tale," interrupted Balthasar.
"Yet hear it from my lips," insisted Edward. "The nuns, enticed by greed, feigned Ursula's death and concealed her in the convent among novices. Her wealth promised to the Sisters if they aided her escape," Edward added.
"And I was pleased at the news of her death," confessed Balthasar. "I had other affections."
Edward's tone turned grave. "Ursula, bound by her vows, suffered in silence. Eventually, she wrote to you, revealing her deception and pleading for rescue," Edward said, gesturing towards Balthasar's breast where Ursula's letter resided.
"You never answered," remarked Edward, disappointment in his voice.
"I had my own troubles," Balthasar retorted, his gaze shifting to Thomas for support, finding none.
"She found refuge with Master Lukas here after fleeing the convent," Edward continued, ignoring Balthasar's excuses. "And she wrote to you again, disclosing her whereabouts. Still, you remained silent."
"And the nuns made no effort to find her?" Thomas inquired.
"They feared exposure after the war," Edward explained. "The convent was destroyed, and Ursula lived here, honing her skills under Master Lukas."
Balthasar leaned back, absorbing the revelations. "I knew part of this. But what of Ursula now?"
Edward fixed his gaze on Balthasar. "You inquire too late, Balthasar of Nola."
The Knight, uneasy yet regal, a mix of sullenness and magnificence, shifted in his seat. "A man must know his burdens. She's my wife, unknown to all but me."
Dusk enveloped the room in its golden hue. The half-gilded devil cast eerie shadows, Thomas's face held a mysterious smile, and Balthasar's presence exuded both grandeur and turmoil.
Edward, with a calm demeanor, revealed the final chapter. "She passed four years ago. Her resting place is in the garden, among those white daisies," he disclosed, the weight of the past heavy in his words.