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In the dimly lit dining hall, the Emperor extended a sympathetic hand to his sullen friend, Balthasar. “I’ll send ye to Rome to negotiate with the Pope since ye seem so troubled to remain in Frankfort.”
Balthasar, toying with his yellow hair, remained silent, his mood dark.
The Empress reclined on a seat against the wall, dressed in a white and silver gown, a cluster of crimson roses resting by her side. Her maidens, seated nearby, worked diligently on scarlet silk embroidery. Beyond the windows, the red sunset sky cast an eerie glow over Frankfort.
“Come now, be of good cheer,” the Emperor urged, his arm draped around Balthasar’s broad shoulders. “Since I’ve decided against Rome, I’ve been met with nothing but sour looks, save from Hugh.”
A flicker of optimism crossed Balthasar’s face. “Ye misjudge, my Prince; we can manage without Rome,” he declared, masking his disappointment. “And who’s to say ye won’t change your mind yet?” he added with forced cheerfulness.
The Empress observed them with bright eyes, though she yawned in feigned boredom. Rising slowly, she stretched her slender frame, letting the roses fall to the ground without a care. Her gaze remained fixed on the men, particularly on Balthasar, who felt the weight of her intense scrutiny.
As the sunset’s last rays danced across the hall, illuminating the opulent table settings and the delicate embroidery, the Emperor remarked on the lateness of the hour.
“Aye,” replied Balthasar, pouring himself a tankard of wine and draining it swiftly.
Noticing the fallen roses, the Empress picked them up and placed them on the table. “Will not my lord also drink?” she inquired, offering a gleaming flagon.
“As you wish, Princess,” replied Melchoir, distracted by the light filtering through the windows.
“You could have poured for me,” murmured Balthasar under his breath.
Unseen by him, the Empress’s hand brushed against a silver-bound glass as she poured the wine. “Another time,” she said cryptically, filling the glass to the brim.
Their fingers briefly touched as she handed him the glass, spilling a few drops. “Take care!” she exclaimed.
Curious, Melchoir asked, “Why did you say ‘take care’?”
“We nearly spilled the wine between us,” she replied casually.
Taking a sip, Melchoir frowned. “It tastes peculiar,” he remarked.
The Empress laughed, a sound that echoed hauntingly in the dimly lit hall.
In the dimly lit dining hall, tension simmered beneath the facade of conviviality. As the servants brought in the meats and the guests settled at the table, an uneasy air hung over the gathering.
“Is it the cupbearer, perchance?” the Emperor queried, eyeing the wine with suspicion.
“The wine is good enough,” Balthasar interjected, though a shadow crossed his jovial demeanor.
Undeterred, the Emperor took another sip and then set the goblet down with a puzzled expression. “I say it is strange—taste it, Balthasar,” he insisted.
Before Balthasar could comply, the Empress swiftly intervened. “Nay,” she exclaimed, snatching up the glass in a movement quicker than the Margrave’s, “since I poured, the fault—if fault there be—is mine.”
“Give it to me!” demanded Balthasar, reaching for the glass.
But with a deft motion aside, the glass slipped from her fingers and shattered on the floor, the wine pooling darkly at their feet.
As Balthasar bent to retrieve the goblet, the Emperor smiled knowingly. “I warn you of that flagon, Margrave,” he remarked cryptically.
Meanwhile, Thomas, the young secretary, observed the scene with keen interest. He noted the Emperor’s demeanor, the Empress’s swift actions, and Balthasar’s reaction with a growing sense of apprehension. He knew he had to speak to Hugh of Rosewood after supper, as a sign of his final break from Edward Bensouda.
As the candlelight flickered and the curtains were drawn, casting a somber glow over the company, Thomas’s gaze shifted to Hugh of Rosewood. Something about the man’s features intrigued him—a resemblance to Edward that he couldn’t quite place.
Suddenly, the Lord of Rosewood turned his penetrating gaze towards Thomas, who felt a chill run down his spine. He recognized the intensity in those eyes, reminiscent of Edward’s unwavering stare.
The unsettling similarity made Thomas hesitate in his plan to warn Hugh. Instead, he considered approaching the Emperor directly.
Before he could act on his decision, a gasp rippled through the room. All eyes turned to Melchoir of Brabant, who sat pale and frozen, his eyes wide with horror.
The Empress leaped from her seat, clutching Melchoir’s arm in a panic. “Melchoir!” she cried out. “He does not bear me!” Her voice rang out, filled with dread, echoing the dark undercurrents that had woven through the evening.
In the wake of Melchoir’s sudden collapse, the dining hall descended into chaos and despair. Thomas, the young secretary, stood frozen amidst the frantic commotion.
“My lord,” he rasped, addressing the Emperor, whose struggles seemed futile, akin to one drowning in dark waters.
“Balthasar!” The Margrave sprang into action, gripping his friend’s cold hand. “Can you not hear us? Speak!”
“Melchoir!” The Emperor’s voice echoed as if from a distant realm. “I am bewitched!” The Empress’s shrill cries filled the air, a chorus of anguish.
Melchoir slumped forward, his face contorted in agony, beads of sweat glistening on his pallid skin. A low, guttural moan escaped his lips as he collapsed across the table.
The company surged forward in a panicked frenzy, but the Margrave’s commanding voice cut through the tumult.
“Stand back! Do not suffocate him!” He lifted Melchoir’s limp form, his own expression betraying fear despite his brave words. Melchoir’s features had turned ghastly—hollow eyes, sunken cheeks, and cracked lips as if consumed by internal fire.
Stolen novel; please report.
Hugh of Rosewood took charge, his authoritative tone ringing out. “We must move him. Help me, Margrave.” With a determined effort, they carried the Emperor towards the stairway leading to his chamber.
Meanwhile, the Empress, a vision of silver and white against the dark backdrop, lamented her helplessness. “What shall I do!” she wailed, her eyes wide with terror.
“Stop your whimpering,” Hugh snapped, his gaze fierce. “Fetch a physician and a priest!”
Ysabeau recoiled, her violet eyes flashing with defiance, as the procession ascended with Melchoir’s limp form.
Left alone in the now-empty hall, Thomas surveyed the scene with a sinking heart. The flambeau cast an eerie light, illuminating the scattered remnants of a disrupted feast—upturned cushions, discarded vessels, and a single red rose left behind.
This solitary bloom, stripped of its petals, spoke volumes to Thomas. It confirmed his fears—the dark forces had prevailed, and Edward’s defiance was now a bitter reality.
Thomas, consumed by fear and guilt, resolved to remain silent about what he knew. What good could come of revealing the evil that had already transpired? The Empress and her allies would seize power swiftly, with Edward elevated to a position of favor.
He retreated from the ominous red roses near the vacant throne, his mind racing with thoughts of self-preservation. His own safety, intertwined with his affections for Jacobea of Martzburg, consumed his thoughts. The suffering of the dying Emperor above did not register in his mind, nor did he ponder the ambitions of the Empress.
As Thomas grappled with his fears and uncertainties, Hugh of Rosewood entered the hall, holding a lamp that cast eerie shadows. Thomas felt a pang of guilt, fearing that his knowledge might be written on his face for Hugh to discern.
Hugh’s stern gaze swept the room, noticing the crimson flowers and the unusual marks on the table. He approached Thomas, his expression grim.
“Look here,” Hugh commanded, pointing to two black marks on the table.
Thomas, trembling, attributed them to candle burns, but Hugh’s keen scrutiny suggested otherwise. He directed Thomas’s attention to a scar on the floor, resembling a fire’s aftermath.
“The flames that made this mark now consume Melchoir of Brabant,” Hugh declared, his voice low but firm.
Thomas, frantic, urged him to quiet down, refusing to accept the grim reality. Hugh placed his lamp on the table, the flickering light casting eerie shadows as the truth of the horror began to sink in.
Thomas felt a surge of hope as Hugh of Rosewood vowed to expose the Empress’s treachery before she could claim power. If her guilt could be revealed publicly, perhaps she and Edward could still be thwarted.
“Then speak your mind, lord, before it’s too late,” Thomas urged, his voice tinged with desperation. “She may have ways to silence you even now, with her many allies.”
Hugh regarded Thomas with newfound interest. “You seem to know more than you’ve let on. I’ll have questions for you later.”
Before more could be said, Balthasar, bearing the weight of impending loss and responsibility, stormed into the room. His armor clinked with every step, and his eyes blazed with emotion.
“Melchoir is fading,” he announced, his voice heavy with concern. “I must attend to matters of defense or risk our town to invaders.”
“Dying?” Hugh echoed, his resolve hardening. “Who’s allowed at his side?”
“The Empress has barred all but herself and the bishop,” Balthasar replied bitterly.
“I’ll go nonetheless,” Hugh declared, determined to defy the Empress’s authority.
Balthasar scoffed but left the decision to Hugh, departing with a resolute stride.
Hugh turned to Thomas briefly, acknowledging his fear, before heading upstairs to the Emperor’s chamber. He found a somber scene: courtiers, monks, and dark-clad mutes guarded the door, under the Empress’s orders.
“What right keeps us from the Emperor’s side?” Hugh challenged, his voice cutting through the tension.
The gathered crowd murmured, citing the Empress’s self-proclaimed medical expertise and possession of the chamber.
Undeterred, Hugh pressed forward, met with silence and reluctance from those present. Melchoir’s allies were few and powerless against the Empress’s ascendancy.
Defiantly, Hugh announced his intent to enter alone, disregarding the consequences. Some scoffed at his bravery, considering it folly to challenge the Empress’s authority.
“Shall we all bow to a woman’s rule?” Hugh thundered, his resolve unyielding. “What claim does she have over Frankfort?”
Hugh of Rosewood, driven by determination and defiance, pushed through the throng of onlookers, drawing his sword as he approached the door to the Emperor’s chamber. The crowd hesitated, neither aiding nor hindering him, while the slaves signaled for him to reconsider. Ignoring their warnings, Hugh grabbed one by the collar and hurled him against the wall before forcing the door open and stepping inside.
The chamber was cloaked in gold and brown tapestries, the air heavy and stifling. Melchoir of Brabant lay on the bed, his throat exposed and eyes wide with an unspoken horror. A lone silver lamp cast dim light, illuminating the grim scene.
Ysabeau, draped in a scarlet cloak over her white gown, stood by the bed, her demeanor defiant as she faced Hugh’s intrusion. She tried to bar his way, but Hugh remained undeterred.
“I demand to see the Emperor,” Hugh declared firmly.
“He will see no one,” Ysabeau retorted, her voice laced with arrogance. “Leave at once; I know not how you forced your entry.”
“I have every right to be here,” Hugh countered. “No one can keep me from my lord.”
Ysabeau positioned herself protectively in front of Melchoir, casting a shadow over his face. “Leave or be removed, for you disturb the dying.”
Undeterred, Hugh pressed forward. “Let me see him. He speaks to me!”
Faintly, Hugh thought he heard a voice from the bed calling his name—“Hugh, Hugh!”
Ysabeau drew the curtains tighter, obscuring Melchoir further. “He speaks to no one. Go away!”
But Hugh wasn’t swayed. “Why is there no priest here?” he demanded.
“The bishop is on his way,” Ysabeau replied sharply.
“He’s dying now, and monks are waiting,” Hugh insisted, springing forward and pulling back the curtains.
“Melchoir!” Hugh exclaimed, grasping the Emperor’s shoulders.
“He’s dead,” Ysabeau stated coldly.
Undeterred, Hugh continued to examine Melchoir’s lifeless face, pushing back his damp hair.
“He’s dead,” Ysabeau repeated, now unafraid.
As the reality sank in, Ysabeau retreated to the table, her posture collapsing with grief. The chamber filled with the distant tolling of bells, signaling prayers for the dying across Frankfort.
In a final moment of clarity, the Emperor stirred in Hugh’s arms, whispering, “Pray for me... Balthasar. They did not slay me honorably—”
He touched his heart and lips, then sighed and drifted away.
“Quia apud Dominum misericordia, et copiosa apud eum,” he murmured.
“Eum redemptio,” Hugh finished, a somber acknowledgment of the fallen Emperor’s passing.
“Amen,” moaned Melchoir of Brabant, and thus he passed into death’s embrace. Silence descended upon the chamber, broken only by the relentless tolling of the bells. Hugh turned away from the lifeless form, his face drained of color, while Ysabeau trembled to her feet.
“Summon the others,” murmured the Empress, her voice strained with sorrow and disbelief. “Let them bear witness to his passing.”
Hugh stepped down from the bed with resolve. “Yes, I will call them in, you sorceress from the East, and expose the man you have slain.”
Ysabeau regarded him with icy composure. “Slain?” she echoed, her features frozen in a mask of innocence.
“Slain!” Hugh’s grip tightened on his sword. “And it falls upon me to ensure your reckoning for this night’s crime.”
Ysabeau’s facade shattered as she darted towards the door, but before she could escape, Balthasar of Nola burst into the room, his eyes ablaze with fury fixed on Hugh.
“You called?” Balthasar gasped, his gaze switching between Hugh and Ysabeau.
“Yes, Melchoir is dead—slain by her hand!” Hugh accused, pointing at Ysabeau. “Balthasar, bear witness!”
“Indeed!” Hugh’s accusation incited Balthasar’s wrath. He drew his sword and struck Hugh with the flat of the blade across his chest. “You dare accuse her falsely!”
Balthasar’s command sent soldiers rushing in, drowning the somber toll of the bells with the clamor of their arrival. “Seize this man on my command!”
Hugh drew his sword, but before he could act, it was wrested from him. The soldiers closed in, dragging him away while Balthasar, flushed with anger, watched with satisfaction. “I always despised him,” he muttered.
Ysabeau knelt, kissing Balthasar’s feet. “Melchoir is gone, and you are my only defender.”
Balthasar lifted her, his cheeks reddening with embarrassment. “Ysabeau, my dear,” he stammered.
She gently pushed away. “Not now,” she whispered, her voice choked with emotion. “Later, my lord! My lord!”
She retreated to the bed, burying her face in her hands. Balthasar removed his helmet, crossed himself, and bowed his head in reverence.
Melchoir IV lay motionless on the embroidered coverlet, surrounded by the mournful tolling of the bells and the monks’ lamenting chant.
“De Profundis...” the chant echoed, a somber dirge for the departed soul.