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Jacobea, the chatelaine of Martzburg, found herself in the quiet of a wayside hostel, far removed from the chaos of Frankfort. Rain tapped on the windowpanes, and a chill wind rattled the signboard outside. Inside, Jacobea adjusted the lamp, drew the curtains, and paced the room. Her footsteps echoed in the eerie silence, interrupted only by the rhythmic patter of raindrops and the occasional gust of wind.
The scenes from Frankfort played vividly in her mind—a haunting tableau of the Emperor’s downfall, Ysabeau’s enigmatic beauty tinged with darkness, and the swift upheaval that followed. Hugh of Rosewood’s capture and the blazing flambeaux added to the surrealness of her memories. Despite the physical distance, Jacobea couldn’t shake off the sense of dread that seemed to follow her, as if the specters of Frankfort lingered in the shadows of her refuge.
Venturing into the dimly lit bedchamber, Jacobea stared into a mirror, searching for signs of wickedness or weakness in her reflection. The howling wind outside intensified, casting dancing shadows across the room and stirring the worn tapestries. Her long, golden hair stood out against the somber surroundings, a stark contrast to her pale complexion and dark attire.
As the wind grew fiercer, Jacobea paced the chamber nervously, her hands restless and her eyes darting around. The cold seeping through the walls reminded her of past nights and ominous encounters. Despite her desire for company and warmth, a strange lethargy gripped her limbs, making movement burdensome. She struggled against the heaviness, sinking into a worn chair by the fireplace.
A creeping darkness enveloped the room, and the flickering lamp seemed distant and faint. The symphony of wind and rain morphed into haunting whispers, echoing her fears and uncertainties. Jacobea’s attempts to reach for solace—a crucifix—were thwarted by numbed fingers and a sense of impending doom.
Memories and forebodings intertwined in her mind, blurring the lines between reality and nightmare. She felt herself slipping into a hazy abyss, where familiar sounds transformed into eerie echoes of a distant past.
Jacobea whispered in a trembling voice, echoing the dying Emperor’s words—“I am bewitched.”
The Knight, adorned with a glittering star above his brow, approached her with a goblet in hand. “Sebastian!” she exclaimed, her horror evident as the chamber spun around her. The Knight’s painted shield and outstretched hand holding the wine blurred in her vision, his visor concealing his face.
With a mixture of screams and laughter, she pushed the goblet away, struggling against the surreal scene unfolding before her. A voice from the shadows spoke cryptically, questioning why she couldn’t find happiness like the Empress and hinting at the ease of a woman’s demise.
In a haze of confusion and fear, Jacobea searched for her crucifix, only to find herself tasting the wine from the offered goblet. Its fiery warmth surged through her, granting her newfound strength as she stood up. The Knight’s star faded into the lamp’s flame, clearing the room’s fog. To her astonishment, she saw Edward Bensouda standing before her, his smile sending chills down her spine.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, bewildered and disoriented, her hands clutching her head.
Edward calmly inquired, “Why did you leave Frankfort?”
“I do not know,” Jacobea replied, her eyes vacant and distant. “I think I was afraid.”
“Of becoming like Ysabeau?” Edward probed.
Confusion clouded Jacobea’s mind as she struggled to comprehend her situation. The room fell into an eerie silence, illuminated only by the steady glow of the lamp.
“What of Sebastian?” Edward pressed, his gaze fixed on her.
Jacobea, moving as if in a trance, confessed, “I have no steward. I am going alone to Martzburg.”
Edward persisted, “What of Sebastian?”
Silence filled the chamber as Jacobea, guided by the wall, moved slowly towards Edward. The wind whispered through the arras, adding to the haunting atmosphere.
Edward placed the goblet beside the lamp, his gaze unwavering. “The Emperor is dead,” he announced.
“Is dead,” Jacobea echoed, her voice hollow.
“Ysabeau knows how,” Edward continued.
Jacobea’s whispered response hinted at her suspicions. “Ah! I think I knew it.”
“Shall the Empress be happy while you starve your heart to death?” Edward questioned, his tone urging her to confront her inner turmoil.
Jacobea sighed, her mind lost in a haze of memories and fears. “Sebastian! Sebastian!” she murmured, her words revealing her inner torment. “What is Sybilla to you?”
Edward’s answer cut through the tense silence. “His wife.”
“The dead do not bind the living,” Jacobea remarked with a distant laugh, her mind grappling with conflicting thoughts.
Edward pressed on. “A word from you can set him on the path to Martzburg.”
Jacobea, in a trance-like state, nodded absently. “Why not? Sybilla would be waiting, listening to the wind, and he would come...”
The scene dissolved into a chilling uncertainty, with Jacobea’s mind lost in a haunting labyrinth of memories, desires, and the looming specter of death.
Edward interjected, “Has the chatelaine spoken?” he would say, and he would make an end of it.”
Jacobea’s voice drifted dreamily. “Perhaps she would be glad to die. I have thought that I should be glad to die.”
“And Sebastian?” inquired Edward.
A flicker of emotion crossed Jacobea’s face. “Does he care for me?” she asked plaintively.
“Enough to make life and death of little moment,” replied Edward. “Has he not followed you from Frankfort?”
“Followed me?” murmured Jacobea. “I thought he had forsaken me.”
“He is here.”
“Here—here?” She turned, her movements still strangely unfocused, her golden hair catching the dim light as she faced away from it.
“Sebastian,” Edward whispered softly.
With a gesture, Edward summoned the steward from the shadowy depths of the inner room. Sebastian’s face betrayed a mixture of urgency and intensity as he scanned the room and approached Jacobea, who stood rigidly, her eyes devoid of life.
“Sebastian,” Jacobea uttered without change in tone or expression, her gaze seemingly distant.
Stolen story; please report.
He knelt before her, his voice strained. “Have you followed me?”
“Yes,” he replied hoarsely, staring at her ghostly pallor. He took her hand, feeling its lifeless touch.
“Shall we be free tonight?” Jacobea asked gently.
“You have but to speak,” Sebastian vowed. “So much will I do for you.”
She leaned closer, brushing his disheveled hair. “Lord of Martzburg and my lord,” she murmured sweetly. “Do you know how much I love you, Sebastian? Why, you must ask the image of the Virgin—I have told her so often, and no one else; nay, no one else.”
Sebastian’s distress surfaced. “Oh God!” he cried. “I am ashamed—ye have bewitched her—she knows not what she says.” Edward’s anger flared.
“Did ye not curse me when ye thought she had escaped? Did I not swear to recover her for you? Is she not yours? Saint Gabriel cannot save her now.”
“If she had not said that,” Sebastian muttered in turmoil, his eyes pleading with Jacobea, who remained impassive, her fingertips resting on the table, her gaze fixed ahead.
“Fool,” retorted Edward. “And if she did not love you, what chance had you? I left my fortunes to help you to this prize, and I will not see you falter now—lady, speak to him.”
“Speak to me,” pleaded Sebastian earnestly. “Tell me if it is your wish that I, at all costs, should become your husband. Tell me if it is your will that the woman in our way should go.” A spark of defiance ignited in Jacobea’s eyes.
“Yes,” she affirmed. “Yes.”
“Jacobea!” Sebastian grasped her arm, drawing her closer. “Look me in the face and repeat that to me; consider if it is worth—Hell—to you and me.”
She met his gaze briefly before burying her face in his sleeve.
“Ay, Hell,” she answered heavily, “go to Martzburg tonight; she cannot claim you when she is dead; how I have striven not to hate her—my lord, my husband.” She clung to him like a sleepy child falling into oblivion. “Now it is all over, is it not?—the unrest, the striving. Sebastian, beware of the storm—it blows so loud.”
He gently guided her into the worn old chair. “I will come back to you—tomorrow.” “Tomorrow,” she repeated, “when the sun is up.”
The wind howled between them, causing the lamp-flame to dance wildly.
“Make haste!” cried Edward. “Away—the horse is below.”
But Sebastian lingered, gazing at Jacobea.
“It is done,” Edward urged impatiently. “Begone.”
The steward turned away, his thoughts racing.
“They are all asleep below?” he questioned.
“And they won’t stir,” Edward assured.
Sebastian opened the door onto the dark stairway and slipped out silently.
“Now, it is done,” Edward whispered with a sense of finality, “and she is lost.”
He raised the lamp, casting its light over Jacobea’s drooping figure. Her head rested against the tarnished velvet, a serene smile on her lips. Even with Edward’s intent scrutiny, she remained still.
“Gold hair and grey eyes—and her little feet,” murmured Edward. “One of God’s own flowers—what are you now?”
He chuckled to himself and replaced the lamp. The storm’s fury resumed, rattling the trees and howling through the room. Jacobea stirred in her seat.
“Is he gone?” she asked fearfully.
“Indeed, he’s gone,” smiled Edward. “Would you have him on such errands daily?”
Jacobea stood, listening to the tumultuous wind outside.
“I thought he was here,” she whispered. “I thought that he had come at last.”
“He came,” said Edward cryptically.
The chatelaine’s eyes widened with realization. “Who are you?” she demanded, her calm demeanor shattered. “What has happened?”
“Do you not remember me?” smiled Edward enigmatically.
Jacobea stumbled back.
“Why,” she stammered, “he was here, down at my feet, and we spoke—about Sybilla.”
“And now,” said Edward, “he has gone to free you of Sybilla—as you bid him.”
“The Pursuit of Jacobea,” he declared.
“As I bid him?” Jacobea’s voice trembled with confusion.
Edward secured his cloak tightly.
“At this moment, he rides to Martzburg on your behalf, and I must return to Frankfort where my fortunes await. For you, these words: should you encounter a certain Thomas, a handsome scholar, do not preach to him of God and Judgment, nor pretend to be a saint. Leave him be, for he is none of your concern, and perhaps some woman loves him as you love Sebastian, and will hold him, even without golden hair.”
Jacobea let out a despairing moan.
“I told him to go,” she whispered. “Did God abandon me completely when I told him to go?”
She shot Edward a wild look over her shoulder, huddling on the floor in distress.
“You are the Devil!” she shrieked. “I have delivered myself unto the Devil!”
Her hands beat together, and she fell towards his feet.
Edward leaned in, peering curiously at her unconscious face.
“Why, she is not so fair,” he murmured, “and grief will spoil her bloom, and ’twas only her face he loved.”
He extinguished the lamp, embracing the darkness with a smile.
“I do think God is very weak.”
Pulling the curtain aside, the moon’s eerie light bathed the huddled figure of Jacobea of Martzburg, casting her shadow across the cold floor like a dark omen. Edward slipped out of the chamber and the hostel, his departure unnoticed amidst the raging wind.
The storm outside howled and raged, masking any sounds of his movements. Edward paused in the wild night, gathering his bearings, then headed towards the shed where their horses were kept.
The trees creaked in protest, the rain lashed fiercely, but Edward sang softly to himself, his joy a stark contrast to the turmoil around him.
The moon, a furious sentinel in the sky, illuminated the wooden shed against the rocks. Inside, the horses slumbered peacefully, except for Sebastian’s empty spot.
Edward, his body shivering in the tempest, readied his horse to leave when a noise caught his attention.
Someone was stirring in the straw at the shed’s back.
He listened intently until a moonbeam revealed a cloaked figure rising from the ground.
“Ah,” Edward spoke softly, “who might this be?”
The figure straightened up. “I sought shelter here, sir,” he explained, “deeming it too late to disturb the hostel—”
“Thomas!” exclaimed Edward, laughter tinged with excitement. “This is quite the coincidence—”
Thomas approached. “Yes, Thomas; have you followed me?” His face bore the weariness of one fleeing a relentless pursuit. “I fled Frankfort to escape you; what devil’s trick brings you here?”
Edward caressed his horse’s neck, a touch of sorrow in his tone. “Are you afraid of me, Thomas? There is no need.”
But Thomas, backed into a corner, lashed out with the desperation of a trapped soul.
“Begone, I want none of you nor your kind; I know how the Emperor met his end, and I fled a city where such as you rise to power, just as Jacobea of Martzburg did—I am following her.”
“And where do you think to find her?” inquired Edward.
“By now, she is likely at Basle.”
“Aren’t you afraid to go to Basle?”
Thomas trembled, retreating into the shadows.
“I want to save my soul; no, I am not afraid; if need be, I will confess.”
Edward chuckled darkly.
“At Jacobea of Martzburg’s shrine? Ensure she’s not trampled in the mire by then.”
“You lie, maligning her!” Thomas’ voice rang out in fervent defense.
“You are the Devil!” she shrieked. “I have delivered myself unto the Devil!”
Her hands beat together, and she fell towards his feet.
Edward leaned in, peering curiously at her unconscious face.
“Why, she is not so fair,” he murmured, “and grief will spoil her bloom, and ’twas only her face he loved.”
He extinguished the lamp, embracing the darkness with a smile.
“I do think God is very weak.”
Pulling the curtain aside, the moon’s eerie light bathed the huddled figure of Jacobea of Martzburg, casting her shadow across the cold floor like a dark omen. Edward slipped out of the chamber and the hostel, his departure unnoticed amidst the raging wind.
The storm outside howled and raged, masking any sounds of his movements. Edward paused in the wild night, gathering his bearings, then headed towards the shed where their horses were kept.
The trees creaked in protest, the rain lashed fiercely, but Edward sang softly to himself, his joy a stark contrast to the turmoil around him.
The moon, a furious sentinel in the sky, illuminated the wooden shed against the rocks. Inside, the horses slumbered peacefully, except for Sebastian’s empty spot.
Edward, his body shivering in the tempest, readied his horse to leave when a noise caught his attention.
Someone was stirring in the straw at the shed’s back.
He listened intently until a moonbeam revealed a cloaked figure rising from the ground.
“Ah,” Edward spoke softly, “who might this be?”
The figure straightened up. “I sought shelter here, sir,” he explained, “deeming it too late to disturb the hostel—”
“Thomas!” exclaimed Edward, laughter tinged with excitement. “This is quite the coincidence—”
Thomas approached. “Yes, Thomas; have you followed me?” His face bore the weariness of one fleeing a relentless pursuit. “I fled Frankfort to escape you; what devil’s trick brings you here?”
Edward caressed his horse’s neck, a touch of sorrow in his tone. “Are you afraid of me, Thomas? There is no need.”
But Thomas, backed into a corner, lashed out with the desperation of a trapped soul.
“Begone, I want none of you nor your kind; I know how the Emperor met his end, and I fled a city where such as you rise to power, just as Jacobea of Martzburg did—I am following her.”
“And where do you think to find her?” inquired Edward.
“By now, she is likely at Basle.”
“Aren’t you afraid to go to Basle?”
Thomas trembled, retreating into the shadows.
“I want to save my soul; no, I am not afraid; if need be, I will confess.”
Edward chuckled darkly.
“At Jacobea of Martzburg’s shrine? Ensure she’s not trampled in the mire by then.”
“You lie, maligning her!” Thomas’ voice rang out in fervent defense.