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Edward shed his riding-coat, taking in the eerie ambiance of the long, low chamber overlooking the witch’s garden, now devoid of blooming roses, their thorny stems standing stark against the dim light.
“You’ve brought him back,” Nathalie murmured, her hand caressing the soft fabric of Edward’s sleeve. “Pulled his saint out of her shrine and delivered her to the demons.”
Edward turned, a beautiful glint in his eyes. “Yes, I have brought him back,” he replied thoughtfully.
“You’ve done a foolish thing,” grumbled the witch. “He’ll ruin you yet. Beware, for even now you hold him against his will; I saw it in his face as he entered his old chamber.”
Edward sighed heavily as he seated himself. “In this matter, I am resolute. And now, some food, for weariness clouds my thoughts. Nathalie, the toil of it all—rough roads, delays, hours in the saddle—but it was worth it!”
The witch set the table with ivory and silver, a rich display of opulence contrasting with the grim atmosphere.
“Worth risking your fortunes at such a time? You left Frankfort the day after the Emperor’s death, and have been gone two months. Ysabeau believes you dead.”
Edward’s frown deepened. “No matter, she shall know me living tomorrow. Martzburg’s distance and the weather delayed us, but it was necessary. Now I am free to pursue my own advancement.”
He eagerly drank the wine poured for him and began to eat.
“Have you heard,” Nathalie inquired, “that Balthasar of Nola has been elected Emperor?”
“Yes,” smiled Edward, “and is to marry Ysabeau within the year. We foresaw it, did we not?”
“They go to Rome next spring for the Imperial crown,” Nathalie added.
“I shall be with them,” said Edward confidently. “But for now, rest. What a fool Balthasar is!” His smile held a hint of cunning.
“The Empress is no fool,” the witch replied, “though she came here once seeking your whereabouts. I told her, for amusement, that you were dead. She showed no joy or relief, nor did she reveal her business.”
Edward poured himself more wine elegantly. “She is never betrayed by her puppet’s face—a cold-hearted fiend, that Empress.”
“But they say she dotes on Balthasar,” Nathalie remarked.
“Until she changes,” Edward mused.
“Perhaps you’ll catch her eye next,” Nathalie teased. “The crystals always foretell a throne for you.”
Edward laughed. “I have no intention of sharing my honors with any—woman. Build up the fire, Nathalie, it’s cold.”
As the fire crackled and the warmth spread, Edward’s thoughts turned to darker matters.
“No suspicion has fallen on Melchoir’s death?” he inquired.
The witch, her face bathed in the flickering firelight, rubbed her hands together. “Hugh of Rosewood.”
“The Lord of Rosewood?” Edward’s interest piqued.
“Aye, on the night Melchoir died, he accused the Empress of murder to her face.”
Edward’s demeanor turned serious. “I hadn’t heard of this.”
“Nay,” Nathalie added with a touch of malice, “you were preoccupied with separating that boy from his love—a pretty distraction. Certainly, she’s clever; she enlists Balthasar as her champion, and Hugh pays the price.”
The witch’s soft laughter mingled with the crackle of the flames. “He wouldn’t retract, and Balthasar and the Empress, they always despised him. He never stood a chance.”
Edward stood, his hand pressed firmly against his temple, a mix of shock and urgency in his expression.
“What? Never a chance?” he exclaimed, his voice tinged with desperation.
Nathalie, wide-eyed, observed his agitation. “You seem moved,” she remarked.
“Tell me about Hugh of Rosewood,” Edward demanded, his voice now intense.
“He is to meet his end at sunset tonight,” Nathalie replied calmly.
Edward let out a hoarse exclamation. “Old witch!” he spat bitterly. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I’m wasting precious time!”
He grabbed his cloak and hat, a whirlwind of emotions swirling within him. “What is Hugh of Rosewood to you?” Nathalie asked, her voice trembling slightly as she clung to his garments.
Edward shook her off fiercely. “He must not die on the scaffold! While I was preoccupied with that boy and his love, this was happening!”
The witch recoiled against the wall as Thomas’s footsteps echoed from above. Edward stormed out of the room and into the quiet street.
Pausing briefly, he felt the weight of the late afternoon pressing upon him. He had perhaps an hour or so. Clenching his fists, he drew a deep breath and set off toward the palace at a determined pace.
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Few were out due to the bitter cold and impending snow clouds. Edward’s swift figure went unnoticed as he made his way towards the market-place, where Hugh of Rosewood was to face his fate.
Arriving at the palace, heart pounding from his haste, Edward demanded to see the Empress.
None of the guards recognized him, but his insistence led to a message being sent to Ysabeau that “the young doctor Constantine” desired an audience.
Admitted swiftly, Edward entered Ysabeau’s private chamber, still catching his breath from the run.
She stood by a high arched window, her luxurious draperies glowing in the firelight. Incense filled the room, adding to the ominous atmosphere.
“I returned to Frankfort today,” Edward began abruptly.
Ysabeau, startled by his sudden appearance, questioned him. “Where have you been? I thought you were dead.”
Edward, pale and serious, cut to the chase. “I have no time for pleasantries. You owe me a debt, do you not? I’m here to collect.”
The Empress, visibly uneasy, asked what he wanted.
“Hugh of Rosewood is to die this evening,” Edward stated bluntly.
Ysabeau acknowledged this fact, her demeanor shifting.
“He must not die,” Edward insisted, his eyes betraying a hint of fatigue and emotion.
“Why should I grant him mercy?” Ysabeau countered, her tone tinged with bitterness.
“For speaking the truth,” Edward retorted with a sneer.
The Empress’s grip tightened on her embroidery. “You know why he must be silenced,” she replied sharply. “What’s your real motive for sparing his life?”
Edward’s expression darkened. “My reasons are mine alone. It’s my will that he lives.”
Ysabeau, defiant, crossed her arms. “I may not grant your request. I’m not afraid of you, and I despise this man. My secret is your secret, after all.”
Edward’s jaw clenched. “You will grant his pardon, and quickly. I must take it to the market-place.”
Ysabeau met his gaze with defiance. “I think not. I’m not so easily swayed by fear, and I have no love for this man. My secret remains safe with you.”
Edward’s smile was faint, a mix of confidence and menace in his eyes.
“I can destroy you as I did Melchoir of Brabant,” he spoke softly to Ysabeau, his tone carrying a dark promise. “Do you think I fear your words? But”—he leaned closer, his voice lowering—“what if I take what I know to Balthasar?” The mere mention of the Emperor’s name silenced the Empress like a whip cracking in the air.
She felt the weight of her powerlessness. “So, I am at your mercy,” she muttered, her disdain for him evident.
“The pardon,” Edward insisted firmly, his eyes unwavering. “Ring the bell and grant me a pardon.”
Ysabeau hesitated, torn between her desire for vengeance and the fear of Edward’s threats. “Choose something else as a reward,” she pleaded. “What value does this man’s life hold for you?”
“You’re stalling until it’s too late,” Edward hoarsely accused, stepping closer and grasping the hand-bell on the table. “If you resist, I will go straight to Balthasar and expose Melchoir’s poisoning.”
Instinct and fury surged within Ysabeau, but she suppressed her rage, pressing her hands against the wall in frustration.
Her Chamberlain entered the room. “Write a pardon for the Lord of Rosewood,” commanded Edward urgently, “and do it quickly.”
As the Chamberlain left to fulfill the command, Ysabeau turned to Edward with a mix of anger and resignation. “What will they think? What will Balthasar think?”
“That’s your concern,” Edward replied wearily, his patience wearing thin.
The Chamberlain returned, and Ysabeau, with a trembling hand, took up the parchment and pen. Edward watched her every move, sensing her inner turmoil and resistance.
“Sign it,” he urged, his voice commanding.
With a mix of fear and defiance, Ysabeau reluctantly wrote her name on the parchment. Edward, relieved, took the signed document and prepared to leave.
“Don’t cross me again, Marozia Porphyrogentris,” Edward warned sharply as he departed, taking the parchment, his hat, and cloak with him.
As he left, Ysabeau’s rage erupted. She grabbed a dagger from her hair, sharpened it, and then, in a fit of anger, thrust it into the table, the blade snapping under the force.
With a cry, she ran to the window, hurling the broken handle outside. Edward, already in the courtyard, saw it fall and smiled grimly.
Showing the signed pardon, he commandeered the fastest horse and waited impatiently, his presence commanding silence among the onlookers.
Finally mounted, Edward rode through the town with urgency, the bitter cold and falling snow adding to the grim atmosphere. People peeked out from windows as he passed, curious and wary.
Reaching the market-place, crowded with spectators, Edward urged his horse forward, waving the parchment and shouting for attention.
“A pardon! A pardon! Make way!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the clamor. Some questioned the legitimacy of his message, but he pressed on, determined to reach the scaffold.
As he approached, soldiers guarded the area, their colorful uniforms contrasting with the somber surroundings. Edward’s arrival stirred whispers among the crowd, uncertainty hanging in the air.
On the chilling scaffold stood two figures, silhouetted against the bleak sky; one knelt, his throat exposed, while the other stood poised with a sword in hand.
“In the name of the Emperor, a pardon!” Edward’s voice pierced through the crowd, but the chaos around him hindered any swift action. The soldiers seemed deaf to his pleas, or perhaps chose to ignore them.
Desperation gripped Edward as he rose in his stirrups, his hat and cloak falling away to reveal his determined face above the sea of bodies. Hugh of Rosewood caught a glimpse of him, their eyes locking in a moment of shared understanding.
“A pardon!” Edward’s hoarse cry echoed, reaching the ears of the condemned man, who silently responded.
The sword fell...
“A pardon!” exclaimed a monk on the scaffold, his words conflicting with the grisly reality unfolding.
“It was this youth, not a woman,” a soldier corrected the monk, pointing to Edward amidst the commotion.
Forced to the scaffold’s base, Edward demanded passage with a commanding voice. The guards relented, allowing him to ascend the steps, clutching the parchment that now felt like a weight of failure in his hand.
“Is it too late?” whispered the monk as Edward stood amidst the aftermath of death.
“Dogs! Is this the fate of a lord of Rosewood?” Edward’s voice cracked with a mix of grief and anger, his hand pressed against his chest.
The falling snow added a surreal layer to the scene as Edward handed over the parchment, his gaze fixed on Hugh’s severed head.
“How heavy,” he murmured, feeling the weight of the life lost.
As the executioner polished his blade, Edward sought answers from the lifeless face. “What did he say before he died?”
“‘Have you come for me, Ursula?’ he asked,” the headsman replied dismissively.
The mention of Ursula ignited a wild fury in Edward. “She shall pay for this, that Eastern witch! May the Devil take you all!”
Turning to the captain, Edward asked about Hugh’s family and lands, learning of the wife and deceased son, as well as the transfer of lands to Balthasar of Nola through marriage.
Setting down the head with care, Edward confronted the harsh reality of loss and betrayal. “No justice in this,” he muttered bitterly.
The officer suggested returning to the palace to explain the situation to the Empress, but Edward’s resolve was firm.
“Nay, I’ll bear this burden alone,” he declared, descending the scaffold with a heavy heart.
Mounting his horse, Edward rode off into the snowy night, leaving behind a scene of death, deceit, and a bitter reckoning that even the falling snowflakes couldn’t conceal.