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The Vatican garden lay shrouded in a sinister twilight, the air heavy with the scent of daisies and jasmine, yet tinged with an ominous foreboding. The Pope, flanked by Cardinals Orsini and Colonna, strolled amidst the marble paths, their footsteps echoing eerily in the quietude.
Cardinal Orsini clutched a cluster of daisies, their petals stark white against the encroaching darkness, while Cardinal Colonna idly toyed with a ball of gold and blue silk. Their hushed conversation spoke of Rome’s dire state, of storms that refused to dissipate, and of armies marching to quell an excommunicated Emperor. Michael II, cloaked in contemplative silence, listened but said nothing.
As they wandered past the goldfish basin and under the fragrant yellow rose bushes, the peacocks strutted in their resplendent glory, a stark contrast to the brooding atmosphere. Oleanders and lilies whispered secrets among the laurel trees, while statues gleamed ominously beside the dark foliage.
Cardinal Colonna’s ball rolled away, and as he stooped to retrieve it, Michael paused, his gaze distant. His white robe billowed gently, his fiery red hair a stark contrast to his pensive expression. The Cardinals fell back, engrossed in their own conversation.
Paolo Orsini, adorned with a sprig of pink flower, approached with urgency. “Your Holiness,” he began, dropping to one knee, “a lady, veiled and unnamed, demands an audience with you.”
Michael II’s brow furrowed. “What does this woman seek, Orsini? And why does she cloak herself in mystery?”
“She claims her plea may halt the impending war and begs not to be turned away,” Orsini explained.
After a moment of contemplation, Michael II nodded. “Bring her forth.”
The sky momentarily broke into sunlight, casting a fleeting brightness over the Vatican gardens. Michael seated himself on a bench, flanked by the two Cardinals. “Stand by me,” he instructed them, “and hear what this woman has to say.”
As the lady approached, her veil shrouding her features, Michael II’s curiosity heightened. She knelt before him, and with a swift motion, she unveiled herself, revealing the sorrowful countenance of Ysabeau, the Empress.
Michael’s breath caught in his throat as he beheld her fair yet troubled visage. “What brings you here, defying us?” he demanded, his voice tinged with unease.
Ysabeau stood tall, her gaze steady. “I come not in defiance but in surrender. I seek punishment for the crime you accused my lord of—a crime I committed.”
Michael’s grip tightened on a crimson rose plucked from the nearby bush. “You admit to the murder of Melchoir of Brabant?”
“I do,” she affirmed. “Out of love for Balthasar, I confess my sin.”
The fitful sunlight danced upon her, accentuating her beauty amidst the shadows. “It was my sin to bear alone,” she continued. “And I shall bear the consequences alone.”
Michael’s voice grew solemn. “Murder invokes fire, both on earth and in hell,” he intoned. “Yet you willingly accept the flames that await?”
“I do,” Ysabeau replied, her resolve unyielding.
The garden fell silent, the weight of her confession hanging heavy in the air. In that moment, amidst the garden’s gothic allure, the stage was set for an unfolding tragedy that would echo through the halls of history.
The crushed rose fell from the Pope’s hand, its crimson petals scattered on the ground like drops of blood in the fading light.
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“Did Balthasar send you?” The Pope’s voice was stern, his eyes searching hers for any hint of deceit.
She smiled defiantly. “I come of my own accord,” she declared. “I left a letter for him, explaining my actions and my intentions.” Her hand trembled slightly as she spoke. “But enough of that.”
Michael II rose from his seat, his anger simmering beneath his composed exterior. “Why have you done this?” he demanded, his voice echoing through the garden.
Ysabeau’s response was swift and resolute. “To lift the curse from him,” she proclaimed. “For my sin, you excommunicated him. But if I accept my fate, if I willingly face punishment, then you must absolve him of his sins and restore his honor.”
Michael’s face flushed with indignation. “This is madness!” he exclaimed, turning to the Cardinals for validation. “Is this not the folly of love—to believe one can bargain with Heaven itself?”
“My hope is not to bargain but to atone,” Ysabeau retorted, her voice steady despite the tremors within. The dying sun cast a pale glow on her hair, framing her shadow that stretched toward the Pontiff’s feet. “If not for me, then for him.”
“This sacrificial gesture,” Michael interjected, “cannot undo what has been done. If he did not willingly part from you, how can his sins be absolved?”
Fear tinged her voice as she spoke. “Perhaps he will despise me now,” she admitted.
“Would he have relinquished you to our judgment had you confessed to him?” Michael’s tone was sharp, probing.
“No,” she replied firmly. “It would have been noble for him to defend me. But since I am here of my own volition, I ask for justice—for myself and for him.”
Michael examined the scratch on his finger caused by the rose’s thorns, a drop of blood staining his skin. “You admit your wrongdoing,” he stated, his gaze piercing. “Why should I show you mercy?”
“I seek not mercy but fairness,” she countered. “I bear the blame for the conflict, and with me in your grasp, you have no cause for vengeance against him.”
He regarded her steadily. “Do you repent?”
Ysabeau shook her head, her hood slipping to reveal her yellow hair. “No, for the gain outweighed the sin. I fear neither you nor Heaven. I am not of a timid lineage, nor do I easily bow to shame. In my own eyes, I have no shame.”
Their eyes locked in a silent battle of wills. “So you would die for him?” Michael’s voice softened slightly.
Ysabeau smiled wistfully. “I believe I shall. Your mercy, Your Holiness, is not something I expect.”
Michael’s resolve hardened. “This will not absolve Balthasar. Thomas of Dendermonde marches with an army, and victory will be his. Our curse on Balthasar remains, unmoved by your sacrifice.”
He turned abruptly, signaling to Cardinal Orsini. “Enough of this. We have indulged this Greek long enough.”
Ysabeau fell to her knees, her plea desperate. “Please, remove the curse! Balthasar will perish under your wrath.”
“What shall we do with her?” Cardinal Colonna whispered to Michael, his tone tinged with uncertainty.
She clutched at the Cardinal’s robes, her voice pleading. “Have mercy. Balthasar’s fate hangs in the balance.”
In the midst of the Vatican gardens, Paolo Orsini forcibly escorted Ysabeau away as Michael II watched with a mixture of apprehension and disdain.
“Exile her beyond the walls—her life is of no consequence to us under the weight of excommunication,” Michael decreed coldly. “Oh, sirs!” Ysabeau’s voice echoed, her desperation palpable. “My lord is innocent!”
“Remove her,” Michael commanded, his gaze piercing. “Expel her from Rome,” he added with a sneer, “let her taste a fate worse than Hugh of Rosewood’s. Let us be done with this.”
With Cardinal Orsini supporting him, Michael strode away, leaving Ysabeau to the guards’ mercy. Paolo Orsini signaled for her removal from the city.
“You must leave this place,” he stated firmly.
Ysabeau rose slowly from the grass, her eyes fixed on the retreating figure of the Pope. “Is this your Christian compassion?” she rasped, her voice filled with bitter scorn. As the guards closed in, she fell silent, resigned to her fate.
As Michael II retreated into the Vatican, the storm outside mirrored the tumult within. Thunder rumbled ominously as he ascended the silver stairs to his private chamber, shutting out the chaos raging outside.
In the height of the tempest, a messenger arrived at the Vatican, his appearance marked by blood and dust, a testament to his swift journey. He was ushered into the ebony chamber to face the Pope directly.
“News from Thomas of Dendermonde?” Michael inquired, his face as pale as his robes.
“Yes, Your Holiness,” the messenger replied wearily. “Balthasar of Nola has been defeated. His army lies scattered and lifeless in the vale of Tivoli, and Thomas’s triumphant forces march homeward today.”
A flash of lightning illuminated Michael’s ghastly visage, and a deafening peal of thunder punctuated the messenger’s revelation, casting a shadow of doom over the Vatican.