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As the lecture ended, students spilled out through the weathered arches into the sun-drenched gardens of the university. Beyond the fortress-like silhouette of the university, the mountains loomed, their snow-capped peaks stark against the bright sky. Below, the town of Basle sprawled along the banks of the Rhine, its azure waters winding between the shimmering buildings.
Amid the chatter of students clad in robes of somber purple, blue, and violet, Thomas scanned the crowd for Edward, absent from the lecture. “We’re heading up the river,” one of his companions announced. “We’ve got a fine boat for sailing. Join us?”
Thomas declined with a shake of his head. “I have other matters to attend to.”
His friends chuckled. “Always lost in thought, our Thomas! He’ll be a scholar of renown, mark my words!”
“I prefer the shade for contemplation,” Thomas replied with a smile.
Walking along a path flanked by laurels and dark foliage, they approached Edward, who rose gracefully from his seat. Dressed in opulent brown silk robes, adorned with a gold chain around his cap, and sporting a finely embroidered shirt, Edward exuded an air of elegance and detachment that set him apart from the rest.
The two students greeted him with a half-mocking reverence, acknowledging his customary aloofness. Edward regarded them with a measured gaze. “Have you gleaned much wisdom today?” he inquired.
The student grinned. “Aristotle is not unraveled in a single afternoon. Besides, Master Joris nodded off during the lecture! The Doctor was not pleased!”
“It was quite a spectacle,” remarked one of the students. “Although, he wasn’t asleep but had swooned from the stifling heat. By the Mass! It was sweltering! Where were you?”
“Engaged in perfecting my Latin in the library. I’ve translated the tale of Tereus and Philomena into the vernacular this afternoon,” replied Thomas.
“Good evening to you both.” The two friends linked arms. “We’re off to a lively tavern up the river.”
As they vanished from sight, Edward turned sharply to Thomas. “Did they invite you along?”
“They did,” admitted Thomas.
Edward’s expression darkened. “You should have gone.”
“I had no desire for it. They’re a frivolous bunch,” retorted Thomas.
“True, but we’re starting to draw attention with our solitary ways. It wouldn’t be wise if they began to suspect,” warned Edward.
“It’s unlikely,” dismissed Thomas quickly.
“It mustn’t happen,” insisted Edward firmly. “But don’t be standoffish or overly reserved.”
“I desire no companionship but yours,” Thomas declared. “What connection do I have with those idle fellows?”
Edward’s eyes softened. “We won’t linger here much longer,” he assured. “I believe we’ve exhausted all this school can offer us.”
Thomas brushed aside a swinging laurel bough. “Where do you propose we go then?” he inquired, showing deference to the younger man in all matters.
“Paris! Padua!” exclaimed Edward. “Would you consider that? We could build a reputation, and then—or we could lecture—in any bustling city—Cologne, Strasbourg.”
“In the meantime—?” probed Thomas.
“In the meantime, I make progress,” whispered Edward. “I’ve delved into...certain matters. Will you join me in my chamber tonight?”
“Secretly?” Thomas asked.
Edward nodded, his serious face under the flat student’s hat tinged with a hint of flush. He placed his hand on Thomas’s arm. “I have something important to discuss with you. It’s not prudent to speak of it here. Farewell for now.”
In a moment of strong affection, their eyes met, and hands clasped before they parted ways. Thomas watched the figure in brown silk hurrying towards the university, then turned and walked out of the gardens, away from the town. His hands clasped behind his back, he followed a winding path through the trees, lost in wild daydreams that stirred his blood.
The prospect of wielding immense power tantalized him—those evil spirits he sought to command could grant him anything in the world! The golden visions that blinded him, the horror of the means he’d use, and the dread of the inevitable consequences were beyond words.
Sitting on a fallen tree trunk, he gazed down the forest path with rapt eyes, unaware of his location. Through the pine trees, he glimpsed castle walls unknown to him. Rising, driven by his racing thoughts, he wandered deeper into the forest until he emerged into a green valley shaded by thick trees.
A stream meandered through the center of the valley, its banks carpeted with deep green grass dotted with white daisies. Young poplar trees lined the stream, their golden leaves shimmering like gypsy’s sequins even in the still air. Lost in his thoughts, Thomas walked beside the water, oblivious to the tranquil atmosphere, the birds’ soft voices, and the majestic sunlight on the mountains and castle beyond.
Suddenly, a sound broke through his reverie—a sound of weeping, of sorrow. Thomas, startled, looked around and spotted a lady across the stream, seated on the grass, cradling a dead bird. Her tear-stained face and disheveled yellow hair marked her grief. As she glanced up at him with wet eyes, Thomas felt compelled to approach and speak.
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Thomas, moved by the lady’s sorrow, inquired, “You are troubled?” fearing his question might come across as insolence. But she responded simply, revealing her heartache over a small brown bird that had met its end at the hands of her cat.
The lady held out the bird’s lifeless body on her palm, describing how it had sung joyously on a poplar tree until her cat attacked and killed it. Tears welled up in her eyes as she recounted the tragic event, seeking solace in Thomas’s sympathy.
Feeling a mix of pity and horror at the story, Thomas suggested punishing the cat. “You may chastise the cat,” he offered, noticing the sleek feline nearby.
The lady, however, defended her pet, refusing to consider harsh measures. “She is an agreeable cat,” she insisted, rejecting the idea of hanging her. Thomas, realizing his misstep, stood helplessly, unsure how to comfort her.
As she wiped her tears, the lady stood in a meek silence, clutching the dead bird. Thomas, desperate to ease her pain, suggested burying it. “If you buried it—” he began, hoping to bring her some comfort.
Her eyes brightened at the thought. “You think so?” she asked hopefully.
“Certes!” Thomas eagerly reassured her, offering to dig a grave. She knelt among the sorrel leaves and daisies by the stream, unable to cross due to its width, and asked Thomas to make a grave for the bird.
Thomas, thrilled by her trust and vulnerability, took the bird from her and prepared a resting place. Despite her not being conventionally beautiful, Thomas found himself drawn to her, eager to please her in a way he had never attempted before.
As her pale red dress fluttered around her on the grass, her curls and veil swept back from her face, Thomas knelt down and extended his hand towards her. Their fingers touched over the mid-stream as he took the bird, and she recoiled hastily.
Observing her closely while still on his knees, Thomas noticed a change in her demeanor. No longer seemingly unconscious, she stood tall as if commanding herself to stay put. Her slender figure reminded him of a pale crimson pistil atop a lily with yellow on the head—her hair, he thought to himself.
“I am vexed to trouble you,” she spoke hesitantly, prompting a flurry of thoughts in Thomas’s mind. However, he remained silent, focusing instead on cutting a small square of turf with his knife.
“You are a clerk from the college?” she inquired politely.
“Ay,” he replied, wishing he could have presented himself with a grander title. “There are many learned men there,” she remarked courteously, her eyes assessing him.
Despite the unholy daydreams that had consumed him earlier, Thomas found himself completely absorbed in the task of preparing the bird’s grave. The judgment in her eyes compelled him to handle the task with utmost care.
A verse he had read but hadn’t fully grasped echoed in his mind, emphasizing her captivating presence and its effect on him. He dug into the soft brown earth, lined the grave with leaves, and gently placed the little bird inside.
For a moment, he held the bird as she had done, unable to meet her gaze. Then, he laid it to rest in the ground, covering it with grass and daisies. When he looked up, flushed from his stooping, he noticed she was no longer watching him. Instead, she had turned her gaze towards the distant woods, lost in her own thoughts.
Now with a moment to spare, Thomas took in the details of her appearance.
As Thomas rose from his knees, the lady turned to him. “I thank you,” she said, her voice carrying a hint of urgency. “Do you often come here?”
He replied somewhat foolishly, “Nay, never before—I did not know the place.”
“That is my home yonder,” she revealed, gesturing toward the castle walls.
“Yours?” he exclaimed, surprised.
“Yea. I am an orphan, and the Emperor’s ward,” she explained, her tone tinged with melancholy.
Glancing at the point of her shoe beneath her pale crimson robe, she inquired, “What town do you come from?”
“Nola,” he replied.
“I know no town save Frankfort,” she remarked, a hint of curiosity in her gaze.
A moment of silence lingered between them, interrupted only by the graceful stride of the wicked grey cat along the stream’s edge.
“I shall lose her,” the lady lamented, referring to the cat. “Good even, gentle clerk. My name is Jacobea of Martzburg. Perhaps I shall see you again.”
Thomas felt a surge of desire to speak but found himself at a loss for words. “I do hope it,” he stammered, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
With a half look and a flash from her grave grey eyes, Jacobea bid him farewell again and vanished after the cat. Thomas watched her hasten down the stream, her dress swaying the grasses and leaves in her wake. He hoped she might glance back and see him watching her, but she did not, and as the last trace of her pale red attire disappeared, he reluctantly tore himself away from the spot.
The sunset painted the sky with vibrant hues as Thomas walked through the woods. Bars of orange light filtered through the straight pine trunks, casting a glittering path before him. His mind was no longer occupied with the thoughts of earlier or the lady he had encountered. Instead, he was engulfed in a golden confusion of fancies, unable to form coherent hopes or fears.
Approaching the garden of the college, Thomas stumbled upon a group of students lounging on the grass.
Just beyond them stood Edward, noticeable for his rich dress and elegant bearing, alongside another youth whom Thomas recognized as Joris of Thuringia. A quick glance revealed tension between them; Edward appeared white and tense, while Joris was hot and flushed.
Thomas hurried across the grass; it was well-known that quarrels were to be avoided within the college grounds. “Sirs, what is this?” he inquired.
The students turned to him, their expressions a mix of amusement and excitement, tinged with unfriendliness and doubt. One of them provided half-scornful information. “Your friend was caught with an unholy forbidden book, though he denies it. He tossed it into the river rather than show it, and now he’s at odds with Joris over it.”
Edward, catching sight of Thomas, turned his pale face towards him. “This fellow insulted me,” he stated. “Yes, laid hands on me.”
Joris burst into half-angry, half-amused laughter. “I can’t get this little youth to fight—by Christus his Mother! He’s afraid because I could snap his neck between my finger and thumb!”
Edward’s eyes flashed with anger. “I’m not afraid, nor could I fear the likes of you. But my profession and degree forbid me from brawling—be silent and leave.”
The tone stirred Joris further. “Who are you,” he shouted, “to speak as if you were noble-born? I only touched your arm to get the book—”
Others joined in. “He did no more than that. What was in the book?”
Edward held himself proudly. “I won’t be questioned any further.”
“Fine words for a common Flemish knave!” mocked one of the students.
Edward retorted sharply, “I can back up my words,” and headed towards the college.
Joris moved to follow, but Thomas caught his arm. “It’s just a heated moment,” he tried to calm things down.
Joris shook himself free, staring after Edward’s retreating figure. “He called me ‘son of a Thuringian thief!’” he muttered.
Laughter erupted from the group. “How did he know that? From the forbidden book?”
Joris’s anger redirected. “Shut up! You, son of a British swineherd, with your red face!”
The group dissolved into argument and shoving matches, while Thomas followed Edward across the gardens.