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The echoes of the monks’ chants faded into the hushed stillness of the Emperor’s chapel. As the Court began to disperse, Jacobea remained in deep prayer, her mind clouded with unease despite the sacred setting. The Empress, adorned in opulent jewels and lifted by pages, glanced at Jacobea with a knowing smile before passing by. Meanwhile, the Emperor, clad plainly and absorbed in his devotions, walked beside the radiant Margrave Balthasar of Nola, their contrasting figures highlighted by the sun’s rays through stained glass.
Thomas, the Queen’s Chamberlain’s secretary, caught Jacobea’s attention. His usually calm demeanor now bore signs of distress and pallor, prompting her curious gaze to linger on him. Their eyes met briefly, his hazel orbs conveying a silent plea or question that stirred something within her. Thomas held her gaze until he left the chapel, a subtle blush tainting his cheek.
Alone in her prayers, Jacobea sought solace from heavenly protectors against the Devil’s temptations and her own inner struggles. Incense perfumed the air, adding a serene ambiance as she contemplated her fears and desires.
Upon rising from her prayers, Jacobea found Thomas waiting for her. His presence brought an unexpected comfort, and she approached him with a gentle smile. However, his request to learn to pray alongside her startled her.
“I know not how to guide you,” she confessed, her troubled expression revealing her inner turmoil.
Thomas, fervent in his plea, saw her as a beacon of spiritual guidance. Yet, Jacobea’s response hinted at her own struggles and doubts, casting a shadow over their interaction.
“You—unhappy?” Thomas questioned, surprised by her admission. “I always saw you as carefree as the roses in bloom.”
Her gaze turned somber as she recalled a pivotal moment that seemed to have changed her. Thomas, sensing her discomfort, inquired about the friend who had caused this shift.
“The young scholar,” she whispered fearfully, “he is in Frankfort now.”
Thomas’s demeanor stiffened, his mind racing with unanswered questions about his mysterious friend.
“You have seen him?”
Jacobea’s voice quivered as she poured out her fears and suspicions to Thomas, her eyes wide with apprehension. She spoke of her unsettling encounter with the young scholar in the forest, the day of the grand tourney when she last saw Edward. Thomas, with a mix of dread and anger, listened to her account, piecing together the pieces of Edward’s dark influence.
“If he has been meddling with your mind,” Thomas spoke through gritted teeth, “if he dares to—” His words were laced with a protective fury, a fierce loyalty to Jacobea evident in his every syllable.
Her eyes widened in a mix of horror and curiosity. “You know him?” Her voice trembled with dread.
“Ay, to my regret, I do,” Thomas admitted, his expression pained. “He is a tempter, a deceiver. Stay clear of him if you value your peace.”
She withdrew slightly, her features contorted with distress. “But you—are you working with him?”
Thomas’s anguish was palpable. “He ensnares me with temptation, pulls me into darkness.”
Her desperation grew. “Who is he?”
Thomas struggled with his response, torn between secrecy and the urge to warn her. “I cannot say.” He clenched his fists in frustration, his gaze dropping to the floor.
“He torments me,” Jacobea confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. “The mere thought of him is a weight dragging me down.”
Thomas’s eyes flickered up, catching the trembling of her delicate hands. “How can such as he trouble you? What temptation can he offer?”
As Jacobea’s fingers quivered on her prayer book, Thomas’s anger simmered against Edward. “I cannot speak of my temptations,” she murmured, her voice laden with guilt.
Thomas’s resolve hardened. “The reward seems worth the struggle,” he muttered, his eyes clouded with conflicting emotions.
Her response cut through him, her disbelief palpable. “Worth it?”
Thomas winced, imagining Edward’s influence looming over her. “You must not know the depths of my struggle. But I must tell you this—I would be lost to darkness if not for you.”
Her eyes widened in surprise, the sunlight casting a surreal glow around them. “You would change for me?” Her voice was tinged with hope.
Thomas’s gaze softened as he reached out, his touch gentle on her sleeve. “You inspire goodness in me. For your sake, I would fight the demons that haunt me.”
Her eyes searched his, a mixture of doubt and longing. “Would it truly make a difference?”
“It would be everything to me,” Thomas confessed, his heart laid bare before her. “You are my beacon of light in this dark turmoil.”
“Your words have given me strength,” Jacobea said with a mixture of humility and determination. “But please, don’t place me on a pedestal. I will strive to earn your respect.”
Thomas spoke with deep sincerity, “I may not be a knight in shining armor, but I will worship you with all my heart. Through you, I will find my way back to God and live a life of repentance.”
Jacobea nodded, touched by his sincerity. “Indeed, we can help each other. I too might have faltered if someone hadn’t cared.”
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Thomas’s expression turned grave. “What did that young man tempt you with?”
“It’s in the past now,” Jacobea replied softly. “I will live up to your expectations of me. I may not have a knight by my side, nor have I desired one, but I will always remember your encouragement during my moments of solitude.”
“Let us make a pact, then,” Thomas proposed, his voice filled with hope. “That we both remain free from darkness. Allow me to see you as pure and innocent as I would see a saint.”
“With your devotion, I will strive to be just that,” Jacobea promised solemnly. “As long as you think well of me, I will do no harm.”
Thomas knelt before her and kissed the hem of her gown, sealing their pact with reverence.
“You’ve pulled me back from the brink of eternal damnation,” Thomas whispered gratefully, his voice tinged with relief.
Jacobea reached out and lightly touched his sleeve. “Thank God,” she murmured.
He nodded, bowing slightly before turning to leave. As he departed, Jacobea retrieved a crucifix from her bosom, the same one that had been her solace in the forest. She kissed it reverently, feeling a weight lift from her heart that had been there since her encounter with Edward Bensouda.
With newfound resolve, Jacobea made her way back to the grand hall of the palace, her thoughts already forming plans to return to Martzburg or to send for Sybilla. However, her intentions were interrupted by an encounter with the Empress, who paced the chamber with an air of discontent.
Ysabeau, affecting a fondness for Jacobea, smiled lazily at her. But Jacobea, while respectful, couldn’t shake off a sense of unease in the Empress’s presence, feeling a discordance between the surface beauty and something more sinister beneath.
The Empress gestured for Jacobea to stay, her voice childlike yet manipulative. “Come, talk to your abandoned lady,” she cooed. “The Emperor is busy with his prayers. My ladies are all out with their lovers, and here I am, amusing myself.”
With a mischievous glint in her eyes, Ysabeau revealed a net filled with vibrant butterflies. “Guess what I’ve been doing,” she teased, her tone playful yet tinged with cruelty.
Jacobea studied the trapped butterflies with concern. “Why hold them captive?” she asked, her voice tinged with sympathy.
The Empress regarded the fluttering insects thoughtfully. “Their wings are beautiful. I wonder if they’ll keep their brilliance if I pluck them,” she mused, a hint of cruelty in her words.
Disturbed by the Empress’s disregard for life, Jacobea felt a surge of compassion for the helpless creatures. “They’re alive and deserve to be free,” she urged.
Ysabeau’s demeanor shifted, her gaze hardening. “You always spoil my fun,” she remarked coldly before abruptly offering the net to Jacobea. “Take them and be gone.”
Surprised by the sudden change, Jacobea accepted the net, sensing there was more to the Empress’s actions than met the eye. She glanced around and noticed the Margrave of East Salem entering the hall, understanding the Empress’s shift in behavior.
Jacobea gathered the freed butterflies and swiftly departed from the chamber, leaving behind the Empress who sank into the window-seat among crimson cushions adorned with sprawling lions. Ysabeau pulled a white rose from her belt and bit into its stem with a hint of bitterness in her expression.
The Margrave approached her, his imposing figure amplified by his opulent attire, resembling a golden giant in the dim light of the room. “Where is Melchoir?” he inquired.
Mocking laughter escaped Ysabeau. “Writing Latin prayers,” she sneered. “If you were Emperor of the West, Lord Balthasar, would you stoop to such piety?”
His brow furrowed. “I lack the holiness of Melchoir,” he admitted.
Ysabeau’s laughter rang out again. “And would you, as my husband, indulge in such acts?” His fair face flushed with embarrassment. “Such thoughts are beyond my station,” he replied hesitantly.
Turning her gaze to the window, Ysabeau’s attire revealed her penchant for extravagance, with red, bronze, and purple silks draped around her, accentuated by a thick belt. Her golden hair cascaded in curls above her forehead, crowned with a diadem, while emeralds adorned her throat—a testament to her Byzantine origins.
Deliberately maintaining silence, Ysabeau awaited Balthasar’s response, but he remained silent, leaning against the tapestry.
Exasperated, she exclaimed, “Oh God! I despise Frankfort!”
His eyes gleamed with suppressed emotion, yet he remained wordless.
“If I were a man, I would not tolerate such timidity,” she continued.
Finally, Balthasar spoke. “Princess, though I yearn for Rome, we are bound by the Emperor’s decisions.”
Ysabeau’s bitterness surfaced. “Melchoir should have been a monk. A German township satisfies him when he could wield greater power.” She turned her piercing gaze to Balthasar. “We of the East comprehend strength, not this hesitance. My father seized power in Ravenna—I was born to royalty, raised in opulence—I cannot fathom your Northern caution.”
“The Emperor plans to journey to Rome,” Balthasar interjected, troubled. “He may cross the Alps this year.”
Ysabeau’s demeanor softened momentarily. “You love Melchoir, hence your patience.”
Balthasar lifted his head. “As do you, Princess. He is your lord, and we must abide by his decisions.”
Suppressing her true feelings, Ysabeau forced a smile. “You are steadfast, Margrave. But do not forget, I am your ally too, despite the strains.”
Her sharp eyes observed Balthasar’s discomfort, noting his reluctance to meet her gaze.
“My duty to the Emperor,” she murmured softly, “and my love, cannot blind me to his weakness now; come, Lord Balthasar, even your loyalty must admit we waste time. The Pope calls—Come—the King of the Lombards will acknowledge my lord as his suzerain—and here we linger in Frankfort waiting for the winter to bar the Alps.”
“Surely he is mistaken,” frowned the Margrave. “Mistaken...if I were in his place—I’d be Emperor indeed, and all would know I reign from Rome...”
She took a deep breath. “Strange that we, his confidant and his wife, cannot sway him; the nobles are on our side too.”
“Except Hugh of Rosewood, always whispering in his ear,” replied Balthasar. “He persuades him to stay in Germany.”
“The Lord of Rosewood!” echoed the Empress. “Wasn’t his daughter your wife?”
“I never laid eyes on her,” he interjected hastily. “And she’s dead. Her father seems to despise me for it.”
“And me too, I reckon, though why I’m not certain,” she smiled. “His daughter’s gone, gone...oh, we’re certain she’s gone.”
“Indeed, she was a fine match,” the Margrave spoke grimly. “Now I must seek another bride.” The Empress stared at him.
“I hadn’t thought you’d pondered that.”
“I must. I am the Margrave now.”
Ysabeau turned to gaze at the palace garden. “There’s no lady suitable for your rank who’s also unattached,” she remarked.
“You have an heiress in your retinue, Princess—Jacobea of Martzburg—I’ve considered her.” The vibrant colors of the Empress’s gown quivered with her hidden agitation.
“You consider her? She’s nearly your height, Margrave, and not fair—oh, rather a mild creature—but—but”—she glanced back—“am I not your lady?”
“Aye, and always will be,” he affirmed, lifting his bright blue eyes. “I wear your favor, I tilt for you, in the jousts you’re my Queen of Love—I pray in your name and serve you, Princess.”
“Well—perhaps you don’t need a wife.” She bit her lip to silence herself.
“Surely,” replied Balthasar with wonder. “A knight must have a wife besides a lady—since his lady often belongs to another, and his highest aspiration is to touch her gown—but a wife is for managing his castle and serving him.”
The Empress twisted her fingers in her girdle. “I’d prefer,” she exclaimed passionately, “to be a wife than a lady.”
“You’re both,” he responded, blushing. “The Emperor’s wife and my lady.”
She gave him a curious look. “Sometimes I think you’re simple, or perhaps I’m just unaccustomed to the North. You’d stand out in Byzantium, my stoic Margrave!” Leaning closer across the gold and red cushions, she continued, “Indeed, you shall have your reserved maiden. I believe her heart is as cold as yours.”
He moved away from her. “Don’t mock me, Princess,” he said fiercely. “My heart burns enough, let me be.” She laughed at him.