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“Are you scared of me? Why are you backing away? Come closer, and I’ll sing the praises of Jacobea of Martzburg to you.”

He shot her a surly look. “No more about her.”

“And yet your heart burns hot enough—”

“Not on her account—God knows.”

But the Empress clasped her hands together and rose slowly, gazing past Balthasar toward the door.

“Melchoir, we’re talking about you,” she announced.

The Margrave turned; the Emperor, clad in velvet, was quietly entering; he glanced solemnly at his wife and warmly at Balthasar.

“We’re discussing you,” Ysabeau reiterated, dark-eyed and flushed, “about you...and Rome.”

Melchoir of Brabant, the third of his name, austere, reserved, proud, and cold, looked more like a knight of the Church than the King of Germany and Emperor of the West; he was plainly dressed, his dark hair cropped short, his handsome, slightly haughty face composed and stern; too earnest to be flamboyantly attractive, yet many men admired him, including Balthasar of Nola, for the Emperor was both valiant and likable.

“Can’t you let go of Rome?” he asked sorrowfully, while his large, intelligent eyes affectionately regarded the Margrave. “Has Frankfort become so repugnant?”

“Surely not, Lord Melchoir—it’s the opportunity! the opportunity!”

The Emperor sank wearily onto a seat. “Hugh of Rosewood and I have conferred, Balthasar, and we’ve decided not to journey to Rome.”

The Empress stiffened and lowered her lids; the Margrave swiftly turned to face his lord, his fresh face drained of color.

Melchoir smiled gently. “My friend, you’re an adventurer, dreaming of the glory to be won—but I must consider my people who need me here—the land isn’t ready to be left. It would require many knights to secure Rome; we’d drain the land of warriors, extort money from the poor, tax the churches—leave Germany vulnerable, prey to the Franks, all for the hollow title of Emperor.”

Balthasar’s chest rose and fell. “Is this your final decision?”

The Emperor replied gravely, “I don’t believe it’s God’s will for me to go to Rome.”

The Margrave bowed his head and fell silent, but Ysabeau interjected into the pause.

“In Constantinople, a man like you wouldn’t hold a throne for long; by now, you’d have been a blinded monk and I free to choose another husband!”

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The Emperor stood from his seat. “The woman is delirious,” he remarked to the pale Margrave. “Leave us, Balthasar.”

The German departed; once his heavy footsteps had faded into silence, Melchoir glared at his wife, his eyes flashing.

“God forgive my father,” he uttered bitterly, “for tying me to this Eastern she-cat!”

The Empress huddled in the window-seat, clutching the cushions tightly.

“I was made for a man’s companion,” she cried fiercely, “for a ruler’s spouse. I wish they had thrown me to a foot-boy instead of giving me to you—such a timid woman’s soul!”

“You’ve repaid the harm,” the Emperor replied sternly, “with the immense sorrow I endure because of you. My life is not pleasant with you nor simple. I wish you had less beauty and more kindness.”

“I can be kind when I choose,” she taunted. “Balthasar and the Court think I’m a loving wife.”

He advanced toward her; his face appeared pale.

“It’s true only I know you for what you truly are—heartless, cruel, fierce, and unyielding—”

“Enough of that!” she cried passionately. “You drive me insane. I despise you, yes, you oppose me at every turn—”

She swiftly crossed the floor to him.

“Do you have any courage—any spirit—will you go to Rome?”

“To satisfy your reckless ambition, I will do nothing, nor will I go to Rome for any reason,” Melchoir declared. Ysabeau trembled like an enraged animal.

“I won’t discuss it further,” Melchoir said coldly and wearily. “Too often we waste ourselves in such arguments.”

The Greek woman could barely speak for fury; her nostrils flared, her lips pale and tightly pressed.

“I’m ashamed to call you lord,” she hoarsely stated, “humbled before every woman in the kingdom who sees her husband at least brave—while I—know you’re a coward—”

Melchoir clenched his hands to restrain himself.

“Listen to me, my wife. I am your master and the master of this land—I won’t be insulted, nor mocked, by your sharp tongue. Disdain me all you want, you won’t voice it—by St. George, no!—not even if I have to silence you with a whip!”

“Ha! A Christian knight!” she sneered. “I detest your Church as much as I detest you. I am not Ysabeau, but still Marozia Porphyrogentris.”

“Don’t remind me your father was a stableman and a murderer,” said Melchoir. “Nor that I forced you to change a name your lineage had made infamous. I wish I could send you back to Ravenna!—for you’ve brought nothing but bitterness to me!”

“Be cautious,” Ysabeau warned. “Be cautious.”

“Step aside,” he commanded.

Instead, she loosened her heavy belt; he saw her intention and seized her hands.

“You won’t strike me.” The gold links slipped from her grasp as she stared at him with fiery eyes. “Would you have struck me?”

“Yes—across your mouth,” he replied. “Now if you were a man, you would kill me.”

He took the belt from her arm, freeing her. “You bring me nothing but trouble!” he said wearily.

With that, she moved aside to let him pass; he turned to the door, and as he lifted the tapestry, she dropped her belt.

The Empress crawled along the floor, retrieved it, and stood still, panting.

Before the rage had left her face, the hangings stirred again.

One of her Chamberlains entered.

“Princess, there’s a young doctor downstairs who wishes to see you. Constantine, from Frankfort College.”

“Oh!” said Ysabeau; a guilty flush touched her pale cheek. “I know nothing of him,” she quickly added.

“Forgive me, Princess, he says it’s to decipher an old manuscript you sent to him; his words are, when you see him you’ll remember.”

The blood flushed her cheeks even more.

“Bring him here,” she said.

But just as the Chamberlain moved aside, Edward’s slim figure appeared in the doorway. He looked at her, smiling calmly, his scholar’s cap in hand.

“You do remember me?” he asked.

The Empress nodded in acknowledgment.