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Ysabeau, wife of Balthasar of Nola and Empress of the West, waited with quiet impatience in the porphyry cabinet of Cardinal Caprarola. The sun, piercing through the scarlet and violet hues of the arched window, cast an intense, burning glow over the opulent furnishings and the striking figure of the Empress. She was clad in a dress of vibrant orange, her hair adorned with a chaplet of linked gold plates, and a purple mantle embroidered with green glass draped around her. Her eyes, normally full of regal poise, now held a hint of skepticism as she sat, chin resting on her hand, contemplating the man she awaited.
At last, the Cardinal entered, his purple silks shimmering with an air of authority and self-assuredness. Ysabeau rose and offered a curt nod. “It pleases you to make me attend on your pleasure, my lord,” she remarked, her tone tinged with thinly veiled annoyance.
Cardinal Caprarola acknowledged her with a calm greeting. “My time is not my own, lady. God’s service comes first,” he replied, his demeanor poised and controlled.
Returning to her seat, the Empress’s voice dripped with disdain. “Have I come here to discuss God with your Eminence?” Her fair features twisted into a scornful expression. “This text was stolen from someone who worked hard to get it to you.”
The Cardinal settled into his carved gold chair, a faint smile playing on his lips. “It is of ourselves we will speak,” he said smoothly. “Surely, your Grace expected as much.”
“Nay,” she retorted. “What do we have in common, Cardinal Caprarola?”
“Ambition,” he stated simply, his eyes glinting with a hidden purpose. “It is a trait known alike to saint and sinner.”
Ysabeau’s gaze sharpened, her violet eyes locking onto his. “If your talk be of policy, my lord, it is to the Emperor you should go.”
“I believe you wield as much influence in Rome as your husband, my daughter,” he countered, his tone suggesting a depth of knowledge that unsettled the Empress.
A play of light danced across the room as the Empress gestured with her jeweled hands. “It is our influence you seek, my lord—a matter for the Emperor.”
The Cardinal’s eyes remained fixed on her, his expression unwavering. “Yes, you understand me.”
“Your Eminence desires our support in the Conclave now sitting,” she stated haughtily, her stance betraying a subtle defiance.
“But have you ever shown such duty to us that we should wish to see you in St. Peter’s seat?” Her words carried a sharp edge, revealing her suspicion of his intentions.
The Cardinal leaned forward, his voice low but commanding. “I do not play for saintly fame, Your Grace. And as for a corrupted Conclave—corruption is not unfamiliar to you, given that your cunning secured Balthasar’s ascent to the German throne.”
Ysabeau’s composed facade faltered for a moment, her gaze narrowing as she absorbed his words. “Your Eminence shows some understanding,” she replied, a hint of tension creeping into her voice. “But my influence will be against you, not with you, in the Conclave.”
The Cardinal’s hand rested lightly over his heart. “Your Grace speaks boldly. But do you truly see me as your enemy?”
“You declare yourself hostile, my lord,” she retorted, her resolve evident in her tone.
“Nay, I may yet prove to be a good friend to you—in St. Peter’s,” he murmured, his eyes glinting with a subtle challenge.
A smile tugged at Ysabeau’s lips. “The Conclave has not declared their decision yet, Your Eminence. You are a great prince, but the Imperial party wields considerable power.”
The Cardinal sat with a rigid posture, his piercing eyes commanding attention and respect from Empress Ysabeau despite her inner resistance. “Some power—which I ask you to exert in my behalf,” he stated firmly, his voice carrying a weight of authority.
Ysabeau’s gaze faltered momentarily, a mixture of anger and begrudging admiration crossing her features. “You have declared your ambition, my lord; your talents and your wealth we know—you are too powerful already for us to tolerate you as master in Rome,” she retorted, trying to regain her composure.
“Again you speak boldly,” the Cardinal remarked, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Perhaps too boldly—I think you will yet help me to the Tiara.”
Ysabeau glanced at his pale, handsome face framed by red hair, suspicion and calculation flickering in her eyes. “Do you seek to bribe me, my lord?” Her thoughts turned to the vast riches at his disposal and her own kingdom’s depleted treasury.
“Nay,” Luigi Caprarola replied, his smile unwavering. “I threaten.”
“Threaten!” Ysabeau’s temper flared, her breath quickening, the jewels on her breast catching the light as she moved with agitation. “I threaten that I will make you an outcast in the streets unless you serve me well,” the Cardinal continued, his tone calm yet loaded with implication.
Ysabeau’s demeanor shifted, her anger coalescing into a fierce determination, reminiscent of Marozia Porphyrogentris of Byzantium. “I know that of you,” she retorted, her eyes glinting with a dangerous edge. “That once revealed, would make the Emperor hurl you from his side.”
The Cardinal’s gaze shifted downward briefly, then returned with renewed intensity. “Yea, that young doctor brewed the potion—you administered it,” he accused, his voice cutting through the tense air of the room.
Ysabeau took a step forward, her posture defensive yet defiant. “You lie...I am not afraid of you—you lie most utterly...”
Luigi Caprarola rose to his feet, his presence commanding the space. “Silence, woman! Speak not so to me! It is the truth, and I can prove it!” he declared, his voice ringing with authority.
She crouched slightly, the golden plates in her hair trembling with suppressed emotion. “You cannot prove it,” she countered, her voice strained with a mix of fear and defiance. “Who are you that you should dare this—should know this?”
The Cardinal stood tall, his demeanor unyielding. “Do you recall a youth who was scrivener to your Chamberlain and friend of the young doctor of rhetoric—Thomas his name, born of Dendermonde?” he questioned, his eyes locking onto hers.
“Yea, he is now dead or in the East...” Ysabeau responded hesitantly, her mind racing with possibilities.
“He is alive, and in Rome,” the Cardinal revealed, his voice steady. “He served you well once, Empress, when he came to betray his friend, and you were quick to seize the chance—it suited him then to truckle to you...I think he was afraid of you...he is not now; he knows, and if I bid him he will speak.”
Ysabeau’s resolve wavered, her expression a mix of disbelief and calculation. “And what is his bare word against my oath and the Emperor’s love?”
“I am behind his word—I and all the power of the Church,” the Cardinal asserted confidently, his eyes never leaving hers.
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Ysabeau’s defiance remained, her tone defiant. “I am not of a nation easily cowed, my lord, nor are the people of our blood readily trapped—I can tear your reputed saintship to rags by spreading abroad this tale of how you tried to bargain with me for the Popedom.”
The Cardinal’s smile took on a sinister edge. “But first I say to the Emperor—your wife slew your friend that she might be your wife, your friend Melchoir of Brabant—you loved him better than you loved the woman—will you not avenge him now?”
The Empress felt her heart pound against her chest as she raised her eyes to meet the Cardinal’s intense gaze. “My lord’s love against it all,” she rasped out. “He knows Melchoir’s murderer perished in Frankfort in the flames, he knows that I am innocent, and he will laugh at you—weave what tissue of falsehoods you will, sir, I do defy you, and will do no bargaining to set you in the Vatican.”
The Cardinal leaned back, resting his fingertips on the arm of the chair, his smile deepening. “You speak with admirable courage,” he remarked, his voice calm yet unwavering. “But I have certain knowledge of what I say; come, I will prove to you that you cannot deceive me.”
He recounted details of her past visit to a witch in Frankfort, painting a vivid picture of her actions that day. The Empress’s hands flew to her lips in disbelief. “How can you know this?” she gasped.
The Cardinal fixed her with a piercing gaze as he settled back in his gold chair. “Hugh of Rosewood died for accusing you, and so shall you die—basely—unless you aid me in the Conclave.”
For a moment, the Empress was silent, processing the weight of his threats. Then, she took a step closer, her hands tightly clenched but her eyes defiant. “Cardinal Caprarola,” she began, her voice firm, “you ask me to use my influence to bring about your election to the Popedom. But knowing you as I do now, I cannot fail to see that you are a man who would stop at nothing.”
She challenged his intentions, questioning how long he would tolerate her husband’s rule once he gained power. The Cardinal’s smile remained, his confidence unwavering. “I shall be no puppet Pope,” he declared.
Ysabeau’s expression hardened with resolve. “But you think he can help you to the Tiara—”
“Through you, lady,” the Cardinal replied, his tone smooth yet calculating. “You can tell him I am his friend, his ally, what you will—or you may directly influence the Cardinals, I care not, so the thing be done; what I shall do if it be not done, I have said.”
The Empress’s laughter rang out, a bitter edge to its sound. “You wish me to deceive my lord to his ruin, you wish me to place his enemy over him—now, when we are harassed, here and in Germany, you wish me to do a thing that may bring his fortunes to the dust—why, you are not so cunning, my lord, if you think you can make me the instrument of Balthasar’s downfall!”
The Cardinal regarded her with a keen gaze. “Nevertheless, your Grace will do it—sooner than let me say what I can say.”
In defiance, she raised her head and offered a sardonic smile. “Then you are mistaken; neither threats nor bribes can sway me—say what you will to the Emperor, I am secure in his affections; tarnish my reputation and turn him against me if you can, but I am not so base as to betray my husband and son.”
The Cardinal’s face paled, his eyes narrowing as he spoke with a hint of desperation, “You dare face death—a shameful death—if my accusation is proven—as it shall be.”
“Dare death!” she exclaimed, turning to meet his gaze squarely. “You say I’ve faced Hell for him! Shall I cower at mere death?”
Luigi Caprarola’s chest rose and fell beneath his vibrant robe. “What do you fear, then?” he pressed.
“Nothing except harm to my lord,” she replied firmly.
The Cardinal’s gaze dropped, and he moistened his lips. “Is this your final word?”
“Yes, your Eminence; all my power will be used to thwart your ascent to the throne you desire so much—and now that you have my answer, I will take my leave; my courtiers grow weary in your halls.”
As she moved toward the door, her limbs trembled, her brow grew cold, her hands clammy, but her demeanor remained regal, masking her fear.
The Cardinal halted her departure with a soft plea, “Please, give me a moment more, your Grace. I have something yet to say.”
She closed the door once more, leaning back against it. “Speak then, my lord.”
“You claim to fear nothing—yet, I wonder,” he began, leaning forward in his chair. “You defy me boldly regarding your guilt; will you be equally bold about your innocence?”
She met his gaze head-on, her eyes challenging.
“You are fiercely loyal to your husband and son’s legacy,” he continued. “But will that loyalty waver when faced with the truth?”
Her pride flared. “I am not too proud to stand as the wife of Balthasar of Nola and the mother of Emperors—we are the architects of our dynasty, destined to rule.”
The Cardinal’s expression turned bitter and passionate. “Here is the revelation that will humble your boasting—you are not Balthasar’s wife, and your son’s legacy is one of disgrace and exile.”
Her strength faltered momentarily at this bombshell. “Not his wife...you must be mad...we were wed in front of all Frankfort...not Balthasar’s wife!”
The Cardinal stood tall, his gaze intense. “Your lord was already married.”
“Yes, I know...what of it?”
“This—Ursula of Rosewood lives!”
Her cry was one of disbelief and despair as she struggled to comprehend the weight of his accusation.
“She perished in a convent at Salem—that is the truth,” the Empress insisted.
“Did I not speak the truth before?” the Cardinal challenged. “Regarding Melchoir.”
A cry escaped the Empress. “Ursula of Rosewood died in Antwerp,” she repeated frantically—“in the convent of the White Sisters.”
“No, she did not. Balthasar knows she did not—he believes she died later, saw her grave, but it would be empty—she lives, in Rome, as his wife, Empress before God and man.”
“How do you know this?” She tried to maintain her composure, but the Cardinal’s revelation had shattered her resolve; the horror of his words froze her blood and stifled her heartbeat.
“The youth who aided you once, the doctor Constantine...from him Balthasar learned of his wife’s death; Ursula and he were apprenticed to the same master—ask Balthasar if this is not true—well, the youth lied, for his own reasons; Ursula lived then, and lives now, and if I choose, she will speak.”
“It cannot be,” the Empress shuddered. “No—you aim to drive me insane, to torment me—why did she not speak sooner?”
The Cardinal smirked. “She did not love her husband as you do, lady, and preferred her freedom; you should be thankful.”
“Alive, you say,” Ysabeau murmured, lost in her thoughts, “and in Rome? But no one would recognize her, she cannot prove she is—his—Ursula of Rosewood.”
“She possesses his ring,” the Cardinal replied, “and her marriage documents, signed by him and the priest—there are witnesses at Rosewood who know her, though it’s been nearly twenty years; she also has Master Lukas’s statement that she posed as a nun but was truly Balthasar’s wife; she can prove no one is buried in Master Lukas’s garden, and other sisters from her Order can testify she did not die on her wedding day—she has ample evidence.”
The Empress lowered her head and covered her eyes.
“She approached you—sir, with...this story?”
“That is my knowledge to share or not.”
“She must be silenced! By the Mother of Christ, she must remain silent!”
“Secure me the deciding vote in the Conclave, and she will never speak.”
“I cannot, for his sake, for my son’s sake—”
“Then I will bring forth Ursula of Rosewood, and she will prove herself the Emperor’s wife—then you must depart, or face excommunication together—your son will lose his title, be a nameless wanderer—rejected and pitied by those who should be his followers—and another woman will take your place beside Balthasar on the throne of the West!”
The Empress braced herself against the door.
“And if my lord remains true to me, to us—”
“Then he will be ousted from his throne, shunned by the Church and his subjects; will Lombardy not gladly turn against him, and Bohemia?”
There was silence for a moment, the Cardinal studying her, then she met his gaze steadily, her resolve firm in her words.
The Empress faced the Cardinal with steely determination. “Lord Cardinal,” she began, “you have succeeded; before you and the world, I proclaim myself as Balthasar’s wife, unmoved by tales of this impostor. Yet, I fear you; I dare not engage in a direct confrontation with you, Luigi Caprarola. To secure your silence on these matters, I will ensure your election. Afterward, you and my lord shall see who holds the upper hand.”
She gestured for him to remain silent and opened the door. “No more, my lord,” she declared. “Trust that I will honor my word when fear of breaking it restrains me...and let Ursula remain unmentioned.” The Cardinal approached her as she moved away.
“We part as foes,” he replied, “yet I pay homage to your courage, Empress, as resolute as you are regal.”
He gallantly kissed the hem of her purple gown. “Above all, I admire steadfastness,” he added in a strangely gentle tone. Her expression remained icy and unchanged beneath her golden hair.
“But, alas, you hold me in disdain!” he suddenly laughed, meeting her gaze.
“Today, I can converse no longer,” she stated, moving away with effort. The chamberlains in the antechamber stood as she exited the cabinet.
“Benedictus, my daughter,” the Cardinal smiled, closing the door.
Flushed with triumph, he gazed out at Rome’s purple hues. “How her love endures!” he mused aloud. “Yet—why am I surprised?—is he not as handsome a man as—”
He paused, then added thoughtfully, “And she, too, is beautiful.”
His fingers toyed with his silk robes, producing a small mirror. He examined his darkened upper lip and tonsured head.
A smile crossed his lips, turning into laughter after a moment.