High on the ancient ramparts of Wawel Castle, red banners adorned with white eagles snapped in the crisp March breeze. The massing gray clouds veiled the winter sun, and the biting wind heralded another rainstorm.
King Sigismund I of Poland surveyed the magnificent building around him. The massive stone walls spoke a silent reminder that his ancestors had lived on this hill for centuries. From his vantage point on the colonnaded balcony, the city of Krakow spread like a jeweled necklace across both banks of the Vistula River. In the courtyard below, men from all over Europe worked at renovating the ancient stronghold.
In the distance, someone was swearing loudly in Italian.
Sigismund made his way down the ornate stairway and through the bustling crowds of workmen to where his chapel was taking shape. The workers bowed, but he passed by without acknowledging them. The smell of pine logs freshly cut in the forests above Niepolomice mixed with the stinging odor of hot tar bubbling in pots assailed the king’s nostrils. A cacophony of sounds—hammering, shouting, and the creaking of hoists—filled the air, but it was all music to Sigismund’s ears. At last, he came to the site of his latest project. He stood admiring it, imagining the holy masses that the priests would hold inside and the sweet music of the choir resounding within its beautiful walls.
Ah, my beautiful chapel!
The completed foundation stood, but nothing had been added since Sigismund’s last visit. Hands on his hips, the Italian architect, Bartolommeo Berrecci, surveyed the piles of huge stones and thick beams. Workmen leaned on their tools smiling while Berrecci berated a tradesman who argued back in Italian. Berrecci shook his finger at a pile of stone.
“What shall I do with this giunca? I can’t use these ugly rocks to build the greatest chapel in Europe. Take them back! Take them back!”
The tradesman, his face growing redder each moment, signaled to Berrecci, who turned and saw Sigismund. Both men bowed. The king put his hands on the men’s shoulders.
“What is the problem, Master Bartolommeo?” Berrecci, he knew, was an impatient man with a quick temper.
Berrecci moved away and kicked at one of the pieces of stone. The marble broke into two sections. “Your Majesty, this scemo tries to pass off this spazzatura as decent stone for your chapel.” The Italian’s hands moved in elegant choreography with his words. “The material is crisscrossed with hairline fractures. It will disintegrate within ten years. I cannot use this, Your Majesty.”
“Scemo, is it? Why you!” The tradesman stepped toward Bartolommeo, fists raised. “Keep it up, and I’ll knock your head off, you little ratto.”
Laughing, Sigismund stepped between them. He turned to the tradesman. “Why did you deliver inferior stone?”
“It is not my fault, Your Majesty.” The man clutched his chest. “I received this delivery and tried to tell Berrecci that it was not up to his standard. But he was in such a hurry, he ordered me to bring it. Another delivery is coming next month—perfect stone cut from the heart of the mountains, but this one, he is so impaziente! He demanded the stone, and now we are in this conflitto.”
“Return the stone.” The king lifted a finger. “I will make sure they pay you for hauling it. And, Master Berrecci…” He put his arm around the Italian’s shoulder. “You can do something else until the new stone arrives.”
Berrecci blew out a long breath. “Yes, Your Majesty. I must finish the galleries. I will wait.”
Sigismund whispered in Berecci’s ear. “Before he leaves, perhaps you should tell him exactly what you want once more, just to make sure he understands.”
Berrecci turned to the tradesman. “You—I want marble of the highest quality—stone that will stand for a thousand years.”
The tradesman bowed low. “Yes, Master Berrecci, I swear it will be the finest stone you have ever seen.”
“Good, you may go.”
Sigismund smiled again as Berrecci dismissed the tradesman with a lifted hand.
“And you!” Berrecci said, addressing the workmen who had been watching the interchange, “Get back to work.”
The tradesman called his helpers, and they reloaded the carts while the other workmen hurried about their tasks.
Walking with Berrecci among the materials stacked below the high wall to which the chapel foundation was attached, King Sigismund said, “Tell me again, Master Berrecci, of your plan.”
Berrecci led the king to the spot where the excavation had begun. “I will build a square base of heavy stone on this spot and set the panels in the stone. Among them will be the mighty crowned eagle of Poland. On top will be a golden dome with eight windows set in deep bays. Although I will design much of the interior, I have commissioned Sebastian Tauerbach and Hans the woodcarver to build the wooden ceilings and decorate the walls with friezes and royal portraits. This,” Berrecci said, beaming with pride, “will be the finest chapel in all Christendom, Your Majesty.”
At that moment Sigismund heard someone call from across the courtyard. He turned to see a page running toward him. The boy bowed and dropped to one knee before the king. “Your Majesty, Queen Bona requests you come as soon as you can. The French envoys have arrived a day earlier than expected.”
Sigismund nodded. “I must go, Signor Berrecci. Matters of state call me. I am gratified by the brilliant work you have accomplished so far, and I await my chapel’s completion with great expectancy.”
Berrecci bowed. “Your Majesty honors me. I will use every bit of the God-given talent the Creator has given me in this work, to the glory of God… and Poland.”
When Sigismund entered the envoy room, he found his young wife, Bona Sforza talking with the French ambassador and his companion. She was pointing out features of the elaborate frieze decorating the wall. At his arrival, the two men turned and bowed.
“A magnificent frieze, Your Majesty,” said the older of the two.
Sigismund nodded. “Yes, it is called ‘The story of human life’ and is an illustration of the Greek text Tabula Cebetis.” He pointed to the ceiling coffer. “Above us are the sculptures that Sebastian Tauerbach just completed.”
The younger man nodded his head. “Marvelous, Your Majesty, wonderful.”
“Ah, Monsieur de Lengeac,” Sigismund smiled at the youthful man with the white wig. “I am honored King Francis sends an envoy of such stature—one so young yet so skilled in the arts of diplomacy that your king trusts you with this mission.”
“God’s gifts have brought me this post, Your Majesty.” Lengeac ducked his head.
“But, Monsieur, you are so young…”
Lengeac drew to his full height. “I am twenty-three, Your Majesty.” He turned to the dignified man standing beside him. “May I introduce Chevalier Pierre Du Terrail Bayard, one of our finest soldiers and a hero of France. He has been my protector and guided me throughout the difficult journey from Paris.”
The chevalier bowed.
Sigismund glanced from one man to the other. “Your reputation precedes you, Chevalier. As I understand it, you served in the Italian Expedition of Louis XII 1499. Then you distinguished yourself in the combat of French and Spanish knights at Barletta 1503, were wounded at the siege of Brescia, and taken prisoner at the Battle of Spurs. A valiant and distinguished career.”
The knight’s eyes widened with surprise. “Your Majesty honors me. I am but a simple soldier.” He bowed again.
“No, Chevalier, we know your reputation even here in Krakow, and it honors us that King Francis sent two such men as envoys. I can see he considers this mission of great importance.” Sigismund nodded to a servant standing against the wall. “Show these men and their party to the quarters we have prepared for them.”
He took Lengeac by the hand. “You must rest from your long journey. We were expecting you tomorrow and have already eaten. I will have my servants deliver food and drink to your quarters. Tomorrow, we will discuss the matter of Isabella over breakfast, and then we wish to honor you with a state banquet in the evening.”
The two men bowed and left. Sigismund turned to his wife. “Ah, my dear, Francis is eager to win our support for his election as Holy Roman Emperor. He will offer his son as a match for our little Isabella. But you know I set my mind on Charles of Spain to be the emperor. These men will need to be very skillful negotiators to convince me otherwise.”
“You must let them convince you, Sigismund.” Bona shook her head. “You know one day I hope to install Isabella and her husband as the rulers of the Duchy of Milan, my home and my inheritance. A lesser son of the French king would be the perfect ruler as long as there was a Sforza at his side.”
“Yes, Bona, Milan and your family’s role there is always in your thoughts. But in the great scheme of things...”
Bona’s eyes flashed. “A marriage alliance with France will bring our family back to power. We must do everything we can to see my country returned to greatness.”
“But, my dear, in your concern for the tiny Duchy of Milan, you do not grasp the totality of the problems that confront Poland. That heretic, Luther, challenges the Catholic Church daily. The masses are rising, and the Catholic nations tremble in the face of this so-called reformation. Poland must remain Catholic, and to do that she must be aligned with other powerful Catholics such as the Hapsburgs or the Spanish king.”
“But France is Catholic…”
A glance from Sigismund silenced Bona. “France is a minor player in the affairs of middle Europe. Our daughter came at a propitious time. Around us, great political turmoil rattles all of Europe. Nations are changing, rulers are rising and falling, heretics challenge our great religion. As the rulers of Poland, our divine mission is to guarantee that Poland remains free and strong and Catholic forever. Our daughter may play a role in that preservation. She is a trump card we cannot waste on the Duchy of Milan.”
“But, Sigismund, she is only a baby. Surely she cannot be that important to your plans for Poland? Especially when Milan is at stake…”
Now Sigismund’s eyes flashed. “Enough of Milan! Isabella is a baby, yes, but as you see by the men Francis has sent to negotiate on his son’s behalf, she is a baby who may hold the future of nations in her tiny hands. We cannot use her unwisely.”
Late that night, the storm that had been threatening all day broke above the castle walls. The wind howled, rain poured from the leaden sky and lightning lit the frothing river. Thunder crashed ominously amid the roiling heavens. Alerted by a tiny voice crying in the night, a nurse scurried toward the royal nursery, a solitary candle in her hand. Grieved by the child’s frightened visage, the nurse bent to take the baby in her comforting arms.
“Ah, my little Bella, not happy with the storm?”
The baby’s tiny hands clutched at the nurse, and her frightened cries soon subsided into soft cooing.
“You will have storms in your life, my little one,” the nurse whispered. “And I will not be able to protect you. You must grow strong in your spirit and learn to bear what comes.