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The following story centers on a fictional carcanet ‘thought to have been fashioned in the 16th century’. It is an example of the type of story that could be used by a museum interested in deepening their visitors’ experiences – or by a luxury brand or auction house interested in strengthening their relationships with their most important clients.

Want to understand how this story could be used by your organization or brand? We explain exactly that... after the story itself.

The Necklace

November 14th, 1475 – Landshut, Bavaria

As the carriage begins to move, the cabin rocks slightly on the leather straps that suspend it between the wheels. Inside, the lone passenger, a young woman of only 17, closes her eyes. She holds a tiny gold pendant in her gloved hand, a figurine of a woman in motion. She grips it just a bit more tightly and draws in a deep breath, preparing herself for what is about to come.

Outside the carriage, she hears the rush of noise as the crowd around her murmurs with excitement. As her own carriage draws to yet another swinging stop, the crowd erupts in applause. The people in the crowd recognize the striking red eagle displayed on the side of the magnificently outfitted coach in front of her own. It is the coat of arms of Albrecht Achilles and Anna of Saxony, the Elector and Electress of Brandenburg; two of the most powerful people in the Empire.

The young woman knows, given the latest fashions and technology, that the Elector’s vehicle rides on steel shocks, is drawn by four horses and sports remarkable and vast Italian windows – treasures in their own right. Her own vehicle is far more modest. There are no windows and there is just a trace of gilding on the leather that weatherproofs her carriage. She too has a coat of arms, but it is no red eagle. Her mark is that of a modest castle set upon a field of green. It is the mark of Principality of Hohenfels; a mark she imagines none of the crowd would recognize.

Her cart begins to move again. She is next. She draws in another deep breath. She must show no fear, no uncertainty; just a sense of resolve and confidence and strength that she does not feel. Elisabeth, Princess of Hohenfels, knows that she is the most minor of noblewomen here. While she is a princess, her lands are small, weak and poor. She has been invited simply for sport. Her father has died, and the greater nobility are circling her small principality – judging who among them will be able to take it from the grasp of a mere woman. One who surely lacks the strength to enforce her own inheritance.

The fate of her family, with 500 years of history and dominion over the Principality of Hohenfels, comes down to this single evening. And, already, it seems as if that fate is sealed.

Elisabeth’s coach comes to a stop. Her driver jumps down from his position, pulls a step out from under the cart and places it just to the front of the wooden box that defines the body of the vehicle. The woman grips the little figurine once more, hoping that its creator will miraculously appear. Then she tries, in as dignified a way she can, to step over the edge of the front of her modest coach. Finally, she stands tall on the driver’s platform and sharply turns to the right, facing the gathered crowd.

Just as she had hoped, her arrival triggers a surprised and collective gasp.

The other noblewomen the crowd has seen have been wearing tall conical hats bestrewn with jewels. Their garments have been striking two-layered affairs – with flashes of silk and intricately embroidered underdresses visible beneath the slashed wrists of their ermine and velvet red and black overdresses. The quality and expense of their garments are statements of social position and wealth.

In contrast, Princess Elisabeth of Hohenfels seems completely out of place. Her blond hair is uncovered. Her sleeves are not slashed or double-layered; but clothed in voluminous fabric. At the same time, the expanse of her shoulders and the flat of her upper chest is scandalously exposed. And where the waistlines of other noblewomen’s dresses have been pushing higher and higher up the body, with a vast flowing of fabric beneath their jeweled belts, Elisabeth’s waistline is low and natural, accenting the shape of her entire upper body. She wears no belt.

At first, it seems as if Elisabeth has dressed only to stand out and to shock. Perhaps her clothes are meant as a plea for a marriage motivated by something other than nobility and property. But as the crowd gazes, a murmur begins to spread. Soon there are pointed fingers and comments about this or that. Bit by bit, the people are realizing that they are seeing something quite new. Her hair might be uncovered, but it is elaborately braided and threaded with tiny jewels pinned to ribbons woven in the pattern of a castle upon a hill. The whole arrangement seems to flicker with life in the evening’s torchlight. The crowd notices that her seemingly simple sleeves are embroidered with that same design, captured in intricate silver threads worked into the deep green fabric. Finally, the bodice of her dress is woven with geometric gold threads that seem to pull it tightly against her body; a magnificent contrast to the pictorial embroidery and the looseness of both her sleeves and her skirts.

Slowly the murmurs in the crowd grow and louder. Elisabeth, the Princess of Hohenfels is dressed as magnificently as any woman present. And yet, Elisabeth herself knows that she is dressed not quite magnificently enough. Because Elisabeth, the Princess of Hohenfels, wears no jewels aside from those tiny stones woven into her hair. It is that lack of jewelry that places her family lands, her title – and even her life – at the gravest of risks.

Elisabeth looks over the crowd and smiles broadly and confidently – hoping against hope that not all is lost. Then she steps down from her glorified cart and joins the line of nobility waiting to be introduced at the formal banquet for the Landshuter Hochzeit. It is the most prestigious banquet at the greatest wedding mankind has ever seen.

August 5th, 1475 – Three Months Prior to the Wedding

The best goldsmiths in Augsburg are always located on the southern side of the tight lanes in the city’s Unterer Stadt, or Lower Town. The reason is simple enough: if the light of the sun falls on your workshop windows, those same windows will form mirrors, and no passerby will be able to admire your skill and craftsmanship. Instead, you will find yourselves admiring the customers themselves, which is hardly a profitable venture.

Jacob’s shop – well, the shop in which he is a journeyman – was one of the best. Any passerby could glance inwards and see him at work – delicately shaping gold and silver into crosses, pendants and more. While it wasn’t actually Jacob’s shop, his own master was rarely at work. He would complain of pains in his joints or headaches and, as a result, he would spend most of his days sleeping in his living quarters above the shop. Jacob, the other journeyman and all the apprentices in the shop knew that the real issue was not pain in the joints or random headaches suffered during the day. No, the issue was the man’s nights – nights often spent gambling and drinking in the company of the least reputable of Augsberg’s female population. That was why Jacob effectively managed the shop himself. He was a journeyman whose skill would seem to suggest that the time for him to become a master had long since come and gone. Of course, he had tried to have his masterpieces accepted by the guild – and to join the ranks of the masters themselves – but again and again he had been rejected. He tells himself that his Master is at fault, undermining his efforts to leave the shop. But there is, ever present, a fear that perhaps Jacob himself is not a master – and is not ready to establish a shop of his own.

None of these were the thoughts that were running through Jacob’s mind as he worked that Thursday afternoon. No, he was reflecting on another problem. The problem was that he could see the world outside as clearly as it could see him. Jacob was rarely distracted by such mundane things as occurred in the lane outside his window. But sometimes, rarely – well, perhaps this was the first time – the mundane overcame him.

Standing outside Jacob’s workshop window was a young woman like none he’d ever seen before. She was tall, an obvious beneficiary of a strong diet. Her face was rounded and beautiful and he could not help but notice – even through her clothes, that her body was shaped in a most appealing fashion. She was perhaps the most beautiful woman Jacob had ever seen. But even beauty such as hers might not have been enough to distract him from his work.

No, there was something else about her that drew his attention. At first, he thought it might be her clothes. She was dressed in low-quality wool and carried a large and rough leather bag. It was almost as if she were a weaver’s wife. But she wasn’t. Jacob’s practiced eye realized the fabrics were but a feint. The stitches in her bag and her garments had been layered into obscurity. The way in which they had been hidden betrayed the greatest levels of craftsmanship. And, peeking out from her right sleeve was something quite a bit more impressive. The woman’s woolen garment was just an outer garment. Underneath, he was quite certain, she wore silks of the highest grade. He imagined, briefly, what it might be like to feel those silks. He had a hard time setting that thought aside.

But even as he glimpsed the silk peeking out from her sleeve, he knew that what truly set her apart was not her clothes or her face or her figure. No, it was her eyes. Her eyes seemed to be alight with a heady mixture of fear, hope, sadness and strength. The mixture was so complex, so layered, that everything else seemed simple in comparison.

Elisabeth stood at the shop window. She was watching the man inside at his work. She felt as if she had, over the past few days, watched every goldsmith in Augsberg ply their trade. Unfortunately, in the past few days, she had witnessed nothing spectacular. It seemed as if all the goldsmiths were the same. Their work was beautiful; stunning even. But she needed something more than any of them would have been able to provide.

Like all the other goldsmiths, the young man on the opposite side of the glass was sitting at a small bench. Like all the other goldsmiths, he was a man in contrast. He was strong, from working the bellows as a younger man, but his hands were delicate – attuned to the finest of work and his eyes seemed sharp and trained to work on the smallest of scales. There was a small bowl of burning charcoal on the table in front of him. It was a sort of portable hearth. In one hand, the man held a tiny gold thread in small iron tongs. The thread was shaped into a delicate curl. Already, Elisabeth understood what must happen next. She’d seen it happen often enough. The gold must be annealed, reset in a way, so that it could continue to be shaped without snapping or shattering.

As she watched, the young man picked up a brass blowpipe. He raised it to his lips. Delicately, he placed the other end of the pipe in the tiny bed of coals. He blew until the coals at that one spot were white hot. Then he gently placed that single strand of gold next to the coals, as close to touching as was possible without the two actually coming together. Nothing was wasted in his movements. They betrayed not only practice, but an intuition for the material itself – as if it he knew it would flow as he desired at the merest suggestion of his fingertips.

A few moments later, the man pulled the gold back from the fire and quenched it in a nearby cup of water. Then, with the tip of a tiny set of brass pliers, he tweaked the thread just a bit more. Then he set it down. There was a row of wires, gleaming in the indirect light of the sun. They were not simply curled as if meant to make shapes of flowers or vines when laid flat against a field of gold. No, these were three-dimensional. Even as two or three points along their bodies rested against the bench, other parts rose far above. It was as if the threads themselves were bodies twisted in agony – or, indeed, ecstasy.

His collection of wires seemingly complete, the young man started to gently coat the ends of the wires in a paste. Elizabeth had no idea what he was forming, but she had seen this before. It was the start of the soldering process. This man’s work would be different, though. Instead of being laid against a solid background, the wires were going to be attached – one to the other. The man placed a candle between himself and the charcoal. Then he set his blowpipe between his lips. With his two hands, he picked up one of the wires and then his solder – a solid piece of gold alloy that would melt at a temperature lower than the gold itself. With his lips, he held the pipe above the candle flames and then he blew the softest of breaths through the pipe itself. His breath rushed past the candle and emerged, hot, into the midst of the coals. A pinpoint flame burst into life in the charcoal itself. With quick, confident movements, the man joined the end of the wire to the solder. After mere moments, the solder had melted. In rapid succession, he moved on to the next piece and then the one after that. It seemed as if only a minute had passed before he had assembled the entirety of the object he was crafting.

Elisabeth saw it clearly for the first time, then. Her hand flew to her mouth and she found herself stifling a surprised gasp. The man looked up at her and then back at the piece. His eyes widened as if he too were surprised, as if he created the object before him in a state of fugue, unaware of the work he was doing. Elisabeth could imagine that that was exactly what had happened.

The object the goldsmith was holding, a mere fingertip in length, was like nothing else she’d ever seen. The wires formed a three-dimensional shape, a filigreed masterpiece of light and shadow and delicate workmanship. That shape was of a woman, a woman in desperate motion – struggling to reach an objective that she knows will always be beyond her grasp.

Her heart suddenly racing, Elisabeth realized that the goldsmith had captured her – her spirit was held within the figurine that rested so delicately in his hands.

Jacob just stared at the woman in his hands. In terms of technique alone, he had never seen anything like it. He had never meant to create it. But it was there, in his hands, nonetheless. It was the figure of a woman who is running, but who somehow remains perfectly still. It was as if time had frozen and locked her into a terrible reality from which she could not possibly escape.

He knew, if the woman had had eyes they would have been alight with a heady mixture of hope, sadness and strength. But he knew, most of all, that those eyes would hold a fundamental fear – fear bordering on surrender and resignation.

The golden figurine was beautiful. Beautiful, but terrifying.

Jacob reached for his hammer – ready to smash what he has formed. Surely, it had too much life for the product of a man’s hands. Then he heard it – a pounding. He looked up and saw that the woman, the inspiration for his work, was hammering against the shopfront’s windows. There was fear in her eyes. Perhaps of him destroying the figurine? Even as he thought it, he knew that the answer was far more complex that he could begin to know.

Jacob picked the figurine up. As the woman watched, transfixed, he stood and began to make his way to the adjoining shopfront. She shadowed him, on the other side of the glass. Her eyes never left the figurine. As he opened the door between the workshop and the shopfront, she burst in from the street.

Jacob met her at the countertop. An aura of cloves and cinnamon seemed to envelope her. It was the scent of the wealthy, a subtle mark her coarse woolen gown completely failed to conceal.

“How much is it?” the woman asked, urgently. Her voice was mellifluous with deep undertones, and it carried a sense of power and confidence betrayed only by her eyes.

‘How much?’ he asked himself, confused. He couldn’t work it out. He couldn’t seem to understand how much of his Master’s material he had used. He didn’t know what the markup should be. Everything seemed clouded.

“It is yours,” he said, “It can only be yours.”

“You’re a journeyman,” she said, “This must be worth half a year’s wages.”

Jacob just nodded. That seemed like it might be right. He ought to have known, really. He was normally very good with money. But what did it really matter? He could not sell this piece. It could only be a gift to this woman – the women with the hidden silks.

Jacob extended his hand over the countertop; the figurine held between his fingertips. Was he shaking? As he laid the figurine in her palm, his fingertips brushed her skin ever so gently. With that, a blinding jolt seemed to pass through his entire body.

He closed his eyes in that moment and then released the figurine. When he opened his eyes a mere moment later, he saw the woman smiling. There was a joy there, a joy that had – for the moment at least – cast aside her demons.

She looked up towards him and their eyes met.

“Thank you,” she said. She was almost grinning at her own good fortune.

Jacob was still wrapped up in the fog of the experience. But he was responsible for the shop. And so, feeling almost like an idiot, he asked, “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

The weinstuben – or wine hall – sat only 70 yards from the goldsmith’s shop. The room was a tight one with massive wooden beams seeming to support a wooden ceiling mere inches above the heads of the many customers. Long wooden tables were jammed as close together as they could be, maximizing the number of people who could be served. The scent of broiled sausages filled the room. An overtone of heated wine creating an ambiance of relaxation, comfort and wealth.

The place was busy, as usual. At night, the weinstuben might have been filled with drunken merriment – the likes of Jacob’s master carrying on. But during the day, the scene was one of order and whispered conversation. Augsburg was a center of business, industry, trade and – most importantly - finance. Visitors needed a bit of neutral territory within which to conduct their business. This weinstuben, and others like it, served as the places in which deals were done and alliances formed. The wine, cheese, sausages and bread served in these places seemed to serve as the marrow generating the lifeblood of the city itself.

Jacob and Elisabeth were sitting across from one another. Their place at the table almost touched the wall furthest from the entrance to the weinstuben. The woman’s leather bag was jammed safely between herself and the wall. Jacob had left another journeyman in charge of the shop. It was not unusual to take major clients out for a drink, particularly near the end of the day. Indeed, by the time Elisabeth and Jacob reached the weinstuben, the atmosphere hovered somewhere between daytime dealmaking and the very first flowering of the night’s ribaldry. There were small groups of men unwinding a bit and getting to know their future business partners. And then there were men and woman paired together, engaged in an entirely different kind of negotiation. Jacob noticed a few of them discretely passing funds to their erstwhile partners, presumably in return for evening adventures yet to be realized.

Jacob wondered whether Elisabeth was aware of any of it.

Resting between the two of them were sheets of paper. And drawn on those sheets were sketches for a dress the likes of which Jacob had never seen. He didn’t know a great deal about dresses, but Elisabeth was excitedly explaining all the innovations she had in mind. He didn’t know what it had to do with him, but he let her talk – he loved to hear her talk.

As she continued her descriptions of how the gown would actually be created, he began to hear terms he hadn’t expected. She was talking about the relative costs of the fabric. She was describing how she would use dressmakers familiar with new techniques; and thus conceal the reality that the fabric of her gown actually cost far less than that which would be worn by the other guests at some function coming in the near future.

Eventually, she asked, “Do you understand what I need?”

“No,” he said.

“I need jewelry. A necklace perhaps. To pair with this dress.”

“Do you have any ideas?” he asked.

“I don’t know, perhaps thin golden balls somehow set with jewels on the outside. Something that will take the materials I have and make them seem like something more magnificent than what the Empress herself will be wearing.”

He stared at her.

“The Empress?”

Elisabeth found herself biting her own tongue. She hadn’t meant to talk about the occasion itself, or what it meant to her family. But the goldsmith had already worked it out.

“You’re going to the Landshuter Hochzeit?”

She just nodded, not wanting to reveal anything more.

“And you’re going to be at an event where one might compare your dress and jewels with that of the Empress.”

Elisabeth lowered her eyes. Quietly, she said, “Yes.”

“Who are you?” asked Jacob. He found himself wondering why he hadn’t asked that before. It was normal due diligence for a goldsmith.

The woman leaned towards him. He mirrored her motion. Her skin seemed to radiate a powerful heat. She whispered in his ear – on the side nearest the wall and furthest from anybody else in the room, “I am Princess Elisabeth of the Hohenfels.”

They sat back again, but Jacob’s question was unanswered.

“Of what?” he asked.

“It is a small place,” she said, quietly.

“So why would you be invited to the sort of event that the Empress might attend?”

Jacob watched as Elisabeth bit her lower lip with indecision. Then she leaned forward again. Jacob was only too happy to oblige her.

“My father just died,” she said, “He had no male heir. While the geleit for the wedding is in place, none of the great powers of the Empire can take my principality from me. But the geleit will expire mere weeks after the Landshuter Hochzeit. My family has had our lands for 500 years, my father has designated me as his heir, but all of it is about to disappear.”

Still leaning close, just because he could, Jacob asked, “How can a dress and a necklace possibly help?”

“I’ve been invited to the central wedding banquet because I am to be served up at it. The various noblemen and clergy who would dream of swallowing little Hohenfels up will all be there. Only one thing can hold them back.”

“And that one thing is?”

“Money. I have to look like I have money. Not nice clothes money, but so much money that I can hire an army to keep them at bay. So much money that their own vassals will not imagine that the conquest of Hohenfels will be worth the blood it will cost.”

“But you don’t have the money.”

She bit her lower lip again, so close that he could almost taste it.

“No,” she said, “I do not.”

Was she playing games with him?

“What have you done so far?” he asked.

“I hired a silver mining engineer,” she said, shocked at her own willingness to share.

Jacob could look into that, due diligence and all. It was a clever move. The woman clearly had no silver mine, but the hiring of the engineer would spark rumors and conversation. Combined with clothes and jewels that seemed to exceed her means, people might be persuaded of a great hidden wealth. They might think she could indeed hire an army.

“What do you have to work with?” he asked.

She gestured him even closer and began to open her bag. As he leaned forward, his ear brushed her face. The cloves and cinnamon she wore seemed to immerse him in the scents of the Far East and India. But it was something else, the smell of her, that took his breath away.

As expected, he looked inside her bag and saw gold and jewels. And he knew that, even in his hands, there wasn’t nearly enough there to upstage the Empress.

“I brought everything my family has,” she whispered into his ear.

He nodded. Fear, sadness, surrender and strength. He felt it all as he looked into the bag. Reluctantly, he pulled away. She closed the bag and looked up at him again. There it was – in her eyes – that faint glimmer of hope.

Her hopes depended on him.

“Can you help?” she asked. It was as if the question carried the weight of the world.

“Yes,” he said.

“If you sell what jewels you need in order to cover your expenses, will there still be enough to do what needs doing?”

“Yes,” said Jacob. But even as he spoke, he knew it was a lie.

November 14th, 1475 – Landshut, Bavaria

Elisabeth steps lightly into the Town Hall, to the steady melody of the pavane. Those in the line move with her, in a sort of entrance promenade. She feels the eyes of the entire room on her – as if she is the main course and the distribution of her lands the true purpose of this occasion.

It is not so, of course. The wedding itself cost far more than her principality would ever be worth. But the feeling remains heavy and dark upon her, cutting through the warm and yet uplifting scent of the frankincense that fills the room.

She dances pleasantly enough, though – hoping against hope that somehow her family’s line will not simply end. Eventually, she reaches the end of the procession and stands to the side, ostensibly to watch others slowly enter the surprisingly modest hall. The groom is George the Rich of House Wittelsbach. His father’s great wealth had been acquired not through silver mines or cities sitting astride key trading routes. Instead, they had established law and order within their lands. With that, business and industry had come, creating a golden age not only for the family itself but for many others in southern Germany.

Elisabeth’s own father had only recently died, but he had long since lost any sense of competence. When Elisabeth began to take over the administration of Hohenfels, she was only 14. A normal girl, one not cursed with her overwhelming will, would had deferred to the same advisors who had run the Principality into the ground. But Elisabeth had grander ideas. She had noticed what the Wittelsbach had done for Bavaria and she – despite her counselors – had decided to follow in their footsteps.

Elisabeth had hired professional bureaucrats and judges, bringing a newfound clarity and fairness to life in Hohenfels. She had created a team of inspectors, an imitation of those in Nurenberg, who enforced quality regimes within her lands. She had encouraged a small market. And, of course, she had joined the Wittelsbach’s alliance of law and order. No longer could criminals flee across the many tiny states of southern Germany. She would enforce the laws of her neighbors, and they would enforce the laws of Hohenfels.

Like the great cities around her own, Elisabeth realized that Hohenfels needed a specialty. Ironworks and finance and armor and goldsmithing and so many other trades were dominated by cities nearby. But Elisabeth knew that the greatest of couturier remained in faraway Italy. Those creators of noble garments embraced Italian styles and designed clothing for Italian needs and fashions. There was a need for something German. Hohenfels could be a center of fashion. Most importantly, the outlay for such a venture would be small, although the impact on Hohenfels itself could be enormous.

With her meager budget, Elisabeth travelled to Italy and somehow convinced up-and-coming talents, those she recognized as not quite fitting within their own world, to come to Hohenfels. In her vision, the skills of the couturiers would supplant the cost of the fabric as the mark of true quality. But her vision was just beyond the reach of her own times. There was no demand for what Hohenfels tiny new industry could produce. Instead, Elisabeth paid those she brought to train her own subjects in the arts of couture. Fundamentally, she believed that if she could only have a little more time, the gathering nexus of talent would emerge as the irresistible source of the finest garments in the Empire.

As she stands there, watching the various noblemen who are in turn watching her, she realizes that she cares about her lands in a way they didn’t. Certainly, some of them have 500-years of history in a place – just as she has. But very few have built as she has built. Very few sit atop functioning polities in which the fullest dreams of men – and of women – could be realized.

Elisabeth could have taken her jewels and fled. Certainly, she would not have lived the life of a ruler. She would not have carried the legacy of her family forward. But she would have survived. There would have been no need for a struggle against those who would contest her titles. But, instead, she is standing here risking everything and trying desperately to dance between the feet of bears. She is standing here because she wants more for Hohenfels. She is standing here because she believes that with just a little more time, Hohenfels could become a tiny jewel in the Imperial constellation.

And if there is no more time? Then Hohenfels would be left a mere farm village, taxed to near destruction by one of the great families of the Empire. The thought makes her sick.

As if on call, Elisabeth sees Frederick of Brandenburg, the son of Albrecht Achilles, approaching. The boy is only 15, but he struts as if he is the king of the world. He might as well be. She can smell the ambergris he has lavishly spread upon his skin. The scent, that seems to combine the smells of an ancient book with the most complex of sea salts, costs 10 times as much as gold itself. This young man can afford to throw it away for a party.

With barely the tip of his hat, Frederick asks her to dance. He is the son of the Elector of Brandenberg. Although she is a princess, she cannot help but accept.

The two of them begin to dance to the gentle movements of the basse danse. As she looks into the empty eyes of Frederick of Brandenburg she mourns the lack of her own glorious necklace. But for one chain of gold, covered with jewels, her people might escape the grasp of a man such as this.

She cannot help but wonder… did Jacob simply steal her jewels – knowing she would never be able to seek justice? She can hardly imagine it. His eyes had seemed alive with the magic of possibility. He was nothing like Frederick.

Surely, he lived to create and not to destroy.

And, yet, she has no necklace. Indeed, perhaps no necklace was ever made.

In that moment Elisabeth finds herself mourning the trust she placed in Jacob more than the mourns the fate of Hohenfels itself.

November 10th, 1475 – Four Days Prior to the Wedding

The single piece rested, together for the first time, on a bench in the inner workshop. Jacob no longer worked in sight of the street. The necklace simply seemed too valuable to be seen by the passing public.

Smiling, Jacob ran his hands over its magnificent form. The necklace was like nothing he had seen before. Like nothing anybody had seen before. The latest of fashions had gold chains, from which pendants hung – like giant charms serving as displays of the wearer’s wealth. This necklace was a carcanet – a series of short chains of gold joined together by jewels wrapped in gold settings. The effect made it seem as if gold itself was too irrelevant a material to completely encircle the wearer’s neck.

But this carcanets was unlike any other. Instead of solid gold wrapping itself around every jewel, the jewels were held in place by thin metal fingers – delicate and precisely formed settings. Those fingers, weaving in every which way, somehow miraculously came together to form a different motif for each stone. Each one of the motifs represented a citizen of Hohenfels. Here there was a midwife, represented by a baby. There a baker by his bread. Here a stock of wheat, there a sheep. Here an anvil and there a fine dress. The images, like those preserved in the stained glass of the finest cathedrals, spoke of the simple beauty of a place he had never seen.

And then, suspended from the center of the piece, there was the greatest emblem of them all. It was a small fort on a hill. It was the coat of arms of Hohenfels and a representation of the magic of the tiny principality.

The necklace was as beautiful as he could possibly have formed it. Of course, the guild would not recognize it as a masterpiece; it did not adhere to their traditional forms. But gazing at his work – work inspired by Elisabeth of Hohenfels – Jacob knew it was as fine a piece as anyone in the Empire had ever created.

Now it was time to bring it to Elisabeth of Hohenfels.

A small troupe of men on horseback waited outside his shop. They were flying the banner of Hohenfels. The flag was meant to call on the guarantee offered by the geleit; and ensure Jacob’s voyage to Landshut would be uneventful.

November 14th, 1475 – Landshut, Bavaria

As the dance draws to a close, Elisabeth realizes that Frederick had not spoken a single word to her during the dance itself. Instead, he seemed satisfied just to toy with his prey – the loose hold his hand had on hers somehow serving as the strongest of reminders of the grip he held around her principality.

The dance ends and Frederick smiles an empty smile and then says, “My young princess, you would make a far stronger case for Hohenfels independence if, say, you were to be wearing a necklace of gold and jewels? People might believe, then, that you do indeed have some vast deposit of silver within your lands.”

With that one sentence, Elisabeth understands what has happened. Jacob made the necklace. He made it and, somehow, Frederick stole it.

Jacob was honest. Jacob was true. And yet all of it has come for naught.

There is no necklace, there will be no necklace. All there will be is resignation and surrender. Perhaps, just maybe, she can escape with her life.

But Elisabeth finds herself needing to know more. What happened to Jacob?

She bows gently and says, “My Lord, you are of course correct. Such a necklace could be a powerful ally. I wonder if perhaps you know why I wear no jewels of consequence?”

Frederick knows that violations of the geleit come at a significant price. Nonetheless, he cannot contain his conceit.

“I suppose a group of bandits might have come across it on the road to Landshut. They might have captured a certain lockbox and then discovered the necklace within.”

“Bandits?” she says.

“Ah, yes,” he answers, “Mere bandits.”

“Did they hurt anybody?”

“Oh, no,” he says, “The travelers surrendered without a fight.”

She smiles, truly relieved. But Frederick misunderstands. He chimes in, reassuringly, “Oh, the necklace would not have saved you. It was not nearly grand enough to fill your enemies’ hearts with fear.”

With that, he waves his hands vaguely at the necklace he himself is wearing. The necklace is classic in its form – ribbons with gold baubles hanging from it. Is this what Jacob created?

“It almost seems,” Frederick says, “Like it was the work of a mere apprentice.”

A cloud of disappointment and confusion seems to rush over her. And then, at very instant, she feels a fingertip brush against the nape of her neck. She knows, somehow, whose fingertip it is. Before she can turn, she hears a familiar voice, Jacob’s voice.

“Be still still my Serene Highness. You forgot your necklace.”

Her eyes look upwards as Jacob’s hands lower a magnificent carcanet before her eyes. She takes in every detail as it passes before her, marveling at the craftsmanship and wondering how her own modest jewels could possibly have been turned into something so magnificent. It is a necklace that rivals that of the Empress herself.

The goldsmith clasps it behind her neck. She barely notices the shock that has overwhelmed Frederick’s visage. She barely notices that the room has gone silent. The beauty of her necklace has brought a stop to every conversation.

Her mind is filled with a million questions. What necklace did Frederick’s men steal? How could her modest jewels be made into something so grand? And how did a mere goldsmith gain entry to this vaunted banquet?

Elisabeth turns to Jacob, not sure where to start with her questions – or whether to start at all. But Jacob doesn’t appear as she saw him last. He is wearing wool, clasped all the way up to his neck. The material is basic, but the workmanship is stunning. She recognizes the stitching as belonging to the couturiers of Hohenfels itself. Jacob’s visage seems intense, severe and almost frightening. Like he is a man of overwhelming power. Only his eyes are smiling – and they smile only for her.

Behind her, she hears Frederick blurt out, “Jacob?”

“Is Frederick of Brandenburg a client of yours?” she asks, trying to make sense of events.

“Not of mine,” says Jacob, an unexpected sophistication in his voice, “He is a client of my father, Heinrich Welser.”

Heinrich Welser. A banker to Counts, Dukes, and Emperors. Heinrich Welser, the richest man in the Empire.

“My jewels were not enough, were they?” asks Elisabeth.

“Not nearly enough,” says Jacob, “That is why I had one of the apprentices make them into a necklace for poor Frederick to steal.”

“And will this be enough?” she asks, her fingers brushing the surface of the necklace.

“Not by itself,” he says.

“Then what else do you have to offer?” she asks.

Jacob just smiles. Then, the son of the richest man in the Empire, lowers himself to one knee.

In that moment, Elisabeth realizes that everything will be okay.

Are you a curator? Imagine a podcast with episodes crafted around different objects in an upcoming exhibition. Instead of simple histories, or perhaps slightly fleshed out situational descriptions, stories like the Necklace would enable your collection to touch people’s lives in an new way. Perhaps you could run the stories prior to the exhibition opening - when your guests arrive, your exhibits will already be familiar acquaintances - ready to be appreciated in a new light.

Do you represent a luxury brand? This story was written as a celebration of Liz. Liz is a patron of the arts. She is also dedicated to public policy, driven by a deep love of history and sympathetic to the central role of fashion in the human story. Liz may be fictional, but surely you have a client or two like that…

Imagine gifting your Liz with copies of a story created just for her. Not just copies, of course, but books whose very presentation celebrates your brand. This story could have been printed in a green velvet cover and embroidered with an outline of the Hohenfels’ fictional coat of arms. It would be a client gift like no other – and far more personal than a mere portrait with a handbag.

While this story centers on a 16th century necklace, our stories are fundamentally about people and aspirations. So whether you are involved with antique jewelry, classic cars, precision-engineering, architecture or timeless craftsmanship, our bespoke stories can strengthen your client relationships.

To learn more, contact me at joseph@storiesthatcelebrate.com