Set in a flamboyant, perilous 17th‑century Spanish court, the story centers on a difficult moment that could upend the realm. The Rey, Gabino Diego, returns from a private excursion with the Count of Peña Andrada and is stunned to lay eyes on the naked body of Marfisa, a local prostitute, displayed in a pose that evokes the Rokeby Venus. This shocking sight drives him to demand a private view of his wife, Queen Elisabeth of France, who rules alongside him as a figure of courtly power and private desire. The Queen, Anne Roussel, is pulled into a tension between public duty and personal appetite, and the shockwaves ripple through every corner of the palace.
To navigate the crisis, the Grand Inquisitor, played by the seasoned performer at the heart of the inquisitorial office, convenes a high‑stakes meeting of theologians. Theologically diverse voices collide: the friar Villaescusa, Ramón Barea, argues that the king’s wish is a grave sin with the potential to corrupt the kingdom, while Father Almeida, Joaquim de Almeida, contends that the ruler’s fate hinges more on governance than morality and that the king’s desire is ultimately a private matter. The Queen, though sympathetic to the king, is drawn into the complex machinations of court power, and the two men entangle themselves in a battle over whether desire should dictate public policy or yield to individual discretion.
Despite the spiritual and political tension, pathways open up through collaboration. With the persistent help of the Jesuit and the Count of la Peña Andrade, Eusebio Poncela advances a path where the King is eventually able to meet the Queen alone in the monastery of San Plácido, achieving his private aim within a secured, ritualized setting. The romance and the risk are tempered by the underlying currents of courtly politics, as the monastery becomes a stage for a carefully staged encounter that tests loyalty, discretion, and the limits of authority.
Meanwhile, a parallel thread follows the Count‑Duke of Olivares, a man anxious about divine judgment over infertility within his own marriage. The valiant adviser Villaescusa, Ramón Barea in a different light, dispenses guidance that the act of lovemaking, rather than celestial punishment, shapes fate. The solution proposed in this moment of crisis is stark and provocative: the Earl and his wife should perform their act in the church’s choir of San Plácido, before the observation of nuns. The plan unfolds amid a web of loyalties and consequences, as letters arrive bearing news of distant victories—the Indian fleet reaching Cadiz and Spanish troops triumphing in Flanders—sending mixed signals about divine favor and political fortune.
As the ships return and the victories are celebrated, Villaescusa declares that the happy ending is a product of the collective sacrifice endured by all. Yet the Count, in a measured, almost curt voice, reminds everyone that the timing matters: the letters arrive at a moment that suggests the fleet reached Cadiz two days earlier, “just the day King went whores.” The weight of that remark lands with a sting, reframing the entire sequence of events as a test of conscience and political prudence.
In the final turn of events, the Count‑Duke dispatches Villaescusa to Rome with a sealed letter, insisting he not be permitted to depart until his attitude has changed. The thread of power, desire, and guilt remains taut, leaving the court to grapple with what is morally permissible, what is politically prudent, and how personal appetites can ripple outward to redefine a nation.
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