Black Magic, Marjorie Bowen [100 books to read TXT] 📗

into brilliant relief the flame hues of his robe

and the clear pale colour of his strange face; he held the instrument

across his knees and commenced playing on it with the long bow Jacobea

had given him; an irregular quick melody arose, harsh and jeering.

 

After he had played a while he began to sing, but in a chant under his

breath, so that the quality of his voice was not heard.

 

He sang strange meaningless words at first; the four listening sat

very still; only Sybilla had picked up her sewing, and her fingers

rose and fell steadily as the bodkin glittered over the red lily.

 

Theirry hid his face in his hands; he hated the place, the woman

quietly sewing, the dark-faced man beside him; he even hated the image

of Jacobea, that he saw, as clearly as if he looked at her, brightly

before him.

 

Dirk broke into a little doggerel rhyme, every word of which was hard

and clear.

 

“The turkis in my fine spun hair Was brought to me from Barbarie.

 

My pointed shield is rouge and vair, Where mullets three shine

royallie.

 

Now if he guessed.

 

He need not wait in poor estate, But on his breast

 

Wear all my state and be my mate.

 

For sick for very love am I.

 

My heart is weak to kiss his cheek; But he is low, and I am high.

 

I cannot speak, for I am weak.”

 

Jacobea put the cat among the cushions and rose; she had a curious set

smile on her lips. “Do you call that the rhyme of a foolish lady?” she

asked.

 

“Ay, for if she had offered her love, surely it had not been refused,”

answered Dirk, dragging the bow across the strings.

 

“You think so?” said Jacobea in a shrinking tone.

 

“Mark you, she was a rich lady,” smiled Dirk, “and fair enough, and

young and gentle, and he was poor; so I think, if she had not been so

foolish, she might have been his second wife.”

 

At these words Theirry looked up; he saw Jacobea standing in a

bewildered fashion, as if she knew not whether to go or stay, and in

her eyes an unmistakable look of amazement and horror.

 

“The rhyme said nothing of the first wife,” remarked Sybilla, without

looking up from the red lily.

 

“The rhyme says very little,” answered Dirk. “It is an old story—the

squire had a wife, but if the lady had told her love belike he had

found himself a widower.”

 

Jacobea touched the steward’s wife on the shoulder.

 

“Dear heart,” she said, “I am weary—very weary with doing nought. And

it is late—and the place strange—tonight—at least”—she gave a

trembling smile—“I feel it—strange—so—good even.”

 

Sybilla rose, Jacobea’s lips touched her on the forehead.

 

The steward watched them; Jacobea, the taller of the two, stooping to

kiss his wife. Theirry got to his feet; the chatelaine raised her head

and looked towards him.

 

“To-morrow I will bid you God speed, sirs;” her blue eyes glanced

aside at Dirk, who had moved to the door by the fireplacer and held

it open for her; she looked back at Theirry, then round in silence and

coloured swiftly.

 

Sybilla glanced at the sand clock against the wall.

 

“Yea, it is near midnight. I will come with you.” She put her arm

round Jacobea’s waist, and smiled backwards over her shoulder at

Theirry; so they went, the sound of their garments on the stairs

making a faint soft noise; the little cat rose from her cushions,

stretched herself, and followed them.

 

Sebastian picked up the red silk lily that his wife had flung down on

the cushions; the candles were guttering to the iron sockets, making

the light in the chamber still dimmer, the corners still more deeply

obscured with waving shadows.

 

“You know your chamber,” said the steward to Dirk. “You will find me

here in the morning. Good-night.”

 

He took a bunch of keys from his belt and swung them in his hand.

 

“Good-night,” said Theirry heavily.

 

Dirk smiled, and threw himself into the vacated window-seat.

 

The steward crossed the room to the door by which they had entered; he

did not look back, though both were watching him; the door closed

after him violently, and they were alone in the vast darkening hall.

 

“This is fine hospitality,” sneered Dirk. “Is there none to light us

to our chamber?” Theirry walked to and fro with an irregular agitated

step.

 

“What was that song of yours?” he asked. “What did you mean? What ails

this place and these people? She never looked at me.”

 

Dirk pulled at the strings of the instrument he still held; they

emitted little wailing sounds.

 

“She is pretty, your chatelaine,” he said. “I did not think to see her

so soon. You love her—or you might love her.”

 

His bright eyes glanced across the shadowy space between them.

 

“Ye mock and sneer at me,” answered Theirry hotly, “because she is a

great dame. I do not love her, and yet—”

 

“And yet—?” goaded Dirk.

 

“If our arts can do anything for us—could they not—if I wished it—

some day—get this lady for me?”

 

He paused, his hand to his pale brow.

 

“You shall never have her,” said Dirk, biting his under lip.

 

Theirry turned on him violently.

 

“You cannot tell. Of what use to serve Evil for nought?”

 

“Ye have done with remorse belike?” mocked Dirk. “Ye have ceased to

long for priests and holy water?”

 

“Ay,” said Theirry recklessly, “I shall not falter again—I will take

these means—any means—”

 

“To attain—her?” Dirk got up from the window-seat and rose to his

full height.

 

Theirry gave him a sick look.

 

“I will not bandy taunts with you. I must sleep a little.”

 

“They have given us the first chamber ye come to, ascending those

stairs,” answered Dirk quietly. “There is a lamp, and the door is set

open. Good-night.”

 

“You will not come?” asked Theirry sullenly.

 

“Nay. I will sleep here.”

 

“Why? You are strange tonight.”

 

Dirk smiled unpleasantly.

 

“There is a reason. A good reason. Get to bed.” Theirry left him

without an answer, and closed the door upon him.

 

When he had gone, and there was no longer a sound of his footstep, a

rustle of the arras to tell he had been, a great change swept over

Dirk’s face; a look of agony, of distraction contorted his proud

features, he paced softly here and there, twisting his hands together

and lifting his eyes blindly to the painted ceiling.

 

Half the candles had flickered out; the others smoked and flared in

the sockets; the rain dripping on the windowsill without made an

insistent sound.

 

Dirk paused before the vast bare hearth.

 

“He shall never have her,” he said in a low, steady voice as if he saw

and argued with some personage facing him. “No. You will prevent it.

Have I not served you well? Ever since I left the convent? Did you not

promise me great power—as the black letters of the forbidden books

swam before my eyes; did I not hear you whispering, whispering?”

 

He turned about as though following a movement in the person he spoke

to, and shivered.

 

“I will keep my comrade. Do you hear me? Did you send me here to

prevent it?—they seemed to know you were at my elbow tonight—

hush!—one comes!”

 

He fell back against the wall, his finger on his lips, his o her hand

clutching the arras behind him.

 

“Hush!” he repeated.

 

The door at the far end of the chamber was slowly opened; a man

stepped in and cautiously closed it; a little cry of triumph rose to

Dirk’s lips, but he repressed it and gave a glance into the pulsating

shadows as if he communicated with some mysterious companion.

 

It was Sebastian who had entered; he looked swiftly round, and seeing

Dirk, came towards him.

 

In the steward’s hand was a little cresset lamp; the clear, heart-shaped flame illuminated his dark face and his pink habit; his eyes

looked over this light in a burning way at Dirk. “So—you are not

abed?” he said.

 

There was more than the aimless comment in his tone, an expectation,

an excitement. “You came to find me,” answered Dirk. “Why?”

 

Sebastian set the lamp on a little bracket by the window he put his

hand to his neck, loosening his doublet, and looked away.

 

“It is very hot,” he said in a low voice. “I cannot rest. I feel tonight as I have never felt—I think the cause is with you—what you

said has distracted me.” he turned his head. “Who are you? What did

you mean?” “You know,” answered Dirk, “what I am—a poor student from

Basle college. And in your heart you know what I meant.”

 

Sebastian stared at him a moment.

 

“God! But how could you discern—even if it be true?—you, a stranger.

But now I think of it, belike there is reason in it—certes, she has

shown me favour.”

 

Dirk smiled.

 

“‘Tis a rich lady, her husband would be a noble, think of it.”

 

“What ye put into me!” cried Sebastian in a distracted voice. “That I

should talk thus to a prating boy! But the thought clings and burns—

and surely ye are wise.”

 

Dirk, still leaning against the wall, smoothed the arras with delicate

fingers.

 

“Surely I am wise. Well skilled in difficult sciences am I, and quick

to see—and understand–take this for your hospitality, sir steward—

watch your mistress.”

 

Sebastian put his hand to his head.

 

“I have a wife.”

 

Dirk laughed.

 

“Will she live for ever?”

 

Sebastian looked at him and stammered, as if some sudden sight of

terror seared his eyes. “There—there is witchcraft in this—your

meaning—”

 

“Think of it!” flashed Dirk. “Remember it! Ye get no more from me.”

 

The steward stood quite still, gazing at him.

 

“I think that I have lost my wits tonight,” he said in a low voice.

“I do not know what I came down to you for—nor whence come these

strange thoughts.”

 

Dirk nodded his head; a small, slow smile trembled on the corners of

his lips.

 

“Perchance I shall see you in Frankfort, sir steward.”

 

Sebastian caught at the words with eagerness.

 

“Yea—I go there with—my lady—” He stopped blankly.

 

“As yet,” said Dirk, “I know neither my dwelling there nor the name I

shall assume. But you–if I need to I shall find you at the Emperor’s

court?”

 

“Yea,” answered Sebastian; then, reluctantly, “What should you want

with me?”

 

“Will it not be you who may need me?” smiled Dirk. “I, who have tonight put thoughts into your brain that you will not forget?”

 

Sebastian turned about quickly, and caught up the cresset lamp.

 

“I will see you before you go,” he whispered, horror in his face.

“Yea, on the morrow I shall desire more speech with you.”

 

Like a man afraid, in terror of himself, filled with a dread of his

companion, Sebastian, the pure flame of the lamp quivering with the

shaking of his hand, crossed the long chamber and left by the door

through which he had entered.

 

Dirk gave a half-suppressed shiver of excitement; the candles had

mostly burnt out; the hall seemed monstrous in the gusty, straggling

light. He crept to the window; the rain had ceased, and he looked out

on a hot starless darkness, disturbed