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

CHAPTER XIV

THE SNARING OF THEIRRY

 

Dirk and the witch kept company until they reached the gates of

Frankfort.

 

There the young man took his own way through the busy town, and

Nathalie slipped aside into the more retired streets; many of the

passersby saluted Dirk, some halted to speak with him; the brilliant

young doctor of rhetoric, with a reputation made fascinating by an air

of mystery, was a desired acquaintance among the people of Frankfort.

He returned their greetings pleasantly yet absently; he was thinking

of Jacobea of Martzburg, whom he had left behind in the great forest,

and considering what chances there might be, either for Theirry or

Sybilla the steward’s wife.

 

He passed the tall red front of the college, where the quiet trees

tapped their leaves against the arched windows, turned over the narrow

curved bridge that spanned the steadily flowing waters of the Main,

and came to the thick walls surrounding the Emperor’s castle.

 

There for a moment he paused and looked thoughtfully up at the

Imperial flag that fluttered softly against the evening sky.

 

When he passed on it was with a cheerful step and whistling a little

tune under his breath; a few moments brought him to the long street

where the witch lived, a few more to her gate, and then his face lit

and changed wonderfully, for ahead of him was Theirry.

 

Flushed and panting, he ran to his friend’s side and touched him on

the arm.

 

Theirry turned, his hand on the latch; his greeting was hurried, half

shamefaced.

 

“My master and most of the Court were at the tourney to-day,” he said.

“I thought it safe to come.”

 

Dirk withdrew his hand, and his eyes narrowed.

 

“Ah!—ye are beginning to be circumspect how ye visit here.”

 

“You word it unkindly,” answered Theirry hastily. “Let us enter the

house, where we can talk at ease.”

 

They passed into the witch’s dwelling, and to the room at the back

that looked into the garden of red roses.

 

The windows were set wide, and the scented softness of the evening

filled the half-darkened chamber; Dirk lit a little lamp that had a

green glass, and by the faint flame of it gazed long and lingeringly

at Theirry.

 

He found his friend richly dressed in black and crimson, wearing an

enamel chain round his bonnet, and a laced shirt showing at his bosom;

he found the glowing, bright charm of his face disturbed by some

embarrassment or confusion, the beautiful mouth uneasily set, the

level brows slightly frowning.

 

“Oh, Theirry!” he cried in a half-mournful yearning. “Come back to

me—come back.”

 

“I am very well at Court,” was the quick answer. “My master is gentle

and my tasks easy.”

 

Dirk seated himself at the table; he watched the other intently and

rested his pale cheek on his hand.

 

“Very clearly can I see ye are well, and very well at Court—seldom do

ye leave it.” “I find it difficult to get here often,” said Theirry.

 

He crossed to the window and looked out, as if the room oppressed him,

and he thought the prospect of the roses pleasanter than the shadows

and lamplight within.

 

“Ye find it difficult,” said Dirk, “because your desires chain you to

the Court. I think ye are a faithless friend.”

 

“That am not I—ye know more of me than any man—I care more for ye

than for any man—” “Or woman?” added Dirk dryly.

 

An impatient colour came into Theirry’s cheeks; he looked resolutely

at the red roses.

 

“That is unworthy in you, Dirk—is it disloyal to you to know a lady—

to—to—admire a lady, to strive to serve and please a lady?”

 

He turned his charming face, and, in his effort to conciliate, his

voice was gentle and winning.

 

“Truly she is the sweetest of her kind, Dirk; if you knew her—evil is

abashed before her—”

 

“Then it is as well I do not know her,” Dirk retorted grimly.

“Strangely ye talk—you and I know we are not saints—but belike ye

would reform—belike a second time ye have repented.” Theirry seemed

in some agitation.

 

“No, no—have I not gone too far? Do I not still hope to gain

something—perhaps everything?” He paused, then added in a low voice,

“But I wish I had never laid hands on the monk. I wish I had not

touched God His money—and when I see her I cannot prevent my heart

from smarting at the thought of what I am.”

 

“How often do you see her?” asked Dirk quietly.

 

“But seldom,” answered Theirry sadly. “And it is better—what could I

ever be to her?” Dirk smiled sombrely.

 

“That is true. Yet you would waste your life dallying round the places

where you may sometimes see her face.”

 

Theirry bit his lip.

 

“Oh, you think me a fool—to falter, to regret;–but what have my

sins ever done for me? There are many honest men better placed than

I—and without the prospect of hell to blast their souls.”

 

Dirk looked at him with lowering eyes.

 

“You had been content had you not met this lady.”

 

“Enough of her,” answered Theirry wearily. “You make too much of it. I

do not think I love her; but one who is fallen must view such

sweetness, such gentle purity with sorrow—yea, with yearning.”

 

Dirk clasped his hand on the edge of the table.

 

“Maybe she is neither so pure nor so gentle as you think. Certes! she

is but as other women, as one day ye may see.”

 

Theirry turned from the window half in protest, half in excuse.

 

“Cannot you understand how one may hold a fair thing dear—how one

might worship–even—love?”

 

“Yes,” answered Dirk, and his great eyes were bright and misty. “But

if I—loved”—he spoke the word beautifully, and rose as he uttered

it—“I would so grapple his—her soul to mine that we should be

together to all eternity; nor devil nor angel should divide us. But—

but there is no need to talk of that—there are other matters to deal

with.”

 

“Would I had never seen the evil books or never seen her face,” said

Theirry restlessly. “So at least I had been undivided in my thoughts.”

 

He came to the table and looked at Dirk across the sickly, struggling

flame of the lamp; in his hazel eyes was an expression of appeal, the

call of the weak to the strong, and the other held out his hands

impulsively.

 

“Ah, I am a fool to trouble with ye, my friend,” he said, and his

voice broke with tenderness. “For ye are headstrong and unstable, and

care not for me one jot, I warrant me—yet—yet you may do what you

will with this silly heart of mine.”

 

There was a grace, a wistful affection in his face, in his words, in

his gesture of outstretched hands that instantly moved Theirry, ever

quick to respond. He took the young doctor’s slender fingers in a warm

clasp; they were very quickly withdrawn. Dirk had a notable dislike to

a touch, but his deep eyes smiled.

 

“I have somewhat to tell you,” he said, “at which your impatience will

be pleased.”

 

He went lightly to a press in the wall and brought forth a mighty

candlestick of red copper, branched and engraved three half-burnt

candles remained in the sockets; he lit these, and the room was filled

with a brighter and pleasanter light.

 

Setting the candlestick on the table, where it glowed over Theirry’s

splendid presence, he returned to the cupboard and took out a tall

bottle of yellow wine and two glasses with milk-white lines about the

rims.

 

Theirry seated himself at the table, pulled off his gloves and

smoothed his hair back from his face.

 

“Have you seen the Empress?” asked Dirk, pouring out the wine.

 

“Yea,” answered Theirry, without interest.

 

“She is very beautiful?”

 

“Certes!–but of a cloying sweetness—there is no touch of nobility

in her.”

 

Dirk held the wine out across the table and seated himself.

 

“I have heard she is ambitious,” he said.

 

“Ay, she gives the Emperor no rest; for ever urging him to Rome, to be

crowned by the Pope as Emperor of the West;—but he better loves the

North, and has no spirit to rule in Italy.” “The nobles chafe at his

inaction?” asked Dirk. “‘Tis not idle questioning.”

 

“Mostly, I think—do we not all have golden dreams of Rome?

Balthasar—ye mind him, he is Margrave of East Flanders now, since his

father was killed at the boar hunt—and powerful, he is mad to cross

the Alps—he has great influence with the Emperor. Indeed, I think he

loves him.”

 

Dirk set down the untasted wine.

 

“Balthasar loves the Emperor!” he cried.

 

“Certes! yes—why not? The Margrave was always affectionate, and the

Emperor is lovable.” A second time Dirk raised the glass, and now

drained it.

 

“Here is good matter for plots,” he said, elegantly wiping his lips.

“Here is occasion for you and me to make our profit. Said ye the Devil

was a bad master?—listen to this.”

 

Theirry moved the candlestick; the gold light dazzled in his eyes.

 

“What can Emperor or Empress be to us?” he asked, a half-bewildered

fear darkening his brows.

 

“She has been here,” said Dirk. “The Lady Ysabeau.”

 

Theirry stared intently; a quick breath stirred his parted lips; his

cheeks glowed with excited colour.

 

“She knows,” continued Dirk, “that I, Doctor Constantine of Frankfort

College, and you, meek secretary to her Chamberlain, are the two

students chased from Basle University.”

 

Theirry gave a little sound of pain, and drew back in the huge carved

chair.

 

“So,” said Dirk slowly, “she has it in her power to ruin us—at least

in Frankfort.” “How can I hold up my head at Court again!” exclaimed

Theirry bitterly.

 

Dirk noted the utterly selfish thought; he did not mention how he had

shielded Theirry from suspicion.

 

“There is more in it than that,” he answered quietly. “Did she choose

she might have us burnt in the market place—Joris of Thuringia died

of his illness that night.”

 

“Oh!” cried Theirry, blenching.

 

“But she will not choose,” said Dirk calmly. “She needs me—us—that

threat is but her means of forcing obedience; she came secretly to my

lectures—she had heard somewhat—she discovered more.”

 

Theirry filled his glass.

 

“She needs us?” he repeated falteringly.

 

“Cannot ye guess in what way?”

 

Theirry drank, set down