Black Magic, Marjorie Bowen [100 books to read TXT] 📗
- Author: Marjorie Bowen
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past Balthasar at the door.
“Melchoir, we speak of you,” she said.
The Margrave turned; the Emperor, velvet shod, was softly entering; he
glanced gravely at his wife and smilingly at Balthasar.
“We speak of you,” repeated Ysabeau, dark-eyed and flushed, “of
you…and Rome.”
Melchoir of Brabant, third of his name, austere, reserved, proud and
cold, looked more like a knight h of the Church than King of Germany
and Emperor of the West; he was plainly habited, his dark hair cut
close, his handsome, slightly haughty face composed and stern; too
earnest was he to be showily attractive yet many men adored him, among
them Balthasar of Courtrai, for in himself the Emperor was both brave
and lovable.
“Cannot you have done with Rome?” he asked sadly, while his large
intelligent eyes rested affectionately on the Margrave. “Is Frankfort
grown so distasteful?”
“Certes, no, Lord Melchoir—it is the chance! the chance!”
The Emperor sank in a weary manner on to a seat.
“Hugh of Rooselaare and I have spoken together and we have agreed,
Balthasar, not to go to Rome.”
The Empress stiffened and drooped her lids; the Margrave turned
swiftly to face his master, and all the colour was dashed out of his
fresh face.
Melchoir smiled gently.
“My friend, ye are an adventurer, and think of the glory to be
gained—but I must think of my people who need me here—the land is
not fit to leave. It will need many men to hold Rome; we must drain
the land of knights, wring money from the poor, tax the churches—
leave Germany defenceless, a prey to the Franks, and this for the
empty title of Emperor.”
Balthasar’s breast heaved.
“Is this your decision?”
The Emperor answered gravely—
“I do not think it God His wish that I should go to Rome.”
The Margrave bent his head and was silent, but Ysabeau flung her clear
voice into the pause.
“In Constantinople a man such as you would not long fill a throne; ere
now you had been a blinded monk and I free to choose another husband!”
The Emperor rose from his seat.
“The woman raves,” he said to the pale Margrave. “Begone, Balthasar.”
The German left them; when his heavy footfall had died into silence,
Melchoir looked at his wife and his eyes flashed.
“God forgive my father,” he said bitterly, “for tying me to this
Eastern she-cat!”
The Empress crouched in the window-seat and clutched the cushions.
“I was meant for a man’s mate,” she cried fiercely, “for a C�sar’s
wife. I would they had flung me to a foot-boy sooner than given me to
thee—thou trembling woman’s soul!”
“Thou hast repaid the injury,” answered the Emperor sternly, “by the
great unhappiness I have in thee. My life is not sweet with thee nor
easy. I would thou hadst less beauty and more gentleness.”
“I am gentle enough when I choose,” she mocked. “Balthasar and the
Court think me a loving wife.”
He took a step towards her; his cheek showed pale.
“It is most true none save I know you for the thing you are—
heartless, cruel, fierce and hard—”
“Leave that!” she cried passionately. “You drive me mad. I hate you,
yea, you thwart me every turn—”
She came swiftly across the floor to him.
“Have you any courage—any blood in you—will you go to Rome?”
“To please your wanton ambition I will do nothing, nor will I for any
reason go to Rome.” Ysabeau quivered like an infuriated animal.
“I will talk no more of it,” said Melchoir coldly and wearily. “Too
often do we waste ourselves in such words as these.”
The Greek could scarcely speak for passion; her nostrils were dilated,
her lips pale and compressed.
“I am ashamed to call you lord,” she said hoarsely; “humbled before
every woman in the kingdom who sees her husband brave at least—while
I—know you coward—”
Melchoir clenched his hands to keep them off her.
“Hark to me, my wife. I am your master and the master of this land—I
will not be insulted, nay, nor flouted, by your stinging tongue. Hold
me in what contempt ye will, you shall not voice it—by St. George,
no!—not if I have to take the whip to hold you dumb!”
“Ho! a Christian knight!” she jeered. “I loathe your Church as I
loathe you. I am not Ysabeau, but still Marozia Porphyrogentris.”
“Do not remind me thy father was a stableman and a murderer,” said
Melchoir. “Nor that I caused thee to change a name the women of thy
line had made accursed. Would I could send thee back to Ravenna!—for
thou hast brought to me nought but bitterness!”
“Be careful,” breathed Ysabeau. “Be careful.”
“Stand out of my way,” he commanded.
For answer she loosened the heavy girdle round her waist; he saw her
purpose and caught her hands.
“You shall not strike me.” The links of gold hung from her helpless
fingers while she gazed at him with brilliant eyes. “Would you have
struck me?”
“Yea—across your mouth,” she answered. “Now were you a man, you would
kill me.”
He took the belt from her arm, releasing her. “That you should trouble
me!” he said wearily.
At this she stood aside to let him pass; he turned to the door, and as
he lifted the tapestry flung down her belt.
The Empress crept along the floor, snatched it up and stood still,
panting.
Before the passion had left her face the hangings were stirred again.
One of her Chamberlains.
“Princess, there is a young doctor below desires to see you.
Constantine, his name, of Frankfort College.”
“Oh!” said Ysabeau; a guilty colour touched her whitened cheek. “I
know nothing of him,” she added quickly.
“Pardon, Princess, he says ‘tis to decipher an old writing you have
sent to him; his words are, when you see him you will remember.”
The blood burnt more brightly still under the exquisite skin.
“Bring him here,” she said.
But even as the Chamberlain moved aside, the slender figure of Dirk
appeared in the doorway. He looked at her, smiling calmly, his
scholar’s cap in his hand.
“You do remember me?” he asked.
The Empress moved her head in assent.
Dirk Renswoude laid down the pen and pushed aside the parchment, and
lifted heavy eyes with a sigh of weariness.
It was midday and very hot; the witch’s red roses were beginning to
shed their petals and disclose their yellow hearts, and the leaves of
the great trees that shaded the house were curling and yellowing in
the fierce sun.
From his place at the table Dirk could mark these signs of autumn
without; yet by the look in his eyes it seemed that he saw neither
trees nor flowers, but only some image evoked by his thoughts;
presently he picked up the quill, bit the end of it, frowned and laid
it down.
Then he started and looked round with some eagerness, for a light
sound broke the sleepy stillness, the door opened, and before his
expectant gaze Theirry appeared.
Dirk flushed and smiled.
“Well met,” he said. “I have much to say to you.” He rose and held out
his hand. Theirry merely touched it with his fingers.
“And I am come because I also have much to say.” Dirk’s manner
changed, the warmth died from his face, and he gave the other a keen
glance.
“Speak, then.” He returned to his seat, took his face between his two
delicate hands, and rested his elbows on the table. “I was writing my
lecture for tonight, certes, I shall be glad of a diversion.”
“You will not be pleased with mine,” answered Theirry his expression
was grave and cold, his dress plain and careless; he frowned, lifted
his eyebrows continually, and played with the buttons on his doublet.
“Be seated,” said Dirk.
Theirry took the chair he proffered.
“There is no need to make an ado,” he began, obviously with an effort.
“I am not going on with you..”
“You are not going on?” repeated Dirk. “Well, your reasons?”
“May God forgive me what I have done,” cried Theirry in great
agitation; “but I will sin no more–I have resolved it—and ye cannot
tempt me.”
“And all you swore—to me?” demanded Dirk; his eyes narrowed, but he
remained composed. Theirry clasped his restless fingers.
“No man is bound to bargains with the Devil…I have been weak and
wicked—but I mingle no more in your fiendish councils—”
“This is for Jacobea of Martzburg’s sake.”
“It is for her sake—because of her that I am here now to tell you I
have done with it—done with you!”
Dirk dropped his hands on to the table.
“Theirry! Theirry!” he cried wildly and sorrowfully.
“I have measured the temptation,” said Theirry; “I have thought of the
gain—the loss—I have put it aside, with God’s help and hers—I will
not aid you in the way you asked me—nor will I see it done.”
“And ye call that virtue!” cried Dirk. “Poor fool—all it amounts to
is that you, alas!—love the chatelaine.”
“Nay,” he answered hotly. “It is that, having seen her, I would not be
vile. You meditate a dastard thing—the Emperor is a noble knight.”
“Ambrose of Menthon was a holy monk,” retorted Dirk. “Who choked the
pious words in his throat? Joris of Thuringia was an innocent youth—
who sent him to a hideous death?”
“I!” cried Theirry fiercely; “but always with you to goad me on!
Before the Devil sent you across my way I had never touched sin save
in dim thoughts but you, with talk of friendship, lured me from an
honest man’s company to poison me with forbidden knowledge, to tempt
me into hideous blasphemies–and I will have no more of it!”
“Yet you vowed comradeship with me,” said Dirk. “Is your loyalty of
such quality?” Theirry sprang violently from his chair and paced
heavily up and down the room.
“You blinded me…I knew not what I did…but now I know; when I—I—
heard her speak, and heard that you had dared to try to trap her to
destruction—”
Dirk interrupted with a low laugh.
“So she told you that! But I warrant that she was dumb about the
nature of her temptation!” “That is no matter,” answered Theirry; “now
she is free of you, as I shall be—”
“As you vowed to her you would be,” added Dirk. “Well, go your way—I
thought you loved me a little—but the first woman’s face!”
Theirry stood still to front him.
“I cannot love that which—I fear.”
Dirk went swiftly very pale.
“Do you—fear me, Theirry?” he asked wistfully.
“Ay, ye know too much of Satan’s lore—more than you ever taught me,”
he shuddered uncontrollably; “there are things in this very house—”
“What do you mean—what do you mean?” Dirk rose in his place.
“Who is the woman?” whispered Theirry fearfully; “there is a woman
here—”
“In this house there are none save Nathalie and me,” answered Dirk on
the defensive, his eyes dark and glowing.
“There you lie to me; the last time I was here, I turned back swiftly
on leaving, but found the door bolted, the lights out, all save one—
in the little chamber next to this—I watched at the window and saw a
gorgeous room and a woman, a
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