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

CHAPTER III

THE EMPRESS

 

Ysabeau, wife of Balthasar of Courtrai and Empress of the West, waited

in the porphyry cabinet of Cardinal Caprarola.

 

It was but little after midday, and the sun streaming through the

scarlet and violet colours of the arched window, threw a rich and

burning glow over the gilt furniture and the beautiful figure of the

woman; she wore a dress of an orange hue; her hair was bound round the

temples with a chaplet of linked plates of gold and hung below it in

fantastic loops; wrapped about her was a purple mantle embroidered

with ornaments in green glass; she sat on a low chair by the window

and rested her chin on her hand. Her superb eyes were grave and

thoughtful; she did not move from her reflective attitude during the

time the haughty priest kept her waiting.

 

When at last he entered with a shimmer and ripple of purple silks, she

rose and bent her head. “It pleases you to make me attendant on your

pleasure, my lord,” she said.

 

Cardinal Caprarola gave her calm greeting.

 

“My time is not my own,” he added. “God His service comes first,

lady.”

 

The Empress returned to her seat.

 

“Have I come here to discuss God with your Eminence?” she asked, and

her fair mouth was scornful. “This text was stolen from someone who

worked hard to get it to you.”

 

The Cardinal crossed to the far end of the cabinet and slowly took his

place in his carved gold chair.

 

“It is of ourselves we will speak,” he said, smiling. “Certes, your

Grace will have expected that.”

 

“Nay,” she answered. “What is there we have in common, Cardinal

Caprarola?”

 

“Ambition,” said his Eminence, “which is known alike to saint and

sinner.”

 

Ysabeau looked at him swiftly; he was smiling with lips and eyes,

sitting back with an air of ease and power that discomposed her; she

had never liked him.

 

“If your talk be of policy, my lord, it is to the Emperor you should

go.”

 

“I think you have as much influence in Rome as your husband, my

daughter.”

 

There was a dazzling glitter of coloured light as the Empress moved

her jewelled hands. “It is our influence you wish, my lord—certes, a

matter for the Emperor.”

 

His large keen eyes never left her face.

 

“Yea, you understand me.”

 

“Your Eminence desires our support in the Conclave now sitting,” she

continued haughtily.

 

“But have you ever shown so much duty to us, that we should wish to

see you in St. Peter’s seat?” She thought herself justified in

speaking thus to a man whose greatness had always galled her, for she

saw in this appeal for her help an amazing confession of weakness on

his part. But Luigi Caprarola remained entirely composed.

 

“You have your creatures in the Church,” he said, “and you intend one

of them to wear the Tiara—there are sixteen Cardinals in the

Conclave, and I, perhaps, have half of them. Your Grace, you must see

that your faction does not interfere with what these priests desire—

my election namely.”

 

“Must?” she repeated, her violet eyes dilating. “Your Eminence has

some reputation as a holy man—and you suggest the corruption of the

Conclave.”

 

The Cardinal leant forward in his chair.

 

“I do not play for a saintly fame,” he said, “and as for a corrupted

Conclave—your Grace should know corruption, seeing that your art, and

your art alone, achieved the election of Balthasar to the German

throne.”

 

Ysabeau stared at him mutely; he gave a soft laugh.

 

“You are a clever woman,” he continued. “Your husband is the first

King of the Germans to hold the Empery of the West for ten years and

keep his heel on the home lands as well; but even your wits will

scarcely suffice now; Bohemia revolts, and Basil stretches greedy

fingers from Ravenna, and to keep the throne secure you desire a man

in the Vatican who is Balthasar’s creature.”

 

The Empress rose and placed her hand on the gilded ribbing of the

window-frame.

 

“Your Eminence shows some understanding,” she flashed, pale beneath

her paint; “we gained the West, and we will keep the West, so you see,

my lord, why my influence will be against you, not with you, in the

Conclave.”

 

The Cardinal laid his hand lightly over his heart.

 

“Your Grace speaks boldly—you think me your enemy?”

 

“You declare yourself hostile, my lord.”

 

“Nay, I may be a good friend to you—in St. Peter’s.”

 

She smiled.

 

“The Conclave have not declared their decision yet, your Eminence; you

are a great prince, but the Imperial party have some power.”

 

The Cardinal sat erect, and his intense eyes quelled her despite

herself.

 

“Some power—which I ask you to exert in my behalf.”

 

She looked away, though angry with herself that his gaze overawed her.

 

“You have declared your ambition, my lord; your talents and your

wealth we know—you are too powerful already for us to tolerate you as

master in Rome.”

 

“Again you speak boldly,” smiled the Cardinal. “Perhaps too boldly—I

think you will yet help me to the Tiara.”

 

Ysabeau gave a quick glance at his pale, handsome face framed in the

red hair.

 

“Do you seek to bribe me, my lord?” She remembered the vast riches of

this man and their own empty treasury.

 

“Nay,” said Luigi Caprarola, still smiling. “I threaten.”

 

“Threaten!” At once she was tempestuous, panting, furious; the jewels

on her breast sparkled with her hastened breathing.

 

“I threaten that I will make you an outcast in the streets unless you

serve mc well.”

 

She was the tiger-cat now, ready to turn at bay, Marozia

Porphyrogentris of Byzantium.

 

“I know that of you,” said the Cardinal, “that once revealed, would

make the Emperor hurl you from his side.”

 

She sucked in her breath and waited. “Melchoir of Brabant died by

poison and by witchcraft.” “All the world knows that”—her eyes were

long and evil; “he was bewitched by a young doctor of Frankfort

College who perished for the deed.”

 

The Cardinal looked down at the hand on his lap.

 

“Yea, that young doctor brewed the potion—you administered it.”

 

Ysabeau took a step forward into the room. “You lie…I am not afraid

of you—you lie most utterly…”

 

Luigi Caprarola sprang to his feet.

 

“Silence, woman! speak not so to me! It is the truth, and I can prove

it!”

 

She bent and crouched; the plates of gold on her hair shook with her

trembling.

 

“You cannot prove it”—the words were forced from her quivering

throat; “who are you that you should dare this—should know this?”

 

The Cardinal still stood and dominated her.

 

“Do you recall a youth who was scrivener to your Chamberlain and

friend of the young doctor of rhetoric—Theirry his name, born of

Dendermonde?”

 

“Yea, he is now dead or in the East…”

 

“He is alive, and in Rome. He served you well once, Empress, when he

came to betray his friend, and you were quick to seize the chance—it

suited him then to truckle to you…I think he was afraid of you…he

is not now; he knows, and if I bid him he will speak.”

 

“And what is his bare word against my oath and the Emperor’s love?”

 

“I am behind his word—I and all the power of the Church.”

 

Ysabeau answered swiftly.

 

“I am not of a nation easily cowed, my lord, nor are the people of our

blood readily trapped—I can tear your reputed saintship to rags by

spreading abroad this tale of how you tried to bargain with me for the

Popedom.”

 

The Cardinal smiled in a way she did not care to see.

 

“But first I say to the Emperor—your wife slew your friend that she

might be your wife, your friend Melchoir of Brabant—you loved him

better than you loved the woman—will you not avenge him now?”

 

The Empress pressed her clenched hands against her heart and, with an

effort, raised her eyes to her accuser’s masterful face.

 

“My lord’s love against it all,” she said hoarsely. “He knows

Melchoir’s murderer perished in Frankfort in the flames, he knows

that I am innocent, and he will laugh at you—weave what tissue of

falsehoods you will, sir, I do defy you, and will do no bargaining to

set you in the Vatican.”

 

The Cardinal rested his finger-tips on the arm of the chair, and

looked down at them with a deepening smile.

 

“You speak,” he answered, “as one whom I can admire—it requires great

courage to put the front you do on guilt—but I have certain knowledge

of what I say; come, I will prove to you that you cannot deceive me—

you came first to the house of a certain witch in Frankfort on a day

in August, a youth opened the door and took you into a room at the

back that looked on to a garden growing dark red roses; you wore, that

day, a speckled green mask and a green gown edged with fur.”

 

He raised his eyes and looked at her; she moved back against the wall,

and outspread her hands either side her on the gleaming porphyry.

 

“You threatened the youth as I threaten you now—you knew that he had

been driven from Basle College for witchcraft, even as I know you

compassed the death of your first husband, and you asked him to help

you, even as I ask you to help me now.”

 

“Oh!” cried the Empress; she brought her hands to her lips. “How can

you know this?”

 

The Cardinal reseated himself in his gold chair and marked with

brilliant, merciless eyes the woman struggling to make a stand against

him.

 

“Hugh of Rooselaare died,” he said with sudden venom—“died basely for

justly accusing you, and so shall you die—basely—unless you aid me

in the Conclave.”

 

He watched her very curiously; he wondered how soon he would utterly

break her courage, what new turn her defiance would take; he almost

expected to see her at his feet.

 

For a few seconds she was silent; then she came a step nearer; the

veins stood out on her forehead and neck; she held her hands by her

side—they were very tightly clenched, but her beautiful eyes were

undaunted.

 

“Cardinal Caprarola,” she said, “you ask me to use my influence to

bring about your election to the Popedom—knowing you as I know you

now I cannot fail to see you are a man who would stop at nought…if I

help you I shall help my husband’s enemy—once you are in the Vatican,