Black Magic by Marjorie Bowen (good novels to read TXT) 📕

and garden now, but the air was golden warm

with it, and a sense of great heat still lay over the grass and vines

seen through the open window.

 

Dirk Renswoude moved St. Michael from the chair and tossed a pile of

parchments off a stool. He offered these seats to his guests, who

accepted them in silence.

 

“You must needs wait till the supper is prepared,” he said, and with

that placed himself on the stool by the pot, and, while he stirred it

with an iron spoon, openly studied the two men.

 

Balthasar of Courtrai was gorgeous; his age might be perhaps twenty-six or seven; he was of a large make, florid in the face with a high

red colour and blunt features; his brows were straight and over fair,

his eyes deep blue and expressionless; his heavy yellow hair was cut

low on his forehead and fell straightly on to his neck.

 

He wore a flat orange hat, slashed and cut, fastened by purple cords

to the shoulder of a gold doublet that opened on a shirt of fine lawn;

his sleeves were enormous, fantastic, puffed and gathered; round his

waist was a linked belt into which were thrust numerous daggers and a

short sword.

 

His breeches, of a most vivid blue, were beruffled with knots and

tassels, his riding-boots, that came to his knees, stained with the

summer dust, showed a small foot decorated with gilt spurs. He sat

with one hand on his hip, and in the other held his leathern gloves.

 

Such the picture, Master Dirk Renswoude, considering him coldly,

formed of Balthasar of Courtrai.

 

His companion was younger; dressed sombrely in black and violet, but

as well-looking as a man may be; he was neither dark nor fair, but of

a clear brown hue, and his eyes were hazel, swift and brilliant; his

mouth was set smilingly, yet the whole face expressed reserve and some

disdain; he had laid his hat on the floor beside him, and with an

interested glance was observing the room.

 

But Balthasar of Courtrai returned Master Dirk Renswoude’s steady

gaze.

 

“You have heard of me?” he said suddenly.

 

“Yes,” was the instant answer.

 

“Then, belike, you know what I am here for?”

 

“No,” said Master Dirk, frowning.

 

Balthasar glanced at his companion, who gave no heed to either of

them, but stared at the half-gilded devil with interest and some

wonder; seeing this, Balthasar answered for himself, in a manner half

defiant and wholly arrogant.

 

“My father is Margrave of East Flanders, and the Emperor knighted me

when I was fifteen. Now I am tired of Courtrai, of the castle, of my

father. I have taken the road.”

 

Master Dirk lifted the iron pot from the fire to the hearth.

 

“The road to—where?” he asked.

 

Balthasar made a large gesture with his right hand.

 

“To Cologne, perhaps to Rome, to Constantinople…to Turkey or

Hungary.”

 

“Knight errant,” said Master Dirk.

 

Balthasar tossed his fine head.

 

“By the Rood, no. I have ambitions.”

 

Master Dirk laughed.

 

“And your friend?” he asked.

 

“A wandering scholar,” smiled Balthasar. “Also weary of the town of

Courtrai. He dreams of fame.”

 

Theirry looked round at this.

 

“I am going to the Universities,” he said quietly. “To Paris, Basle,

Padua—you have heard of them?”

 

The youth’s cloudy eyes gleamed.

 

“Ah, I have heard of them,” he replied upon a quick breath.

 

“I have a great desire for learning,” said Theirry.

 

Balthasar made an impatient movement that shook the tassels and

ribbons on his sleeves. “God help us, yes! And I for other things.”

 

Master Dirk was moving about setting the supper. He placed the little

clay knights on the windowsill, and flung, without any ado, drawings,

paints and brushes on to the floor.

 

Silence fell on them; the young host’s bearing did not encourage

comment, and the atmosphere of the room was languid and remote, not

conducive to talk.

 

Master Dirk, composed and aloof, opened a press in the wall, and took

thence a fine cloth that he laid smoothly on the rough table; then he

set on it earthenware dishes and plates, drinking-glasses painted in

bright colours, and forks with agate handles.

 

They were well served for food, even though it might not be the

princely fare the Margrave’s son was used to; honey in a silver jar,

shining apples lying among their leaves, wheaten cakes in a plaited

basket, grapes on a gold salver, lettuces and radishes fragrantly wet;

these Master Dirk brought from the press and set on the table. Then he

helped his guests to meat, and Balthasar spoke.

 

“You live strangely here—so much alone.”

 

“I have no desire for company. I work and take pleasure in it. They

buy my work, pictures, carvings, sculptures for churches—very

readily.”

 

“You are a good craftsman,” said Theirry. “Who taught you?”

 

“Old Master Lukas, born of Ghent, and taught in Italy. When he died he

left me this house and all it holds.”

 

Again their speech sank into silence; Balthasar ate heavily, but with

elegance; Dirk, seated next the window, rested his chin on his palm

and stared out at the bright yet fading blue of the sky, at the row of

closed windows opposite, and the daisies waving round the broken

fountain; he ate very little. Theirry, placed opposite, was of the

same mind and, paying little heed to Balthasar, who seemed not to

interest him in the least, kept curious eyes on Dirk’s strange, grave

face.

 

After a while the Margrave’s son asked shamelessly for wine, and the

youth rose languidly and brought it; tall bottles, white, red and

yellow in wicker cases, and an amber-hued beer such as the peasants

drank.

 

The placing of these before Balthasar seemed to rouse him from his

apathy.

 

“Why have you come here?” he demanded.

 

Balthasar laughed easily.

 

“I am married,” he said as a prelude, and lifted his glass in a large,

well-made hand. At that Master Dirk frowned.

 

“So are many men.”

 

Balthasar surveyed the tilting wine through half-closed eyes.

 

“It is about my wife, Master, that I am here now.”

 

Dirk Renswoude leant forward in his chair.

 

“I know of your wife.”

 

“Tell me of her,” said Balthasar of Courtrai. “I have come here for

that.”

 

Dirk slightly smiled.

 

“Should I know more than you?”

 

The Margrave’s son flushed.

 

“What you do know?—tell me.”

 

Dirk’s smile deepened.

 

“She was one Ursula, daughter of the Lord of Rooselaare, she was sent

to the convent of the White Sisters in this town.”

 

“So you know it all,” said Balthasar. “Well, what else?”

 

“What else? I must tell you a familiar tale.”

 

“Certes, more so to you than to me.”

 

“Then, since you wish it, here is your story, sir.”

 

Dirk spoke in an indifferent voice well suited to the peace of the

chamber; he looked at neither of his listeners, but always out of the

window.

 

“She was educated for a nun and, I think, desired to become one of the

Order of the White Sisters. But when she was fifteen her brother died

and she became her father’s heiress. So many entered the lists for her

hand—they contracted her to you.”

 

Balthasar pulled at the orange tassels on his sleeve.

 

“Without my wish or consent,” he said.

 

The young man took no heed.

 

“They sent a guard to bring her back to Rooselaare, but because they

were fearful of the danger of journey, and that she might be captured

by one of the pretenders to her fortunes, they married her fast and

securely, by proxy, to you. At this the maid, who wished most

heartily, I take it, to become a nun, fell ill of grief, and in her

despair she confided her misery to the Abbess.”

 

Balthasar’s eyes flickered and hardened behind their fair lashes.

 

“I tell you a tale,” said Dirk, “that I believe you know, but since

you have come to hear me speak on this matter, I relate what has come

to me—of it. This Ursula was heiress to great wealth, and in her love

to the Sisters, and her dislike to this marriage, she promised them

all her worldly goods, when she should come into possession of them,

if they would connive at saving her from her father and her husband.

So the nuns, tempted by greed, spread the report that she had died in

her illness, and, being clever women, they blinded all. There was a

false funeral, and Ursula was kept secret in the convent among the

novices. All this matter was put into writing and attested by the

nuns, that there might be no doubt of the truth of it when the maid

came into her heritage. And the news went to her home that she was

dead.”

 

“And I was glad of it,” said Balthasar. “For then I loved another

woman and was in no need for money.”

 

“Peace, shameless,” said Theirry, but Dirk Renswoude laughed softly.

 

“She took the final, the irrevocable vows, and lived for three years

among the nuns. And the life became bitter and utterly unendurable to

her, and she dared not make herself known to her father because of the

deeds the nuns held, promising them her lands. So, as the life became

more and more horrible to her, she wrote, in her extremity, and found

means to send, a letter to her husband.”

 

“I have it here.” Balthasar touched his breast. “She said she had

sworn herself to me before she had vowed herself to God—told me of

her deceit,” he laughed, “and asked me to come and rescue her.”

 

Dirk crossed his hands, that were long and beautiful, upon the table.

 

“You did not come and you did not answer.”

 

The Margrave’s son glanced at Theirry, as he had a habit of doing, as

if he reluctantly desired his assistance or encouragement; but again

he obtained nothing and answered for himself, after the slightest

pause.

 

“No, I did not come. Her father had taken another wife and had a son

to inherit. And I,” he lowered his eyes moodily, “I was thinking of

another woman. She had lied, my wife, to God, I think. Well, let her

take her punishment, I said.”

 

“She did not wait beyond some months for your answer,” said Master

Dirk. “Master Lukas, born of Ghent, was employed in the chapel of the

convent, and she, who had to wait on him, told him her story. And when

he had finished the chapel she fled with him here—to this house. And

again she wrote to her husband, speaking of the old man who had

befriended her and telling him of her abode. And again he did not

answer. That was five years ago.”

 

“And the nuns made no search for her?” asked Theirry.

 

“They knew now that the girl was no heiress, and they were afraid that

the tale might get blown abroad. Then there was war.”

 

“Ay, had it not been for that I might have come,” said Balthasar. “But

I was much occupied with fighting.”

 

“The convent was burnt and the sisters fled,” continued Dirk. “And the

maid lived here, learning many crafts from Master Lukas. He had no

apprentices but us.”

 

Balthasar leant back in his chair.

 

“That much I learnt. And that the old man, dying, left his place to

you, and—what more of this Ursula?”

 

The young man gave him a slow, full glance.

 

“Strangely late you inquire after her, Balthasar of Courtrai.”