Black Magic by Marjorie Bowen (good novels to read TXT) đź“•
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 slee
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throng, “I will by myself enter, and by myself take the consequences!”
Some one answered—
“II think it is but folly, lord.”
“Shall a woman hold us all at bay?” he cried. “What title has she to
rule in Frankfort?”
He advanced to the door with his sword drawn and ready, and the crowd
drew back neither supporting nor preventing; the slaves closed
together, and made a gesture warning him to retire. He seized one by
his gilt collar and swung him violently against the wall, then, while
the other crouched in fear, he opened the door and strode into the
Emperor’s bedchamber.
It was a low room, hung with gold and brown tapestry; the windows were
shut and the air faint; the bed stood against the wall, and the heavy,
dark curtains, looped back, revealed Melchoir of Brabant, lying in his
clothes on the coverlet with his throat bare and his eyes staring
across the room.
A silver lamp stood on a table by the window, and its faint radiance
was the only light.
On the steps of the bed stood Ysabeau; over her white dress she had
flung a long scarlet cloak, and her pale, bright hair had fallen on to
her shoulders.
At the sight of Hugh she caught hold of the bed-hangings and gazed at
him fiercely. He sheathed his sword as he came across the room.
“Princess, I must see the Emperor,” he said sternly.
“He will see no man—he knows none nor can he speak,” she answered,
her bearing prouder and more assured than he had ever known it. “Get
you gone, sir; I know not how ye forced an entry.”
“You have no power to keep the nobles from their lord,” he replied.
“Nor will I take your bidding.”
She held herself in front of her husband so that her shadow obscured
his face.
“I will have you put without the doors if you so disturb the dying.”
But Hugh of Rooselaare advanced to the bed. “Let me see him,” he
demanded, “he speaks to me!”
Indeed, he thought that he heard from the depths of the great bed a
voice saying faintly–“Hugh, Hugh!”
The Empress drew the curtain, further concealing the dying man.
“He speaks to none. Begone!”
The Lord of Rooselaare came still nearer.
“Why is there no priest here?”
“Insolent! the bishop comes.”
“Meanwhile he dies, and there are monks enow without.”
As he spoke Hugh sprang lightly and suddenly on to the steps, pushed
aside the slight figure of the Empress and caught back the curtains.
“Melchoir!” he cried, and snatched up the Emperor by the shoulders.
“He is dead,” breathed the Empress.
But Hugh continued to gaze into the distorted, hollow face, while with
eager fingers he pushed back the long, damp hair.
“He is dead,” repeated Ysabeau, fearing nothing now.
With a slow step she went to the table and seated herself before the
silver lamp, while she uttered sigh on sigh and clasped her hands over
her eyes.
Then the hot stillness began to quiver with the distant sound of
numerous bells; they were holding services for the dying in every
church in Frankfort.
The Emperor stirred in Hugh’s arms; without opening his eyes he
spoke—
“Pray for me…Balthasar. They did not slay me honourably—”
He raised his hands to his heart, to his lips, moaned and sank from
Hugh’s arm on to the pillow.
“Quia apud Dominum misericordia, et copiosa apud eum,” he murmured.
“Eum redemptio,” finished Hugh.
“Amen,” moaned Melchoir of Brabant, and so died. For a moment the
chamber was silent save for the insistent bells, then Hugh turned his
white face from the dead, and Ysabeau shivered to her feet.
“Call in the others,” murmured the Empress, “since he is dead.”
The Lord of Rooselaare descended from the bed. “Ay, I will call in the
others, thou Eastern witch, and show them the man thou hast murdered.”
She stared at him a moment, her face like a mask of ivory set in the
glittering hair. “Murdered?” she said at last.
“Murdered!” He fingered his sword fiercely. “And it shall be my duty
to see you brought to the stake for this night’s work.”
She gave a shriek and ran towards the door. Before she reached it, it
was flung open, and Balthasar of Courtrai sprang into the room.
“You called?” he panted, his eyes blazing on Hugh of Rooselaare.
“Yes; he is dead—Melchoir is dead, and this lord says I slew him—
Balthasar, answer for me!” “Certes!” cried Hugh. “A fitting one to
speak for you—your accomplice!”
With a short sound of rage the Margrave dragged out his sword and
struck the speaker a blow across the breast with the flat of it.
“So ho!” he shouted, “it pleases you to lie!” He yelled to his men
without, and the death-chamber was filled with a clatter of arms that
drowned the mournful pealing of the bells. “Take away this lord, on my
authority.”
Hugh drew his sword, only to have it wrenched away. The soldiers
closed round him and swept their prisoner from the chamber, while
Balthasar, flushed and furious, watched him dragged off. “I always
hated him,” he said.
Ysabeau fell on her knees and kissed his mailed feet.
“Melchoir is dead, and I have no champion save you.”
The Margrave stooped and raised her, his face burning with blushes
till it was like a great rose. “Ysabeau, Ysabeau!” he stammered.
She struggled out of his arms.
“Nay, not now,” she whispered in a stifled voice, “not now can I speak
to you, but afterwards—my lord! my lord!”
She went to the bed and flung herself across the steps, her face
hidden in her hands. Balthasar took off his helmet, crossed himself
and humbly bent his great head.
Melchoir IV lay stiffly on the lily-sewn coverlet, and without the
great bells tolled and the monks’ chant rose.
“De Profundis…”
THE PURSUIT OF JACOBEA
The chatelaine of Martzburg sat in the best guest-chamber of a wayside
hostel that lay a few hours’ journeying from her home. Outside the
rain dripped in the trees and a cold mountain wind shook the
signboard. Jacobea trimmed the lamp, drew the curtains, and began
walking up and down the room; the inner silence broken only by the
sound of her footfall and an occasional sharp patter as the rain fell
on to the bare hearth.
So swiftly had she fled from Frankfort that its last scenes were still
before her eyes like a gorgeous and disjointed pageant; the Emperor
stricken down at the feast, the brief, flashing turmoil, Ysabeau’s
peerless face, that her own horrid thoughts coloured with a sinister
expression, Balthasar of Courtrai bringing the city to his feet—Hugh
of Rooselaare snatched away to a dungeon—and over it all the leaping
red light of a hundred flambeaux.
She herself was free here of everything save the sound of the rain,
yet she must needs think of and brood on the tumult she had left.
The quiet about her now, the distance she had put between herself and
Frankfort, gave her no sense of peace or safety; she strove, indeed,
with a feeling of horror, as if they from whom she had fled were about
her still, menacing her in this lonely room.
Presently she passed into the little bedchamber and took up a mirror
into which she gazed long and earnestly.
“Is it a wicked face?”
She answered herself—
“No, no.”
“Is it a weak face?”
“Alas!”
The wind rose higher, fluttered the lamp-flame and stirred the arras
on the wall; and laying the mirror down she returned to the outer
chamber. Her long hair that hung down her back was the only bright
thing in the gloomy apartment where the tapestry was old and dusty,
the furniture worn and faded; she wore a dark dress of embroidered
purple, contrasting with her colourless face; only her yellow locks
glittered as the lamplight fell on them.
The wind rose yet higher, struggled at the casement, seized and shook
the curtains and whistled in the chimney.
Up and down walked Jacobea of Martzburg, clasping and unclasping her
soft young hands, her grey eyes turning from right to left.
It was very cold, blowing straight from the great mountains the dark
hid; she wished she had asked for a fire and that she had kept one of
the women to sleep with her—it was so lonely, and the sound of the
rain reminded her of that night at Martzburg when the two scholars had
been given shelter. She wanted to go to the door and call some one,
but a curious heaviness in her limbs began to make movement irksome;
she could no longer drag her steps, and with a sigh she sank into the
frayed velvet chair by the fireplace.
She tried to tell herself that she was free, that she was on her way
to escape, but could not form the words on her lips, hardly the
thought; her head throbbed, and a Cold sensation gripped her heart;
she moved in the chair, only to feel as if held down in it; she
struggled in vain to rise. “Barbara!” she whispered, and thought she
was calling aloud.
A gathering duskiness seemed to overspread the chamber, and the
tongue-shaped flame of the lamp showed through it distinct yet very
far away; the noise of the wind and rain made one long insistent
murmur and moaning.
Jacobea laughed drearily, and lifted her hands to her bosom to try to
find the crucifix that hung there, but her fingers were like lead, and
fell uselessly into her lap again.
Her brain whirled with memories, with anticipations and vague
expectations, tinged with fear like the sensations of a dream; she
felt that she was sinking into soft infolding darkness; the lamp-flame
changed into a fire-pointed star that rested on a knight’s helm, the
sound of wind and rain became faint human cries.
She whispered, as the dying Emperor had done–“I am bewitched.”
Then the Knight, with the star glittering above his brow, came towards
her and offered her a goblet.
“Sebastian!” she cried, and sat up with a face of horror; the chamber
was spinning about her; she saw the Knight’s long painted shield and
his bare hand holding out the wine; his visor was down.
She shrieked and laughed together, and put the goblet aside.
Some one spoke out of the mystery.
“The Empress found happiness—why not you?—may not a woman die as
easily as a man?”
She tried to remember her prayers, to find her crucifix; but the cold
edge of the gold touched her lips, and she drank.
The hot wine scorched her throat and filled her with strength; as she
sprang up the Knight’s star quivered back into the lamp-flame, the
vapours cleared from the room; she found herself staring at Dirk
Renswoude, who stood in the centre of the room and smiled at her.
“Oh!” she cried in a bewildered way, and put her hands to her
forehead.
“Well,” said Dirk; he held a rich gold goblet, empty, and his was the
voice she had already heard. “Why did you leave Frankfort?”
Jacobea shuddered.
“I do not know;” her eyes were blank and dull. “I think I was afraid
“Lest you might do as Ysabeau did?” asked Dirk.
“What has happened to me?” was
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