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

one to be faithless to our friendship, nor shall I now

shrink from serving you, at any cost—be you but true.”

 

“In what way can I be false?” asked Theirry bitterly. “I, a thing at

your mercy?”

 

The Pope held back the blossom-strewn brocade so that he could see the

other’s face. “I ask of you to let Jacobea of Martzburg be.”

 

Theirry flushed.

 

“How ye have always hated her!…since I came to Rome I have seen her

the once.”

 

The Pope’s smooth pale face showed a stain of red from the dim beams

of one of the splendid lamps; Theirry observed it as he leant forward.

 

“She did not marry her steward,” he said.

 

The Pope’s eyes narrowed.

 

“Ye have been at the pains to discover that?”

 

Theirry laughed mournfully.

 

“You have won! you, sitting where you sit now, can afford to mock at

me; at my love, at my hope—both of which I placed once at stake on—

her—and lost!…and lost! Ten years ago—but having again seen her,

sometimes I must think of her, and that she was not vile after all,

but only trapped by you, as I have been…Sebastian went to Palestine,

and she has gone unwed.”

 

The Pope gave a quick sigh and bit his lip.

 

“I will make you Emperor,” he said. “But that woman shall not be your

Empress.” Again Theirry laughed.

 

“Did I love her even, which I do not—I would put her gladly aside to

sit on the Imperial throne!—Come, I have dallied long enough on the

brink of devilry—let me sin grandly now, and be grandly paid!”

 

Michael II gave so quick a breath the jewels on his breast scattered

coloured light.

 

“Come nearer to me,” he commanded, “and take my hand—as you used to,

in Frankfort…I am always Dirk to you—you who never cared for me,

hated me, I think—oh, the traitors our hearts are, neither God nor

devil is so fierce to fight!”

 

Theirry approached the gold steps; the Pope leant down and gave him

his cool white hand, heavy with gemmed rings, and looked intently into

his eyes.

 

“When they announced your election—how the storm smote the city,”

whispered Theirry fearfully; “were you not daunted?”

 

The Pope withdrew his hand.

 

“I was not in the Conclave,” he said in a strange tone. “I lay sick in

my villa—as for the storm—”

 

“It has not lifted since,” breathed Theirry; “day and night have the

clouds hung over Rome—is not there, after all, a God?”

 

“Silence!” cried the Pope in a troubled voice.

 

“You would be Emperor of the West, would you not?—let us speak of

that.”

 

Theirry leant against the arm of the throne and stared with an awful

fascination into the other’s face.

 

“Ay, let us speak of that,” he answered wildly; “can all your

devilries accomplish it? It is common talk in Rome that you secured

your election by Frankish influence because you vowed to league with

Balthasar—they say you are his ally—”

 

The dark intense eyes of Michael II glittered and glowed.

 

“Nevertheless I will cast him down and set you in his place—he comes

to-day to ask my aid against Lombardy and Bohemia; and therefore have

I sent for you that you may overhear this audience, and see how I mate

and checkmate an Emperor for your sake.”

 

As he spoke, he pointed to the other end of the room where hung a

sombre and rich curtain. “Conceal yourself—behind that tapestry—and

listen carefully to what I say, and you will understand how I may

humble Balthasar and shake him from his throne.”

 

Theirry, not joyous nor triumphant, but agitated and trembling with a

horrible excitement, crept across the room and passed silently behind

the arras.

 

As the long folds shook into place again the Pope touched a bell.

 

Paolo Orsini entered.

 

“Admit the Emperor.”

 

The secretary withdrew; there was a soft sound in the ante-chamber,

the voices of priests.

 

Michael II put his hand to his heart and fetched two or three quick

panting breaths; his full lips curved to a strange smile, and a

stranger thought was behind it; a thought that, if expressed, would

not have been understood even by Theirry of Dendermonde, who of all

men knew most of his Holiness.

 

This it was—

 

“Did ever lady meet her lord like this before, or like this use him to

advance her love!”

 

A heavy tread sounded without, and the Emperor advanced into the

splendid glooms of the audience-chamber.

 

He was bare-headed, and at sight of the awe-inspiring figure, went on

his knees at the foot of the dais.

 

Michael II looked at him in silence; the silver door was closed, and

they were alone, save for the unseen listener behind the arras.

 

At last the Pope said slowly—

 

“Arise, my son.”

 

The Emperor stood erect, showing his magnificent height and bearing;

he wore bronze-hued armour, scaled like a dragon’s breast, the high

gold Imperial buskins, and an immense scarlet mantle that flowed

behind him; his thick yellow hair hung in heavy curls on to his

shoulders, and his enormous sword made a clatter against his armour as

he moved.

 

Theirry, cautiously drawing aside the curtain to observe, dug his

nails into his palms with bitter envy.

 

Behold the man who had once been his companion—little more than his

equal, and now—an Emperor!

 

“You desired an audience of us,” said the Pope. “And some tedium may

be spared, for we can well guess what you have to say.”

 

A look of relief came into Balthasar’s great blue eyes; he was no

politician; the Empress, whose wits alone had kept him ten years on a

throne, had trembled for this audience.

 

“Your Holiness knows that it is my humble desire to form a firm

alliance between Rome and Germany. I have ruled both long enough to

prove myself neither weak nor false, I have ever been a faithful

servant of Holy Church—”

 

The Pope interrupted.

 

“And now you would ask her help against your rebellious subjects?”

 

“Yea, your Holiness.”

 

Michael II smiled.

 

“On what right does your Grace presume when you ask us to aid you in

steadying a trembling throne?”

 

Balthasar flushed, and came clumsily to the point.

 

“I was assured, Holy Father, of your friendliness before the

election—the Empress—” Again the Pope cut him short.

 

“Cardinal Caprarola was not the Vicegerent of Christ, the High Priest

of Christendom, as we are now—and those whom Louis of Dendermonde

knew, become as nothing before the Pope of Rome, in whose estimate all

men are the same.”

 

Balthasar’s spirit rose at this haughty speech; his face turned

crimson, and he savagely caught at one of his yellow curls.

 

“Your Holiness can have no object in refusing my alliance,” he

answered. “Sylvester crowned me with his own hands, and I always lived

in friendship with him—he aided me with troops when the Lombards

rebelled against their suzerain, and Suabia he placed under an

interdict—”

 

“We are not Sylvester,” said the Pope haughtily–“nor accountable for

his doings; as you may show yourself the obedient son of the Church so

may we support you—otherwise!—we can denounce as we can uphold, pull

down as we can raise up, and it wants but little, Balthasar of

Courtrai, to shake your throne from under you.”

 

The Emperor bit his lip, and the scales of his mail gleamed as they

rose with his heavy breathing; he knew that if the power of the

Vatican was placed on the side of his enemies he was ruined.

 

“In what way have I offended your Holiness?” he asked, with what

humility he could.

 

The fair young face of Michael II was flushed and proud in expression;

the red curls surrounding the tonsure fell across his smooth forehead;

his red lips were sternly set and his heavy brows frowned.

 

“Ye have offended Heaven, for whom we stand,” he answered. “And until

by penitence ye assoil your soul we must hold you outcast from the

mercies of the Church.”

 

“Tell me my sins,” said Balthasar hoarsely. “And what I can do to blot

them out—masses, money, lands—”

 

The Pope made a scornful movement with his little hand.

 

“None of these can make your peace with God and us—one thing only can

avail there.”

 

“Tell it me,” cried the Emperor eagerly. “If it be a crusade, surely I

will go—after Lombardy is subdued.”

 

The Pope flashed a quick glance over him. “We want no knight-errantry

in the East; we demand this—that you put away the woman whom you call

your wife.”

 

Balthasar stared with dilating eyes.

 

“Saint Joris guard us!” he muttered; “the woman whom I call my wife!”

 

“Ysabeau, first wedded to the man whom you succeeded.”

 

Balthasar’s hand made an instinctive movement towards his sword.

 

“I do not understand your Holiness.”

 

The Pope turned in his chair so that the lamplight made his robe one

bright purple sheen. “Come here, my lord.”

 

The Emperor advanced to the gold steps; a slim fair hand was held out

to him, holding, between finger and thumb, a ring set with a deep red

stone.

 

“Do you know this, my lord?” The Pope’s brilliant eyes were fixed on

him with an intent and terrible expression.

 

Balthasar of Courtrai looked at the ring; round the bezel two coats of

arms were delicately engraved in the soft red gold.

 

“Why,” he said in a troubled way, “I know the ring—yea, it was made

many years ago” “And given to a woman.

 

“Certes—yea—”

 

“It is a wedding ring.”

 

Again the Emperor assented, his blue eyes darkened and questioning.

 

“The woman to whom in your name it was given still lives.”

 

“Ursula of Rooselaare!” cried Balthasar.

 

“Yea, Ursula of Rooselaare, your wife.”

 

“My first wife who died before I had seen her, Holiness,” stammered

the Emperor.

 

The Pope’s strange handsome face was hard and merciless; he held the

wedding ring out on his open palm and looked from it to Balthasar.

 

“She did not die—neither in the convent, as to your shame you know,

nor in the house of Master Lukas.”

 

Balthasar could not speak; he saw that this man knew what he had

considered was a close secret of his own heart alone.

 

“Who told you she was dead?” continued the Pope. “A certain youth,

who, for his own ends, I think, lied, a wicked youth he was, and he

died in Frankfort for compassing the death of the late Emperor—or

escaped that end by firing his house, the tale grows faint with years;

‘twas he who told you Ursula of Rooselaare was dead; he even showed

you her grave—and you were content to take his word—and she was

content to be silent.”

 

“Oh, Christus!” cried the Emperor. “Oh, Saint Joris!–but, holy

father—this thing is impossible!” He wrung his hands together and

beat his mailed breast. “From whom had you this tale?”

 

“From Ursula of Rooselaare.”

 

“It cannot be…why was she silent all these years? why did she allow

me to take Ysabeau to wife?”

 

A wild expression crossed the Pope’s face; he looked beyond the

Emperor with deep soft eyes. “Because she loved another man.”

 

A pause fell for a second, then Michael II spoke again.

 

“I think, too, she something hated you who had failed her, and scorned

her—there was her father also, who died shamefully by Ysabeau’s

command; she meant, I take it, to revenge that upon the Empress, and

now, perhaps, her chance has come.”