Black Magic by Marjorie Bowen (good novels to read TXT) 📕
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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gathered and thickened over the Maremma and the rich hues faded from
the sky.
“Who is that?” cried Ysabeau, and pointed across the marsh-land.
A figure, dark against the mists, was running aimlessly, wildly to and
fro, winding his way in and out the pools, now and then flinging his
arms up in a frantic gesture towards the evening sky.
“A madman,” said Balthasar; “see, he runs with no object, round and
round, yet always as if pursued—”
Ysabeau drew close to her husband, as they both watched, with a
curious fascination, the man being driven hither and thither as by an
invisible enemy.
“Is it a ghost?” whispered Ysabeau; “strangely chilled and horror-stricken do I feel—” The Emperor made the sign of the Cross.
“Part of the curse, maybe,” he muttered.
Suddenly, as if exhausted, the man stopped and stood still with
hanging head and arms; the sun burning to the horizon made a vivid
background to his tall dark figure till the heavy noisome vapours rose
to the level of the sunset, and the solitary, motionless stranger was
blotted from the view of the two watching in the ruined villa.
“Why should we wonder?” said Balthasar. “There must be many men
abroad, both Saxon and Roman—”
“Yet, he ran strangely,” she murmured; “and I have been here three
days and seen no one.” “We must get away,” said Balthasar resolutely.
“This is a vile spot.”
“At dawn a girl comes here with food, enough at least for Wencelaus.
“I have food with me, Ysabeau, given by one who did not know that we
were excommunicate.”
The Empress looked about her fearfully.
“I heard a step.”
Balthasar peered through the mist.
“The man,” whispered Ysabeau.
Out of the dreary vapours, the forlorn and foul mists of the marshes,
he appeared, stumbling over the stones in his way…
He caught hold of the slender pillar by the entrance and stared at the
three with distraught eyes. His clothes were dark, wet and soiled, his
hair hung lank round a face hollow and pale but of obvious beauty.
“Theirry of Dendermonde!” exclaimed Balthasar. Ysabeau gave a cry that
woke the child and sent him frightened into her arms.
“The Emperor,” said the newcomer in a feeble voice.
Balthasar answered fiercely–“Am I still Emperor to you?—you who to-day were to receive my crown in St. Peter’s church?”
Ysabeau clasped Wencelaus tightly to her breast, and her eyes shone
with a wrathful triumph. “They have cast him out; Rome rose against
such a king!”
Theirry shivered and crouched like one very cold.
“Of my own will I fled from Rome, that city of the Devil!”
Balthasar stared at him.
“Is this the man who broke our ranks at Tivoli?”
“Is this he who would be Emperor of the West?” cried Ysabeau.
“You are the Emperor,” said Theirry faintly, “and I pretend no longer
to these wrongful honours, nor serve I any longer Antichrist—”
“He is mad!” cried Balthasar.
“Nay,” Ysabeau spoke eagerly—“listen to him.”
Theirry moaned.
“I have nothing to say—give me a place to rest in.”
“Through you we have no place ourselves to rest in,” answered
Balthasar grimly. “No shelter save these broken walls you see; but
since you have returned to your allegiance, we command that you tell
us of this Antichrist—”
Theirry straightened himself.
“He who reigns in Rome is Antichrist, Michael, who was Dirk
Renswoude–”
“He perished,” said the Emperor, very pale; “and the Pope was Blaise
of Dendermonde.”
“That was the Devil’s work, black magic!” cried Theirry wildly; “the
youth Blaise died ten years ago, and Dirk Renswoude took his place.”
“It is true!” cried the Empress; “by what he said to me I know it
true—now do I see it very clearly.”
But Balthasar stared at Theirry in a confused manner.
“I do not understand.”
The lightning darted through the broken wall, and a solitary winged
thing flapped over the roofless villa.
Theirry began to speak.
He told them, in a thick, expressionless voice, all he knew of Dirk
Renswoude.
He did not mention Ursula of Rooselaare. As his tale went on, the
storm gathered till all light had vanished from the sky, the lightning
rent a starless gloom, and the continual roar of the thunder quivered
in the stifling air.
In the pauses between the lightning they could not see each other;
Wencelaus sobbed on his mother’s breast, and the owls hooted in the
crevices of the marble.
Theirry’s voice suddenly strengthened.
“Now, turn against Rome, for all men will join you—a force of
Lombards marches up from Trastevere, and the Saxons gather without the
walls of the accursed city.”
A blue flash showed them his face…they heard him fall…
After a while Balthasar made his way to him through the dark.
“He has fainted,” he said fearfully; “is he, belike, mad?”
“He speaks the hideous truth,” whispered Ysabeau.
Suddenly, at its very height the storm ceased, the air became cool and
fragrant, and a bright moon floated from the clouds.
The silver radiance of it, extraordinarily bright and vivid,
illuminated the Maremma, the pools, the tall reeds, the deserted
buildings, the ruins that sheltered them; the clouds rolled swiftly
from the sky, leaving it clear and blazing with stars.
The first moon and the first stars that had shone since Michael II’s
reign in the Vatican. Theirry’s dark dress and hair, and deathlike
face pressed against the marble pavement showed now plainly.
Balthasar looked at his wife; neither dared to speak, but Wencelaus
gave a panting sigh of relief at the lifting of the darkness.
“My lord,” he said, striving out of his mother’s arms, “a goodly
company comes across the marsh—”
A great awe and fear held them silent, and the wonderful silver shine
of the moon lay over them like a spell.
They saw, slowly approaching them, two knights and two ladies, who
seemed to advance without motion across the marsh-land.
The knights wore armour that shone like glass, and long mantles of
white samite; the dames were clad in silver tissue, and around their
brows were close-pressed wreaths of roses mingled red and white.
Very bright and fair they seemed; the knights came to the fore,
carrying silver trumpets; the ladies held each other’s hands lovingly,
and their gleaming tresses of red and gold wove together as they
walked.
They reached the portals of the villa, and the air blew cold and pure.
The lady with the yellow hair who held white violets in her hand,
spoke to the other, and her voice was like the echo of the sea in a
wide-lipped shell.
They paused; Balthasar drew back before the great light they brought
with them, and Ysabeau hid her face, for some of them she knew.
On earth their names had been Melchoir, Sebastian, Jacobea and
Sybilla.
“Balthasar,” said the foremost Knight, “we are come from the courts of
Paradise to bid you march against Rome. In that city reigns Evil,
permitted to punish a sinful people, but now her time is come. Go you
to Viterbo, there you will find the Cardinal of Narbonne, whom God has
ordained Pope, and with him an army; at the head of it storm Rome, and
all the people shall join you in destroying Antichrist.”
Balthasar fell on his knees.
“And the curse!” he cried.
“‘Tis not the curse of God upon you, therefore be comforted, Balthasar
of Courtrai, and at the dawn haste to Viterbo.”
With that they moved away, and were absorbed into the silver light
that transfigured the Maremma.
Balthasar sprang to his feet, shouting—
“I am not excommunicate! I shall be Emperor again. The curse is
lifted!”
The moonlight faded, again the clouds rolled up…
Balthasar caught Theirry by the shoulder.
“Did you see the vision?—the angels?”
Theirry came shuddering from his swoon.
“I saw nothing—Ursula…Ursula…”
IN THE VATICAN
In the ebony cabinet in the Vatican sat Michael II; an expression of
utter anguish marked his face.
On the gold table were spread books and parchments; the sullen light
of a stormy midday filtered through the painted curtains and showed
the rich splendours of the chamber, the glittering, closed wings of
the shrine, the carved gold arms of the Pope’s chair, the threads of
silver tissue in his crimson robe.
He sat very still, his elbow resting on the table, his cheek propped
on his palm, now and then he looked at the little sand clock.
Presently Paolo Orsini entered; the Pope glanced at him without
moving.
“No news?” he asked.
“None of the Lord Theirry, your Holiness.” Michael II moistened his
lips.
“They have searched—everywhere?”
“Throughout Rome, your Holiness, but—”
“Well?”
“Only this, my lord, a man might easily disappear—there is no law in
the city.”
“He was armed, they said, when he left the palace; have you sent to
the convent I told you of–St. Angela, beyond the Appian Gate?”
“Yea, your Holiness,” answered Orsini, “and they found nought but a
dead woman.” The Pope averted his eyes.
“What did they with her?” Orsini lifted his brows.
“Cast her into the plague pit, Holiness,—that quarter is a charnel-house.”
The Pope drew a deep breath.
“Well, he is gone—I do not think him dead,”—he flung back his head—
“but the game is over, is it not, Orsini? We fling down our pieces and
say—good-night!”
His nostrils dilated, his eyes flashed, he brought his open hand
softly on to the table. “What does your Holiness mean?” asked Orsini.
“We mean that this puppet Emperor of ours has forsaken us, and that
our position becomes perilous,” answered the Pope. “Cardinal Narbonne,
hurling defiance at us from Viterbo, grows stronger, and the mob—do
not seek to deceive me, Orsini, the mob clamours against us?”
“It is true, my lord.”
The Pope gave a terrible smile, and his beautiful eyes widened.
“And the soldiers mutiny, the Saxons at Trastevere have joined
Balthasar and the Veronese have left me—we have not enough men to
hold Rome an hour; well, Orsini, you shall take a summons to the
Cardinals and we will hold a conclave, there to decide how we may meet
our fortune.”
He rose and turned towards the window.
“Hark, do you hear how the factions howl below?—begone, Orsini.”
The secretary departed in silence.
Mutterings, murmurings, howlings rose from the accursed city to the
Pontiff’s chamber; lightning darted from the black heavens, and
thunder rolled round the hills of Rome. Michael II walked to and fro
in his gorgeous cabinet.
In the three days since Theirry had fled the city, his power had
crumbled like a handful of sand; Rome had turned against him, and
every hour men fell away from his cause.
The devils, too, had forsaken him; he could not raise the spirits, the
magic fires would not burn…all was blank darkness and silence.
Up and down he paced, listening to the mob surging in the Piazza of
St. Peter.
The day wore on and the storm grew in violence.
Paolo Orsini came again to him, his face pale.
“Half the Cardinals are fled to Viterbo and those remaining refuse to
acknowledge your Holiness.”
The Pope smiled.
“I had expected it.”
“News comes from a Greek runner that Theirry of Dendermonde is with
Balthasar’s host—” “Also I expected
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