Black Magic - Marjorie Bowen (book recommendations website .TXT) 📗
- Author: Marjorie Bowen
- Performer: -
Book online «Black Magic - Marjorie Bowen (book recommendations website .TXT) 📗». Author Marjorie Bowen
thinking of it all day—” “I also; there is much money…”
“We could get it without…blood?”
“Surely, but if need be even that.”
Their eyes met; in the pleasant green shade they saw each other’s
excited faces.
“It is God His money,” murmured Theirry.
“What matter for that, if the Devil be stronger?”
“Hush! the Angelus ends.”
“Now—we join him.”
They sank on their knees, to rise as the saint got to his feet and
glanced about him; at the edge of the wood they joined him and looked
down at the town below.
“Now we can find our way,” said Dirk in a firm, suddenly changed
voice.
Ambrose of Menthon considered him over the little white pony.
“Will you not bear me company into the town?” he asked wistfully; he
did not notice that Theirry had slipped behind him.
Dirk’s eyes flashed a signal to his companion. “We will into the
town,” he said, “but without thy company, Sir Saint, now!”
Theirry flung his mantle from behind and twisted it tightly over the
monk’s head and face, causing him to stagger backwards; Dirk rushed,
seized his thin hands, and strapped them together with the leather
belt he had just loosened from his waist, and between them they
dragged him into the trees.
“My ears are weary of thy tedious talk,” said Theirry viciously, “my
eyes of thy sickly face.” They took the straps from the pony and bound
their victim to a tree; it was an easy matter, for he made no
resistance and no sound came from under the mantle twisted over his
face.
“There is much evil in the heart of man,” mocked Dirk. “And much
folly, oh, guileless, in the hearts of saints!”
Having seen to it that he was securely fastened the two returned to
the pony and examined their plunder.
In one bag there were parchments, books, and a knotted rope, in the
other numerous little linen sacks of varying sizes.
These they turned out upon the grass and swiftly unfastened the
strings.
Gold—each one filled with gold, fine, shining coins with the head of
the Emperor glittering on them.
Dirk retied the sacks and replaced them in the saddle bags; neither of
them had seen so much gold together before; because of it they were
silent and a little trembling.
Theirry, as he heard the good yellow money chink together, felt his
last qualms go; for the first time since he had entered into league
with the spirits of evil he had plain evidence it was a fine thing to
have the Devil on his side. A stupefying pleasure and exaltation came
over him, he did not doubt that Satan had sent this saintly man their
way, and he was grateful; to find himself possessed of this amount of
money was a greater delight than any he had known, even a more
delightful thing than seeing Jacobea of Martzburg lean across the
stream towards him.
As they reloaded the pony, managing as best they might without the
straps, Dirk fell to laughing.
“I will get my mantle,” said Theirry; he went up to Ambrose of
Menthon, telling himself he was not afraid of meeting the saint’s
eyes, and unwound the heavy mantle from his head. The saint sank
together like the dead.
Dirk still laughed, mounted on the white pony, flourishing a stick.
“The fellow has swooned,” said Theirry, bewildered.
“Well,” answered Dirk over his shoulder, “you can bring the straps,
which we need, surely.” Theirry unfastened the monk and laid his slack
body on the grass; as he did so he saw that the grey habit was stained
with blood, there was wet blood, too, on the straps.
“Now what is this?” he cried, and bent over the unconscious man to see
where he was wounded.
His searching hand came upon cold iron under the rough robe; Ambrose
of Menthon wore a girdle lined with sharp points, that at every
movement must have been torture, and that, at their brutal binding of
him, had entered his flesh with an agony unbearable.
“Make haste!” cried Dirk.
Theirry straightened his back and looked down at the sweet face of
Saint Ambrose; he wished that their victim had cried out or moaned,
his silence being a hard thing to think of—and he must have been in a
pain.
“Be quick!” urged Dirk.
Theirry joined him.
“What shall we do with—that man?” he said awkwardly; his blood was
burning, leaping.
“‘Tis a case for the angels, not for us,” answered Dirk. “But if ye
feel tenderly (and certainly he was pleasant to us) we can tell, in
the town, that we found him. ‘Deo gratias,’” he mocked the saintly,
low calm voice, but Theirry did not laugh.
A splendid yellow sunset was shimmering in their eyes as they came
slowly down into the valley and passed through the white street of the
little town.
They visited the hostel, fed the white pony there and recounted how
they had seen a monk in the wood they had just traversed, whether
unconscious in prayer or for want of breath they had not the leisure
to examine.
Then they went on their way, eschewing, by common consent this time,
the accommodation of the homely inn, and taking with them a basket of
the best food the town afforded.
Clearing the scattered cottages they gained the heights again and
paused on the grassy borders of a mighty wood that spread either side
the high road.
There they spread a banquet very different from the saint’s poor
repast; they had yellow wine, red wine, baked meats, cakes, jellies, a
heron and a basket of grapes, all bought with the gold Ambrose of
Menthon had toiled to collect to build God’s house amid the snows.
Arranging these things on the soft grass they sat in the pleasant
shade, luxuriously, and laughed at each other over their food.
The heavens were perfectly clear, there was no cloud in all the great
dome of sky, and, reflecting on the night before, and how they had
stood shivering in the wet, they laughed the more.
Then were they penniless, with neither hope nor prospect and in danger
of pursuit. Now they were on the high road with more gold in their
possession than they had ever seen before, with a horse to carry their
burdens, and good food and delicate wine before them.
Their master had proved worth serving. They toasted him in the wine
bought with God His money and made merry over it; they did not mention
Ambrose of Menthon.
Dirk was supremely happy; everything about him was a keen delight, the
fragrant perfume of the pine woods, the dark purple depths of them,
the bright green grass, the sky changing into a richer colour as the
sun faded, the mountain peaks tinged with pearly rose, the whole
beautiful, silent prospect and his comrade looking at him with a smile
on his fair face. A troop of white mountain goats driven by a shepherd
boy went past, they were the only living things they saw.
Dirk watched them going towards the town, then he said—
“The chatelaine…Jacobea of Martzburg—” he broke off. “Do you
remember, the first night we met, what we saw in the mirror? A woman,
was it not? Her face—have you forgotten it?” “Nay,” answered Theirry,
suddenly sombre.
Dirk turned to look at him closely.
“It was not Jacobea, was it?”
“It was utterly different,” said Theirry. “No, she was not Jacobea.”
He propped a musing face on his hand and stared down at the grass.
Dirk did not speak again, and after a while of silence Theirry slept.
With a start he woke, but lay without moving, his eyes closed; some
one was singing, and it was so beautiful that he feared to move lest
it should be in his dreams only that he heard it. A woman’s voice, and
she sang loud and clearly, in a passion of joyous gaiety; her notes
mounted like birds flying up a mountain, then sank like snowflakes
softly descending.
After a while the wordless song died away and Theirry sat up,
quivering, in a maze of joy. “Who is that?” he called, his eager eyes
searching the twilight.
No one…nothing but the insignificant figure of Dirk, who sat at the
edge of the wood gazing at the stars.
“I dreamt it,” said Theirry bitterly, and cursed his waking.
In a back street of the city of Frankfort stood an old one-storied
house, placed a little apart from the others, and surrounded by a
beautiful garden.
Here lived Nathalie, a woman more than suspected of being a witch, but
of such outward quiet and secretive ways that there never had been the
slightest excuse for even those most convinced of her real character
to interfere with her.
She was from the East—Syria, Egypt or Persia; no one could remember
her first coming to Frankfort, nor how she had become possessed of the
house where she dwelt; her means of livelihood were also a mystery. It
was guessed that she made complexion washes and dyes supplied secretly
to the great court ladies; it was believed that she sold love potions,
perhaps worse; it was known that in some way she made money, for
though generally clothed in rags, she had been seen wearing very
splendid garments and rich jewels.
Also, it was rumoured by those living near that strange sounds of
revelry had on occasion arisen from her high-walled garden, as if a
great banquet were given, and dark-robed guests had been seen to enter
her narrow door.
That garden was empty now and a great stillness lay over the witch’s
house; the hot midsummer sun glowed in the rose bushes that surrounded
it; red roses all of them, and large and beautiful.
The windows of the great room at the back of the house had their
shutters closed so that only a few squares of light fell through the
lattice-work, and the room was in shadow.
It was a barely furnished chamber, with an open tiled hearth on which
stood a number of bronze and copper bowls and drinking vessels. In the
low window-seat were cushions of rich Eastern embroidery, hanging on
the walls, hideous distorted masks made of wood and painted
fantastically, some short curved swords, and a parchment calendar.
Before this stood Dirk, marking with a red pencil a day in the row of
dates.
This done he stepped back, stared at the calendar and frowned, sucking
the red pencil.
He was attired in a grave suit of black, and wearing a sober cap that
almost concealed his hair; he held himself very erect, and the firm
set of his mouth emphasised the prominent jaw and chin.
As he stood there, deep in thought, Theirry entered, nodded at him and
crossed to the window; he also was dressed in dull straight garments,
but they could not obscure the glowing brown beauty of his face.
Dirk looked at him with eyes that sparkled affection.
“I am making a name in Frankfort,” he said.
“Ay,” answered Theirry, not returning his glance. “I have heard you
spoken of by those who have attended your lectures—they said your
doctrines touched infidelity.”
“Nevertheless they come,” smiled Dirk. “I do not play for a safe
reputation…otherwise should I be here?—living in a place of evil
name?”
“I do not think,” replied Theirry, “that any go so far as to
Comments (0)