Black Magic - Marjorie Bowen (book recommendations website .TXT) 📗

pale complexion and resolute set of the mouth that

gradually teased Theirry as he gazed; the whole expression reminded

him of another face, seen under different circumstances, whose he

could not determine.

 

Suddenly the Lord of Rooselaare, becoming aware of this scrutiny,

turned his singularly intent eyes in the direction of the young

scholar.

 

At once Theirry had it, he placed the likeness. In this manner had

Dirk Renswoude often looked at him.

 

The resemblance was unmistakable if elusive; this man’s face was of

necessity sterner, darker, older and more set; he was of larger make,

moreover, than Dirk could ever be, his nose was heavier, his jaw more

square, yet the likeness, once noticed, could not be again overlooked.

 

It strangely discomposed Theirry, he felt he could not take his

warning to one who had Dirk’s trick of the intense gaze and

inscrutable set of the lips; he considered if there were not some one

else—let him go straightway, he thought, to the Emperor himself.

 

His reflections were interrupted by a little movement near the table,

a pause in the converse. All eyes were turned to Melchoir of Brabant.

 

He leant back in his seat and stared before him as if he saw a sight

of horror at the other end of the table; he was quite pale, his mouth

open, his lips strained and purplish.

 

The Empress sprang up from beside him and caught his arm.

 

“Melchoir!” she shrieked. “Jesu, he does not bear me!”

 

Bahthasar rose in his place.

 

“My lord,” he said hoarsely, “Melchoir.”

 

The Emperor moved faintly like one struggling hopelessly under water.

 

“Melchoir!”—the Margrave pushed back his chair and seized his

friend’s cold hand—“do you not hear us…will you not speak?”

 

“Balthasar”—the Emperor’s voice came as if from depths of distance—

“I am bewitched!” Ysabeau shrieked and beat her hands together.

 

Melchoir sank forward, while his face glistened with drops of agony;

he gave a low crying sound and fell across the table.

 

With an instantaneous movement of fright and horror, the company rose

from their seats and pressed towards the Emperor.

 

But the Margrave shouted at them—

 

“Stand back—would you stifle him?—he is not dead, nor, God be

thanked, dying.”

 

He lifted up the unconscious man and gazed eagerly into his face, as

he did so his own blanched despite his brave words; Melchoir’s eyes

and cheeks had fallen hollow, a ghastly hue overspread his features,

his jaw dropped and his lips were cracked, as if his breath burnt the

blood.

 

The Empress shrieked again and again and wrung her hands; no one took

any heed of her, she was that manner of woman.

 

Attendants, with torches and snatched-up candles, white, breathless

ladies and eager men, pressed close about the Emperor’s seat.

 

“We must take him hence,” said Hugh of Rooselaare, with authority.

“Help me, Margrave.” He forced his way to Balthasar’s side.

 

The Empress had fallen to her husband’s feet, a gleam of white and

silver against the dark trappings of the throne.

 

“What shall I do!” she moaned. “What shall I do!”

 

The Lord of Rooselaare glanced at her fiercely.

 

“Cease to whine and bring hither a physician and a priest,” he

commanded.

 

Ysabeau crouched away from him and her purple eyes blazed.

 

The Margrave and Hugh lifted the Emperor between them; there was a

swaying confusion as chair and seats were pulled out, lights swung

higher, and a passage forced through the bewildered crowd for the two

nobles and their burden.

 

Some flung open the door of the winding stairway that ascended to the

Emperor’s bedchamber, and slowly, with difficulty, Melchoir of Brabant

was borne up the narrow steps.

 

Ysabeau rose to her feet and watched it; Balthasar’s gorgeous attire

flashing in the torchlight, Hugh of Rooselaare’s stern pale face, her

husband’s slack body and trailing white hands, the eager group that

pressed about the foot of the stairs.

 

She put her hands on her bosom and considered a moment, then ran

across the room and followed swiftly after the cumbrous procession.

 

It was now a quarter of an hour since the Emperor had fainted, and the

hall was left—empty. Only Theirry remained, staring about him with

sick eyes.

 

A flaring flambeau stuck against the wall cast a strong light over the

disarranged table, the disordered seats, scattered cushions and the

rich array of gold vessels; from without came sounds of hurrying to

and fro, shouted commands, voices rising and falling, the clink of

arms, the closing of doors.

 

Theirry crossed to the Emperor’s seat where the gorgeous cushions were

thrown to right and left; in Ysabeau’s place lay a single red rose,

half stripped of its leaves, a great cluster of red roses on the floor

beside it.

 

This was confirmation; he did not think there was any other place in

Frankfort where grew such blooms; so he was too late, Dirk might well

defy him, knowing that he would be too late.

 

His resolution was very quickly taken: he would be utterly silent, not

by a word or a look would he betray what he knew, since it would be

useless. What could save the Emperor now? It was one thing to give

warning of evil projected, another to reveal evil performed; besides,

he told himself, the Empress and her faction would be at once in

power—Dirk a high favourite.

 

He backed fearfully from the red roses, glowing sombrely by the empty

throne.

 

He would be very silent, because he was afraid; softly he crept to the

window-seat and stood there, motionless, his beautiful face

overclouded; in an agitated manner he bit his lip and reflected

eagerly on his own hopes and dangers…on how this affected him—and

Jacobea of Martzburg.

 

To the man, dying miserably above, he gave no thought at all; the

woman, who waited impatiently for her husband’s death to put his

friend in his place, he did not consider, nor did the fate of the

kingship trouble him; he pictured Dirk as triumphant, potent, the

close ally of the wicked Empress, and he shivered for his own

treasured soul that he had just snatched from perdition; he knew he

could not fight nor face Dirk triumphant, armed with success, and his

outlook narrowed to the one idea—“let me get away.”

 

“But where? Martzburg!”—would the chatelaine let him follow her? It

was too near Basle; he clasped his hands over his hot brow, calling on

Jacobea.

 

As he dallied and trembled with his fears and terrors, one entered the

hall from the little door leading to the Emperor’s chamber.

 

Hugh of Rooselaare holding a lamp.

 

A feverish feeling of guilt made Theirry draw back, as if what he knew

might be written on his face for this man to read, this man whom he

had meant to warn of a disaster already befallen.

 

The Lord of Rooselaare advanced to the table; he was frowning

fiercely, about his mouth a dreadful look of Dirk that fascinated

Theirry’s gaze.

 

Hugh held up the lamp, glanced down and along the empty seats, then

noticed the crimson flowers by Ysabeau’s chair and picked them up.

 

As he raised his head his grey eyes caught Theirry’s glance.

 

“Ah! the Queen’s Chamberlain’s scrivener,” he said. “Do you chance to

know how these roses came here?”

 

“Nay,” answered Theirry hastily. “I could not know.”

 

“They do not grow in the palace garden,” remarked Hugh; he laid them

on the throne and walked the length of the table, scrutinising the

dishes and goblets.

 

In the flare of flambeaux and candles there was no need for his lamp,

but he continued to hold it aloft as if he hoped it held some special

power.

 

Suddenly he stopped, and called to Theirry in his quiet, commanding

way.

 

The young man obeyed, unwillingly.

 

“Look at that,” said Hugh of Rooselaare grimly.

 

He pointed to two small marks in the table, black holes in the wood.

 

“Burns,” said Theirry, with pale lips, “from the candles, lord.”

 

“Candles do not burn in such fashion.” As he spoke Hugh came round the

table and cast the lamplight over the shadowed floor.

 

“What is that?” He bent down before the window.

 

Theirry saw that he motioned to a great scar in the board, as if fire

had been flung and had bitten into the wood before extinguished.

 

The Lord of Rooselaare lifted a grim face.

 

“I tell you the flames that made that mark are now burning the heart

and blood out of Melchoir of Brabant.”

 

“Do not say that—do not speak so loud!” cried Theirry desperately,

“it cannot be true.” Hugh set his lamp upon the table.

 

“I am not afraid of the Eastern witch,” he said sternly; “the man was

my friend and she has bewitched and poisoned him; now, God hear me,

and you, scrivener, mark my vow, if I do not publish this before the

land.”

 

A new hope rose in Theirry’s heart; if this lord would denounce the

Empress before power was hers, if her guilt could be brought home

before all men—yet through no means of his own—why, she and Dirk

might be defeated yet!

 

“Well,” he said hoarsely, “make haste, lord, for when the breath is

out of the Emperor it is too late…she will have means to silence

you, and even now be careful…she has many champions.”

 

Hugh of Rooselaare smiled slowly.

 

“You speak wisely, scrivener, and know, I think, something, hereafter

I shall question you.” Theirry made a gesture for silence; a heavy

step sounded on the stair, and Balthasar, pallid but still

magnificent, swept into the room.

 

A great war-sword clattered after him, he wore a gorget and carried

his helmet; his blue eyes were wild in his colourless face; he gave

Hugh a look of some defiance.

 

“Melchoir is dying,” he said, his tone rough with emotion, “and I must

go look after the soldiery or some adventurer will seize the town.”

 

“Dying!” repeated Hugh. “Who is with him?”

 

“The Empress; they have sent for the bishop until he come none is to

enter the chamber.” “By whose command?”

 

“By order of the Empress.”

 

“Yet I will go.”

 

The soldier paused at the doorway.

 

“Well, ye were his friend, belike she will let you in.”

 

He swung away with a chink of steel.

 

“Belike she will not,” said Hugh. “But I can make the endeavour.”

 

With no further glance at the shuddering young man, who held himself

rigid against the wall, Hugh of Rooselaare ascended to the Emperor’s

chamber.

 

He found the ante-room crowded with courtiers and monks; the Emperor’s

door was closed, and before it stood two black mutes brought by the

Empress from Greece.

 

Hugh touched a black-robed brother on the arm. “By what authority are

we excluded from the Emperor’s death-bed?”

 

Several answered him—

 

“The Queen! she claims to know as much of medicine as any of the

physicians.”

 

“She is in possession.”

 

Hugh shouldered his way through them.

 

“Certes, I must see him—and her.”

 

But not one stepped forward to aid or encourage; Melchoir was beyond

protecting his adherents, he was no longer Emperor, but a man who

might be reckoned with the dead, the Empress and Balthasar of Courtrai

had already seized the governance, and who dared interfere; the great

nobles even held themselves in reserve and were silent.

 

But Hugh of Rooselaare’s blood was up, he had always held Ysabeau

vile, nor had he any love for the Margrave, whose masterful hand he

saw in this.

 

“Since none