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

CHAPTER XIX

SYBILLA

 

Sebastian paused on the steep, dark stairs and listened.

 

Castle Martzburg was utterly silent; he knew that there were one or

two servants only within the walls, and that they slept at a distance;

he knew that his cautious entry by the donjon door had made no sound,

yet on every other step or so he stood still and listened.

 

He had procured a light; it fluttered in danger of extinction in the

draughty stairway, and he had to shield it with his hand.

 

Once, when he stopped, he took from his belt the keys that had gained

him admission and slipped them into the bosom of his doublet; hanging

at his waist, they made a little jingling sound as he moved.

 

When he gained the great hall he opened the door as softly and slowly

as if he did not know emptiness alone awaited him the other side.

 

He entered, and his little light only served to show the expanses of

gloom.

 

It was very cold; he could hear the rain falling in a thin stream from

the lips of the gargoyles without; he remembered that same sound on

the night the two students took shelter; the night when the deed he

was about to do had by a devil, in a whisper, been first put into his

head.

 

He crossed to the hearth and set the lamp in the niche by the chimney-piece; he wished there was a fire—certainly it was cold.

 

The dim rays of the lamp showed the ashes on the hearth, the cushions

in the window-seat, and something that, even in that dullness, shone

with fiery hue.

 

Sebastian looked at it in a half horror: it was Sybilla’s red lily,

finished and glowing from a samite cushion; by the side of it slept

Jacobea’s little grey cat.

 

The steward gazing in curiously intent fashion recalled the fact that

he had never conversed with his wife and never liked her; he could not

tell of one sharp word between them, yet had she said she hated him he

would have felt no surprise; he wondered, in case he had ever loved

her, would he have been here tonight on this errand.

 

Lord of Martzburg!—lord of as fine a domain as any in the empire,

with a chance of the imperial crown itself—nay, had he loved his wife

it would have made no difference; what sorry fool even would let a

woman interfere with a great destiny—Lord of Martzburg.

 

With little reflection on the inevitable for his wife, he fell to

considering Jacobea; until tonight she had been a cipher to him—that

she favoured him a mere voucher for his crime; for the procuring of

this or that for him—a fact to be accepted and used; but that she

should pray about him—speak as she had—that was another matter, and

for the first time in his cold life he was both moved and ashamed. His

thin, dark face flushed; he looked askance at the red lily and took

the light from its niche.

 

The shadows seemed to gather and throng out of the silence, bearing

down on him and urging him forward; he found the little door by the

fireplace open, and ascended the steep stone stairs to his wife’s

room.

 

Here there was not even the drip of the rain or the wail of the wind

to disturb the stillness; he had taken off his boots, and his silk-clad feet made no sound, but he could not hush the catch of his breath

and the steady thump of his heart.

 

When he reached her room he paused again, and again listened.

 

Nothing—how could there be? Had he not come so softly even the little

cat had slept on undisturbed?

 

He opened the door and stepped in.

 

It was a small, low chamber; the windows were unshrouded, and fitful

moonlight played upon the floor; Sebastian looked at once towards the

bed, that stood to his left; it was hung with dark arras, now drawn

back from the pillows.

 

Sybilla was asleep; her thick, heavy hair lay outspread under her

cheek; her flesh and the bedclothes were turned to one dazzling

whiteness by the moon.

 

Worked into the coverlet, that had slipped half to the polished floor,

were great wreaths of purple roses, showing dim yet gorgeous.

 

Her shoes stood on the bed steps; her clothes were flung over a chair;

near by a crucifix hung against the wall, with her breviary on a shelf

beneath.

 

The passing storm clouds cast luminous shadows across the chamber; but

they were becoming fainter, the tempest was dying away. Sebastian put

the lamp on a low coffer inside the door and advanced to the bed.

 

A large dusky mirror hung beside the window, and in it he could see

his wife again, reflected dimly in her ivory whiteness with the dark

lines of her hair and brows.

 

He came to the bedside so that his shadow was flung across her

sleeping face.

 

“Sybilla,” he said.

 

Her regular breathing did not change.

 

“Sybilla.”

 

A swift cloud obscured the moon; the sickly rays of the lamp struggled

with darkness. “Sybilla.”

 

Now she stirred; he heard her fetch a sigh as one who wakens

reluctantly from soft dreams. “Do you not hear me speak, Sybilla?”

 

From the bewildering glooms of the bed he heard her silk bedclothes

rustle and slip; the moon came forth again and revealed her sitting

up, wide awake now and staring at him.

 

“So you have come home, Sebastian?” she said. “Why did you rouse me?”

 

He looked at her in silence; she shook back her hair from her eyes.

 

“What is it?” she asked softly.

 

“The Emperor died,” said Sebastian.

 

“I know—what is that to me? Bring the light, Sebastian; I cannot see

your face.”

 

“There is no need; the Emperor had not time to pray, I would not deal

so with you, therefore I woke you.”

 

“Sebastian!”

 

“By my mistress’s commands you must die tonight, and by my desire; I

shall be Lord of Martzburg, and there is no other way—”

 

She moved her head, and, peering forward, tried to see his face.

 

“Make your peace with Heaven,” he said hoarsely; “for to-morrow I must

go to her a free man.”

 

She put her hand to her long throat.

 

“I wondered if you would ever say this to me—I did not think so, for

it did not enter my mind that she could give commands.”

 

“Then you knew?”

 

Sybilla smiled.

 

“Before ever you did, Sebastian, and I have so thought of it, in these

long days when I have been alone, it seemed that I must sew it even

into my embroideries—‘Jacobea loves Sebastian.’” He gripped the bed-post.

 

“It is the strangest thing,” said his wife, “that she should love

you—you—and send you here tonight; she was a gracious maiden.”

 

“I am not here to talk of that,” answered Sebastian; “nor have we

long—the dawn is not far off.”

 

Sybilla rose, setting her long feet on the bed step.

 

“So I must die,” she said—“must die. Certes! I have not lived so ill

that I should fear to die, nor so pleasantly that I should yearn to

live; it will be a poor thing in you to kill me, but no shame to me to

be slain, my lord.”

 

As she stood now against the shadowed curtains her hair caught the

lamplight and flashed into red gold about her colourless face;

Sebastian looked at her with hatred and some terror, but she smiled

strangely at him.

 

“You never knew me, Sebastian, but I am very well acquainted with you,

and I do scorn you so utterly that I am sorry for the chatelaine.”

 

“She and I will manage that,” answered Sebastian fiercely; “and if you

seek to divert or delay me by this talk it is useless, for I am

resolved, nor will I be moved.”

 

“I do not seek to move you, nor do I ask you for my life. I have ever

been dutiful, have I not?” “Do not smile at me!” he cried. “You should

hate me.”

 

She shook her head.

 

“Certes! I hate you not.”

 

She moved from the bed, in the long linen garment that she wore, slim

and childish to see. She took a wrap of gold-coloured silk from a

chair and put it about her. The man gazed at her the while with sullen

eyes.

 

She glanced at the crucifix.

 

“I have nothing to say; God knows it all. I am ready.”

 

“I do not want your soul,” he cried.

 

Sybilla smiled.

 

“I made confession yesterday. How cold it is for this time of the

year!—I do not shiver for fear, my lord.”

 

She put on her shoes, and as she stooped her brilliant hair fell and

touched the patch of fading moonshine.

 

“Make haste,” breathed Sebastian.

 

His wife raised her face.

 

“How long have we been wed?” she asked.

 

“Let that be.”

 

He paled and bit his lip.

 

“Three years—nay, not three years. When I am dead give my

embroideries to Jacobea, they are in these coffers; I have finished

the red lily—I was sewing it when the two scholars came, that night

she first knew—and you first knew—but I had known a long while.”

 

Sebastian caught up the lamp.

 

“Be silent or speak