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

class="calibre1">how long will you tolerate him in Rome? You will be no man’s creature,

and, I think, no man’s ally—what chance shall we have in Rome once

you are master? Sylvester was old and meek, he let Balthasar hold the

reins—will you do that?”

 

“Nay,” smiled the Cardinal. “I shall be no puppet Pope.”

 

“I knew it,” answered the Empress with a deep breath; “will you swear

to keep my husband in his place?”

 

“That will not I,” said Luigi Caprarola. “If it please me I will hurl

him down and set one of my own followers up. I have no love for

Balthasar of Courtrai.”

 

Ysabeau’s face hardened with hate.

 

“But you think he can help you to the Tiara—”

 

“Through you, lady—you can tell him I am his friend, his ally, what

you will—or you may directly influence the Cardinals, I care not, so

the thing be done; what I shall do if it be not done, I have said.”

 

The Empress twisted her fingers together and suddenly laughed.

 

“You wish me to deceive my lord to his ruin, you wish me to place his

enemy over him—now, when we are harassed, here and in Germany, you

wish me to do a thing that may bring his fortunes to the dust–why,

you are not so cunning, my lord, if you think you can make me the

instrument of Balthasar’s downfall!”

 

The Cardinal looked at her with curiosity.

 

“Nevertheless your Grace will do it—sooner than let me say what I can

say.”

 

She held up her head and smiled in his face. “Then you are wrong;

neither threats nor bribery can make me do this thing—say what you

will to the Emperor, I am secure in his good affections; blight my

fame and turn him against me if you can, I am not so mean a woman that

fear can make me betray the fortunes of my husband and my son.”

 

The Cardinal lowered his eyes; he was very pale.

 

“You dare death,” he said, “a shameful death—if my accusation be

proved—as proved it shall be.”

 

The Empress looked at him over her shoulder. “Dare death!” she cried.

“You say I have dared Hell for—him!—shall I be afraid, then, of

paltry death?”

 

Luigi Caprarola’s breast heaved beneath the vivid silk of his robe.

 

“Of what are you afraid?” he asked.

 

“Of nothing save evil to my lord.”

 

The Cardinal’s lids drooped; he moistened his lips.

 

“This is your answer?”

 

“Yea, your Eminence; all the power I possess shall go to prevent you

mounting the throne you covet so—and now, seeing you have that answer

I will leave, my courtiers grow weary in your halls.”

 

She moved to the door, her limbs trembling beneath her, her brow cold,

her hands chilled and moist, and her heart shivering in her body, yet

with a regal demeanour curbing and controlling her fear.

 

As she opened it the Cardinal turned his head. “Give me a little

longer, your Grace,” he said softly. “I have yet something to say.”

 

She reclosed the door and stood with her back against it.

 

“Well, my lord?”

 

“You boast you are afraid of nothing—certes, I wonder—you defy me

boldly and something foolishly in this matter of your guilt; will you

be so bold in the matter of your innocence?”

 

He leant forward in his chair to gaze at her; she waited silently,

with challenging eyes.

 

“You are very loyal to your husband, you will not endanger your son’s

possible heritage; these things, you tell me, are more to you than

shame or death; your lord is Emperor of the West, your son King of the

Romans—well, well—you are too proud—”

 

“Nay,” she flashed, “I am not too proud for the wife of Balthasar of

Courtrai and the mother of a line of Emperors—we are the founders of

our house, and it shall be great to rule the world.”

 

The Cardinal was pale and scornful, his narrowed eyes and curving

mouth expressed bitterness—and passion.

 

“Here is the weapon shall bring you to your knees,” he said, “and make

your boasting die upon your lips—you are not the wife of Balthasar,

and the only heritage your son will ever have is the shame and

weariness of the outcast.”

 

She gathered her strength to meet this wild enormity. “Not his

wife…why, you rave…we were married before all Frankfort…not

Balthasar’s wife!”

 

The Cardinal rose; his head was held very erect; he looked down on her

with an intense gaze. “Your lord was wed before.”

 

“Yea, I know…what of it?”

 

“This—Ursula of Rooselaare lives!”

 

Ysabeau gave a miserable little cry and turned about as if she would

fall; she steadied herself with a great effort and faced the Cardinal

desperately.

 

“She died in a convent at Flanders—this is not the truth—”

 

“Did I not speak truth before?” he demanded. “In the matter of

Melchoir.”

 

A cry was wrung from the Empress.

 

“Ursula of Rooselaare died in Antwerp,” she repeated wildly—“in the

convent of the White Sisters.”

 

“She did not, and Balthasar knows she did not—he thinks she died

thereafter, he thinks he saw her grave, but he would find it empty—

she lives, she is in Rome, and she is his wife, his Empress, before

God and man.”

 

“How do you know this?” She made a last pitiful attempt to brave him,

but the terrible Cardinal had broken her strength; the horror of the

thing he said had chilled her blood and choked her heart-beats.

 

“The youth who helped you once, the doctor Constantine…from him

Balthasar obtained the news of his wife’s death, for Ursula and he

were apprenticed to the same old master—ask Balthasar if this be not

so—well, the youth lied, for purposes of his own; the maid lived

then, and is living now, and if I choose it she will speak.”

 

“It is not possible,” shuddered the Empress; “no—you wish to drive me

mad, and so you torture me—why did not this woman speak before?”

 

The Cardinal smiled.

 

“She did not love her husband as you do, lady, and so preferred her

liberty; you should be grateful.”

 

“Alive, you say,” whispered Ysabeau, unheeding, “and in Rome? But none

would know her, she could not prove she was—his—Ursula of

Rooselaare.”

 

“She has his ring,” answered Luigi Caprarola, “and her wedding deeds,

signed by him and by the priest—there are those at Rooselaare who

know her, albeit it is near twenty years since she was there; also she

hath the deposition of old Master Lukas that she was a supposed nun

when she came to him, and in reality the wife of Balthasar of

Courtrai; she can prove no one lies buried in the garden of Master

Lukas’s house, and she can bring forward sisters of the Order to which

she belonged to show she did not die on her wedding day—this and

further proof can she show.”

 

The Empress bowed her head on her breast and put her hand over her

eyes.

 

“She came to you—sir, with…this tale?”

 

“That is for me to say or not as I will.”

 

“She must be silenced! By Christus His Mother she must be silent!”

 

“Secure me the casting vote in the Conclave and she will never speak.”

 

“I have said. I…cannot, for his sake, for my son’s sake—”

 

“Then I will bring forth Ursula of Rooselaare, and she shall prove

herself the Emperor’s wife—then instantly must you leave him, or both

of you will be excommunicated—your alternative will be to stay and be

his ruin or go to obscurity, never seeing his face again; your son

will no longer be King of the Romans, but a nameless wanderer—spurned

and pitied by those who should be his subjects—and another woman will

sit by Balthasar’s side on the throne of the West!”

 

The Empress set her shoulders against the door.

 

“And if my lord be loyal to me as I to him—to me and to my son—”

 

“Then will he be hounded from his throne, cast out by the Church and

avoided by men; will not Lombardy be glad to turn against him and

Bohemia?”

 

For a little while she was silent, and the Cardinal also as he looked

at her, then she raised her eyes to meet his; steadily now she kept

them at the level of his gaze, and her base, bold blood served her

well in the manner of her speech.

 

“Lord Cardinal,” she said, “you have won; before you, as before the

world, I stand Balthasar’s wife, nor can you fright me from that proud

station by telling of—this impostor; yet, I am afraid of you; I dare

not come to an issue with you, Luigi Caprarola, and to buy your

silence on these matters I will secure your election—and afterwards

you and my lord shall see who is the stronger.”

 

She opened the door, motioning him to silence.

 

“My lord, no more,” she cried. “Believe me, I can be faithful to my

word when I am afraid to break it…and be you silent about this woman

Ursula.” The Cardinal came from his seat towards her.

 

“We part as enemies,” he answered, “but I kiss the hem of your gown,

Empress, for you are brave as you are beautiful.”

 

He gracefully lifted the purple robe to his lips.

 

“And above all things do I admire a constant woman;” his voice was

strangely soft. Her face, cold, imperial beneath the shining gold and

glittering hair, did not change. “But, alas, you hate me!” he suddenly

laughed, raising his eyes to her.

 

“To-day I cannot speak further with you, sir.”

 

She moved away, steadying her steps with difficulty; the two

chamberlains in the ante-chamber rose as she stepped out of the

cabinet.

 

“Benedictus, my daughter,” smiled the Cardinal, and closed the door.

 

His face was flushed and bright with triumph; there was a curious

expression in his eyes; he went to the window and looked out on purple

Rome.

 

“How she loves him still!” he said aloud; “yet–why do I wonder?—is

he not as fair a man as—”

 

He broke off, then added reflectively, “Also, she is beautiful.”

 

His long fingers felt among his silk robes; he drew forth a little

mirror and gazed at his handsome face with the darkened upper lip and

tonsured head.

 

As he looked he smiled, then presently laughed.