Black Magic - Marjorie Bowen (book recommendations website .TXT) 📗
- Author: Marjorie Bowen
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shrink from serving you, at any cost—be you but true.”
“In what way can I be false?” asked Theirry bitterly. “I, a thing at
your mercy?”
The Pope held back the blossom-strewn brocade so that he could see the
other’s face. “I ask of you to let Jacobea of Martzburg be.”
Theirry flushed.
“How ye have always hated her!…since I came to Rome I have seen her
the once.”
The Pope’s smooth pale face showed a stain of red from the dim beams
of one of the splendid lamps; Theirry observed it as he leant forward.
“She did not marry her steward,” he said.
The Pope’s eyes narrowed.
“Ye have been at the pains to discover that?”
Theirry laughed mournfully.
“You have won! you, sitting where you sit now, can afford to mock at
me; at my love, at my hope—both of which I placed once at stake on—
her—and lost!…and lost! Ten years ago—but having again seen her,
sometimes I must think of her, and that she was not vile after all,
but only trapped by you, as I have been…Sebastian went to Palestine,
and she has gone unwed.”
The Pope gave a quick sigh and bit his lip.
“I will make you Emperor,” he said. “But that woman shall not be your
Empress.” Again Theirry laughed.
“Did I love her even, which I do not—I would put her gladly aside to
sit on the Imperial throne!—Come, I have dallied long enough on the
brink of devilry—let me sin grandly now, and be grandly paid!”
Michael II gave so quick a breath the jewels on his breast scattered
coloured light.
“Come nearer to me,” he commanded, “and take my hand—as you used to,
in Frankfort…I am always Dirk to you—you who never cared for me,
hated me, I think—oh, the traitors our hearts are, neither God nor
devil is so fierce to fight!”
Theirry approached the gold steps; the Pope leant down and gave him
his cool white hand, heavy with gemmed rings, and looked intently into
his eyes.
“When they announced your election—how the storm smote the city,”
whispered Theirry fearfully; “were you not daunted?”
The Pope withdrew his hand.
“I was not in the Conclave,” he said in a strange tone. “I lay sick in
my villa—as for the storm—”
“It has not lifted since,” breathed Theirry; “day and night have the
clouds hung over Rome—is not there, after all, a God?”
“Silence!” cried the Pope in a troubled voice.
“You would be Emperor of the West, would you not?—let us speak of
that.”
Theirry leant against the arm of the throne and stared with an awful
fascination into the other’s face.
“Ay, let us speak of that,” he answered wildly; “can all your
devilries accomplish it? It is common talk in Rome that you secured
your election by Frankish influence because you vowed to league with
Balthasar—they say you are his ally—”
The dark intense eyes of Michael II glittered and glowed.
“Nevertheless I will cast him down and set you in his place—he comes
to-day to ask my aid against Lombardy and Bohemia; and therefore have
I sent for you that you may overhear this audience, and see how I mate
and checkmate an Emperor for your sake.”
As he spoke, he pointed to the other end of the room where hung a
sombre and rich curtain. “Conceal yourself—behind that tapestry—and
listen carefully to what I say, and you will understand how I may
humble Balthasar and shake him from his throne.”
Theirry, not joyous nor triumphant, but agitated and trembling with a
horrible excitement, crept across the room and passed silently behind
the arras.
As the long folds shook into place again the Pope touched a bell.
Paolo Orsini entered.
“Admit the Emperor.”
The secretary withdrew; there was a soft sound in the ante-chamber,
the voices of priests.
Michael II put his hand to his heart and fetched two or three quick
panting breaths; his full lips curved to a strange smile, and a
stranger thought was behind it; a thought that, if expressed, would
not have been understood even by Theirry of Dendermonde, who of all
men knew most of his Holiness.
This it was—
“Did ever lady meet her lord like this before, or like this use him to
advance her love!”
A heavy tread sounded without, and the Emperor advanced into the
splendid glooms of the audience-chamber.
He was bare-headed, and at sight of the awe-inspiring figure, went on
his knees at the foot of the dais.
Michael II looked at him in silence; the silver door was closed, and
they were alone, save for the unseen listener behind the arras.
At last the Pope said slowly—
“Arise, my son.”
The Emperor stood erect, showing his magnificent height and bearing;
he wore bronze-hued armour, scaled like a dragon’s breast, the high
gold Imperial buskins, and an immense scarlet mantle that flowed
behind him; his thick yellow hair hung in heavy curls on to his
shoulders, and his enormous sword made a clatter against his armour as
he moved.
Theirry, cautiously drawing aside the curtain to observe, dug his
nails into his palms with bitter envy.
Behold the man who had once been his companion—little more than his
equal, and now—an Emperor!
“You desired an audience of us,” said the Pope. “And some tedium may
be spared, for we can well guess what you have to say.”
A look of relief came into Balthasar’s great blue eyes; he was no
politician; the Empress, whose wits alone had kept him ten years on a
throne, had trembled for this audience.
“Your Holiness knows that it is my humble desire to form a firm
alliance between Rome and Germany. I have ruled both long enough to
prove myself neither weak nor false, I have ever been a faithful
servant of Holy Church—”
The Pope interrupted.
“And now you would ask her help against your rebellious subjects?”
“Yea, your Holiness.”
Michael II smiled.
“On what right does your Grace presume when you ask us to aid you in
steadying a trembling throne?”
Balthasar flushed, and came clumsily to the point.
“I was assured, Holy Father, of your friendliness before the
election—the Empress—” Again the Pope cut him short.
“Cardinal Caprarola was not the Vicegerent of Christ, the High Priest
of Christendom, as we are now—and those whom Louis of Dendermonde
knew, become as nothing before the Pope of Rome, in whose estimate all
men are the same.”
Balthasar’s spirit rose at this haughty speech; his face turned
crimson, and he savagely caught at one of his yellow curls.
“Your Holiness can have no object in refusing my alliance,” he
answered. “Sylvester crowned me with his own hands, and I always lived
in friendship with him—he aided me with troops when the Lombards
rebelled against their suzerain, and Suabia he placed under an
interdict—”
“We are not Sylvester,” said the Pope haughtily–“nor accountable for
his doings; as you may show yourself the obedient son of the Church so
may we support you—otherwise!—we can denounce as we can uphold, pull
down as we can raise up, and it wants but little, Balthasar of
Courtrai, to shake your throne from under you.”
The Emperor bit his lip, and the scales of his mail gleamed as they
rose with his heavy breathing; he knew that if the power of the
Vatican was placed on the side of his enemies he was ruined.
“In what way have I offended your Holiness?” he asked, with what
humility he could.
The fair young face of Michael II was flushed and proud in expression;
the red curls surrounding the tonsure fell across his smooth forehead;
his red lips were sternly set and his heavy brows frowned.
“Ye have offended Heaven, for whom we stand,” he answered. “And until
by penitence ye assoil your soul we must hold you outcast from the
mercies of the Church.”
“Tell me my sins,” said Balthasar hoarsely. “And what I can do to blot
them out—masses, money, lands—”
The Pope made a scornful movement with his little hand.
“None of these can make your peace with God and us—one thing only can
avail there.”
“Tell it me,” cried the Emperor eagerly. “If it be a crusade, surely I
will go—after Lombardy is subdued.”
The Pope flashed a quick glance over him. “We want no knight-errantry
in the East; we demand this—that you put away the woman whom you call
your wife.”
Balthasar stared with dilating eyes.
“Saint Joris guard us!” he muttered; “the woman whom I call my wife!”
“Ysabeau, first wedded to the man whom you succeeded.”
Balthasar’s hand made an instinctive movement towards his sword.
“I do not understand your Holiness.”
The Pope turned in his chair so that the lamplight made his robe one
bright purple sheen. “Come here, my lord.”
The Emperor advanced to the gold steps; a slim fair hand was held out
to him, holding, between finger and thumb, a ring set with a deep red
stone.
“Do you know this, my lord?” The Pope’s brilliant eyes were fixed on
him with an intent and terrible expression.
Balthasar of Courtrai looked at the ring; round the bezel two coats of
arms were delicately engraved in the soft red gold.
“Why,” he said in a troubled way, “I know the ring—yea, it was made
many years ago” “And given to a woman.
“Certes—yea—”
“It is a wedding ring.”
Again the Emperor assented, his blue eyes darkened and questioning.
“The woman to whom in your name it was given still lives.”
“Ursula of Rooselaare!” cried Balthasar.
“Yea, Ursula of Rooselaare, your wife.”
“My first wife who died before I had seen her, Holiness,” stammered
the Emperor.
The Pope’s strange handsome face was hard and merciless; he held the
wedding ring out on his open palm and looked from it to Balthasar.
“She did not die—neither in the convent, as to your shame you know,
nor in the house of Master Lukas.”
Balthasar could not speak; he saw that this man knew what he had
considered was a close secret of his own heart alone.
“Who told you she was dead?” continued the Pope. “A certain youth,
who, for his own ends, I think, lied, a wicked youth he was, and he
died in Frankfort for compassing the death of the late Emperor—or
escaped that end by firing his house, the tale grows faint with years;
‘twas he who told you Ursula of Rooselaare was dead; he even showed
you her grave—and you were content to take his word—and she was
content to be silent.”
“Oh, Christus!” cried the Emperor. “Oh, Saint Joris!–but, holy
father—this thing is impossible!” He wrung his hands together and
beat his mailed breast. “From whom had you this tale?”
“From Ursula of Rooselaare.”
“It cannot be…why was she silent all these years? why did she allow
me to take Ysabeau to wife?”
A wild expression crossed the Pope’s face; he looked beyond the
Emperor with deep soft eyes. “Because she loved another man.”
A pause fell for a second, then Michael II spoke again.
“I think, too, she something hated you who had failed her, and scorned
her—there was her father also, who died shamefully by Ysabeau’s
command; she meant, I take it, to revenge that upon the Empress, and
now, perhaps, her chance has come.”
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