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

he rose from the couch with a sense of haste

and discomfiture.

 

What hour was it?

 

The day was of a drowsing heat; the glare of the sun had taken all

colour out of the walls opposite, the grass and vines; they all blazed

together, a shimmer of gold.

 

“So I blow off my loves like the thistledown And ride from the gates

of Courtrai town”…

 

Theirry descended.

 

He found Balthasar in the workshop; there were the remains of a meal

on the table, and the Knight, red and fresh as a rose, was polishing

up his sword handle, singing the while, as if in pleased expression of

his own thoughts.

 

In the corner sat Dirk, drawn into himself and gilding the devil.

 

Theirry was conscious of a great dislike to Balthasar; ghosts nor

devils, nor the thought of them had troubled his repose; there was

annoyance in the fact that he had slept well, eaten well, and was now

singing in sheer careless gaiety of heart; yet what other side of life

should a mere animal like Balthasar know?

 

Dirk looked up, then quickly down again; Theirry sank on a stool by

the table.

 

Balthasar turned to him.

 

“Are you sick?” he asked, wide-eyed.

 

The scholar’s dishevelled appearance, haggard eyes, tumbled locks and

peevish gathering of the brows, justified his comment, but Theirry

turned an angry eye on him.

 

“Something sick,” he answered curtly. Balthasar glanced from him to

Dirk’s back, bending over his work.

 

“There is much companionship to be got from learned men, truly!” he

remarked; his blue eyes and white teeth flashed in a half amusement;

he put one foot on a chair and balanced his glittering sword across

his knee; Theirry averted a bitter gaze from his young splendour, but

Balthasar laughed and broke into his song again.

 

“My heart’s a nun within my breast, So proud is she, so hard and

proud, Absolving me, she gives me rest”…

 

“We part ways here,” said Theirry.

 

“So soon?” asked the Knight, then sang indifferently—

 

“So I blow off my loves like the thistledown.

 

And ride through the gates of Courtrai town.”…

 

Theirry glanced now at his bright face, smooth yellow hair and

gorgeous vestments. “Ay,” he said. “I go to Basle.”

 

“And I to Frankfort; still, we might have kept company a little

longer.”

 

“I have other plans,” said Theirry shortly.

 

Balthasar smiled good-humouredly.

 

“You are not wont to be so evil-tempered,” he remarked.

 

Then he looked from one to the other; silent both and unresponsive.

 

“I will even take my leave;” he laid the great glittering sword across

the table.

 

Dirk turned on his stool with the roll of gilding in his hand.

 

At his cold gaze, that seemed to hold something of enmity and an

unfriendly knowledge, Balthasar’s dazzlingly fresh face flushed deeper

in the cheeks.

 

“Since I have been so manifestly unwelcome,” he said, “I will pay for

what I have had of you.” Dirk rose.

 

“You mistake,” he answered. “I have been pleased to see you for many

reasons, Balthasar of Courtrai.”

 

The young Knight thrust his hands into his linked belt and eyed the

speaker.

 

“You condemn me,” he said defiantly. “Well, Theirry is more to your

mind—”

 

He opened his purse of curiously cut and coloured leather, and taking

from it four gold coins laid them on the corner of the table.

 

“So you may buy masses for the soul of Ursula of Rooselaare.” He

indicated the money with a swaggering gesture.

 

“Think you her soul is lost?” queried Dirk.

 

“A choired saint is glad of prayers,” returned Balthasar. “But you are

in an ill mood, master, so good-bye to you and God send you sweeter

manners when next we meet.”

 

He moved to the door, vivid blue and gold and purple; without looking

back he flung on his orange hat.

 

Theirry roused himself and turned with a reluctant interest.

 

“You are going to Frankfort?” he asked.

 

“Ay,” Balthasar nodded pleasantly. “I shall see in the town to the

hire of a horse and man–mine own beast being lamed, as you know,

Theirry.”

 

The scholar rose.

 

“Why do you go to Frankfort?” he asked. He spoke with no object, in a

half-sick envy of the Knight’s gaiety and light-heartedness, but

Balthasar coloured for the second time.

 

“All men go to Frankfort,” he answered. “Is not the Emperor there?”

 

Theirry lifted his shoulders.

 

“‘Tis no matter of mine.”

 

“Nay,” said Balthasar, who appeared to have been both disturbed and

confused by the question, “no more than it is my affair to ask you—

why go you to Basle?”

 

The scholar’s eyes gleamed behind his thick lashes.

 

“It is very clear why I go to Basle. To study medicine and

philosophy.”

 

They quitted the room, leaving Dirk looking covertly after them, and

were proceeding through the dusty, neglected rooms.

 

“I do not like the place,” said Balthasar. “Nor yet the youth. But he

has served my purpose.” And now they were in the hall.

 

“We shall meet again,” said Theirry, opening the door.

 

The Knight turned his bright face.

 

“Like enough,” he answered easily. “Farewell.” With that and a smile

he was swinging off across the cobbles, tightening his sword straps.

 

Against the sun-dried, decayed houses, across the grass-grown square

his vivid garments flashed and his voice came over his shoulder

through the hot blue air—

 

“So I blew off my loves like the thistledown And rode through the

gates of Courtrai town.”

 

Theirry watched him disappear round the angle of the houses, then

bolted the door and returned to the workroom.

 

Dirk was standing very much as he had left him, half resting against

the table with the roll of gilding in his white fingers.

 

“What do you know of that man?” he asked as Theirry entered. “Where

did you meet him?” “Balthasar?”

 

“Yea.”

 

Theirry frowned.

 

“At his father’s house. I taught his sister music. There was, in a

manner, some friendship between us…we both wearied of Courtrai…so

it came we were together. I never loved him.” Dirk returned quietly to

the now completely gilded devil.

 

“Know you anything of the woman he spoke of?” he asked.

 

“Did he speak of one?”

 

Dirk looked over his shoulder.

 

“Yea,” he said; ‘besides, I was thinking of another woman.’ “They were

his words.” Theirry sat down; he felt faint and weak.

 

“I know not. There were so many. As we travelled together he made his

prayers to one Ysabeau, but he was secret about her—never his way.”

 

“Ysabeau,” repeated Dirk. “A common name.”

 

“Ay,” said Theirry indifferently.

 

Dirk suddenly raised his hand, and pointed out of the window at the

daisies and the broken fountain.

 

“What had he done if she had been living?” he asked, then without

waiting for a reply he began swiftly on another subject.

 

“I have finished my work. I wished to leave it complete—it was for

the church of St. Bavon, but I shall not give it them. Now, we can

start when you will.”

 

Theirry looked up.

 

“What of your house and goods?” he asked.

 

“I have thought of that. There are some valuables, some money; these

we can take—I shall lock up the house.”

 

“It will fall into decay.”

 

“I care not.” With a clear flame of eagerness alight in his eyes he

flashed a full glance at Theirry, and, seeing the young scholar pale

and drooping, disappointment clouded his face. “Do you commence so

slackly?” he demanded. “Are you not eager to be abroad?” “Yea,”

answered Theirry. “But—”

 

Dirk stamped his foot.

 

“We do not begin with ‘buts’!” he cried passionately. “If you have no

heart for the enterprise—”

 

Theirry half smiled.

 

“Give me some food, I pray you,” he said. “For I ate but little

yesterday.”

 

Dirk glanced at him.

 

“I forgot,” he answered, and set about re-arranging the remains of the

meal he and Balthasar had shared in silence.

 

Theirry sat very still; the door into the next room was open as he had

left it on his return, and he could see the line of the trapdoor; he

felt a great desire to raise it, to descend into the vault and gaze at

the cracked mirror, the brazier of dead coals and the mystic circles

on the floor. Looking up, his eyes met Dirk’s, and without words his

thought was understood.

 

“Leave it alone now,” said the sculptor softly. “Let us not speak of

it before we reach Basle.”

 

At these words Theirry felt a great relief; the idea of discussing,

even with the youth who so fascinated him, the horrible, alluring

thing that was an intimate of his thoughts but a stranger to his lips,

had filled him with uneasiness and dread. While he ate the food put

before him, Dirk picked up the four gold coins Balthasar had left and

looked at them curiously.

 

“Masses for her soul!” he cried. “Did he think that I would enter a

church and bargain with a priest for that!”

 

He laughed, and flung the money out of the window at the nodding

daisies.

 

Theirry gave him a startled glance.

 

“Why, till now I had thought that you felt tenderly towards the maid.”

 

Dirk laughed.

 

“Not I. I have never cared for women.”

 

“Nor I,” said Theirry simply; he leant back in his chair and his

dreamy eyes were grave. “When young they are ornaments, it is true,

but pleasant only if you flatter them, when they are overlooked they

become dangerous—and a woman who is not young is absorbed in little

concerns that are no matter to any but herself.”

 

The smile, still lingering on Dirk’s face, deepened derisively, it

seemed.

 

“Oh, my fine philosopher!” he mocked. “Are you well fed now, and

preaching again?”

 

He leant against the wall by the window, and the intense sunlight made

his dull brown hair glitter here and there; he folded his arms and

looked at Theirry narrowly.

 

“I warrant your mother was a fair woman,” he said. “I do not remember

her. They say she had the loveliest face in Flanders, though she was

only a clerk’s wife,” answered the young man. “I can believe it,” said

Dirk.

 

Theirry glanced at him, a little bewildered; the youth had such abrupt

changes of manner, such voice and eyes unfathomable, such a pale,

fragile appearance, yet such a spirit of tempered courage.

 

“I marvel at you,” he said. “You will not always be unknown.”

 

“No,” answered Dirk. “I have never meant that I should be soon

forgotten.”

 

Then he was beside Theirry, with a strip of parchment in his hand.

 

“I have made a list of what we have in the place of value—but I care

not to sell them here.” “Why?” questioned Theirry.

 

Dirk frowned.

 

“I want no one over the threshold. I have a reputation—not one for

holiness,” his strange face relaxed into a smile.

 

Theirry glanced at the list.

 

“Certes! How might one carry that even to the next town? Without a

horse it were impossible.” Silver ware, glass, pictures, raiment, were

marked on the strip of parchment.

 

Dirk bit his finger.

 

“We will not sell these things Master Lukas left to me,” he said

suddenly. “Only a few. Such as the silver and the red copper wrought

in Italy.”

 

Theirry lifted his grave eyes.

 

“I will carry those into the town if you give me