Black Magic - Marjorie Bowen (book recommendations website .TXT) 📗
- Author: Marjorie Bowen
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Michael II reflected a moment, his slim fingers pulling at the laurel
leaves beside him. “We will see her,” he said at length. “Bring her
here, Orsini.”
The yellow clouds broke over a brief spell of sunshine that fell
across the Vatican gardens, though the horizon was dark with a freshly
gathering storm; Michael II seated himself on a bench where the sun
gleamed.
“Sirs,” he said to the two Cardinals, “stand by me and listen to what
this woman may say.”
And picking a crimson rose from a thorny bush that brushed the seat,
he considered it curiously, and only took his eves from it when Paolo
Orsini had returned and led the lady almost to his feet.
Then he looked at her.
She wore a dark rough dress showing marks of ill usage, and over her
face a thick veil.
This she loosened as she knelt, and revealed the exceedingly fair, sad
face of Ysabeau the Empress.
Michael II went swiftly pale, he fixed large wide eyes on her.
“What do you here, defying us?” he demanded.
She rose.
“I am not here in defiance. I have come to give myself up to
punishment for the crime you denounced—the crime for which my lord
now suffers.”
Michael crushed the rose in his hand and the Cardinals glanced at each
other, having never seen him show agitation.
“It did not occur to your Holiness,” said Ysabeau, facing him
fearlessly, “that I should do this; you thought that he would never
give me up and you were right—crown, life, heaven he would forfeit
for love of me, but I will not take the sacrifice.”
The fitful sunshine touched her great beauty, her fair, soft hair
lying loosely on her shoulders, her eyes shadowed and dark, her hollow
face.
“Mine was the sin,” she continued. “And I who was strong enough to sin
alone can take the punishment alone.”
At last Michael spoke.
“Ye slew Melchoir of Brabant—ye confess it!”
Her bosom heaved.
“I am here to confess it.”
“For love of Balthasar you did it…”
“As for love of him I stand here now to take the consequences.”
“We have fire on earth and fire in hell for those who do murder,” said
Michael II; “flames for the body in the marketplace, and flames in
the pit for the soul, and though the body will not burn long, the soul
will burn for eternity.”
“I know—do what you will with me.”
The Pope cast the crushed rose from him.
“Has Balthasar sent you here?”
She smiled proudly.
“I come without his knowledge.” Her voice trembled a little. “I left a
writing telling him where I had gone and why—” Her hand crept to her
brow. “Enough of that.”
Michael II rose.
“Why have you done this?” he cried angrily.
Ysabeau answered swiftly.
“That you may take the curse off him—for my sin you cast him forth,
well, if I leave him, if I accept my punishment, if he be free to find
the—woman—who can claim him, your Holiness must absolve him of the
excommunication.”
Michael flushed.
“This comes late—too late;” he turned to the Cardinals. “My lords, is
not this love a mad thing?—that she should hope to cheat Heaven so!”
“My hope is not to cheat Heaven but to appease it,” said Ysabeau; and
the sun, making a pale glimmer in her hair, cast her shadow faintly
before her to the Pontiff’s feet. “If not for myself, for him.”
“This foolish sacrifice,” said Michael, “cannot avail Balthasar. Since
not of his free will ye are parted from him, how is his sin then
lessened?”
She trembled exceedingly.
“Now, perchance he shall loathe me…” she said.
“Had you told him to his face of your crime, would he have given you
over to our wrath?” “Nay,” she flashed. “It would have been only noble
in him to refuse; but since of myself I am come, I pray you, Lord
Pope, to send me to death and take the curse off him.”
Michael II looked at his hand; the stem of the red rose had scratched
his finger, and a tiny drop of blood showed on the white flesh.
“You are a wicked woman, by your own confession,” he said, frowning.
“Why should I show you any pity?”
“I do not ask pity, but justice for the Emperor. I am the cause of the
quarrel, and now ye have me ye can have no bitterness against him.”
He gave her a quick sidelong look.
“Do you repent, Ysabeau?”
She shook the clinging hood free of her yellow hair.
“No; the gain was worth the sin, nor am I afraid of you nor of Heaven.
I am not of a faltering race, nor of a name easily ashamed. In my own
eyes I am not abashed.”
Michael raised his head and their eyes met.
“So you would die for him?”
Ysabeau smiled.
“I think I shall. I do not think your Holiness is merciful .”
He glanced again at the drop of blood on his finger.
“You show some courage, Ysabeau.”
She smiled.
“When I was a child I was taught that they who live as kings and
queens must not look for age—the flame soon burns away, leaving the
ashes—and gorgeous years are like the flame; why should we taste the
dust that follows? I have lived my life.”
He answered—
“This shall not save Balthasar, nor take our curse from off him;
Theirry of Dendermonde has gone forth with many men and banners, and
soon the Roman gates shall open to him and victory lead his charger
through the streets! And his reward shall be the Latin world, his
badge of triumph the Imperial crown. He is our choice to share with us
the dominion of the West, therefore no more of Balthasar—ye might
speak until the heavens fell and still our heart be as brass!”
He turned swiftly and caught the arm of Cardinal Orsini.
“Away, my lord, we have given this Greek time enough.”
Ysabeau fell on her knees.
“My lord, take off the curse!”
“What shall we do with her?” asked Cardinal Colonna.
She clutched, in her desperation, at the priest’s white garments.
“Show some pity; Balthasar dies beneath your wrath—”
Paolo Orsini drew her away, while Michael II stared at her with a
touch of fear.
“Cast her without the walls—since the excommunication is upon her we
do not need her life.” “Oh, sirs!” shrieked Ysabeau, striving after
them, “my lord is innocent!”
“Take her away,” said Michael. “Cast her from Rome,”—he glared at her
over his shoulder–“doubtless the Eastern she-cat will find it worse
so to die than as Hugh of Rooselaare perished; come on, my lords.”
Leaning on the arm of Cardinal Orsini, he moved away across the
Vatican gardens. Paolo Orsini blew a little whistle.
“You must be turned from the city,” he said.
Ysabeau rose from the grass.
“This your Christian priest!” she cried hoarsely, staring after the
white figure; then, as she saw the guards approaching, she fell into
an utter silence.
As Michael II entered the Vatican the sun was again obscured and the
thunder rolled; he passed up the silver stairs to his cabinet and
closed the door on all.
The storm grew and rioted angrily in the sky; in the height of it came
a messenger riding straight to the Vatican.
Blood and dust were smeared on his clothes, and he was weary with
swift travel; they brought him to the ebony cabinet and face to face
with the Pope.
“From Theirry of Dendermonde?” breathed Michael, his face white as his
robe.
“From Theirry of Dendermonde, your Holiness.”
“What says he—victory?”
“Balthasar of Courtrai is defeated, his army lies dead, men and
horses, in the vale of Tivoli, and his conqueror marches home to-day.”
A shaft of lightning showed the ghastly face of Michael II, and a peal
of thunder shook the messenger back against the wall.
THE EVENING BEFORE THE CORONATION
The orange marble pillars glowing in the light of a hundred lamps gave
the chamber a dazzling brightness; the windows were screened by
scarlet silk curtains, and crystal bowls of purple flowers stood on
the serpentine floor.
On a low gilt couch against the wall sat Theirry, his gold armour half
concealed by a violet and ermine mantle; round his close dark hair was
a wreath of red roses, and the long pearls in his ears glimmered with
his movements.
Opposite him on a throne supported by basalt lions was Michael II,
robed in gold and silver tissues under a dalmatica of orange and
crimson brocade.
“It is done,” he said in a low eager voice, “and to-morrow I crown you
in St. Peter’s church; Theirry, it is done.”
“Truly our fortunes are marvellous,” answered Theirry, “to-day—when I
heard the Princes elect me—an unknown adventurer!—when I heard the
mob of Rome shout for me—I thought I had gone mad!”
“It is I who have done this for you,” said the Pope softly.
Theirry seemed to shudder in his gorgeous mail.
“Are you afraid of me?” the other asked. “Why do you so seldom look at
me?”
Theirry slowly turned his beautiful face.
“I am afraid of my own fortunes—I am not as bold as you,” he said
fearfully. “You never hesitated to sin.”
The Pope moved, and his garments sparkled against the gleaming marble
wall.
“I do not sin,” he smiled. “I am Sin—I do no evil for I am Evil—but
you”—his face became grave, almost sad—“you are very human, better
had it been for me never to have met you!” He placed his little hands
either side of him on the smooth heads of the basalt lions. “Theirry—
for your sake I have risked everything, for your sake maybe I must
leave this strange fair life and go back whence I came—so much I care
for you, so dearly have I kept the
vows we made in Frankfort—cannot you meet with courage the destiny I
offer you?” Theirry hid his face in his hands.
The Pope flushed, and a wild light sparkled in his dark eyes.
“Was not your blood warmed by that charge at Tivoli? When knight and
horse fell before your spears and your host humbled an Emperor, when
Rome rose to greet you and I came to meet you with a kingdom for a
gift, did not some fire creep into your veins that might serve to heat
you now?”
“A kingdom!” cried Theirry, “the kingdom of Antichrist. The victory
was not mine—the cohorts of the Devil galloped beside us and urged us
to unholy triumph—Rome is a place of horror, full of witches, ghosts
and strange beasts!
“You said you would be Emperor,” answered the Pope. “And I have
granted you your wish, if you fail me or betray me now…it is over—
for both of us.”
Theirry rose and paced the chamber.
“Ay, I will be Emperor,” he cried feverishly. “Theirry of Dendermonde
crowned by the Devil in St. Peter’s church—why should I hesitate? I
am on the road to hell, to hell…” The Pope fixed ardent eyes on him.
“And if ye fail me ye shall go there instantly.”
Theirry stopped in his pacing to and fro.
“Why do you say to me so often, ‘do not fail me, do not betray me’?”
Michael
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