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

II answered in a low voice.

 

“Because I fear it.”

 

Theirry laughed desperately.

 

“To whom should I betray you! It seems that you have all the world!”

 

“There is Jacobea of Martzburg.”

 

“Why do you sting me with that name!”

 

“Belike I thought ye might wish to make her your Empress,” said the

Pope in sudden mockery. Theirry pressed his hand to his brow.

 

“She believes in God…what is such to me?” he cried.

 

“The other day you lied to me, saying you knew not where she was—and

straightway ye visited her.”

 

“This is your spy’s work, Ursula of Rooselaare.”

 

“Maybe,” answered the Pope.

 

Theirry paused before the basalt throne.

 

“Tell me of her. She follows me—I—I—know not what to think, she has

been much in my mind of late, since I—” He broke off, and looked

moodily at the ground. “Where has she been these years—what does she

mean to do now?”

 

“She will not trouble you again,” answered Michael II, “let her go.”

 

“I cannot—she said I had seen her face—”

 

“Well, if you have?—take it from me she is not fair.”

 

“I do not think of her fairness,” answered Theirry sullenly, “but of

the mystery there is behind all of it–why you never told me of her

before, and why she haunts me with witches in her train.”

 

The Pope looked at him curiously.

 

“For one who has never been an ardent lover ye dwell much on women—I

had rather you thought on battles and kingdoms—had I been a—were I

you, dancer and nun alike would be nothing to me compared with my

coronation on the morrow.”

 

Theirry replied hotly.

 

“Dancer and nun, as ye term them, are woven in with all I do, I

cannot, if I would, forget them. Ah, that I ever came to Rome—would I

were still a Chamberlain at Basil’s Court or a merchant’s clerk in

India!”

 

He covered his face with his trembling hands and turned away across

the golden room. The Pope rose in his seat and pressed his jewelled

fingers against his breast.

 

“Would ye had never come my way to be my ruin and your own—would you

were not such a sweet fair fool that I must love you!…and so, we

make ourselves the mock of destiny by these complaints. Oh, if you

have the desire to be king show the courage to dare a kingly fate.”

 

Theirry leant against one of the orange marble pillars, the violet

mantle falling away from his golden armour, the fainting roses lying

slackly in his dark hair.

 

“You must think me a coward,” he said, “and I have been very weak—but

that, I think, is passed; I have reached the summit of all the

greatness I ever dreamed and it confuses me, but when the Imperial

crown is mine you shall find me bold enough.”

 

Michael II flushed and gave a dazzling smile.

 

“Then are we great indeed!—we shall join hands across the fairest

dominion men ever ruled, Suabia is ours, Bohemia and Lombardy, France

courts our alliance, Cyprus, the isle of Candy and Malta town, in

Rhodes they worship us, and Genoa town owns us master!”

 

He paused in his speech and stepped down from the throne.

 

“Do you remember that day in Antwerp, Theirry, when we looked in the

mirror?” he said, and his voice was tender and beautiful; “we hardly

dared then to think of this.”

 

“We saw a gallows in that mirror,” answered Theirry, “a gallows tree

beside the triple crown.” “It was for our enemies!” cried Michael;

“our enemies whom we have triumphed over; Theirry, think of it, we

were very young then, and poor—now I have kings at my footstool, and

you will sleep tonight in the Golden Palace of the Aventine!” He

laughed joyously. Theirry’s face grew gentle at the old memories.

 

“The house still stands, I wot,” he mused, “though the dust be thick

over the deserted rooms and the vine chokes the windows—when I was in

the East, I have thought with great joy of Antwerp.”

 

The Pope laid his delicate fragrant hand on the glittering vambrace.

 

“Theirry—do you not value me a little now?”

 

Theirry smiled, into the ardent eyes.

 

“You have done more for me than man or God, and above both I do you

worship,” he answered wildly. “I am not fearful any more, and to-morrow ye shall see me a king indeed.”

 

“Until to-morrow then, farewell. I must attend a Conclave of the

Cardinals and show myself unto the multitude in St. Peter’s church.

You to the palace, on the Aventine, there to sleep soft and dream of

gold.”

 

They clasped hands, a hot colour was in the Pope’s face.

 

“The Syrian guards wait below and the Lombard archers who stood beside

you at Tivoli—they will attend you to the Imperial Palace.”

 

“What shall I do there?” asked Theirry. “It is early yet, and I do not

love to sit alone.”

 

“Then, come to the service in the Basilica—come with a bold bearing

and a rich dress to overawe these mongrel crowds of Rome.”

 

To that Theirry made no answer.

 

“Farewell,” he said, and lifted the scarlet curtain that concealed the

door, “until to—morrow.” The Pope came quickly to his side.

 

“Do not go to Jacobea tonight,” he said earnestly. “Remember, if you

fail me now—” “I shall not fail you or myself, again—farewell.”

 

His hand was on the latch when Michael spoke once more—

 

“I grieve to let you go,” he murmured in an agitated tone. “I have not

before been fearful, but tonight Theirry smiled.

 

“You have no cause to dread anything, you with your foot on the neck

of the world.” He opened the door on to the soft purple light of the

stairs and stepped from the room.

 

In a half-stifled voice the Pope called him. “Theirry!–be true to

me, for on your faith have I staked everything.”

 

Theirry looked over his shoulder and laughed.

 

“Will you never let me begone?”

 

The other pressed his hand to his forehead.

 

“Ay, begone—why should I seek to keep you?”

 

Theirry descended the stairs and now and then looked up.

 

Always to see fixed on him the yearning, fierce gaze of the one who

stood by the gilded rails and stared down at his glittering figure.

 

Only when he had completely disappeared in the turn of the stairs did

Michael II slowly return to the golden chamber and close the gorgeous

doors.

 

Theirry, splendidly attended, flashed through the riotous streets of

Rome to the palace on the Aventine Hill.

 

There he dismissed the knights.

 

“I shall not go to the Basilica tonight,” he said, “go thou there

without me.”

 

He laid aside the golden armour, the purple cloak, and attired himself

in a dark habit and a steel corselet; he meant to be Emperor to-morrow, he meant to be faithful to the Pope, but it was in his heart

to see Jacobea once more before he accepted the Devil’s last gift and

sign.

 

Leaving the palace secretly, when they all thought him in his chamber,

he took his way towards the Appian Gate.

 

Once more, for the last time…he would suggest to her that she

returned to Martzburg. The plague was rampant in the city; more than

once he passed the death-cart attended by friars clanging harsh bells;

several houses were sealed and silent; but in the piazzas the people

danced and sang, and in the Via Sacra they held a carnival in honour

of the victory at Tivoli.

 

It was nearly dark, starless, and the air heavy with the sense of

storm; as he neared the less-frequented part of the city Theirry

looked continually behind him to see if the dancer in orange dogged

his footsteps—he saw no one.

 

Very lonely, very silent it was in the Appian Way, the only domestic

light he came to the little lamp above the convent gate.

 

The stillness and gloom of the place chilled his heart, she could not,

must not stay here. . He gently pushed the gate and entered.

 

The hot dusk just revealed to him the dim shapes of the white roses

and the dark figure of a lady standing beside them.

 

“Jacobea,” he whispered.

 

She moved very slowly towards him.

 

“Ah! you.”

 

“Jacobea—you must not remain in this place!–where are the nuns?”

 

She shook her head.

 

“They are dead of the plague days past, and I have buried them in the

garden.”

 

He gave a start of horror.

 

“You shall go back to Martzburg—you are alone here?”

 

Her answer came calmly out of the twilight.

 

“I think there is no one living anywhere near. The plague has been

very fierce—you should not come here if you do not wish to die.”

 

“But what of you?” His voice was full of horror.

 

“Why, what can it matter about me?”

 

He thought she smiled; he followed her into the house, the chamber

where they had sat before. A tall pale candle burnt on the bare table,

and by the light of it he saw her face.

 

“Ye are ill already,” he shuddered.

 

Again she shook her head.

 

“Why do you come here?” she asked gently. “You are to be Emperor to-morrow.”

 

She crept with a slow sick movement to a bench that stood against the

wall and sank down on it; her features showed pinched and wan, her

eyes unnaturally blue in the pallor of her face.

 

“You must return to Martzburg,” repeated Theirry distractedly; and

thought of her as he had first seen her, bright and gay, in a pale

crimson dress…

 

“Nay, I shall return to Martzburg no more,” she answered. “He died to-day.”

 

“He?—who died, Jacobea?”

 

Very faintly she smiled.

 

“Sebastian—in Palestine. God let me see him then, because I had never

looked on him since that morning on which you saw us, sir…he has

been a holy man fighting the infidel; they wounded him, I think, and

he was sick with fever—he crept into the shade (for it is very hot

there, sir), and died.”

 

Theirry stood dumb, and the mad hatred of the devil who had brought

about this misery anew possessed him.

 

Jacobea spoke again.

 

“Maybe they have met in Paradise—and as for me I hope God may think

me fit to die—of late it seemed to me that the fiends were again

troubling me”—she clasped her hands tightly on her knees and

shivered; “something evil is abroad…who is the dancer?…last night

I saw her crouching by my gate as I was making the grave of Sister

Angela, and it seemed, it seemed, that she bewitched me—as the young

scholar did, long ago.”

 

Theirry leant heavily against the table.

 

“She is the Pope’s spy and tool,” he cried hoarsely, “Ursula of

Rooselaare!”

 

Jacobea’s dim eyes were bewildered.

 

“Ah, Balthasar’s wife,” she faltered, “but the Pope’s tool—how should

he meddle with an evil thing?”

 

Then he told her, in an outburst of wild, unnameable feeling.

 

“The Pope is Dirk Renswoude—the Pope is Antichrist—do you not

understand? And I am to help him rule the kingdom of the Devil!”

 

Jacobea gave a shuddering cry, half rose in her seat and sank back

against the wall. Theirry crossed the room and fell on his knees

beside her.

 

“It is true, true,” he sobbed. “And I am damned for ever!”

 

The lightning darted in from the darkness and thunder crashed above

the convent; Theirry laid his head on