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with it, and a sense of great heat still lay over the grass and vines
seen through the open window.
Dirk Renswoude moved St. Michael from the chair and tossed a pile of
parchments off a stool. He offered these seats to his guests, who
accepted them in silence.
“You must needs wait till the supper is prepared,” he said, and with
that placed himself on the stool by the pot, and, while he stirred it
with an iron spoon, openly studied the two men.
Balthasar of Courtrai was gorgeous; his age might be perhaps twenty-six or seven; he was of a large make, florid in the face with a high
red colour and blunt features; his brows were straight and over fair,
his eyes deep blue and expressionless; his heavy yellow hair was cut
low on his forehead and fell straightly on to his neck.
He wore a flat orange hat, slashed and cut, fastened by purple cords
to the shoulder of a gold doublet that opened on a shirt of fine lawn;
his sleeves were enormous, fantastic, puffed and gathered; round his
waist was a linked belt into which were thrust numerous daggers and a
short sword.
His breeches, of a most vivid blue, were beruffled with knots and
tassels, his riding-boots, that came to his knees, stained with the
summer dust, showed a small foot decorated with gilt spurs. He sat
with one hand on his hip, and in the other held his leathern gloves.
Such the picture, Master Dirk Renswoude, considering him coldly,
formed of Balthasar of Courtrai.
His companion was younger; dressed sombrely in black and violet, but
as well-looking as a man may be; he was neither dark nor fair, but of
a clear brown hue, and his eyes were hazel, swift and brilliant; his
mouth was set smilingly, yet the whole face expressed reserve and some
disdain; he had laid his hat on the floor beside him, and with an
interested glance was observing the room.
But Balthasar of Courtrai returned Master Dirk Renswoude’s steady
gaze.
“You have heard of me?” he said suddenly.
“Yes,” was the instant answer.
“Then, belike, you know what I am here for?”
“No,” said Master Dirk, frowning.
Balthasar glanced at his companion, who gave no heed to either of
them, but stared at the half-gilded devil with interest and some
wonder; seeing this, Balthasar answered for himself, in a manner half
defiant and wholly arrogant.
“My father is Margrave of East Flanders, and the Emperor knighted me
when I was fifteen. Now I am tired of Courtrai, of the castle, of my
father. I have taken the road.”
Master Dirk lifted the iron pot from the fire to the hearth.
“The road to—where?” he asked.
Balthasar made a large gesture with his right hand.
“To Cologne, perhaps to Rome, to Constantinople…to Turkey or
Hungary.”
“Knight errant,” said Master Dirk.
Balthasar tossed his fine head.
“By the Rood, no. I have ambitions.”
Master Dirk laughed.
“And your friend?” he asked.
“A wandering scholar,” smiled Balthasar. “Also weary of the town of
Courtrai. He dreams of fame.”
Theirry looked round at this.
“I am going to the Universities,” he said quietly. “To Paris, Basle,
Padua—you have heard of them?”
The youth’s cloudy eyes gleamed.
“Ah, I have heard of them,” he replied upon a quick breath.
“I have a great desire for learning,” said Theirry.
Balthasar made an impatient movement that shook the tassels and
ribbons on his sleeves. “God help us, yes! And I for other things.”
Master Dirk was moving about setting the supper. He placed the little
clay knights on the windowsill, and flung, without any ado, drawings,
paints and brushes on to the floor.
Silence fell on them; the young host’s bearing did not encourage
comment, and the atmosphere of the room was languid and remote, not
conducive to talk.
Master Dirk, composed and aloof, opened a press in the wall, and took
thence a fine cloth that he laid smoothly on the rough table; then he
set on it earthenware dishes and plates, drinking-glasses painted in
bright colours, and forks with agate handles.
They were well served for food, even though it might not be the
princely fare the Margrave’s son was used to; honey in a silver jar,
shining apples lying among their leaves, wheaten cakes in a plaited
basket, grapes on a gold salver, lettuces and radishes fragrantly wet;
these Master Dirk brought from the press and set on the table. Then he
helped his guests to meat, and Balthasar spoke.
“You live strangely here—so much alone.”
“I have no desire for company. I work and take pleasure in it. They
buy my work, pictures, carvings, sculptures for churches—very
readily.”
“You are a good craftsman,” said Theirry. “Who taught you?”
“Old Master Lukas, born of Ghent, and taught in Italy. When he died he
left me this house and all it holds.”
Again their speech sank into silence; Balthasar ate heavily, but with
elegance; Dirk, seated next the window, rested his chin on his palm
and stared out at the bright yet fading blue of the sky, at the row of
closed windows opposite, and the daisies waving round the broken
fountain; he ate very little. Theirry, placed opposite, was of the
same mind and, paying little heed to Balthasar, who seemed not to
interest him in the least, kept curious eyes on Dirk’s strange, grave
face.
After a while the Margrave’s son asked shamelessly for wine, and the
youth rose languidly and brought it; tall bottles, white, red and
yellow in wicker cases, and an amber-hued beer such as the peasants
drank.
The placing of these before Balthasar seemed to rouse him from his
apathy.
“Why have you come here?” he demanded.
Balthasar laughed easily.
“I am married,” he said as a prelude, and lifted his glass in a large,
well-made hand. At that Master Dirk frowned.
“So are many men.”
Balthasar surveyed the tilting wine through half-closed eyes.
“It is about my wife, Master, that I am here now.”
Dirk Renswoude leant forward in his chair.
“I know of your wife.”
“Tell me of her,” said Balthasar of Courtrai. “I have come here for
that.”
Dirk slightly smiled.
“Should I know more than you?”
The Margrave’s son flushed.
“What you do know?—tell me.”
Dirk’s smile deepened.
“She was one Ursula, daughter of the Lord of Rooselaare, she was sent
to the convent of the White Sisters in this town.”
“So you know it all,” said Balthasar. “Well, what else?”
“What else? I must tell you a familiar tale.”
“Certes, more so to you than to me.”
“Then, since you wish it, here is your story, sir.”
Dirk spoke in an indifferent voice well suited to the peace of the
chamber; he looked at neither of his listeners, but always out of the
window.
“She was educated for a nun and, I think, desired to become one of the
Order of the White Sisters. But when she was fifteen her brother died
and she became her father’s heiress. So many entered the lists for her
hand—they contracted her to you.”
Balthasar pulled at the orange tassels on his sleeve.
“Without my wish or consent,” he said.
The young man took no heed.
“They sent a guard to bring her back to Rooselaare, but because they
were fearful of the danger of journey, and that she might be captured
by one of the pretenders to her fortunes, they married her fast and
securely, by proxy, to you. At this the maid, who wished most
heartily, I take it, to become a nun, fell ill of grief, and in her
despair she confided her misery to the Abbess.”
Balthasar’s eyes flickered and hardened behind their fair lashes.
“I tell you a tale,” said Dirk, “that I believe you know, but since
you have come to hear me speak on this matter, I relate what has come
to me—of it. This Ursula was heiress to great wealth, and in her love
to the Sisters, and her dislike to this marriage, she promised them
all her worldly goods, when she should come into possession of them,
if they would connive at saving her from her father and her husband.
So the nuns, tempted by greed, spread the report that she had died in
her illness, and, being clever women, they blinded all. There was a
false funeral, and Ursula was kept secret in the convent among the
novices. All this matter was put into writing and attested by the
nuns, that there might be no doubt of the truth of it when the maid
came into her heritage. And the news went to her home that she was
dead.”
“And I was glad of it,” said Balthasar. “For then I loved another
woman and was in no need for money.”
“Peace, shameless,” said Theirry, but Dirk Renswoude laughed softly.
“She took the final, the irrevocable vows, and lived for three years
among the nuns. And the life became bitter and utterly unendurable to
her, and she dared not make herself known to her father because of the
deeds the nuns held, promising them her lands. So, as the life became
more and more horrible to her, she wrote, in her extremity, and found
means to send, a letter to her husband.”
“I have it here.” Balthasar touched his breast. “She said she had
sworn herself to me before she had vowed herself to God—told me of
her deceit,” he laughed, “and asked me to come and rescue her.”
Dirk crossed his hands, that were long and beautiful, upon the table.
“You did not come and you did not answer.”
The Margrave’s son glanced at Theirry, as he had a habit of doing, as
if he reluctantly desired his assistance or encouragement; but again
he obtained nothing and answered for himself, after the slightest
pause.
“No, I did not come. Her father had taken another wife and had a son
to inherit. And I,” he lowered his eyes moodily, “I was thinking of
another woman. She had lied, my wife, to God, I think. Well, let her
take her punishment, I said.”
“She did not wait beyond some months for your answer,” said Master
Dirk. “Master Lukas, born of Ghent, was employed in the chapel of the
convent, and she, who had to wait on him, told him her story. And when
he had finished the chapel she fled with him here—to this house. And
again she wrote to her husband, speaking of the old man who had
befriended her and telling him of her abode. And again he did not
answer. That was five years ago.”
“And the nuns made no search for her?” asked Theirry.
“They knew now that the girl was no heiress, and they were afraid that
the tale might get blown abroad. Then there was war.”
“Ay, had it not been for that I might have come,” said Balthasar. “But
I was much occupied with fighting.”
“The convent was burnt and the sisters fled,” continued Dirk. “And the
maid lived here, learning many crafts from Master Lukas. He had no
apprentices but us.”
Balthasar leant back in his chair.
“That much I learnt. And that the old man, dying, left his place to
you, and—what more of this Ursula?”
The young man gave him a slow, full glance.
“Strangely late you inquire after her, Balthasar of Courtrai.”
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