Black Magic by Marjorie Bowen (romantic novels in english .TXT) 📖

together and slowly rose, looking

past Balthasar at the door.

 

“Melchoir, we speak of you,” she said.

 

The Margrave turned; the Emperor, velvet shod, was softly entering; he

glanced gravely at his wife and smilingly at Balthasar.

 

“We speak of you,” repeated Ysabeau, dark-eyed and flushed, “of

you…and Rome.”

 

Melchoir of Brabant, third of his name, austere, reserved, proud and

cold, looked more like a knight h of the Church than King of Germany

and Emperor of the West; he was plainly habited, his dark hair cut

close, his handsome, slightly haughty face composed and stern; too

earnest was he to be showily attractive yet many men adored him, among

them Balthasar of Courtrai, for in himself the Emperor was both brave

and lovable.

 

“Cannot you have done with Rome?” he asked sadly, while his large

intelligent eyes rested affectionately on the Margrave. “Is Frankfort

grown so distasteful?”

 

“Certes, no, Lord Melchoir—it is the chance! the chance!”

 

The Emperor sank in a weary manner on to a seat.

 

“Hugh of Rooselaare and I have spoken together and we have agreed,

Balthasar, not to go to Rome.”

 

The Empress stiffened and drooped her lids; the Margrave turned

swiftly to face his master, and all the colour was dashed out of his

fresh face.

 

Melchoir smiled gently.

 

“My friend, ye are an adventurer, and think of the glory to be

gained—but I must think of my people who need me here—the land is

not fit to leave. It will need many men to hold Rome; we must drain

the land of knights, wring money from the poor, tax the churches—

leave Germany defenceless, a prey to the Franks, and this for the

empty title of Emperor.”

 

Balthasar’s breast heaved.

 

“Is this your decision?”

 

The Emperor answered gravely—

 

“I do not think it God His wish that I should go to Rome.”

 

The Margrave bent his head and was silent, but Ysabeau flung her clear

voice into the pause.

 

“In Constantinople a man such as you would not long fill a throne; ere

now you had been a blinded monk and I free to choose another husband!”

 

The Emperor rose from his seat.

 

“The woman raves,” he said to the pale Margrave. “Begone, Balthasar.”

 

The German left them; when his heavy footfall had died into silence,

Melchoir looked at his wife and his eyes flashed.

 

“God forgive my father,” he said bitterly, “for tying me to this

Eastern she-cat!”

 

The Empress crouched in the window-seat and clutched the cushions.

 

“I was meant for a man’s mate,” she cried fiercely, “for a C�sar’s

wife. I would they had flung me to a foot-boy sooner than given me to

thee—thou trembling woman’s soul!”

 

“Thou hast repaid the injury,” answered the Emperor sternly, “by the

great unhappiness I have in thee. My life is not sweet with thee nor

easy. I would thou hadst less beauty and more gentleness.”

 

“I am gentle enough when I choose,” she mocked. “Balthasar and the

Court think me a loving wife.”

 

He took a step towards her; his cheek showed pale.

 

“It is most true none save I know you for the thing you are—

heartless, cruel, fierce and hard—”

 

“Leave that!” she cried passionately. “You drive me mad. I hate you,

yea, you thwart me every turn—”

 

She came swiftly across the floor to him.

 

“Have you any courage—any blood in you—will you go to Rome?”

 

“To please your wanton ambition I will do nothing, nor will I for any

reason go to Rome.” Ysabeau quivered like an infuriated animal.

 

“I will talk no more of it,” said Melchoir coldly and wearily. “Too

often do we waste ourselves in such words as these.”

 

The Greek could scarcely speak for passion; her nostrils were dilated,

her lips pale and compressed.

 

“I am ashamed to call you lord,” she said hoarsely; “humbled before

every woman in the kingdom who sees her husband brave at least—while

I—know you coward—”

 

Melchoir clenched his hands to keep them off her.

 

“Hark to me, my wife. I am your master and the master of this land—I

will not be insulted, nay, nor flouted, by your stinging tongue. Hold

me in what contempt ye will, you shall not voice it—by St. George,

no!—not if I have to take the whip to hold you dumb!”

 

“Ho! a Christian knight!” she jeered. “I loathe your Church as I

loathe you. I am not Ysabeau, but still Marozia Porphyrogentris.”

 

“Do not remind me thy father was a stableman and a murderer,” said

Melchoir. “Nor that I caused thee to change a name the women of thy

line had made accursed. Would I could send thee back to Ravenna!—for

thou hast brought to me nought but bitterness!”

 

“Be careful,” breathed Ysabeau. “Be careful.”

 

“Stand out of my way,” he commanded.

 

For answer she loosened the heavy girdle round her waist; he saw her

purpose and caught her hands.

 

“You shall not strike me.” The links of gold hung from her helpless

fingers while she gazed at him with brilliant eyes. “Would you have

struck me?”

 

“Yea—across your mouth,” she answered. “Now were you a man, you would

kill me.”

 

He took the belt from her arm, releasing her. “That you should trouble

me!” he said wearily.

 

At this she stood aside to let him pass; he turned to the door, and as

he lifted the tapestry flung down her belt.

 

The Empress crept along the floor, snatched it up and stood still,

panting.

 

Before the passion had left her face the hangings were stirred again.

 

One of her Chamberlains.

 

“Princess, there is a young doctor below desires to see you.

Constantine, his name, of Frankfort College.”

 

“Oh!” said Ysabeau; a guilty colour touched her whitened cheek. “I

know nothing of him,” she added quickly.

 

“Pardon, Princess, he says ‘tis to decipher an old writing you have

sent to him; his words are, when you see him you will remember.”

 

The blood burnt more brightly still under the exquisite skin.

 

“Bring him here,” she said.

 

But even as the Chamberlain moved aside, the slender figure of Dirk

appeared in the doorway. He looked at her, smiling calmly, his

scholar’s cap in his hand.

 

“You do remember me?” he asked.

 

The Empress moved her head in assent.