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

“Balthasar,” said the Emperor, in pity of his friend’s sullen face, “I

will send ye to Rome to make treaty with the Pope since it goes so

heavily with you to stay in Frankfort.”

The Margrave bit the ends of his yellow hair and made no answer.

The Empress half hay along the seat against the wall. She wore a white

and silver gown; on the cushion, where her elbow rested to support her

head, lay a great cluster of crimson roses.

On low stools near her sat her maidens sewing, three of them

embroidering between them a strip of scarlet silk.

It was the dining hall, the table laid already with rudely magnificent

covers; through the low windows, from which the tapestry was looped

back, was to be seen a red sunset sky flaming over Frankfort.

“Nay, be pleasant with me,” smiled the Emperor; he laid his arm

affectionately round the Margrave’s huge shoulders. “Certes, since I

took this resolution not to go to Rome, I have nought but sour looks

from all, save Hugh.”

Balthasar’s good-humoured face cleared.

“Ye are wrong, my Prince; but God wot, I am not angered—we can manage

without Rome”–he heroically stifled his sigh—“and who knows that ye

may not change yet?” he added cheerfully. Ysabeau looked at them as

they paced up and down, their arms about each other, the golden locks

and the black almost touching, the gorgeous purple and red habit of

the Margrave against the quiet black garments of the Emperor.

She yawned as she looked, but her eyes were very bright; slowly she

rose and stretched her slender body while the red roses fell softly to

the ground, but she took no heed of them, fixing her gaze on the two

men; her husband seemed not to know of her presence, but the Margrave

was hotly conscious of her eyes upon him, and though he would not turn

his upon her, nevertheless, she marked it and, in a half-smiling way,

came and leant on the table that divided them.

The sunset flashed final beams that fell in flushing rosy lines on the

gold and silver goblets and dishes, struck the Empress’s embroideries

into points of vivid light, and shone marvellously through Balthasar’s

brilliant locks.

“Surely we are late tonight,” said the Emperor.

“Yea,” answered Balthasar; “I do not love to wait.”

He stopped to pour himself a tankard of amber wine and drank it at a

draught.

Ysabeau watched him, then snatched up the fallen roses and laid them

on the cloth.

“Will not my lord also drink?” she asked; the fingers of her right

hand were hidden in the red flowers, with her left she raised a chased

flagon in which the sunlight burnt and sparkled. “As you please,

Princess,” answered Melchoir, and gazed towards the light

indifferently. “Ye might have poured for me,” murmured the Margrave in

a half voice.

Her hand came from the roses and touched a horn glass bound with

silver, it lingered there a moment, then rose to her bosom; Balthasar,

absorbing her face, did not notice the gesture.

“Another time,” she answered, “I will serve you, Balthasar of

Courtrai.” She filled the glass until the wine bubbled at the brim.

“Give it to my lord,” she said.

Balthasar laughed uneasily; their fingers touched upon the glass, and

a few drops were spilled. “Take care!” cried the Empress.

Melchoir turned and took the goblet.

“Why did you say—take care?” he asked.

“Between us we upset the wine,” said Ysabeau.

Melchoir drank.

“It has an ugly taste,” he said.

She laughed.

“Is it the cupbearer, perchance?”

“The wine is good enough,” put in Balthasar.

The Emperor drank again, then set it down.

“I say it is strange—taste it, Balthasar.”

In an instant the Empress intervened.

“Nay”—she caught up the glass with a movement swifter than the

Margrave’s—“since I poured, the fault—if fault there be—is mine.”

“Give it to me!” cried Balthasar.

But she made a quick motion aside, the glass slipped from her fingers

and the wine was lost on the floor.

As Balthasar stooped to pick up the goblet, the Emperor smiled.

“I warn you of that flagon, Margrave.”

The pages and varlets entered with the meats and set them on the

table; they who sat at the Emperor’s board came to take their places;

Theirry followed his master and fixed quick eyes on the Emperor.

He knew that Melchoir had been abroad all day at the hunt and could

not have long returned, hardly could their designs upon him be put in

practice tonight; after the supper he meant to speak to Hugh of

Rooselaare, this as an earnest of his final severance with Dirk.

As the beautiful shining crowd settled to their seats, the young

secretary, whose place was behind his master’s chair, took occasion to

note carefully the lord who was to receive his warning.

The candles, hanging in their copper circlets, were lit, and the ruddy

light shone over the company, while bright pages drew the curtains

over the last sunset glow.

Theirry marked the Empress, sitting languorously and stripping a red

rose of its petals; Melchoir, austere, composed, as always; Balthasar,

gay and noisy; then he turned his gaze on Hugh of Rooselaare.

That noble sat close to the Emperor. Theirry had not, so far, studied

his personal appearance though acquainted with his reputation;

observing him intently he saw a tall, well-made man dressed with

sombre elegance, a man with a strong, rather curious face framed in

straight, dull brown hair.

There was something in the turn of the features, the prominent chin,

dark, clear eyes,