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

to God,” he said.

 

She came gently across the floor, holding the yellow silk at her

breast.

 

“What are you going to do with me?” she whispered. “Strangle me?—nay,

they would see that–afterwards.”

 

Sebastian went to a little door that opened beside the bed and pulled

aside the arras. “That leads to the battlements,” she said.

 

He pointed to the dark steps.

 

“Go up, Sybilla.”

 

He held the lamp above his haggard face, and the light of it fell over

the narrow winding stone steps; she looked at them and ascended.

Sebastian followed, closing the door after him. In a few moments they

were out on the donjon roof.

 

The vast stretch of sky was clear now and paling for the dawn; faint

pale clouds clustered round the dying moon, and the scattered stars

pulsed wearily.

 

Below them lay the dark masses of the other portions of the castle,

and beside them rose the straining pole and wind-tattered banner of

Jacobea of Martzburg.

 

Sybilla leant against the battlements, her hair fluttering over her

face.

 

“How cold it is!” she said in a trembling voice. “Make haste, my

lord.”

 

He was shuddering, too, in the keen, insistent wind.

 

“Will you not pray?” he asked again.

 

“No,” she answered, and looked at him vacantly. “If I shriek would any

one hear me?—Will it be more horrible than I thought? Make haste—

make haste,—or I shall be afraid.”

 

She crouched against the stone, shivering violently. Sebastian put the

lamp upon the ground. “Take care it does not go out,” she said, and

laughed. “You would not like to find your way back in the dark—the

little cat will be sorry for me.”

 

She broke off to watch what he was doing.

 

A portion of the tower projected; here the wall was of a man’s height,

and pierced with arblast holes; through there Sybilla had often looked

and seen the country below framed in the stone like a picture in a

letter of an hor�e, so small it seemed, and yet clear and brightly

coloured.

 

Beneath the wall was a paving-stone, raised at will by an iron ring;

when lifted it revealed a sheer open drop the entire height of the

donjon, through which stones and fire could be hurled in time of siege

upon the assailants in the courtyard below; but Jacobea had always

shuddered at it, nor had there been occasion to open it for many

years.

 

Sybilla saw her husband strain at the ring and bend over the hole, and

stepped forward. “Must it be that way?—O Jesu! Jesu! shall I not be

afraid?”

 

She clasped her hands and fixed her eyes on the figure of Sebastian as

he raised the slab and revealed the black aperture; quickly he stepped

back as stone rang on stone.

 

“So,” he said; “I shall not touch you, and it will be swiftly over—

walk across, Sybilla.” She closed her eyes and drew a long breath.

 

“Have you not the courage?” he cried violently. “Then I must hurl you

from the battlements…it shall not look like murder…”

 

She turned her face to the beautiful brightening sky.

 

“My soul is not afraid, but…how my body shrinks!—I do not think I

can do it…”

 

He made a movement towards her; at that she gathered herself.

 

“No—you shall not touch me.”

 

Across the donjon roof she walked with a firm step.

 

“Farewell, Sebastian; may God assoil me and thee.”

 

She put her hands to her face and moaned as her foot touched the edge

of the hole…no shriek nor cry disturbed the serenity of the night,

she made no last effort to save herself; but disappeared silently to

the blackness of her death.

 

Sebastian listened to the strange indefinite sound of it, and drops of

terror gathered on his brow; then all was silent again save for the

monotonous flap of the banner.

 

“Lord of Martzburg,” he muttered to steady himself; “Lord of

Martzburg.”

 

He dropped the stone into place, picked up the lantern and returned

down the close, cold stairs. Her room…on the pillow the mark where

her head had lain, her clothes over the coffer; well, he hated her, no

less than he had ever done; to the last she had shamed him; why had he

been so long?—too long—soon some one would be stirring, and he must

be far from Martzburg before they found Sybilla.

 

He crept from the chamber with the same unnecessary stealth he had

observed in entering, and in a cautious manner descended the stairs to

the great hall.

 

To reach the little door that had admitted him he must traverse nearly

half the castle; he cursed the distance, and the grey light that crept

in through every window he passed and revealed to him his own shaking

hand holding the useless lamp. Martzburg, his castle soon to be, had

become hateful to him; always had he found it too vast, too empty; but

now he would fill it as Jacobea had never done; the knights and her

kinsfolk who had ever overlooked him should be his guests and his

companions.

 

The thoughts that chased through his brain took curious turns; Jacobea

was the Emperor’s ward…but the Emperor was dead, should he wed her

secretly and how long need he wait?…Sybilla was often on the donjon

keep, let it seem that she had fallen … none had seen him come, none

would see him go…and Jacobea, strangest thing of all (he seemed to

hear Sybilla saying it) that she should love him…

 

The pale glow of a dreary dawn filled the great hall as he entered it;

the grey cat was still asleep, and the shining silks of the red lily

shone like the hair of the strange woman who had worked it patiently

into the samite. He tiptoed across the hall, descended the wider

stairs and made his way to the first chamber of the donjon.

 

Carefully he returned the lamp to the niche where he had found it;

wondering, as he extinguished it, if any would note that it had been

burnt that night; carefully he drew on his great muddy boots and crept

out by the little postern door into the court.

 

So sheltered was the castle, and situated in so peaceful a place, that

when the chatelaine was not within the walls the huge outer gates that

required many men to close them stood open on to the hillside; beyond

them Sebastian saw his patient horse, fastened to the ring of the bell

chain, and beyond him the clear grey-blue hills and trees.

 

His road lay open; yet he closed the door slowly behind him and

hesitated. He strove with a desire to go and look at her; he knew just

how she had fallen…when he had first come to Martzburg, the hideous

hole in the battlements exercised a great fascination over him; he had

often flung down stones, clods of grass, even once a book, that he

might hear the hollow whistling sound and imagine a furious enemy

below.

 

Afterwards he had noticed these things and how they struck the bottom

of the shaft,—lying where she would be now; he desired to see her,

yet loathed the thought of it; there was his horse, there the open

road, and Jacobea waiting a few miles away, yet he must linger while

the accusing daylight gathered about him, while the rising sun

discovered him; he must dally with the precious moments, bite the ends

of his black hair, frown and stare at the round tower of the donjon

the other side of which she lay.

 

At last he crossed the rough cobbles; skirted the keep and stood

still, looking at her.

 

Yes—he had pictured her; yet he saw her more distinctly than he had

imagined he would in this grey light. Her hair and her cloak seemed to

be wrapped close about her; one hand still clung to her face; her feet

showed bare and beautiful.

 

Sebastian crept nearer; he wanted to see her face and if her eyes were

open; to be certain, also, if that dark red that lay spread on the

ground was all her scattered locks…the light was treacherous.

 

He was stooping to touch her when the quick sound of an approaching

horseman made him draw back and glance round.

 

But before he could even tell himself it were well to fly they were

upon him; two horsemen, finely mounted, the foremost Dirk Renswoude,

bare-headed, a rich colour in his cheek and a sparkle in his eyes; he

reined up the slim brown horse.

 

“So—it is done?” he cried, leaning from the saddle towards Sebastian.

 

The steward stepped back.

 

“Whom have you with you?” he asked in a shaking voice.

 

“A friend of mine and a suitor to the chatelaine–f which folly you

and I shall cure him.” Theirry pressed forward, the hoofs of his

striving horse making musical clatter on the cobbles. “The steward!”

he cried; “and…”

 

His voice sank; he turned burning eyes on Dirk.

 

“—the steward’s wife that was,” smiled the youth. “But, certes! you

must do him worship now, he will be Lord of Martzburg.”

 

Sebastian was staring at Sybilla.

 

“You tell too much,” he muttered.

 

“Nay, my friend is one with me, and I can answer for his silence.”

Dirk patted the horse’s neck and laughed again; laughter with a high

triumphant note in it.

 

Theirry swung round on him in a desperate, bitter fierceness.

 

“Why have you brought me here? Where is the chatelaine?—by God His

saints that woman has been murdered…”

 

Dirk turned in the saddle and faced him.

 

“Ay, and by Jacobea of Martzburg’s commands.”

 

Theirry laughed aloud.

 

“The lie is dead as you give it being,” he answered—“nor can all your

devilry make it live.” “Sebastian,” said Dirk, “has not this woman

come to her death by the chatelaine’s commands?” He pointed to

Sybilla.

 

“You know it, since in your presence she bade me hither,” answered

Sebastian heavily. Dirk’s voice rose clear and musical.

 

“You see your piece of uprightness thought highly of her steward, and

that she might endow him with her hand his wife must die—”

 

“Peace! peace!” cried Sebastian fiercely, and Theirry rose in his

saddle.

 

“It is a lie!” he repeated wildly. “If ‘tis not a lie God has turned

His face from me, and I am lost indeed!

 

“If ‘tis no lie,” cried Dirk exultingly, “you are mine—did ye not

swear it?”

 

“An’ she be this thing you name her,” answered Theirry passionately—

“then the Devil is cunning indeed, and I his servant; but if you speak

false I will kill you at her feet.”

 

“And by that will I abide,” smiled Dirk. “Sebastian, you shall return

with us to give this news to your mistress.”

 

“Is she not here?” cried Theirry.

 

Dirk pointed to the silver-plated harness.

 

“You ride her horse. See her arms upon his breast. Sweet fool, we left

her behind in the hostel, waiting the steward’s return…”

 

“All ways ye trap and deceive me,” exclaimed Theirry hotly.

 

“Let us begone,” said Sebastian; he looked at Dirk as if at his

master. “Is it not time for us to begone?”

 

It was full daylight now, though the sun had not yet risen above the

hills; the lofty walls and high towers of the huge grey castle blocked

up the sky and threw into the gloom the three in their shadow.

 

“Hark!” said Dirk, and lifted his finger delicately. Again the sound

of a horse approaching on the long white road, the rise and fall of