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

CHAPTER XX

HUGH OF ROOSELAARE

 

Dirk took off his riding-coat and listened with a smile to the quick

step of Theirry overhead; he was again in the long low chamber looking

out on the witch’s garden, and nothing was changed save that the roses

bloomed no longer on the bare thorny bushes.

 

“So you have brought him back,” said Nathalie, caressing the youth’s

soft sleeve; “pulled his saint out of her shrine and given her over to

the demons.”

 

Dirk turned his head; a beautiful look was in his eyes.

 

“Yea, I have brought him back,” he said musingly.

 

“You have done a foolish thing,” grumbled the witch, “he will ruin you

yet; beware, for even now you hold him against his will; I marked his

face as he went into his old chamber.” Dirk seated himself with a

sigh.

 

“In this matter I am not to be moved, and now some food, for I am so

weary that I can scarcely think. Nathalie, the toil it has been, the

rough roads, the delays, the long hours in the saddle—but it was

worth it!”

 

The witch set the table with a rich service of ivory and silver.

 

“Worth leaving your fortunes at the crisis? Ye left Frankfort the day

after the Emperor died, and have been away two months. Ysabeau thinks

you dead.”

 

Dirk frowned.

 

“No matter, to-morrow she shall know me living. Martzburg is far away

and the weather delayed us, but it had to be; now I am free to work my

own advancement.”

 

He drank eagerly of the wine put before him, and began to eat.

 

“Ye have heard,” asked Nathalie, “that Balthasar of Courtrai has been

elected Emperor?” “Yea,” smiled Dirk, “and is to marry Ysabeau within

the year; we knew it, did we not?” “Next spring they go to Rome to

receive the Imperial crown.”

 

“I shall be with them,” said Dirk. “Well, it is good to rest. What a

thick fool Balthasar is!” He smiled, and his eyes sparkled.

 

“The Empress is a clever woman,” answered the witch, “she came here

once to know whither you had gone. I told her, for the jest, that you

were dead. At that she must think her secret dead with you, yet she

gave no sign of joy nor relief, nor any hint of what her business

was.”

 

Dirk elegantly poured out more wine

 

“She is never betrayed by her puppet’s face—an iron-hearted fiend,

the Empress.” “They say, though, that she is a fool for Balthasar, a

dog at his heels.”

 

“Until she change.”

 

“Belike you will be her next fancy,” said Nathalie; “the crystals

always foretell a throne for you.”

 

Dirk laughed.

 

“I do not mean to share my honours with any—woman,” he answered;

“pile up the fire, Nathalie, certes, it is cold.”

 

He pushed back his chair with a half sigh on his lips, and turned

contented eyes on the glowing hearth Nathalie replenished.

 

“And none has thought evil of Melchoir’s death?” he asked curiously.

 

The witch returned to her little stool and rubbed her hands together;

the leaping firelight cast a false colour over her face.

 

“Ay, there was Hugh of Rooselaare.”

 

Dirk sat up.

 

“The Lord of Rooselaare?”

 

“Certes, the night Melchoir died he flung ‘Murderess!’ in the

Empress’s face.”

 

Dirk showed a grave, alert face.

 

“I never heard of that.”

 

“Nay,” answered the witch with some malice, “ye were too well engaged

in parting that boy from his love—it is a pretty jest—certainly, she

is a clever woman, she enlists Balthasar as her champion—he becomes

enraged, furious, and Hugh is cast into the dungeons for his pains.”

The witch laughed softly. “He would not retract, his case swayed to

and fro, but Balthasar and the Empress always hated him, he had never

a chance.”

 

Dirk rose and pressed his clasped hand to his temple.

 

“What do you say? never a chance?”

 

Nathalie stared at him.

 

“Why, you seem moved.”

 

“Tell me of Hugh of Rooselaare,” Dirk in an intense voice.

 

“He is to die tonight at sunset.”

 

Dirk uttered a hoarse exclamation.

 

“Old witch!” he cried bitterly, “why tell me this before? I lose time,

time.”

 

He snatched his cloak from the wall and flung on his hat.

 

“What is Hugh of Rooselaare to you?” asked Nathalie, and she crept

across the room and clung to the young man’s garments.

 

He shook her off fiercely.

 

“He must not die—he, on the scaffold! I, as you say, I was following

that boy and his love while this was happening!”

 

The witch fell back against the wall, while overhead the restless

tread of Theirry sounded. Dirk dashed from the room and out into the

quiet street.

 

For a second he paused; it was late afternoon, he had perhaps an hour

or an hour and a half. Clenching his hands, he drew a deep breath, and

turned in the direction of the palace at a steady run.

 

By reason of the snow clouds and the bitter cold there were few abroad

to notice the slim figure running swiftly and lightly; those who were

about made their way in the direction of the marketplace, where the

Lord of Rooselaare was presently to meet his death.

 

Dirk arrived at the palace one hand over his heart, stinging him with

the pain of his great speed; he demanded the Empress.

 

None among the guards knew either him or his name, but, at his

imperious insistence, ‘they sent word by a page to Ysabeau that the

young doctor Constantine had a desire to see her.

 

The boy returned, and Dirk was admitted instantly, smiling gloomily to

think with what feelings Ysabeau would look on him.

 

So far all had been swiftly accomplished; he was conducted to her

private chamber and brought face to face with her while he still

panted from his running.

 

She stood against a high arched window that showed the heavy

threatening winter clouds without; her purple, green and gold

draperies shone warmly in the glitter of the fire; a tray of incense

stood on the hearth after the manner of the East, and the hazy clouds

of it rose before her.

 

Until the page had gone neither spoke, then Dirk said quickly–“I

returned to Frankfort to—day.”

 

Ysabeau was agitated to fear by his sudden appearance.

 

“Where have you been?” she asked. “I thought you dead.”

 

Dirk, pale and grave, gave her a penetrating glance.

 

“I have no time for speech with you now—you owe me something, do you

not? Well, I am here to ask part payment.”

 

The Empress winced.

 

“Well—what? I had no wish to be ungrateful, ‘twas you avoided me.”

 

She crossed to the hearth and fixed her superb eyes intently on the

youth.

 

“Hugh of Rooselaare is to die this evening,” he said.

 

“Yea,” answered Ysabeau, and her childish loveliness darkened.

 

For a while Dirk was silent; he showed suddenly frail and ill; on his

face was an expression of emotion, mastered and held back.

 

“He must not die,” he said at last and lifted his eyes, shadowed with

fatigue. “That is what I demand of you, his pardon, now, and at once—

we have but little time.”

 

Ysabeau surveyed him curiously and fearfully.

 

“You ask too much,” she replied in a low voice; “do you know why this

man is to die?” “For speaking the truth,” he said, with a sudden

sneer.

 

The Empress flushed, and clutched the embroidery on her bodice.

 

“You of all men should know why he must be silenced,” she retorted

bitterly. “What is your reason for asking his life?”

 

Dirk’s mouth took on an ugly curl

 

“My reason is no matter—it is my will.”

 

Ysabeau beat her foot on the edge of the Carpet.

 

“Have I made you so much my master?” she muttered.

 

The young man answered impatiently.

 

“You will give me his pardon, and make haste, for I must ride with it

to the marketplace.” She answered with a lowering glance.

 

“I think I will not; I am not so afraid of you, and I hate this man—

my secret is your secret after all.”

 

Dirk gave a wan smile.

 

“I can blast you as I blasted Melchoir of Brabant, Ysabeau, and do you

think I have any fear of what you can say? But”—he leaned towards

her—“suppose I go with what I know to Balthasar?” The name humbled

the Empress like a whip held over her.

 

“So, I am helpless,” she muttered, loathing him.

 

“The pardon,” insisted Dirk; “sound the bell and write me a pardon.”

 

Still she hesitated; it was a hard thing to lose her vengeance against

a dangerous enemy. “Choose another reward,” she pleaded. “Of what

value can this man’s life be to you?”

 

“You seek to put me off until it be too late,” cried Dirk hoarsely—he

stepped forward and seized the hand-bell on the table—“now an’ you

show yourself obstinate, I go straight from here to Balthasar and tell

him of the poisoning of Melchoir.”

 

Instinct and desire