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

had she refused to buy his silence at such a price—better

that Cardinal Caprarola should have denounced her than that the Pope

should use this knowledge to unseat her husband.

 

She had never imagined that she had a friend in Michael II, but she

had not imagined him so callous, cruel and false as to take her bribe

and still betray her—even though the man had revealed himself to her

for what he was, as ambitious, unscrupulous and hard; she had not

thought he would so shamelessly be false to his word.

 

Angry scorn filled her heart when she considered the reputation this

man had won in his youth—that indeed he still bore with some—yet it

could not but stir her admiration to reflect what it must have cost a

man of the Pope’s nature to play the ascetic saint for so many years.

But his piety had been well rewarded—the poor Flemish youth sat in

the Vatican now, lord of her husband’s fortunes and her own honour.

 

Then she fell to pondering over the story of Ursula of Rooselaare,

wondering where she was, where she had been these years, and how she

had met Cardinal Caprarola… The Empress dwelt on these things till

her head ached; impatiently she thrust wider open the stained glass

casement and leant from the window.

 

But there was no breeze abroad to cool her burning brow, and on all

sides the sky was heavy with clouds over which the summer lightning

played.

 

Ysabeau turned her eyes from the threatening prospect, and with a

stifled groan began pacing up and down the tesselated floor of the

cabinet.

 

She was interrupted by the entry of a lady tall and fair, leading a

beautiful child by the hand. Jacobea of Martzburg and Ysabeau’s son.

 

“We seek for his Grace,” smiled the lady. “Wencelaus wishes to say his

Latin lesson, and to tell the tale of the three Dukes and the sack of

gold that he has lately learnt.”

 

The Empress gave her son a quick glance.

 

“You shall tell it to me, Wencelaus—my lord is not here.”

 

The boy, golden, large and glorious to look upon, scowled at her.

 

“Will not tell it you or any woman.” Ysabeau answered in a kind of

bitter gentleness. “Be not too proud, Wencelaus,” and the thought of

what his future might be made her eyes fierce.

 

The Prince tossed his yellow curls. “I want my father.” Jacobea, in

pity of the Empress’s distracted bearing, tried to pacify him.

 

“His Grace cannot see you now—but presently—” He shook his hand free

of hers. “Ye cannot put me off—my father said an hour before the

Angelus;” his blue eyes were angry and defiant, but his lips quivered.

 

The Empress crushed back the wild misery of her thoughts, and caught

the child’s embroidered yellow sleeve.

 

“Certes, ye shall see him,” she said quietly, “if he promised you—I

think he is in the oratory, we will wait at the door until he come

forth.”

 

The boy kissed her hand, and, the shadow passed from his lovely face.

 

Jacobea saw the Empress look down on him with a desperate and heart-broken expression; she wondered at the anguish revealed to her in that

second, but she was neither disturbed nor touched; her own heart had

been broken so long ago that all emotions were but names to her.

 

The Empress dismissed her with a glance.

 

Jacobea left the palace, mounted the little Byzantine chariot with the

blue curtains and drove to the church of San Giovanni in Laterano. She

went there every day to hear a mass sung for the soul of one who had

died long ago.

 

A large portion of her immense fortune had gone in paying for masses

and candles for the repose of Sybilla, one time wife of Sebastian her

steward; if gold could send the murdered woman there Jacobea had

opened to her the doors of Paradise.

 

In her quiet monotonous life in a strange land, caring for none, and

by none cared for, with a dead heart in her bosom and leaden feet

walking heavily the road to the grave, this Sybilla had come to be

with Jacobea the most potent thing she knew.

 

Neither Balthasar nor the Empress, nor any of their Court were so real

to her as the steward’s dead wife.

 

She was as certain of her features, her bearing, the manner of her

dress, as if she saw her daily; there was no face so familiar to her

as the pale countenance of Sybilla with the wide brows and heavy red

hair; she saw no ghost, she was not frightened by dreams nor visions,

but the thought of Sybilla was continuous.

 

For ten years she had not spoken her name save in a whisper to the

priest, nor had she in any way referred to her; by the people among

whom she moved this woman was utterly forgotten, but in Jacobea’s bedchamber stood a samite cushion exquisitely worked with a scarlet lily,

and Jacobea looked at it more often than at anything else in the

world.

 

She did not regard this image she had created with terror or dread,

with any shuddering remorse or aversion; it was to her a constant

companion whom she accepted almost as she accepted herself.

 

As she stepped from the chariot at the door of San Giovanni in

Laterano the gathering thunder rolled round the hills of Rome; she

pondered a moment on the ominous clouds that had hung so long over the

city that the people began to murmur that they were under God’s

displeasure, and passed through the dark portals into the dimly

illuminated church.

 

She turned to a little side chapel and knelt on a purple cushion worn

by her knees.

 

Mechanically she listened as the priest murmured over the mass,

hurrying it a little that it might not interfere with the Angelus,

mechanically she made the responses and rose when it was over with a

calm face.

 

She had done this every day for nine years. There were a few people in

the church, kneeling for the Angelus; Jacobea joined them and fixed

her eyes on the altar, where a strong purple light glowed and

flickered, bringing out points of gold in the moulding of the ancient

arches.

 

A deep hush held the scented stillness; the scattered bent figures

were dark and motionless against the mystic clouds of incense and the

soft bright lights.

 

Monks in long brown habits came and stood in the chancel; the bell

struck the hour, and young novices entered singing—

 

“Angelus Domini nuntiavit Mariae, et concepit de Spiritu Sancto.”

 

The monks knelt and folded their hands on their breasts; the response

that still seemed very sweet to Jacobea arose.

 

“Ave Maria, gratia plena—”

 

A side door near Jacobea opened’ softly and a man stepped into the

church…Now the priest was speaking.

 

“Ecce ancilla Domini.

 

fiat mihi secundum verbum tuum.”

 

A strong sense that the newcomer was observing her made Jacobea turn,

almost unconsciously, her head towards him as she repeated the “Ave

Maria.”

 

A tall richly-dressed man was gazing at her intently; his face was in

shadow, but she could see long pearls softly gleam in his ears.

 

“Et Verbum caro factum est, et habitavit in nobis.”

 

The deep voices of the monks and the subdued tones of the worshippers

again answered; Jacobea could distinguish the faltering words of the

man near her.

 

“Ora pro nobs, Sancta Del Genitrix.”

 

Jacobea bent her head in her hands, as she replied—

 

“Ut digni efficiamur promissionibus Christi.”

 

Priests and novices left the church, the monks filed out and the bent

figures rose. The man stepped from the shadows as Jacobea rose to her

feet, and their eyes met. “Ah—you!” said Jacobea; she had her hands

on her breviary as he had seen them long ago.

 

She was so little moved by meeting him that she began to clasp the

ivory covers, bending her head to do so.

 

“You remember me?” asked Theirry faintly.

 

“I have forgotten nothing,” she answered calmly. “Why do you seek to

recall yourself to me?” “I cannot see you and let you pass.”

 

She looked at him; it was a different face from the one he had known,

though little changed in line or colour.

 

“You must hate me,” he faltered.

 

The words did not touch her.

 

“Are you free of the devils?” she asked, and crossed herself.

 

Theirry winced; he remembered that she believed Dirk was dead, that

she thought of the Pope as a holy man…

 

“Forgive me,” he murmured.

 

“For what?”

 

“Ah—that I did not understand you to be always a saintly woman.”

 

Jacobea laughed sadly.

 

“You must not speak of the past, though you may think of nothing else,

even as I do—we might have been friends once, but the Devil was too

strong for us.”

 

At that moment Thierry hated Dirk passionately; he felt he could have

been happy with this woman, and with her only in the whole world, and

he loathed Dirk for making it impossible. “Well,” said Jacobea, in the

same unmoved tone, “I must go back—farewell, sir.”

 

Theirry strove with speech in vain; as she moved towards the door he

came beside her, his beautiful face white and eager.

 

Then, by a common impulse, both stopped.

 

Round one of the dark glittering pillars a brilliant figure flashed

into the rich light. The masked dancer in orange.

 

She stepped up to Theirry and laid her fingers on his scarlet sleeve.

 

“How does Theirry of Dendermonde keep his word!” she mocked, and her

eyes gleamed from their holes; “is your heart of a feather’s weight

that it flutters this way and that with every breath of air?”

 

“What does that mean?” asked Jacobea, as the man flushed and

shuddered. “And what does she here in this attire?”

 

The dancer turned to her swiftly

 

“What of one who drags his weary limbs beneath a Syrian sun in

penitence for a deed ye urged him to?” she said in the same tone.

 

Jacobea stepped back with a quick cry, and Theirry seized the dancer’s

arm.

 

“Begone,” he said threateningly. “I know you, or who you feign to be.”

 

She answered between laughter and fear.

 

“Let me go—I have not hurt you; why are you angry, my brave knight?”

 

At the sound of her voice that she in no way lowered, a monk came

forward and sternly ordered her from the church.

 

“Why?” she asked. “I am masked, holy father, so cannot prove a

temptation to the faithful!” “Leave the church,” he commanded, “and if

you would worship here come in a fitting spirit and a fitting dress.”

 

The dancer laughed.

 

“So I am flung out of the house of God—well, sir and sweet lady, will

you come to the Mass at the Basilica to-morrow?—nay, do, it will be

worth beholding—the Basilica to-morrow! I shall be there.”

 

With that she darted before them and slipped from the church.

 

Man and woman shuddered and knew not why.

 

A peal of thunder rolled, the walls of the church shook, and an image

of the Virgin was hurled to the marble pavement and shivered into

fragments.