Black Magic by Marjorie Bowen (romantic novels in english .TXT) đź“–
- Author: Marjorie Bowen
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to end; the bewildering splendour of walls, ceiling and columns was
lit by thousands of wax tapers and coloured lamps; part of the church
had been hung with azure and silver; the altar steps were covered in
cloth of gold, the altar itself almost hidden with lilies; the various
gleaming hues of the marble, orange, rose, pink, mauve, grey and
white, the jewel-like sparkle of the mosaic capitals, the ivory
carving on the rood screen, the silver arch before the high altar, the
silk and satin banners of the church resting here and there before the
walls, all combined into one soft yet burning magnificence.
The vast congregation all knelt upon the marble floor, save the
Emperor and his wife, who sat under a violet canopy placed opposite
the pulpit.
Balthasar wore the imperial purple and buskins; round his brows was
the circlet that meant dominion of the Latin world, but his comely
face was pale and anxious and his blue eyes troubled. Ysabeau, seated
close beside him, sparkled with gems from her throat to her feet; her
pale locks, twisted with pearls, hung over her bosom; she wore a high
crown of emeralds and her mantle was cloth of silver.
Between them, on a lower step of the dais, stood their little son,
gleaming in white satin and overawed by the glitter and the silence.
Surrounding the throne were ladies, courtiers, Frankish knights,
members of the Council, German Margraves, Italian nobles, envoys from
France, Spain, and resplendent Greeks from the Court of Basil.
Theirry, kneeling in the press, distinguished the calm face of Jacobea
of Martzburg among the dames of the Empress’s retinue; but he sought
in vain through the immense and varied crowd for the dancer in orange.
A faint chant rose from the sacristy, jewelled crosses showed above
the heads of the multitude as the monks entered holding them aloft,
the fresh voices of the choristers came nearer, acolytes took their
places round the altar, and the blue clouds of incense floated over
the hushed multitude.
The bells ceased.
The rise and fall of singing filled the Basilica.
Cardinal Orsini, followed by a number of priests, went slowly down the
aisle towards the open bronze doors.
His brilliant dalmatica shivered into gleaming light as he moved.
At the door he paused.
The Pontifical train was arriving in a gorgeous dazzle of colour and
motion.
Michael II stepped from a gilt car drawn by four white oxen, whose
polished horns were wreathed with roses white and red.
Preceded by Cardinals, the vivid tints of whose silk robes burnt in
the golden brightness of the Basilica, the Pope passed down the aisle,
while the congregation crouched low on their knees and hid their
faces.
Emperor and Empress rose; he looked at his son, but she at the
Pontiff, who took no heed of either.
Monks, priests and novices moved away from the high altar, where the
rows upon rows of candles shone like stars against the sparkling,
incense-laden air.
He passed to his gold and ivory seat, and the Cardinals took their
places beside him.
Ysabeau, as she resumed her place beside her lord, gazed across the
silent, kneeling crowd at Michael II.
His chasuble was alive with the varying hues of jewels, the purple and
crimson train of his robes spread to right and left along the altar
steps, the triple crown gave forth showers of light from its rubies
and diamonds, while the red hair of the wearer caught the candle-glow
and shone like a halo round his pale calm face, so curiously delicate
of feature to be able to express such resolution, such pride.
His under-garment of white satin was so thickly sewn with pearls that
the stuff was hardly visible, his fingers so covered with huge and
brilliant rings that they looked of an unnatural slenderness by
contrast; he held a crozier encrusted with rubies that darted red
fire, and carbuncles flashed on his gold shoes.
The beautiful dark eyes that always held the expression of some
passion for ever surging up, for ever held in before reaching
expression, were fixed steadily on the bronze doors that now closed
the church.
A little tremor of thunder filled the stillness, then the fair, faint
chant of the boys arose.
“Gaudeamus omnes in Domino, diem festum celebrantes
Sub honore Beatae
Mariae Virginis, …”
Ysabeau murmured the words under her breath; none in the devout
multitude with more sincerity.
As the notes quivered into silence Cardinal Orsini murmured a prayer,
to which a thousand responses were whispered fervently.
And again the thunder made sombre echo. The Empress put her hand over
her eyes; her jewels seemed so heavy they must drag her from the
throne, the crown galled her brow; the little Wencelaus stood
motionless, a bright colour in his cheeks, his eyes brilliant with
excitement; now and then the Emperor looked at him in a secretive,
piteous manner.
There was an involuntary stir among the people as the rich voices of
the men took up the singing at the end of the epistle, a movement of
joy, of pleasure in the triumphant music.
“Alleluia, alleluia.
Assumpta est Maria in Coelum; Gaudet exercitus Angelorum. Alleluia.”
Then the Pope moved, descended slowly from the dais and mounted the
steps of the high altar, his train upheld by two Archbishops.
Emperor and Empress knelt with the rest as he performed the office of
the mass; an intense stillness held the rapt assembly, but as he
turned and displayed the Host, before the vast multitude who hid their
eyes, as he held it like a captured star above the hushed splendour of
the altar, a crash of thunder shook the very foundations of the
church, and the walls shivered as if mighty forces beat on them
without.
Michael II, the only man erect in the crouching multitude smiled
slowly as he replaced the Eucharist; lightning’ darted through the
high coloured windows and quivered a moment before it was absorbed in
the rich lights.
The voices of the choir rose with a melancholy beauty.
“Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison, Kyrie eleison.”
The Pope turned to the altar; again the thunder rolled, but his low,
steady voice was heard distinctly chanting the “Gloria in excelsis
Deo” with the choir.
At the finish Cardinal Orsini took up the prayers, and a half-muffled
response came from the crowd.
“Gloria tibi, Domine.”
Every head was raised, every right hand made the sacred sign.
“Laus tibi, Christe.”
The Pope blessed the multitude and returned to his seat.
Then as Emperor and Empress rose from their knees a soft, bright sound
of movement filled the Basilica; Ysabeau put out her hand and caught
hold of her husband’s.
“Who is this?” she asked in a whisper.
He turned his eyes in the direction of her gaze.
Down the chancel came a tall monk in the robe of the Order of the
Black Penitents; his arms were folded, his hands hidden in his
sleeves, his deep cowl cast his face into utter shadow.
“I thought Cardinal Colonna preached,” whispered Balthasar fearfully,
as the monk ascended the pulpit. “I know not this man.”
Ysabeau looked at the Pope, who sat motionless in his splendour, his
hands resting on the arms of the gold chair, his gaze riveted on the
black figure of the monk in the glittering pulpit; a faint smile was
on his lips, a faint colour in his cheeks, and Ysabeau’s hand
tightened on the fingers of her lord.
The monk stood for a moment motionless, evidently contemplating the
multitude from the depth of his hood; Balthasar thought he gazed at
him, and shivered.
A strange sense of suspense filled the church, even the priests and
Cardinals about the altar glanced curiously at the figure in the
pulpit; some women began to sob under the influence of nameless and
intense excitement.
The monk drew from his sleeve a parchment from which swung a mighty
seal, slowly he unfurled it; the Empress crouched closer to Balthasar.
The monk began to speak, and both to Ysabeau and her husband the voice
was familiar—a voice long silent in death.
“In the name of Michael II, servant of servants of God and Vicegerent
of Christ, I herewith pronounce the anathema over Balthasar of
Courtrai, Emperor of the West, over Ysabeau, born Marozia
Porphyrogentris, over their son, Wencelaus, over their followers,
servants and hosts! I herewith expel them from the pale of Holy
Church, and curse them as heretics!
“I forbid any to offer them shelter, food or help, I hurl on their
heads the wrath of God and the hatred of man, I forbid any to attend
their sick-bed, to receive their confession or to bury their bodies!
“I cut asunder the ties that bind the Latin people in obedience to
them, and I lay under an interdict any person, village, town or state
that succours or aids them against our wrath! May they and their
children and their children’s children be blighted and cursed in life
and in death, may they taste misery and desolation on the earth before
they go to everlasting torment in hell!”
And now the cowled monk caught up one of the candles that lit the
pulpit, and held it aloft.
“May their race perish with them and their memories be swallowed in
oblivion—thus! As I extinguish this flame may the hand of God
extinguish them!”
He cast the candle on to the marble floor beneath the pulpit, the
flame was immediately dashed out, a slow smoke curled an instant and
vanished.
“For Balthasar of Courtrai cherishes a murderess on the throne, and
until he cast her forth and receive his true wife this anathema rests
upon his head!”
Emperor and Empress listened, holding each other’s hands and staring
at the monk; as he ended, and while the awe of utter fear held the
assembly numb, Ysabeau rose…
But at that same instant the monk tossed back his cowl and revealed
the stern, pale features of Melchoir of Brabant, crowned with the
imperial diadem…
A frenzied shriek broke from the woman, and she fell across the steps
of the throne; her crown slipped from her fair head and dazzled on the
pavement.
Groaning in anguish Balthasar stooped to raise her up…when he again
looked at the pulpit it was empty.
Ysabeau’s cry had loosened the souls of the multitude, they rose to
their feet and began to surge wildly towards the door.
But the Pontiff rose, approached the altar and began calmly to chant
the Gratias.
Balthasar gave him a wild and desperate look, staggered and fiercely
recovered himself, then took his child by the hand, and supporting
with the other the Empress, who struggled back to life, he swept down
the aisle, followed by a few of his German knights.
The people shuddered away to right and left to give him passage; the
bronze doors were opened and the excommunicated man stepped into the
thunder-wrapt streets of the city where he no longer reigned.
URSULA OF ROOSELAARE
“Say I have done well for you—it seems that I must ask your thanks.”
The Pope sat at a little table near the window of his private room in
the Vatican and rested his face on his hand.
Leaning against the scarlet tapestries that covered the opposite wall
was Theirry, clothed in chain mail and heavily armed.
“You think I should be grateful?” he asked in a low voice, his
beautiful eyes fixed in a half-frightened, wholly fascinated way on
the slim figure
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