Dirk returned to the table and took up one of the books lying there; mechanically he turned the pages, and his eyes were bright on Theirry’s pallid face.
“Warn whom you will, say what you will; save, if ye can, Melchoir of Brabant; begone, see, I seek not to detain you. One day you shall come back to me, when yon soft saint fails, and I shall be waiting for you; till then, farewell.”
“For ever farewell,” answered Theirry. “I take up your challenge; I go to save the Emperor.”
Their eyes met; Theirry’s were the first to falter; he muttered something like a malediction on himself, lifted the latch and strode away.
Dirk sank into his chair; he looked very young and slight in his plain brown silk; his brow was drawn with pain, his eyes large and grieved; he turned the books and parchments over as though he did not see them.
He had not been long alone when the door was pushed open and Nathalie crept in.
“He has gone?” she whispered, “and in enmity?”
“Ay,” answered Dirk slowly. “Renouncing me.”
The witch came to the table, took up the youth’s passive hand and fawned over it.
“Let him go,” she said in an insinuating voice. “He is a fool.”
“Why, I have put no strain on him to stay,” Dirk smiled faintly. “But he will return.”
“Nay,” pleaded Nathalie, “forget him.”
“Forget him!” repeated Dirk mournfully. “But I love him.”
Nathalie stroked the still, slim fingers anxiously.
“This affection will be your ruin,” she moaned.
Dirk gazed past her at the autumn sky and the overblown red roses.
“Well, if it be so,” he said pantingly, “it will be his ruin also; he must go with me when I leave the world—the world! after all, Nathalie”—he turned his strange gaze on the witch—“it does not matter if she hold him here, so long as he is mine through eternity.”
His cheeks flushed and quivered, the long lashes drooped over his eyes; then suddenly he smiled.
“Nathalie, he has good intentions; he hopes to save the Emperor.”
The witch blinked up at him.
“But it is too late?”
“Certes; I conveyed the potion to Ysabeau this morning.” And Dirk’s smile deepened.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE MURDER
“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 lay 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 to-night,” 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 to-night; 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, pale complexion and resolute set of the mouth that gradually teased Theirry as he gazed; the whole expression reminded him of another face, seen under different circumstances, whose he could not determine.
Suddenly the Lord of Rooselaare, becoming aware of this scrutiny, turned his singularly intent eyes in the direction of the young scholar.
At once Theirry had it, he placed the likeness. In this manner had Dirk Renswoude often looked at him.
The resemblance was unmistakable if elusive; this man’s face was of necessity sterner, darker, older and more set; he was of larger make, moreover, than Dirk could ever be, his nose was heavier, his jaw more square, yet the likeness, once noticed, could not be again overlooked.
It strangely discomposed Theirry, he felt he could not take his warning to one who had Dirk’s trick of the intense gaze and inscrutable set of the lips; he considered if there were not some one else—let him go straightway, he thought, to the Emperor himself.
His reflections were interrupted by a little movement near the table, a pause in the converse.
All eyes were turned to Melchoir of Brabant.
He leant back in his seat and stared before him as if he saw a sight of horror at the other end of the table; he was quite pale, his mouth open, his lips strained and purplish.
The Empress sprang up from beside him and caught his arm.
“Melchoir!” she shrieked. “Jesu, he does not hear me!”
Balthasar rose in his place.
“My lord,” he said hoarsely, “Melchoir.”
The Emperor moved faintly like one struggling hopelessly under water.
“Melchoir!”—the Margrave pushed back his chair and seized his friend’s cold hand—“do you not hear us… will you not speak?”
“Balthasar”—the Emperor’s voice came as if from depths of distance—“I am bewitched!”
Ysabeau shrieked and beat her hands together.
Melchoir sank forward, while his face glistened with drops of agony; he gave a low crying sound and fell across the table.
With an instantaneous movement of fright and horror, the company rose from their seats and pressed towards the Emperor.
But the Margrave shouted at them—
“Stand back—would you stifle him?—he is not dead, nor, God be thanked, dying.”
He lifted up the unconscious man and gazed eagerly into his face, as he did so his own blanched despite his brave words; Melchoir’s eyes and cheeks had fallen hollow, a ghastly hue overspread his features, his jaw dropped and his lips were cracked, as if his breath burnt the blood.
The Empress shrieked again and again and wrung her hands; no one took any heed of her, she was that manner of woman.
Attendants, with torches and snatched-up candles, white, breathless ladies and eager men, pressed close about the Emperor’s seat.
“We must take him hence,” said Hugh of Rooselaare, with authority. “Help me, Margrave.”
He forced his way to Balthasar’s side.
The Empress had fallen to her husband’s feet, a gleam of white and silver against the dark trappings of the throne.
“What shall I do!” she moaned. “What shall I do!”
The Lord of Rooselaare glanced at her fiercely.
“Cease to whine and bring hither a physician and a priest,” he commanded.
Ysabeau crouched away from him and her purple eyes blazed.
The Margrave and Hugh lifted the Emperor between them; there was a swaying confusion as chair and seats were pulled out, lights swung higher, and a passage forced through the bewildered crowd for the two nobles and their burden.
Some flung open the door of the winding stairway that ascended to the Emperor’s bed-chamber, and slowly, with difficulty, Melchoir of Brabant was borne up the narrow steps.
Ysabeau rose to her feet and watched it; Balthasar’s gorgeous attire flashing in the torchlight, Hugh of Rooselaare’s stern pale face, her husband’s slack body and trailing white hands, the eager group that pressed about the foot of the stairs.
She put her hands on her bosom and considered a moment, then ran across the room and followed swiftly after the cumbrous procession.
It was now a quarter of an hour since the Emperor had fainted, and the hall was left—empty.
Only Theirry remained, staring about him with sick eyes.
A flaring flambeau stuck against the wall cast a strong light over the disarranged table, the disordered seats, scattered cushions and the rich array of gold vessels; from without came sounds of hurrying to and fro, shouted commands, voices rising and falling, the clink of arms, the closing of doors.
Theirry crossed to the Emperor’s seat where the gorgeous cushions were thrown to right and left; in Ysabeau’s place lay a single red rose, half stripped of its leaves, a great cluster of red roses on the floor beside it.
This was confirmation; he did not think there was any other place in Frankfort where grew such blooms; so he was too late, Dirk might well defy him, knowing that he would be too late.
His resolution was very quickly taken: he would be utterly silent, not by a word or a look would he betray what he knew, since it would be useless. What could save the Emperor now? It was one thing to give warning of evil projected, another to reveal evil performed; besides, he told himself, the Empress and her faction would be at once in power—Dirk a high favourite.
He backed fearfully from the red roses, glowing sombrely by the empty throne.
He would be very silent, because he was afraid; softly he crept to the window-seat and stood there, motionless, his beautiful face overclouded; in an agitated manner he bit his lip and reflected eagerly on his own hopes and dangers… on how this affected him—and Jacobea of Martzburg.
To the man, dying miserably above, he gave no thought at all; the woman, who waited impatiently for her husband’s death to put his friend in his place, he did not consider, nor did the fate of the kingship trouble him; he pictured Dirk as triumphant, potent, the close ally of the wicked Empress, and he shivered for his own treasured soul that he had just snatched from perdition; he knew he could not fight nor face Dirk triumphant, armed with success, and his outlook narrowed to the one idea—“let me get away.”
But where? Martzburg!—would the chatelaine let him follow her? It was too near Basle; he clasped his hands over his hot brow, calling on Jacobea.
As he dallied and trembled with his fears and terrors, one entered the hall from the little door leading to the Emperor’s chamber.
Hugh of Rooselaare holding a lamp.
A feverish feeling of guilt made Theirry draw back, as if what he knew might be written on his face for this man to read, this man whom he had meant to warn of a disaster already befallen.
The Lord of Rooselaare advanced to the table; he was frowning fiercely, about his mouth a dreadful look of Dirk that fascinated Theirry’s gaze.
Hugh held up the lamp, glanced down and along the empty seats, then noticed the crimson flowers by Ysabeau’s chair and picked them up.
As he raised his head his grey eyes caught Theirry’s glance.
“Ah! the Queen’s Chamberlain’s scrivener,” he said. “Do you chance to know how these roses came here?”
“Nay,” answered Theirry hastily. “I could not know.”
“They do not grow in the palace garden,” remarked Hugh; he laid them on the throne and walked the length of the table, scrutinising the dishes and goblets.
In the flare of flambeaux and candles there was no need for his lamp, but he continued to hold it aloft as if he hoped it held some special power.
Suddenly he stopped, and called to Theirry in his quiet, commanding way.
The young man obeyed, unwillingly.
“Look at that,” said Hugh of Rooselaare grimly.
He pointed to two small marks in the table, black holes in the wood.
“Burns,” said Theirry, with pale lips, “from the candles, lord.”
“Candles do not burn in such fashion.” As he spoke Hugh came round the table and cast the lamplight over the shadowed floor.
“What is that?” He bent down before the window.
Theirry saw that he motioned to a great scar in the board, as if fire had been flung and had bitten into the wood before extinguished.
The Lord of Rooselaare lifted a grim face.
“I tell you the flames that made that mark are now burning the heart and blood out of Melchoir of Brabant.”
“Do not say that—do not speak so loud!” cried Theirry desperately, “it cannot be true.”
Hugh set his lamp upon the table.
“I am not afraid of the Eastern witch,” he said sternly; “the man was my friend and she has bewitched and poisoned him; now, God hear me, and you, scrivener, mark my vow, if I do not publish this before the land.”
A new hope rose in Theirry’s heart; if this lord would denounce the Empress before power was hers, if her guilt could be brought home before all men—yet through no means of his own—why, she and Dirk might be defeated yet!
“Well,” he said hoarsely, “make haste, lord, for when the breath is out of the Emperor it is too late… she will have means to silence you, and even now be careful… she has many champions.”
Hugh of Rooselaare smiled slowly.
“You speak wisely, scrivener, and know, I think, something, hereafter I shall question you.”
Theirry made a gesture for silence; a heavy step sounded on the stair, and Balthasar, pallid but still magnificent, swept into the room.
A great war-sword clattered after him, he wore a gorget and carried his helmet; his blue eyes were wild in his colourless face; he gave Hugh a look of some defiance.
“Melchoir is dying,” he said, his tone rough with emotion, “and I must go look after the soldiery or some adventurer will seize the town.”
“Dying!” repeated Hugh. “Who is with him?”
“The Empress; they have sent for the bishop… until he come none is to enter the chamber.”
“By whose command?”
“By order of the Empress.”
“Yet I will go.”
The soldier paused at the doorway.
“Well, ye were his friend, belike she will let you in.”
He swung away with a chink of steel.
“Belike she will not,” said Hugh. “But I can make the endeavour.”
With no further glance at the shuddering young man, who held himself rigid against the wall, Hugh of Rooselaare ascended to the Emperor’s chamber.
He found the ante-room crowded with courtiers and monks; the Emperor’s door was closed, and before it stood two black mutes brought by the Empress from Greece.
Hugh touched a black-robed brother on the arm.
“By what authority are we excluded from the Emperor’s death-bed?”
Several answered him—
“The Queen! she claims to know as much of medicine as any of the physicians.”
“She is in possession.”
Hugh shouldered his way through them.
“Certes, I must see him—and her.”
But not one stepped forward to aid or encourage; Melchoir was beyond protecting his adherents, he was no longer Emperor, but a man who might be reckoned with the dead, the Empress and Balthasar of Courtrai had already seized the governance, and who dared interfere; the great nobles even held themselves in reserve and were silent.
But Hugh of Rooselaare’s blood was up, he had always held Ysabeau vile, nor had he any love for the Margrave, whose masterful hand he saw in this.
“Since none of you will stand by me,” he cried, speaking aloud to the throng, “I will by myself enter, and by myself take the consequences!”
Some one answered—
“I think it is but folly, lord.”
“Shall a woman hold us all at bay?” he cried. “What title has she to rule in Frankfort?”
He advanced to the door with his sword drawn and ready, and the crowd drew back neither supporting nor preventing; the slaves closed together, and made a gesture warning him to retire.
He seized one by his gilt collar and swung him violently against the wall, then, while the other crouched in fear, he opened the door and strode into the Emperor’s bed-chamber.
It was a low room, hung with gold and brown tapestry; the windows were shut and the air faint; the bed stood against the wall, and the heavy, dark curtains, looped back, revealed Melchoir of Brabant, lying in his clothes on the coverlet with his throat bare and his eyes staring across the room.
A silver lamp stood on a table by the window, and its faint radiance was the only light.
On the steps of the bed stood Ysabeau; over her white dress she had flung a long scarlet cloak, and her pale, bright hair had fallen on to her shoulders.
At the sight of Hugh she caught hold of the bed-hangings and gazed at him fiercely.
He sheathed his sword as he came across the room.
“Princess, I must see the Emperor,” he said sternly.
“He will see no man—he knows none nor can he speak,” she answered, her bearing prouder and more assured than he had ever known it. “Get you gone, sir; I know not how ye forced an entry.”
“You have no power to keep the nobles from their lord,” he replied. “Nor will I take your bidding.”
She held herself in front of her husband so that her shadow obscured his face.
“I will have you put without the doors if you so disturb the dying.”
But Hugh of Rooselaare advanced to the bed.
“Let me see him,” he demanded, “he speaks to me!”
Indeed, he thought that he heard from the depths of the great bed a voice saying faintly—
“Hugh, Hugh!”
The Empress drew the curtain, further concealing the dying man.
“He speaks to none. Begone!”
The Lord of Rooselaare came still nearer.
“Why is there no priest here?”
“Insolent! the bishop comes.”
“Meanwhile he dies, and there are monks enow without.”
As he spoke Hugh sprang lightly and suddenly on to the steps, pushed aside the slight figure of the Empress and caught back the curtains.
“Melchoir!” he cried, and snatched up the Emperor by the shoulders.
“He is dead,” breathed the Empress.
But Hugh continued to gaze into the distorted, hollow face, while with eager fingers he pushed back the long, damp hair.
“He is dead,” repeated Ysabeau, fearing nothing now.
With a slow step she went to the table and seated herself before the silver lamp, while she uttered sigh on sigh and clasped her hands over her eyes.
Then the hot stillness began to quiver with the distant sound of numerous bells; they were holding services for the dying in every church in Frankfort.
The Emperor stirred in Hugh’s arms; without opening his eyes he spoke—
“Pray for me… Balthasar. They did not slay me honourably——”
He raised his hands to his heart, to his lips, moaned and sank from Hugh’s arm on to the pillow.
“Quia apud Dominum misericordia, et copiosa apud eum,” he murmured.
“Eum redemptio,” finished Hugh.
“Amen,” moaned Melchoir of Brabant, and so died.
For a moment the chamber was silent save for the insistent bells, then Hugh turned his white face from the dead, and Ysabeau shivered to her feet.
“Call in the others,” murmured the Empress, “since he is dead.”
The Lord of Rooselaare descended from the bed.
“Ay, I will call in the others, thou Eastern witch, and show them the man thou hast murdered.”
She stared at him a moment, her face like a mask of ivory set in the glittering hair.
“Murdered?” she said at last.
“Murdered!” He fingered his sword fiercely. “And it shall be my duty to see you brought to the stake for this night’s work.”
She gave a shriek and ran towards the door.
Before she reached it, it was flung open, and Balthasar of Courtrai sprang into the room.
“You called?” he panted, his eyes blazing on Hugh of Rooselaare.
“Yes; he is dead—Melchoir is dead, and this lord says I slew him—Balthasar, answer for me!”
“Certes!” cried Hugh. “A fitting one to speak for you—your accomplice!”
With a short sound of rage the Margrave dragged out his sword and struck the speaker a blow across the breast with the flat of it.
“So ho!” he shouted, “it pleases you to lie!” He yelled to his men without, and the death-chamber was filled with a clatter of arms that drowned the mournful pealing of the bells. “Take away this lord, on my authority.”
Hugh drew his sword, only to have it wrenched away. The soldiers closed round him and swept their prisoner from the chamber, while Balthasar, flushed and furious, watched him dragged off.
“I always hated him,” he said.
Ysabeau fell on her knees and kissed his mailed feet.
“Melchoir is dead, and I have no champion save you.”
The Margrave stooped and raised her, his face burning with blushes till it was like a great rose.
“Ysabeau, Ysabeau!” he stammered.
She struggled out of his arms.
“Nay, not now,” she whispered in a stifled voice, “not now can I speak to you, but afterwards—my lord! my lord!”
She went to the bed and flung herself across the steps, her face hidden in her hands.
Balthasar took off his helmet, crossed himself and humbly bent his great head.
Melchoir IV lay stiffly on the lily-sewn coverlet, and without the great bells tolled and the monks’ chant rose.
“De Profundis…”
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE PURSUIT OF JACOBEA
The chatelaine of Martzburg sat in the best guest-chamber of a wayside hostel that lay a few hours’ journeying from her home. Outside the rain dripped in the trees and a cold mountain wind shook the sign-board. Jacobea trimmed the lamp, drew the curtains, and began walking up and down the room; the inner silence broken only by the sound of her footfall and an occasional sharp patter as the rain fell on to the bare hearth.
So swiftly had she fled from Frankfort that its last scenes were still before her eyes like a gorgeous and disjointed pageant; the Emperor stricken down at the feast, the brief, flashing turmoil, Ysabeau’s peerless face, that her own horrid thoughts coloured with a sinister expression, Balthasar of Courtrai bringing the city to his feet—Hugh of Rooselaare snatched away to a dungeon—and over it all the leaping red light of a hundred flambeaux.
She herself was free here of everything save the sound of the rain, yet she must needs think of and brood on the tumult she had left.
The quiet about her now, the distance she had put between herself and Frankfort, gave her no sense of peace or safety; she strove, indeed, with a feeling of horror, as if they from whom she had fled were about her still, menacing her in this lonely room.
Presently she passed into the little bed-chamber and took up a mirror into which she gazed long and earnestly.
“Is it a wicked face?”
She answered herself—“No, no.”
“Is it a weak face?”
“Alas!”
The wind rose higher, fluttered the lamp-flame and stirred the arras on the wall; and laying the mirror down she returned to the outer chamber. Her long hair that hung down her back was the only bright thing in the gloomy apartment where the tapestry was old and dusty, the furniture worn and faded; she wore a dark dress of embroidered purple, contrasting with her colourless face; only her yellow locks glittered as the lamplight fell on them.
The wind rose yet higher, struggled at the casement, seized and shook the curtains and whistled in the chimney.
Up and down walked Jacobea of Martzburg, clasping and unclasping her soft young hands, her grey eyes turning from right to left.
It was very cold, blowing straight from the great mountains the dark hid; she wished she had asked for a fire and that she had kept one of the women to sleep with her—it was so lonely, and the sound of the rain reminded her of that night at Martzburg when the two scholars had been given shelter.
She wanted to go to the door and call some one, but a curious heaviness in her limbs began to make movement irksome; she could no longer drag her steps, and with a sigh she sank into the frayed velvet chair by the fireplace.
She tried to tell herself that she was free, that she was on her way to escape, but could not form the words on her lips, hardly the thought; her head throbbed, and a cold sensation gripped her heart; she moved in the chair, only to feel as if held down in it; she struggled in vain to rise. “Barbara!” she whispered, and thought she was calling aloud.
A gathering duskiness seemed to overspread the chamber, and the tongue-shaped flame of the lamp showed through it distinct yet very far away; the noise of the wind and rain made one long insistent murmur and moaning.
Jacobea laughed drearily, and lifted her hands to her bosom to try to find the crucifix that hung there, but her fingers were like lead, and fell uselessly into her lap again.
Her brain whirled with memories, with anticipations and vague expectations, tinged with fear like the sensations of a dream; she felt that she was sinking into soft infolding darkness; the lamp-flame changed into a fire-pointed star that rested on a knight’s helm, the sound of wind and rain became faint human cries.
She whispered, as the dying Emperor had done—“I am bewitched.”
Then the Knight, with the star glittering above his brow, came towards her and offered her a goblet.
“Sebastian!” she cried, and sat up with a face of horror; the chamber was spinning about her; she saw the Knight’s long painted shield and his bare hand holding out the wine; his visor was down.
She shrieked and laughed together, and put the goblet aside.
Some one spoke out of the mystery.
“The Empress found happiness—why not you?—may not a woman die as easily as a man?”
She tried to remember her prayers, to find her crucifix; but the cold edge of the gold touched her lips, and she drank.
The hot wine scorched her throat and filled her with strength; as she sprang up the Knight’s star quivered back into the lamp-flame, the vapours cleared from the room; she found herself staring at Dirk Renswoude, who stood in the centre of the room and smiled at her.
“Oh!” she cried in a bewildered way, and put her hands to her forehead.
“Well,” said Dirk; he held a rich gold goblet, empty, and his was the voice she had already heard. “Why did you leave Frankfort?”
Jacobea shuddered.
“I do not know;” her eyes were blank and dull. “I think I was afraid——”
“Lest you might do as Ysabeau did?” asked Dirk.
“What has happened to me?” was all her answer.
All sound without had ceased; the light burnt clear and steadily, casting its faint radiance over the slim outlines of the young man and the shuddering figure of the lady.
“What of your steward?” whispered Dirk.
She responded mechanically as if she spoke by rote.
“I have no steward. I am going alone to Martzburg.”
“What of Sebastian?” urged the youth.
Jacobea was silent; she came slowly down the chamber, guiding herself with one hand along the wall, as though she could not see; the wind stirred the arras under her fingers and ruffled her gown about her feet.
Dirk set the goblet beside the lamp the while he watched her intently with frowning eyes.
“What of Sebastian?” he repeated. “Ye fled from him, but have ye ceased to think of him?”
“No,” said the chatelaine of Martzburg; “no, day and night—what is God, that He lets a man’s face to come between me and Him?”
“The Emperor is dead,” said Dirk.
“Is dead,” she repeated.
“Ysabeau knows how.”
“Ah!” she whispered. “I think I knew it.”
“Shall the Empress be happy and you starve your heart to death?”
Jacobea sighed. “Sebastian! Sebastian!” She had the look of one walking in sleep.
“What is Sybilla to you?”
“His wife,” answered Jacobea in the same tone; “his wife.”
“The dead do not bind the living.”
Jacobea laughed.
“No, no—how cold it is here; do you not feel the wind across the floor?” Her fingers wandered aimless over her bosom. “Sybilla is dead, you say?”
“Nay—Sybilla might die—so easily.”
Jacobea laughed again.
“Ysabeau did it—she is young and fair,” she said. “And she could do it—why not I? But I cannot bear to look on death.”
Her expressionless eyes turned on Dirk still in sightless fashion.
“A word,” said Dirk—“that is all your part; send him ahead to Martzburg.”
Jacobea nodded aimlessly.
“Why not?—why not?—Sybilla would be in bed, lying awake, listening to the wind as I have done—so often—and he would come up the steep, dark stairs. Oh, and she would raise her head——”
Dirk put in—
“ ‘Has the chatelaine spoken?’ she would say, and he would make an end of it.”
“Perhaps she would be glad to die,” said Jacobea dreamily. “I have thought that I should be glad to die.”
“And Sebastian?” said Dirk.
Her strangely altered face lit and changed.
“Does he care for me?” she asked piteously.
“Enough to make life and death of little moment,” answered Dirk. “Has he not followed you from Frankfort?”
“Followed me?” murmured Jacobea. “I thought he had forsaken me.”
“He is here.”
“Here—here?” She turned, her movements still curiously blind, and the long strand of her hair shone on her dark gown as she stood with her back to the light.
“Sebastian,” said Dirk softly.
He waved his little hand, and the steward appeared in the dark doorway of the inner room; he looked from one to the other swiftly, and his face was flushed and dangerous.
“Sebastian,” said Jacobea; there was no change in voice nor countenance; she was erect and facing him, yet it might well be she did not see him, for there seemed no life in her eyes.
He came across the room to her, speaking as he came, but a sudden fresh gust of wind without scattered his words.
“Have you followed me?” she asked.
“Yea,” he answered hoarsely, staring at her; he had not dreamed a living face could look so white as hers, no, nor dead face either. He dropped to one knee before her, and took her limp hand.
“Shall we be free to-night?” she asked gently.
“You have but to speak,” he said. “So much will I do for you.”
She bent forward, and with her other hand touched his tumbled hair.
“Lord of Martzburg and my lord,” she said, and smiled sweetly. “Do you know how much I love you, Sebastian? why, you must ask the image of the Virgin—I have told her so often, and no one else; nay, no one else.”
Sebastian sprang to his feet.
“Oh God!” he cried. “I am ashamed—ye have bewitched her—she knows not what she says.”
Dirk turned on him fiercely.
“Did ye not curse me when ye thought she had escaped? did I not swear to recover her for you? is she not yours? Saint Gabriel cannot save her now.”
“If she had not said that,” muttered Sebastian; he turned distracted eyes upon her standing with no change in her expression, the tips of her fingers resting on the table; her wide grey eyes gazing before her.
“Fool,” answered Dirk; “an’ she did not love you, what chance had you? I left my fortunes to help you to this prize, and I will not see you palter now—lady, speak to him.”
“Ay, speak to me,” cried Sebastian earnestly; “tell me if it be your wish that I, at all costs, should become your husband, tell me if it is your will that the woman in our way should go.”
A slow passion stirred the calm of her face; her eyes glittered.
“Yes,” she said; “yes.”
“Jacobea!”—he took her arm and drew her close to him—“look me in the face and repeat that to me; think if it is worth—Hell—to you and me.”
She gazed up at him, then hid her face on his sleeve.
“Ay, Hell,” she answered heavily; “go to Martzburg to-night; she cannot claim you when she is dead; how I have striven not to hate her—my lord, my husband.” She clung to him like a sleepy child that feels itself falling into oblivion. “Now it is all over, is it not?—the unrest, the striving. Sebastian, beware of the storm—it blows so loud.”
He put her from him into the worn old chair. “I will come back to you—to-morrow.”
“To-morrow,” she repeated—“when the sun is up.”
The wind rushed between them and made the lamp-flame leap wildly.
“Make haste!” cried Dirk; “away—the horse is below.”
But Sebastian still gazed at Jacobea.
“It is done,” said Dirk impatiently, “begone.”
The steward turned away.
“They are all asleep below?” he questioned.
“Nor will they wake.”
Sebastian opened the door on to the dark stairway and went softly out.
“Now, it is done,” repeated Dirk in a swelling whisper, “and she is lost.”
He snatched up the lamp, and, holding it aloft, looked down at the drooping figure in the chair; Jacobea’s head sank back against the tarnished velvet; there was a smile on her white lips, and her hands rested in her lap; even with Dirk’s intent face bending over her and the full light pouring down on her, she did not look up.
“Gold hair and grey eyes—and her little feet,” murmured Dirk; “one of God’s own flowers—what are you now?”
He laughed to himself and reset the lamp on the table; the lull in the storm was over, wind and rain strove together in the bare trees, and the howlings of the tempest shook the long bare room.
Jacobea moved in her seat.
“Is he gone?” she asked fearfully.
“Certes, he has gone,” smiled Dirk. “Would you have him dally on such an errand?”
Jacobea rose swiftly and stood a moment listening to the unhappy wind.
“I thought he was here,” she said under her breath. “I thought that he had come at last.”
“He came,” said Dirk.
The chatelaine looked swiftly round at him; there was a dawning knowledge in her eyes.
“Who are you?” she demanded, and her voice had lost its calm; “what has happened?”
“Do you not remember me?” smiled Dirk.
Jacobea staggered back.
“Why,” she stammered, “he was here, down at my feet, and we spoke—about Sybilla.”
“And now,” said Dirk, “he has gone to free you of Sybilla—as you bid him.”
“As I bid him?”
Dirk clasped his cloak across his breast.
“At this moment he rides to Martzburg on this service of yours, and I must begone to Frankfort where my fortunes wait. For you, these words: should you meet again one Theirry, a pretty scholar, do not prate to him of God and Judgment, nor try to act the saint. Let him alone, he is no matter of yours, and maybe some woman cares for him as ye care for Sebastian, ay, and will hold him, though she have not yellow hair.”
Jacobea uttered a moan of anguish.
“I bid him go,” she whispered. “Did God utterly forsake me and I bid him go?”
She gave Dirk a wild look over her shoulders, huddling them to her ears, as she crouched upon the floor.
“You are the Devil!” she shrieked. “I have delivered myself unto the Devil!”
She beat her hands together, and fell towards his feet.
Dirk stepped close and peered curiously into her unconscious face.
“Why, she is not so fair,” he murmured, “and grief will spoil her bloom, and ’twas only her face he loved.”
He extinguished the lamp and smiled into the darkness.
“I do think God is very weak.”
He drew the curtain away from the deep-set window, and the moon, riding the storm clouds like a silver armoured Amazon, cast a ghastly light over the huddled figure of Jacobea of Martzburg, and threw her shadow dark and trailing across the cold floor.
Dirk left the chamber and the hostel unseen and unheard. The wind made too great a clamour for stray sounds to tell. Out in the wild, wet night he paused a moment to get his bearings; then turned towards the shed where he and Sebastian had left their horses.
The trees and the sign-board creaked and swung together; the long lances of the rain struck his face and the wind dashed his hair into his eyes, but he sang to himself under his breath with a joyous note.
The angry triumphant moon, casting her beams down the clouds, served to light the little wooden shed—the inn-stable—built against the rocks.
There were the chatelaine’s horses asleep in their stalls, here was his own; but the place beside it where Sebastian’s steed had waited was empty.
Dirk, shivering a little in the tempest, unfastened his horse, and was preparing to depart, when a near sound arrested him.
Some one was moving in the straw at the back of the shed.
Dirk listened, his hand on the bridle, till a moonbeam striking across his shoulder revealed a cloaked figure rising from the ground.
“Ah,” said Dirk softly, “who is this?”
The stranger got to his feet.
“I have but taken shelter here, sir,” he said, “deeming it too late to rouse the hostel——”
“Theirry!” cried Dirk, and laughed excitedly. “Now, this is strange——”
The figure came forward.
“Theirry—yes; have you followed me?” he exclaimed wildly, and his face showed drawn and wan in the silver light. “I left Frankfort to escape you; what fiend’s trick has brought you here?”
Dirk softly stroked his horse’s neck.
“Are you afraid of me, Theirry?” he asked mournfully. “Certes, there is no need.”
But Theirry cried out at him with the fierceness of one at bay—
“Begone, I want none of you nor of your kind; I know how the Emperor died, and I fled from a city where such as you come to power, ay, even as Jacobea of Martzburg did—I am come after her.”
“And where think you to find her?” asked Dirk.
“By now she is at Basle.”
“Are ye not afraid to go to Basle?”
Theirry trembled, and stepped back into the shadows of the shed.
“I want to save my soul; no, I am not afraid; if need be, I will confess.”
Dirk laughed.
“At the shrine of Jacobea of Martzburg? Look to it she be not trampled in the mire by then.”
“You lie, you malign her!” cried the other in strong agitation.
But Dirk turned on him with imperious sternness.
“I did not leave Frankfort on a fool’s errand—I was triumphant, at the high tide of my fortunes, my foot on Ysabeau’s neck. I had good reason to have left this alone. Come with me to Martzburg and see my work, and know the saint you worship.”
“To Martzburg?” Theirry’s voice had terror in it.
“Certes—to Martzburg.” Dirk began to lead his horse into the open.
“Is the chatelaine there?”
“If not yet, she will be soon; take one of these horses,” he added.
“I know not your meaning,” answered Theirry fearfully; “but my road was to Martzburg. I mean to pray Jacobea, who left without a word to me, to give me some small place in her service.”
“Belike she will,” mocked Dirk.
“You shall not go alone,” cried Theirry, becoming more distracted, “for no good purpose can you be pursuing her.”
“I asked your company.”
Impatiently and feverishly Theirry unfastened and prepared himself a mount.
“If ye have evil designs on her,” he cried, “be very sure ye will be defeated, for her strength is as the strength of angels.”
Dirk delicately guided his steed out of the shed; the moon had at last conquered the cloud battalions, and a clear cold light revealed the square dark shape of the hostel, the flapping sign, the bare pine-trees and the long glimmer of the road; Dirk’s eyes turned to the blank window of the room where Jacobea lay, and he smiled wickedly.
“The night has cleared,” he said, as Theirry, leading one of the chatelaine’s horses, came out of the stable; “and we should reach Martzburg before the dawn.”
CHAPTER XIX.
SYBILLA
Sebastian paused on the steep, dark stairs and listened.
Castle Martzburg was utterly silent; he knew that there were one or two servants only within the walls, and that they slept at a distance; he knew that his cautious entry by the donjon door had made no sound, yet on every other step or so he stood still and listened.
He had procured a light; it fluttered in danger of extinction in the draughty stairway, and he had to shield it with his hand.
Once, when he stopped, he took from his belt the keys that had gained him admission and slipped them into the bosom of his doublet; hanging at his waist, they made a little jingling sound as he moved.
When he gained the great hall he opened the door as softly and slowly as if he did not know emptiness alone awaited him the other side.
He entered, and his little light only served to show the expanses of gloom.
It was very cold; he could hear the rain falling in a thin stream from the lips of the gargoyles without; he remembered that same sound on the night the two students took shelter; the night when the deed he was about to do had by a devil, in a whisper, been first put into his head.
He crossed to the hearth and set the lamp in the niche by the chimney-piece; he wished there was a fire—certainly it was cold.
The dim rays of the lamp showed the ashes on the hearth, the cushions in the window-seat, and something that, even in that dullness, shone with fiery hue.
Sebastian looked at it in a half horror: it was Sybilla’s red lily, finished and glowing from a samite cushion; by the side of it slept Jacobea’s little grey cat.
The steward gazing in curiously intent fashion recalled the fact that he had never conversed with his wife and never liked her; he could not tell of one sharp word between them, yet had she said she hated him he would have felt no surprise; he wondered, in case he had ever loved her, would he have been here to-night on this errand.
Lord of Martzburg!—lord of as fine a domain as any in the empire, with a chance of the imperial crown itself—nay, had he loved his wife it would have made no difference; what sorry fool even would let a woman interfere with a great destiny—Lord of Martzburg.
With little reflection on the inevitable for his wife, he fell to considering Jacobea; until to-night she had been a cipher to him—that she favoured him a mere voucher for his crime; for the procuring of this or that for him—a fact to be accepted and used; but that she should pray about him—speak as she had—that was another matter, and for the first time in his cold life he was both moved and ashamed. His thin, dark face flushed; he looked askance at the red lily and took the light from its niche.
The shadows seemed to gather and throng out of the silence, bearing down on him and urging him forward; he found the little door by the fireplace open, and ascended the steep stone stairs to his wife’s room.
Here there was not even the drip of the rain or the wail of the wind to disturb the stillness; he had taken off his boots, and his silk-clad feet made no sound, but he could not hush the catch of his breath and the steady thump of his heart.
When he reached her room he paused again, and again listened.
Nothing—how could there be? Had he not come so softly even the little cat had slept on undisturbed?
He opened the door and stepped in.
It was a small, low chamber; the windows were unshrouded, and fitful moonlight played upon the floor; Sebastian looked at once towards the bed, that stood to his left; it was hung with dark arras, now drawn back from the pillows.
Sybilla was asleep; her thick, heavy hair lay outspread under her cheek; her flesh and the bed-clothes were turned to one dazzling whiteness by the moon.
Worked into the coverlet, that had slipped half to the polished floor, were great wreaths of purple roses, showing dim yet gorgeous.
Her shoes stood on the bed steps; her clothes were flung over a chair; near by a crucifix hung against the wall, with her breviary on a shelf beneath.
The passing storm clouds cast luminous shadows across the chamber; but they were becoming fainter, the tempest was dying away. Sebastian put the lamp on a low coffer inside the door and advanced to the bed.
A large dusky mirror hung beside the window, and in it he could see his wife again, reflected dimly in her ivory whiteness with the dark lines of her hair and brows.
He came to the bedside so that his shadow was flung across her sleeping face.
“Sybilla,” he said.
Her regular breathing did not change.
“Sybilla.”
A swift cloud obscured the moon; the sickly rays of the lamp struggled with darkness.
“Sybilla.”
Now she stirred; he heard her fetch a sigh as one who wakens reluctantly from soft dreams.
“Do you not hear me speak, Sybilla?”
From the bewildering glooms of the bed he heard her silk bed-clothes rustle and slip; the moon came forth again and revealed her sitting up, wide awake now and staring at him.
“So you have come home, Sebastian?” she said. “Why did you rouse me?”
He looked at her in silence; she shook back her hair from her eyes.
“What is it?” she asked softly.
“The Emperor died,” said Sebastian.
“I know—what is that to me? Bring the light, Sebastian; I cannot see your face.”
“There is no need; the Emperor had not time to pray, I would not deal so with you, therefore I woke you.”
“Sebastian!”
“By my mistress’s commands you must die to-night, and by my desire; I shall be Lord of Martzburg, and there is no other way——”
She moved her head, and, peering forward, tried to see his face.
“Make your peace with Heaven,” he said hoarsely; “for to-morrow I must go to her a free man.”
She put her hand to her long throat.
“I wondered if you would ever say this to me—I did not think so, for it did not enter my mind that she could give commands.”
“Then you knew?”
Sybilla smiled.
“Before ever you did, Sebastian, and I have so thought of it, in these long days when I have been alone, it seemed that I must sew it even into my embroideries—‘Jacobea loves Sebastian.’ ”
He gripped the bed-post.
“It is the strangest thing,” said his wife, “that she should love you—you—and send you here to-night; she was a gracious maiden.”
“I am not here to talk of that,” answered Sebastian; “nor have we long—the dawn is not far off.”
Sybilla rose, setting her long feet on the bed step.
“So I must die,” she said—“must die. Certes! I have not lived so ill that I should fear to die, nor so pleasantly that I should yearn to live; it will be a poor thing in you to kill me, but no shame to me to be slain, my lord.”
As she stood now against the shadowed curtains her hair caught the lamplight and flashed into red gold about her colourless face; Sebastian looked at her with hatred and some terror, but she smiled strangely at him.
“You never knew me, Sebastian, but I am very well acquainted with you, and I do scorn you so utterly that I am sorry for the chatelaine.”
“She and I will manage that,” answered Sebastian fiercely; “and if you seek to divert or delay me by this talk it is useless, for I am resolved, nor will I be moved.”
“I do not seek to move you, nor do I ask you for my life. I have ever been dutiful, have I not?”
“Do not smile at me!” he cried. “You should hate me.”
She shook her head.
“Certes! I hate you not.”
She moved from the bed, in the long linen garment that she wore, slim and childish to see. She took a wrap of gold-coloured silk from a chair and put it about her. The man gazed at her the while with sullen eyes.
She glanced at the crucifix.
“I have nothing to say; God knows it all. I am ready.”
“I do not want your soul,” he cried.
Sybilla smiled.
“I made confession yesterday. How cold it is for this time of the year!—I do not shiver for fear, my lord.”
She put on her shoes, and as she stooped her brilliant hair fell and touched the patch of fading moonshine.
“Make haste,” breathed Sebastian.
His wife raised her face.
“How long have we been wed?” she asked.
“Let that be.” He paled and bit his lip.
“Three years—nay, not three years. When I am dead give my embroideries to Jacobea, they are in these coffers; I have finished the red lily—I was sewing it when the two scholars came, that night she first knew—and you first knew—but I had known a long while.”
Sebastian caught up the lamp.
“Be silent or speak 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 horäe, 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.