CHAPTER VII.
THE VENGEANCE OF MICHAEL II
From every church and convent in Rome the bells rang out; it was the Feast of the Assumption and holiday in the city.
Strange, heavy clouds still obscured the sky, and intermittent thunder echoed in the distance.
The Basilica of St. Peter was crowded from end 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 daïs, 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 daïs 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.
CHAPTER VIII.
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 of the other.
Michael II wore a straight robe of gold-coloured silk and a skull-cap of crimson and blue; no jewels nor any suggestion of pomp concealed the youthfulness, almost frailty of his appearance; the red hair made his face the paler by contrast; his full lips were highly coloured under the darkened upper lip.
“Grateful?” he repeated, and his voice was mournful. “I think you do not know what I have done—I have dared to cast the Emperor from his throne—lies he not even now without the walls, defying me with a handful of Frankish knights? Is not the excommunication on him?”
“Yea,” answered Theirry. “And is it for my sake ye have done this?”
“Must you question it?” returned Michael, with a quick breath. “Yea, for your sake, to make you, as I promised, Emperor of the West—my vengeance had else been more quietly satisfied——” He laughed. “I have not forgot all my magic.”
Theirry winced.
“The vision in the Basilica was proof of that—what are you who can bring back the hallowed dead to aid your schemes?”
Michael II answered softly.
“And who are you who take my aid and my friendship, and all the while fear and loathe me?”
He moved his hand from his face and leant forward, showing a deep red mark on his cheek where the palm had pressed.
“Do you think I am not human, Theirry?” He gave a sigh. “If you would believe in me, trust me, be faithful to me—why, our friendship would be the lever to move the universe, and you and I would rule the world between us.”
Theirry fingered the arras beside him.
“In what way can I be false to you——?”
“You betrayed me once. You are the only man in Rome who knows my secret. But this is truth, if again you forsake me, you bring about your own downfall—stand by me, and I will share with you the dominion of the earth—this, I say, is truth.”
Theirry laughed unhappily.
“Sweet devil, there is no God, and I have no soul!—there, do not fear—I shall be very faithful to you—since what is there for man save to glut his desires of pomp and wealth and power?”
He moved from the wall and took a quick turn about the room.
“And yet I know not!” he cried. “Can all your magic, all your learning, all your riches, keep you where you are? The clouds hang angrily over Rome, nor have they lifted since Orsini announced you Pope—the people riot in the streets—all beautiful things are dead, many see ghosts and devils walking at twilight across the Maremma.… Oh, horror!—they say Pan has left his ruined temple to enter Christian churches and laugh in the face of the marble Christ—can these things be?”
The Pope swept back the hair from his damp brow.
“The powers that put me here can keep me here—be you but true to me!”
“Ay, I will be Emperor”—Theirry grasped his sword hilt fiercely—“though the world I rule rot about me, though ghouls and fiends make my Imperial train—I will join hands with Antichrist and see if there be a God or no!”
The Pope rose.
“You must go against Balthasar. You must defeat his hosts and bring to me his Empress, then will I crown you in St. Peter’s.”
Theirry pressed his hand to his forehead.
“We start to-morrow with the dawn—beneath the banner of God His Church; I, in this mail ye gave me, tempered and forged in Hell!”
“Ye need have no fear of failure; you shall go forth triumphantly and return victoriously. You shall make your dwelling the Golden Palace on the Aventine, and neither Heliogabalus nor Basil, nor Charlemagne shall be more magnificently housed than you.…”
Michael seemed to check his words suddenly; he turned his face away and looked across the city which lay beneath the heavy pall of clouds.
“Be but true to me,” he added in a low voice.
Theirry smiled wildly.
“A curious love have you for me, and but little faith in my strength or constancy—well, you shall see, I go forth to-morrow, with many men and banners, to rout the Emperor utterly.”
“Until then, stay in the Vatican,” said Michael II suddenly. “My prelates and my nobles know you for their leader now.”
“Nay,”—Theirry flushed as he answered—“I must go to my own abode in the city.”
“Jacobea of Martzburg is still in Rome,” said the other. “Do you leave me to go to her?”
“Nay—I know not even where she lodges,” replied Theirry hastily.
Michael smiled bitterly and was silent.
“What is Jacobea to me?” demanded Theirry desperately.
The other gave him a sinister glance.
“Why did you approach her after her devotions in San Giovanni in Laterano—speak to her and recall yourself to her mind?”
Theirry went swiftly pale.
“You know that!—Ah, it was the dancer, your accomplice.… What mystery is this?” he asked in a distracted way. “Why does not Ursula of Rooselaare come forth under her true name and confound the Emperor?—why does she follow me, and in such a guise?”
Without looking at him Michael answered.
“Maybe because she is very wise—maybe because she is a very fool—let her pass, she has served her turn. You say you do not go to palter with Jacobea, then farewell until to-morrow; I have much to do… farewell, Theirry.”
He held out his hand with a stately gesture, and, as Theirry took it in his, the curious thought came to him how seldom he had touched so much as Dirk’s fingers, even in the old days, so proud a reserve had always encompassed the youth, and, now, the man.
Theirry left the rich-scented chamber and the vast halls of the Vatican and passed into the riotous and lawless streets of Rome.
The storm that had hung so unnaturally long over the city had affected the people; bravoes and assassins crept from their hiding-places in the Catacombs, or the Palatine, and flaunted in the streets; the wine shops were filled with mongrel soldiers of all nations, attracted by the declaration of war from the surrounding towns; blasphemers mocked openly at the processions of monks and pilgrims that traversed the streets chanting the penitential psalms, or scourging themselves in an attempt to avert the wrath of Heaven.
There was no law; crime went unpunished; virtue became a jest; many of the convents were closed and deserted, while their late occupants rejoined the world they suddenly longed for; the poor were despoiled, the rich robbed; ghastly and blasphemous processions nightly paraded the streets in honour of some heathen deity; the priests inspired no respect, the name of God no fear; the plague marched among the people, striking down hundreds; their bodies were flung into the Tiber, and their spirits went to join the devils that nightly danced on the Campagna to the accompaniment of rolling storms.
Witches gathered in the low marches of the Maremma and came at night into the city, trailing grey, fever-laden vapour after them.
The bell-ropes began to rot in the churches, and the bells clattered from the steeples; the gold rusted on the altars, and mice gnawed the garments on the holy images of the Saints.
The people lived with reckless laughter and died with hopeless curses; magicians, warlocks and vile things flourished exceedingly, and all manner of strange and hideous creatures left their caves to prowl the streets at nightfall.
And such under Pope Michael II was Rome, swiftly and in a moment.
Theirry, like all others, went heavily armed; his hand was constantly on his sword hilt as he made his way through the city that was forsaken by God.
With no faltering step or hesitating bearing he passed through the crowds that gathered more thickly as the night came on, and turned towards the Appian Gate.
Here it was gloomy, almost deserted; dark houses bordered the Appian Way, and a few strange figures crept along in their shadow; in the west a sullen glare of crimson showed that the sun was setting behind the thick clouds. Dark began to fall rapidly.
Theirry walked long beyond the Gate and stopped at a low convent building, above the portals of which hung a lamp, its gentle radiance like a star in the heavy, noisome twilight.
The gate, that led into a courtyard, stood half open. Theirry softly pushed it wider and entered.
The pure perfume of flowers greeted him; a sense of peace and security, grown strange of late in Rome, filled the square grass court; in the centre was a fountain, almost hidden in white roses; behind their leaves the water dripped pleasantly.
There were no lights in the convent windows, but it was not yet too dark for Theirry to distinguish the slim figure of a lady seated on a wooden bench, her hands passive in her lap.
He latched the gate and softly crossed the lawn.
“You said that I might come.”
Jacobea turned her head, unsmiling, unsurprised.
“Ay, sir; this place is open to all.”
He uncovered before her.
“I cannot hope ye are glad to see me.”
“Glad?” She echoed the word as if it sounded in a foreign tongue; then, after a pause, “Yes, I am glad that you have come.”
He seated himself beside her, his splendid mail touching her straight grey robe, his full, beautiful face turned towards her worn and expressionless features.
“What do you do here?” he asked.
She answered in the same gentle tone; she had a white rose in her hands, and turned it about as she spoke.
“So little—there are two sisters here, and I help them; one can do nothing against the plague, but for the little forsaken children something, and something for the miserable sick.”
“The wretched of Rome are not in your keeping,” he said eagerly. “It will mean your life—why did you not go with the Empress?”
She shook her head.
“I was not needed. I suppose what they said of her was true. I cannot remember clearly, but I think that when Melchoir died I knew it was her doing.”
“We must not dwell on the past,” cried Theirry. “Have you heard that I lead the Pope’s army against Balthasar?”
“Nay;” her eyes were on the white rose.
“Jacobea, I shall be the Emperor.”
“The Emperor,” she repeated dreamily.
“I shall rule the Latin world—Emperor of the West!”
In the now complete dark they could scarcely see each other; there were no stars, and distant thunder rolled at intervals; Theirry timidly put out his hand and touched the fold of her dress where it lay along the seat.
“I wish you would not stay here—it is so lonely——”
“I think she would wish me to do this.”
“She?” he questioned.
Jacobea seemed surprised he did not take her meaning.
“Sybilla.”
“O Christus!” shuddered Theirry. “Ye still think of her?”
Jacobea smiled, as he felt rather than saw.
“Think of her? … is she not always with me?”
“She is dead.”
He saw the blurred outline of the lady’s figure stir.
“Yea, she died on a cold morning—it was so cold you could see your breath before you as you rode along, and the road was hard as glass—there was a yellow dawn that day, and the pine trees seemed frozen, they stood so motionless—you would not think it was ten years ago—I wonder how long it seems to her?”
A silence fell upon them for a while, then Theirry broke out desperately—
“Jacobea—my heart is torn within me—to-day I said there was no God—but when I sit by you…”
“Yea, there is a God,” she answered quietly. “Be very sure of that.”
“Then I am past His forgiveness,” whispered Theirry.
Again he was mute; he saw before him the regal figure of Dirk—he heard his words—“Be but true to me”—then he thought of Jacobea and Paradise… agony ran through his veins.
“Oh, Jacobea!” he cried at last. “I am beyond all measure mean and vile.… I know not what to do.… I can be Emperor, yet as I sit here that seems to me as nothing.”
“The Pope favours you, you tell me,” she said. “He is a priest, and a holy man, and yet—it is strange, what is this talk of Ursula of Rooselaare?—and yet it is no matter.”
His mail clinked in answer to his tremor.
“Tell me what I must do—see, I am in a great confusion; the world is very dark, this way and that show little lights, and I strive to follow them—but they change and move and blind me—and if I grasp one it is extinguished into greater darkness; I hear whispers, murmurs, threats, I believe them, and believe them not, and all is confusion, confusion!”
Jacobea rose slowly from the bench.
“Why do you come to me?”
“Because ye seem to me nearer heaven than anything I know.…”
Jacobea pressed the white rose to her bosom.
“It is dark now—the flowers smell so sweet—come into the house.”
He followed her dim-seen figure across the grass; she lifted the latch of the convent door and went before him into the building.
For a while she left him in the passage, then returned with a pale lamp in her hand and conducted him into a small, bare chamber, which seemed mean in contrast with the glowing splendour of his appearance.
“The sisters are abroad,” said Jacobea. “And I stay here in case any ring the bell for succour.”
She set the lamp on the wooden table and slowly turned her eyes on Theirry.
“Sir, I am very selfish.” She spoke with difficulty, as if she painfully forced expression. “I have thought of myself for so many years—and somehow”—she lightly touched her breast—“I cannot feel, for myself or for others; nothing seems real, save Sybilla; nothing matters save her—sometimes I cry for little things I find dying alone, for poor unnoticed miseries of animals and children—but for the rest… you must not blame me if I do not sympathise; that has gone from me. Nor can I help you; God is far away beyond the stars. I do not think He can stoop to such as you and me—and—and—I do not feel as if I should wake until I die——”
Theirry covered his eyes and moaned.
Jacobea was not looking at him, but at the one bright thing in the room.
A samite cushion worked with a scarlet lily that rested on a chair by the window.
“Each our own way to death,” she said. “All we can do is so little compared with that—death—see, I think of it as a great crystal light, very cold, that will slowly encompass us, revealing everything, making everything easy to understand—white lilies will not be more beautiful, nor breeze at summer-time more sweet… so, sir, must you wait patiently.”
She took her gaze from the red flower and turned her tired grey eyes on him.
The blood surged into his face; he clenched his hands and spoke passionately.
“I will renounce the world, I will become a monk.…”
The words choked in his throat; he looked fearfully round; the lamplight struck his armour into a hundred points of light and cast pale shadows over the white-washed walls.
“What was that?” asked Jacobea.
One was singing without: Theirry’s strained eyes glistened.
“If Love were all!
His perfect servant I would be,
Kissing where his foot might fall,
Doing him homage on a lowly knee,
If Love were all!”
Theirry turned and went out into the dark, hot night.
He could see neither roses, nor fountain, nor even the line of the convent wall against the sky; but the light above the gate revealed to him the dancer in orange, who leant against the stone arch of the entrance and sang to a strange long instrument that hung round her neck by a gleaming chain.
At her feet the ape crouched, nodding himself to sleep.
“If Love were all!
But Love is weak,
And Hate oft giveth him a fall,
And Wisdom smites him on the cheek,
If Love were all!”
Behind Theirry came Jacobea, with the lantern in her hand.
“Who is this?” she asked.
The dancer laughed; the sound of it muffled behind her mask.
Theirry made his way across the dark to her.
“What do you do here?” he demanded fiercely. “The Pope’s spy, you!”
“May I not come to worship here as well as another?” she answered.
“You know too much of me!” he cried distractedly. “But I also have some knowledge of you, Ursula of Rooselaare!”
“How does that help you?” she asked, drawing back a little before him.
“I would discover why you follow me—watch me.”
He caught her by the arms and held her against the stone gateway.
“Now tell me the meaning of your disguise,” he breathed—“and of your league with Michael II.”
She said a strange little word underneath her breath; the ape jumped up and tore away the man’s hands while the girl bent to a run and sped through the gate.
Theirry gave a cry of pain and rage, and glanced towards the convent; the door was closed; lady and lamp had disappeared in the darkness.
“Shut out!” whispered Theirry. “Shut out!”
He turned into the street and saw, by the scattered lanterns along the Appian Way, the figure of the dancer slipping fast towards the city gates.
But he gained on her, and at sound of his clattering step she looked round.
“Ah!” she said; “I thought you had stayed with the sweet-faced saint yonder——”
“She wants none of me,” he panted—“but I—I mean to see your face to-night.…”
“I am not beautiful,” answered the dancer; “and you have seen my face——”
“Seen your face!”
“Certes! in the Basilica on the Fête.”
“I knew you not in the press.”
“Nevertheless I was there.”
“I looked for you.”
“I thought ye looked for Jacobea.”
“Also I sought you,” said Theirry. “Ye madden me.”
The ever-gathering tempest was drawing near, with fitful flashes of lightning playing over his jewel-like mail and her orange gown as they made their way through the ruins.
“Do you wander here alone at night?” asked Theirry. “It is a vile place; a man might be afraid.”
“I have the ape,” she said.
“But the storm?”
“In Rome now-a-days we are well used to storms,” she answered in a low voice.
“Yea.”
He did not know what to say to her, but he could not leave her; a strong, a supreme, fascination compelled him to walk beside her, a half-delightful excitement stirred his blood.
“Where are we going?” asked Theirry. The wayside lanterns had ceased; he could see her only by the lightning gleams.
“I know not—why do you follow me?”
“I am mad, I think—the earth rocks beneath me and heaven bends overhead—you lure me and I follow in sheer confusion—Ursula of Rooselaare, why have you lured me? What power is it that you have over me? Wherefore are you disguised?”
She touched his mail in the dark as she answered—
“I am Balthasar’s wife.”
“Ay,” he responded eagerly; “and I do hear ye loved another man——”
“What is that to you?” she asked.
“This—though I have not seen your face—perchance could I love you, Ursula!”
“Ursula!” She laughed on the word.
“Is it not your name?” he cried wildly.
“Yea—but it is long since any used it——”
The hot darkness seemed to twist and writhe about Theirry; he seemed to breathe a nameless and uncontrollable passion in with the storm-laden air.
“Witch or demon,” he said, “I have cast in my lot with the Devil and Michael II his servant—I follow the same master as you, Ursula.”
He put out his hand through the dark and grasped her arm.
“Who is the man for whose sake ye are silent?” he demanded.
There was no answer; he felt her arm quiver under his hand, and heard the hems of her tunic tinkle against her buskins, as if she trembled.
The air was chokingly hot; Theirry’s heart throbbed high.
At last she spoke, in a half-swooning voice.
“I have taken off my mask… bend your head and kiss me.”
Invisible and potent powers drew him towards her unseen face; his lips touched and kissed its softness.…
The thunder sounded with such a terrific force and clash that Theirry sprang back; a cry of agony went up from the darkness. He ran blindly forward; her presence had gone from his side, nor could he see or feel her as he moved.
A thousand light shapes danced across the night; witches and warlocks carrying swinging lanterns, imps and fiends.
They gathered round Theirry, shrieking and howling to the accompaniment of the storm.
He ran sobbing down the Appian Way, and his pace was very swift, for all the mail he carried.
CHAPTER IX.
POPE AND EMPRESS
The Pope walked in the garden of the Vatican, behind him Cardinal Orsini and Cardinal Colonna; the first carried a cluster of daisies, white and yellow, strong in colour and pungent of odour, the second tossed up and down a little ball of gold and blue silk.
Both talked of the horrible state of Rome, of the unending storm hanging over the capital, of the army that had gone forth three days ago to crush the excommunicated Emperor.
Michael II was silent.
They went along the marble walks and looked at the goldfish in the basin under the overhanging branches of the yellow rose bushes; they passed the trellis over which the jasmine clustered, and came out on the long terrace, where the peacocks flashed their splendour across the grass.
Oleanders grew here, and lilies; laurel trees rose against the murky heavens that should have shown blue, and curious statues gleamed beside the dark foliage.
Cardinal Colonna dropped his ball and let it roll away across the close grass, and Michael slackened his pace. He wore a white robe, his soft heavy red hair showing a brilliant colour above it; his dark eyes were thoughtful, his pale mouth resolutely set. The Cardinals fell further behind and conversed with the greater ease.
Suddenly the Pope paused and stood waiting, for Paolo Orsini, with a sprig of pink flower at his chin, was coming across the lawn.
Michael II tapped his gold-shod foot on the marble path. “What is it, Orsini?”
The secretary went on one knee.
“Your Holiness, a lady, who will neither unveil nor give her name, has obtained entry to the Vatican and desires to see your Holiness.”
The Pope’s face darkened.
“I thought ye had brought me news of the return of Theirry of Dendermonde! What can this woman want with us?”
“She says it is a matter of such import it may avert the war, and she prays, for the love of God, not to be denied.”
Michael II reflected a moment, his slim fingers pulling at the laurel leaves beside him.
“We will see her,” he said at length. “Bring her here, Orsini.”
The yellow clouds broke over a brief spell of sunshine that fell across the Vatican gardens, though the horizon was dark with a freshly gathering storm; Michael II seated himself on a bench where the sun gleamed.
“Sirs,” he said to the two Cardinals, “stand by me and listen to what this woman may say.”
And picking a crimson rose from a thorny bush that brushed the seat, he considered it curiously, and only took his eyes from it when Paolo Orsini had returned and led the lady almost to his feet.
Then he looked at her.
She wore a dark rough dress showing marks of ill usage, and over her face a thick veil.
This she loosened as she knelt, and revealed the exceedingly fair, sad face of Ysabeau the Empress.
Michael II went swiftly pale, he fixed large wide eyes on her.
“What do you here, defying us?” he demanded.
She rose.
“I am not here in defiance. I have come to give myself up to punishment for the crime you denounced—the crime for which my lord now suffers.”
Michael crushed the rose in his hand and the Cardinals glanced at each other, having never seen him show agitation.
“It did not occur to your Holiness,” said Ysabeau, facing him fearlessly, “that I should do this; you thought that he would never give me up and you were right—crown, life, heaven he would forfeit for love of me, but I will not take the sacrifice.”
The fitful sunshine touched her great beauty, her fair, soft hair lying loosely on her shoulders, her eyes shadowed and dark, her hollow face.
“Mine was the sin,” she continued. “And I who was strong enough to sin alone can take the punishment alone.”
At last Michael spoke.
“Ye slew Melchoir of Brabant—ye confess it!”
Her bosom heaved.
“I am here to confess it.”
“For love of Balthasar you did it.…”
“As for love of him I stand here now to take the consequences.”
“We have fire on earth and fire in hell for those who do murder,” said Michael II; “flames for the body in the market-place, and flames in the pit for the soul, and though the body will not burn long, the soul will burn for eternity.”
“I know—do what you will with me.”
The Pope cast the crushed rose from him.
“Has Balthasar sent you here?”
She smiled proudly.
“I come without his knowledge.” Her voice trembled a little. “I left a writing telling him where I had gone and why——” Her hand crept to her brow. “Enough of that.”
Michael II rose.
“Why have you done this?” he cried angrily.
Ysabeau answered swiftly.
“That you may take the curse off him—for my sin you cast him forth, well, if I leave him, if I accept my punishment, if he be free to find the—woman—who can claim him, your Holiness must absolve him of the excommunication.”
Michael flushed.
“This comes late—too late;” he turned to the Cardinals. “My lords, is not this love a mad thing?—that she should hope to cheat Heaven so!”
“My hope is not to cheat Heaven but to appease it,” said Ysabeau; and the sun, making a pale glimmer in her hair, cast her shadow faintly before her to the Pontiff’s feet. “If not for myself, for him.”
“This foolish sacrifice,” said Michael, “cannot avail Balthasar. Since not of his free will ye are parted from him, how is his sin then lessened?”
She trembled exceedingly.
“Now, perchance he shall loathe me…” she said.
“Had you told him to his face of your crime, would he have given you over to our wrath?”
“Nay,” she flashed. “It would have been only noble in him to refuse; but since of myself I am come, I pray you, Lord Pope, to send me to death and take the curse off him.”
Michael II looked at his hand; the stem of the red rose had scratched his finger, and a tiny drop of blood showed on the white flesh.
“You are a wicked woman, by your own confession,” he said, frowning. “Why should I show you any pity?”
“I do not ask pity, but justice for the Emperor. I am the cause of the quarrel, and now ye have me ye can have no bitterness against him.”
He gave her a quick sidelong look.
“Do you repent, Ysabeau?”
She shook the clinging hood free of her yellow hair.
“No; the gain was worth the sin, nor am I afraid of you nor of Heaven. I am not of a faltering race, nor of a name easily ashamed. In my own eyes I am not abashed.”
Michael raised his head and their eyes met.
“So you would die for him?”
Ysabeau smiled.
“I think I shall. I do not think your Holiness is merciful.”
He glanced again at the drop of blood on his finger.
“You show some courage, Ysabeau.”
She smiled.
“When I was a child I was taught that they who live as kings and queens must not look for age—the flame soon burns away, leaving the ashes—and gorgeous years are like the flame; why should we taste the dust that follows? I have lived my life.”
He answered—
“This shall not save Balthasar, nor take our curse from off him; Theirry of Dendermonde has gone forth with many men and banners, and soon the Roman gates shall open to him and victory lead his charger through the streets! And his reward shall be the Latin world, his badge of triumph the Imperial crown. He is our choice to share with us the dominion of the West, therefore no more of Balthasar—ye might speak until the heavens fell and still our heart be as brass!”
He turned swiftly and caught the arm of Cardinal Orsini.
“Away, my lord, we have given this Greek time enough.”
Ysabeau fell on her knees.
“My lord, take off the curse!”
“What shall we do with her?” asked Cardinal Colonna.
She clutched, in her desperation, at the priest’s white garments.
“Show some pity; Balthasar dies beneath your wrath——”
Paolo Orsini drew her away, while Michael II stared at her with a touch of fear.
“Cast her without the walls—since the excommunication is upon her we do not need her life.”
“Oh, sirs!” shrieked Ysabeau, striving after them, “my lord is innocent!”
“Take her away,” said Michael. “Cast her from Rome,”—he glared at her over his shoulder—“doubtless the Eastern she-cat will find it worse so to die than as Hugh of Rooselaare perished; come on, my lords.”
Leaning on the arm of Cardinal Orsini, he moved away across the Vatican gardens.
Paolo Orsini blew a little whistle.
“You must be turned from the city,” he said.
Ysabeau rose from the grass.
“This your Christian priest!” she cried hoarsely, staring after the white figure; then, as she saw the guards approaching, she fell into an utter silence.
As Michael II entered the Vatican the sun was again obscured and the thunder rolled; he passed up the silver stairs to his cabinet and closed the door on all.
The storm grew and rioted angrily in the sky; in the height of it came a messenger riding straight to the Vatican.
Blood and dust were smeared on his clothes, and he was weary with swift travel; they brought him to the ebony cabinet and face to face with the Pope.
“From Theirry of Dendermonde?” breathed Michael, his face white as his robe.
“From Theirry of Dendermonde, your Holiness.”
“What says he—victory?”
“Balthasar of Courtrai is defeated, his army lies dead, men and horses, in the vale of Tivoli, and his conqueror marches home to-day.”
A shaft of lightning showed the ghastly face of Michael II, and a peal of thunder shook the messenger back against the wall.
CHAPTER X.
THE EVENING BEFORE THE CORONATION
The orange marble pillars glowing in the light of a hundred lamps gave the chamber a dazzling brightness; the windows were screened by scarlet silk curtains, and crystal bowls of purple flowers stood on the serpentine floor.
On a low gilt couch against the wall sat Theirry, his gold armour half concealed by a violet and ermine mantle; round his close dark hair was a wreath of red roses, and the long pearls in his ears glimmered with his movements.
Opposite him on a throne supported by basalt lions was Michael II, robed in gold and silver tissues under a dalmatica of orange and crimson brocade.
“It is done,” he said in a low eager voice, “and to-morrow I crown you in St. Peter’s church; Theirry, it is done.”
“Truly our fortunes are marvellous,” answered Theirry, “to-day—when I heard the Princes elect me—an unknown adventurer!—when I heard the mob of Rome shout for me—I thought I had gone mad!”
“It is I who have done this for you,” said the Pope softly.
Theirry seemed to shudder in his gorgeous mail.
“Are you afraid of me?” the other asked. “Why do you so seldom look at me?”
Theirry slowly turned his beautiful face.
“I am afraid of my own fortunes—I am not as bold as you,” he said fearfully. “You never hesitated to sin.”
The Pope moved, and his garments sparkled against the gleaming marble wall.
“I do not sin,” he smiled. “I am Sin—I do no evil for I am Evil—but you”—his face became grave, almost sad—“you are very human, better had it been for me never to have met you!”
He placed his little hands either side of him on the smooth heads of the basalt lions.
“Theirry—for your sake I have risked everything, for your sake maybe I must leave this strange fair life and go back whence I came—so much I care for you, so dearly have I kept the vows we made in Frankfort—cannot you meet with courage the destiny I offer you?”
Theirry hid his face in his hands.
The Pope flushed, and a wild light sparkled in his dark eyes.
“Was not your blood warmed by that charge at Tivoli? When knight and horse fell before your spears and your host humbled an Emperor, when Rome rose to greet you and I came to meet you with a kingdom for a gift, did not some fire creep into your veins that might serve to heat you now?”
“A kingdom!” cried Theirry, “the kingdom of Antichrist. The victory was not mine—the cohorts of the Devil galloped beside us and urged us to unholy triumph—Rome is a place of horror, full of witches, ghosts and strange beasts!”
“You said you would be Emperor,” answered the Pope. “And I have granted you your wish, if you fail me or betray me now… it is over—for both of us.”
Theirry rose and paced the chamber.
“Ay, I will be Emperor,” he cried feverishly. “Theirry of Dendermonde crowned by the Devil in St. Peter’s church—why should I hesitate? I am on the road to hell, to hell.…”
The Pope fixed ardent eyes on him.
“And if ye fail me ye shall go there instantly.”
Theirry stopped in his pacing to and fro.
“Why do you say to me so often, ‘do not fail me, do not betray me’?”
Michael II answered in a low voice.
“Because I fear it.”
Theirry laughed desperately.
“To whom should I betray you! It seems that you have all the world!”
“There is Jacobea of Martzburg.”
“Why do you sting me with that name!”
“Belike I thought ye might wish to make her your Empress,” said the Pope in sudden mockery.
Theirry pressed his hand to his brow.
“She believes in God… what is such to me?” he cried.
“The other day you lied to me, saying you knew not where she was—and straightway ye visited her.”
“This is your spy’s work, Ursula of Rooselaare.”
“Maybe,” answered the Pope.
Theirry paused before the basalt throne.
“Tell me of her. She follows me—I—I—know not what to think, she has been much in my mind of late, since I——” He broke off, and looked moodily at the ground. “Where has she been these years—what does she mean to do now?”
“She will not trouble you again,” answered Michael II, “let her go.”
“I cannot—she said I had seen her face——”
“Well, if you have?—take it from me she is not fair.”
“I do not think of her fairness,” answered Theirry sullenly, “but of the mystery there is behind all of it—why you never told me of her before, and why she haunts me with witches in her train.”
The Pope looked at him curiously.
“For one who has never been an ardent lover ye dwell much on women—I had rather you thought on battles and kingdoms—had I been a—were I you, dancer and nun alike would be nothing to me compared with my coronation on the morrow.”
Theirry replied hotly.
“Dancer and nun, as ye term them, are woven in with all I do, I cannot, if I would, forget them. Ah, that I ever came to Rome—would I were still a Chamberlain at Basil’s Court or a merchant’s clerk in India!”
He covered his face with his trembling hands and turned away across the golden room.
The Pope rose in his seat and pressed his jewelled fingers against his breast.
“Would ye had never come my way to be my ruin and your own—would you were not such a sweet fair fool that I must love you! … and so, we make ourselves the mock of destiny by these complaints. Oh, if you have the desire to be king show the courage to dare a kingly fate.”
Theirry leant against one of the orange marble pillars, the violet mantle falling away from his golden armour, the fainting roses lying slackly in his dark hair.
“You must think me a coward,” he said, “and I have been very weak—but that, I think, is passed; I have reached the summit of all the greatness I ever dreamed and it confuses me, but when the Imperial crown is mine you shall find me bold enough.”
Michael II flushed and gave a dazzling smile.
“Then are we great indeed!—we shall join hands across the fairest dominion men ever ruled, Suabia is ours, Bohemia and Lombardy, France courts our alliance, Cyprus, the isle of Candy and Malta town, in Rhodes they worship us, and Genoa town owns us master!”
He paused in his speech and stepped down from the throne.
“Do you remember that day in Antwerp, Theirry, when we looked in the mirror?” he said, and his voice was tender and beautiful; “we hardly dared then to think of this.”
“We saw a gallows in that mirror,” answered Theirry, “a gallows tree beside the triple crown.”
“It was for our enemies!” cried Michael; “our enemies whom we have triumphed over; Theirry, think of it, we were very young then, and poor—now I have kings at my footstool, and you will sleep to-night in the Golden Palace of the Aventine!” He laughed joyously.
Theirry’s face grew gentle at the old memories.
“The house still stands, I wot,” he mused, “though the dust be thick over the deserted rooms and the vine chokes the windows—when I was in the East, I have thought with great joy of Antwerp.”
The Pope laid his delicate fragrant hand on the glittering vambrace.
“Theirry—do you not value me a little now?”
Theirry smiled into the ardent eyes.
“You have done more for me than man or God, and above both I do you worship,” he answered wildly. “I am not fearful any more, and to-morrow ye shall see me a king indeed.”
“Until to-morrow then, farewell. I must attend a Conclave of the Cardinals and show myself unto the multitude in St. Peter’s church. You to the palace, on the Aventine, there to sleep soft and dream of gold.”
They clasped hands, a hot colour was in the Pope’s face.
“The Syrian guards wait below and the Lombard archers who stood beside you at Tivoli—they will attend you to the Imperial Palace.”
“What shall I do there?” asked Theirry. “It is early yet, and I do not love to sit alone.”
“Then, come to the service in the Basilica—come with a bold bearing and a rich dress to overawe these mongrel crowds of Rome.”
To that Theirry made no answer.
“Farewell,” he said, and lifted the scarlet curtain that concealed the door, “until to-morrow.”
The Pope came quickly to his side.
“Do not go to Jacobea to-night,” he said earnestly. “Remember, if you fail me now——”
“I shall not fail you or myself, again—farewell.”
His hand was on the latch when Michael spoke once more—
“I grieve to let you go,” he murmured in an agitated tone. “I have not before been fearful, but to-night——”
Theirry smiled.
“You have no cause to dread anything, you with your foot on the neck of the world.”
He opened the door on to the soft purple light of the stairs and stepped from the room.
In a half-stifled voice the Pope called him.
“Theirry!—be true to me, for on your faith have I staked everything.”
Theirry looked over his shoulder and laughed.
“Will you never let me begone?”
The other pressed his hand to his forehead.
“Ay, begone—why should I seek to keep you?”
Theirry descended the stairs and now and then looked up.
Always to see fixed on him the yearning, fierce gaze of the one who stood by the gilded rails and stared down at his glittering figure.
Only when he had completely disappeared in the turn of the stairs did Michael II slowly return to the golden chamber and close the gorgeous doors.
Theirry, splendidly attended, flashed through the riotous streets of Rome to the palace on the Aventine Hill.
There he dismissed the knights.
“I shall not go to the Basilica to-night,” he said, “go thou there without me.”
He laid aside the golden armour, the purple cloak, and attired himself in a dark habit and a steel corselet; he meant to be Emperor to-morrow, he meant to be faithful to the Pope, but it was in his heart to see Jacobea once more before he accepted the Devil’s last gift and sign.
Leaving the palace secretly, when they all thought him in his chamber, he took his way towards the Appian Gate.
Once more, for the last time… he would suggest to her that she returned to Martzburg. The plague was rampant in the city; more than once he passed the death-cart attended by friars clanging harsh bells; several houses were sealed and silent; but in the piazzas the people danced and sang, and in the Via Sacra they held a carnival in honour of the victory at Tivoli.
It was nearly dark, starless, and the air heavy with the sense of storm; as he neared the less-frequented part of the city Theirry looked continually behind him to see if the dancer in orange dogged his footsteps—he saw no one.
Very lonely, very silent it was in the Appian Way, the only domestic light he came to the little lamp above the convent gate.
The stillness and gloom of the place chilled his heart, she could not, must not stay here.…
He gently pushed the gate and entered.
The hot dusk just revealed to him the dim shapes of the white roses and the dark figure of a lady standing beside them.
“Jacobea,” he whispered.
She moved very slowly towards him.
“Ah! you.”
“Jacobea—you must not remain in this place!—where are the nuns?”
She shook her head.
“They are dead of the plague days past, and I have buried them in the garden.”
He gave a start of horror.
“You shall go back to Martzburg—you are alone here?”
Her answer came calmly out of the twilight.
“I think there is no one living anywhere near. The plague has been very fierce—you should not come here if you do not wish to die.”
“But what of you?” His voice was full of horror.
“Why, what can it matter about me?”
He thought she smiled; he followed her into the house, the chamber where they had sat before.
A tall pale candle burnt on the bare table, and by the light of it he saw her face.
“Ye are ill already,” he shuddered.
Again she shook her head.
“Why do you come here?” she asked gently. “You are to be Emperor to-morrow.”
She crept with a slow sick movement to a bench that stood against the wall and sank down on it; her features showed pinched and wan, her eyes unnaturally blue in the pallor of her face.
“You must return to Martzburg,” repeated Theirry distractedly; and thought of her as he had first seen her, bright and gay, in a pale crimson dress.…
“Nay, I shall return to Martzburg no more,” she answered. “He died to-day.”
“He?—who died, Jacobea?”
Very faintly she smiled.
“Sebastian—in Palestine. God let me see him then, because I had never looked on him since that morning on which you saw us, sir… he has been a holy man fighting the infidel; they wounded him, I think, and he was sick with fever—he crept into the shade (for it is very hot there, sir), and died.”
Theirry stood dumb, and the mad hatred of the devil who had brought about this misery anew possessed him.
Jacobea spoke again.
“Maybe they have met in Paradise—and as for me I hope God may think me fit to die—of late it seemed to me that the fiends were again troubling me”—she clasped her hands tightly on her knees and shivered; “something evil is abroad… who is the dancer? … last night I saw her crouching by my gate as I was making the grave of Sister Angela, and it seemed, it seemed, that she bewitched me—as the young scholar did, long ago.”
Theirry leant heavily against the table.
“She is the Pope’s spy and tool,” he cried hoarsely, “Ursula of Rooselaare!”
Jacobea’s dim eyes were bewildered.
“Ah, Balthasar’s wife,” she faltered, “but the Pope’s tool—how should he meddle with an evil thing?”
Then he told her, in an outburst of wild, unnameable feeling.
“The Pope is Dirk Renswoude—the Pope is Antichrist—do you not understand? And I am to help him rule the kingdom of the Devil!”
Jacobea gave a shuddering cry, half rose in her seat and sank back against the wall.
Theirry crossed the room and fell on his knees beside her.
“It is true, true,” he sobbed. “And I am damned for ever!”
The lightning darted in from the darkness and thunder crashed above the convent; Theirry laid his head on her lap and her cold fingers touched his hair.
“Since, knowing this, you are his ally,” she whispered fearfully.
He answered through clenched teeth.
“Yea, I will be Emperor—and it is too late to turn back.”
Jacobea stared across the candle-lit room.
“Dirk Renswoude,” she muttered, “and Ursula of Rooselaare—why—was it not to save Hugh of Rooselaare that he rode—that night?”
Theirry lifted his head and looked at her, her utterance was feeble and confused, her eyes glazing in a livid face; he clasped his hands tightly over hers.
“What was Lord Hugh to him?” she asked, “Ursula’s father.…”
“I do not understand,” cried Theirry.
“But it is very clear to me—I am dying—she loved you, loves you still—that such things should be.…”
“Whom do you speak of—Jacobea?” he cried, distracted.
She drooped towards him and he caught her in his arms.
“The city is accursed,” she gasped; “give me Christian burial, if ever once you cared for me, and fly, fly!”
She strained and writhed in his frantic embrace.
“And you never knew it was a woman,” she whispered, “Pope and dancer.…”
“God!” shrieked Theirry; and staggered to his feet drawing her with him.
She choked her life out against his shoulder, clinging with the desperation of the dying, to him, while he tried to force her into speech.
“Answer me, Jacobea! What authority have you for this hideous thing, in the name of God, Jacobea!”
She slipped from him to the bench.
“Water, a crucifix.… Oh, I have forgot my prayers.” She stretched out her hands towards a wooden crucifix that hung on the wall, caught hold of it, pressed her lips to the feet.…
“Sybilla,” she said, and died with that name struggling in her throat.
Theirry stepped back from her with a strangled shriek that seemed to tear the breath from his body, and staggered against the table.
The lightning leapt in through the dark window, and appeared to plunge like a sword into the breast of the dead woman.