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BLACK MAGIC BY MARJORIE BOWEN CONT
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.
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.
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BLACK MAGIC BY MARJORIE BOWEN CONT
“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…”
“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…”
- Joined
- Oct 11, 2014
Have you been up all night with no one to spam at Lizzie love? Please to not take it out on the kitties. They have film work to do!
Damn the storypost beat me by seconds!
Damn the storypost beat me by seconds!
- Joined
- Oct 28, 2018
A Colder War, cont'd.
Masada
The city of XK-Masada sprouts like a vast mushroom, a mile-wide dome emerging from the top of a cold plateau on a dry planet that orbits a dying star. The jagged black shapes of F-117's howl across the empty skies outside it at dusk and dawn, patrolling the threatening emptiness that stretches as far as the mind can imagine.
Shadows move in the streets of the city, hollowed out human shells in uniform. They rustle around the feet of the towering concrete blocks like the dry leaves of autumn, obsessively focussed on the tasks that lend structure to their remaining days. Above them tower masts of steel, propping up the huge geodesic dome that arches across the sky: blocking out the hostile, alien constellations, protecting frail humanity from the dust storms that periodically scour the bones of the ancient world. The gravity here is a little lighter, the night sky whorled and marbled by the diaphanous sheets of gas blasted off the dying star that lights their days. During the long winter nights, a flurry of carbon dioxide snow dusts the surface of the dome: but the air is bone-dry, the city slaking its thirst on subterranean aquifers.
This planet was once alive -- there is still a scummy sea of algae near the equator that feeds oxygen into the atmosphere, and there is a range of volcanoes near the north pole that speaks of plate tectonics in motion -- but it is visibly dying. There is a lot of history here, but no future.
Sometimes, in the early hours when he cannot sleep, Roger walks outside the city, along the edge of the dry plateau. Machines labour on behind him, keeping the city tenuously intact: he pays them little attention. There is talk of mounting an expedition to Earth one of these years, to salvage whatever is left before the searing winds of time erase them forever. Roger doesn't like to think about that. He tries to avoid thinking about Earth as much as possible: except when he cannot sleep but walks along the cliff top, prodding at memories of Andrea and Jason and his parents and sister and relatives and friends, each of them as painful as the socket of a missing tooth. He has a mouthful of emptiness, bitter and aching, out here on the edge of the plateau.
Sometimes Roger thinks he's the last human being alive. He works in an office, feverishly trying to sort out what went wrong: and bodies move around him, talking, eating in the canteen, sometimes talking to him and waiting as if they expect a dialogue. There are bodies here, men and some women chatting, civilian and some military -- but no people. One of the bodies, an army surgeon, told him he's suffering from a common stress disorder, survivor's guilt. This may be so, Roger admits, but it doesn't change anything. Soulless days follow sleepless nights into oblivion, dust trickling over the side of the cliff like sand into the un-dug graves of his family.
A narrow path runs along the side of the plateau, just downhill from the foundations of the city power plant where huge apertures belch air warmed by the radiators of the nuclear reactor. Roger follows the path, gravel and sandy rock crunching under his worn shoes. Foreign stars twinkle overhead, forming unrecognizable patterns that tell him he's far from home. The trail drops away from the top of the plateau, until the city is an unseen shadow looming above and behind his shoulder. To his right is a dizzying panorama, the huge rift valley with its ancient city of the dead stretched out before him. Beyond it rise alien mountains, their peaks as high and airless as the dead volcanoes of Mars.
About half a mile away from the dome, the trail circles an outcrop of rock and takes a downhill switchback turn. Roger stops at the bend and looks out across the desert at his feet. He sits down, leans against the rough cliff face and stretches his legs out across the path, so that his feet dangle over nothingness. Far below him, the dead valley is furrowed with rectangular depressions; once, millions of years ago, they might have been fields, but nothing like that survives to this date. They're just dead, like everyone else on this world. Like Roger.
In his shirt pocket, a crumpled, precious pack of cigarettes. He pulls a white cylinder out with shaking fingers, sniffs at it, then flicks his lighter under it. Scarcity has forced him to cut back: he coughs at the first lungful of stale smoke, a harsh, racking croak. The irony of being saved from lung cancer by a world war is not lost on him.
He blows smoke out, a tenuous trail streaming across the cliff. "Why me?'' he asks quietly.
The emptiness takes its time answering. When it does, it speaks with the Colonel's voice. "You know the reason.''
"I didn't want to do it,'' he hears himself saying. "I didn't want to leave them behind.''
The void laughs at him. There are miles of empty air beneath his dangling feet. "You had no choice.''
"Yes I did! I didn't have to come here.'' He pauses. "I didn't have to do anything,'' he says quietly, and inhales another lungful of death. "It was all automatic. Maybe it was inevitable.''
"-- Evitable,'' echoes the distant horizon. Something dark and angular skims across the stars, like an echo of extinct pterosaurs. Turbofans whirring within its belly, the F117 hunts on: patrolling to keep at bay the ancient evil, unaware that the battle is already lost. "Your family could still be alive, you know.''
He looks up. "They could?'' Andrea? Jason? "Alive?''
The void laughs again, unfriendly: "There is life eternal within the eater of souls. Nobody is ever forgotten or allowed to rest in peace. They populate the simulation spaces of its mind, exploring all the possible alternative endings to their life. There is a fate worse than death, you know.''
Roger looks at his cigarette disbelievingly: throws it far out into the night sky above the plain. He watches it fall until its ember is no longer visible. Then he gets up. For a long moment he stands poised on the edge of the cliff nerving himself, and thinking. Then he takes a step back, turns, and slowly makes his way back up the trail towards the redoubt on the plateau. If his analysis of the situation is wrong, at least he is still alive. And if he is right, dying would be no escape.
He wonders why hell is so cold at this time of year.
END
Masada
The city of XK-Masada sprouts like a vast mushroom, a mile-wide dome emerging from the top of a cold plateau on a dry planet that orbits a dying star. The jagged black shapes of F-117's howl across the empty skies outside it at dusk and dawn, patrolling the threatening emptiness that stretches as far as the mind can imagine.
Shadows move in the streets of the city, hollowed out human shells in uniform. They rustle around the feet of the towering concrete blocks like the dry leaves of autumn, obsessively focussed on the tasks that lend structure to their remaining days. Above them tower masts of steel, propping up the huge geodesic dome that arches across the sky: blocking out the hostile, alien constellations, protecting frail humanity from the dust storms that periodically scour the bones of the ancient world. The gravity here is a little lighter, the night sky whorled and marbled by the diaphanous sheets of gas blasted off the dying star that lights their days. During the long winter nights, a flurry of carbon dioxide snow dusts the surface of the dome: but the air is bone-dry, the city slaking its thirst on subterranean aquifers.
This planet was once alive -- there is still a scummy sea of algae near the equator that feeds oxygen into the atmosphere, and there is a range of volcanoes near the north pole that speaks of plate tectonics in motion -- but it is visibly dying. There is a lot of history here, but no future.
Sometimes, in the early hours when he cannot sleep, Roger walks outside the city, along the edge of the dry plateau. Machines labour on behind him, keeping the city tenuously intact: he pays them little attention. There is talk of mounting an expedition to Earth one of these years, to salvage whatever is left before the searing winds of time erase them forever. Roger doesn't like to think about that. He tries to avoid thinking about Earth as much as possible: except when he cannot sleep but walks along the cliff top, prodding at memories of Andrea and Jason and his parents and sister and relatives and friends, each of them as painful as the socket of a missing tooth. He has a mouthful of emptiness, bitter and aching, out here on the edge of the plateau.
Sometimes Roger thinks he's the last human being alive. He works in an office, feverishly trying to sort out what went wrong: and bodies move around him, talking, eating in the canteen, sometimes talking to him and waiting as if they expect a dialogue. There are bodies here, men and some women chatting, civilian and some military -- but no people. One of the bodies, an army surgeon, told him he's suffering from a common stress disorder, survivor's guilt. This may be so, Roger admits, but it doesn't change anything. Soulless days follow sleepless nights into oblivion, dust trickling over the side of the cliff like sand into the un-dug graves of his family.
A narrow path runs along the side of the plateau, just downhill from the foundations of the city power plant where huge apertures belch air warmed by the radiators of the nuclear reactor. Roger follows the path, gravel and sandy rock crunching under his worn shoes. Foreign stars twinkle overhead, forming unrecognizable patterns that tell him he's far from home. The trail drops away from the top of the plateau, until the city is an unseen shadow looming above and behind his shoulder. To his right is a dizzying panorama, the huge rift valley with its ancient city of the dead stretched out before him. Beyond it rise alien mountains, their peaks as high and airless as the dead volcanoes of Mars.
About half a mile away from the dome, the trail circles an outcrop of rock and takes a downhill switchback turn. Roger stops at the bend and looks out across the desert at his feet. He sits down, leans against the rough cliff face and stretches his legs out across the path, so that his feet dangle over nothingness. Far below him, the dead valley is furrowed with rectangular depressions; once, millions of years ago, they might have been fields, but nothing like that survives to this date. They're just dead, like everyone else on this world. Like Roger.
In his shirt pocket, a crumpled, precious pack of cigarettes. He pulls a white cylinder out with shaking fingers, sniffs at it, then flicks his lighter under it. Scarcity has forced him to cut back: he coughs at the first lungful of stale smoke, a harsh, racking croak. The irony of being saved from lung cancer by a world war is not lost on him.
He blows smoke out, a tenuous trail streaming across the cliff. "Why me?'' he asks quietly.
The emptiness takes its time answering. When it does, it speaks with the Colonel's voice. "You know the reason.''
"I didn't want to do it,'' he hears himself saying. "I didn't want to leave them behind.''
The void laughs at him. There are miles of empty air beneath his dangling feet. "You had no choice.''
"Yes I did! I didn't have to come here.'' He pauses. "I didn't have to do anything,'' he says quietly, and inhales another lungful of death. "It was all automatic. Maybe it was inevitable.''
"-- Evitable,'' echoes the distant horizon. Something dark and angular skims across the stars, like an echo of extinct pterosaurs. Turbofans whirring within its belly, the F117 hunts on: patrolling to keep at bay the ancient evil, unaware that the battle is already lost. "Your family could still be alive, you know.''
He looks up. "They could?'' Andrea? Jason? "Alive?''
The void laughs again, unfriendly: "There is life eternal within the eater of souls. Nobody is ever forgotten or allowed to rest in peace. They populate the simulation spaces of its mind, exploring all the possible alternative endings to their life. There is a fate worse than death, you know.''
Roger looks at his cigarette disbelievingly: throws it far out into the night sky above the plain. He watches it fall until its ember is no longer visible. Then he gets up. For a long moment he stands poised on the edge of the cliff nerving himself, and thinking. Then he takes a step back, turns, and slowly makes his way back up the trail towards the redoubt on the plateau. If his analysis of the situation is wrong, at least he is still alive. And if he is right, dying would be no escape.
He wonders why hell is so cold at this time of year.
END
- Joined
- Oct 11, 2014
Absolutely fucking love that story. Peak cold war horror of something much much worse then a mere nuclear exchange ending life on Earth. I've never read anything else quite like it before or after. GREAT choice.
ELLE101
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Jun 18, 2020
https://youtu.be/F2Z2CklSxM0?si=UMZWe6c7SQaVf4A7
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- Joined
- Oct 28, 2018
Thanks! I'm glad to meet a fellow enjoyer. I really like the sense of creeping dread and inevitability that Stross worked into the story; like, you want saner heads to prevail and realize that using fucking Cthulhu and Yog-Sothoth as WMDs is going to end so, so badly, but no one ever does. I also like the little hints we get about the horrible shit that went down in the concentration camps and whatever happened in Antarctica that made wiping out an airborne division with a nuke and taking the fall for illegal weapons testing look like the preferable option. Just a brilliant little chiller of a story.
ELLE101
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Jun 18, 2020
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- Joined
- May 3, 2022
bark
ELLE101
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Jun 18, 2020
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- Joined
- Oct 11, 2014
Yog-Sothoth took Sheldon and Momma Meow, liz. They are now the minions of the Lurker At The Threshold. Who makes CP of them.
- Joined
- Oct 9, 2018
BLACK MAGIC BY MARJORIE BOWEN CONT
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.
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.
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- Sep 17, 2023
Buttocks and fannies!
- Joined
- Jan 16, 2021
C'est comme une gaieté comme un sourire
quelque chose dans la voix qui paraît nous dire viens
qui nous fait sentir étrangement bien
c'est comme tout l'histoir du peuple noir
qui se balance entre l'amour et l'désespoir
quelque chose qui dance en toi, si tu l'a tu l'a
ella elle l'a ce je n'sais qoi
que d'autres n'ont pas qui nous met dans un drôle d'état
ella elle l'a ella elle l'a, cette drôle de voix cette drôle de joie
ce don du ciel qui la rend belle ella elle l'a ella elle l'a
Elle a ce tout petit supplément d'âme
cet indéfinissable charme cette petite flamme
Tape sur des tonneaux sur des pianos
sur tout ce que dieu peut te mettre entre les mains
montre ton rire ou ton chagrin
mais que tu n'aies rien que tu sois roi
que tu cherches encore les pouvoirs qui dorment en toi
tu vois ca ne s'achète pas quand tu l'as tu l'as
Ella elle l'a ce je n'sais quoi
que d'autres n'ont pas qui nous met dans un drôle d'état
ella ella l'a ella elle l'a ella elle l'a ella elle l'a
ella elle l'a ella elle l'a ella elle l'a ella elle l'a ella elle l'a
Ella elle l'a ce je n'sais quoi
que d'autres n'ont pas qui nous met dans un drôle d'état
ella ella l'a ella elle l'a cette drôle de voix cette drôle de joie
ce don du ciel qui la rend belle ella elle l'a ella elle l'a ella elle l'a
Elle a ce tout petit supplément d'âme
cet indéfinissable charme cette petite flamme
Tape sur des tonneaux sur des pianos
sur tout ce que dieu peut te mettre entre les mains
montre ton rire ou ton chagrin
mais que tu n'aies rien que tu sois roi
que tu cherches encore les pouvoirs qui dorment en toi
tu vois ca ne s'achète pas quand tu l'as tu l'as
Ella elle l'a ce je n'sais quoi
que d'autres n'ont pas qui nous met dans un drôle d'état
ella ella l'a ella elle l'a ella elle l'a ella elle l'a
ella elle l'a ella elle l'a ella elle l'a ella elle l'a ella elle l'a
Ella elle l'a ce je n'sais quoi
que d'autres n'ont pas qui nous met dans un drôle d'état
ella ella l'a ella elle l'a cette drôle de voix cette drôle de joie
ce don du ciel qui la rend belle ella elle l'a ella elle l'a ella elle l'a
quelque chose dans la voix qui paraît nous dire viens
qui nous fait sentir étrangement bien
c'est comme tout l'histoir du peuple noir
qui se balance entre l'amour et l'désespoir
quelque chose qui dance en toi, si tu l'a tu l'a
ella elle l'a ce je n'sais qoi
que d'autres n'ont pas qui nous met dans un drôle d'état
ella elle l'a ella elle l'a, cette drôle de voix cette drôle de joie
ce don du ciel qui la rend belle ella elle l'a ella elle l'a
Elle a ce tout petit supplément d'âme
cet indéfinissable charme cette petite flamme
Tape sur des tonneaux sur des pianos
sur tout ce que dieu peut te mettre entre les mains
montre ton rire ou ton chagrin
mais que tu n'aies rien que tu sois roi
que tu cherches encore les pouvoirs qui dorment en toi
tu vois ca ne s'achète pas quand tu l'as tu l'as
Ella elle l'a ce je n'sais quoi
que d'autres n'ont pas qui nous met dans un drôle d'état
ella ella l'a ella elle l'a ella elle l'a ella elle l'a
ella elle l'a ella elle l'a ella elle l'a ella elle l'a ella elle l'a
Ella elle l'a ce je n'sais quoi
que d'autres n'ont pas qui nous met dans un drôle d'état
ella ella l'a ella elle l'a cette drôle de voix cette drôle de joie
ce don du ciel qui la rend belle ella elle l'a ella elle l'a ella elle l'a
Elle a ce tout petit supplément d'âme
cet indéfinissable charme cette petite flamme
Tape sur des tonneaux sur des pianos
sur tout ce que dieu peut te mettre entre les mains
montre ton rire ou ton chagrin
mais que tu n'aies rien que tu sois roi
que tu cherches encore les pouvoirs qui dorment en toi
tu vois ca ne s'achète pas quand tu l'as tu l'as
Ella elle l'a ce je n'sais quoi
que d'autres n'ont pas qui nous met dans un drôle d'état
ella ella l'a ella elle l'a ella elle l'a ella elle l'a
ella elle l'a ella elle l'a ella elle l'a ella elle l'a ella elle l'a
Ella elle l'a ce je n'sais quoi
que d'autres n'ont pas qui nous met dans un drôle d'état
ella ella l'a ella elle l'a cette drôle de voix cette drôle de joie
ce don du ciel qui la rend belle ella elle l'a ella elle l'a ella elle l'a
- Joined
- Sep 17, 2023