menu_book Chapter 1

public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Molly Craig. Black Magic by Marjorie Bowen. Part 1. The Nun. Chapter 1. Sunshine. In the large room of a house in a certain quiet city in Flanders, a man was gilding a devil. The chamber looked on to the quadrangle round which the house was built, and the sun, just overhead, blazed on the vine leaves clinging to the brick and sent a reflected glow into

the somber spaces of the room. The devil, rudely cut out of wood, rested by his three tails and his curled back horns against the wall, and the man sat before him on a low stool. On the table in front of the open window stood a row of knights in fantastic armor, roughly modeled in clay. Beside them was a pile of vellum sheets covered with drawings in brown and green.

By the door a figure of St. Michael leant against a chair, and round his feet were painted glasses of every color and form. On the whitewashed wall hung a winged picture representing a martyrdom. Its vivid hues were the most brilliant thing in the room. The man was dressed in brown. He had a long, dark face and straight, dull hair. From the roll of gold leaf on his knee, he carefully and slowly gilded the devil.

The place was utterly silent, the perfect stillness enhanced by the dazzle of the blinding sun without. Presently the man rose, and crossing to the window looked out. He could see the sparse plants bordering the neglected grass-grown paths, the house opposite with its double row of empty windows, and the yellowing vine leaves climbing up the tiled roof that cut the polished blue of the August sky. The man at the window rested his

elbows on the sill. It was so hot that he felt it burning through his sleeve. He had the air of one habitually alone, the unquestioning calm that comes of long silences. He was young, and in a quiet fashion, well-looking, wide in the brows and long in the jaw, with a smooth pale skin and cloudy dark eyes. His hair hung very straightly. His throat was full and beautiful. In expression, he was reserved and somber. His lips, well-shaped but pale, were resolutely set,

and there was a fine curve of strength to his prominent chin. After a time of expressionless gazing at the sun-filled garden, he turned back into the room and stood in the center of the floor with his teeth set in his forefinger, looking ponderingly at the half-gilded devil. Then he took a bunch of beautifully wrought keys from his belt, and swinging them softly in his hand, left the chamber. Many curious and gorgeous objects were

in those deserted rooms, carved presses full of tarnished silver, paintings of holy subjects, furniture covered with rich-hued tapestry, other pieces of arrows on the walls, and in one chamber purple silk hangings worked with ladies' hair in shades of brown and gold. One room was full of books, piled up on the floor, and in the midst of them stood a table bearing strange goblets of shells, set in silver and electrum. Passing these things without a glance, the young man mounted to

the upper story and unlocked a door whose rusty lock took his utmost strength to turn. It was a storeroom he entered, lit by low, long windows looking on the street and carefully shrouded by linen drawn across them. The chamber was chokingly full of dust and a sickly, musty smell. About the floor lay bales of stuff, scarlet, blue and green, painted tiles, old lanterns, clothes. Priest's garments wonderfully worked, glasses, and little rusty iron coffers.

Before one of these, the young man went on his knees and unlocked it. It contained a number of bits of glass cut to represent gems. He selected two of an equal size and a clear green color. Then, with the same gravity and silence with which he had come, he returned to the workshop. When he saw the devil, half bright gold, half bald wood, he frowned, then set the green glass

in the thing's hollow eye sockets. At the twinkling effect of the light and life produced by this, his frown relaxed. He stood for a while contemplating his handiwork, then washed his brushes and put away his paints and gold leaf. By now the sun had changed and was shining full into the room, casting hot shadows of the vine leaves over the little clay nights and dazzling St. Michael's wet red robe. For the second time the young man left the room, now to go into the

hall and open the door that gave upon the street. He looked on to an empty marketplace surrounded by small houses falling into decay. Beyond them, the double towers of the cathedral flying upwards across the golden blue. The young man shaded his eyes and gazed across the dazzling dreariness. The shadow of his slack, slim figure was cast into the square of sun thrown across the hall through the open door. Under the iron bell that hung against the lintel stood a basket of bread,

a can of milk, and some meat wrapped in a linen cloth. The youth took these in and closed the door. He traversed a large dining-room, finely furnished, a small antechamber, came out into the arcaded end of the courtyard, entered the house by a low door next to the pump, and so into his workshop again. There he proceeded to prepare his food. On the wide-tiled hearth stood a tripod and an iron pot. He lit a fire under this, filled the pot with water, and put

the meat in. Then he took a great book down off a shelf and bent over it, huddled up on a stool in the corner where the shade still lingered. It was a book filled with drawings of strange and horrible things, and close writing embellished with blood-red capitals. As the young man read, his face grew hot and flushed where it rested on his hand, and the heavy volume fell cumbrous either side his knee. Not once did he look up or change his twisted position, but with parted lips

and absorbed eyes poured over the black lettering. The sun sank the other side of the house, so that the garden and room were alike in shadow, and the air became cooler. Still the young man made no movement. The flames leapt on the hearth, and the meat seethed in the pot unheated. Outside, the vine leaves curled against the brick, and the stone faces looked down at the broken fountain, the struggling grass, and the tall white daisies. Still, the young man,

bending lower, his heated cheek pressed into his palm, his hair touching the page, bent over the great tomb on his knee. Not the devil with his green eyes staring before him, not St. Michael in his red robe by the door, not the martyr in the bright-winged picture were more still than he crouched upon his wooden stool. Then, without prelude or warning, the heavy clang of a bell woke the silence into trembling echoes. The young man dropped the book

and sprang to his feet, red and white chased across his face. He stood panting, bewildered, with one hand on his heart and dazed eyes. Again the bell sounded. It could only be that which hung at the front door. Not for years had one rung it. He picked up the book, put it back on the shelf, and stood irresolute. For a third time the iron clang, insistent, impatient, rang through the quiet. The young man frowned, pushed back the hair from his hot forehead, and went with a light

and cautious step across the courtyard, through the dark dining chamber, into the hall. Here, for a second, he hesitated, then drew back the bolt and opened the door. Two men stood without. One was most gorgeously attired, the other wore a dark cloak and carried his hat in his hand. You cannot want me, said the youth, surveying them, and there is no one else here. The splendidly dressed stranger answered, If you are Master Dirk Renswold, we are most

desirous to see and speak with you. The young man opened the door a little wider. I am Dirk Renswold, but I know neither of you. I did not think so, the other answered. Still, we have a matter to ask you of.

I am Balthasar of Cotreg, and this is my friend, whom you may call Thierry, born of Dendermonde. Balthasar of Cotreg, repeated the youth softly. He stood aside and motioned them to enter. Will you follow me? he added, and went before them to his workroom. The sun had left chamber and garden now, but the air was golden warm with it, and a sense of great heat still lay over the grass and vines seen through the open window.

Dirk Renswold moved St. Michael from the chair and tossed a pile of parchments off a stool. He offered these seats to his guests, who accepted them in silence. You must needs wait till the supper is prepared, he said, and with that placed himself on the stool by the pot, and while he stirred it with an iron spoon, openly studied the two men. Balthasar of Cotterac was gorgeous. His age might be perhaps twenty-six or seven. He was of a large

make, florid in face with a high red color and blunt features. His brows were straight and over fair, his eyes deep blue and expressionless. His heavy yellow hair was cut low on his forehead and fell straightly on to his neck. He wore a flat orange hat, slashed and cut, fastened by purple cords to the shoulder of a gold doublet that opened on a shirt of fine lawn. His sleeves were enormous, fantastic, puffed and gathered. Round his waist was a linked belt into which were

thrust numerous daggers and a short sword. His breeches of a most vivid blue were beruffled with knots and tassels. His riding boots that came to his knees, stained with the summer dust, showed a small foot decorated with gilt spurs. He sat with one hand on his hip, and in the other held his leather gloves. Such the picture, Master Dirk Renswold, considering him coldly, formed a Balthasar of Courtraig. His companion was younger, dressed somberly in black and violet,

but as well-looking as a man may be. He was neither dark nor fair, but of a clear brown hue, and his eyes were hazel, swift and brilliant. His mouth was set smilingly, yet the whole face expressed reserve and some disdain. He had laid his hat on the floor beside him, and with an interested glance was observing the room. But Balthasar of Cotterreg returned Master Dirk Renswold's steady gaze. You have heard of me, he said suddenly. Yes, was the instant answer.

Then, be like you know what I am here for. No, said Master Dirk, frowning. Balthasar glanced at his companion, who gave no heed to either of them, but stared at the half-gilded devil with interest and some wonder. Seeing this, Balthasar answered for himself in a manner half-defiant and wholly arrogant. My father is Margrave of East Flanders, and the Emperor knighted me when I was fifteen. Now I am tired of Cotraigues, of the castle, of my father. I have

taken the road. The road to where? Dirk asked. Balthasar made a large gesture with his right hand. To Cologne? Perhaps to Rome? To Constantinople? To Turkey? Or Hungary? Knight-errant, said Master Dirk. Balthasar tossed his fine head. By the rude, no, I have ambitions. Master Dirk laughed. And your friend? he asked. A wandering scholar, smiled Balthasar, also weary of the town of

Courtregues. He dreams of fame. Thierry looked round at this. I am going to the universities, he said quietly. To Paris. Bal, Padua. You have heard of them? The youth's cloudy eyes gleamed. Ah, I have heard of them, he replied upon a quick breath. Master Dirk was moving about, setting the supper. He placed the little clay knights on the windowsill,

and flung without any ado drawings, paints, and brushes onto the floor. Silence fell on them. The young host's bearing did not encourage comment, and the atmosphere of the room was languid and remote, not conducive to talk. Master Dirk, composed and aloof, opened a press in the wall, and took thence a fine cloth that

he laid smoothly on the rough table. He then set on it earthenware dishes and plates, drinking glasses painted in bright colors, and forks with agate handles. They were well served for food, even though it might not be the princely fair the Margrave's son was used to. Honey in a silver jar, shining apples lying among their leaves, wheaten cakes in a plated basket,

grapes on a gold salver, lettuces and radishes fragrantly wet. These Master Dirk brought from the press and sat on the table. Then he helped his guests to meet, and Balthasar spoke. You live strangely here, so much alone.

I have no desire for company. I work and take pleasure in it. they buy my work pictures carvings sculptures for churches very readily you are a good craftsman said thierry who taught you old master lucas born of ghent and taught in italy when he died he left me this house and all it holds Again their speech sank into silence. Balthasar ate heavily, but with elegance. Dirk, seated next the window, rested his chin on his palm, and stared out at the bright yet fading blue of the sky,

at the row of closed windows opposite, and the daisies waving round the broken fountain. He ate very little. Thierry, placed opposite, was of the same mind, and paying little heed to Balthasar, who seemed not to interest him in the least, kept curious eyes on Dirk's strange grave face. After a while the margrave's son asked shamelessly for wine, and the youth rose languidly and brought it. Tall bottles, white, red, and yellow in wicker cases, and an amber-hued beer

such as the peasants drank. The placing of these before Balthasar seemed to rouse him from his apathy. Why have you come here? he demanded. Balthasar laughed easily. I am married, he said as a prelude, and lifted his glass in a large, well-made hand. At that, Master Dirk frowned. So are many men. Balthasar surveyed the tilting wine through half-closed eyes. It is about my wife, master, that I am here now. Dirk Renswold leant forward in his chair.

I know of your wife. Tell me of her, said Balthasar of Courtreig. I have come here for that. Dirk slightly smiled. Should I know more than you? The margrave's son flushed. What do you know? tell me. Dirk's smile deepened. She was one Ursula, daughter of the Lord of Rousselerie. She was sent to the convent of the White Sisters in this town. So you know it all, said Balthasar. Well, what else? What else? Must I tell you a familiar tale?

Certes, more so to you than to me. Then, since you wish it, here is your story, sir. She was educated for a nun, and, I think, desired to become one of the Order of the White Sisters. But when she was fifteen, her brother died, and she became her father's heiress. So many entered the lists for her hand. They contracted her to you. Balthasar pulled at the orange tassels on his sleeve. Without my wish or consent, he said. The young man took no heed. They sent a guard

to bring her back to Rousselarie, but because they were fearful of the danger of journey, and that she might be captured by one of the pretenders to her fortunes, they married her fast and securely, by proxy, to you. At this the maid who wished most heartily, I take it, to become a nun, fell ill of grief, and in her despair she confided her misery to the abbess. I tell you a tale that I believe you know, but since you have come to hear me speak on that

matter, I relate what has come to me of it. This Ursula was heiress to great wealth, and in her love to the sisters and her dislike to this marriage, she promised them all her worldly goods when she should come into possession of them, if they would connive at saving her from her father and her husband. So the nuns, tempted by greed, spread the report that she had died in her illness, and being clever women, they blinded all. There was a false funeral, and Ursula was kept secret

in the convent among the novices. All this matter was put into writing, and attested by the nuns, that there might be no doubt of the truth of it when the maid came into her heritage, and the news went to her home that she was dead. And I was glad of it, said Balthasar, for then I loved another woman and was in no need for money. Peace! Shameless, said Thierry, but Dirk Renswold laughed softly. She took the final irrevocable vows and lived for three years

among the nuns, and the life became bitter and utterly unendurable to her, and she dared not make herself known to her father because of the deeds the nuns held, promising them her lands. So as the life became more and more horrible to her, she wrote in her extremity and found means to send a letter to her husband. I have it here, Balthasar touched his breast. She said she had sworn herself to me before she had vowed herself to God. Told me of her deceit, he laughed, and

asked me to come and rescue her. Dirk crossed his hands that were long and beautiful upon the table. You did not come, and you did not answer. The margrave's son glanced at Thierry as he had a habit of doing, as if he reluctantly desired his assistance or encouragement. But again he obtained nothing, and answered for himself, after the slightest pause, No, I did not come. Her father had taken another wife, and had a son to inherit, and I, he lowered his eyes moodily, I was thinking

of another woman. She had lied, my wife, to God, I think. Well, let her take her punishment, I said. She did not wait beyond some months for your answer, said Master Dirk. Master Lucas, born of Ghent, was employed in the chapel of the convent, and she, who had to wait on him, told him her story. And when he had finished the chapel, she fled with him here to this house.

And again she wrote to her husband, speaking of the old man who had befriended her, and telling him of her abode. And again he did not answer. That was five years ago. And the nuns made no search for her, asked Thierry.

They knew now that the girl was no heiress, and they were afraid that the tale might get blown abroad. Then there was war. The convent was burnt, and the sisters fled, continued Dirk. And the maid lived here, learning many crafts from Master Lucas.

He had no apprentices but us. Balthasar leant back in his chair. That much I learnt, and that the old man dying left his place to you. And what more of this Ursula? The young man gave him a slow, full glance. Strangely late you inquire after her, Balthasar of Courtraig. The knight turned his head away, half-sullenly. A man must know how

he is encumbered. No one save I is aware of her existence, yet she is my wife. The young sculptor rested his smooth pale face on his palm. Cloudy eyes and cloudy hair were hardly discernible in the twilight, but the line of the resolute chin was clear-cut. She died four years ago, he said, and her grave is in the garden where those white daisies grow.