SYBILLA
Sebastian paused on the steep, dark stairs and listened.
Castle Martzburg was utterly silent; he knew that there were one or
two servants only within the walls, and that they slept at a distance;
he knew that his cautious entry by the donjon door had made no sound,
yet on every other step or so he stood still and listened.
He had procured a light; it fluttered in danger of extinction in the
draughty stairway, and he had to shield it with his hand.
Once, when he stopped, he took from his belt the keys that had gained
him admission and slipped them into the bosom of his doublet; hanging
at his waist, they made a little jingling sound as he moved.
When he gained the great hall he opened the door as softly and slowly
as if he did not know emptiness alone awaited him the other side.
He entered, and his little light only served to show the expanses of
gloom.
It was very cold; he could hear the rain falling in a thin stream from
the lips of the gargoyles without; he remembered that same sound on
the night the two students took shelter; the night when the deed he
was about to do had by a devil, in a whisper, been first put into his
head.
He crossed to the hearth and set the lamp in the niche by the
chimney-piece; he wished there was a fire--certainly it was cold.
The dim rays of the lamp showed the ashes on the hearth, the cushions
in the window-seat, and something that, even in that dullness, shone
with fiery hue.
Sebastian looked at it in a half horror: it was Sybilla’s red lily,
finished and glowing from a samite cushion; by the side of it slept
Jacobea’s little grey cat.
The steward gazing in curiously intent fashion recalled the fact that
he had never conversed with his wife and never liked her; he could not
tell of one sharp word between them, yet had she said she hated him he
would have felt no surprise; he wondered, in case he had ever loved
her, would he have been here to-night on this errand.
Lord of Martzburg!--lord of as fine a domain as any in the empire,
with a chance of the imperial crown itself--nay, had he loved his wife
it would have made no difference; what sorry fool even would let a
woman interfere with a great destiny--Lord of Martzburg.
With little reflection on the inevitable for his wife, he fell to
considering Jacobea; until to-night she had been a cipher to him--that
she favoured him a mere voucher for his crime; for the procuring of
this or that for him--a fact to be accepted and used; but that she
should _pray_ about him--speak as she had--that was another matter,
and for the first time in his cold life he was both moved and ashamed.
His thin, dark face flushed; he looked askance at the red lily and
took the light from its niche.
The shadows seemed to gather and throng out of the silence, bearing
down on him and urging him forward; he found the little door by the
fireplace open, and ascended the steep stone stairs to his wife’s
room.
Here there was not even the drip of the rain or the wail of the wind
to disturb the stillness; he had taken off his boots, and his
silk-clad feet made no sound, but he could not hush the catch of his
breath and the steady thump of his heart.
When he reached her room he paused again, and again listened.
Nothing--how could there be? Had he not come so softly even the little
cat had slept on undisturbed?
He opened the door and stepped in.
It was a small, low chamber; the windows were unshrouded, and fitful
moonlight played upon the floor; Sebastian looked at once towards the
bed, that stood to his left; it was hung with dark arras, now drawn
back from the pillows.
Sybilla was asleep; her thick, heavy hair lay outspread under her
cheek; her flesh and the bed-clothes were turned to one dazzling
whiteness by the moon.
Worked into the coverlet, that had slipped half to the polished floor,
were great wreaths of purple roses, showing dim yet gorgeous.
Her shoes stood on the bed steps; her clothes were flung over a chair;
near by a crucifix hung against the wall, with her breviary on a shelf
beneath.
The passing storm clouds cast luminous shadows across the chamber; but
they were becoming fainter, the tempest was dying away. Sebastian put
the lamp on a low coffer inside the door and advanced to the bed.
A large dusky mirror hung beside the window, and in it he could see
his wife again, reflected dimly in her ivory whiteness with the dark
lines of her hair and brows.
He came to the bedside so that his shadow was flung across her
sleeping face.
“Sybilla,” he said.
Her regular breathing did not change.
“Sybilla.”
A swift cloud obscured the moon; the sickly rays of the lamp struggled
with darkness.
“Sybilla.”
Now she stirred; he heard her fetch a sigh as one who wakens
reluctantly from soft dreams.
“Do you not hear me speak, Sybilla?”
From the bewildering glooms of the bed he heard her silk bed-clothes
rustle and slip; the moon came forth again and revealed her sitting
up, wide awake now and staring at him.
“So you have come home, Sebastian?” she said. “Why did you rouse me?”
He looked at her in silence; she shook back her hair from her eyes.
“What is it?” she asked softly.
“The Emperor died,” said Sebastian.
“I know--what is that to me? Bring the light, Sebastian; I cannot see
your face.”
“There is no need; the Emperor had not time to pray, I would not deal
so with you, therefore I woke you.”
“Sebastian!”
“By my mistress’s commands you must die to-night, and by my desire; I
shall be Lord of Martzburg, and there is no other way----”
She moved her head, and, peering forward, tried to see his face.
“Make your peace with Heaven,” he said hoarsely; “for to-morrow I must
go to her a free man.”
She put her hand to her long throat.
“I wondered if you would ever say this to me--I did not think so, for
it did not enter my mind that she could give commands.”
“Then you knew?”
Sybilla smiled.
“Before ever you did, Sebastian, and I have so thought of it, in these
long days when I have been alone, it seemed that I must sew it even
into my embroideries--‘Jacobea loves Sebastian.’”
He gripped the bed-post.
“It is the strangest thing,” said his wife, “that she should love
you--you--and send you here to-night; she was a gracious maiden.”
“I am not here to talk of that,” answered Sebastian; “nor have we
long--the dawn is not far off.”
Sybilla rose, setting her long feet on the bed step.
“So I must die,” she said--“must die. Certes! I have not lived so ill
that I should fear to die, nor so pleasantly that I should yearn to
live; it will be a poor thing in you to kill me, but no shame to me to
be slain, my lord.”
As she stood now against the shadowed curtains her hair caught the
lamplight and flashed into red gold about her colourless face;
Sebastian looked at her with hatred and some terror, but she smiled
strangely at him.
“You never knew me, Sebastian, but I am very well acquainted with you,
and I do scorn you so utterly that I am sorry for the chatelaine.”
“She and I will manage that,” answered Sebastian fiercely; “and if you
seek to divert or delay me by this talk it is useless, for I am
resolved, nor will I be moved.”
“I do not seek to move you, nor do I ask you for my life. I have ever
been dutiful, have I not?”
“Do not smile at me!” he cried. “You should hate me.”
She shook her head.
“Certes! I hate you not.”
She moved from the bed, in the long linen garment that she wore, slim
and childish to see. She took a wrap of gold-coloured silk from a
chair and put it about her. The man gazed at her the while with sullen
eyes.
She glanced at the crucifix.
“I have nothing to say; God knows it all. I am ready.”
“I do not want your soul,” he cried.
Sybilla smiled.
“I made confession yesterday. How cold it is for this time of the
year!--I do not shiver for fear, my lord.”
She put on her shoes, and as she stooped her brilliant hair fell and
touched the patch of fading moonshine.
“Make haste,” breathed Sebastian.
His wife raised her face.
“How long have we been wed?” she asked.
“Let that be.” He paled and bit his lip.
“Three years--nay, not three years. When I am dead give my
embroideries to Jacobea, they are in these coffers; I have finished
the red lily--I was sewing it when the two scholars came, that night
_she_ first knew--and you first knew--but I had known a long while.”
Sebastian caught up the lamp.
“Be silent or speak to God,” he said.
She came gently across the floor, holding the yellow silk at her
breast.
“What are you going to do with me?” she whispered. “Strangle me?--nay,
they would see that--afterwards.”
Sebastian went to a little door that opened beside the bed and pulled
aside the arras.
“That leads to the battlements,” she said.
He pointed to the dark steps.
“Go up, Sybilla.”
He held the lamp above his haggard face, and the light of it fell over
the narrow winding stone steps; she looked at them and ascended.
Sebastian followed, closing the door after him.
In a few moments they were out on the donjon roof.
The vast stretch of sky was clear now and paling for the dawn; faint
pale clouds clustered round the dying moon, and the scattered stars
pulsed wearily.
Below them lay the dark masses of the other portions of the castle,
and beside them rose the straining pole and wind-tattered banner of
Jacobea of Martzburg.
Sybilla leant against the battlements, her hair fluttering over her
face.
“How cold it is!” she said in a trembling voice. “Make haste, my
lord.”
He was shuddering, too, in the keen, insistent wind.
“Will you not pray?” he asked again.
“No,” she answered, and looked at him vacantly. “If I shriek would any
one hear me?--Will it be more horrible than I thought? Make
haste--make haste,--or I shall be afraid.”
She crouched against the stone, shivering violently. Sebastian put the
lamp upon the ground.
“Take care it does not go out,” she said, and laughed. “You would not
like to find your way back in the dark--the little cat will be sorry
for me.”
She broke off to watch what he was doing.
A portion of the tower projected; here the wall was of a man’s height,
and pierced with arblast holes; through there Sybilla had often looked
and seen the country below framed in the stone like a picture in a
letter of an horäe, so small it seemed, and yet clear and brightly
coloured.
Beneath the wall was a paving-stone, raised at will by an iron ring;
when lifted it revealed a sheer open drop the entire height of the
donjon, through which stones and fire could be hurled in time of siege
upon the assailants in the courtyard below; but Jacobea had always
shuddered at it, nor had there been occasion to open it for many
years.
Sybilla saw her husband strain at the ring and bend over the hole, and
stepped forward.
“Must it be that way?--O Jesu! Jesu! shall I not be afraid?”
She clasped her hands and fixed her eyes on the figure of Sebastian as
he raised the slab and revealed the black aperture; quickly he stepped
back as stone rang on stone.
“So,” he said; “I shall not touch you, and it will be swiftly
over--walk across, Sybilla.”
She closed her eyes and drew a long breath.
“Have you not the courage?” he cried violently. “Then I must hurl you
from the battlements… it shall not look like murder.…”
She turned her face to the beautiful brightening sky.
“My soul is not afraid, but… how my body shrinks!--I do not think I
can do it.…”
He made a movement towards her; at that she gathered herself.
“No--you shall not touch me.”
Across the donjon roof she walked with a firm step.
“Farewell, Sebastian; may God assoil me and thee.”
She put her hands to her face and moaned as her foot touched the edge
of the hole… no shriek nor cry disturbed the serenity of the night,
she made no last effort to save herself; but disappeared silently to
the blackness of her death.
Sebastian listened to the strange indefinite sound of it, and drops of
terror gathered on his brow; then all was silent again save for the
monotonous flap of the banner.
“Lord of Martzburg,” he muttered to steady himself; “Lord of
Martzburg.”
He dropped the stone into place, picked up the lantern and returned
down the close, cold stairs. Her room… on the pillow the mark where
her head had lain, her clothes over the coffer; well, he hated her, no
less than he had ever done; to the last she had shamed him; why had he
been so long?--too long--soon some one would be stirring, and he must
be far from Martzburg before they found Sybilla.
He crept from the chamber with the same unnecessary stealth he had
observed in entering, and in a cautious manner descended the stairs to
the great hall.
To reach the little door that had admitted him he must traverse nearly
half the castle; he cursed the distance, and the grey light that crept
in through every window he passed and revealed to him his own shaking
hand holding the useless lamp. Martzburg, his castle soon to be, had
become hateful to him; always had he found it too vast, too empty; but
now he would fill it as Jacobea had never done; the knights and her
kinsfolk who had ever overlooked him should be his guests and his
companions.
The thoughts that chased through his brain took curious turns; Jacobea
was the Emperor’s ward… but the Emperor was dead, should he wed her
secretly and how long need he wait?… Sybilla was often on the donjon
keep, let it seem that she had fallen… none had seen him come, none
would see him go… and Jacobea, strangest thing of all (he seemed to
hear Sybilla saying it) that she should love him.…
The pale glow of a dreary dawn filled the great hall as he entered it;
the grey cat was still asleep, and the shining silks of the red lily
shone like the hair of the strange woman who had worked it patiently
into the samite. He tiptoed across the hall, descended the wider
stairs and made his way to the first chamber of the donjon.
Carefully he returned the lamp to the niche where he had found it;
wondering, as he extinguished it, if any would note that it had been
burnt that night; carefully he drew on his great muddy boots and crept
out by the little postern door into the court.
So sheltered was the castle, and situated in so peaceful a place, that
when the chatelaine was not within the walls the huge outer gates that
required many men to close them stood open on to the hillside; beyond
them Sebastian saw his patient horse, fastened to the ring of the bell
chain, and beyond him the clear grey-blue hills and trees.
His road lay open; yet he closed the door slowly behind him and
hesitated. He strove with a desire to go and look at her; he knew just
how she had fallen… when he had first come to Martzburg, the hideous
hole in the battlements exercised a great fascination over him; he had
often flung down stones, clods of grass, even once a book, that he
might hear the hollow whistling sound and imagine a furious enemy
below.
Afterwards he had noticed these things and how they struck the bottom
of the shaft,--lying where she would be now; he desired to see her,
yet loathed the thought of it; there was his horse, there the open
road, and Jacobea waiting a few miles away, yet he must linger while
the accusing daylight gathered about him, while the rising sun
discovered him; he must dally with the precious moments, bite the ends
of his black hair, frown and stare at the round tower of the donjon
the other side of which she lay.
At last he crossed the rough cobbles; skirted the keep and stood
still, looking at her.
Yes--he had pictured her; yet he saw her more distinctly than he had
imagined he would in this grey light. Her hair and her cloak seemed to
be wrapped close about her; one hand still clung to her face; her feet
showed bare and beautiful.
Sebastian crept nearer; he wanted to see her face and if her eyes were
open; to be certain, also, if that dark red that lay spread on the
ground was all her scattered locks… the light was treacherous.
He was stooping to touch her when the quick sound of an approaching
horseman made him draw back and glance round.
But before he could even tell himself it were well to fly they were
upon him; two horsemen, finely mounted, the foremost Dirk Renswoude,
bare-headed, a rich colour in his cheek and a sparkle in his eyes; he
reined up the slim brown horse.
“So--it is done?” he cried, leaning from the saddle towards Sebastian.
The steward stepped back.
“Whom have you with you?” he asked in a shaking voice.
“A friend of mine and a suitor to the chatelaine--of which folly you
and I shall cure him.”
Theirry pressed forward, the hoofs of his striving horse making
musical clatter on the cobbles.
“The steward!” he cried; “and…”
His voice sank; he turned burning eyes on Dirk.
“--the steward’s wife that was,” smiled the youth. “But, certes! you
must do him worship now, he will be Lord of Martzburg.”
Sebastian was staring at Sybilla.
“You tell too much,” he muttered.
“Nay, my friend is one with me, and I can answer for his silence.”
Dirk patted the horse’s neck and laughed again; laughter with a high
triumphant note in it.
Theirry swung round on him in a desperate, bitter fierceness.
“Why have you brought me here? Where is the chatelaine?--by God His
saints that woman has been murdered.…”
Dirk turned in the saddle and faced him.
“Ay, and by Jacobea of Martzburg’s commands.”
Theirry laughed aloud.
“The lie is dead as you give it being,” he answered--“nor can all your
devilry make it live.”
“Sebastian,” said Dirk, “has not this woman come to her death by the
chatelaine’s commands?”
He pointed to Sybilla.
“You know it, since in your presence she bade me hither,” answered
Sebastian heavily.
Dirk’s voice rose clear and musical.
“You see your piece of uprightness thought highly of her steward, and
that she might endow him with her hand his wife must die----”
“Peace! peace!” cried Sebastian fiercely, and Theirry rose in his
saddle.
“It is a lie!” he repeated wildly. “If ’tis not a lie God has turned
His face from me, and I am lost indeed!”
“If ’tis no lie,” cried Dirk exultingly, “you are mine--did ye not
swear it?”
“An’ she be this thing you name her,” answered Theirry
passionately--“then the Devil is cunning indeed, and I his servant;
but if you speak false I will kill you at her feet.”
“And by that will I abide,” smiled Dirk. “Sebastian, you shall return
with us to give this news to your mistress.”
“Is she not here?” cried Theirry.
Dirk pointed to the silver-plated harness.
“You ride her horse. See her arms upon his breast. Sweet fool, we left
her behind in the hostel, waiting the steward’s return.…”
“All ways ye trap and deceive me,” exclaimed Theirry hotly.
“Let us begone,” said Sebastian; he looked at Dirk as if at his
master. “Is it not time for us to begone?”
It was full daylight now, though the sun had not yet risen above the
hills; the lofty walls and high towers of the huge grey castle blocked
up the sky and threw into the gloom the three in their shadow.
“Hark!” said Dirk, and lifted his finger delicately.
Again the sound of a horse approaching on the long white road, the
rise and fall of the quick trot bitterly distinct in the hard
stillness.
“Who is this?” whispered Sebastian; he caught Dirk’s bridle as if he
found protection in the youth’s near presence, and stared towards the
blank open gates.
A white horse appeared against the cold misty background of grey
country; a woman was in the saddle: Jacobea of Martzburg.
She paused, peered up at the high little windows in the donjon, then
turned her gaze on the silent three.
“Now can the chatelaine speak for herself,” breathed Dirk.
Theirry gave a great sigh, his eyes fixed with a painful intensity on
the approaching lady, but she did not seem to see either of them.
“Sebastian,” she cried, and drew rein gazing at him, “where is your
wife?”
Her words rang on the cold, clear air like strokes on a bell.
“Sybilla died last night,” answered the steward, “but I did nought.
And you should not have come.”
Jacobea shaded her brows with her gloved hand and stared past the
speaker.
Theirry broke out in a trembling passion.
“In the name of the angels in whose company I ever placed you, what do
you know of this that has been done?”
“What is that on the ground?” cried Jacobea. “Sybilla--he has slain
Sybilla--but, sirs,”--she looked round her distractedly--“ye must not
blame him--he saw my wish.…”
“From your own lips!” cried Theirry.
“Who are you who speak?” she demanded haughtily. “_I_ sent him to slay
Sybilla.…” She interrupted herself with a hideous shriek. “Sebastian,
ye are stepping in her blood!”
And, letting go of the reins, she sank from the saddle; the steward
caught her, and as she slipped from his hold to her knees her
unconscious head came near to the stiff white feet of the dead.
“Her yellow hair!” cried Dirk. “Let us leave her to her steward--you
and I have another way!”
“May God curse her as He has me,” said Theirry in an agony,--“for she
has slain my hope of heaven!”
“You will not leave me?” called Sebastian. “What shall I say?--what
shall I do?”
“Lie and lie again!” answered Dirk with a wild air; “wed the dame and
damn her people--let fly your authority and break her heart as quickly
as you may----”
“Amen to that!” added Theirry.
“And now to Frankfort!” cried Dirk, exultant.
They set their horses to a furious pace and galloped out of Castle
Martzburg.