In the studio of a house in a certain quiet city in Flanders, a young man sat on a low stool gilding a devil. The room was crowded with unfinished sculptures, dusty tools, and glass bottles filled with dark-colored liquids. A row of knights, roughly modeled in clay, stood before an open window, their fantastic silver armor gleaming in the dazzling sun.
The man was dressed in loose-fitting brown garments. His straight, dull hair partly concealed his long, dark face, and he gazed intently at his project before him. From the roll of gold leaf on his knee he carefully and slowly gilded the devil from the tips of its curled-back horns to the ends of its three tails.
The man rose to his feet and looked out the window into the garden, resting his elbows on the sill. It was so hot that he felt it burning through his sleeve. The place was utterly silent. Sparse plants bordered the neglected grass-grown paths. Vines climbed along the wall of a neighboring brick house. Between the two homes was a dry stone fountain surrounded by struggling white daisies.
The man was subtly good-looking, wide in the brows and long in the jaw, with smooth pale skin and cloudy dark eyes. His throat was full and beautiful. His expression was reserved and sombre and he had the air of someone habitually alone and accustomed to long periods of silence. His lips, well-shaped but pale, were resolutely set in consideration, and there was a fine curve of strength to his prominent chin.
After a time of expressionless gazing at the sun-filled garden, the man took another look at the half-gilded devil and left the room. The house was built without corridors or passages, each room opened into another and the upper ones were reached by short dark stairways against the walls. The man moved lightly from one chamber to the next, displacing dust and cobwebs. Many curious objects were in those deserted rooms; cubes of tarnished silver, paintings of holy subjects, and furniture covered with rich-hued tapestry. 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. He soon came upon a dark, heavy door.
With some effort, he turned a key in its rusty lock and entered a storeroom. It was chokingly full of dust and a sickly musty smell. He waded through the objects strewn across the floor; the painted tiles, the old lanterns, the priests' garments, and little rusty iron coffers.
The young man went on his knees and unlocked one of the iron coffers. It contained a number of bits of glass cut like gems; he selected two of an equal size and a clear green colour, and 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 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. For the second time the young man left the room to open the door to the street. He looked out on an empty market-place surrounded by small houses falling into decay, beyond them the double towers of the Cathedral.
The young man shaded his eyes and looked down. Under the hanging iron doorbell rested a basket of delivered groceries: bread, a can of milk and some meat wrapped in a linen cloth. The youth took these in and closed the door, returning to his workshop again. He lit a fire under the wide-tiled hearth, filled a 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.
The book was filled with drawings of strange and horrible things, its crowded writing embellished with blood-red capitals. The young man read for hours, and not once did he look up or change his twisted position. Eventually, the sun sank behind the other side of the house, so that the garden and room were 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 unheeded.
Then, without prelude or warning, the heavy clang of a bell woke the silence into trembling echoes. The din startled the young man; he sprang to his feet and dropped the book. He stood panting in bewilderment.
Again the bell sounded. It hadn't rung for many years. The young man picked up the book and returned it to the shelf. For a third time the iron bell rung, insistent. The young man frowned and crept cautiously toward the door. Here for a second he hesitated, then drew back the bolt and opened it.
Two men stood in front of him. One was gorgeously attired and the other wore a dark cloak and carried his hat in his hand.
The young man surveyed his visitors. "You can't be here for me," said the youth. "And there is no one else here."
The splendidly-dressed stranger answered—
"If you are Master Dirk Renswoude, then we are indeed here for you."
The young man opened the door a little wider. "Yes, I am Dirk Renswoude..." he said, hesitantly. "But I don't know either of you."
"No, you don't," the other answered. "But still, we're here to make an inquiry." He bowed slightly. "I am Balthasar of Courtrai and this is my friend Theirry, of Dendermonde."
"Ah, Balthasar of Courtrai!" repeated the youth softly; he stood aside and motioned them to enter. "Will you follow me?" he said, and led them to his workroom.
Dirk Renswoude moved a statue of St. Michael from a chair and tossed a pile of parchments off a stool. He offered these seats to his guests, who accepted them in silence.
"You may join me for dinner," he said, and placed himself on the stool by the pot, stirring it with an iron spoon and openly studying the two men.
Balthasar of Courtrai was gorgeous. His age might be perhaps twenty-six or seven; he was of a large make, with a high red tone to his skin and blunt features; his brows were straight and 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 gold doublet with enormous, puffed sleeves. Around his waist he wore a linked belt which held numerous daggers and a short sword. His riding boots came to his knees, stained with the summer dust and decorated with gilt spurs. He sat with one hand on his hip, and in the other held his leathern gloves. Master Dirk Renswoude coldly examined this Balthasar of Courtrai. Balthasar's companion, Thierry, was younger; dressed sombrely in black and violet. He was as well-looking as a man may be, neither dark nor fair, but of a clear brown hue, with swift hazel eyes. He smiled, yet the whole face expressed some reserve; he observed the room with an interested glance. But Balthasar of Courtrai again captured Master Dirk Renswoude's attention.
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"You have heard of me?" Balthasar said suddenly.
"Yes," was the instant answer.
"Then do you know what I'm here for?"
"No, not exactly," said Master Dirk, frowning.
Balthasar glanced at his companion, who was staring at the half-gilded devil with interest and some wonder.
"My father is Margrave of East Flanders," he said proudly, "and the Emperor knighted me when I was fifteen. Now I am tired of Courtrai, of the castle, of my father. I have taken the road."
"The road to...where?" asked Dirk.
Balthasar made a large gesture with his right hand. "To Cologne, or perhaps to Rome, to Constantinople … to Turkey or Hungary."
"Quite the knight errant," said Master Dirk.
Balthasar tossed his fine head. "I wouldn't say that. I have ambitions."
Master Dirk laughed.
"And your friend?" he asked.
"A wandering scholar," said Balthasar. "Also weary of the town of Courtrai. He dreams of fame."
At this, Theirry looked up.
"I am going to the Universities," he said quietly. "To Paris, Basle, Padua. Have you heard of them?"
Dirk's cloudy eyes gleamed. "Ah, I have heard of them," he replied upon a quick breath.
"I have a great desire for learning," said Theirry.
Dirk nodded with a concealed smile.
He was moving about clearing the table for supper. He placed the little clay knights on the window-sill, flinging drawings, paints and brushes onto the floor. Silence fell on them; Dirk's demeanor did not invite conversation, and the atmosphere of the room was languid and remote, and not conducive to talk. Master Dirk took up 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 colours, and forks with agate handles. Even though it might not have been the princely fare the Margrave's son was used to, they were well-served; honey in a silver jar, shining apples lying among their leaves, wheaten cakes in a plaited basket, grapes on a gold salver, lettuces and radishes fragrantly wet; these Master Dirk brought from the press and set on the table. Then he helped his guests to meat, and Balthasar spoke.
"You live strangely here—so much alone."
"I work and take pleasure in it. I have no desire for company. They buy my work, pictures, carvings, sculptures for churches very readily."
"You are a good craftsman," said Theirry. "Who taught you?"
"Old Master Lukas, 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. Theirry, placed opposite, was of the same mind and kept his 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. There were tall bottles, white, red and yellow in wicker cases, and an amber-hued beer such as the peasants drank. Balthasar seemed roused from his apathy.
"So, " said Dirk, returning to his seat. "Why have you come here?"
Balthasar laughed easily.
"To begin with, " he said, "I am married."
Master Dirk frowned. "So are many men."
"I'm here about my wife."
Dirk Renswoude leant forward in his chair. "I expected so. Yes, I do know something of your wife."
"Tell me of her!" said Balthasar of Courtrai.
Dirk slightly smiled. "Should I know more than you?"
The Margrave's son flushed. "I must know first what you know. Tell me."
Dirk's smile deepened. "Ursula, daughter of the Lord of Rooselaare. She was sent to the convent of the White Sisters in this town."
"Yes," said Balthasar. "Well, what else?"
Dirk leaned back. "Your Ursula 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. She had many suitors, but eventually she was contracted to you by her father."
Balthasar pulled at the orange tassels on his sleeve. "Without my consent," he said.
Dirk continued. "They sent a guard to bring her back to Rooselaare, but because they were fearful of the danger of journey, that she might be captured by some fortune-seeker, they married her fast and securely, by proxy, to you. The young woman fell ill of grief and wished most heartily, I take it, to become a nun. 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 to save her from her father and her husband. So the nuns, tempted by greed, spread the report that she had died in her illness. There was a false funeral, and Ursula was kept secret in the convent among the novices. News went to her home that she was dead."
"And I was glad of it," said Balthasar. "I loved another woman, you see, and was in no need for money."
"Shameless," said Theirry, but Dirk Renswoude laughed softly.
"She took the final vows, and lived for three years among the nuns. 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 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."
The Margrave's son glanced at Theirry for support, but received none.
"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, if you ask me. Let her take her punishment, I said."
"She waited several months for your answer," said Master Dirk, "and received none."
Balthasar looked down at the table, tilling his wine.
"It happened then that Master Lukas, my teacher, was employed in the chapel of the convent, and Ursula told him her story. When he had finished the chapel she fled with him here—to this house. She wrote to her husband about the old man who had befriended her and taken her in. Again he did not answer. That was five years ago."
"And the nuns made no search for her?" asked Theirry.
"Not after they learned she was no longer an heiress. Then there was the war and the convent was burnt, and all the sisters fled," continued Dirk. "And Ursula lived here, studying under Master Lukas. He had no apprentices but us."
Balthasar leant back in his chair. "That much I knew. And that the old man, dying, left his place to you, and—what more of Ursula?"
The young man gave him a slow, full glance. "Strangely late you inquire after her, Balthasar of Courtrai."
The Knight turned his head away, half sullenly.
"No one save I is aware of her existence … yet she is my wife. Where is she now?"
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."