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Sebastian paused on the steep, dark stairs and listened. Castle Martzburg lay silent and foreboding, its ancient walls sheltering only a few slumbering servants. His cautious entry through the donjon door had been noiseless, yet he found himself stopping every few steps, straining to catch any hint of movement or sound.
He carried a flickering light, shielding it from the drafts that threatened to snuff it out. He slipped the keys that had granted him entry into the bosom of his doublet to silence their faint jingling.
Reaching the great hall, he eased the door open as if expecting to find something sinister lurking in the shadows. He stepped inside, his dim light barely penetrating the vast gloom. The hall was frigid, the rain outside pattering incessantly from the gargoyles’ mouths, a sound that stirred dark memories.
Crossing to the hearth, Sebastian set the lamp in a niche by the chimney-piece. He wished there was a fire to warm his chilled bones. The lamp’s feeble rays revealed the hearth’s cold ashes, the window-seat’s cushions, and something gleaming with an unsettling fiery hue.
He recoiled slightly, recognizing Sybilla’s red lily, finished and vibrant on a samite cushion, with Jacobea’s little grey cat curled up beside it. The sight provoked a curious and intent reflection—he had never truly spoken with his wife, nor had any fondness for her. Yet, if she had declared she hated him, he would not have been surprised. Love for her, he realized, would not have altered his course tonight. His thoughts turned towards his destiny—Lord of Martzburg, perhaps even with a chance at the imperial crown. No mere woman would stand in the way of such a fate.
Thinking of Jacobea, he felt a pang of shame. Until tonight, she had been nothing more than a tool, her favor a mere means to an end. But her prayers and tender words had stirred something within him. His dark face flushed as he took the light from the niche, shadows gathering and pressing him forward.
He found the small door by the fireplace open and ascended the steep stone steps to his wife’s chamber. The silence was profound, broken only by his breathing and the thump of his heart. He had removed his boots, moving soundlessly, but could not still the anxious catch of his breath.
At her door, he paused once more, listening intently. Nothing stirred. He opened the door and stepped into the small, low-ceilinged room. The unshrouded windows allowed fitful moonlight to dance across the floor. His gaze went straight to the bed on his left, its dark arras drawn back from the pillows.
Sybilla lay asleep, her heavy hair spread out beneath her cheek. The moonlight rendered her flesh and the bedclothes a blinding white. The coverlet, adorned with dim yet sumptuous purple roses, had slipped halfway to the polished floor. Her shoes stood neatly on the bed steps, her clothes draped over a chair, and a crucifix with her breviary beneath hung against the wall.
The storm outside was abating, its waning light casting faint shadows across the chamber. Sebastian placed the lamp on a low coffer inside the door and advanced to the bed, the air heavy with his resolve.
A large, dusky mirror hung beside the window, reflecting his wife in an eerie glow, her ivory skin contrasted against the dark lines of her hair and brows. Sebastian approached the bedside, his shadow falling across her serene, sleeping face.
“Sybilla,” he whispered.
Her steady breathing continued unchanged.
“Sybilla,” he called again, louder this time.
A swift cloud obscured the moon, leaving the sickly rays of the lamp to struggle against the deepening darkness.
“Sybilla.”
At last, she stirred, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she reluctantly woke from her dreams.
“Do you not hear me speak, Sybilla?”
The rustle of her silk bedclothes filled the room as she sat up, wide awake, her eyes fixing on him.
“So you have come home, Sebastian?” she said, her voice calm. “Why did you rouse me?”
He stared at her in silence. She brushed her hair back from her eyes.
“What is it?” she asked softly.
“The Emperor is dead,” Sebastian replied.
“I know—what is that to me? Bring the light, Sebastian; I cannot see your face.”
“There is no need. The Emperor had no time to pray; I would not deal so with you, so I woke you.”
“Sebastian!”
“By my mistress’s commands, you must die tonight, and by my desire; I shall be Lord of Martzburg, and there is no other way.”
She leaned forward, trying to see his face in the dim light.
“Make your peace with Heaven,” he said hoarsely. “For tomorrow, I must go to her a free man.”
Sybilla 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?” Sebastian asked, gripping the bedpost.
Sybilla smiled faintly.
“Before ever you did, Sebastian, and I have thought of it during these long days alone. It seemed I must sew it even into my embroideries—‘Jacobea loves Sebastian.’”
Sebastian’s face twisted with a mix of emotions.
“It is the strangest thing,” she continued, “that she should love you—you—and send you here tonight; she was a gracious maiden.”
“I am not here to talk of that,” Sebastian said sharply. “Nor have we long—the dawn is not far off.”
Sybilla stood, her long feet touching the bed step.
“So I must die,” she said calmly. “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.”
Standing against the shadowed curtains, her hair caught the lamplight, turning it into a halo of red gold around her pale face. Sebastian looked at her with a mix of hatred and terror, but she smiled at him strangely.
“You never knew me, Sebastian, but I know you well, and I scorn you so utterly that I am sorry for the chatelaine.”
“She and I will manage that,” Sebastian retorted fiercely. “And if you seek to divert or delay me with this talk, it is useless, for I am resolved and will not be moved.”
“I do not seek to move you, nor do I ask you for my life. Have I not always been dutiful?”
“Do not smile at me!” he cried. “You should hate me.”
She shook her head slowly.
“Certes! I hate you not.”
She moved gracefully from the bed, her slim, childish figure swathed in a long linen garment. She picked up a wrap of gold-colored silk from a chair and draped it around her shoulders. Sebastian watched her with sullen eyes, a dark shadow of guilt and determination clouding his features.
She glanced at the crucifix, its weathered wood and tarnished silver seeming to absorb the dim lamplight.
“I got nothin’ to say; God knows it all. I’m ready.”
“I don’t want your soul,” Sebastian cried out, his voice tinged with desperation.
Sybilla smiled, a serene expression amid the gathering shadows. “I made confession yesterday. It’s mighty cold for this time of year—but I ain’t shiverin’ from fear, my lord.”
She slipped on her shoes, her brilliant hair catching a patch of fading moonlight as she bent down.
“Make haste,” Sebastian breathed, impatience in his tone.
His wife raised her face, calm and resolute. “How long have we been wed?” she asked.
“Let that be,” he snapped, his face paling as he bit his lip.
“Three years—nay, not even three. When I’m dead, give my embroideries to Jacobea. They’re in these coffers. I 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.”
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Sebastian snatched up the lamp. “Be silent or speak to God,” he said harshly.
Sybilla moved gently across the floor, holding the yellow silk wrap to her breast. “What’re you gonna do with me?” she whispered. “Strangle me?—nay, they would see that—afterwards.”
Sebastian went to a little door beside the bed and pulled aside the heavy curtain. “That leads to the battlements,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
He pointed to the dark steps. “Go up, Sybilla.”
He held the lamp above his haggard face, the light casting eerie shadows over the narrow, winding stone steps. She looked at them, then began to ascend. Sebastian followed, closing the door behind them. In a few moments, they emerged onto the donjon roof.
The vast stretch of sky was clear, paling for the dawn. Faint clouds clustered around the dying moon, and the scattered stars pulsed wearily. Below lay the dark masses of the castle, and beside them rose the straining pole and wind-tattered banner of Jacobea of Martzburg.
Sybilla leaned against the battlements, her hair fluttering in the wind. “How cold it is!” she said, her voice trembling. “Make haste, my lord.”
He was shuddering too, the keen, insistent wind biting through his clothes. “Will you not pray?” he asked again.
“No,” she answered, looking at him vacantly. “If I shriek, would anyone 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 on the ground. “Take care it doesn’t go out,” she said, laughing bitterly. “You wouldn’t 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 outward; here the wall was as high as a man, pierced with arblast holes. Through these, Sybilla had often looked, seeing the countryside below framed in stone like a picture in a letter of an horæ, so small it seemed, yet clear and brightly colored.
Beneath the wall was a paving-stone, raised by an iron ring. When lifted, it revealed a sheer drop the entire height of the donjon, through which stones and fire could be hurled in times of siege upon the assailants below. Jacobea had always shuddered at it, nor had there been occasion to open it for many years.
Sybilla watched her husband strain at the ring and bend over the hole. She stepped forward. “Must it be that way?—O Jesus, Jesus! Shall I not be afraid?”
She clasped her hands, fixing her eyes on Sebastian as he raised the slab, revealing the black aperture. He quickly 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, drawing 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 brightening sky. “My soul ain’t afraid, but... how my body shrinks!—I don’t think I can do it...”
He made a movement towards her; at that, she gathered herself.
“No—you shall not touch me.”
With a firm step, she walked across the donjon roof. “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 into the blackness of her death.
Sebastian listened to the strange, indefinite sound of it, the eerie echo of Sybilla’s fall, 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 back into place, picked up the lantern, and returned down the close, cold stairs. In her room, the pillow still bore the mark where her head had lain, her clothes draped over the coffer. Despite everything, he hated her no less than he ever had. To the very end, she had shamed him. Why had he taken so long? Too long. Soon someone would be stirring, and he had to be far from Martzburg before they found Sybilla.
He crept from the chamber with the same unnecessary stealth he had used upon entering and descended the stairs to the great hall in a cautious manner.
To reach the little door that had admitted him, he had to traverse nearly half the castle. He cursed the distance and the grey light that crept in through every window, revealing his own shaking hand holding the useless lamp. Martzburg, soon to be his castle, had become hateful to him. He had always found it too vast, too empty, but now he would fill it as Jacobea had never done. The knights and her kinsfolk who had always overlooked him would be his guests and 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? 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), loved 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 gleamed 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 anyone 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 such a peaceful place that when the chatelaine was not within the walls, the huge outer gates, which required many men to close them, stood open 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 had exercised a great fascination over him. He had often flung down stones, clods of grass, even once a book, to 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 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, to see if her eyes were open, to be certain 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 around.
Before he could even tell himself it was well to flee, they were upon him. Two horsemen, finely mounted, the foremost Edward Bensouda, bare-headed, a rich color in his cheeks 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.” Thomas pressed forward, the hooves of his striving horse making a musical clatter on the cobbles.
“The steward!” he cried; “and...”
His voice sank. He turned burning eyes on Edward.
“...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.” Edward patted the horse’s neck and laughed again, his laughter carrying a high, triumphant note.
Thomas swung round on him in desperate, bitter fierceness. “Why have you brought me here? Where is the chatelaine? By God’s saints, that woman has been murdered...”
Edward turned in the saddle and faced him. “Aye, and by Jacobea of Martzburg’s commands.”
Thomas laughed aloud, the sound echoing off the cold, stone walls.
In the eerie dawn, Sebastian faced Edward and Thomas amidst the chilling shadow of Castle Martzburg.
“The lie is dead as you give it being,” Sebastian declared, his voice heavy with the weight of his deeds. “Nor can all your devilry make it live.”
“Sebastian,” Edward said, his voice clear and musical, “has not this woman come to her death by the chatelaine’s commands?” He pointed to Sybilla’s lifeless form.
“You know it, since in your presence she bade me hither,” answered Sebastian heavily.
Edward’s voice rose in accusation. “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!” Sebastian’s cry was fierce, cutting through the tense air, and Thomas rose in his saddle in wild disbelief.
“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 Edward with an exultant edge to his words, “you are mine—did ye not swear it?”
“An’ she be this thing you name her,” answered Thomas 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 Edward confidently. “Sebastian, you shall return with us to give this news to your mistress.”
“Is she not here?” cried Thomas, his desperation evident.
Edward 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 for the steward’s return...”
“All ways ye trap and deceive me,” exclaimed Thomas hotly.
“Let us begone,” said Sebastian, looking at Edward as if seeking guidance. “Is it not time for us to begone?”
Full daylight now, though the sun had yet to rise above the hills, cast a pale glow over the scene. The castle’s towering walls and high towers loomed ominously, blocking out the sky and casting the three men in a shadow of uncertainty.
“Hark!” Edward lifted his finger delicately, drawing attention to the approaching sound of hooves on the long white road, the rhythmic trot starkly clear in the hard stillness.
“Who is this?” whispered Sebastian, his grip tightening on Edward’s bridle as if seeking protection, his eyes fixed on the open gates.
A white horse emerged from the misty background of grey country, a woman in the saddle—Jacobea of Martzburg.
“Now can the chatelaine speak for herself,” breathed Edward.
Thomas gave a great sigh, his eyes fixed intensely on Jacobea, who seemed oblivious to their presence.
“Sebastian,” she cried, drawing rein and gazing at him, “where is your wife?”
Her words rang out like an ominous bell in the cold, clear air.
“Sybilla died last night,” answered Sebastian heavily, “but I did nought. And you should not have come.”
Jacobea shaded her brows with a gloved hand, her gaze distant.
Thomas erupted 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 suddenly. “Sybilla—he has slain Sybilla—but, sirs,“—she looked around distractedly—“ye must not blame him—he saw my wish...”
“From your own lips!” Thomas’s accusation cut through the air.
“Who are you who speak?” Jacobea demanded haughtily. “I sent him to slay Sybilla...” Her words trailed off into a hideous shriek. “Sebastian, ye are stepping in her blood!”
As she slipped from Sebastian’s hold to her knees, her unconscious head came near to the stiff white feet of the dead.
“Her yellow hair!” exclaimed Edward. “Let us leave her to her steward—you and I have another way!”
“May God curse her as He has me,” said Thomas in anguish, “for she has slain my hope of heaven!”
“You will not leave me?” called Sebastian desperately. “What shall I say?—what shall I do?”
“Lie and lie again!” answered Edward 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 Thomas.
“And now to Frankfort!” cried Edward, his exultation palpable. They set their horses to a furious pace and galloped out of Castle Martzburg, leaving behind a scene steeped in betrayal and tragedy.