CHAPTER VIIIMARGARET OF PARMA
The Governess of the Netherlands, Margaret, daughter of the late Emperor and wife of Ottavio Farnese, Duke of Parma, sat in her chair of state in the small chamber leading to the council room, and before her were the three Netherland nobles who were the avowed enemies of Granvelle, and who had complained so long and haughtily that they were no longer consulted and that the Regent took advice solely from the Cardinal and his creatures, Barlaymont, President of the Council of Finance, and Viglius, President of the Privy Council.
Margaret favoured the Cardinal; he had an immense influence over her, and she knew him to be as deep in her brother Philip's counsels as his father had been for thirty years in those of the Emperor; but the situation in the Netherlands was increasingly difficult, and she dared not alienate men of such importance as the three that were before her now—the brilliant Egmont, victor of Gravelines and St. Quentin; Hoorne, Admiral of Flanders; and Orange, the most powerful of the Princes and Stadtholders in the States.
She sat now erect and a little drawn back against the burnished leather of her seat, rather in the attitude of one at bay. Her presence was majestic and graceful, with something of the commanding fascination which had made her father so popular; but the Flemish blood of her commoner mother told too—she lacked refinement and softness; her features were bold and haughty, her brow heavy,her upper lip shaded with dark hair; her hands were large and strong, and seemed ill-adapted for the embroidery they now held; indeed, her most notable accomplishment was horsemanship, as it had been that of her aunt, the former Regent, Mary of Hungary.
Her attire of gold brocade and black velvet, stiff cap and flowing veil of black tissue folded over her shoulders, was more rich than tasteful; she wore no jewellery nor adornments, for she affected a masculine strength of character and disdain of detail.
Her needle went in and out of the embroidery; but the work was largely a pretence, and the flower she was making was stitched false, for her full brown eyes were continually glancing from one to the other of the three before her. Count Hoorne was speaking; in words slow but full of intense feeling he was putting before her the nobles' case against the Cardinal.
The Admiral stood by the pointed window on which gleamed the arms of Brabant in the leaded glass—a grave and gloomy figure, dark and careless in attire, with a haughty and rather sad face, brooding eyes, a discontented brow, and black fan-shaped beard.
Standing behind him, leaning against a side table covered with a small cloth of Persia, was Lamoral Egmont, the famous soldier, the popular grandee, Knight of the Golden Fleece, Stadtholder of Brabant and Artois.
Half his exceptional popularity he owed to his unusual good looks, his beautiful head with the brown curls carried so splendidly, his soldier's figure tall and strong, his noble port, the brilliancy of his attire. His silk and brocades, jewels and gold, showed the more gorgeous now in contrast with Hoorne.
Leaning against the wall near him was the Prince of Orange; he had a quiet air, and his head was bent forward on his ruff. He was not so magnificent as Egmont, though his appointments were very splendid.
And always Margaret's eyes were flashing up covertlyfrom her sewing and measuring the sombre proud speaker, the gorgeous grandee behind him, and that third figure with the bent head.
Hoorne finished at length, bowed to the Regent, and looked at his colleagues.
"You bring very vague accusations, princely count," said Margaret. Her voice was heavy and she spoke haltingly, for she was at ease with no language save Italian. "It would seem that there is nothing against the Cardinal but private spites and malices."
"There is against him," replied Lamoral Egmont, "that he usurps our place in the Council, as we have endeavoured to show Your Royal Grace."
The embroidery trembled in Margaret's fingers. "You blame him for much that he has not done," she said "as, the bishoprics."
"Do you tell us," cried Hoorne impetuously, "that the Cardinal did not urge these bishoprics at Rome?"
"Nay," replied the Duchess. "They were intended in the Emperor's time—before I, or the Cardinal, came to the Netherlands."
"At least he enforces them and enjoys the finest," persisted Hoorne, unconvinced.
Margaret lifted her bold eyes; they were angry eyes now.
"He enforces them," she said, "because it is His Majesty's wish, and the Cardinal is loyal—I would all were as he! And why are these bishoprics so odious? Methinks they should be comforting to good Catholics"—she darted a sharp glance at the Prince of Orange—"since they are designed to strengthen the ancient faith and rout out heresy."
"They are designed to support and spread the Inquisition," replied Hoorne bluntly, "and that is a thing odious to these States."
"The Spanish Inquisition shall not be introduced," answered Margaret. "That has been promised."
"There is no need to introduce it," said the Admiraldryly. "The Inquisition of the Netherlands is more severe."
"The people will not take it, indeed they will not," said the Stadtholder of Brabant earnestly. "As witness the disturbances, riots, and revolts at Titelmann's executions."
"We are not talking of the people," replied the Regent, with bitter vexation, "nor of their grievances, but of the great lords who foster all this sedition, and seem to have a marvellous sympathy for heretics."
"We have a marvellous respect for the charters and privileges of the States which are in our keeping," said the Prince of Orange, "and which the Inquisition utterly defies and overrules."
Tears of vexation sprang into Margaret's eyes; more than either of the other two was this Prince vexatious to her.
"Ah, Prince," she said, "we know your dispositions. You hide yourself behind the States, behind charters and privileges; but, as my brother said in the matter of the Spanish troops, it is not the States, but you—and I perceive it, never believe but that I perceive it."
William very slightly smiled.
"I have never failed in duty to the King," he replied, "nor loyalty to the Church. And in protesting against the Cardinal and his measures, I do believe, Madame, that I serve the best interests of both."
"It is well," said Margaret bitterly, "for you to speak of loyalty to the Church when your palace shelters heretics and you have a Lutheran wife."
"I had His Majesty's consent to my marriage," said William quietly.
"A reluctant one," returned the Regent, "and His Majesty is still not pleased that you should choose the daughter of the Elector Maurice—but that is past," she added sharply, then, with a thrust at the daughter of the man who had humiliated her father, "though we think the match still imprudent, and marvel at it more than formerly."
William received this reference to his wife with courteous indifference, and Margaret continued with raised voice, the deep colour mounting to her hard face and the embroidery lying forgotten on her lap.
"Methinks it would be more dutiful and fitting if you offered to help me with your advices and influences instead of filling my ears with complaints of the only man who is useful to me."
Lamoral Egmont drew his magnificent person erect.
"We have no opportunity of aiding Your Grace," he said, "since we have been excluded so long from your Councils."
Margaret trembled with anger.
"What do you want of me?" she asked, driven to desperation.
That was too complex a matter for either the Prince of Orange or Count Hoorne to commit themselves to, but Lamoral Egmont, who was neither cautious nor wise, answered instantly—
"The withdrawal of Cardinal Granvelle from the Netherlands."
The Duchess rose in her agitation, sweeping her needlework to the ground.
"Ho, you ask no little thing of me!" she cried in her indignation. "How think you the King would take that request?"
"Let Your Grace make it," replied the Stadtholder of Brabant, with a touch of insolence. "And, while we wait an answer from Madrid, let Your Grace counsel the Cardinal to comport himself with less overbearing arrogance."
"Arrogance!" flashed Margaret. "What of the Count Brederode, who nightly, when in drink, sports Cardinal's attire at some public mask, and mocks and flouts His Eminence with huge indecency? What of the pasquils that reach my very closet and are thrust under the Cardinal's pillow? What of these vile rhetoric plays which no punishment can stop and which jeer at all holy things?"
"We know none of any of this," declared Hoorne, with rising anger.
"Henry Brederode is not my charge," said Egmont, "nor do I control his frolics."
Margaret stopped short before him.
"What of the fox-tails in your own cap?" she asked. "You wear them openly in the street. Do you think that I do not know of these things?"
The Prince of Orange here interposed.
"If the bishoprics and the Inquisition, the ancient placards and edicts, are to be forced on the people, there is no chance of the States passing the new taxes."
These words instantly brought the Regent to the practical part of the matter, and affected her more than any of the proud speeches of Egmont and Hoorne. The finances of the Netherlands were in a miserable condition. Philip was always demanding money, being continually embarrassed himself, and Margaret feared for her prestige, if not for her position, if she could not supply it; and cordially as she agreed with her brother's proposal to exterminate all heresy in his dominions, and greatly as she admired Granvelle's plans to carry the Royal wishes into effect, she was shrewd enough to see that the Prince had pointed out a real difficulty, and one that she had lately been acutely conscious of.
At the same time, she disliked the Prince bitterly for calling her attention to this stumbling-block.
"Do you threaten disobedience—rebellion?" she asked.
"I threaten nothing," replied William, looking at her calmly. "I speak of what I know of the States. The Stadtholders will not enforce the Inquisition, the people will not submit to it. Rebellion? Who knows? The provinces have revolted before, Madame, against the House of Hapsburg."
Margaret was silent, her eyes narrowed with anger. Her sincere convictions were with the Cardinal. As an ardent Catholic, she loathed the heretics; as a grateful subject ofher brother, she wished to obey his wishes. She was loyal, industrious, and ambitious to render a good account of her charge. She believed the men before her, and those whom they represented, to be greedy, jealous self-seekers, and she despised them as mere worldly courtiers; but to the Prince of Orange's argument she was obliged to listen. She was shrewd enough to see that these men knew the Netherlanders as neither she, Philip, nor Granvelle did; and she respected the abilities of the Prince of Orange.
She stood eyeing them all; her hand on her hip, her head well up.
"We cannot obey His Majesty in both things," continued William. "We cannot enforce the edicts and raise the revenues."
Margaret knew this to be so true that she controlled her choler, though her eyes were bright with anger.
"The placards will not be enforced," she replied. "His Majesty waits the decision of the Council of Trent—if that allow a certain latitude to heretics, His Majesty will obey."
"If not?" asked William.
The Duchess flung out her hands with a gesture of annoyance and desperation.
"How do I know what the King will do? I am here to execute his orders. I can but ask that the Inquisitors deal gently until some decision is known."
The three grandees took this as a concession, almost a confession of defeat on the part of Margaret, as it indeed was; nothing but a deep sense of the difficulties and perils of her position could have wrung such words from her.
"And Your Grace will advise moderation to the Cardinal?" asked William, taking up his hat.
"Do that errand yourself, noble Prince, since you are responsible," replied the Regent keenly.
William unexpectedly laughed, and turned his charming face with a gay look of amusement towards the angry lady.
"Truly I will," he said. "His Eminence and I used toknow each other well, and I cannot think that old friendship worn so thin that he would refuse me an hour's hospitality at La Fontaine."
Margaret saw that she had been betrayed into an imprudence.
"Do what you will," she said, "but on your own authority."
"Your Grace is vexed," remarked Hoorne, "but we have done nothing but our plain duty."
"God grant Your Grace may come to see it so," added the courteous Egmont.
"And may He set great prudence and clemency in your heart, Madame," said the Prince, still smiling, "for we stand on the edge of chance, and may easily mis-tread."
Margaret dismissed them as haughtily as she dared, and as soon as they had gone sat down to write an agitated letter to Philip, full of the obstinacy of the Netherlands, the insolence of the grandees, the impossibility of obtaining money, and the virtues of the much-abused Cardinal.
The three grandees mounted and rode along the city heights where their homes lay among pleasant parks and beautiful gardens; as they ascended the steep, winding streets they could look back at the town lying in the hollow, ornate and gorgeous, proud and serene beneath them.
The twin towers of Saint Gudule rose majestically from above the clustered house roofs, below them soared the immense spire of the Town Hall, and in the blue cloudiness and golden light of the late summer afternoon dozens of gilt weathercocks swung in the gentle breeze and glittered in the sun, and in and out of the crevices of the gables flashed the white wings of innumerable pigeons.
The Prince of Orange glanced often at this prospect of the fair town; but Lamoral Egmont's eyes were for the bending knee and lowered head of passers-by, the curtsies of women spinning at the doors, the bright eyes of maidens peeping with admiration from behind the chequered casementblinds; and the Admiral's gaze was straight before him, as if he saw nothing.
"Think you the Regent meant what she said?" he asked at length.
"I think she was frightened," said the Stadtholder of Brabant.
"She is not a clever woman," remarked the Prince of Orange. He turned his head stiffly in the great ruff and smiled at Hoorne. "I think she will render an ill account of her charge. She grows more confused every day."
"Why did His Majesty send a woman at all?" complained Hoorne fiercely.
"Because he wanted one not too strong," replied William. "It were wise to endeavour to restrain Brederode," he added. "His jests against the Cardinal are very daring, and may involve us all."
"Who is to argue with Brederode?" asked Egmont. "He and De la Marck are beyond all reason; and if their jests vex Granvelle, I am not the man to stop them."
"Granvelle smiles at jests; there are better ways to discomfit him than the drunken frolics of Brederode," returned William.
The conversation ceased, for they had entered a narrow street where their voices could easily be heard. Their talk turned on falconry.
"I wish I could get away for a while," said William. "The Elector gave me the prettiest hunting dog, as white as snow, and I would very willingly try him in the campaign. If I am to be ruined by the falconers, I would use them!" he laughed.
"Herr Jesus! how they cost!" sighed Lamoral Egmont, who was even deeper in debt than the Prince. "Never were the ducats so hard to come by, never were they so much needed."
"Granvelle has the ducats," broke out Hoorne, regardless of prudence. "The abbeys, benefices, and plunder that have come his way would set us all at ease."
And the Admiral's swarthy face darkened with wrath and jealousy; indeed, Granvelle's persistent greed, and the lavish manner in which Philip satisfied it, was the chief reason of the hatred in which the nobles held the Cardinal, as his supposed patronage of the bishoprics and the Inquisition was the chief reason for the hatred of the people.
William lifted his brows and smiled meaningly; Lamoral Egmont shrugged his shoulders as if he could not bear to consider the subject.
And so they went their way slowly, their equipments shining in the sun. The children ran to the doors to look after them, and the women whispered, "There go the two Stadtholders and the Admiral! Look what splendid princes they are!"
CHAPTER IXCARDINAL GRANVELLE
Anthony Perrenot, Archbishop of Mechlin, Cardinal Granvelle, chief adviser to the Regent and the chief reliance of Philip in the Netherlands, as he was the chief object of the detestation of the Netherlanders, grandees and people alike, spent most of his time in his beautiful country house outside the gates of Brussels, surrounded by all that elegant luxury and worldly extravagance which particularly aroused the wrath of his enemies.
His position with the King his master was as secure as any man's could be with Philip, and he flattered himself that he had an influence not easily shaken over the mind of the Regent, who was by no means the strong and masculine character she appeared, but one easily influenced, as Philip well knew when he sent her to the Netherlands with Granvelle to stand behind her chair and pull the strings of government over her shoulder; he had also some supporters among the nobles, notably the Duke of Aerschot, Barlaymont, and Viglius.
For the rest, he stood alone in an atmosphere of hatred, contempt, and insult, even perhaps peril, for he believed that he was in constant danger of assassination. But the Burgundian priest preserved his serene calm, for he was absolutely fearless, sincerely loyal to his master and his Church, and intensely ambitious; and courage, loyalty, and ambition combined to hold him steadfastly in the place to which all three had called him and now kept him.
On this day of the hot waning autumn he finished his usual voluminous dispatch to Philip with particular pleasure, for he had been able to give his master definite news of the misdeeds of his enemies, against whom he had been cunningly and gently insinuating complaints for some while past.
That morning Barlaymont had come to him with the information that he had been approached to join a league of the grandees, the sole object of which was to force the recall or retirement of the Cardinal. Barlaymont had not only refused to join, but had instantly disclosed all he knew to Granvelle, who thus had been enabled to inform his master that the chiefs of this league were Orange, Hoorne, and Egmont, and that all the nobles had joined them with the exception of Aerschot, Aremberg, and Meghem.
Barlaymont's information had not come as a surprise to Granvelle; he knew perfectly well that the grandees were working by intrigue and open opposition for his downfall, but he was glad that they had committed themselves by this league, and pleased that Barlaymont had proved so faithful a tool.
He added to his letter a complaint of the way in which the Marquis of Berghen, Stadtholder of Hainault, Valenciennes, and Cambray, and Hoorne's brother, Baron of Montigny, Stadtholder of Tournay, refused to carry out the decrees of the Inquisition in their several provinces. He advised His Majesty to add these two names Berghen and Montigny to those of Orange, Egmont, and Hoorne as dangerous men.
He also added that Viglius, though his loyalty was unquestioned, was becoming frightened at the storm raised in the Netherlands by the Inquisition and the rumour that the late Emperor's edicts against heretics were to be enforced, and was counselling moderation.
The Minister then sealed up his letter and went out into his exquisite gardens, where, in consequence of the continuedgreat heat, his dinner was laid on a marble table of beautiful Greek workmanship which stood beneath a chestnut tree now covered with tawny and golden foliage. To-day the Cardinal took his midday meal alone; the great nobles had long since ceased to accept his hospitality, and he was not always in the mood to entertain those of the lesser sort who still cared to come.
His keen, intelligent mind, highly accomplished and learned, did not disdain its own company; he found the cultured man's pleasure in a luxurious solitude.
Seating himself in the gilt chair, softly cushioned in red, set for him, he glanced with pleasure at the cool white table flecked with sunshine and the shadows of the great chestnut leaves, at the crystal bottles of amber and ruby-coloured wine, at the curious twisted glasses stained with opal hues like a foam bubble, the gold service with jade handles, the plates and dishes of porcelain as fine and glossy as an egg-shell, the napkin of Brussels lace rich with a design of lilies, the honey-coloured loaves lying in their snowy linen, the fruit reposing on ice in the delicate silver basket. The Cardinal was never wearied in his refined enjoyment of the elegancies of life.
As he sat over his luxurious repast admiring the mellow light of the garden and the way his Grecian fauns and dancers showed their marble limbs among the exotic shrubs of laurel, myrtle, citron, and bay, his secretary came across the grass with a paper in his hand.
"Another pasquil?" smiled the Cardinal.
"A fellow passing, Eminence," replied the priest, "found this thrust into the bars of the gate."
"Give him a piece of money," returned the Cardinal carelessly, "and pray that the hand that put it there be not the same as took it down."
"Shall I leave it?" asked the secretary. "It is, as usual, very foolish."
"Leave it," replied his master. "You know I make a collection of them."
The priest's dark figure returned through the sunshine, and Granvelle sipped his wine, bright as a diluted jewel in the opal clouded glass, while his serene eyes rested on the sheet of coarse paper roughly printed with picture and verses in smeared black.
Presently he set down the wine and took up the paper delicately in his fine, capable fingers. It contained a hideous caricature of himself in the likeness of a hen seated on a nest of eggs, each of which was labelled with the name of one of the new dioceses; the shells of several were already broken, and newly fledged bishops were hopping out of them.
Granvelle was well used to such jests; the Netherlanders were famous for their pasquils, their pamphlets, their medals, and their rhetoric plays, and Granvelle had been the butt of all in turn; not even the terrors of the dreaded Inquisition itself could restrain the sharp and lively wits of the people from ridiculing their enemy.
Often enough they hit him on the raw, sometimes too they went wide of the mark, as in the coarse pasquil he held now; for, despite the general opinion to the contrary, the Cardinal was not responsible for the creation of the new bishoprics. He remained leaning back on his silk cushions gazing musingly at the caricature; the sense of some one approaching caused him to look up. Even his perfect control could scarcely repress a start; the Prince of Orange was coming across the grass. William made his salutation with smiling apology for his intrusion. The Cardinal dismissed the half-doubtful secretary, who was behind the Prince, and motioned his guest to the seat opposite his own.
"I come without permission," said William, smiling, "but I felt a great desire for a little speech with Your Eminence."
Granvelle's sumptuously liveried attendants were bringing the Prince cushions, a footstool, and setting before him wine, cakes, and fruit.
Granvelle, with a laugh, flicked the pasquil on to the marble table.
"The people become extraordinarily daring," he remarked, accepting the Prince's presence as if it was the usual thing for him to behold his arch-enemy at his table. "There is a general defiance, a lawlessness abroad, very displeasing to the servants of His Majesty."
William leant back in his chair; he was still smiling; his graceful, youthful figure, his small handsome head, his rich attire of black velvet with rose-coloured points—all gave him the appearance of the useless grandee many believed him to be. But Granvelle was not so deceived; he knew that the young cavalier smiling at him was as astute, as experienced, as able, as wise, as prudent as himself, and that he was the most dangerous of the many dangerous men in the Netherlands.
"There is much abroad displeasing to the servants of His Majesty," he answered. "I think there are perilous times ahead."
"If the grandees persist in what is near disloyalty, yes," admitted Granvelle, and he too smiled.
"Disloyalty?" said William lightly, and raising his fine brows. "It is a matter of terms. Our remonstrances have been given to the Regent out of regard to our loyalty."
"I know something of your regards, Highness," replied the Cardinal, thinking of the information he had received that morning.
William instantly took his meaning.
"Had we not wished Your Eminence to know of our proceedings, we should scarcely have disclosed them to Baron Barlaymont."
The Cardinal's fine face hardened; he set down the peach he was handling, and took his chin in his fingers. In the young grandee's manner was a hint of that insolence the Burgundian priest had had to endure from the lesser nobles like Brederode and De la Marck—the insolence ofthe great towards the upstart who had been born a commoner.
"Your Eminence," continued William delicately, "would be wise to retire from the Netherlands."
"You came to tell me that?" asked Granvelle, almost surprised into anger.
"The Netherlands will not endure the measures of Your Eminence."
"Then they are rebels against the King's authority," replied the Cardinal proudly, "for I do nothing of myself, but all as the instrument of Madrid; and now we are speaking with this boldness, I tell you,in the name of King Philip, to warn your friends Montigny and Berghen to be more obedient to the commands of the Inquisition in their provinces."
William looked at the Cardinal.
"The King promised not to introduce the Inquisition," he said.
"I am not the keeper of the King's conscience," replied the Cardinal adroitly, "but I can bear witness that His Majesty is introducing nothing—the Inquisition was in the Netherlands in the Emperor's time."
"But it was never enforced," replied the Prince, "and in many provinces unknown, so that there are whole villages, nay, townships, of those of the Reformed Faith."
"What is theReformed Faithor the Netherlands toyou?" asked Granvelle keenly—"you, a Provençal prince, a German count, a Spanish grandee, a Catholic?"
"As to that," replied the Prince lightly, "I am Stadtholder of some Netherland provinces, and one of the advisers to the Regent, therefore I think I do well to protest against measures which I foresee bringing ruin on His Majesty's dominions—and I do not believe in punishing people for their private faith."
"That sentiment would be a dangerous one were you a common man," returned the Cardinal.
"I know," smiled William, "and it is against such things that I protest."
"Tolerance for heretics is only to be expected from a Prince united so closely to them."
"Perhaps," said William indifferently; "but I was not talking of my tolerance, but of Your Eminence's policy."
"That is known, clear, and will not be altered," said Granvelle; he raised his glass and slowly sipped his wine.
William leant forward across the marble table set with the mingled luxuries of crystal and silver, and fixed his dark eyes on the churchman's serene face.
"Cardinal Granvelle," he said earnestly, "do you mean to force the Inquisition on the Netherlands?"
"I mean," answered Granvelle, with his habitual evasion, "to fulfil to the letter the commands of His Majesty."
"Whatever they may be?"
"Most certainly—yes."
"Even if the King enforces the Emperor's edicts against heresy?"
"He will not do so until he knows the findings of the Council of Trent."
"But if those are in favour of greater severity against the heretics, and the King endorses them," persisted the Prince, "will you be the instrument to obey His Majesty?"
"I think that Your Highness knows well enough that I shall be that instrument," replied the Cardinal haughtily.
William of Orange drew back; his expression changed to a look of decision that was almost hard, and this unusual sternness of his dark features so altered him that he seemed a different person. For a second Granvelle glimpsed the man behind the mask of the courtier.
"To do what you speak of doing," said William, "is to ruin the Netherlands. The civil officers will not obey, the population will not submit, you will break commerce and industry—you will provoke a revolution."
"I do not fear that," replied Granvelle; "the Stadtholders are not all like Berghen and Montigny——"
"Nor all like Barlaymont. Do you think such a man as he could do anything?" flashed William.
"I am not afraid," smiled the Cardinal, showing to the full that gentle contempt for his adversaries that they had always found so galling. "As for the grandees——"
"As for the grandees," interrupted the Prince steadily, "we are no longer boys or idle courtiers, as perhaps Your Eminence imagines us, but men, able to play a man's game."
Granvelle's smile deepened.
"I never underrated the abilities of Your Highness," he said, "but you perhaps overrate your own power; and for the people——"
"The people! It is they will decide the final issue. They are not slaves, Your Eminence, nor a conquered race, but His Majesty's subjects through inheritance; nor is he an absolute King here, as in Spain, but merely Count and Lord, and bound by oath to protect the people's charters as they to obey him. Look back a little—did not Maximilian do penance in the square of Bruges, and Mary go on her knees to her own councillors? These Netherlanders are easily pressed too far."
"Your Highness threatens revolt?"
"I threaten nothing. I prophesy."
The Cardinal tossed down his lace napkin.
"Even if there were a revolt," he said quietly, "it might be crushed."
"It might be supported," replied William.
"By the House of Nassau?" asked Granvelle.
William laughed in the priest's face.
"I am Catholic, and His Majesty's subject," he replied, "but there are certain neighbours who are neither who might easily be induced to foment discontent in the Netherlands."
"Notably the relatives of Your Highness's wife?" insinuated the Cardinal.
"Nay, they are peaceful in Saxony," said the Prince serenely. "I was thinking of the Elector Palatine."
Granvelle made a dignified movement with his hand as if he swept aside all the other's arguments.
"His Majesty is not to be frightened by either rebellious people, jealous nobles, nor the heretic Princes of Germany from proceeding in his duty to God and his subjects. Nay, I am so persuaded of the fervency of the King for the Holy Church that I believe he could sacrifice the Netherlands, and every soul within them, sooner than allow them to become the breeding-ground of heresy."
"And in this you would support him?" asked William gravely.
"With all my power," replied the Cardinal, "and at peril of my life."
"You are a poor politician then," said the Prince.
"I am a good churchman," returned Granvelle calmly, "and that is all I ever made pretence to be."
"So His Majesty, you think, would sooner ruin the Netherlands than suffer them to become heretical?" remarked the Prince.
"I do believe it, and in that resolve the Duke of Alva does support him—and myself."
William rose.
"Then we who have estates in this country must look to them, lest we be ruined too," he said, with a little smile.
"Your Highness will pursue one way, I another," replied the Cardinal, rising also.
"And both of us will be serving His Majesty," remarked William gravely.
The Cardinal gave him a sidelong look, but the Prince's face was impassive.
"That His Majesty must decide," was the priest's answer. Ever courteous, he now conducted his guest to the gate where his horse and squire waited.
They passed the famous statue inscribed "Durate," a woman with an empty wine-glass in one hand and a full glass of water in the other, by which the Cardinal sought to symbolize the resistance of his own calm fortitudeand temperance as opposed to the extravagance and worldliness of his enemies.
He called the Prince's attention to this figure.
"'Durate,' my motto," he remarked, with a meaning smile.
"A brave word," replied William. "I too have a high, aspiring motto." He looked straightly at the priest. "Ce sera Nassau, moi, je maintainerai." With that he mounted and rode back to Brussels, while Granvelle returned thoughtfully across his smooth lawns to his marble table under the chestnut tree. There, leaning back in the pleasant shade, he threw crumbs of bread to the peacocks that came strutting across the grass at his call.
CHAPTER XTHE RHETORIC PLAY
The months passed with terrible monotony for Rénèe le Meung and perhaps for all at the Court of Brussels; the long and bitter struggle between the grandees and the Cardinal filled the air with intrigue and dissension; the Regent began to hesitate in her allegiance to Granvelle, and hung miserably undecided between the two parties; Montigny had been sent to Madrid to remonstrate with Philip, but without avail; a second letter of protest was sent, equally fruitless; the Cardinal, serene as always, triumphed quietly over his enemies and continued to be the predominant influence in the Councils of Margaret; heretics continued to be seized and slaughtered wherever the civil authorities could be induced to support the Inquisitors, and the raging discontent of the people was repressed with a heavy hand.
In the sumptuous household of William of Orange life went with the old magnificence but not with the old joyousness; politically it was the rallying-point of the grandees, who had now refused to sit in the councils with the Cardinal, and met in William's gorgeous saloons to discuss their plans; it was also the headquarters of the Prince's brothers, sisters, and brothers-in-law. During the year after his marriage, too, his German relatives visited him there, causing great offence to the Cardinalists; but all these comings and goings, all these intrigues, meetings, entertainments, were clouded by two things:the growing embarrassment of the Prince's finances, and the element of bitter discord provided by Anne of Saxony.
Whatever the festivities or excitements might be, Rénèe saw none of them; she was for ever closeted with her mistress, who, now the Prince's quarrel with Granvelle made her appearance at Court impossible, sulked week after week in her rooms. She had taken a capricious liking to have Rénèe, and Rénèe only, with her; and the waiting-woman submitted to the slavery of her position with a curious dumb patience.
There was no distraction, no change, no interest in Anne's life. Her first child she had lost at birth, and this had further embittered her; her one time extravagant love for her husband, her pleasure in fine clothes and jewels, were completely dead; she never appeared but she created a disturbance with her temper; she refused to admit any of the court ladies into her intimacy, and so she remained closed within her rooms, a slattern, a shrew, a scold, and daily becoming worse; entirely indifferent to the great events taking place at her very gates, but keenly alive to any detail in which she might find excuse for complaint or fury.
Rénèe wondered why she stayed; the life was almost intolerable, and she had had two chances of escape since she came to Brussels: one of the Regent's secretaries had asked her in marriage, and the Countess of Egmont was willing to take her into her service.
But Rénèe had declined both, and remained in the great Nassau palace, tending her mistress with tireless devotion and eagerly watching what news she could of the movement of the events in which she perceived the Prince of Orange was the leader; she was like one waiting—but for what she did not know. It was in the winter after the grandees had dispatched their second letter to Philip, and when affairs seemed to be reaching a crisis in the Netherlands, that matters in the Nassau household reached a climax of discord.
Anne had taken a whim to have the Prince's children by his first marriage under her care, and had been fiercely angered by William's decision to place his little girl in the household of the Regent, and to keep the boy in Louvain. As a result of this Anne kept her room for nearly a week; but the day came when the Prince, entertaining his friends at one of his lavish dinners, demanded her presence as necessary.
It was, as usual, Rénèe's task, first to persuade her mistress to appear, and secondly to make her fit to take the head of the Prince's table, and, as the short afternoon began to fail, Rénèe went in search of her; she found Anne in her bedchamber hunched up against the white porcelain stove; she was eating sweets.
Rénèe, whose natural instincts were towards the beautiful, the refined, even the voluptuous, never came into her mistress's presence without a sense of absolute repulsion.
Anne, though still under twenty, was now as careless in her dress and person as any hag of ninety; increased ill-health had deadened her always dull complexion, her eyes were swollen beneath, her mouth loose and ragged; her colourless hair was gathered untidily in her neck, her twisted figure further bent.
To-day she wore a bedgown of stained dark blue velvet, trodden-over slippers, and a soiled linen cap; yet she cost the Prince more in clothes than ever the charming and elegant Anne of Egmont had done.
Though it was not yet dark, the windows were tightly closed and curtained, and candles flared and guttered untidily on the various tables. The Princess had sat all day in this artificial light, and the atmosphere of the chamber was thick and close. As Rénèe entered Anne looked up.
"You were out yesterday," she said, breaking the utter silence she had preserved for two days.
"Yes, Highness, it was my hour."
"Where did you go?"
"About the town, as always."
"I saw you in the Gardens with Count Louis," sneered Anne.
"I met him," replied Rénèe, unmoved. "We spoke together for, I think, two minutes."
"Why were you so late?"
"There was a rhetoric play, Highness, and I was hindered by the crowd."
"What is a rhetoric play?"
"A morality, Highness," replied Rénèe patiently, "that the poor oppressed heretics make to expose their wrongs and strike at their tyrants."
"Ah, plays that make a jest of monks and nuns and all those in authority!"
"It is a grave jest," said Rénèe. "They do it at peril of their lives."
"Are they not often apprehended?" asked Anne spitefully.
"Very often, Highness, and then they are strangled or burnt or tortured, or hacked to death with a rusty sword, as a poor schoolmaster was the other day for reading the Bible to his wife. And it was in her presence they slew him, and she died of it," added Rénèe quietly.
"And they still persist?"
"Ay, they still persist," repeated Rénèe.
"I wish you would keep away from them," said the Princess. "Do you want to involve me in this unruliness?"
Rénèe smiled.
"There is no fear of that," she replied; "and if they are bold enough to perform, I am bold enough to be of the audience, Highness."
"Do not come tome, if you are taken," said Anne.
"I shall come to no one. I am not afraid to die as the others do, when the time comes," replied Rénèe, laying out and making ready Anne's garments for the evening.
"What do you mean by 'when the time comes'?" demanded Anne.
Rénèe very faintly blushed.
"I mean that perhaps there may be some use for me—something for me to do." She changed the subject by adding: "And now it is time that Your Highness made ready for the supper."
"Why should I go at his bidding?" cried Anne stormily. "Why does he ask me to come? Merely to slight me before these others, these rebellious Netherlanders he gathers about him. God, what a life!" Her eyes sparkled wildly, she clasped her hands on her knees and rocked herself to and fro. "I had better have stayed in Saxony. I was better treated there, more taken notice of—here I am nothing in my own household! What does he care? He spends his time with other women, I will warrant."
"His Highness spends his time in affairs, Madame, and laborious business, and gives all his leisure to you," said Rénèe.
"Affairs, business!" sneered Anne. "What do you know of it? He will not attend Court because of this foolish quarrel with the Cardinal; and as for his own matters, if he attended to them he would not be in the confusion and debt he is, with mortgages and money from the Jews. Where does his fortune go?" she added, working herself up. "I was a well-dowered maiden, but what I brought him was like water thrown down a well. What have I seen of it? His idle brothers and his mincing sisters bleed him, I will swear."
Her glance fell on the dress Rénèe had put out, and her mood changed.
"Perhaps he is hoping that I shall not come down and that he can roister alone with his worthless friends, but I will disappoint him."
This idea seemed to give her pleasure, and she suffered two of her tire-women to array her in a gold and scarlet brocade she was fond of, a wide ruff of Mechlin lace, and a violet mantle with silver tissue. As she sat with an unusual patience under the hands of the little German girl who was crimping her hair with hot irons, she asked thereason of all the grey camlet liveries she had observed from her window.
"I note that many of the great lords' men wear them," she added.
"Oh, Madame," said the little maid, Katrine, glad that her mistress was so quiet, "it is because of a dinner given the other day by the Seigneur de Groblendonck, where the talk fell on the extravagance of the Cardinal, and the great splendour of his liveries; and it was agreed, to spite him, that the grandees' men should all wear a plain livery, grey camlet, as Your Highness saw it."
"A pack of fools!" said Anne. "And was there no protest?"
"They say the first device on the sleeve was changed from a Cardinal's hat to a bundle of arrows, at the Regent's request; and she would have stopped the liveries, but there were too many ordered and cut. It was the Count of Egmont who thought of the design."
"He is a big fool," said Anne shrewdly. "Does he think the King will ever forgive that? Who else was at this dinner?"
"The Seigneur Montigny and Seigneur Berghen and others, Highness."
"Silly child's jests!" cried the Princess. "Where did you hear all this?"
"Oh, Madame, one cannot stir without hearing it; the town is full of the talk of it. If Your Highness had not been indisposed," she added tactfully, "you too would have heard of this dinner and the liveries."
Anne turned to Rénèe.
"Why did you not tell me of this?" she demanded. "It is much more interesting than your rhetoric plays."
"The rhetoric play! I saw that!" cried little Katrine. "I was with Rénèe—it was so amusing. There was a fellow with chalk on his face made up like the Cardinal—and some one called out to arrest him; but the people only laughed, and when one of the town guard came up therewas the Seigneur Brederode standing by the stage with his sword half out and offering to spit anyone who touched the players. And the guard made off, buffeted by the crowd, who cheered my Lord Brederode finely——"
"You talk too much," said Anne crossly, "and you have done my hair ill."
She rose, fiercely pushing away the combs and brushes that cumbered her dressing-table, and limped to the door, a tragic enough figure in her ravaged and useless youth.
It was Rénèe's duty to attend her to the dining-room, for it pleased Anne to have a lady behind her chair as if she was an Empress, and many and many a weary hour had the waiting-woman spent observing the sulks, violences, and rudenesses of Anne, and the unfailing gentleness of the Prince—a gentleness which, however, was becoming rather stern of late.
To-night Anne received her guests with passable civility. The brilliant saloon, the splendid dresses, the music, the honour paid her, seemed to raise her spirits; but the effect was only temporary. Half-way through the meal she fell into sullenness; she clouted the ears of the page who brought her napkin, and then, because he spilt some drops of water on her gown, she screamed out for the music to cease, saying the sound of it was tearing her head in two; she abused the cooking, then sank into silence, emptying glass after glass of wine.
Rénèe had noticed that the Princess drank far too much of late; with the excuse of her headaches she always had wine in her apartments, and the quantity of this she consumed had considerably increased.
And to-night the Prince observed it for himself; for he moved his wife's glass away, and the steward, understanding, brought no more wine to Her Highness. Anne noticed this, and her eyes flamed with rage; she dragged nervously at the tablecloth and pulled at her mouth. Rénèe shuddered; she was somehow desperately desirous that Anne should not shame the Prince.
But the waiting-woman was powerless; she could only stand there silent, a mere unnoticed spectator. It was a brilliant company: Egmont was there with his wife, Hoorne, Mansfeld, Montigny, Berghen, Brederode, and other of the grandees and lesser nobles and their wives now all openly banded against the Cardinal.
Most of the talk turned on the famous new liveries, and Egmont described how he won the toss which was to decide the design, and how eagerly his livery had been accepted.
At this point Anne lifted her smouldering eyes and turned to her husband.
"Will our men appear in this beggarly camlet?" she asked, and her tone was a direct insult to Egmont and his fellows.
"Why not?" smiled William. "It will be an easy means of economy,ma mie."
"Economy!" repeated Anne scornfully. "That is a strange point on which to begin economy; and is it not rather late, too, now when your affairs stand almost past helping?"
"Her Highness speaks like a Cardinalist," smiled the Countess of Egmont, in the hope of distracting Anne from her temper. "Yet she must have little love for the persecutor of the Protestants."
Anne leant forward, put her arm on the table, and stared rudely at the Countess across the gold and silver, china and porcelain of her own luxurious table.
"I did not come to Brussels, Madame," she said, "to bicker with the Cardinal and flout His Majesty, nay, nor to live cooped away like a sick pigeon within four walls——"
"Anne!" said the Prince, turning in his chair. "Hush, Anne."
The Princess faced him with sudden frenzy.
"I may speak at my own table! I may say what I wish! Do you think that I am Griselda in the silly tale to suck my thumb patiently while you do what you please! By the living God, I would that I was back in Saxony! But little you care——"
"Anne!" cried William. "Oh, Anne!"
"'Anne, Anne,'" she mocked him. "How long is Anne to endure it?"
The Countess of Egmont rose in her place and beckoned to Rénèe.
"Her Highness is ill," she said quickly. "It is a shame to expose her."
The Prince caught at the words.
"Yes, you are ill—let them see you to your chamber."
"I am not ill!" cried Anne, with a look of hate at the Countess, "but heart-sick with the treatment I get."
She rose too, glittering in her brocades and dragging the cloth awry.
"So I am to be sent from my own table," her railing continued. She swayed on her feet and burst into hysteric tears; the Prince caught her arm; she turned and struck him feebly with her other hand.
Count Louis rose and clapped his hands, and the musicians began to play, while Rénèe and the Prince led Anne from the dining-hall.
As they reached her room the little German girl came running to meet them with a frightened face.
"What is the matter with her?" demanded William sternly, as the sobbing, protesting Princess collapsed, a shaken heap, on a chair.
"She is ill," said Rénèe. She could not bear to look at him, so pale he was, so suddenly grave and sad, all look of youth gone from him. Rénèe felt personally shamed.
"A strange illness," he replied. "I can but hope that she will improve as she becomes older."
He was turning away when Katrine broke out—
"Your Highness—it is the wine. To-night when I was arranging the room I found these,"—she pointed to a dismal row of empty flasks on a side table,—"and the steward told me he brought them to Madame—and pounds of sugar. It is the wine which makes Her Highness ill."
Rénèe shuddered at the girl's boldness in thus unveiling what the waiting-woman had concealed even from herself; but perhaps, she thought desperately, it was as well that the Prince should know.
"Is that it?" exclaimed the Prince; he flushed, and his voice was full of an extraordinary bitterness. He turned and looked at the intoxicated girl in her disarrayed splendour and her imbecile tears. Rénèe knew as well as if he spoke that he was thinking how dear he had paid for this wedding, which he had so long striven for, and so triumphantly achieved.
Anne struggled up, supporting herself on the arm of the chair.
"I wish you had left me in Saxony," she sobbed foolishly. "What life is this for me?"
"It is not over-sweet for me, Madame," replied the Prince. "But do not think that you can trouble me further. I now know your worth, and can dismiss you from my mind."
She was frightened, half-sobered, for never before had he spoken so coldly to her, and the finality of his tone struck even her dazed brain, and she dimly realized that she had lost him.
"This comes of all these miserable quarrels," she muttered confusedly—"your livery—your rhetoric play——"
"There is no need for a rhetoric play wherewith to mock me," interrupted William. "Your Highness plays a sorrier morality here than any mouthed in the streets."
He left her; he went back to his guests. Rénèe and Katrine, helped by another frightened woman, got the Princess to bed.
They then sat down, drearily enough, to their supper, and conversed in whispers of Egmont's livery, their mistress, the rhetoric play, and the things, big and small, which went to make their life.