CHAPTER XIIORANGE AND EGMONT
The Regent, more and more in a dilemma, refused to accept the Prince's resignation; indeed, shortly after he had offered it she implored him to again go to Antwerp, where Calvinists and Lutherans were embroiling the city.
William went, arriving after the disastrous engagement of Ostrawell, when a band of fiery Calvinists under Ste Aldegonde's brother, Jean de Marnix, had been utterly cut to pieces, their gallant young leader being the first to fall.
William had come in time to prevent an internecine war that would have devastated the city; at great peril to himself he had prevented the two Protestant sects from flying at each other's throats, and actually restored order in Antwerp and induced the crowd to say after him, "Vive le roi!"
But he knew that all he did was useless; when the English Envoy congratulated him on his splendid labours, he replied: "But it will not please the King; I know there is nothing of this that will please the King."
It did not even please the Regent; too many concessions had been made to the heretics, too much gentleness shown. She preferred the way Egmont had treated Valenciennes, which had been reduced to a complete and bloody silence; and the method of Noircames, of Meghem, of Aremberg, who, rejoicing at the approach of a profitable civil war, were desolating the country, crushing the heretic withan iron hand, and sweeping his property into their own pockets.
Yet Margaret still refused to accept the resignation that William tendered again and again; she still clung to his strength and authority, even while she denounced him in every letter she wrote to Philip.
Perhaps, too, she guessed that Philip had his vengeance ready for the Prince of Orange, and that he would be wroth with her if the illustrious victim was suffered to escape.
For Margaret was sincere in nothing but her desire to serve her brother, and true to nothing save to that brother and the Romish Church.
She tried all her arts to induce the Prince to remain in the King's service: she sent him a flattering letter, appealing to "his noble heart, his illustrious and loyal descent, his duty to King and country"; she invited him to Brussels, to a meeting of the Knights of the Golden Fleece; and when he declined both, she sent Berty, secretary of the State Council, to the Prince at Antwerp.
Berty's feeble and formal rhetoric had no effect whatever on the Prince, unless it caused him to glimpse more clearly than ever the trap that was being so carefully set.
He knew that Philip was not coming to the Netherlands, but that Alva was within a few days of starting for Brussels with the finest army in Europe at his back.
And while he listened to the specious Berty prating of loyalty and the King's goodness, he had in his pocket a letter from that sturdy old Landgrave Philip who had opposed his marriage with Anne, but who had since become his friend.
The Landgrave had been lured into a long captivity by the arts of Granvelle and Alva, as he now reminded William.
"Let them not smear your mouths with honey," he wrote. "If the three seigneurs, of whom the Duchess Margaret has so much to say, are invited to Court by Alva under pretext of friendly consultation, let them be waryand think twice ere they accept. I know the Duke of Alva and the Spaniards, and how they dealt with me."
The only concession Berty could obtain from the Prince was his consent to once more meet Egmont, Mansfeld, and Aerschot.
The interview was arranged to take place at a village outside Antwerp, named Willebroek; and William, with but a couple of grooms, rode out there one morning in early April.
It was a pleasure to him to ride across the fresh country, to feel the soft turf beneath his horse's feet, to see the mild blue sky overhead, and about him all the new greenery—on briar, hedge, and tree, where the birds fluttered among the leaves.
The lovely morning air on his face reminded him of grand days at the chase; it was long now since he had ridden out with hawk and hounds.
This part of the country was as yet unscathed by famine or bands of mercenaries; the grain was sprouting in the fields, the brown and white cows wandered in the pastures, the little farms were undisturbed amid the groves of budding poplar and willow trees, the peasants went to and fro about their work as if they had never heard of Ostrawell and Valenciennes and the coming of Alva.
The little village of Willebroek lay peaceful beneath the early sun; the white houses with green shutters, painted fronts, and tiled roofs, the limes in the market-place just clouded with green, the church with the lead spire, the canal with the arched wooden bridge, up which the flat barges were slowly making way against the stream, all combined to make an image of plenty, ease, and prosperity.
William drew rein before the inn, where he was to meet the other seigneurs. He felt light-hearted; he looked up into the blue air; he smiled at a group of children who were going by with their hands full of the pearly blossoms of hawthorn.
The inn was an old building with a red tiled roof, rising, step by step, into a point under which was an alcove where a white figure of the Madonna stood against a blue and gold glory.
The green shutters were all laid back to disclose the clean shining windows; the door stood open, showing a long dark brick passage, and through another open door at the end a glimpse of a sunny garden with pigeons.
This garden spread either side the house and was filled with young fruit trees, the dark pink bloom of the peach mingling with the warm white of plum and pear.
In the windows of the inn stood glazed pots of a shining green and yellow, filled with gilliflowers and striped pink; a girl in a blue dress was hanging out linen on a box hedge beyond the fruit trees.
William noticed all these things with a great keenness; everything he saw, everything he did or said now was memorable, for all belonged to a portion of his life that would so soon be over.
He entered the modest house, and the awed innkeeper showed him into the parlour.
It was a low, spacious, cool room, full of the fragrance and sounds of the garden and shaded by a little beech tree, the fresh clear green leaves of which swept the leaded panes of the window.
The floor was smooth brick, the walls dark and polished, the ceiling beamed; on shelves and on the large bureau stood silver tankards, coloured pottery, and painted glasses shaped like bells and flowers.
In the empty fireplace the brass andirons gleamed golden, in the centre of the large round wooden table stood four brass candlesticks, a snuffer and tray.
At this table sat Lamoral Egmont, his head resting on his hand.
The nobility of his figure, the extreme richness of his dress, the gallant handsomeness of his face, ill accorded with the clean, neat, and humble room.
He wore violet and silver and a mantle of a tawny orange colour that fell over the brick floor; his charming head was framed by a ruff of silver gauze; his weapons were many and elaborate; by him on the table lay his hat, a pistol, his gloves and whip.
On the other side of the table sat Count Mansfeld, an elderly man of no particular presence, handsomely attired in black and gold; while within the window embrasure was the insignificant figure of Secretary Berty.
The Prince gently closed the door and stood smiling at all three.
His slight figure, plainly habited in a brown riding suit, soft high boots, and a falling ruff; his small head, held erect without pride, and valiantly without arrogance; his dark face, with the regular features and laughing eyes—the whole man, so composed, so pleasant, so unfathomable, seemed to strangely impress the three who waited for him—to impress them almost with uneasiness.
Lamoral Egmont rose, filling the room with his magnificence.
"We meet strangely, Prince," he said.
William greeted all with even courtesy, then took his seat at the round table, placing his hands, half concealed by the linen ruffles, before him on the smooth surface as he had placed them in the council chamber at Brussels when the letters from Philip had been read enforcing the decrees of the Council of Trent.
Mansfeld had never been close in his friendship, and always a warm upholder of the Government; Berty was little other than Margaret's spy; it was to Egmont the Prince addressed himself.
"You have come to persuade me," he said gently. "Speak, Count, speak."
Egmont flushed; despite his loyalty and his now firm attachment to Spanish rule, he always felt uneasy in the presence of the man who had once so influenced him and who now was divided from him by an ever-widening gulf.
He repeated the arguments of Berty, endeavouring to enforce them by the weight of his own belief and his own friendship for the Prince.
He spoke verbosely, emphasizing his meaning with many illustrations and continually praising the King.
A bee buzzed in the window-pane the while, evading Berty's furtive fingers; it made as much impression on the Prince as did the words of Lamoral Egmont.
But he listened civilly, keeping his dark eyes steadily on the speaker's face; but when at last Egmont had finished, he threw back his head with a little laugh and spoke a few words that tossed all the Count's formal phrases back at him as useless.
"Oh, Egmont!" he cried. "I did not ride from Antwerp to be persuaded, but to persuade. What you have said can never move me. Would that what I say could move you!"
Egmont made no reply; he glanced at Berty, and slightly shrugged his shoulders.
But Mansfeld spoke.
"Then what are the intentions of Your Highness?" he asked, with some haughtiness.
"My intentions are well known," answered the Prince simply. "I have resigned all my offices. And I shall leave the Netherlands."
Egmont started.
"Leave the Netherlands!" he cried.
"Do you think," answered William, "that I will resign, make myself a rebel, and then wait the coming of the Duke of Alva?"
"Take the oaths," said Mansfeld, "and withdraw your resignations. We and the Regent alike entreat you to this."
William moved back in his chair and turned his head so as to face Mansfeld.
"Once and for ever, Count," he said, and from behind his pleasant calm there flashed the strength of an immovable purpose, "I declare I will not take an oath whichis against my honour, an oath that makes me a tool, an executioner. Is William of Orange"—his voice was suddenly angry—"to await the orders of the Duke of Alva? To be the servant of the Inquisition?"
Egmont flushed, thinking of Valenciennes and the many poor Christians he had slain there, and of the old days when he and Orange had been one in protesting against the Inquisition.
"You mock at loyalty," he said gloomily, "but you go to your ruin. If you leave the Netherlands, your property will be confiscated."
"If I stay, I shall lose more than my estates," replied William. "I will sooner encounter all that may happen from this my action than sacrifice my conscience by the taking of this oath. No more of it."
"Then we talk in vain," said Mansfeld sternly.
"On that subject, yes," answered the Prince. "But I would further speak to Count Egmont." He looked at his friend earnestly, and spoke with a certain passion. "Oh, Lamoral Egmont, give your loyalty to your native land and not to Spain. Come with me; I will follow you. I will be your faithful soldier—risk everything in a good cause rather than in a bad one. I was grieved the victor of St. Quentin and Gravelines should come to the massacring of poor artisans; but that may be redeemed. Strike for freedom, Count, not for tyranny."
"You speak treason," cried Egmont, with some heat. "I am loyal, and will keep that loyalty unstained."
"It shall not avail you," returned William, in a moved tone. "Do you think Philip has forgotten or Philip forgiven? Do you think Alva comes to caress you, bringing in his hands riches and honours? I tell you he comes to strike down all those who have offended Spain, and you are one of them."
"I have no fear," answered the Stadtholder of Flanders stoutly. "I do not dread to see the country in the hands of the Spaniards, nor to welcome the Duke of Alva."
"No one need fear who has a clear conscience," added Mansfeld.
"Seigneur," said the Prince impatiently, "you speak like a child. You are safe because you were one of Granvelle's partisans—Egmont was the Cardinal's enemy; Egmont has done many things well noted in Madrid. I tell you he is doomed—if he stays he is doomed as surely as any poor peasant who has looked impudently at an image."
"These are the words of a rebel!" exclaimed Mansfeld.
"For the true service of the King I am always ready," returned William, "but to Alva, Granvelle, and the Inquisition call me rebel if you will—for I do protest against them and their authority and all attempts to force the faith of these people, which attempts are in defiance of laws and privileges and wholly against God."
"Nay," said Egmont, "it is His cause, as any priest will tell you."
"I spoke of God, not of priests," answered the Prince.
"This is bold saying," remarked Mansfeld. "Has the insolent blasphemy of Calvin or Luther found so high a convert? Has the raving, vulgar fury of the field-preacher shaken the faith of the Prince of Orange?"
Mansfeld spoke with bitter irony and his face coloured with indignation.
William smiled.
"Ah, I am studying theology!" he said. "I may find comfort from Geneva as easily as from Rome when I have finished my learning."
He looked straightly at Mansfeld.
"I was bred a heretic," he added.
Mansfeld rose.
"Enough," he said. "I see this conference is useless."
William rose also; he went to Egmont and laid his hands affectionately on the Count's shoulders.
"I do not take this action thoughtlessly nor suddenly," he said, "but after deep reflection and long weighing ofevents; I know I lower my fortunes and jeopardize my estates—yet I do the wiser thing. I beseech you by our ancient friendship, by our common charge, for the sake of those dear to you, to follow my example. I entreat you not to wait the coming of Alva."
But Lamoral Egmont was not to be moved. His lodestar was Spain; and now he had Mansfeld watching him and Berty noting down every word he said, his reply was curt, almost wrathful.
"I have an easy conscience; and if I have committed some faults I rely on the clemency of the King—I lean on His Majesty."
"Alas!" said William, "you lean on what will destroy you. You boast yourself secure in the King's clemency, and so lull yourself with a security which does not exist. Would that I might be deceived, but I foresee only too clearly that you are to be the bridge which the Spaniards will destroy as soon as they have passed over it to invade our country."
With that he ended, somewhat abruptly, as if he indeed saw that it was useless to try and open Egmont's eyes to his danger, and turning away picked up his mantle and hat as if to end a hopeless argument.
"You will be the ruined man, not I," remarked Egmont in some agitation; "it is you who throw everything away for a shadow!"
William moved towards the door.
"Will you not dine with us?" asked Mansfeld formally.
"Nay," replied the Prince. "I am pressed to return to Antwerp."
With Egmont he would have gladly stayed, but he had no mind to eat and drink with Mansfeld and Berty.
He took his farewells. Egmont looked at him a little wistfully; mutual affection had gone deep into the hearts of each.
The Count had moved to the door, and as William passed he advanced a step.
The Prince turned and suddenly embraced him, clasping him for a second to his heart; then with tears in his eyes he left the room.
There were tears too on Egmont's cheek.
"He looked at me as if he thought never to see me again!" he said.
"A landless, exiled, powerless man," remarked Mansfeld. "How low is the great Prince of Orange fallen!"
A little maid entered the room to prepare the dinner; she looked with wonder and reverence at the three gentlemen, who had none of them revealed their identity.
"Oh, seigneurs!" she said, "who is the young cavalier who has just ridden away? He never saluted the Virgin above the door, and in these days——!"
Mansfeld glanced at Egmont.
"You may call him, my child, many names, for he had many honours; now you had best call him—the Heretic," he said dryly.
CHAPTER XIIITHE COMING OF ALVA
Rénèe le Meung moved about the fine apartments of the Princess in Breda Castle, sorting clothes, arranging bags and boxes, and packing the long coffers that were to be carried into the courtyard and there loaded on the baggage mules.
Alva was coming; he had already sailed from Carthagena.
And William of Orange and his household were leaving the Netherlands for Germany, there to take up residence with his mother and Count John in the castle of Dillenburg.
As Rénèe moved about her task, she vividly recalled how she had left Germany, that hot, weary day of the feast in Leipsic, when she had moved about among Anne's things as she was moving now, folding away the bridal dresses, locking away the bridal trinkets with the sound of the joy bells in her ears and the flare of the joy fires reflected in the window-panes.
She recalled how she had crept into the gallery overlooking the great hall and had seen the Prince and Princess seated side by side on the gold couch, receiving the homage of the maskers, and all her own fatigue and distaste, the close perfumed air of the Town Hall, and the rich scents of the feast.
She had been reluctant to leave Germany, which had been a peaceful refuge, and to return to her own country, which for her was dark with horrible memories; and now she was not sorry that this Brussels life had ended—a life of magnificence, which she had only glimpsed frombehind the windows of Anne's apartments; a life of great affairs and tremendous events, which she had only heard of from the mouths of pages and servants; a life of continued service, of self-denial, of submission to caprice and tyranny.
Now it was over, and she would go to Dillenburg, where every one was Protestant, and be near the Prince's mother and sisters, who perhaps would be kind to her and notice what she was doing for Anne.
Her starved heart was greedy for kindness and praise.
She was glad, too, that Anne was leaving the Netherlands without having again seen Jan Rubens or Duprès; she felt the Princess would be safe in Dillenburg.
Yet Rénèe was sad; she could not be happy leaving behind her a country so broken, so oppressed, so desolate.
She heard men mention Alva with awe and terror; she saw that the Prince was departing before he came; and she feared even worse things for the Netherlands than their present great calamities.
But her piety had strengthened; her body, denied and rendered subject to her soul, grew weaker, and the soul within became stronger, and so nearer God.
She trusted in Him not to forsake His people, and she believed in William of Orange as His Captain.
The gorgeous young Papist cavalier whom she had looked on for the first time at Leipsic on his wedding day, whom she had thought frivolous and worldly, was now become the man on whom centred all her hopes for her country and her faith.
Other and reckless men had taken up the people's cause and won the people's heart—men like Brederode, Count Louis, Ste Aldegonde, and De Hammes; but though these were the names shouted in the market-place, Rénèe had given no heed to them at all.
It was to the Prince, who was, nominally at least, still a Papist, who had acted until the very last in fulfilment of his duty to the King, who had checked the fervour of the Reformers and was even hated by the Calvinists for hisbehaviour after the engagement at Ostrawell—it was to him that Rénèe confidently looked to save the Netherlands.
And that confidence, strengthened by her woman's devotion to a person beloved, supported her in this second flight from her native country.
She was so lost in thought as she went about her task that it was with a little start that she became aware of the presence of another in the chamber.
Anne was standing in the door of the inner room.
She leant against the wooden lintel and stared at Rénèe. The white linen round her head and shoulders made her face look yellow and faded as that of an old woman; her blue dress clung to her meagre figure in straight lines; there was no attempt now to hide her deformity of raised shoulder and crooked hip; her hands pulled nervously at her girdle.
"Your labour is for nothing," she said. "I am not going to Dillenburg."
Rénèe went on packing.
"Your Highness will certainly go," she answered quietly.
"No," said Anne violently. "I was a fool to leave Brussels—but I will not leave the Netherlands. Why should I go into exile? Where is all my state? It has melted like snow. There is no one to look after me; I can hardly get a drink of beer or wine when I want it. He never gives me any money—has he thrown it all away on this miserable beggar war? I will not be the wife of a ruined man—am I to live on wind and eat my hands and feet? By God, I had better have married a simple German Count than this great Prince."
The resignation of the Prince and the subsequent alteration in his fortunes might certainly have frightened many women; but Rénèe had no spark of sympathy for Anne's complainings and railings.
"Your Highness came to Breda, and Your Highness will go to Dillenburg."
Anne gave her a look of hate.
"I would sooner stay and put myself at the mercy of Alva," answered the Princess sullenly. "I do not fear the Spaniards."
"His Highness has decided to leave the Netherlands," said Rénèe, with an air of finality.
Anne limped towards her.
"You hate me, don't you?" she asked, with some eagerness. "You said you hated me, once."
"I would have loved you, Madame, but you would not permit it—and—and some of your actions I needs must hate."
"Well, set yourself free of me," urged the Princess. "Help me to escape—I have friends in Cologne—I want to go to Cologne."
"Duprès and Rubens are there," was the thought that instantly stabbed Rénèe; she turned white and could not speak.
"There are some gentlewomen there I know," continued Anne. "I want to go there—help me escape. I will give you anything you wish for——"
"Oh, Highness, Highness," cried Rénèe, "you speak like a child. It is impossible for you to go to Cologne, or anywhere save to Dillenburg with His Highness."
Anne sat on the edge of the long box Rénèe was filling with clothes. Her pale blue eyes wandered round the room with a painful vacancy.
"I wish I were dead," she said foolishly. "I have never been happy."
Rénèe looked at her with an amazement not untouched with bitterness, for it was the wife of William of Orange who spoke so—a woman who had everything through the mere accident of birth, while she——! The beautiful young Fleming smiled ironically as she thought of herself and her poor life.
"Why are you not happy, Madame?" she asked. "You have all there is in the world—ease and friends and greatness—your children—the Prince."
"Yes," said Anne, with sudden sharpness, "but I am an ugly crooked woman whom no one loves."
Rénèe held her breath, it gave her a strange sensation to hear the Princess thus describe herself; she had always thought vanity completely blinded Anne.
"You thought I did not know?" continued her mistress, with that sudden look and tone of intelligence so painfully in contrast with her usual wildness. "I always knew. I had nothing from the beginning. You hated me—so did every one. When I thoughtheloved me I nearly went mad with joy. But he had married me for ambition, of course."
Rénèe, in her confusion of thoughts, felt impelled to defend the Prince, as if, for the first time, she saw some glimmer of justice in Anne's point of view.
"These great marriages are not made for love," she said.
"I was sixteen," remarked Anne drily. "I did not know anything."
"You could have made His Highness care," urged Rénèe.
"Not with this face and body," said the Princess curtly.
"And he has been loyal to you," continued Anne, "and gentle and patient."
Anne shrugged her shoulders.
"I shall never be happy here. If he had loved me," she said, with brutal frankness, "he might have changed me—but he never did—and for his kindness, did I want that? He is kind to every one, he finds it the easier way. I have always been curst. I wish I were dead; and now we are ruined too."
"Consider, Madame, the Prince has made these sacrifices to help the Reformers, and you are a Lutheran."
"Lutheran or Papist are nothing to me," answered Anne, "nor God either—why did He make women curst and crooked?"
She lifted her head, and, seeing Rénèe with her arms fullof clothes, she called out imperiously, "Put down those things! I will never leave the Netherlands!"
As she spoke the Prince entered; Anne rose and faced him with the look of an adversary.
"My wife," he said at once, "I come to implore you to hasten."
Anne's face hardened into compressed lips and puckered brows until it was like an ugly wax mask.
"News?" she asked briefly.
"Yes, I have received a letter from one of my agents in Spain" (he did not mention that this agent was Vandenesse, the King's private secretary), "and he tells me that my arrest is resolved upon the moment Alva reaches the Netherlands—and that my trial is not to last more than twenty-four hours."
"But they would do nothing to me," said Anne sullenly.
"Before God, Madame, I entreat you to hasten! Are you not a Lutheran and the Elector Maurice's daughter, and do you hope to stand in Alva's good graces?"
A slight tremor shook Anne.
"It does not please me to go to Dillenburg," she muttered.
William flushed.
"You remind me that I have no other house to offer you," he said. "I must entreat your patience, Anne."
"Let me go to Cologne," answered the Princess. "I think you could well spare me."
"It is not possible. Our separation would cause a scandal, and is there need to put our affairs in every man's mouth? And at this juncture of my affairs I cannot well afford two households."
This drove Anne into one of her sudden furies.
"Ah yes," she cried. "You are ruined in this miserable intrigue! Why could you not remain loyal? This is all the doing of Count Louis—I always hated him; little did you think of me when you suffered yourself to be led away by his boy's tricks!"William looked at her steadily.
"What I do is according to my conscience," he said quietly, "but that I think you do not comprehend. Yet let me tell you this: a man situated as I am, who sees nothing but troubles before him, could find no greater comfort than a patient wife who took her difficulties lightly. But that comfort, I fear, I shall never have from you."
"And what comfort shallIget from anyone?" asked Anne wildly.
She flung into the inner chamber, harshly closing the door after her so that the panels rattled.
Rénèe felt the tears sting her eyes at the misery, the wretchedness of it all; what was wrong, she wondered, that things should be like this?
"See to these affairs, my child," said the Prince, pointing to the confusion in the chamber, "we must indeed be gone to-morrow."
"All is nearly ready, Highness," answered Rénèe; "the men may come when they will for the coffers. And I think the Princess will come quietly—she is frightened."
"She is in a melancholy," said William, "she has not all her wits. A fine discord she will strike in Dillenburg," he added grimly. "I had hoped, these humours would pass with her youth, but it is not so."
Anne was still only twenty-four, but no one thought of her as young.
"It is a sickness," answered Rénèe, "she is never well, seigneur, but always ailing and often in pain."
"I know, and therefore I forbear many things," he said.
She looked at his face that was tired and pale but absolutely composed and serene, and she saw that he had long since gauged Anne's value and that she did not trouble him.
"You are glad to return to Germany?" he suddenly asked Rénèe.
She flushed brightly.
"I am glad to think that Your Highness will return to the Netherlands," she answered boldly.
"You think I shall?"
"Yes—for who else is there to withstand Alva and Philip?"
"You still make a champion of me," he smiled. "Be-like you think of me as a heretic?"
"Men call you that, Highness."
"My enemies."
"Your friends could find no nobler name," answered Rénèe.
She stood erect, gazing at him, and the joy and terror she had in his presence and her intense love for her country and her faith fired her beauty with an ardent life that made her glow like a brilliant flower.
All her lovelinesses, always neglected and ignored, were suddenly triumphant.
"If Your Highness would but listen to the cries of the poor Netherlanders!" she said. "They say you would have followed Count Egmont if he had raised his standard for the people—will you not go on alone?"
"Against Philip?" William smiled. "Child, you think too much of politics. When we are in Germany I will find you a husband who will relieve you from this stern service."
She turned away wistfully.
"I am always overbold," she murmured; "it is my folly."
The Prince touched her lightly on the shoulder. "Hold up your heart. I, too, love the Netherlands and hope to serve them. And maybe I might accomplish something—even against Spain. God guides it all, surely."
He left her, and Rénèe went on with her task, selecting, folding, putting away; the little German girl came to help her, and two others of the Princess's women went to and fro the long suite of apartments with clothes and caskets in their hands.
The dusk fell, the candles were lit; the Ave Maria rose from the great church of Breda, the dark closed in, and the shutters were fastened over the spring night, and still the preparations for departure went on from garret to cellar.
In the library the Prince was writing his farewell letters to Egmont and Hoorne; in her chamber Anne lay prostrate and sullen on her huge brocaded bed; in all the rooms the servants and attendants worked, packing up the furniture and household goods.
There was much that had to be left behind. There was much that had been utterly abandoned, as the greater part of the rich appointments of the gorgeous Brusselshôtel, and it was but a modest train that started on the morrow for Cleves, the first stage of the journey.
But as they proceeded their number was continually swelled by crowds of fugitives and refugees who threw themselves on the protection of the Prince of Orange, and fled from the coming of Alva, whose name was beginning to sound over the provinces like the sound of a curse, and whose shadow was flung dark before him, like the shadow of death.
CHAPTER XIVPHILIP'S AVENGERS
From Carthagena to Genoa, hence to San Ambrosio, over the Alps to Mont Cenis, through Savoy, Burgundy, and Louvain came the army of the Duke of Alva, watched by a French army, watched by a Swiss army, taking no heed of either, steadily pursuing their way to the rebellious provinces.
At every stopping-place they were met by messages from the Duchess, entreating them to stay, saying their coming would unchain a war of religion, protesting against this coming of an armed force into a country already quieted by pacific means. Two motives influenced Margaret in these protestations: she was indignant at being superseded by Alva, after her long and bitter toils in the service of her brother had at last met with some success; and now, at the final issue, she was frightened at what putting the provinces under Spanish soldiers might mean. She even wrote to Philip expressing her opinion of the fatal consequences likely to follow Alva's invasion.
But the King took no notice of these complaints, and Alva only smiled at the letters of an agitated woman who was suddenly trying to quench the flame she had so recklessly fanned, and continued his steady march towards the Netherlands.
On a hot night in the middle of August a charcoal-burner, who lived in the forest of Thionville on the frontier between Luxemburg and the Netherlands, was roused by sounds unusual indeed in that solitude, and creeping outof his bed he came out into the moonlight, his frightened family behind him, and, hiding behind the thick trees, gazed down on to the road—a mere narrow defile that ran through the immense forest, which on one side sloped away and on the other rose into the ledge where the poor peasant hid.
It was a most gorgeous night, the moon hung like a plate of soft gold in the deep purple heavens and shed a radiance, too warm for silver, through the close branches of the stately trees, in full summer luxuriance, that spread to right and left, before and behind, on all sides bounding the vision.
The air was warm but not oppressive, now and then a little ripple of wind shook the undergrowth, the brambles, the daisies, the poppies, the foxgloves, and the thick fragrant grasses. The stillness had been complete, but now it was broken by the ever increasing sound of the tramp of feet and the jingling of harness; and soon the vanguard of Alva's army was revealed.
They had raised their last encampment with the rising of the moon that they might the sooner set foot in the Netherlands.
The charcoal-burner knew nothing of this, he did not even know whose army he looked upon; he trembled and crossed himself and clung tightly to his children, while he crouched down in a bed of foxgloves behind a huge beech and peered, with an awe-struck curiosity, at this new and terrible sight.
Alva's army was not large, being no more than ten thousand men, but these ten thousand were the most famous veterans in the world, and both their organization and equipment were perfect, while there was no general in the world whose fame equalled that of Ferdinando Alvarez de Toledo, the great Duke of Alva.
The vanguard of this army, as it hastened through the forest of Thionville, consisted of two of the Italian regiments—those of Sicily and Naples, commanded severally bySpaniards, Julien, Romero, and Alfonso de Ulloa—and considered the finest foot-soldiers in the world.
They marched with quick strides, their colours furled, their general riding before them; the stout figures of the Calabrese, the slender strength of the Sicilians, adorned with rich arms and silk scarves and plumes of brilliant colours, and the fierce, gay, dark faces, made a strange picture of force and energy hastening through the lonely night.
Behind them came two companies of women, some on foot, walking with perfect discipline and order, some riding on the baggage waggons or the sumpter-mules.
These were the camp-followers, but neither poor nor ragged; they were as well-appointed as any well-born lady, and many had a page or attendant; behind the wantons rode a small company of priests with a little escort of horsemen.
So the Southern regiments passed; the charcoal-burner gazed after them like one struck out of his senses.
At a distance of half a league (for the spaces between the three divisions were being rapidly diminished as the army neared the goal) came the next contingent, consisting of the artillery, which jangled quickly away into the night with rattle of wheels, crack of whip, and shout of driver, and twelve hundred Spanish cavalry, at the head of which rode Don Ferdinando de Toledo, the Duke's son, and Prior of that Great Order of the Church Militant—the Knights of St. John—wearing the noble vesture of his stately office.
Behind him came the musketeers, all wearing inlaid and engraved armour, and each attended, as if he had been an officer, by a squire who bore his musket—that new weapon not seen before in any army.
These splendid soldiers carried themselves with a great pride, the moon glowed softly in their exquisite cuirasses, cuisses, greaves, and helmets, which were most carefullypolished; these horsemen were the only Spaniards in the army.
After them rode two Italian generals and the engineers—a gorgeous group of officers in undress or jousting armour, and wearing caps adorned with jewels and heron's feathers.
Next came a carriage containing Spanish priests of high rank, then other of the Spanish horsemen, then the baggage mules and the women.
There were no less than four hundred of these on horseback—Spanish, Italian, and French beauties, lavishly dressed in silk and velvet, with flowing mantles and precious embroideries; some were veiled like modest women, while others rode with their rich locks hanging over their shoulders and their hard beautiful faces uncovered.
One or two were singing in rather a melancholy fashion, several sat wearily on their handsome saddles, but all, like their meaner sisters who went afoot, conducted themselves with order and decorum.
When they had passed, dazzling the eyes and bewildering the mind of the staring charcoal-burner, there was a short pause; then a company of light horse galloped up out of the night, and behind them, riding more slowly, came a single horseman.
He was about sixty years of age, tall, of a slight figure, but of an appearance of great energy and strength, controlled, however, by a considerable stiffness of deportment and an air of cold and repelling pride.
He wore a half-suit of plain blue armour, and black mantle, boots, and doublet; his face was extremely narrow, his features hard, his complexion dry yet flushed, his eyes small and dark and expressing nothing but arrogance; a plain velvet cap concealed his hair, a long beard of black frosted with white descended to his waist.
With his long thin body, small head, narrow countenance, and bright eyes he had a certain likeness to a snake;not in one lineament was there the least trace of any soft or pleasant emotion or sentiment; he seemed a man of ice and iron, haughty, cruel, and avaricious.
Without glancing to right or left, carelessly guiding his superb white Arab horse with one hand while the other fingered the plain cross that hung on his breast, this solitary rider, the great and terrible Duke of Alva, passed on towards the Netherlands.
After him came others of his especial escort of light cavalry, then more priests and more women (so well-provided for soul and body did Philip's armies go forth to crush the unbeliever), then another pause, and finally the rearguard of Lombard and Sardinian regiments, commanded by Sancho de Lodrovo and Gonzalo de Braccamonte.
These veterans, less fine, perhaps, than the glittering ranks of Sicily and Naples, were, nevertheless, magnificent men handsomely armed:
By the time they passed, the moon was fading, and the dawn was creeping in pale streams of light through the forest.
The charcoal-burner crouched lower down among the foxgloves and crossed himself fearfully.
By the time the whole sky had changed from the soft violet of night to the pale azure of the dawn, the last of Alva's army had disappeared, and there remained on the road only the straggling followers—the peasants, who hoped to sell their produce, eagerly whipping along their mules; the poor who hoped for charity; the idle who hoped for stray plunder; boys who had marched miles from their homes in sheer aimless excitement.
The charcoal-burner, encouraged by the sight of his own kind, called out softly to one of the men with the mules—
"Who are they, those great and wonderful fellows who have just passed?"
The other answered with some pride in his knowledge—
"That is the mighty army of the King of Spain."
"May the angels all preserve us! And where are they going?"
"To the Netherlands to avenge the insolence of the heretics."
"And he in the midst?"
"That was the Duke of Alva. They all have money and pay well. If I can catch up with the camp to-night I shall have enough to pay me for my journey."
So he and his mules, laden with fruit and vegetables and skins of wine, disappeared into the misty depths of the forest.
The charcoal-burner dragged his sleepy children out of the foxglove bed and returned to his hut where his wife, who was not interested in the passing army at all, was already putting the bread and milk on the table; and before they ate, the man made them all thank God that they were not heretics in the Netherlands.
That day Alva crossed the frontier; that night he slept within the provinces. Scouts brought him news that Count Egmont was riding forth to Tirlemont to welcome him; he received the news with his usual cold stare.
Inside his plain doublet were many precious documents written by the hand of Philip; among them were the warrants for the deaths of Egmont, Hoorne, and the Prince of Orange.