CHAPTER XIVTHE REGENT, THE PRINCE, AND THECARDINALIST
Margaret received William warmly; she already spoke of the Cardinal with dislike and vexation, declared herself rejoiced to be rid of him, and showed every intention of flattering the men who had replaced him and his party and who must henceforth be supreme in her councils.
But the Prince was not captured by these compliments as Egmont had been; he had his agents at the Spanish Court, he knew something of the other side of the picture, and while Margaret was speaking he was looking at Armenteros, the arrogant Spanish secretary, who remained in the chamber. In this man, known to be deep in Philip's confidence and intimate with the Duchess, William beheld Granvelle's true successor.
At the same time he was perfectly well aware that Margaret knew his great influence, his unique position, and was sincerely desirous of attaching him to her; indeed, it was quite clear to the Prince that the Regent, despite her haughtiness, her pose of firmness, and independence, was sorely bewildered and confused how to manage her perilous wardship of the Netherlands, and eager enough for help and counsel.
But the Prince was not the man to sympathize with an arrogant woman unequal to her charge; he deemed a woman as out of place in government as a man at a spinning-wheel, though one who was queen by right and not by choicewould have had his deep loyalty, but Margaret, however, was practically a foreigner, and lording in a place not her own, and neither the character of this woman who assumed such masculine qualities and was in reality so weak and futile, nor the rank of this Princess whose mother had been the daughter of a poor weaver of Oudenarde, could inspire any respect or admiration in the Prince.
He considered her as but a poor instrument of Philip's policy, and even while she was offering him the courtesies she thought so diplomatic, he was wondering how long she would hold her place.
Margaret on her side was uneasy; she could not read the Prince, she did not wholly trust him, yet she knew him to be necessary to her. With Egmont she had felt far safer; whatever his extravagances he was obviously loyal, obviously a good Catholic, and she was sure of the Prince on neither of these points; indeed, the painstaking Regent, sincerely eager to do her duty towards Philip and the Church, was secretly sorely puzzled how to deal with William.
She proceeded to endeavour to win, and if possible, deceive him by cajoleries and blandishments, as she had already won and deceived Egmont, for her politics were those of Machiavelli and Loyola.
"Now the Cardinal has gone," she said, "I can surround myself with my good friends whom he kept from me, and I hope all will go more smoothly and prosperously, both in my councils and the states, without this meddling priest."
William smiled into his ruff; by her abuse of Granvelle he could measure what she had said of him to the Cardinal, what she would, most likely, be writing to that minister within a few hours.
"There will be more prosperity for His Majesty's subjects and less anxiety for those who serve His Majesty, if His Eminence's counsels are reversed," he said.
Margaret regarded him with an anxiety she could notaltogether conceal; her full bosom heaved beneath the gathered lawn and the Genoa velvet, and a quiver passed over her majestic face which she endeavoured to keep so regally impassive.
"It is to be supposed his policies are to be reversed, Highness," she answered, "since his enemies will take his place;" then remembering that the Cardinal's absence was supposed to be only a temporary one, "It may be some while before he returns to the Netherlands, and meanwhile we need not consult him," she added.
"Will he return at all?" smiled William, looking straightly at her. "I scarcely think so, Madame."
The Duchess, who had had Philip's secret instructions to allow the Cardinal to depart, and who knew that the visit to Burgundy was an elaborate ruse to disguise the downfall of the minister, was startled at the Prince's words. "How much does he know?" she thought, and her respect and awe of him increased.
"The Cardinal's return must be in His Majesty's good pleasure," she replied, smiling in her turn. "Meanwhile we have other things to think of. I have asked Your Highness here, to this private audience, because I know you to be of a nature as noble as your rank, and because I want you to aid and support me in the task I have before me, which is not, the Virgin help me, a light one."
Behind the obvious flattery of the words was a sincere feminine appeal for help, and her eyes were turned on the Prince with a real anxiety.
"Surely, Madame," replied William, "you do not think I should be disloyal to you? I know I have been greatly slandered, but I trust you have never believed disloyalty of me."
"Nay, nay," said Margaret. "I did not even think of disloyalty—but I have had to complain, with justice, that you have so obstinately kept aloof from my councils."
"Because my presence was useless where no one was listened to save Granvelle and his creatures, Madame."
"That is over," replied the Duchess, "and now I rely on the seigneurs and principally on Your Highness."
"I hope to deserve the trust," said William, "and to advise Your Grace for the peace and welfare of the States."
Margaret felt the words formal; she perceived that he could play with phrases as well as she, and that she was unlikely to gain much from him this way. While she was turning over in her mind the best way to gain him, William spoke again, using a frankness that was more subtle and more baffling than all Margaret's tortuous methods and policies.
"Your Excellency will not enforce the Inquisition?" he asked, he was looking at Margaret, but he noted the little movement the silent secretary made at his words.
"I have recommended mercy and gentleness to Peter Titelmann," replied the Regent, "and I ever beg His Majesty to use clemency towards the Netherlands."
"But you will enforce the Inquisition?" persisted the Prince.
"It cannot be supposed," answered Margaret suavely, "that the King will endure heresy among his subjects."
"It is then his intention to extirpate heresy?" asked William, and he remembered that conversation with Henry of France in the woods of Vincennes.
"An intention known to all the world," asserted Margaret. "His Majesty would rather lose his kingdoms than endure that heresy should flourish under his rule."
They were almost the same words that Granvelle had used in the gardens of La Fontaine.
"None the less," added Margaret, "His Majesty awaits the decision of the Council of Trent before proceeding severely against these wretches."
"Meanwhile," said William, "the Inquisitors are burning, strangling, torturing in every town in the States."
Margaret flushed angrily.
"Those who are thus punished are miserable blasphemers—would Your Highness speak for a man whoremained covered while the Host passed, or one who mocked a statue of the Virgin?"
"I would not burn them quick," replied William, "nay, I would not touch their lives at all, nor yet their properties."
"Your Highness has of late been dangerously clement towards these heretics," remarked the Duchess.
"It is but natural," replied the Prince, with a smile, "since most of those dearest to me are heretics. But I do not speak from clemency but from policy when I advise Your Grace to toleration."
Again the secretary made that little movement; William could imagine the letter he would write to Philip.
"Toleration?" cried the Duchess angrily; "do you advise me to accord toleration to heretics?"
"Yes," said William, and he looked at the Spaniard sitting quiet in his corner, for he felt he was speaking not to Margaret but to Philip, and that his words, spoken in this chamber of the Brabant palace, would soon be known in that cell of the Escorial where the laborious King sat painstakingly annotating his lengthy and innumerable dispatches.
The Duchess knew not what to answer; all her policy of flattery and conciliation was overwhelmed by the rage and contempt she felt for William's views, which vexed her the more as she vaguely knew they were, from the point of policy, right.
"The Netherlands," continued William, "will never take the Inquisition. They will never give up heresy. If they are forced they will be maddened into a revolt."
"The King will know how to deal with revolt," returned Margaret haughtily.
"The King," said William, again turning his dark eyes on Armenteros, "will scarcely provoke a revolt. He has too much wisdom and too little right."
"You question the King's right?" exclaimed the Duchess aghast.
"Madame," the Prince reminded her, "the States andthe cities have charters and liberties older than the sovereignty of the House of Burgundy. And both His Majesty and the Queen Mary, the late Regent, swore to protect these liberties."
"But the King cannot, will not, endure heresy!" cried Margaret.
"The Emperor was as good a Catholic as His Majesty," said William, "and he suffered heresy in his dominions when he was leaguing with the Protestant Princes of Germany. Therefore the King may suffer it sooner than spoil, ruin, and lose the richest portion of his realms."
"They would not revolt—they would not dare!" said Margaret.
"They will dare a great deal, these Netherlanders, once they are roused," returned the Prince, "as Your Grace may have observed in the great numbers who refuse to recant their heresy, even for their lives, and in those who proclaim their faith knowing well what the penalties are."
"Your Highness is very zealous in the cause of these wretched people," said the Duchess, with some bitterness.
"Call me zealous in the cause of His Majesty," replied William. "Before God, all I say and do is loyally said and done, and with the sole desire to preserve peace and contentment and obedience in these States."
"I do believe you," returned Margaret hastily; she was unwilling to provoke further disputes, and considered it easier to take the Prince at the mere face value of his words than to endeavour, as she might so easily have done, to find offence in the possible meanings of them. "I believe and trust Your Highness, and shall look to your good help and counsel to assist me."
The question of the enforcement of the Inquisition was thus evaded; it was a question Margaret preferred not to have to answer, and one William saw no use in insisting on, so well did he know the mind of the Regent and the King on this subject.
"Time," he contented himself by saying, "will prove if I am right in what I say; and also my honest purpose to serve His Majesty and Your Grace."
He rose, and again his glance travelled to the keen, sharp face of the secretary, who had now risen also and stood very respectfully in his corner.
"Does he think I do not know that he is a spy on me?" considered William, as he kissed the Regent's hand; "does she think I am going to be her tool to do hangman's work?"
He took his leave: Margaret gracious and smiling, pressing him and his family to come to her banquets, beseeching his frequent presence at her councils; the secretary all deference and stately homage.
When William had closed the door behind him, he laughed softly, then, as he turned away down the tapestried corridor, he sighed.
It might be easy to read Margaret, even to manage her; it might be easy, too, to influence and control those who composed her councils; but behind Margaret was the most powerful, the most fanatic, the most unscrupulous, the most obstinate King in the world, and behind him and his Inquisition was a more powerful force still—the entire might, the whole weight of the Holy Roman Church, armed not only with the fire and sword of this world, but the punishments of hell and the rewards of heaven.
The liberties of the Netherlands were signed and sealed in laws and charters, but what could parchment and ink avail against the temporal power of Philip; the heretics might be courageous and unyielding, but what were they compared to the spiritual power of the Pope, supported by all the great Princes of Europe?
And what could William of Orange hope to achieve if he set himself against any of the desires of Philip? Merely that speedy and mysterious death that awaited the King's disobedient servants.
These thoughts did not occur to Egmont, to Montigny,to Brederode, to the other seigneurs who rejoiced in the departure of Granvelle; they knew themselves free from even a treasonable thought, and considered themselves as safe as the Regent herself from the wrath of Philip.
But William had been educated at the Emperor's Court; he had been for a while intimate with Philip; he knew by heart the intricate policies of the Court, the blind fanaticism, the narrow vanity, the dull obstinacy of the King; and as surely as if he had seen it with his own eyes he knew his name headed a list of the seigneurs the King kept until he could one by one strike them off the paper—on the day when they would be struck off the earth.
Therefore he knew the difficulties, the perils of his position, though did no one else in the Netherlands, and he had reason for looking thoughtful while Brederode jested and the others laughed. As he was passing down the great stairs he met Barlaymont coming up.
This man, Granvelle's most detested follower, and the one who had betrayed to him the secrets of the league of seigneurs formed against him, was now entirely in disgrace. The Duchess received him with rudeness, and those who had formerly fawned on him now rushed to pay court to his ascendant enemies. He was white and haggard with humiliation and vexation, his eyes red with bitter tears.
He looked up, coloured at seeing William, and paused.
The Prince came down slowly, a slender figure in a cross-cut doublet of a peacock colour, a mantle of red and black fur; he carried his cap and switch under his arm, and was fastening his fringed gauntlets with a gold thread.
"Your Highness has soon come to the scene of your triumph," said Barlaymont.
William turned serene eyes on him.
"Ah, Baron, I do not triumph," he said, half sadly.
"I think Your Highness does when you step into the place of the man you have cast down."
"It was not I," replied William, "it was the Netherlands that would not endure the Cardinal."
"You take refuge behind that," said Barlaymont bitterly, "but it shall not save you. Now you exult. Now you think to put your foot on our party, and for a time you may. But I tell you that you have won a perilous victory."
"I know it," said the Prince.
"Now you are supreme, now you are the favourite," continued the fallen minister. "But the King is not so easily dared, so safely affronted. As surely as now you are uppermost, Philip will call you and those behind you to account—to a very stern account, Highness."
"You speak as the mouthpiece of Madrid," said the Prince, "and doubtless have good authority for these threats. Tell those who instructed you that I know my position and their power."
"I speak for myself only," replied Barlaymont, "to let you know that I am only for the moment disgraced and humiliated—down as I am, I would not change to stand in your Highness's place! Nay, I would not wear your present honours at the cost you must pay——"
"I do believe it," answered William; "but you and I are different men, Barlaymont, and my house has never shirked perilous honours."
He bent his head and passed on, lacing again his glove.
About the bottom of the stairs a flood of crimson light lay, cast by the two windows filled with red and gold glass, through which the last rays of the winter sun was streaming; and as William descended, it gradually enveloped him and dyed him red as if he was passing into a sea of blood, over his feet, to his waist, to his shoulders, closing over his head.
Then he passed into the darkness of the shadowed hall beyond and was lost to Barlaymont's watching eyes.