by Aubrey Flegg
‘I hope it is me you are smiling for, Miss Eeden,’ he said.
‘Oh, I did not realise you could sing so high,’ she answered pertly. Then, feeling that perhaps she had gone too far, she curtsied. The artist seemed amused.
‘I am stricken; once more my little bird has outshone me. My wife has very uncomplimentary things to say about my singing. But, as to our tuneful friend, it is about time for him to come into his winter quarters. Perhaps you would like to help me?’ Louise was hesitant. The invitation fitted her mood, but the man looked like his own brushwork: rough-hewn and gritty. A homely smell of cooking reassured her; his wife would be at home.
‘If I really can be of assistance?’
‘Of course. If he hasn’t forgotten his trick he will perhaps draw some water for you in his little bucket.’ She found herself mounting the steps.
The house seemed very quiet as they walked through towards the studio behind. She looked around for the picture of the goldfinch, but it was gone. On the easel was a part-finished portrait of a sea captain. Though still in the making, it was a strong face, full of life and vigour. She’d been right, his brushwork was rougher than Master Haitink’s; it lived, but in a different way.
‘Like it?’ Mr Fabritius had turned. She could feel his eyes exploring her, and not just her face.
‘Yes … very much,’ she said, keeping her gaze on the picture. Her cloak had fallen open; she reached to wrap it around herself again. She looked up and their eyes locked. He was closer than she realised. She dropped her head but he read her mind and reached out to place his fingers under her chin.
‘So, old Jacob Haitink has had the privilege of painting Louise Eeden.’ She wanted to break away, but she was held by both hand and eye. How different he was from dear Master Haitink, who could touch her all over, adjusting her dress, pushing her this way and that without threat or intrusion. Her mouth was dry; she had to say something.
‘Master…your goldfinch?’ she whispered. For a moment his eyes flashed. Then he relaxed and laughed out loud.
‘You are a young lady of character. Now we are neighbours we must get to know each other. Yes indeed, my goldfinch – Mr Midas I call him. He is outside, but should be brought in now. Shall we go? Then perhaps… a glass of wine?’
‘I will let you go ahead, then it will be you that he turns into gold, and not me.’ Louise was nervous, but excited too.
‘Aha!’ the painter laughed. ‘So you know the story of King Midas, and how he turned his daughter into gold!’
Master Fabritius stood on a chair in the yard, talking and chirruping to the little bird while he detached the chain from its perch. That done, he handed the end of the chain to Louise. With the goldfinch perched on his little finger, he began to make a careful descent. Later Louise wondered if the chair had really wobbled on the uneven cobbles. However, in an instant, she found herself holding the painter in her arms, while the chair went skittering sideways across the cobbles. The little bird took off, filling the air between them with a whirr of wings. Louise felt a tug on the chain, then the pressure was gone, and the little bird was fluttering to the top of the wall, where it perched in startled freedom. She held up the broken chain. With a cry of anguish, the great artist suddenly lost all interest in her. He pushed her to one side and began calling and entreating the bird to come back.
‘Quick girl, quick. Don’t just stand there, get some seed. The jar on the window sill.’ Louise found the jar and hurried back with a fistful of assorted seed and grain. The agitated master put some on his palm and began calling again, his hand raised. Out of habit, or good manners, Mr Midas bobbed to his invitation, but he seemed to be reluctant to try his wings. At that moment a rogue gust of wind swept over the top of the wall. It tossed Mr Midas like a jewel into the air, where he found his wings and flew to the gable of the house. Here he uttered a brief trill of freedom before disappearing over the rooftops. ‘Look what you made me do! That bird means more to me than … than –’ The artist stopped himself, his shoulders slumped, and he looked up at the vacant sky. ‘I deserved to lose him, didn’t I? Forgive me, Miss Louise.’ He turned with a shrug and an apologetic smile.
She liked him penitent, but it was time for her to go. In that moment when only the beating of Mr Midas’s wings had kept them apart, the last traces of Annie’s spell were blown like a cobweb from her mind. What did she care about Catholic or heathen? Pieter was Pieter and he was hers. It was time to extricate herself from Mr Fabritius.
She put her hand in her pocket to get rid of the birdseed. There was the tiny sprig of toadflax, safe as a promise; she smiled. She was sorry he had lost his bird, but her mind was clear now and working rapidly on a plan.
‘I’ll look for Mr Midas,’ she said, moving towards the door. ‘If he doesn’t come to me, I can at least tell you where he is.’
‘You’d need an army of searchers to find him.’
‘Just one, but we’ll find him.’ She smiled happily – mistress of the situation again, and ran for the door. She swept up her clogs and pulled the door open. There on the step stood Mrs Fabritius, her small daughter, and her maid, all having left church before the sermon. All Louise could do was to smile apologetically at them as, carried by her own momentum, she ran barefoot down the steps. She stooped to put on her clogs at the bottom and glanced up. The master painter was pointing urgently over the roofs. With a slight pang of remorse, Louise realised Master Fabritius was having more than the absence of Mr Midas to explain away.
Riot
Chapter 14
As Louise walked past the Nieuwe Kerk, she paused and heard the pastor’s voice rise to a crescendo: ‘Fifteenthly my brethren…’ She laughed like the truant that she was and ran lightly across the cobbles to the door of the public house below the studio. It was closed; she hesitated. There was no Catholic church in Delft, so Pieter would surely be at home. Also, Mr Midas would not wait, so she took courage and knocked lightly. There was no answer, so she knocked more loudly. She heard Mistress Kathenka’s voice through the door.
‘We are not open for–’
‘Mistress Kathenka, it’s me, Louise.’ Immediately the bolt was drawn and the mistress pulled her in.
‘I lock the door when Pieter and the Master are out, and there was a rumour of trouble in town.’
‘Oh, I am looking for Pieter,’ Louise said. Kathenka cocked her head, as if wondering what to say.
‘He’s at church,’ she said cautiously.
‘But he can’t be, there isn’t a Catholic church in town,’ Louise protested. Kathenka looked relieved.
‘Ah, so you know he is a Catholic; I wondered about that. Well, actually there is a church. It’s tiny and it’s hidden – the town fathers insist on that – it’s down an alley off the Grensweg.’ Louise was taken aback. The idea of a secret church … a hidden coven… re-awoke the fears that Mr Midas had undone. For a second, in her imagination, the Grensweg seethed like a scene from Hieronimus Bosch. Stop! she told herself sternly. She must not start that again.
‘Oh… I thought, I… I just didn’t think.’
‘Are you all right?
‘Yes, thank you Kathenka, I just ran here too fast.’ It was half the truth. She managed a smile. ‘Perhaps you would tell me where to find it?’
Before Kathenka could answer, there was the sound of loud, unseemly shouting, followed by the clatter of running feet. The service in the Nieuwe Kerk must have finished. ‘Apprentices, I think.’ Kathenka observed. ‘They are like young bucks; they get restless in the autumn. They will be gone in a moment.’
By the time Louise emerged, they had vanished. She pulled the hood of her cloak over her head and set off in the direction Kathenka had indicated. A group of three more apprentices ran past her, laughing among themselves. ‘Fifteenthly my brethren …’ was all she caught as they clattered away ahead of her.
She paused on the bridge at the entrance to the Grensweg, even less enthusiastic now than she had been. A canal ran down the centre
of the street, with a path on each side. It was a shabby and poorly maintained part of town. A dead cat floated in the water beside her. Short flights of steps led up to the doors of the houses, showing that the district was liable to flooding. Halfway down the street she could see an alleyway on the left. From Kathenka’s description, Louise guessed that the entrance to the secret church would be down there. ‘The town fathers won’t allow it to open onto the main street,’ she had explained. People were milling about at the head of the alley. Perhaps the service was over and she wouldn’t have to go near, but why were they all facing into the alley and not out of it?
She left the cat and moved down the path beside the canal. She recognised, at the back of the crowd, the three apprentices that had just passed her. If they had come from the service at the Nieuwe Kerk, what were they doing outside a Catholic church? She hesitated, she could hear loud voices raised from somewhere down the alley. There was a crash of breaking glass, and the crowd surged back, like schoolboys backing away after a prank. Louise realised that they were in fact all young apprentices, not a congregation at all. Keeping close to the wall of the house, she began to push through them towards the alley. A sharp whistle rang out, and to her alarm the crowd surged forward again, dragging her with it. When she turned to protest, she noticed that the boys had covered their faces with handkerchiefs. The whistle shrilled again. Where had she heard that sound before? Then she knew; it was the same whistle she had heard on the night when Pieter had been attacked. Surely this could have nothing to do with Pieter?
‘Burn the Papists out! Down with the Pope! Antichrist! Free indulgences to hell,’ the boys were chanting. Then one, his voice hardly broken, started shouting abuse that would have shamed even the devil in the Hieronimus Bosch painting. Their hate struck her like a gust of foul breath; she turned her face to the wall. How could anyone say such things? Then, in a humbling moment, Louise remembered how she too had been guilty of succumbing to her own mindless fears and prejudice. These were ordinary boys; someone must have incited them to this.
There was another surge; now Louise was being crushed against the wall. Seeing a window, she flattened herself against it. With her face pressed against the rippled glass, she could at least breathe. She had to get out of this crowd. Through the glass she could make out a box-bed, grey sheets spilling onto the floor, and a chair that was festooned with discarded garments. Sordid though it was, it looked to her a positive haven from the screaming mob at her back; the noise was rising to a crescendo. If only she could get in. The house stood at the corner of the alley, by looking diagonally across the room she could see, between tattered curtains, the rioters pushing down it towards some unseen focus beyond.
At that moment a door inside the room flew open and a rotund little man, soutane flying, burst in. Louise tapped furiously against the glass. He looked pop-eyed at the windows, then turned to flee, his weak mouth working. He shook his head helplessly and started backing towards the door. Louise was desperate; she tapped again, harder. He hesitated, bit his knuckle and then rushed at the window. No rescuer ever looked less valiant. He fumbled at the latch, obviously terrified at what he might let in. It yielded, and Louise tumbled headlong into the room. As he refastened the window, she struggled to her feet. No one in the mob outside had registered what had happened. The priest – it had to be the priest – stepped back and looked at Louise as if she were about to present him with the forbidden apple. She spread her hands; she meant him no harm. A streak of egg yolk glistened in the stubble of his chin, and beads of sweat were coalescing and running down his forehead. His lower lip trembled as he spoke.
‘I … I must go … I see there is no way out for us here. But you … you may stay; they will not hurt you … a Protestant.’ How did he know? ‘My apartment, madam…at your disposal.’ He bowed apologetically and backed towards the door. ‘I’m sorry,’ he wiped the sweat from his eyes with his sleeve. ‘You see, madam, I’m not brave … not brave at all, but my people need me.’
‘On the contrary, I think you are very brave.’ Louise corrected him gently. ‘You saved me a crushing. But I must come with you; I believe I may be at least partly responsible for your troubles.’ This was more than he could cope with. Bobbing his head, he backed into the doorjamb and then turned to lead the way.
‘Perhaps we can escape by the roof,’ she heard him mutter. With the opening of the door the noise of the riot burst in on them. Louise faltered. The room they were entering had probably once been the kitchen of the house, with a tradesman’s entrance opening into the alleyway. This was the focus of the noise. Like all the doors, it was raised above flood level. A group of men stood at the top of the steps, their bodies braced against the door as it shuddered from the blows that were being rained against it from outside. A voice, startlingly loud, megaphoned through the broken glass of the window.
‘Open up, you vermin. Send him out. If you don’t give him to us we will burn you out and torch your filthy little church too.’ The priest recoiled, stepping back onto Louise’s foot.
‘Who… who do you want?’ he called, his voice shaking. ‘Is it me?’
‘He knows who he is. I call him the puppet. But perhaps he’s too much of a coward to come out of his own accord. Tell him that I will cut his strings for him if he doesn’t come now.’
They could hear the man’s voice ordering away the people who had been hammering on the door. Then he turned back to the window: ‘You can open up now.’
Louise knew that voice, and the knowledge paralysed her. Was she losing touch with reality? Reynier wasn’t due back from abroad for weeks. She could see Pieter moving to the steps, but she was held fast by that voice, immobilised as a rabbit in a weasel’s stare. Surely they weren’t going to let Pieter go out on his own? They couldn’t, Pieter was no fighter. It would be like giving a daddy longlegs to a cat; he’d be dismembered limb by limb. But he had already elbowed his way to the door and was now throwing his weight against the huge bolt that secured it. If she didn’t move now he would be gone. She lunged blindly for the steps, feeling the priest’s moist fingers slip down her hand as he tried to restrain her. Then the bolt was back and Pieter was out. She had no option. She threw herself forward, thrusting the men aside, and held onto his coat. Hands plucked ineffectually at her from behind, then the door closed behind them and she heard a clunk as the bolt was shot home; they were on their own.
At some stage extra outer doors must have been added for security. These were now folded out, creating a recess where she and Pieter stood. Standing behind him, as she was, she was almost completely concealed. She realised they must be on the platform at the top of the flood steps down into the alley. She could just see a protective metal balustrade. But why were they alone? Who had been hammering on the door?
Then Reynier called out, and Louise thought her heart would stop. He must be only inches away, hidden from her by the outer door. He was calming the crowd, speaking with that familiar ease and authority she knew so well, his voice rose clear above their clamour.
‘Quiet, friends, quiet! We must be reasonable.’
Oh God, how she knew that voice and tone. She wanted to put her hands over her ears but dared not move. Before, she had been paralysed, now she was mesmerised. How or when Reynier had arrived she did not know… but he was here now, almost close enough to touch. There were jeers and laughter.
‘Quiet, lads … patience. Let Mister Kunst have his say.’ She could hear the smile in his voice, all so relaxed, so natural. But she knew its deadly seductiveness. Hadn’t she been under its spell since she was a mere child? How many times had she had to be ‘reasonable’ while young Reynier DeVries had imposed his own way on her childhood plans? How many times had Reynier got off scot-free while Louise had been punished? Then of course how many times had kind Reynier dried her tears? She had longed for his approval, but somehow the more he praised her, the less wonderful her small achievements had come to seem.
What would happen when he saw her? H
er imagination made up the words for him. ‘Come out Louise, old friend,’ it said. ‘You know that we are made for each other; give yourself up. Betray Pieter, betray yourself. Marry me. There is no alternative …’ She found herself repeating, ‘no alternative… no alternative.’ The compulsion to come out from behind Pieter’s back was getting stronger and stronger.
But it was Pieter who moved. It was hardly more than a twitch, a preparation for a lunge? But it was enough to break Reynier’s hold on her. Louise’s mind cleared and in that moment she saw Reynier’s plan in all its detail. He was trying to provoke Pieter into an attack; that would be his signal. That’s when the crowd would take over. He had already whipped it into a sectarian frenzy. But it would not be Reynier who would be implicated when they tore poor Pieter apart. No, Reynier would be gone long before they had finished. Then in a couple of weeks he would come home as planned, all innocent, to find the final obstacle to marrying Louise removed. She forced herself to listen to him. He had dropped his voice; he was no longer addressing the crowd but was speaking to Pieter as if to an old friend. Louise knew that tone; the cat was about to pounce. Pieter must not be allowed to fall into the trap.
