by Kate Mosse
‘Order! I will have order!’ the Recorder shouted. ‘Members of the town council, my noble lords, gentlemen all, respect the traditions of this chamber.’
As the debate raged on, Piet noticed Houtman walk up and whisper something to the Calvinist leader. At the same time, he saw Willem van Raay step out of his stall and approach the dais to speak to his colleagues.
Piet’s heart caught in his throat. Might their plan work? Dircksz seemed to be shaking his head. Houtman put his hand on his leader’s arm and was shrugged off.
Then the doors were flung open and a messenger came running, pushing his way through the mass of men crowding in the aisles until he reached the dais. Red-faced and out of breath, he passed a note to the official Recorder, who stepped onto the dais and gave it to Dircksz himself.
The chamber fell into an expectant silence.
‘There is no doubt of this?’ Dircksz asked.
‘None,’ the messenger replied, his voice as clear as a bell.
Dircksz read the message one last time, and then nodded. He seemed to have aged ten years in as many minutes, as if his forty years of responsibility had suddenly taken their toll. His shoulders dropped, though whether in relief or despair Piet couldn’t quite tell.
‘I see,’ Dircksz finally said, turning first to his allies, sitting behind him, and then to the mass of councillors sitting below. ‘Mijn vrienden,’ he said. ‘My friends and loyal colleagues, for the good of Amsterdam, I concede.’
A murmur of disbelief spread like wildfire through the chamber. Men looked at one another, whispering frantically, no one quite sure what was happening. The Calvinist leader hesitated for a moment, then he spoke.
‘By the authority invested in me, I hereby attest that on the twenty-sixth day of May, in the year of our Lord 1578, in the presence of all its members, we take control of this chamber in the name of the Prince of Orange.’ He turned around. ‘Will you escort these gentlemen from the chamber?’
Piet realised he’d been holding his breath. Could it be possible that power could be taken so easily and without a shot being fired?
With great dignity, his head held high, Dircksz stepped down from the dais. After a moment of stunned disbelief, his fellow burgomasters and burghers followed, progressing in silence through the chamber and out through the main doors.
For a moment after they’d gone, there was silence. Then, pandemonium. Calvinists were slapping one another on the back, some even occupying the seats in the stalls just left vacant.
‘Long live Amsterdam!’ went up the cry. ‘Long live the Prince of Orange!’
The remaining councillors headed for the doors, pushing and elbowing one another aside in their haste to return to their businesses and their ships, their warehouses and hearths. Their leaders had gone, but they had no idea what this would mean for the common man. Only time would tell.
Up on the balcony, Piet leant back against the wall, trying to make sense of what he had witnessed. Was it possible that forty years of uninterrupted power had been brought to an end just like that?
He knew what the note had said – that all the gates into the city were now in the hands of Calvinists, control of the harbour too. Dircksz had no choice but to concede. He, and his fellow burgomasters and burghers, would be escorted to exile beyond the boundaries of Amsterdam. Two barges were standing ready at Damrak to transport them, along with leading members of the Catholic clergy and friars. It was a sensible precautionary measure to prevent them organising opposition to the new council. Since many Calvinists had themselves been exiled from the city during the wars, it was no wonder they wished to impose the same penalty on the men they had finally defeated. Piet also knew the note presented to Dircksz promised that all best attempts would be taken to protect the exiled men’s homes from looters, and that their families would be allowed to join them in exile.
They would now have their churches. Their Protestant churches. But Catholics, too, would be free to worship in peace. Amsterdam would be a modern city, a tolerant city.
Piet shook his head, still not quite able to accept the evidence of his own eyes. Was it truly possible that not a single man, on either side, had raised his firearm or let his hand slip to his knife? He hesitated, feeling an unwelcome stab of doubt. What if there was some kind of ambush waiting outside the building? What if it had all been a trick, a show of smoke and mirrors? What if the barges were attacked or an assassin was waiting in the square? All it would take was for one shot to be fired or one man to draw his sword, and diplomacy would be dead.
Piet leapt to his feet and ran for the stairs.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
PLAATS
Alis looked back towards the Stadhuis.
‘Minou, I think something’s happening.’
Half an hour had passed since the Calvinists had gone into the town hall. Minou could hear the shouting too, but could not see what the crowd was reacting to. The atmosphere was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. There was anger and protest, but none of the smouldering resentment that so easily turned a crowd into a mob.
‘Isn’t that Cornelia?’ Alis said.
‘Where?’
Alis pointed. ‘There.’
Minou looked towards Kalverstraat, then waved. Cornelia quickly pushed her way through to join them.
‘What is happening?’ she asked quickly. ‘Could you see?’
‘The Geuzen are bringing out the burgomasters and some of the burghers. They’re taking them to the barges.’ She clasped Minou’s arm, her face white with fear. ‘Minou, what if my father is one of them? If he’s taken away, what will I do? He won’t survive exile. Our business won’t survive.’
‘Piet has done what he can to protect your father,’ Minou said, praying Houtman would keep his word. ‘No harm will come to him.’
‘The leaders in the chamber might have agreed,’ Cornelia said desperately, ‘but what of them?’ She gestured to the crowd. ‘What about all those who’ve resented Dircksz’s control of the city for so long? They hold him and his associates responsible for their hunger and suffering, how are they to know my father is a good man?’
Minou couldn’t ever remember seeing Cornelia lose control of her emotions before. During their flight from Paris and their perilous journey north, she had never been anything less than steadfast.
‘Even if your father is obliged to leave the city for a while, you can manage his affairs in his absence. We will help.’
Alis nodded. ‘Whatever happens, your father will be safe, Minou and Piet will make it so. I cannot think your father would want you to be distressed.’
Cornelia exhaled. ‘That, at least, is true.’
Abruptly, the crowd parted to let through three or four of the Geuzen, followed by two lines of heavily armed citizen soldiers escorting Hendrick Dircksz and his fellow burgomasters. The council Recorder and other burghers walked in pairs behind them, followed by leading Catholic clergy and the hated Grey Friars, who had been the eyes and ears of the Spanish in Amsterdam.
‘Why have they capitulated?’
Minou looked at Cornelia. ‘The Calvinists are too well organised, they have the people on their side.’
‘There’s our priest from the Nieuwe Kerk,’ Cornelia said in distress. ‘I pray they will not harm him.’
Only the Grey Friars showed signs of violence: torn robes and bloodied faces. As soon as the crowd saw them, they started to jeer and shout abuse.
Cornelia let out a sob when she saw her father near the back of the line, moving slowly with his arm supporting Jacob Pauw, who could barely walk.
When the prisoners reached the water’s edge, the taunting and the yelling stopped. A hushed silence fell over the crowds watching near Damrak and the Nieuwe Zijde.
Dircksz was the first to be put into the boat.
He hesitated a moment on the wharf, turning back as if to bid a final farewell to his fiefdom. Then, ignoring the proffered hand of a soldier, he stepped down unaided into the barge. The co
uncil Recorder followed, the craft rocking on the water as the burgomasters joined them.
Then, it was Willem van Raay’s turn to be brought forward to the wharf. Minou looked around, desperately trying to find Piet in the mêlée.
‘I can’t bear it,’ Cornelia cried. ‘I have to speak to him! I can’t let him go without a word.’
Minou held her back. ‘I know it’s hard to watch and do nothing, but you will make it worse for him. We have a plan. Try not to worry.’
She looked anxiously back across the square, in time to see a man running from the direction of the Stadhuis, pushing his way through without regard. Only when he reached Damrak, did Minou realise it was Houtman himself.
‘Stop!’ he shouted. ‘This prisoner is to be given into my care,’ he panted, gesturing to Willem van Raay.
Minou breathed a sigh of relief.
‘On whose orders?’ a soldier demanded.
Houtman held out a document. ‘Here, in black and white. The prisoner is to be taken to Sint Antoniespoort.’
‘No!’ Cornelia cried. ‘If they take him in there, I’ll never see him again. Prisoners don’t survive in that place, you know it. Let me go.’
‘Cornelia, you have to trust me,’ Minou whispered urgently. ‘No harm will come to your father, I give you my word.’
Willem van Raay was dragged out of the line, his arms pulled up behind him, and was instantly surrounded by Houtman’s men.
‘No!’ Cornelia shouted again. ‘Let me go!’
Again, she tried to get free, but the soldiers were already marching her father across to the Oude Zijde. The fight suddenly went out of her. Her body slumped. She dropped her head onto Minou’s shoulder and started to weep.
‘All will be well, my friend. Everything will resolve itself.’
Except it might not, whispered the spiteful voice in her head. What if Houtman went back on his word? What if something had happened to Piet so he couldn’t intervene? What if the price for averting widespread conflict turned out to be the life of Willem van Raay?
‘All will be well,’ Minou said again, and prayed she was right.
Now the second of the barges, this one with Jacob Pauw on board, pushed away from the quay and began its journey to the IJ.
‘How can you be sure?’ Cornelia sobbed. ‘Men rarely keep their word.’
‘Follow them,’ Minou whispered to Alis. ‘Make sure they indeed take Willem to Sint Antoniespoort.’
A look of panic flashed across Alis’s face. With a jolt, Minou realised her sister had no idea how to get there. It felt so natural to have her by her side, she had forgotten Alis had only been in Amsterdam a matter of forty-eight hours.
‘We’ll go together,’ Minou said quickly.
The three women followed Houtman’s men across the canals and alleyways to the east of the city. Behind them on Plaats, Minou could hear sounds of cheering and celebration, but she kept her eyes focused on Willem van Raay being walked to the east of the city. Her nerves were strung tight for fear their plan would fail.
They hurried across Oudezijds Voorburgwal, along Kloveniersburgwal and in the direction of Zeedijk until the familiar red towers of Sint Antoniespoort came into view. As she stood at the periphery of the square, she could see their own house calm and undisturbed in the May afternoon sunshine, but the doors of the Grey Friars cloister were wide open and she suspected the looters were already inside. The people despised them.
‘Wait,’ Minou said.
They could only watch as Willem van Raay was taken onto the footbridge over the moat, and into the gatehouse.
Cornelia let her hands drop to her side. ‘He’s gone.’
‘This is what we planned. Go with Alis to our house and wait there,’ Minou said firmly. ‘I will join you as soon as I can.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Piet and I promised to look after your father.’
‘But it’s impossible to get inside!’
Alis put her arm around Cornelia’s shoulder. ‘Come, Minou knows what to do.’
* * *
Minou pulled her bonnet low on her brow and walked quickly across the square towards Sint Antoniespoort. Contrary to Alis’s assurance, she had no idea what she was going to do next, only that it would be better to be close at hand for when Piet came. He should have been here already.
The gatehouse was surrounded by a moat, with a small flat bridge leading to the entrance. On the town side were four bulky defensive red-brick towers, with turrets like grey pointed hats. There was another gate with two towers facing towards the countryside beyond and a subterranean sluice gate, so the singing of the rushing water was always just there beneath the everyday sounds of the changing of the guard and the rattle of wooden wheels on cobbled stones.
The narrow door in the tall hexagonal tower was being guarded by the schutterij as usual. That was reassuring. Nothing in the soldiers’ demeanour gave any indication that something particular was happening inside.
Suddenly, the door was thrown open. Minou heard voices, then the younger of the two guards raised his firearm and disappeared within. In those seconds, she saw a man standing in the courtyard. Minou’s gaze took in a torn doublet, the russet-coloured hair, the prisoner’s bloody hands tied behind his back. Then the soldier jabbed the man with his musket and he turned, revealing his face to be a mass of bruises and cuts.
‘Piet!’
The door shuddered on its hinges and was bolted shut, leaving Minou standing distraught on the wrong side of the gates.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
EVREUX ESTATE, ORLÉANAIS
Many hundreds of leagues from Amsterdam, a grey afternoon in the Chartres countryside, Vidal sat and watched his son paint.
As soon as they had returned from the reliquary the previous day, Louis had provided a list of the materials he would need for Vidal’s servants. All afternoon, packages kept arriving.
Early this morning, they had repaired to Vidal’s private rooms in the manor house, where the light was good, and Louis had begun to work.
High windows from floor to ceiling ran all along one side of the rectangular chamber. On the opposite wall, paintings and gold mirrors reflected the polished oak and walnut furniture, with curtains of pale green satin and matching upholstery. It was a room for entertaining honoured guests, not an artist’s studio. All the same, it was here that Louis had asked to be allowed to work. For once, Vidal had indulged him.
‘Where did you acquire your skill?’ he asked, genuinely curious.
Louis looked up. ‘In the scriptorium of the monastery in Saint-Antonin. The monks made use of some of the older boys who showed any aptitude with a quill to save their own hands.’
‘What did they teach you?’
‘To prepare the pigments – slow, laborious work – and how to copy the letters just so.’ His face clouded over. ‘It was the only warm room in the monastery.’
‘You made yourself indispensable?’
‘It was a safer place to be than – elsewhere,’ Louis said simply, a frown flitting across his face. ‘I was allowed to have any scraps of spoiled parchment for my own.’
Vidal drained his wine, seeing his bare-headed reflection in the bottom of the empty goblet. He placed it back on the table.
‘Why did you not mention this before?’
‘I never thought it a skill worth having.’
‘Until now.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Though you continued to practise in secret.’
Louis hesitated. ‘Was that wrong?’
Vidal smiled. ‘Quite the opposite, especially when your talent is now used to the glory of God.’
Louis gave a half-smile, then picked up his brush again.
Vidal poured himself another cup of wine and drank deeply, his thoughts far away.
God had stopped listening to him many years past, a voice becoming fainter and fainter until it disappeared altogether. Possibly God had never been listening. But soon things wo
uld change. Vidal was aware how his faith, so often compromised and questioned and broken, was growing stronger again the closer he came to the grave. With the power conferred on him through his acquisition of the holiest relics, he would fulfil his ambition of creating a new Catholic order in the heart of the ancient diocese of Chartres. When it was safe to come out of the shadows once more – when Guise was dead or reduced in power – Vidal would emerge as God’s true representative on earth, without the shackles of the moribund Catholic Church. Vidal smiled. He would force God to accept him back into His grace once more.
A devout student in Toulouse twenty-five years ago, Vidal had quickly learnt that it was wealth and knowledge that mattered in the service of the Holy Mother Church, not piety. It was power that gave a man advancement. He had been quick to learn: Latin, Greek, Italian, English, Spanish, a little Hebrew. A desire never to be at the mercy of other people’s interpretations – so to be able to read scripture and holy writ for himself – made him one of the hardest-working scholars at the Collège de Foix.
Vidal had always known he was unsuited to the rigours of a life in the service of the Church but, as the son of a traitor whose assets had been seized, his prospects were poor. Vidal’s only support came from his pious uncle and without his patronage, his life wouldn’t have been worth the candle. So when his uncle expressed a desire for him to take holy orders when his studies were completed, Vidal knew he had no choice.
In those first months of his first ministry in Saint-Antonin, he had served God with sincerity and belief, though his eye was always caught by a pretty face or the illicit glimpse of an ankle. The life of the soul was considerably less appealing than the pleasures of the flesh. In those days, his conscience had troubled him. After each new transgression, he prayed for forgiveness. He chastised himself and confessed his sins. He vowed never to fall again, he made penance and renewed his vows. He imposed on himself the harshest of physical penalties and confined himself to the narrow path of virtue. But however long it lasted – until this feast day or that, sometimes longer – he’d always found himself back in a warm bed in the end.
