Читать книгу William, by the Grace of God - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 4

Table of Contents

A man was travelling through the Palatine towards the Nassau country; he rode a shabby little horse and his plain riding suit was both worn and mended, a cloak of dark blue Tabinet protected him from the March winds and a leaf hat without a buckle was pulled over his face.

He rode steadily until he came to an inn, the only house visible in all the long grey road, and there he dismounted, took his horse himself to the stable, then passed into the parlour and, going straight to the fire, warmed his hands with an air of pleasure and good humour.

Two other men were there, travellers like himself; they looked at him keenly, with suspicion, apprehension ready to change into open enmity.

One of these addressed the new-comer.

"Early in the year and late in the day to be on the road," he remarked.

"I come from France," was the answer, "business that will not wait forces me to overlook time and season."

"My name is Certain," he added, "a poor merchant from the Netherlands."

He smiled at them, advanced to the table and seated himself there, looking at his companions still with that smiling intentness.

He had revealed himself as a man of middle height, hardly yet in his full maturity, his figure and his bearing were both notably graceful, his hands extremely fine, his head was small, his complexion olive, his eyes and cropped hair brown, his beard shaved close; a muslin collar finished his ancient green suit; he wore no jewels nor ornaments; at his waist hung a short sword and a frayed leather wallet.

There was something remarkable in his appearance that caused the other two to gaze at him with undiminished curiosity.

Mynheer Certain, for his part, had soon summed up them and knew them very accurately for what they were, a French pastor of the Calvinist faith and a German clerk or shopkeeper of the poorer sort.

"You appear to doubt me," said the merchant pleasantly; he tapped on the table and when the drawer came ordered wine.

"I doubt the name you gave us," returned the French man; "who in these times travels under his own name?"

"And I," said the other, "was wondering at your nationality—from the Netherlands you say! I did not know that Alva had left any Netherlanders alive."

"A few," Mynheer Certain still smiled.

"So few that we may consider it a country lost from the world, a nation consumed with the fires of its own homesteads," he said, and he looked with a certain commiseration at the Netherlander.

"You think, then, there is no hope for my unhappy land?" asked that person.

"None," said the Calvinist. "The wrath of the Lord has unchained a devil upon them. Evil has strangled there truth and piety—as in France—where indeed can the Reformed Faith claim a foothold save in this realm of the Elector Palatine? You are of the Reformed Faith?"

"Of the Reformed Faith, yes."

The wine had been brought, and the merchant was drinking it slowly, with the relish of a tired man.

"Perhaps," said the German, "you have lost everything under Alva?"

Mynheer Certain gave his ready smile; his face, though lined with fatigue, was charming in contour and expression, and his manner was one of exquisite courtesy.

"Everything," he answered. "My property, my houses,—my son—my dignities, my revenues, my country. For I am an outlaw, an exile. Under the ban of King Philip."

"For your faith, Monsieur?" asked the Calvinsit with sympathy.

"For that, yes."

"You must hate Alva," said the German.

"Hate Alva?" repeated Mynheer Certain. "I do not know if I hate Alva—or King Philip."

"You have, then, no wish for revenge?" asked the pastor. "No wish to assist your wretched brethren, who, like you, have not only lost their all, but are under the hellish dominion of Spain?"

"Every wish," returned the merchant gently, "but no means."

"You are yourself a fugitive?" asked the pastor. "You fly, like all the persecuted, to the Court of the Elector Frederic?"

"No," said the Netherlander. "I am employed by a French house, trading in wool. I make my living."

The Calvinist regarded him with some contempt.

"You are too young to be so idle—there are men fighting for the Reformed Faith—fighting."

"Fighting in a hopeless cause," added the young German.

"So some say," said Mynheer Certain. He finished his wine and pushed back his chair. "Since Condé died at Jarnac—"

Neither of the others answered; the fatal name of Jarnac, where the Protestants had gone down to final defeat before the Catholic legions of France, silenced them.

Only the Netherlander spoke, completing his sentence.

"Who is there to take his place?"

"Coligny," said the pastor with a flash of hope.

"A great man—a helpless one," replied the merchant.

"The Prince of Nassau," said the clerk. He rose, brushing his hat with his coat sleeve.

"They are but as dust before the wind of Philip's wrath," returned the Calvinist. "And the Prince of Orange—he failed—"

"Failed so often," remarked Mynheer Certain, "failed so utterly."

"A great name once," said the German, "a great gentle man, too. I was in Leipsic when he was married to the Elector's niece."

The merchant looked at him sharply.

"You were there?"

"I, yes. I used to work for the Elector's alchemist. What an excitement that marriage was!—the Prince was Catholic then and we all thought that it was a cruelty to the Princess," he laughed. "She has proved to be a mad woman and a wanton too, they say, a disgrace to a proud family."

"Speak of what you know," reproved the merchant sternly, "the name of the Princess of Orange is not for vulgar handling."

"I speak of what all the world knows," returned the young man lightly. "A great wedding," he repeated. "I saw the Prince once, but it seems a thousand years ago—now he is an outlaw like yourself, Mynheer Certain."

"He failed; he failed!" cried the Calvinist impatiently.

"Who was he to withstand Philip?" demanded the German, clapping on his hat. "Though he had titles which would fill a parchment roll and the revenue of an Emperor—yet Philip! 'Tis the greatest king in the world, what subject of his could dream rebellion against him?"

"He of whom you speak," said the merchant quietly, "is no subject of Philip, but a sovereign ruler—Prince of Orange, by the Grace of God."

"By the Grace of God," repeated the Calvinist. "May be yet, God will use him for our deliverance, but humanly speaking I have no hope of him."

"Nor I," added the clerk. "I am due at Heidelberg—so a good evening, sir."

"A good evening," answered the merchant courteously. The Calvinist rose; a life of continual persecution had given him a furtive look; the resignation taught by his stern faith lent some dignity to an appearance of poverty and despair. He was an elderly man and all his life had known nothing but the disappointments of a losing cause, the bitterness of being one of a despised minority.

"How long, O Lord, how long?" he murmured.

He drew his cloak precisely about him and left the room; when the door had closed his heavy tread could be heard mounting to the little room that was his temporary refuge in his wanderings.

The Netherlander stood motionless by the fire; at that moment the sense of the intense unreality of life came oyez him with terrible force.

He thought of the past and time ceased to exist. The days of his prosperity, the days of his exile, moments of anguish, moments of ease mingled together in one intricate pattern, all his life seemed without period or date, a con fusion of events and emotion.

A thousand years ago seemed the marriage of the Prince of Orange, the young man had said—the Netherlander had also been in Leipsic for that ceremony—a thousand years ago—it seemed no less to him...he recalled his own past, pleasant days of gaiety, sport and jest—so utterly lost that no magic could recall them, days when the world had been normal, when all things had moved, pleasantly in their accustomed grooves, days when he had not lacked respect, companions, money, nor leisure—days such as might come into another's life, never again into his...half reluctantly his mind travelled the chaos that had followed the ending of those pleasant times, the exile, poverty, humiliation, failure—the loss of all, the country from which he was banished, the wife who had deserted him, the friends who had died or fallen away from his perilous cause.

No shadow disturbed the composure of his serene face, but the great sadness that was in his eyes deepened, and tears filled them.

With the restless movement of one in pain, he turned from the hearth to the window.

It was raining heavily; the Netherlander looked out steadily at this view of rain, wet trees and loose sky.

A word used by the stranger who had just spoken to him continually recurred to his mind—the Prince of Orange had failed.

In this moment the man looking out at the rain was acknowledging failure, accepting it, failure so complete, until he stood stripped, barren, humiliated before his enemies, a landless exile, banned and proscribed.

Again his mind travelled back to the old days. He contemplated his downfall; he remembered that at one time he had counted on happiness as a right, taken it for granted. Now that seemed to him extraordinary.

He returned to the table and took a little notebook from his pocket, looked through it and laid it down, then he brought out a handful of money, some silver pieces and one piece of gold; this was all he possessed, and taking from his wallet a sheet of paper, he began writing a letter to his brother...

"In the long coffer in my room is a suit of grey and a pair of hosen you may have mended for me—I am in sore need of these and shall thank you for your kind offices could you find a cheap small horse? I need one for a good friend of mine who at present goes a-foot, this is a very necessary thing if the means could be found."

He was penning this letter with a certain haste, as if eager to be rid of a disagreeable task, when the door of the little parlour opened. The traveller at once and swiftly put away his letter.

Voices sounded in the passage and a woman entered the room.

She wore a brown cloth riding suit and carried her wet skirts high, showing her muddied boots; the rain had draggled the long black feather in her buff hat and the locks of reddish hair that had been blown across her wind-flushed face; she was handsome in an imposing, opulent fashion, but her expression was humble and sad.

—Mynheer Certain had risen from his seat at her entry and was turning away, but the instant's glance he had of the woman caused him to pause and glance at her again.

She, entering, came face to face with him and stood arrested in all movement, her face flushing with a look of bewilderment and joy.

The innkeeper behind her began talking of her lame horse and when he might be able to procure her another. She composed herself to answer him.

"If need be I can walk to the Castle," she said, "it is so near—and—I will rest a little while—"

She stopped and began pulling off her gloves.

The landlord left, and the man and woman looked at each other again.

"You remember me?" he said gently

"I was your servant," she answered, "—but you remember me?"

"My lady's waiting-woman, the heretic maid from Dresden—Rénée le Meuny. But perhaps you have changed that name?"

"No," she was looking at him breathlessly. "Why do you speak of me? What of yourself?"

All humility and reverence were in her words; her knees trembled and her lips quivered.

"How I have prayed for your Highness," she murmured. The tears sprang to her eyes. "All these years—" He was moved at that; his sensitive nature was touched by the thought of her remembering and praying when he had forgotten her utterly until he had come face to face with her again.

"—All these years," repeated Rénée le Meuny. "You were ever very loyal," he said kindly.

"Loyal?" she answered strangely.

"Loyal," he repeated. "I remember that I noticed that quality in you—from the first."

He recalled her now very clearly, her impassiveness and reserve, her endless patience before the caprices of an intolerable mistress, the stedfastness with which she had once or twice ventured to speak to him of her persecuted faith.

"I hope all is well with you," he said, and there was a certain tenderness mingled with the usual perfect courtesy of his manner; tenderness for the past and the part Rénée le Meuny had played therein.

She did not appear to hear what he was saying, so utterly absorbed was she by the wonder of meeting him, of seeing actually before her the man who had so long occupied her thoughts.

"We think of you so much at the Castle," she said, "so much."

"You are at the Castle?"

"With the good Electress, yea. She shelters so many—your Highness is coming to the Castle?"

"I had not thought to do so," he answered. "I have no news for the Elector Palatine. I travel as Mynheer Certain—to keep in touch with some agents of mine. My eventual goal is Dillenburg."

"But you will come to Heidelberg," she said, clasping her hands nervously. "You would not pass them by—they—I—we have waited so long for news of you—so patiently."

"I have no news," he said again and turned away his tired eyes.

"Your Highness must come," she pleaded. "Oh, your Highness will come!"

She strangely tempted him—to be among friends, to snatch a few hours of ease, of comfort, why not?

It had not been his intention to ask the sympathy even of those whom he knew would offer it lovingly, but this resolve of his now faltered; something in the personality of the woman swayed him; he had long lacked the devotion of a woman in his life; lately he had met few, refined and comely as Rénée le Meuny; once such women had been as plentiful round him as the flowers in his parterres and as little noticed, now they were a rarity; he even felt grateful to this lady who looked at him in an amaze of pleasure and reverence.

"Why should I not come?" he said with a smile. "It grows dark and you will need an escort to the Castle."

"You would ride with me?" she exclaimed. He was almost startled at her tone.

"Why should I not ride with you?" he asked gently. "I was your servant, one of the least of your servants," she said.

"I am a landless man now," he answered. "I have no servants, and but few friends—make these one more, Mademoiselle."

She moved a little away from him.

"To me," she said simply, "you are always William of Orange."