The Golden Tulip (17 page)

She heeded his advice and took a side street that she did not normally use. What had been said stayed with her. She and her father and sisters and many friends were all with those who wanted to keep the country free of foreign domination. Previously few would have faulted the governing of the states of Holland by the Pensionary, Johan de Witt, who had shouldered the burden when Willem II had died a month before his heir was born. But it had gradually become apparent that de Witt was not standing out against the overtures of Louis XIV of France as firmly as was wished by all the people except the important burghers and the powerful merchants, who feared for their fortunes in the event of war. Hopes that the twenty-year-old prince, Willem III, might speak out on the people’s behalf had come to nothing, and yet it was said that he distrusted Louis, whom he saw as Holland’s most fearsome enemy.

Francesca’s route took her through a narrow alleyway. She was halfway along it when she heard running feet and the din of raised voices, which meant the mob must have changed direction and was somewhere nearby. She hesitated, not sure whether to go on or to turn back, for by some trick of the alleyway’s acoustics the noise seemed to be coming from both ends of the passageway. Then she saw that this was in fact the case. Ahead of her the yelling crowd was in full pursuit of a terror-stricken young man in a torn coat, his hair awry, who was racing toward her, while over her shoulder she saw a band of the local Civil Guard in gray with wide-brimmed hats and broad sashes coming at a run from behind her. In spite of the din she could hear the shouts from the mob, which told her the cause of the fugitive’s fright.

“Catch the French spy! Throw him in the canal! Get him!”

As the young man passed her she looked back again and saw he was making for the protection of the guards. She herself was trapped in the middle of what was going to be a violent and bloody clash! Feeling as terrified as the fugitive, she darted for the entrance of a warehouse. The doors were locked and she pressed herself against them, clutching her basket close. She saw the guards part to let the young man through their ranks and then they closed together in a phalanx. The captain fired a pistol into the air, shouting for the crowd to halt. A few in front did pause briefly, but they were thrust onward by those at the back and the surge forward continued, the mob intent on its prey. So great was the pressure in the narrow alleyway that when the yelling horde came past Francesca her basket was knocked from her arm and she herself was caught up like flotsam on the sea, forced to run with them or be trampled underfoot. She heard pistol shots ring out, but it appeared the firing was still into the air, for nobody fell. Then she was in a maelstrom of fighting men, civilians and the guards in a tumult of shouts and curses, her own screams among them. Suddenly a man, felled by a bludgeon, staggered against her. She screamed again as she felt herself going down with him. Then a strong hand grabbed her wrist, almost wrenching her arm from its socket, and she was clutched hard against a Civil Guard’s thick leather jacket. She was half lifted, half swung off her feet as he thrust her through his own ranks out into safety beyond the alleyway. A moment later she saw it was Pieter who had saved her.

“Are you all right?” he demanded almost angrily.

She nodded, unable to speak. A combatant’s elbow had thudded into her breast as he had hauled her through the melee and she felt sick with pain. Pieter smoothed her disheveled hair back from her face and saw there was blood on her forehead. “Listen to me. My house is in the street running parallel with this one. It has crimson shutters and an oak door with a bronze knocker. Go there! My housekeeper will look after you.”

Then he was gone, running back into the scrum, and she saw she was being stared at by people who had gathered quickly to watch what was going on from a safe distance. A motherly-looking woman came forward and put an arm around her. “I’ll help you there.”

At the house the woman banged the knocker and saw her safely into the care of the housekeeper, who did not make the least fuss. It might have been every day that a girl with a torn sleeve, bleeding forehead and loosened tresses appeared on the stoop.

“I’m Vrouw de Hout,” she said as she removed Francesca’s cloak and sat her on a chair by the fire in a comfortable parlor that was very light and bright with red curtains at the window and a black-and-white-tiled floor. “I’ll get some water to bathe your wound and then we’ll see if you need to have it bound.”

The blood was stemmed with some clean linen, for it was simply a deep scratch from somebody’s sleeve button. The pain in her breast subsided, although she supposed it would be bruised, and she was given a brush and comb with which to redress her hair. A cup of hot chocolate completed the treatment. Throughout this procedure Vrouw de Hout, who was a middle-aged cheerful-looking woman, chatted, saying that she was a widow and this position of housekeeper suited her very well, because both her married daughters lived in Amsterdam and she was able to see her grandchildren quite often. When Francesca asked about Pieter being in the Civil Guard, she was told that he was in the reserve and fulfilled so many hours of duty a year.

“He joined for three years when he bought this house. It’s a community service and also he enjoys the social side. The rule is that the officers of any militia corps may not hold more than one banquet a month at their headquarters, but the eating and drinking goes on for two or three days. Not that he is able to attend more than about once in two months, because he is often in Haarlem or—to be more accurate—at his house and bulb fields, which lie a short distance from that town.”

“I know. I visited there last autumn.”

“I’ve not been there myself. Now how do you feel?”

“Much better and rested.” Her private regret was that she had lost that precious piece of salted beef, which would have fed the family at dinner for two nights and would have made a good broth for two or three meals more.

“I think you should wait here for Heer van Doorne to return,” Vrouw de Hout said quite firmly. “I’ll look out and see if there is any sign of him.”

Francesca was in no hurry to leave. She hoped that Pieter had suffered no injury and she would like to see him to be sure, as well as to thank him for his timely rescue. Vrouw de Hout returned to the parlor. “We can carry on talking for a while yet,” she said, drawing a chair closer to the fire. “My own parlor is on an upper floor, which is virtually a little apartment all to myself. I’d like to show it to you sometime in the future when you are feeling stronger.”

“I’m not feeling in the least weak, I do assure you. It was a shock to be in such a frightening situation, but I’ve recovered from that now.”

“You did indeed have a lucky escape.”

“I hope nobody was seriously injured.”

Vrouw de Hout looked across to the window as a shadow passed across it. “We shall soon know. I believe that is Heer van Doorne now.”

She hurried to the front door and Francesca heard Pieter’s voice. Rising from her chair, she stood facing the door. As he entered the room he smiled to see her on her feet. He had lost his hat, but seemed unharmed.

“I’m glad to see you recovered, Francesca!”

“And I to see you safe. Whatever was the cause of the attack on that young man?”

“He was a Frenchman drinking in a tavern and boasting of the size of his king’s armies. Several Dutchmen there took offense and one accused him of being a spy for Louis. A ridiculous suggestion, of course, as no genuine spy would openly proclaim his allegiance, but in the people’s present mood it was like a match to tinder, and after a scuffle the Frenchman took flight. The cry of ‘French spy’ was taken up and more joined in the chase. He’s recovering now in a safe house and I’ve a feeling he will be leaving Amsterdam at nightfall.”

She had sat down again and he took the seat that his housekeeper had vacated, she not having returned to the room after seeing him into the house.

“I can’t thank you enough for having come to my rescue.”

“I must say I could scarcely believe my eyes when I saw you in the midst of that battling throng.”

“Were many people badly hurt?”

“There were a few cracked heads and broken limbs, but nobody was killed.”

“How many hours of duty do you do?”

“The rota is flexible for someone such as myself who has business commitments in another city. These corps of militia were formed for a serious purpose in the days when our forebears were fighting the Spanish, but now we are local keepers of the peace with few calls on our arms. Pray God it remains so.”

“Do you take the French threat seriously?”

“I’m afraid I do. In my opinion Louis is too set on expanding his borders to listen to placating words from de Witt. Nevertheless, no Frenchman shall be mobbed in the streets of our cities and this case today is the first we have had to deal with.”

“I hope it is the last.”

“So do I.” He gave her a broad smile. “Especially if there’s any danger of your getting involved again. I might not be at hand another time.”

She smiled in turn. “I should be getting home now.”

He was on his feet again. “I’ll take you. Allow me a minute to fetch another hat.”

When they arrived at her home she took him at once to her father, knowing that he would wish to thank him too. Hendrick was horrified to hear of the danger to which his daughter had been exposed and full of gratitude to Pieter for saving her. He would have sent for wine, but Pieter insisted he had to report back to the militia headquarters immediately. Hendrick saw him to the door, still repeating his grateful thanks, while Pieter bowed his farewell, giving Francesca an intense look as he left.

After telling Maria there was no salt beef for dinner that evening and seeing Griet, who was also in the kitchen, go without a word to take some vegetables from the cellar for soup instead, Francesca went up to her bedchamber to change her torn garments. She was shaken to realize that it was not her escape from being trampled by the mob that was foremost in her mind, but the look in Pieter’s eyes as he turned to go down the street.

As Willem had anticipated, it proved difficult to find a buyer for the painting of
The Beggar and the Jewel.
It was one of Hendrick’s best works, equal to
The Goddess of Spring,
making it one of those tantalizing brushes against genius that had punctuated Hendrick’s career. But the picture was completely lacking in public appeal. The beggar’s suffering was too acute, the starkness of his misery creating unease even in the least sensitive of those who viewed it. Willem was himself aware of the painting’s power to disturb. It was a picture too uncomfortable for anyone to live with, and although several serious collectors considered it, they still turned away without making an offer. Others covered their inner reactions by objecting to the size of the jewel, as he had known they would in any case, but for once Willem knew that Hendrick had been right and he himself had been wrong. The very blatantness of the gem accentuated the torment of the starving man unable to grasp it. Eventually he sold the painting for a paltry sixty florins, knowing it to be hugely undervalued, but on a personal level he was thankful to get it out of his house.

Still
The Goddess of Spring
remained veiled in his gallery. He had removed all the paintings previously displayed there into another room, where they could be viewed equally well. By letting Hendrick’s painting be on its own the mystique was increased and its importance emphasized. Yet he knew he must not let his ploy run on too long, and he judged the exact time to have come when he could let those who had made the six best offers for it come to the gallery in turn. With luck he would only have to show it to one. He sent an invitation to the first on the list, a gentleman who lived in the grandest residential area in Amsterdam on Heerengracht, the Gentlemen’s Canal, which was also known as the Golden Bend as a mark of the wealth of those who lived there.

I
N THE SHADOWS
of Willem’s gallery a well-dressed man in a wide-brimmed hat and sweeping blue cloak, holding a fashionably tall cane, stood waiting impatiently for the first sight of the painting that was hidden by the curtain drawn across it, as valuable works often were when there was need to protect them in a sunny room. Here in the gallery the shutters were closed today, candles giving some illumination, for the art dealer intended to reveal the painting in the full light of day with increasing drama.

“Pray sit down,
mijnheer,
” Willem invited, knowing full well how to prolong suspense.

Ludolf van Deventer took the large chair set squarely in front of the curtained work of art, watched the art dealer go without haste to the first shutter and fumed inwardly at the deliberate dawdling. For weeks he had been intrigued by the talk of this work that might, or might not, be sold. He had wanted to make it his from the first hearsay. Greed was in his whole nature, possessions all-important to him, such as often happens with those who have started life with nothing. His offers to purchase the painting unseen had been turned down each time, increasing his determination to have it. With all knowledgeable Amsterdam speculating about this new Flora, it would give him increased prestige to become its owner, an important factor being that it was by an artist of the same city and he needed to play up his interest in all things Dutch. This was not the time for him, a Dutchman born and bred, to reveal in any way his secret allegiance to France. No matter that everything French was increasingly fashionable, a trend he had followed earlier than most, he had too much at stake not to be seen as a staunch patriot. Anonymously he was even trying to trace a collection of old Dutch paintings that he had sold very foolishly ten years before.

At the same time he continued to associate with those wealthy burghers and merchants favoring friendship with Louis XIV. Naturally they were fearful of war, wanting to maintain their prosperity at all costs. Yet they were fools! Did they imagine that a Catholic king as strong and autocratic as Louis would not weigh them down with taxes or let their Protestant ways remain unchanged and undominated? Ordinary Dutch people, jealous of their freedom and willing to fight for it, spoke openly of the French menace, but they had no one in authority to voice their viewpoint and their threat to Louis was minimal.