The Golden Tulip (65 page)

Geetruyd had come up to her. “You should know better than to watch such abandoned behavior in public!”

“There were plenty of other sweethearts kissing and cuddling,” Clara retorted with unusual spirit. “It always happens at a kermis.”

“That’s why I disapprove of such roistering. The kermis is a tradition that should be abolished.” Her glare silenced any further expression of personal opinion by Clara, who went meekly to her room to return her posy to a vase of water.

Francesca also went to her own room. There she gazed again at the ring Pieter had bought her at the stall. It was just a pretty bauble, but its significance went deep.

C
ONSTANTIJN LOOKED AT
Aletta from under his brows as she dealt the cards for a game they were about to play. “Why haven’t you been to the kermis?”

“I wouldn’t go without you,” she replied crisply.

He was taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“Only that I would have enjoyed it if you had had the courage to escort me.” She was trying a tactic now of goading him in the hope of it having some good effect. The weeks since his parents’ visit had been painful in the extreme.

“Huh!” he shouted derisively, sorting his cards. “What a spectacle that would have made! You could have put me in the tent for the freaks and gone off to enjoy yourself in the dances and games.”

She lowered the fan of her cards to look at him angrily across the table. “Who would want to view you? You’re only a man without legs. Why do you always imagine yourself to be so special?”

“You’re damnably impertinent for a housekeeper!”

“And you are abominably rude for a master!”

He opened the play with a slapping down of a jack. It pleased him that she was never at a loss for words, even when he reduced her to this quarrelsome bickering. “How do you suggest I should have seen the entertainments of the kermis? By peeping through the drawn-down blinds of a sedan chair?” He was remembering bitterly the many kermises he had enjoyed with wild pranks and sports and the tumbling of girls.

“You could have gone on wooden legs.” She was scrutinizing the hand she held. It was the first time she had even hinted at the stump legs that had been ready for a long time, together with the crutches, which had been delivered as promised.

“Why not on stilts?” he gibed. “That would be even better.”

“I daresay you could manage that too if you had crutches that were long enough.”

He saw by her serious air that she had meant what she had said about the wooden legs, but for the past two days the distant music and noise of the kermis, which reached him through the open window, had added to his despair, reminding him he could never compete dangerously again in any test of sporting skill.

“You mean well, Aletta,” he said quietly, “but it’s not just the walking. My previous life held so much that is lost to me forever.”

“But—”

“The subject is closed. Let’s get on with this game.”

As they continued to play she knew he was as far away as ever from what she wanted most for him. He had not yet forgotten the woman he loved. Maybe Isabella, by breaking off the betrothal when he had needed her most, had also broken him forever.

A
T
H
AARLEM
H
UIS
, Pieter puzzled over the message from Gerard that he had received that evening. It asked him to be in a certain place in Haarlem’s St. Bavo Church at an early-afternoon hour the next day and no reason was given. For a wild moment he had hoped he might see Francesca there, but he realized almost immediately that such a happening was highly unlikely.

He rode into Haarlem the following afternoon with ten minutes in hand. He hitched his horse to a post by the Butchers’ Hall and removed his hat as he entered the huge church, its quietness falling over him like a cloak. An old woman in black sat in meditation on a distant bench and there was another in the little Dog Whippers’ Chapel, so named for those of that trade, who had made it their own in the past when employed by the church to keep out troublesome dogs. Neither the two women nor a stranger, who stood looking down at Frans Hals’s stone, paid him any attention as he went by. He tried to be as quiet as possible, but inevitably the heels of his riding boots made some sound.

At the end of the church he came to the Bread Bench, by which he had been asked to wait. It was here in times gone by that Guild members had once sat and from which they had distributed bread among the poor after the services. He whiled away the time by studying the carving, which was a masterpiece of medieval craftsmanship. When footsteps approached leisurely he expected to see Gerard, but instead it was the stranger whom he had seen earlier, coming to view the historic bench. As good manners demanded, they bowed their heads to each other.

“What a treasure the church has here,” the stranger said, placing a hand on the old wood. He was about Pieter’s own height, similarly athletic in build, with sandy hair, a thin mustache and a small pointed beard. “Don’t you agree, Heer van Doorne?”

Pieter raised an eyebrow in surprise. “You know me?”

“It was at my request that Gerard Meverden arranged for you to be here.” The man indicated that they should keep their voices low, which they were doing to a degree in any case, being in a holy place. “Let us stroll together about this church as we talk and appear to be looking at everything of interest. My name is Paulus van Roos.”

“What is your business with me?”

“It is not mine. I’m only the messenger. The duty with which I have been entrusted is to put two questions to you. The first is to ask if you would risk your life for our Prince and the freedom of our country.”

“I have already dedicated myself to that purpose by my oath taken when I enlisted as a reservist in the militia. Before you ask me anything else I have a right to know who sent you and to what purpose.”

Van Roos stopped as if to study a Spanish cannonball on display, a relic of the siege of Haarlem during the war with Spain. “Ah! May those days never come again.”

“It’s not Spain we have to fear but France!” Pieter commented strongly.

“Precisely!” Van Roos looked piercingly at him. “I have heard a clarion call to that effect in a voice that has been hushed far too long.”

Pieter released a slow breath. So the twenty-two-year-old Prince Willem of Orange was about to assert himself at last against those who had long dominated Dutch political affairs. “Ask your other question.”

“Can you be in Amsterdam tomorrow evening?”

“I can.”

“Then go to the Margere bridge at nightfall. A boat will be waiting.”

“How shall I know which is the one?”

“I’ll be watching out for you. Now I bid you good day.”

Van Roos strolled away and when Pieter judged him to be gone from the church he left too. He did not ride straight home, but went first to Gerard’s house, only to learn that his friend had left that morning on a business trip and it was not known when he would return, as he traveled around so much.

Turning his horse for home, Pieter thought about the Prince, who had listened to the call of the people and had been waiting astutely until the time was right. Born a month after his father’s death, reputed to be wise and intelligent beyond his years, he had been kept in the background while Johan de Witt, an admirable man in himself, straightforward and honest, had done much good for the country over a long period of time, but he no longer held the people’s trust regarding his dealings with France. It would soon be the Prince’s hour.

Pieter had a number of business matters to settle before he left for Amsterdam, having no idea how long he might have to stay there, and he worked late into the night and again in the morning before leaving his manager in charge. When he arrived at his city house Vrouw de Hout was surprised to see him, not having expected him for another two weeks. She fussed about, lighting the fire in the drawing room and apologizing for not having done so previously.

“I never come in here except to clean when you’re away,” she explained, “and there’s not much in the house for dinner.”

“Don’t concern yourself,” he said, sitting down with his long legs stretched out before him. It was good to relax and warm himself by the first flickering flames. “Anything will do, but I would like to eat as soon as possible. I have to go out again at nightfall.”

That made her fuss more than ever. He heard the copper pans clattering in the kitchen. Before long she served him a perfectly adequate meal of leek soup followed by fish and rounded off with candied fruit and a selection of cheese. She would have served him coffee too, but he declined it.

“There’s no time. It’s getting dark already.” He rose from the table. “I’m unsure of my plans. I may be back tonight and I may not.”

It was a black night without a star. Pieter carried a lantern and the pale yellow rays caused the rain-wet cobbles to sparkle underfoot. He followed the streets that took him to the bridge. He was not going on this expedition unarmed, but had a pistol in his belt and a sword at his hip. It was a simple precaution against being set upon by robbers on the way and any unexpected danger that might arise through this curious meeting. The canals glinted gold in the reflected light of the windows and passing candle lamps. As he approached the bridge van Roos came from an archway.

“This way,” he said without greeting, leading Pieter to some old stone steps not far from the bridge that led down to the canal. A boat was waiting, a man at the oars. Pieter took a seat, followed by van Roos. There was no conversation between them. The oars dipped in and out of the water until they came alongside one of the rear doorways common to houses backing onto canals, which gave access to either boat or sleigh according to the season.

It was opened to them. Van Roos motioned for Pieter to enter the house first and then went in after him. A manservant with a silver candlestick went ahead down a gray-and-white-tiled corridor. Even without the light flickering on tapestries and gilt-framed paintings Pieter would have known himself to be in a house of some grandeur. Wealth had an aroma all its own.

When they reached a pair of double doors he and van Roos were shown through into a richly furnished room, which was illumined by sconces shaped like hands, holding candles out from the paneled walls. Two men were talking together and they turned as Pieter and his companion entered. One was unknown to Pieter, but the other, young and tall with a brown-eyed, longish face, was instantly recognizable from prints and coinage. Pieter, sweeping off his hat, made a low bow to the Prince of Orange.

“Your servant, always, Your Highness!”

“We bid you welcome, Heer van Doorne.” The Prince moved to a carved chair and sat down. “This is an informal occasion and we appreciate your willingness to engage in a difficult and perilous task on our behalf. You are one of several loyal Dutchmen specially chosen to help smash the spy ring that the French King has established through-out the states of Holland. Our navy is strong but, as he knows, our army is in a shambles and our defenses are weak and so he will attack by land. While there is still time left to amend whatever is possible and enlist foreign aid, we need to weed out his treacherous agents before word can get to Versailles as to what is afoot. It is essential to my plan that neither he nor anyone in de Witt’s party has any inkling of the preparations I shall be making against him.”

“How may I serve?”

“By concentrating on the district of Delft. It is believed the French agents have a headquarters there and that is what you are to uncover. We trust your caution and your judgment. You will be given a contact, a man already known to you, who has done some preliminary work. He will pass on to our intelligence section all you find out.”

Pieter had no doubt it would be Gerard with whom he would be working and who must have recommended him. “I have a particular interest already in Delft.”

The Prince smiled slightly. “We are well aware of that. The young lady is the daughter of the artist Hendrick Visser. You have been maintaining a degree of secrecy when you have been in the town previously, but that has to change. Now you will establish and man a stall in the market square and you will be seen selling your tulip bulbs as soon as it is seasonable. Meanwhile you can advertise yourself as a designer of fine parks and gardens. Let nobody doubt who you are. Frequent the hostelries and pothouses, gain an entrée into richer homes, always keeping an ear open for anything that might give you a lead. You must use your discretion as to how much Juffrouw Visser should know about your work. We were originally against her being informed of anything, but the same loyal patriot who spoke for you also recommended her as a young woman of discretion, who comes from a family known as determined supporters of independence.”

“I should be putting her in greatest danger,” Pieter said, concerned. “She is under threat of incarceration already if she should ever be seen with me.”

“It will be up to your initiative to see that what you fear does not come about. You have been successful to date. We feel sure you will do well in the duty we have assigned to you.”

“I’m honored to serve the House of Orange and my country.”

“Well said.” The Prince rose from his chair and stood for his equerry to take up his cloak and put it about his broad shoulders. “Heer van Roos will tell you everything else you wish to know. May God speed you on your mission.”

Pieter bowed again. He turned to van Roos as soon as they were on their own. “Certainly there are a number of things I want to know.”

“Yes, of course. Sit down.” Van Roos went to a decanter of wine, beside which were four glasses, two already used by the Prince and his equerry. “This has been left for our refreshment and I’m sure you could do with it.”

“Is this not your house, then?”

“No. Neither does it belong to the Prince. It is the city home of someone sympathetic to our cause.” Van Roos handed Pieter a glass of wine and sat down with his own. “It should be a relief to you to be able to go openly to Delft.”

“There are two ways of looking at that.”