Wings over Delft (12 page)

The lush fertility of Heer Boerhaeve’s allotment could be traced to an impressive pile of manure beside his tool shed. A texture like rich fruitcake was revealed where the gardener had cut into it. A wisp of vapour rose from the exposed face, a reminder to Louise that the evenings were getting cooler; time was running out. She shivered. A second whistle shrilled somewhere not far away. Pieter seemed nervous and kept glancing about him.

‘I’ll go and get it,’ he said, climbing on to the pile, holding an old wooden spade that seemed to be reserved for
manuring
. He came back carrying a deep jar. ‘This is our cow,’ he said as he lifted the lid. Louise leant forward to see, and wrinkled her nose. Above the deep smell of dung wafted the astringent smell of vinegar.

‘Why keep it in a dung heap?’ she asked, as Pieter reached into the jar and drew out a coiled sheet of lead. A thin paste of pure white pigment was creeping from it. Louise hastily slipped the flan dish underneath to catch it.

‘Mistress Kathenka can’t stand the smell of vinegar, and the manure keeps it warm, winter or summer,’ Pieter
explained
as he carefully scraped the coating of white lead from the surface of the sheet into the dish. ‘That’s it,’ he said as he finished, ‘the cow’s milked.’ As he straightened himself up, another whistle echoed through the
allotments
. A frown crossed Pieter’s face. Quickly he thrust the coil of lead back into the jar and splashed some more
vinegar
on it. ‘Let’s get you home,’ he said, as much to himself as to her.

They closed the gate and set off for the Doelen. Pieter took Louise by the arm and hurried her along, occasionally glancing over his shoulder. His anxiety was infectious; when a fourth whistle rang out Louise found herself
copying
him, but it was too dark to see clearly now. When they reached her door, she said, ‘Safe home.’

‘Close the door,’ he said shortly, and hurried off into the failing light.

These were old terrors for Pieter. It was a relief to have Louise safe and out of the way. He remembered only too clearly from school how the older boys would pick on an unpopular child and harass him by whistling. The game was that the boy should never see or identify the whistler. Occasionally it ended in an attack. ‘Pieter the puppet’ had often been the target. He wasn’t brave, and they knew it, so he had had his share of misery and bruises from this cruel sport. He walked rapidly; the canals and alleyways were black cracks in the night, full of menace. He should have brought a cover for the dish of white paint that seemed to glow like a full moon in his hands.

The first missile hit him between the shoulder blades with a soft thud. To his relief it wasn’t a stone; dung
perhaps
. The whistles were closer now, shorter and sharper, aggressive little darts of sound. Another object hit him, on the shoulder this time. He hunched over the precious paint. There were whistles ahead of him, and a clot of something soft and wet struck him on the forehead and fell into the
paint. He had no time to fish for it; he hid the dish in a
doorway
and started to run. The whistles were on all sides now, mocking, imitating the huntsman’s call, ‘away, away’. The next missile hit Pieter on the forehead and it was not soft; blood trickled down his face. Then they were all around him and jabs of pain burst out of the dark. He was a small boy again. He pitched forward onto his knees and wrapped his arms around his head, defending himself as best he could. Nothing was said – the blows did the talking. He could smell their sweat. They weren’t tanners, or brewers either; both had their distinctive smells. Feet shuffled, there was the occasional grunt as the blows fell. Then came a low whistle from nearby. Immediately the beating stopped, and soft shod feet ran off into the distance. Slowly, cautiously, like a hedgehog unwinding from its ball, Pieter straightened up and parted his hands. He must retrieve the paint and get home. But he wasn’t alone. His stomach tightened. Although there was no movement, he knew there was someone there; a mere thickening of the darkness above him. His scalp crawled. A draft of air that had found its way into the town via the Oosterport and up the canal wafted past the looming figure above him and blew gently across Pieter’s face. He breathed in and sniffed. Was that scent? It was the merest whiff. He tried to place it. What did it
remind
him of? Where had he smelled it before? Then he
remembered
. Of course – The Hague – young bloods, disembarking from foreign parts, seeking to impress their sweethearts. Older men impressing their wives with the scent of travel. It was the smell of musk, and Pieter knew, as
much by intuition as anything else, who was standing above him – Reynier DeVries. The fury of the bullied child boiled inside Pieter, and so he did just what his opponent expected him to do; he began to rise. All he wanted to do was to get his hands on his tormentor’s neck and wring …

‘Oooof!’ The kick went straight to Pieter’s stomach; it had been aimed lower. The wind left his lungs and he rolled over, retching and gasping. The cobbles tilted and his hands tried to find a drunkard’s grip on the world. Then he was sick.

When he came to, the stars winked clear in the sky, the menace was gone; so also was the scent of musk.

In the studio the following day Louise noticed Peter’s bruises. At first, she accepted his explanation: he had cut his forehead and bruised his face when he had blundered into a tree the night before. But when he turned his back and she saw the round marks on his jerkin, she became suspicious.
‘Pieter, what are the marks on your back?’

‘Marks? Oh, I don’t know … nothing.’ But Louise held him with one hand, while she rubbed the cloth between her fingers.

‘That’s clay,’ she said. ‘It’s pottery clay… I know the feel.’ She turned him around. Now she saw the bruising on his face in a different light. She noticed how he had difficulty in standing straight. ‘Pieter …’ she demanded. ‘What really happened last night? Were you attacked?’

‘Oh, it was just the whistling game … like old times.’ He shrugged unhappily. ‘I seem to amuse them.’ Louise stared at him and saw the pain that he was trying to conceal. Rage boiled inside her, rage that someone had dared to lay a
finger
on Pieter of all people. He was
hers
, even if she couldn’t have him. Who were these petty people who had stooped to this? She felt like a lioness protecting her young; she wanted to roar. Instead she spun away from him and went to look out of the window. Her anger subsided slowly. Beatings were not uncommon in the town, but they were usually between rival gangs. Why would the pottery people pick on Pieter? Then a new thought occurred to her. Were the pottery apprentices setting themselves up as guardians of her virtue? She turned and confronted Pieter, her face flaming.

‘Pieter, was it because of me?’ He made a vague gesture that infuriated her further; if it was about her, then she had a right to know. ‘Tell me!’ she demanded. ‘It’s something to do with Reynier, isn’t it?’

Pieter made no reply. He hung his head, avoiding eye contact.

‘I tell you, Pieter, whether I am to marry Reynier, or not, is
my
business. No one has any right to appoint himself as my guardian or raise a hand against you or any friend on my account. Tell me. Reynier gets back at the end of the month, but I need the truth now. Did they mention my name to you, or say anything about Reynier?’

He looked at her then and she saw in his mouth a bitter twist she had never seen before.

‘No, Miss Louise.’ She didn’t believe him, but she had to. He turned his back on her and walked stiffly away to the far end of the studio. She knew she was not to follow.

Pieter had kept his mouth closed, but he could not quite close his mind. Reynier was back, of that he was certain. Why hadn’t he been in touch with Louise? For all that Kathenka said that they were not betrothed, it was obvious that they were destined for each other. Everyone knew that the potteries were about to merge, surely that implied that the inheritance was worked out? Pieter had known that this summer would have to end, that Louise would eventually go back to her own class and kind. He had been prepared for that, but he hadn’t expected to be singled out as a rival. It was ludicrous: he, Pieter Kunst, a rival to Reynier DeVries! Surely his fate was to be just one of those faces that artists paint into the crowd about the Virgin, adoring, committed, but totally insignificant. Now it was as if the artist’s brush had touched him, painting in that extra intensity of light and colour, that subtle shift of focus. Pieter Kunst was in the frame. He might ache all over, but if this was what his regard for Louise required, he would stand up, he would be counted. He smiled grimly at the slumped knight in his suit of armour and then set about painfully clearing up the mess from yesterday’s accident with the cinnabar red.

Pieter remained secluded at the back of the studio, and the Master was busily poking at a clot of clay that he had found in the white lead. Louise took the opportunity to slip away. She went down the steep stairs and through the Markt, following the route she had taken with Pieter that spring day when they had stood together on the walls. She halted on the high-arched little bridge behind the Nieuwe Kerk and watched the autumn leaves turning slowly in the still waters of the canal. The more she thought about it, the more certain she was that the attack on Pieter had to do with her, but why? She gazed at the floating leaves and something in the pattern they made prompted her memory. She was seeing, as if in the clear water below, a bonneted figure – Annie for sure – disappearing into an archway down among the potteries. What had Annie been doing there that day, and why? Today was Saturday. Annie went to visit friends on Saturday, so as not to desecrate the Sabbath with frivolities, but she’d be back for dinner. Louise would have to sit on her hands till then.

When dinner came, however, none of the family seemed inclined to conversation. Louise, Father, Annie, all were
preoccupied with their thoughts. Mother’s place at the table was vacant – as was usual now – and it drew their eyes like a lodestone, leaving them feeling empty, unable to rejoice or to mourn. Louise toyed with her food, waiting for Father to get up and leave her alone with Annie, but he did not go. In fact, it was Annie who was showing signs of leaving first. Louise gripped the edge of the table, her carefully prepared accusations suddenly deserting her, but she had to speak.

‘Annie!’ she said. ‘The night before last Pieter Kunst was attacked on his way home. It was pottery apprentices that did it. I know because they pelted him with potter’s clay.’ Father looked up; he was curious, but Louise kept her eyes on Annie, whose mouth was pursing into a tight flower of self-righteousness. Annie knew something.

‘Well, that wouldn’t hurt him,’ she said primly.

‘No, Annie, but the fists and stones that followed did!’

‘I never –’ Annie sounded indignant. Louise was on to her in a flash.

‘You never what?’ She dared not take her eyes off her. ‘I saw you down at DeVries’s pottery with your stick and your bonnet. You were arranging something … ?’ She had her old nurse cornered. Annie might scheme, but she could never lie.

Annie’s reaction took Louise completely by surprise. Suddenly the old woman’s face went from white to scarlet. Her head began shaking like a turkey cock, trembling with indignation.

‘But you are betrothed!’

‘No, Annie,’ Louise returned. ‘I am
not
betrothed, nor am I engaged, nor am I promised to anyone. It may be my
intention to marry Reynier DeVries, but engaged to him I am not!’ She tried to speak calmly; she was now quite alarmed for Annie’s health.

But Annie’s reply showed no sign of weakness. ‘You are taking advantage of the poor boy just because he is in
foreign
parts, and about his father’s business, what’s more.’

‘Wrong again Annie! He went away because
I
was
undecided
at his proposal and
I
was unable to give him the answer he wanted. It was nothing to do with his father. He went to free
me
from the rumours that were sweeping the town. And now I want to know who started these rumours.’

‘You…you hussy. You
are
promised to him. He told me so himself. He said I was to look after you while he was away. Oh shame on me, that I thought you were safe with Master Haitink. How was I to know that you would start consorting with that … that shambling half-wit.’

‘
Stop!
’ Father’s voice slashed between them like a sabre. Louis winced and mentally stepped back. Andraes Eeden had been a notable swordsman in his youth but this was no practice blade that quivered between them now; his eyes spoke of sharpened steel and made a mockery of his smiling moustaches. Louise had never before been the
subject
of that look, and she did not like it. When he spoke again, her father’s voice was icy.

‘Annie is right, Louise. Cornelis DeVries, who is an
honourable
man, will confirm exactly what she has said. Reynier has informed him that you and he
are
engaged, that you have accepted him. You are his fiancée, Louise.’

In the silence of the room, Louise could hear the blood
hissing in her ears. She couldn’t understand it. This was more than just a rumour. She dared to argue.

‘But, Father, why has Reynier gone to Italy?’

‘He went, as Annie has said, because he was sent. It was planned for months, albeit with some secrecy; he has been visiting the Majolica potteries in Florence. He will inherit the DeVries pottery in due course, he must therefore know the opposition, it is part of his apprenticeship.’

‘Majolica potteries?’ murmured Louise. ‘So it was just a pretence that he was going away for my sake?’

‘If that is what he said, it was not just a pretence, it was a lie!’ Still the swordsman’s eye was on her.

‘But, Father, did you never wonder that he did not come to you to ask you for my hand?’

‘I did indeed, but Cornelis told me that Reynier thought it best that your engagement should await his safe return. If something were to happen to him on his travels, you would not then be compromised.’ Here Father stopped. He was looking at her, willing her to tell the truth, even if it would cut him to the bone. If she deviated one hair’s breadth from the truth she would be cut down, lost in his esteem,
probably
forever. His voice was measured. ‘Louise … Daughter … is it or is it not true that Reynier DeVries has asked you to marry him?’

This question was easy. ‘It is true, Father,’ she heard herself whisper.

On the other side of the table Annie emitted a little click of satisfaction. It sounded to Louise like a key being turned in a lock. She remained focused on her father. He seemed
to be having difficulty with his voice for the next question, inevitable now.

‘Louise, have you then accepted the proposal of Reynier DeVries?’

It was time for the lie. In one word she could realise Father’s dreams and give Mother the comfort of knowing that she was married. This was what Reynier had gambled on, wasn’t it? She could hear his voice, so reasonable in her ear, “…for your Father’s sake … his dream… your Mother…” All that was needed was for her to say ‘yes’. But then she was hearing another voice – a woman’s. “… if there’s not something to be put right here I’m not Kathenka Haitink,” and Louise whispered: ‘No.’ Then more strongly in case he had not heard, ‘
No
.’

For what seemed an age she could feel Father’s eyes searching her, looking for any sign of weakness, any telltale cock of defiance that would betray a lie, but she didn’t care now. She wasn’t defiant, just numb. She realised that he was speaking to her then, softly as if to a grown child, but
behind
his words there was a terrible anger.

‘Then you are the victim of a cruel deception, my child. Until I know the reason for this, you are to regard your engagement to Reynier as in abeyance. I forbid you to meet, or speak, or communicate with Reynier DeVries!’

She gazed at him in confusion. What was he talking about? How could she speak with Reynier, who was in the middle of the Mediterranean? She never wished to speak with Reynier again in her life. In a little while her heart would be singing; she was free. But didn’t Father realise
that it was he who was the loser in all this?

‘But Father … the potteries, the business … your dream. Freedom to do the fine work you love… surely that’s over. It was dependent on my marriage to Reynier, wasn’t it? The loss isn’t mine. It is not my dream that has gone, but yours.’ She looked up, prepared to share his disappointment. What she saw both astonished and disturbed her. His face was working … Had it really meant so much to him? She should have lied. He began to speak but didn’t finish. There was a crash as his chair fell over backwards and then he was on his feet and coming around the table to her. He took her shoulders.

‘My dear Louise … do you mean?… But I think you do … that you were prepared to take Reynier for my sake? So that our potteries could merge and I’d be free?’

Louise struggled for an answer. ‘I…I thought he was
different
– honourable at least. It seemed the only way to make everyone happy.’ Her eyes blurred. She was past
dissembling
now; she had done her bit. She reached up for him like a little girl. ‘Father, am I free now?’

His arms closed around her, just as Pieter’s had that day when the beaker burst. As if from miles away she heard the door close as Annie left the room.

Louise fidgetted over her breakfast, moving the food around on her plate, but eating nothing. Why, oh why, did it have to be a Sunday, the one day when she had neither excuse nor reason to visit the studio? She had gone to sleep
in a happy delirium, rehearsing what she would say to Pieter in the morning, but now her confidence was evaporating. Pieter meant everything to her, but did she mean anything to him? Why would she? She remembered, with despair, how he had reacted after their visit to the Begijnhof gate, when she had asked him if he liked her. He had frozen up as if she had trespassed on his life.

Sudden bursts of suppressed rage at Reynier would sweep over her, but these just left her feeling exhausted and unfulfilled. She wondered if she had a fever. She
usually
went to church in the Nieuwe Kerk, chiefly to please Annie, but she would not go today. Breakfast was nearly over, but Annie had not come down to join her and Father. If anyone had charges to answer, it was Annie. It
must
have been she who had spread Reynier’s lies about their
engagement
. Had she really set the apprentices on poor Pieter?

As if Louise’s thoughts had conjured her out of the air, the door opened and Annie stepped into the room. She was dressed for church: black taffeta dress and black apron, plain white cuffs, and a black skullcap with modest wings. She looked at the ground.

‘Master, I wish to speak.’ To Louise’s certain knowledge Annie had never, ever, asked anyone for permission to speak; she just spoke her mind with puritanical directness. A moment before, she would have wished Annie to enter on her knees, now she was quite shocked.

‘Louise, perhaps you would leave us for a moment,’ Father said quietly.

But this was not what Annie had in mind.

‘No, Master. Miss Louise should hear what I have to say.’ Was there something in Annie’s voice that suggested that her old nurse was not quite the penitent she appeared to be?

‘Master … Mistress Louise, I owe you an apology.’ Her hands, which were clasped modestly across her front, seemed to be having a battle with each other; she bore on. ‘I thought that Mr Reynier was an honourable man, but he wasn’t.’ Relieved of their penitential duty, her hands now took to her sides. She began to straighten up. ‘Master, I felt the young mistress was in danger.’

‘In danger?’ Father asked. Annie kept her eyes down, but her voice had a righteous edge to it.

‘Master, there are things on which we differ. Ever since the Mistress took sick I have felt the burden of the young Mistress’s soul. Now …’

‘Her soul? So what great danger did you fear?’

‘Not just fear, Master. I know!’ Annie’s head rose sharply with that defiant tilt that came from a lifetime of challenging people taller than herself. She fixed Father with a look that Louise knew, and it sent a frisson of apprehension through her. ‘I speak of Mr Kunst. I have nothing against the young man’s behaviour, and his looks are what God gave him. But there is one thing that makes him an unsuitable companion for Mistress Louise.’

‘He must be the devil himself?’ Father smiled, but Annie was having nothing of that.

‘Worse!’ she snapped, turning to Louise, trembling with emotion. But Louise was already in dread; she knew what
was coming. That night when Annie had attacked Pieter on the stairs, one shouted word had stood out from the rest: “
Antichrist!
” Now Annie dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘Mistress Louise, Pieter Kunst is a Catholic!’ As she said this she made a small gesture, meant just to be dismissive, but which to Louise looked for all the world as if she were throwing a slop bucket of Hieronimus Bosch’s tortured
sinners
at Louise’s feet. Louise recoiled, but Annie was already moving towards the door, her black taffeta zipping angrily as she walked. Louise sank back in misery. She hardly
noticed
when Annie turned as she lifted the latch and said. ‘Master, I have work to do, I will be late home from church.’

Louise was vaguely aware of Father making conciliatory noises beside her, but he didn’t know the turmoil of her private horrors. He hadn’t sat through Annie’s graphic
accounts
of the tortures of the Spanish Inquisition, neither had he been on that furtive expedition to see that painting in The Hague. Louise would have sworn herself to be a
liberal
, root and branch, but Catholicism was different, even outside of her nightmares it evoked a mixture of terror and revulsion in her mind. Her nightmares were one thing, but she also knew that people really had been skinned alive, and roasted on gridirons, in the Catholic inquisition. Up to now, she had never associated these enormities with the quiet community of Catholics that lived here in her own town; her nightmares had always been of somewhere else. Of course … she must have realised that Pieter belonged to that shadowy community, hadn’t she noticed the Master’s teasing comments about ‘his saints’, but what did that
matter? He was like Father’s friend Baruch, the lens grinder, who was a Jew; he was different, that was all. But now Annie had changed all that. It was as if she had intentionally breached the dyke that held back the tide of prejudice she had been planting in Louise’s mind over the years. Despite all rational thought, Louise could feel her natural inclinations being swept aside and drowned in a foul flood. As she pushed back her chair, she knew that Annie had found the one way to turn her from Pieter Kunst.