Chapter I: The Pigeon

The sunshine of late summer was mellow in the beautiful room that looked on the garden where the last roses bloomed amid the heavy luxuriance of foreign shrubs and flowers; golden the fair light of afternoon filled the chamber as amber-coloured wine might fill a dark cup, and there was no sound save the insistent ticking of the tall clock in the corner.

The room served no particular purpose, but was a mere antechamber to the library or corridor between that and a great chamber used for receptions and feasts.

Rénèe le Meung stood at the window looking on the hushed and sunny garden. She liked this chamber, and spent her little leisure there. She was not commonly disturbed, as the Prince's luxurious household seldom used this handsome library, and she had come to be fond of the room, to regard it almost as her own—more her own than the hot little bedchamber under the eaves, where she was within sound of Anne's persistent bell and ceaseless shrill demands.

She knew and liked the several pieces of furniture here—the large dark cupboard opposite to the window which was polished till it gleamed like steel; the Spanish chairs with gilt leather fringed seats either side; the waxed and shining picture, as bright as a jewel and as flat as a mosaic, that hung above the door into the library, and the other picture, a portrait of a fat, stern gentleman in black, handling the massive chain round his neck, which was opposite above the other door; and the tall wooden clock with the delicately engraved steel face and the numbers cut in flourishes fine as pen-strokes.

There was no other furnishing save the three brocade cushions that filled the seat of the high Gothic window, yet the chamber had an air of richness and beauty and peace.

Rénèe's eyes lifted presently to the picture above the library door and dwelt there curiously.

It was a Flemish painting, perhaps a hundred years old, and represented a young saint, Agnes, Barbara, or Cecilia, being led out to martyrdom.

The virgin, robed in white, with fair hair, combed carefully in thin curls over her slanting shoulders, stood in the midst of a neat and flowery field, on which daisies and other little plants shone like stars.

She lifted her round and smiling face, which was freshly coloured and seemed never to have known care nor trouble, to a clear and lovely blue sky.

Behind her the executioners, elaborately clad in ruffled scarlet breeches and embroidered doublet, stood ready with rope and axe, and in the distance a hill town showed against the blue horizon with the distinctness of a toy model.

The picture fascinated Rénèe, it was so serene, so pleasant, so far removed from horror or disgust, terror or pain, that it might make a tired soul long to die that way, calm and smiling in a daisied meadow that was but one step from the paradise where a martyr's crown was already being plaited by the angels and saints.

There were martyrs now; men, women, and children as pious, as steadfast as any of the early Christians whom heathens slaughtered and to whom altars were set up all over Europe, died every day in the Netherlands. But not that way.

Rénèe knew it was not that way, the way of peace, with flowers beneath and the blue heavens above—nay, it was in the common day-time, amid the sordid surroundings of the market-place, with insults, with jeers, with flames, smoke, the shrieks of fellow-victims, the frenzied preaching of the monks, the groans of the crowd, with their ravaged homes perhaps within sight, their frantic children driven back by the soldiers, with all the details of pain and misery and dreariness, with none to comfort nor encourage—Rénèe knew that this was how the Netherlanders died—died daily by every manner of torture, by every form of terrible and horrible death.

There were some who were never seen in the market-place nor on the public gallows; these were they who were thrown into the prisons of the Holy Inquisition, and never more came forth from the dark only lit by the glare of the torture fires, or the silence broken only by groans of mortal agony and the calm adjurations of the monks.

Rénèe turned her eyes away from the picture. "It was never like that," she said to herself; "it lies—and who can tell that the heavens opened to receive them, and the saints crowded to welcome them? Who can tell? Who has seen it?"

She gazed into the Prince's garden, but the fairness of it brought no peace to her heart.

A warm breeze waved the costly flowers and the carefully tended trees in the groves and alleys. Two young men were playing tennis in the foremost court; the white balls sped gracefully against the green, the soft-shod figures moved noiselessly to and fro behind the nets.

In and out of the gables and crevices of the palace pigeons flew; their hoarse cooing was steady in the stillness. Now and then their strong wings beat past the window, and presently one settled on the open lattice, and moving its flexible head, gazed at Rénèe with an eye as red and bright as a ruby.

She looked at the bird with admiration; it was an exquisite thing, white and black shot with purple, all gleaming in the sunlight and ruffled with pride.

Then suddenly, as Rénèe looked, it flew straight past her into the room and beat against the black bureau.

Rénèe rose and clapped her hands to frighten it away, but the bird clung to the polished wood, fluttering the gleaming wings, the soft body panting and quivering.

As she approached, it flew again with a powerful stroke of the fine wings cutting the air, and beat frantically from door to door, passing and repassing the open window.

"Poor silly thing!" cried Rénèe; "so do we all beat about in our prisons when the door is open on the sky!"

The pigeon settled on the frame of the Flemish picture, and looked down, palpitating, the tumbled breast heaving, the bright eyes alert and anxious.

Rénèe stood helpless by the open window, her hand on her bosom and a little flush of colour in her grave face.

The opening of the door from the reception room caused her to turn with a start (she was so seldom disturbed in this chamber) and the pigeon to fly up and round the ceiling.

He who entered shut the door instantly and gave a quick glance at Rénèe in her warm, opulent beauty and severe blue gown, and then at the bird flashing like a gleam of light in the dusky darkness of the high ceiling.

It was the Prince.

Rénèe stood in a foolish confusion; it was long since she had seen him save at a distance, and his sudden appearance bewildered her completely.

"The bird is a prisoner?" he asked, and he spoke quite gravely, though he smiled a little.

"It will not see the open window, Highness," she replied; and as she spoke, the pigeon circled lower in exhausted fashion, and settled on the back of one of the black chairs.

The Prince put out his hand gently and easily and caught the bird by the wings, and so held it out, the coral-coloured feet contracted, the red gold-rimmed eyes bright with fear.

He took the struggling creature to the window and let it fly; it sped far away, above and beyond the tennis court.

He turned to look at Rénèe. Their eyes met; words rushed to her lips, and she spoke almost without meaning to and against her own awe and shamefacedness.

"Oh, Seigneur!" she exclaimed, "you are so tender with a little bird, will you not do something for the Netherlands?"

His look was surprised, almost startled. "Do I not do something for them?" he asked.

"I do not know," was wrung from Rénèe's bitter heart. "Your Highness is orthodox. Your Highness conforms. There were great hopes of you—I, among the first, believed; but now—the time goes—and—you do nothing!"

Then, seeing his expression of marvel, her face became burning with painful red, and she turned her head quickly away.

"It must be to Your Highness as if your dog should turn to speak to you," she said humbly. "I entreat you to pass on and forget."

"No," replied William, with perfect graciousness. "It is not my way to either pass on or forget. Tell me what you mean."

"I cannot," said Rénèe. "My heart is very full, and prompts me to foolishness. I am a heretic, and therefore life cannot be pleasant to me."

"But you are safe here," answered the Prince gently.

That stung her into again forgetting who he was and her own insignificance.

"That makes it more horrible!" she cried, and she turned towards him. Her flushed and glowing face was very beautiful in its utter unconsciousness of either beauty or allure. "_I_ am safe, but others better than I die every day—die horribly—burned alive, buried alive, tortured to death. The Netherlands are a shambles, Seigneur; the smoke of human sacrifice fouls the air. And it will be worse."

"Ay," said William quietly. "If the King enforce the findings of the Council of Trent, it will be worse."

"He will not dare!" exclaimed the girl, "for that would mean to exterminate the Netherlanders."

"I do not know what he would dare," returned William, in the same low, quiet tone. "I do not know."

Rénèe bit her lip to keep the hot words back; the long habit of her servitude controlled her to silence. She stood dutifully waiting for him to go from her presence, and forget her amid the thousand incidents of his gorgeous life.

But instead he stopped directly before her and spoke again, kindly, but with a certain challenge.

"What makes you appeal to me? What makes you think I could or would do anything for these heretics against whom the infallible voice of the Church has just cried, 'Anathema, three times anathema'?"

His tone spurred her to answer.

"Because you are the greatest Prince in the land—because the people have faith in you."

"But I am only half trusted," he smiled. "You may see as many pasquils pasted on my walls as on those of any man in Brussels."

"That is because Your Highness will not declare yourself. At one time, when you led the faction against the Cardinal, we all hoped"—her voice faltered a little—"but since then you have chosen to be secret, close——"

"There are others," he said—"Brederode, Egmont, Hoorne——"

"Ah," replied Rénèe, lifted beyond her tumultuous fear of him, the sweet dread of his presence, "none of these is the man we seek. In the people is the strength, the ardour, the force; these nobles dance and jest and brawl and spend, but do they believe, do they care—would they _die_ for their God? All in the hands of Philip, all conforming to Church and State, all bowing the neck to the Regent and Peter Titelmann with his Holy Inquisition."

"You do some wrong," said William. "Montigny and Berghen have refused to enforce the Inquisition in their provinces, and all the nobles have protested to His Majesty against the dicta of the Council of Trent becoming law in the Netherlands."

"Forgive me," said Rénèe, "I fear I grow bitter—I forget all bounds—I forget even that I am your servant."

"Speak to me," answered the Prince. "I would hear your thoughts. It is not often I meet with one so well versed in affairs, and so warm-hearted. You are a fair young woman," he added, with great gentleness, "to be so weighted with sad business."

The blood flowed back on her heart and left her unnaturally pale at these kind words from him; she dared to look into his face; he stood near enough for her to have touched him with a half-outstretched hand.

Her quick glance saw that his face was tired in expression; his dress, black, gold, and crimson, less gorgeous than usual, almost careless compared with his habitual magnificence.

The small head with the close waves of stiff dark chestnut hair was held a little droopingly; the charming ardent countenance, brilliant and dark, the dusky complexion showing the fine blood in warm tints, the wide vivacious eyes, the lips soft and firm, was overcast, the level brows knitted, the firm chin fallen on the double ruff of gold-edged cambric.

What was troubling him, servant of King Philip, principal adviser of the Regent, most powerful noble in the Netherlands? What care had he unless the woes of these wretched thousands the Council of Trent had condemned to fire for soul and body touched and moved him?

In his gravity, in his look of fatigue and preoccupation, Rénèe found hope; she stepped back from him and stood with her shoulders pressed against the window embrasure where the waxed wood gleamed in the sunlight that was reddening to the west.

"Oh, you could do so much, you could do it all," she said, and her gentle voice was rough and unsteady with passion. "I have dreamt it—others have thought it—you, you might be the man! You might redeem us from slavery, from tyranny, from misery unutterable—you are he who might defy Philip."

"I am his subject," said William, narrowing his eyes on her face, "and I am a Papist."

"But you are united to Protestant princes, and the young princes, your brothers, are heretics," she answered, as if she was pleading with him.

"I am in Philip's service," he said, and lifted his head, looking at her straightly and intently.

She was quick in her reply.

"But your first loyalty is to the statutes of this land, which Philip rends and spurns, and your first obligation is the freedom and liberty of the land you help govern."

"Ah! You know that, do you?" exclaimed the Prince, and his expressive face changed, and seemed for a moment to be joyous; then the look of reserve closed over the flash of daring and animation, and he added quietly: "The Regent has sent a protest to His Majesty telling him it is impossible to enforce stringent laws against heretics in the Netherlands. And it is likely, it must be, that the King will see reason in her arguments."

"Is it likely?" asked Rénèe, looking steadily at the Prince. "Your Highness knows the King."

"Why, if he does not——" said William, then suddenly checked himself.

"If he does not?" repeated the girl swiftly. "What will Your Highness do?"

He seemed to utterly withdraw into himself, and his face was smooth and serene as a mask.

"I see you still have hopes of me," he smiled.

She could not answer; she felt that he was lightly putting her off, gently showing her she had overstepped all etiquette, only to speak folly. Her enthusiasm, her exaltation were swept away by a wave of humiliation. She stood with downcast eyes, trembling in her place.

William looked at her.

"My child," he said, with that note of pity and tenderness in his voice Rénèe found unbearable, "there was never tyrant yet without some one to withstand, nor any oppression or cruelty some strength did not break through. Take courage, hold up your heart—some one will arise to face even King Philip and his Holy Inquisition."

She could only bend her head and say, "Forgive me, forgive what I have said——"

He raised his hand with a little gesture as if he would check her protestations, then turned away and entered the library.

There, amid the rich furnishings, in the silence, broken only by the call of the pigeons without, he stood thoughtfully, as if he had forgotten what he had come here for; the sunshine, red now as molten gold, flushed the tapestries, the rows of gilded books, the carved walls and ceilings, the bureaus of gleaming Chinese lacquers, the brocade and velvet chairs, and this slender figure of the young man standing erect, frowning, with one hand on his hip and his face strangely sombre for one so young and splendid.