Chapter XI: The Prince Resigns

Ever since he had, on the fall of Cardinal Granvelle, risen to prominence in the governing of the Netherlands, William of Orange had endeavoured to steer between party and party, to behave with moderation and temperance, to extend one hand to the Catholics and one to the Reformers and lead both to concord.

He had never associated himself with the violent party of 'Beggars' which Brederode had formed, and to which Count Louis and Ste Aldegonde belonged; at the same time he had resolutely refused to lend his civil authority to enforce religious persecution, and had protested again and again in Council, and in open letter, against the establishment of the Inquisition and the overthrow of the ancient laws of the Netherlands.

This steadfast and just attitude had given him a power during the troubles which followed the enforcement of the Edicts of the Council of Trent which not one of his colleagues possessed; the people had looked to him as a possible champion, the Regent had thrust on him all the most arduous tasks, and all had regarded him as the only man able (if any man were able) to bring about a settlement between Philip and his subjects.

And in this high, arduous, and delicate position the Prince laboured sincerely, wisely, and earnestly, without thought of self-seeking, of disloyalty to the King, or to the Netherlands.

The Duchess, in her terror, her confusion, her powerlessness, leant on his strength almost entirely.

He had gone to Antwerp after the image-breaking, and restored such order there that service was held in the desecrated building the following Sunday; by his presence he had brought about tranquillity in his own provinces of Holland and Zeeland; he had drawn up the Accord of 24th August by which the Duchess, terrified almost into flight by the mania of image-breaking that had swept over the country, granted permission for free preaching on the part of the heretics, and it was he who had seen that she kept her promises when she tried to evade them; it was he who had influenced Brederode to some quietness; he who had counselled all men on all occasions to patience and moderation.

In all these things he had acted more for Philip's interests, in a manner more calculated to save Philip's crown, than had any servant of the King, even Granvelle, beloved of the Escorial.

But he had acted with open eyes, without hope of praise or reward, and knowing perfectly well that his energetic and honest services would go for nothing, and that, by refusing implicit obedience in the matter of the Inquisition, he and the others who had acted with him were for ever damned in the eyes of Philip.

He knew too that the Regent only used him, that she neither trusted nor confided in him; she went back on his actions, tied his hands in a hundred ways, recalled one day the concession she had permitted him to offer the day before, made him the shield of her imperious weakness and her vacillating terror.

He knew that she even wrote to Philip denouncing him as a traitor and at heart a heretic whose design in all he did was self-aggrandizement; none the less in all crises of trouble and confusion she summoned him and relied on him.

And the Prince had served her, for in so doing he believed he served the Netherlands; it was still his dream to bring about some concord which would render the coming of Alva needless.

But now the fact was brought home to him that he could no longer occupy an ambiguous position; before him lay a letter from Margaret containing a copy of the new oath for his signature, and her request that he take this oath without delay.

William half smiled as he contemplated the two sheets of paper; it was such a childish, malicious, gratuitous trick on Philip's part, and yet it served so well to test every man in his service.

And it put the astute Prince, who had walked so long and so carefully between extremes, to the necessity of having to choose one way or another.

For this new oath which had arrived from Madrid instead of the long-promised King himself, instead of the definite news for which Margaret was so impatiently waiting, consisted of a pledge that he, who was in the services of His Majesty, was to hold himself bound to serve and obey the Government in any place, against any person, without exception or restriction.

The Cardinalists had all taken this oath, and so, after some hesitation, had Egmont.

And now it lay before William in his room in his castle at Breda, where his household now was, and to which he had returned after a journey round the towns of his provinces.

Closed now was the gorgeous mansion in Brussels whose hospitality and magnificence had been one of the wonders of the capital; over were those days of luxury and gaiety, feasting and thoughtlessness.

The Prince's household was now reduced to about a hundred and fifty persons; he was more than ever in need of money, and his debts increased.

But he had recently refused a present of money from the States of Holland as a thank-offering for his efforts in establishing peace in that province; he did not wish anything he did to be laid open to the charge of personal interest.

Rising and going to the window, with that impulse that always sends men to the light when in deep thought, he stood looking out on the grey March sky, the grey walls of the castle, and the bare trees.

With the two papers—the formula of the oath and the Regent's letter—in his hand, he reviewed his position.

One point in his circumstances was salient beyond all others—his utter isolation.

He had last seen the two nobles, Egmont and Hoorne—who were his rivals in greatness and prestige, and had been united to him by so warm a friendship—at Diendermonde, when he, exasperated by the Regent's falseness and particularly by her action in sending Eric of Brunswick with troops to the towns that were within the Lordship of Orange, had urged Egmont to take a definite stand against the Government.

The Stadtholder of Flanders had refused; he was finally and definitely pledged to Philip.

And Hoorne, though he had acted justly towards the Reformers in Tournay—where he had been in authority during his brother's absence—and though he was embittered by the ruined condition of his fortunes and Philip's neglect, still remained sullenly loyal to Spain.

Montigny wrote from Madrid an account of Philip's wrath at the image-breaking, the Accord, and the public speaking, and expressed his own surprise and disgust at these outrages on the ancient faith.

Louis of Nassau and Ste Aldegonde were now outside the scope of the Prince's influence and entirely at one with Brederode, who was enclosed in his hereditary town of Vianen which he appeared to be fortifying, and with his party were most of the younger nobles, Culemburg, Van der Berg, De Hammes, and their fellows.

William of Orange stood quite alone.

And he had come to a juncture when he must either go into open opposition to the King or pledge himself to be his unquestioning instrument.

He was largely as one feeling his way in the dark with regard to the policy of Margaret and Philip, but he guessed the faces of the cards so carefully concealed; if he stooped to take the oath it would not be likely to save him when the time came for Philip to strike.

The Prince hated Philip well, but he was able to judge him with an especial clearness; he was convinced in his heart that the King had already judged and condemned all these Netherlanders who had in any way opposed him.

At the Diendermonde meeting he had shown to Egmont and Hoorne an intercepted letter from D'Alava, Spanish envoy in Paris, to the Regent.

In this document was very plainly set forth the King's intention towards the three grandees, who were to be arrested the moment a Spanish army reached the Netherlands, and the writer further stated that the two envoys in Madrid "are met with smiling faces, but will be never permitted to leave Spain alive."

Egmont put this letter before the Regent, who declared it to be an impudent forgery; with this statement Egmont was satisfied.

But the Prince of Orange was not; even were the letter false he believed that it contained the true sentiments of the Government.

There was no one to share his views, to understand his attitude; he felt that very keenly now, when he stood at the parting of the ways.

Brederode and Louis thought him hesitating and cold, the Count party thought him disloyal, the people no longer trusted him; his German relatives were lukewarm in their attachment, his wife never saw him but she railed and scolded at the way he had allowed himself to be ruined for a parcel of heretics, and deafened him with complaints of the life at Breda castle.

The only man standing by him at that moment was Anthony Lalaing, Count Hoogstraaten, the gallant young noble who had been his right hand in the troublous Antwerp days.

But Hoogstraaten was at the Prince's feet, waiting to be instructed; he was nothing on which to lean.

Again William looked at the two papers which the March wind fluttered in his hand.

If he declared against Philip, what could he do?

What possible chance had the Reformers against Spain?

Valenciennes, which had dared to rebel, had been reduced to misery and desolation; Noircames had put to death some thousands of the inhabitants; a garrison had been sent to Tournay; Egmont was forcing troops on all the towns of Artois and Flanders; the famous confederacy of the beggars was broken; Brederode was making a burlesque of resistance.

De Hammes was breaking images and feeding his parrot with holy wafers—a rope of sand, indeed, there!

And would the German Princes move in the cause of their fellow Protestants?

This was doubtful, as they were bitterly divided among themselves—some being Lutherans, some Calvinists.

Then the Emperor, though inclined to acknowledge the Reformation, was bitter against the Calvinists, and this sect was in the majority among the Reformers of the Netherlands.

Nor was it likely that he would embroil himself with Spain for the sake of the oppressed provinces.

There was the Huguenot party in France, but they had their own battles to fight, their own ground to maintain; there was a Protestant Queen in England, but she was cautious, and ardent for peace, and not likely to go to war for the sake of religion.

It seemed to William that Philip had the Netherlands under his heel to crush as he pleased.

The Prince turned back to his writing-table and took up his pen.

For himself, what was this step going to cost?

Gradually the old magnificent life had changed, the splendid young noble had become the grave man of affairs. Still not much over thirty, and endowed with a warm and joyous temperament, used to wealth and power, pleasure and luxury, he found himself about to take up a position in which all these things must be foregone.

Looking back over the brief years since his second marriage, he saw how slow, how subtle had been this change in himself and in his surroundings; looking ahead, he saw that the coming change would be marked and swift—and terrible.

He smiled as he retailed the jousts, the tourneys, the feasts, the hunts, the dances—those days were over.

It had been a silent, secret struggle between him and Philip ever since that monarch had left the Netherlands.

But now it would be secret and silent no longer.

The Prince flung down his gage to the King.

Mending his quill and drawing a sheet of paper towards him, he wrote to Madame Parma returning the oath, and resigning all his offices.

* * * * *

"As His Majesty now writes that all officers and servants, with no exception, must subscribe to this oath, or be discharged from his service, I must consider myself of the latter number, and will retire for a time until His Majesty comes to these provinces himself to obtain a true judgment of affairs.

"Therefore, I pray Your Highness, send some gentleman to me with proper papers of dismissal, to whom I may deliver my commission, assuring you at the same time that I will never fail in my service to this country for the good of this land."

* * * * *

So with words that were gentle and courteous, as habitual with him, he phrased his resolution.

"No longer Philip's servant, no longer his servant," he said to himself as he sealed the letter; "and now, what next?"

Himself, he did not know. His resignation of his offices left him almost a ruined man, but it left him free.

He sighed like a man from whose shoulders a burden has been lifted, locked away his letter, rose and went down to the castle grounds.

He could see the little town clustered round the great church; the winding river with low horse-burdened bridge, all grey in the grey air and lashed by the March wind.

He leant against one of the ramparts which rose up, forming a wall to the garden, and his keen grave eyes rested on the church.

Free of Philip's service—what of Philip's faith? The House of Nassau was Protestant; he had assumed the Romish Faith to please the Emperor, but he had been born and educated in the Reformed Faith.

As he looked down at the church he thought of that.

Never had he considered religion much; it had been merely part of the ceremony of his life, the custom of every gentleman. Now he began to consider, not religion, but God.

And it seemed to him God was not guiding Philip's councils, nor inspiring the persecutions of the Inquisition.

Might He not rather be favourable towards these poor people who were paying with their lives for their desire to worship Him as they wished?

William's mind was tolerant and liberal, it had never been confined in the elaborate ceremonies of the Romish Church, nor could it ever subscribe wholly to the fanaticism of the extreme Protestants, like Ste Aldegonde; but of late he had sickened against the show and pretension, the cruelty and bigotry, the avarice and falseness shown by the professors of the ancient faith, and had turned naturally to the sterner, simpler creed that was struggling so hard for existence.

The Prince could not believe that God or Truth were wholly on one side or the other, but his sympathy and taste turned, every day more certainly, towards the oppressed, the miserable, the helpless Reformers.

He had not stood long looking over Breda before he was joined by Hoogstraaten, now his guest.

The two young men did not speak; they stood side by side looking over the grey town and the grey church.

The keen wind lifted the little locks on the Prince's temples and showed the faint streaks of white that now mingled with the dark chestnut.

Near by, in the still bare garden, Rénèe le Meung was searching for the first faint sprays of green; with a sad little bouquet of these trembling promises of spring in her hand, she stood silent, with tears in her eyes, looking at the Prince, who did not notice her at all, but continued to gaze at the great church of Breda.