Chapter XII: Orange and Egmont

The Regent, more and more in a dilemma, refused to accept the Prince's resignation; indeed, shortly after he had offered it she implored him to again go to Antwerp, where Calvinists and Lutherans were embroiling the city.

William went, arriving after the disastrous engagement of Ostrawell, when a band of fiery Calvinists under Ste Aldegonde's brother, Jean de Marnix, had been utterly cut to pieces, their gallant young leader being the first to fall.

William had come in time to prevent an internecine war that would have devastated the city; at great peril to himself he had prevented the two Protestant sects from flying at each other's throats, and actually restored order in Antwerp and induced the crowd to say after him, "Vive le roi!"

But he knew that all he did was useless; when the English Envoy congratulated him on his splendid labours, he replied: "But it will not please the King; I know there is nothing of this that will please the King."

It did not even please the Regent; too many concessions had been made to the heretics, too much gentleness shown. She preferred the way Egmont had treated Valenciennes, which had been reduced to a complete and bloody silence; and the method of Noircames, of Meghem, of Aremberg, who, rejoicing at the approach of a profitable civil war, were desolating the country, crushing the heretic with an iron hand, and sweeping his property into their own pockets.

Yet Margaret still refused to accept the resignation that William tendered again and again; she still clung to his strength and authority, even while she denounced him in every letter she wrote to Philip.

Perhaps, too, she guessed that Philip had his vengeance ready for the Prince of Orange, and that he would be wroth with her if the illustrious victim was suffered to escape.

For Margaret was sincere in nothing but her desire to serve her brother, and true to nothing save to that brother and the Romish Church.

She tried all her arts to induce the Prince to remain in the King's service: she sent him a flattering letter, appealing to "his noble heart, his illustrious and loyal descent, his duty to King and country"; she invited him to Brussels, to a meeting of the Knights of the Golden Fleece; and when he declined both, she sent Berty, secretary of the State Council, to the Prince at Antwerp.

Berty's feeble and formal rhetoric had no effect whatever on the Prince, unless it caused him to glimpse more clearly than ever the trap that was being so carefully set.

He knew that Philip was not coming to the Netherlands, but that Alva was within a few days of starting for Brussels with the finest army in Europe at his back.

And while he listened to the specious Berty prating of loyalty and the King's goodness, he had in his pocket a letter from that sturdy old Landgrave Philip who had opposed his marriage with Anne, but who had since become his friend.

The Landgrave had been lured into a long captivity by the arts of Granvelle and Alva, as he now reminded William.

"Let them not smear your mouths with honey," he wrote. "If the three seigneurs, of whom the Duchess Margaret has so much to say, are invited to Court by Alva under pretext of friendly consultation, let them be wary and think twice ere they accept. I know the Duke of Alva and the Spaniards, and how they dealt with me."

The only concession Berty could obtain from the Prince was his consent to once more meet Egmont, Mansfeld, and Aerschot.

The interview was arranged to take place at a village outside Antwerp, named Willebroek; and William, with but a couple of grooms, rode out there one morning in early April.

It was a pleasure to him to ride across the fresh country, to feel the soft turf beneath his horse's feet, to see the mild blue sky overhead, and about him all the new greenery—on briar, hedge, and tree, where the birds fluttered among the leaves.

The lovely morning air on his face reminded him of grand days at the chase; it was long now since he had ridden out with hawk and hounds.

This part of the country was as yet unscathed by famine or bands of mercenaries; the grain was sprouting in the fields, the brown and white cows wandered in the pastures, the little farms were undisturbed amid the groves of budding poplar and willow trees, the peasants went to and fro about their work as if they had never heard of Ostrawell and Valenciennes and the coming of Alva.

The little village of Willebroek lay peaceful beneath the early sun; the white houses with green shutters, painted fronts, and tiled roofs, the limes in the market-place just clouded with green, the church with the lead spire, the canal with the arched wooden bridge, up which the flat barges were slowly making way against the stream, all combined to make an image of plenty, ease, and prosperity.

William drew rein before the inn, where he was to meet the other seigneurs. He felt light-hearted; he looked up into the blue air; he smiled at a group of children who were going by with their hands full of the pearly blossoms of hawthorn.

The inn was an old building with a red tiled roof, rising, step by step, into a point under which was an alcove where a white figure of the Madonna stood against a blue and gold glory.

The green shutters were all laid back to disclose the clean shining windows; the door stood open, showing a long dark brick passage, and through another open door at the end a glimpse of a sunny garden with pigeons.

This garden spread either side the house and was filled with young fruit trees, the dark pink bloom of the peach mingling with the warm white of plum and pear.

In the windows of the inn stood glazed pots of a shining green and yellow, filled with gilliflowers and striped pink; a girl in a blue dress was hanging out linen on a box hedge beyond the fruit trees.

William noticed all these things with a great keenness; everything he saw, everything he did or said now was memorable, for all belonged to a portion of his life that would so soon be over.

He entered the modest house, and the awed innkeeper showed him into the parlour.

It was a low, spacious, cool room, full of the fragrance and sounds of the garden and shaded by a little beech tree, the fresh clear green leaves of which swept the leaded panes of the window.

The floor was smooth brick, the walls dark and polished, the ceiling beamed; on shelves and on the large bureau stood silver tankards, coloured pottery, and painted glasses shaped like bells and flowers.

In the empty fireplace the brass andirons gleamed golden, in the centre of the large round wooden table stood four brass candlesticks, a snuffer and tray.

At this table sat Lamoral Egmont, his head resting on his hand.

The nobility of his figure, the extreme richness of his dress, the gallant handsomeness of his face, ill accorded with the clean, neat, and humble room.

He wore violet and silver and a mantle of a tawny orange colour that fell over the brick floor; his charming head was framed by a ruff of silver gauze; his weapons were many and elaborate; by him on the table lay his hat, a pistol, his gloves and whip.

On the other side of the table sat Count Mansfeld, an elderly man of no particular presence, handsomely attired in black and gold; while within the window embrasure was the insignificant figure of Secretary Berty.

The Prince gently closed the door and stood smiling at all three.

His slight figure, plainly habited in a brown riding suit, soft high boots, and a falling ruff; his small head, held erect without pride, and valiantly without arrogance; his dark face, with the regular features and laughing eyes—the whole man, so composed, so pleasant, so unfathomable, seemed to strangely impress the three who waited for him—to impress them almost with uneasiness.

Lamoral Egmont rose, filling the room with his magnificence.

"We meet strangely, Prince," he said.

William greeted all with even courtesy, then took his seat at the round table, placing his hands, half concealed by the linen ruffles, before him on the smooth surface as he had placed them in the council chamber at Brussels when the letters from Philip had been read enforcing the decrees of the Council of Trent.

Mansfeld had never been close in his friendship, and always a warm upholder of the Government; Berty was little other than Margaret's spy; it was to Egmont the Prince addressed himself.

"You have come to persuade me," he said gently. "Speak, Count, speak."

Egmont flushed; despite his loyalty and his now firm attachment to Spanish rule, he always felt uneasy in the presence of the man who had once so influenced him and who now was divided from him by an ever-widening gulf.

He repeated the arguments of Berty, endeavouring to enforce them by the weight of his own belief and his own friendship for the Prince.

He spoke verbosely, emphasizing his meaning with many illustrations and continually praising the King.

A bee buzzed in the window-pane the while, evading Berty's furtive fingers; it made as much impression on the Prince as did the words of Lamoral Egmont.

But he listened civilly, keeping his dark eyes steadily on the speaker's face; but when at last Egmont had finished, he threw back his head with a little laugh and spoke a few words that tossed all the Count's formal phrases back at him as useless.

"Oh, Egmont!" he cried. "I did not ride from Antwerp to be persuaded, but to persuade. What you have said can never move me. Would that what I say could move you!"

Egmont made no reply; he glanced at Berty, and slightly shrugged his shoulders.

But Mansfeld spoke.

"Then what are the intentions of Your Highness?" he asked, with some haughtiness.

"My intentions are well known," answered the Prince simply. "I have resigned all my offices. And I shall leave the Netherlands."

Egmont started.

"Leave the Netherlands!" he cried.

"Do you think," answered William, "that I will resign, make myself a rebel, and then wait the coming of the Duke of Alva?"

"Take the oaths," said Mansfeld, "and withdraw your resignations. We and the Regent alike entreat you to this."

William moved back in his chair and turned his head so as to face Mansfeld.

"Once and for ever, Count," he said, and from behind his pleasant calm there flashed the strength of an immovable purpose, "I declare I will not take an oath which is against my honour, an oath that makes me a tool, an executioner. Is William of Orange"—his voice was suddenly angry—"to await the orders of the Duke of Alva? To be the servant of the Inquisition?"

Egmont flushed, thinking of Valenciennes and the many poor Christians he had slain there, and of the old days when he and Orange had been one in protesting against the Inquisition.

"You mock at loyalty," he said gloomily, "but you go to your ruin. If you leave the Netherlands, your property will be confiscated."

"If I stay, I shall lose more than my estates," replied William. "I will sooner encounter all that may happen from this my action than sacrifice my conscience by the taking of this oath. No more of it."

"Then we talk in vain," said Mansfeld sternly.

"On that subject, yes," answered the Prince. "But I would further speak to Count Egmont." He looked at his friend earnestly, and spoke with a certain passion. "Oh, Lamoral Egmont, give your loyalty to your native land and not to Spain. Come with me; I will follow you. I will be your faithful soldier—risk everything in a good cause rather than in a bad one. I was grieved the victor of St. Quentin and Gravelines should come to the massacring of poor artisans; but that may be redeemed. Strike for freedom, Count, not for tyranny."

"You speak treason," cried Egmont, with some heat. "I am loyal, and will keep that loyalty unstained."

"It shall not avail you," returned William, in a moved tone. "Do you think Philip has forgotten or Philip forgiven? Do you think Alva comes to caress you, bringing in his hands riches and honours? I tell you he comes to strike down all those who have offended Spain, and you are one of them."

"I have no fear," answered the Stadtholder of Flanders stoutly. "I do not dread to see the country in the hands of the Spaniards, nor to welcome the Duke of Alva."

"No one need fear who has a clear conscience," added Mansfeld.

"Seigneur," said the Prince impatiently, "you speak like a child. You are safe because you were one of Granvelle's partisans—Egmont was the Cardinal's enemy; Egmont has done many things well noted in Madrid. I tell you he is doomed—if he stays he is doomed as surely as any poor peasant who has looked impudently at an image."

"These are the words of a rebel!" exclaimed Mansfeld.

"For the true service of the King I am always ready," returned William, "but to Alva, Granvelle, and the Inquisition call me rebel if you will—for I do protest against them and their authority and all attempts to force the faith of these people, which attempts are in defiance of laws and privileges and wholly against God."

"Nay," said Egmont, "it is His cause, as any priest will tell you."

"I spoke of God, not of priests," answered the Prince.

"This is bold saying," remarked Mansfeld. "Has the insolent blasphemy of Calvin or Luther found so high a convert? Has the raving, vulgar fury of the field-preacher shaken the faith of the Prince of Orange?"

Mansfeld spoke with bitter irony and his face coloured with indignation.

William smiled.

"Ah, I am studying theology!" he said. "I may find comfort from Geneva as easily as from Rome when I have finished my learning."

He looked straightly at Mansfeld.

"I was bred a heretic," he added.

Mansfeld rose.

"Enough," he said. "I see this conference is useless."

William rose also; he went to Egmont and laid his hands affectionately on the Count's shoulders.

"I do not take this action thoughtlessly nor suddenly," he said, "but after deep reflection and long weighing of events; I know I lower my fortunes and jeopardize my estates—yet I do the wiser thing. I beseech you by our ancient friendship, by our common charge, for the sake of those dear to you, to follow my example. I entreat you not to wait the coming of Alva."

But Lamoral Egmont was not to be moved. His lodestar was Spain; and now he had Mansfeld watching him and Berty noting down every word he said, his reply was curt, almost wrathful.

"I have an easy conscience; and if I have committed some faults I rely on the clemency of the King—I lean on His Majesty."

"Alas!" said William, "you lean on what will destroy you. You boast yourself secure in the King's clemency, and so lull yourself with a security which does not exist. Would that I might be deceived, but I foresee only too clearly that you are to be the bridge which the Spaniards will destroy as soon as they have passed over it to invade our country."

With that he ended, somewhat abruptly, as if he indeed saw that it was useless to try and open Egmont's eyes to his danger, and turning away picked up his mantle and hat as if to end a hopeless argument.

"You will be the ruined man, not I," remarked Egmont in some agitation; "it is you who throw everything away for a shadow!"

William moved towards the door.

"Will you not dine with us?" asked Mansfeld formally.

"Nay," replied the Prince. "I am pressed to return to Antwerp."

With Egmont he would have gladly stayed, but he had no mind to eat and drink with Mansfeld and Berty.

He took his farewells. Egmont looked at him a little wistfully; mutual affection had gone deep into the hearts of each.

The Count had moved to the door, and as William passed he advanced a step.

The Prince turned and suddenly embraced him, clasping him for a second to his heart; then with tears in his eyes he left the room.

There were tears too on Egmont's cheek.

"He looked at me as if he thought never to see me again!" he said.

"A landless, exiled, powerless man," remarked Mansfeld. "How low is the great Prince of Orange fallen!"

A little maid entered the room to prepare the dinner; she looked with wonder and reverence at the three gentlemen, who had none of them revealed their identity.

"Oh, seigneurs!" she said, "who is the young cavalier who has just ridden away? He never saluted the Virgin above the door, and in these days——!"

Mansfeld glanced at Egmont.

"You may call him, my child, many names, for he had many honours; now you had best call him—the Heretic," he said dryly.