Chapter XIV: Philip's Avengers

From Carthagena to Genoa, hence to San Ambrosio, over the Alps to Mont Cenis, through Savoy, Burgundy, and Louvain came the army of the Duke of Alva, watched by a French army, watched by a Swiss army, taking no heed of either, steadily pursuing their way to the rebellious provinces.

At every stopping-place they were met by messages from the Duchess, entreating them to stay, saying their coming would unchain a war of religion, protesting against this coming of an armed force into a country already quieted by pacific means. Two motives influenced Margaret in these protestations: she was indignant at being superseded by Alva, after her long and bitter toils in the service of her brother had at last met with some success; and now, at the final issue, she was frightened at what putting the provinces under Spanish soldiers might mean. She even wrote to Philip expressing her opinion of the fatal consequences likely to follow Alva's invasion.

But the King took no notice of these complaints, and Alva only smiled at the letters of an agitated woman who was suddenly trying to quench the flame she had so recklessly fanned, and continued his steady march towards the Netherlands.

On a hot night in the middle of August a charcoal-burner, who lived in the forest of Thionville on the frontier between Luxemburg and the Netherlands, was roused by sounds unusual indeed in that solitude, and creeping out of his bed he came out into the moonlight, his frightened family behind him, and, hiding behind the thick trees, gazed down on to the road—a mere narrow defile that ran through the immense forest, which on one side sloped away and on the other rose into the ledge where the poor peasant hid.

It was a most gorgeous night, the moon hung like a plate of soft gold in the deep purple heavens and shed a radiance, too warm for silver, through the close branches of the stately trees, in full summer luxuriance, that spread to right and left, before and behind, on all sides bounding the vision.

The air was warm but not oppressive, now and then a little ripple of wind shook the undergrowth, the brambles, the daisies, the poppies, the foxgloves, and the thick fragrant grasses. The stillness had been complete, but now it was broken by the ever increasing sound of the tramp of feet and the jingling of harness; and soon the vanguard of Alva's army was revealed.

They had raised their last encampment with the rising of the moon that they might the sooner set foot in the Netherlands.

The charcoal-burner knew nothing of this, he did not even know whose army he looked upon; he trembled and crossed himself and clung tightly to his children, while he crouched down in a bed of foxgloves behind a huge beech and peered, with an awe-struck curiosity, at this new and terrible sight.

Alva's army was not large, being no more than ten thousand men, but these ten thousand were the most famous veterans in the world, and both their organization and equipment were perfect, while there was no general in the world whose fame equalled that of Ferdinando Alvarez de Toledo, the great Duke of Alva.

The vanguard of this army, as it hastened through the forest of Thionville, consisted of two of the Italian regiments—those of Sicily and Naples, commanded severally by Spaniards, Julien, Romero, and Alfonso de Ulloa—and considered the finest foot-soldiers in the world.

They marched with quick strides, their colours furled, their general riding before them; the stout figures of the Calabrese, the slender strength of the Sicilians, adorned with rich arms and silk scarves and plumes of brilliant colours, and the fierce, gay, dark faces, made a strange picture of force and energy hastening through the lonely night.

Behind them came two companies of women, some on foot, walking with perfect discipline and order, some riding on the baggage waggons or the sumpter-mules.

These were the camp-followers, but neither poor nor ragged; they were as well-appointed as any well-born lady, and many had a page or attendant; behind the wantons rode a small company of priests with a little escort of horsemen.

So the Southern regiments passed; the charcoal-burner gazed after them like one struck out of his senses.

At a distance of half a league (for the spaces between the three divisions were being rapidly diminished as the army neared the goal) came the next contingent, consisting of the artillery, which jangled quickly away into the night with rattle of wheels, crack of whip, and shout of driver, and twelve hundred Spanish cavalry, at the head of which rode Don Ferdinando de Toledo, the Duke's son, and Prior of that Great Order of the Church Militant—the Knights of St. John—wearing the noble vesture of his stately office.

Behind him came the musketeers, all wearing inlaid and engraved armour, and each attended, as if he had been an officer, by a squire who bore his musket—that new weapon not seen before in any army.

These splendid soldiers carried themselves with a great pride, the moon glowed softly in their exquisite cuirasses, cuisses, greaves, and helmets, which were most carefully polished; these horsemen were the only Spaniards in the army.

After them rode two Italian generals and the engineers—a gorgeous group of officers in undress or jousting armour, and wearing caps adorned with jewels and heron's feathers.

Next came a carriage containing Spanish priests of high rank, then other of the Spanish horsemen, then the baggage mules and the women.

There were no less than four hundred of these on horseback—Spanish, Italian, and French beauties, lavishly dressed in silk and velvet, with flowing mantles and precious embroideries; some were veiled like modest women, while others rode with their rich locks hanging over their shoulders and their hard beautiful faces uncovered.

One or two were singing in rather a melancholy fashion, several sat wearily on their handsome saddles, but all, like their meaner sisters who went afoot, conducted themselves with order and decorum.

When they had passed, dazzling the eyes and bewildering the mind of the staring charcoal-burner, there was a short pause; then a company of light horse galloped up out of the night, and behind them, riding more slowly, came a single horseman.

He was about sixty years of age, tall, of a slight figure, but of an appearance of great energy and strength, controlled, however, by a considerable stiffness of deportment and an air of cold and repelling pride.

He wore a half-suit of plain blue armour, and black mantle, boots, and doublet; his face was extremely narrow, his features hard, his complexion dry yet flushed, his eyes small and dark and expressing nothing but arrogance; a plain velvet cap concealed his hair, a long beard of black frosted with white descended to his waist.

With his long thin body, small head, narrow countenance, and bright eyes he had a certain likeness to a snake; not in one lineament was there the least trace of any soft or pleasant emotion or sentiment; he seemed a man of ice and iron, haughty, cruel, and avaricious.

Without glancing to right or left, carelessly guiding his superb white Arab horse with one hand while the other fingered the plain cross that hung on his breast, this solitary rider, the great and terrible Duke of Alva, passed on towards the Netherlands.

After him came others of his especial escort of light cavalry, then more priests and more women (so well-provided for soul and body did Philip's armies go forth to crush the unbeliever), then another pause, and finally the rearguard of Lombard and Sardinian regiments, commanded by Sancho de Lodrovo and Gonzalo de Braccamonte.

These veterans, less fine, perhaps, than the glittering ranks of Sicily and Naples, were, nevertheless, magnificent men handsomely armed:

By the time they passed, the moon was fading, and the dawn was creeping in pale streams of light through the forest.

The charcoal-burner crouched lower down among the foxgloves and crossed himself fearfully.

By the time the whole sky had changed from the soft violet of night to the pale azure of the dawn, the last of Alva's army had disappeared, and there remained on the road only the straggling followers—the peasants, who hoped to sell their produce, eagerly whipping along their mules; the poor who hoped for charity; the idle who hoped for stray plunder; boys who had marched miles from their homes in sheer aimless excitement.

The charcoal-burner, encouraged by the sight of his own kind, called out softly to one of the men with the mules—

"Who are they, those great and wonderful fellows who have just passed?"

The other answered with some pride in his knowledge—

"That is the mighty army of the King of Spain."

"May the angels all preserve us! And where are they going?"

"To the Netherlands to avenge the insolence of the heretics."

"And he in the midst?"

"That was the Duke of Alva. They all have money and pay well. If I can catch up with the camp to-night I shall have enough to pay me for my journey."

So he and his mules, laden with fruit and vegetables and skins of wine, disappeared into the misty depths of the forest.

The charcoal-burner dragged his sleepy children out of the foxglove bed and returned to his hut where his wife, who was not interested in the passing army at all, was already putting the bread and milk on the table; and before they ate, the man made them all thank God that they were not heretics in the Netherlands.

That day Alva crossed the frontier; that night he slept within the provinces. Scouts brought him news that Count Egmont was riding forth to Tirlemont to welcome him; he received the news with his usual cold stare.

Inside his plain doublet were many precious documents written by the hand of Philip; among them were the warrants for the deaths of Egmont, Hoorne, and the Prince of Orange.