Chapter II: Juliana of Stolberg

A few days after the return of Count Louis to Dillenburg, a notable company was gathered in the large council chamber. It was long since it had served for councils, having for many a day been put to lighter uses—for ball, feast, and family celebration.

There was no magnificence save only the magnificence of the high Gothic arches, and no splendour save only the splendour of the windows gorgeous with the lion and billets of Nassau in blue and yellow and the twisted lettering of the motto of the house: "Ce sera Nassau, moi, je maintaindrai."

A plain oak table, no longer polished, and worn to a tint like dark silver, occupied the centre of the room; a circle of high-backed chairs covered with fringed leather and fastened with tarnished gilt nails surrounded the table: the one near the window was distinguished by arms shaped like twisted dragons, and there sat William of Orange, with a pile of letters and papers in his hand.

His dark face, his dark habit were in shadow against the glowing light of the coloured glass; his head was bent a little, and with his long brown fingers he absently fluttered over the pages of the documents he held.

On one side of him sat Count John and Count Louis; on the other, Count Adolphus and Count Henry; while beyond the five brothers were Count van der Berg, Count Hoogstraaten, Count Culemburg, the Seigneur de Villars, and the Seigneur de Cocqueville, the French Huguenots.

All these gentlemen were young in years and grave in deportment, being indeed weighted with matters of life and death. Two of the Nassau Counts, Adolphus and Henry, were little more than boys, the younger being but eighteen; his bright locks, his eager ardent look, the charm of his early morning years, made him a pleasant picture as he gazed intently at the Prince, to whom he bore so distinct and touching a likeness.

The details of the intended raid on the Netherlands were being discussed.

In a quiet voice William had read out the sums at their disposal.

Fifty thousand crowns from the great cities of the Netherlands and the refugees in England, fifty thousand crowns from the Prince himself, ten thousand from Louis, thirty thousand from Hoogstraaten, thirty thousand each from Culemburg and Van der Berg, ten thousand by a secret messenger from the Dowager Countess Hoorne, the desperate mother of those two doomed men, Hoorne and Montigny, who lay, one in a Spanish, one in a Flemish prison, ignorant of each other's fate.

In addition to this, William placed on the table a list of all his jewels, furniture, plate, dogs, falcons, pictures, and precious apparel, such as robes trimmed with valuable furs, laces, and costly velvets embroidered with jewels.

Count John too announced that he had pledged his estates to raise a large sum of ready money, and the Huguenot gentlemen offered both men and gold.

"We can give nothing but our swords," said Henry of Nassau, looking half vexed, half smiling at Adolphus, who added softly, "and our lives."

William heard the words; he glanced quickly at his two younger brothers, and slightly winced. From the first moment when he had resolved to undertake this tremendous struggle it had not been the treasure that he had thought of, but the noble lives that might be sacrificed. Before this dark venture on which he was engaging was over, the House of Nassau might be stripped of all its sons as leaves are stripped from a tree and blown uselessly down the wind; and as for those gathered round him now, how many might fall, even in the first shock of battle?

As for himself, he had staked everything he possessed; on the thick sheets of paper on the table before him stood named all his property. The sale of this would leave him a poor, nay, almost a beggared man.

Yet even with all these sacrifices the total sum raised was barely sufficient for one campaign, since they had to pay mercenaries and support them in a country already desolate and mastered by foreign troops.

"And it is Alva who is against us," said William; his eyes gleamed as he spoke the great captain's name, and his voice vibrated with excitement.

"And behind Alva all the treasure of Spain," added Culemburg, glancing at the list of their own poor resources.

"That," said the Prince quickly, "is not so tremendous—the treasure of Spain. It will take all the gold of America to govern the Netherlands as Alva means to govern them—to maintain an army in a country ruined, barren—the trade lost, the wealthy fled. Alva is a poor financier, and he will not obtain much aid from Philip, who looks to see gold pouring from the Netherlands—not into them. To exhaust Alva's resources is but a question of time."

"But we?" asked Louis. "Can we wait? If this first attempt fails, can we go on?"

"We can go on till we die," answered William. "There is nothing to stop us but the failure of ourselves. There are plenty of men and plenty of money in the world—many who hate Spain and who love the Reformed Faith. We do not venture in a little cause nor a foolish one."

Louis looked at his brother.

"For me, I shall not fail, save only by my death," he said.

"I do believe it," said William warmly, "and think the same true of all here present. Seigneurs, for yourselves you can answer—your cause, your faith, your country; for the House of Nassau I can speak." He glanced at his four brothers. "We shall not hesitate nor turn back nor lay down our arms until these Provinces of His Majesty be released from the desolation of the Spaniards and the abomination of the Inquisition, or till death free us from our task."

He did not speak vaingloriously or boastfully, nor with any arrogance or pride, but almost sadly; and on those present, who knew how long he had deliberated, how strenuously he had striven to bring the Government to reason and moderation, how loath he had been to take up arms against Philip, this solemn declaration of his irrevocable decision had a weighty effect.

They knew that he dedicated himself, his brothers, and all the possessions of his famous house to this cause, not with the reckless enthusiasm of the adventurer nor with the hot-headed daring of one who had nothing to lose, but with the serene strength of one who had been regally great, who had owned everything the world can offer, and who had quietly laid down all rather than become an accomplice of senseless tyranny.

He waited for no comments on his words, but selecting a rough map of the Netherlands from the papers before him, laid it on the table, where the bright glow of the window flushed it gold, and indicated with his finger the routes to be taken by the attacking forces, which were to be divided into three, under Louis, De Villars, and De Cocqueville, while he himself was to wait at Cleves with a fourth contingent to follow up success or cover defeat.

"De Cocqueville by Artois with the Huguenots and refugees—two or three thousand men," said the Prince, glancing at the Frenchman, who smiled and nodded. "Hoogstraaten with De Villars, through Juliers on Maestricht; Louis on Friesland, on the west—all should be in the field by May."

He leant back in his chair and folded up his papers.

"All these expeditions will be desperate adventures," he added abruptly. "You, gentlemen, will be taking raw troops and mercenaries against the finest veterans in the world—yet men have been victorious before with bad tools and a good cause."

"I do not think of failure," answered Louis, with that eager gaiety that showed so charmingly in him; for he was no ignorant stripling, but a brilliant, experienced soldier. William looked at him in silence; it was in his mind that they must think of failure, and meet it, often.

But now was not the moment for doubt and discouragement, and the native cheerfulness of the Prince made it easy for him to assume a calm and hopeful front.

With a half-laugh he handed to Louis, Culemburg, and Van der Berg their several commissions for raising men and levying war against Philip and his men—"to prevent the desolation overhanging the country by the ferocity of the Spaniards, to maintain the privileges sworn to by His Majesty and his predecessors, to prevent the extirpation of all religion by the Edicts, and to save the sons and daughters of the land from abject slavery, we have requested our dearly loved brother, Louis of Nassau, to issue as many troops as he shall think needful." So, still preserving the fiction of loyalty, did William defy Philip in terms of courteous submission to His Majesty; so he, as sovereign Prince of Orange, owning no lord, exercised his right to levy troops and declare war.

He had already refused haughtily the jurisdiction of Alva's Council of Troubles and proclaimed that he was only answerable to his peers, the Chapter of the Knights of the Golden Fleece and to the Emperor; and now he put himself even more definitely on the side of Philip's enemies. His expression was almost amused as he gave the three Counts the formal copies of their commission; his quick mind looked forward and saw that spare, pale figure wandering round the half-built Escorial, and his rage when he learnt that the one grandee of the Netherlands who had escaped his far-flung net was likely to strike a blow that would revenge all the others.

The council broke up.

As the gentlemen left the apartment the Seigneur de Villars asked Count Louis, what news from the Provinces?

"The last news—a week old—is but the same story," replied Louis: "murder, massacre, confiscation. It is believed that the Duchess will retire to Parma, leaving Alva absolute master, as he is indeed now. Culemburg's palace on the horse market has been confiscated——"

"As a revenge for the conspiracy that was plotted there," added Hoogstraaten, with a smile—"the Mass on Parma's wedding day, the banquet of the 'beggars'! Culemburg has paid dear for a sermon and a dinner."

"Brederode has paid dearer," said Culemburg.

"He is dead, is he not, your great 'beggar'?" asked De Cocqueville.

"At Castle Handeberg," answered the Nassau Count, a little sadly. "He fell into a melancholy, and drank himself to death; so his great shouting and fury ended in nothing—like a huge wind flowing aimlessly and suddenly dropping. Alas, he would have served us well now. I am sorry that his gaiety and his courage are overlaid with dust for ever."

"It is strange to think that Brederode is silent at last," remarked Van der Berg—"he who talked and laughed so well."

The western light of evening filled the old, plain but pleasant castle as the Nassau Princes and their guests went down to the chapel, where the preacher had already entered for the evening service.

This chapel, once gorgeous with the beautiful pomp of the ancient faith, was now entirely bare of all ornament.

Plain glass filled the windows which had once glowed with regal colours; the ordinary light of day now entered and lit all the aisles and arches which had once been obscured with mysterious gloom; a coat of whitewash obliterated the paintings on walls and pillars and ceiling; plain rows of benches took the place of carved _prie-Dieu_ and tasselled cushions.

The pulpit was of simple wood, the seat of the Nassau family directly facing it; in each place a Bible and a Prayer Book with a broad green marker were laid.

Green curtains on brass rods screened off the upper portion of the arches, and green boughs waved against the clear windows; the white interior of the church was all coloured with this green reflection, which was extraordinarily cool, quiet, and peaceful.

When William and his companions entered the chapel it was already nearly full, most of the household being in their places.

In the Nassau pew sat the Countess of Nassau, Juliana of Stolberg, her three daughters—Magdalena, Juliana, and Catherine, the wife of Van der Berg.

Near them were their women. Anne had not come, being literally ill with rage at her husband's decision to sell his property; but Rénèe le Meung was there. She glanced continually at the four Nassau women, so handsome, so modest, so fine with their simple attire and princely carriage; she saw that the Countess of Nassau was pale, and guessed the reason: of all who were sacrificing to the Protestant cause and the rescue of the Netherlands, no one was giving what this lady was—four splendid sons to war and peril, a fifth to possible ruin, all her own possessions, the husband of her favourite daughter—the wealth and security of her house, and all her kinsmen.

When William and his brothers entered and took their places in the pew before her, she lifted her eyes from her Bible and gazed at them with unspeakable yearning and unspeakable triumph.

This was an offering worthy to put before the Lord, these were men fit to be dedicated to His service: the noble, magnificent William, the pride of his name, and famous in Europe; the handsome Louis, gallant, pious, intelligent, and brave; the chivalrous Adolphus in his healthy young manhood; Henry, the graceful youth already promising all the splendours of his race; John, resolute, loyal, capable, who had laid down all he possessed at the service of his brother,—their mother's gaze travelled from one to the other of them as they sat before her, and her heart contracted and her lips trembled as she wondered when she would see them all together again—as she wondered how many would return to her, how many would fall in the struggle on which they were now entering.

She did not complain, even in her inmost heart; the touch of sternness that was inevitable with a sincere belief in her austere creed strengthened her and enabled her to be glad and proud that they were all united in a cause she considered sacred.

She was prepared to let them all go, to lose them, if God willed, one after the other, and neither to murmur nor lament.

Yet how she cared, how she suffered in the midst of her pride and triumph, the pain that shook her as she watched them, so young, so brilliant, so pleasant, none present guessed save perhaps Rénèe le Meung, whose senses were acute with love.

The Countess knew for what reason the council had been held to-day: she knew that in a while now all would scatter to try the desperate chances of a desperate war, and not by one word would she have striven to hold them back; but as the quiet service continued, as the green glow of the trees was changed to the westering flood of red over those five martial figures who had once been children on her knee, Juliana of Stolberg breathed a prayer for them that was a prayer of agony.

When the service was over, she lingered a little in the white chapel, now filling with the dusk; her limbs trembled and her eyes were misty. Her daughters stayed with her, all sad for their brothers, Catherine too for her husband.

Each woman thought of the long vista of anxious days before them—days of waiting, days of news perhaps worse than waiting; days when they would remember, with such poignant pain, this present time of peace.

They slowly left the chapel, Rénèe behind them, unnoticed in the shadow.

In the antechamber William waited for his mother.

Her dark eyes smiled at him, she put out her hand and touched his shoulder.

"When do you start?" she asked.

"In a week or so—we should be all in the field by May."

"All? So soon?" She said no more, and she still smiled.

But Rénèe, the other woman who loved William, understood, with a dreadful sympathy, what was being endured by the Countess's brave heart.