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"A truce until the evening Angelus," broke in Mark hotly, "so that ye may send for reinforcements to the nearest garrison town. We refuse!"
"You refuse?" retorted Alva. "For two days and a night ye have raised your arms against your lawful King. If you fight to-morrow you will add sacrilege to your other crimes."
"And thou, treachery to thine!" said van Rycke boldly. "Whence this desire to keep holy the Sabbath day, tyrant? Wouldst thou have ceased to destroy, to pillage or to outrage this day if we had not raised our arms in our own defence?"
"Well said, van Rycke!" cried the Orangists.
"The immortal souls which your obstinacy would send to hell," said the Duke of Alva, "will return and haunt you till they drag you back with them."
"Can you not pray in your Kasteel?" retorted Mark.
"We have no priest to say Mass for us."
"We will send you one."
"We have no consecrated chapel."
"The priest will say Mass in your castle-yard, beneath the consecrated dome of heaven. The Walloon prisoners whom we have taken are receiving the ministry of our priests in the guild-houses where they are held."
"Nay! but such makeshift would not satisfy the children of Spain who are also the chosen children of the Church. But," continued Alva with a sudden assumption of indifference, "I have made my proposal. Take it or not as ye list. But remember this: the dead who lie unburied in your streets will have their revenge. Pestilence and disease will sweep your city of your children, as soon as we have vanquished your men."
"Treachery!" cried some of the Orangists, "do not heed him, van Rycke."
But of a truth the cry was not repeated quite so insistently this time. Alva's last argument was an unanswerable one. Pestilence these days was a more formidable foe than the finest artillery wielded by a powerful enemy: there were over two thousand dead lying unburied in the city at this hour: as the tyrant said very truly, these would take a terrible revenge. And there was something too in the sanctity of the Lord's Day which touched the hearts of these men who were deeply religious and devout and had a profound respect for the dictates of the Church. Most of them were Catholics-the importance of attending Mass on the Lord's Day on pain of committing a deadly sin weighed hard upon their conscience. Alva was quick to note the advantage which he had already gained, and when the first dissentient voice among the Orangists was heard to say: "A truce can do no harm and 'twere sacrilege to fight on the Lord's Day," he broke in quickly:
"Nay! 'tis not fighting ye would do, but murder. Aye! murder on the Day of the Holy Redeemer who died that ye should live… My men are Catholic to a man! not one of them but would far rather let himself be butchered than commit a deadly sin. Rebels, who have outraged your King, to-morrow morning the church bells will be calling the faithful to the Holy Sacrifice: the truce which you refuse to hold with us we will grant you of our own free will. We will not fight you on the day of the feast of the Holy Redeemer. But to-morrow every Spaniard and every Walloon in our armies will go unarmed and present himself at your church doors. I-even I-with my captains and the members of the King's Council will attend Mass at the church of St. Baafs and we will be unarmed, for we shall have placed ourselves under the care of the Holy Redeemer Himself. And now tell thy soldiers, rebel, tell them that Spaniards and Walloons will be in the churches of Ghent in their thousands and that they will be defenceless save for the armour of prayer which will encompass them as they kneel before the altar of God!"
"And in the meanwhile," retorted van Rycke, "ye will be sending to Dendermonde and Alost and Antwerpen: and when after the evening Angelus we take up arms once more against your tyranny, there will be five thousand more Spaniards at our gates."
"By the Holy Redeemer whom I herewith invoke," said Alva solemnly and raised his hand above his head with a gesture of invocation, "I swear that no messenger of mine shall leave the city before ye once more take up arms against your King. I swear that no messenger of mine hath left this city for the purpose of getting help from any garrison town, and may my soul be eternally damned if I do not speak the truth."
Those who were present at this memorable interview declare that when Alva registered this false and blasphemous oath a curious crimson light suddenly appeared in the East-so strong and lurid was it that the perjurer himself put up his hand for a second or two as if blinded by the light. Philip de Lannoy, seigneur de Beauvoir, assures us that the light was absolutely dazzling and of the colour of blood, but that he took it as a warning from God against the sacrilege of fighting on this holy day, and that it caused him to add the weight of his influence with Mark van Rycke to grant the truce which the Spaniards desired.
Undoubtedly, the solemn oath spoken by the tyrant who was such a devout and bigoted Catholic greatly worked upon the feelings of the Orangists: never for a moment did the suspicion of the oath being a false one enter their loyal heads: nor must they be blamed for their childish confidence in a man who had lied to them and deceived them so continuously for the past five years. They were so loyal themselves, such a trap as Alva was setting for them now was so far from their ken, that it was impossible for them to imagine such appalling treachery: as for the sanctity of an oath, they would as soon have thought of doubting the evidence of their own eyes.
Mark van Rycke, it is true, held out to the last. He knew these Spaniards better than those simple burghers did: not in vain had he spent his best years in the uncongenial task of worming out their secret plans-their treacherous devices-over tankards of ale and games of hazard in Flemish taverns. He mistrusted them all, he mistrusted Alva above all! he had no belief in that execrable monster's oath.
"God is on our side!" he said quietly, "we'll bury our dead when we can, and pray when God wills. He'll forgive the breaking of His Sabbath for the justice of our cause.
"They are weary of the fight," he added obstinately, "we are not."
But already every one of his friends was urging him to grant the truce:
"For the sake of our women and children," said van Deynse who voiced the majority, "let there be no fighting to-morrow. The tyrant has pledged his immortal soul that he will not play us false. No man would dare to do that unless he meant to be true."
"Rebel!" now shouted Alva impatiently, "I await thine answer."
"Accept, van Rycke, accept," cried the Orangists unanimously now, "it is God's will that we accept."
"I await thine answer, rebel," reiterated Alva.
"What answer can I give?" retorted van Rycke. "You say your men will go to our churches unarmed. We are not butchers as ye would have been."
"You will let them pray in peace?"
"As thou desirest. You who were prepared to destroy our city and to murder our women and our children will have nothing to fear from us while ye are unarmed and at prayer."
"Until the evening Angelus ceases to ring?"
"Until then."
"And until that hour we remain as we are. Our guard at the gates…"
"Our prisoners in our hands."
"And may God guard thee," concluded Alva unctuously.
"May God have mercy on thy soul if thou hast lied to us," said Mark van Rycke quietly.
To this Alva made no reply, but his grim face looked in no way troubled. Special absolution even for speaking a false oath could easily be obtained, alas! these days by any Duke of Alva or other tyrant powerful enough to demand it; and no doubt the Lieutenant-Governor, sent to subdue the rebellious Low Countries, was well provided with every kind of dispensation which embodied the principle that "the end justifies the means!"
He wheeled his horse round and, wholly callous and unconcerned, he rode back slowly over the bridge.
As soon as the last of the Spaniards had filed under the gate-house of the Kasteel and the drawbridge was once more raised, Mark van Rycke turned with unwonted peremptoriness to his friends who were crowding round him, eagerly approving of what he had done.
"Van Deynse," he said curtly, "to-morrow at dawn, see that your musketeers are massed inside the ruins of the Tanners' Guild House, and you, Laurence, place three hundred of your picked archers under the cover of the Vish Mart. Lannoy, your pikemen beneath the arcades of the Abbey opposite St. Baafs, and you, Groobendock, yours in the doorways of the houses opposite St. Pharaïlde, and every one of you under arms. Let the Spaniards pray in peace if they have not lied. But at the first sign of treachery, remember your wives and your daughters and do not spare the murderers of your children or the desecrators of your homes."
CHAPTER XVII
TRUTH AND PERFIDY
I
The cathedral bells of St. Baafs were the first to ring on that unforgettable 23rd day of October which was the feast of the Holy Redeemer: the appealing, sweet, melancholy sound came clearly through the humid air. Lenora, who was in her room with Grete, stood quite still for a moment and listened. The bells of St. Pharaïlde took up the call, then those of St. Jakab and St. Agneten until the clang of bells echoed from end to end of the city and drowned every other sound-of strife or of misery. The roar of the artillery now was mute, the clash of pikes and lances was no longer heard-only that curious medley of weird and terrible sounds still lingered in the air-a medley made up of sighs and groans, of men falling down exhausted with pain, of masonry still crumbling and woodwork still sizzling-a medley to which now was added the roll of drums which on either side called to the men to lay aside their strife and to go and pray in peace.
On the walls of the castle-yard the Duke's proclamation of the Lord's Day truce was posted up and he himself was giving a few brief orders to his captains:
"Let the men understand," he said, "that they are free to go to Mass in the various churches of the city, and that they can do so without the slightest fear. But they must all be back inside the Kasteel precincts by two hours after noon. Let the couriers go to the gate-houses at the six Poorts and issue the same orders there, and have the proclamation posted up. Make it known here as well as at the Poorts that if any man fails to respect the truce, if there is any brawling in the streets or in the taverns, I shall proceed with merciless severity against the culprits."
Then he turned to the captain of the castle-guard, don Sancho de Avila: "Yours will be the duty to see that runners are sent out in secret on the Dendermonde road with orders that any troops which may be on the way, make all possible speed. You had best remain in command here while I go to Mass: keep your picked guard and the musketeers under arms, for, the moment that the Dendermonde banderas are in sight, we must be ready to co-operate with them by a sortie en masse."
"I quite understand, Magnificence," replied the captain.
A few moments later the bridge was lowered and some three thousand men filed out across it in orderly lines as for parade-but unarmed. The Spanish halberdiers formed the van and the rear-guard, the Walloon pikemen and archers were massed in the centre, and in the midst of them walked the Duke of Alva with his immediate cortège: de Vargas who had his daughter on his arm and Grete close beside her, don Alberic del Rio, Councillor Hessels and two or three other members of the Council. Behind them came the standard-bearers with standards unfurled and the drummers.
In silence they reached the lines of the Orangists, which they had to cross in a double file, each man holding up his hands to show that he was unarmed. The Orangist leaders stood by in a group, and when the Duke and the members of the Council had to file through the lines in their turn, they stepped forward in order to greet them in amity.
"God guard ye!" they said as the Duke walked by.
"We'll aid Him in that," retorted the Spaniards cynically.
Mark van Rycke was in the forefront of the group at the moment that Lenora went by leaning on her father's arm. She looked up just then and saw him. He held his head erect as he always did, but she could not fail to see how completely he had changed in those few hours since last she saw him at Dendermonde. The hours seemed to have gone over him like years: gone was that quaint, gentle, appealing way to which she had so nearly yielded. His attitude now was one of lofty defiance, sublime in its unshakable determination and in its pride. Well! perhaps it was better so! Was he not the embodiment of everything that Lenora had been taught to hate and despise since her tenderest childhood-the despised race that dared to assert itself, the beneficiary who turned on the hand that loaded him with gifts and, above all, the assassin who cowered in the dark, the slave who struck his master whom he dared not defy? Yes! Mark van Rycke, her husband, the murderer of Ramon, stood for all that, and Lenora despised herself for every tender feeling which had gripped her soul in the past two days whenever she thought of him as wounded, helpless, or mayhap dead.
And yet now when his eyes met hers, they suddenly took on a wonderful softness, that quaint look-half-whimsical, half appealing-came back to them and with it too a look of infinite pity and of unswerving love; and as she caught the glance-she who felt so lonely and so desolate-there came to her mind the remembrance of the sweet and pathetic story of the primeval woman who was driven forth by God's angel from the gates of Paradise. Somehow she felt that once-not so very long ago-she too had wandered for a brief while within the peaceful glades of a Paradise of her own, and that now an angel with a flaming sword stood at its gates and would not allow her to return, but forced her to wander out through life in utter loneliness and with the unbearable load of agonising remorse.
II
Of all the episodes which the historical records of the time present to the imagination, not one perhaps is quite so moving and so inspiring as that of the solemn Mass which was offered up in every church of the stricken city on this Sunday morning-the feast of the Holy Redeemer-when the Duke of Alva and the members of his odious Blood Council knelt side by side with the heroic men who were making their last desperate stand for justice, for liberty and the sanctity of their homes.
The Lieutenant-Governor and the Spanish high dignitaries, both civil and military, are present in the Cathedral of St. Baafs, as are also the Orangist leaders. The Spaniards occupy one side of the aisle, the Flemings, with the women and children, are on the other, and crowd every corner of the stately edifice. Up at the high altar, Father van der Schlicht is officiating with others of the cathedral clergy, and the pure voices of the choir boys resound through the building like the call of the angels of peace.
The fabric of the exquisite building bears traces of that awful fate which an abominable tyranny was reserving for the entire city. The walls themselves stand, but in places they are torn by large fissures, which look like gaping wounds in the flesh of a giant. Reverend hands have hastily swept aside the debris of glass and masonry, the fragments of stone statues and scraps of iron and wood; but here and there the head of an angel, the clasped hands of a saint or palm of a martyr, still litter the floor; the slender columns of the aisle have taken on a curious rusty tint, and over the screen the apostles of carved wood are black with smoke.
There are two large holes in the roof, through which the bleak October breeze comes sighing in, and the sweet smell of stale incense which usually hangs about the place of worship has yielded to the pungent odour of charred wood and of singed draperies.
On the Flemish side a dull tone of colour prevails, browns and russets and dull reds-many women have wrapped black hoods over their heads, and long, black mantles hang from their shoulders; but on the other side the fantastic garb of the Spanish halberdiers throws a note of trenchant yellow right through the sombre tint of the picture: and the white ruffs round the men's necks gleam like pale stars upon the canvas. And over it all the light through the broken window falls crude and grey. Only the chancel glows with a warm light, and Father van der Schlicht's vestments of crimson silk, the gilt candlesticks upon the high altar, the flickering yellow flames of the candles, the red cassocks of the young servers, all form a kaleidoscope of brilliant colours which is almost dazzling, whilst up above, the banners and coats-of-arms of the Knights of the Golden Fleece still flaunt their rich heraldic tints against the dark vaulting of the roof, and above the high altar the figure of the Redeemer with arms stretched out to bless, seems to mock by its exquisite pathos and peace the hideous strifes of men.
The church is crowded from end to end: Flemings and Walloons and Spaniards, the tyrants and the oppressed, all kneel together, while Father van der Schlicht up at the altar softly murmurs the Confiteor: some have rough linen bandages round their head or arm; some have ugly stains upon their doublet or hose; others-unable to stand or lean-lie half prone upon the ground, supported by their comrades. The Duke of Alva holds his head erect, and señor de Vargas bows his down until it well-nigh touches the ground: most of the women are crying, some of them faint and have to be carried away. The Spaniards are more demonstrative in their devotions than are the Netherlanders, they strike their breasts at the Confiteor, with wide, ostentatious gestures, and need much elbow room when they make the sign of the Cross.
At the reading of the Gospel every one stands, and men, women and children solemnly make profession of that Faith of Love and Goodwill which the events of the past two days have so wantonly outraged.
Lenora from where she stands can see her husband's head-with its closely-cropped brown hair-towering above the rest of the crowd. He does not look to right or left of him, but gazes fixedly upon the altar; Lenora can see his lips moving as he recites the Creed, and to her straining senses it seems as if right through the murmurings of all these people she can distinguish his voice amongst all the others, and that it strikes against her heart with sweet persistence of unforgettable memories.
And suddenly the high altar with the figure of the Redeemer fades from her sight; the crowds vanish, the priest disappears, the voices of the choir boys are stilled. She is back once more in the small tapperij of the inn at Dendermonde, sitting beside the hearth with Mark-her husband-half kneeling, half sitting close to her-she lives again those few moments of dreamlike peace and joy when he lulled her with gentle words and tender glances which had shown her the first glimpse of what human happiness might be-and she lives again the moment when she stood in that same room with his wounded arm in her hand, and realised that he was the cowardly assassin who had struck Ramon down in the dark.
God in Heaven! was not her hatred of him justified? Even at the foot of this altar, where all should be peace and goodwill, had she not the right to hate this one man who had murdered Ramon, who had fooled and cajoled her, and used her as an insentient tool for his own ends, his own amusement? Her father had told her that she would see him hanged, and that his death would be her work under the guidance of God. Not one moment of the past would she undo, and she regretted nothing save the moments of weakness which came over her whenever she met his glance. He was the leader of these abominable rebels-a leader every inch of him, that she could see-but yet a murderer for all that, and the deadly enemy of her country and her King.
God had had His will with her, and now He was dealing punishment with equal justice to all; and Lenora standing there, shivering under the cold draught which came on her from the shattered roof, yet inwardly burning with a fever of regret and of longing, marvelled, if among the thousands that would suffer through God's retributive justice, any one would endure the martyrdom which she was suffering now.
III
Later on, during the noonday rest, Lenora sat in her room in the Meeste-Toren and tried to visualise once more all that she had lived through in the past hour-her meeting with Mark when she went through the Orangist lines with her father-the crowded church, the sombre colours, the pathetic aspect of broken statuary and holy images charred and shattered-the return to the Kasteel in silence-the outline of Mark's profile above the crowd-Mark! always Mark! If only she could forget!
The air in the narrow room felt stuffy and oppressive: she ordered Grete to open the window. It gave on the same iron balcony to which the council chamber and the apartments of the Duke of Alva had access; but as it was high up in the wall and very small, she could sit quite close beside it and yet not be seen by any one who might be walking on the balcony. Lenora's head ached intolerably, and Grete, always kind and anxious, took down the wavy masses of fair hair and brushed them gently, so as to soothe the quivering nerves.
A strange hush hung in the air-the hush of a Sunday afternoon when a big and peaceful city is at rest-a hush in strange and almost weird contrast to the din which had shaken up the very atmosphere during the past two days. Only from the castle-yard down below there comes the sad sound of groans and sighs of pain, and an occasional call for "donna Lenora!" with the cool, soft hands and the gentle voice, the ministering angel of goodness and consolation.
"Grete," queried Lenora abruptly, "dost love me truly?"
"With my whole heart, noble lady," replied the child simply.
"Then, if thou lovest me, didst pray at Mass this morning for the success of our cause and the confusion of those abominable rebels?"
Grete made no reply, and anon a low, suppressed sob caused Lenora to say, not unkindly:
"Thy heart is with the rebels, Grete."
"I know most of their leaders, noble lady," murmured the girl, through her tears. "They are brave, fine men. When I think of those who surely must die after this, I feel as if my heart must break with sorrow and with pity."
"Didst know them well?"
"Aye, noble lady. They used to come to the 'Three Weavers.'"
"The 'Three Weavers,' Grete?"
"Aye! my father kept the tavern, here in Ghent… The noble seigniors of the city and the Spanish officers of the garrison all used to come to us in the afternoons… Messire Jan van Migrode, the Chief Sheriff, Messire Lievin van Deynse and the seigneur de Beauvoir, they all came regularly. And … and Messire Mark van Rycke," she added under her breath, "him they call Leatherface."
"My husband, Grete," murmured Lenora.
"I know it, noble lady."
"Didst know then that Messire Mark van Rycke was Leatherface?"
"Not till yesterday, noble lady … not till the men spoke of it and said that the mysterious Leatherface was the leader of the rebels … and that he was the son of the High-Bailiff of Ghent, Messire Mark van Rycke…"
"Thou didst know him, too, then as Leatherface?"
"Aye, noble lady," said Grete quietly, "he saved my life and my sister's. I would give mine to save him now."
"Saved thy life? How? When?"
"Only a few days ago, noble lady," murmured the child, speaking with a great effort at self-control. The recollection of that awful night brought fresh terror to her heart.
But Lenora's brows contracted now in puzzlement. A few days ago? Mark was courting her then…
"I do not understand," she said impatiently, "a few days ago Leatherface … Messire Mark van Rycke … was in Ghent … I was betrothed to him on the seventh day of this month…"
"And 'tis on that night he saved my life … and Katrine's … aye! and saved us from worse than death…"
She paused abruptly; her round, young cheeks lost their last vestige of colour, her eyes their clear, childlike look. She cast a quick, furtive glance on Lenora as if she were, afraid. But Lenora was unconscious of this change in the girl's manner, her very senses seemed to be on the alert, hanging upon the peasant girl's lips… The night of her betrothal was the night on which Ramon was murdered … the tavern of the "Three Weavers" was the place where he was found. This girl then knew something of that awesome occurrence, which, despite outside assurances, had remained vaguely puzzling to Lenora's mind. Now she would hear and know, and her very heart seemed to stand still as her mind appeared to be waiting upon the threshold of a mystery which was interwoven with her whole life, and with her every hope of peace.
"But what?" she queried with agonised impatience. "Speak, girl! Canst not see that I only live to hear?"
"Our father was taken," said Grete quietly, "he was hanged eight days ago."
"Hanged?" exclaimed Lenora, horror-struck. "Why? What had he done?"
"He was of the Protestant faith … and…"
Lenora made no comment, and the girl wiped her eyes, which had filled with tears.
"Thou and Katrine were spared?" asked Lenora, after awhile.
"We were spared at the time," said Grete, "but I suppose," she added with quaint philosophy, "we remained objects of suspicion. The soldiers would often be very rough with us, and upon the seventh day of October the commanding Spanish officer in Ghent…"
Once more she paused timidly, fear of having said too much, fighting with the childish love to retail her woes, and pour her interesting story into sympathetic ears.
"Well?" queried Lenora, more impatiently, "go on, child. What did the commanding Spanish officer in Ghent do to thee on the seventh day of October?"
But at this Grete burst into a flood of tears. The events were so recent, and the shock of horror and of fear had been so terrible at the time, that the recollection of it all still had the power to unnerve her. Lenora, whose own nerves were cruelly on the rack at this moment, had much ado to keep her impatience in check. After a few moments Grete became more calm, and dried her eyes.
"There was a big to-do at the Town House," she said more quietly, "and the whole city was gaily decorated. The apprentices had a holiday in the evening. They were very hilarious, and so were the soldiers."
"Well? And-"
"The soldiers came to the 'Three Weavers.' They had been drinking heavily, and were very rough. The commanding Spanish officer came in late in the evening… He encouraged the soldiers to drink, and to … to make fun of us … of Katrine and of me… We were all alone in the house, and we were very frightened. The Spanish officer ordered Katrine to wait on the soldiers, then he made me go with him to a private room…"
The tears were once more very near the surface, and a hot blush of shame for all that she had had to endure overspread Grete's face and neck.
"Go on, child," queried Lenora. "What happened after that?"
"The Spanish officer was very cruel to me, noble lady. I think he would have killed me, and I am sure the soldiers were very cruel to Katrine… Oh! it was horrible! horrible!" she cried, "and we were quite alone and helpless…"
"Yes. I know that," said Lenora, and even to herself her own voice sounded curiously dull and toneless; "but tell me what happened."
"I was crouching in a corner of the room, noble lady. My back ached terribly, for I had been thrown across the table, and I thought my spine must be broken-my wrists, too, were very painful where the noble officer had held them so tightly. I was half wild with terror, for I did not know what would become of me. Then the door opened, and a man came in. Oh! I was dreadfully frightened. He was very tall and very thin, like a dark wraith, and over his face he had a mask. And he spoke kindly to me-and after awhile I was less frightened-and then he told me just what to do, how to find Katrine, to take some money and run away to our kinswoman who lives in Dendermonde. I thought then that he was no wraith…" continued Grete in an awestruck whisper, "but just one of the archangels. For they do appear in curious disguises sometimes … he saved my life and Katrine's, and more than life, noble lady," added the girl with a note of dignity in her tone, which sat quaintly upon her timid little person, "do you not think that it was God who sent him to protect two innocent girls from the cruelty of those wicked men?"
"Yes; I think so, child," said Lenora quietly. "But, tell me, dost know what happened after that?"
"No, lady, I do not. I went to look for Katrine, just as the stranger ordered me to do. But," she added under her breath, and still under the spell of past terrors, "we heard afterwards through Pierre Beauters, the butcher, that the noble seignior commandant was found killed that same night in the tavern of the 'Three Weavers.' The provost found him lying dead in the same room where the archangel had appeared."
"Stabbed, child, didst thou say?"
"No, noble lady. The provost told Pierre Beauters that the noble Spanish commandant had been felled by mighty hands in a hand-to-hand fight; he had no wound on him, only the marks of powerful fingers round his throat. But his own dagger, they say, was covered in blood. Pierre Beauters helped to place the body in the coffin, and he said that the noble Spanish commandant had been killed in fair fight-a fight with fists, and not with swords. He also said that the stranger who killed him was the mysterious Leatherface, of whom we hear so much, and that, mayhap, we should never hear of him again, for the Spanish commandant must have wounded him to death … the dagger was covered with blood almost to the hilt. But," concluded Grete, with a knowing little nod of the head, "this I did not believe at the time, and now I know that it was not so; the stranger may not have been one of the archangels, but truly he was a messenger of God. When the noble lady brought me back with her to Ghent I heard the men talking about the mysterious Leatherface. Then the day before yesterday when the cavalrymen flew helter-skelter into the castle-yard, they still talked loudly of Leatherface; but I guessed then that he was not a real archangel, but just a brave man who protects the weak, and fights for justice, and…"
