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VII
In the tap-room the soldiers had soon got tired of waiting for Katrine. At first some of them amused themselves by reopening the trap-door, then sitting on the top step of the ladder that led to the cellar and thence shouting ribald oaths, coarse jests and blasphemies for the benefit of the unfortunate girl down below.
But after a time this entertainment also palled, and a council was held as to who should go down and fetch the girl. The cellar was vastly tempting in itself-with no one to guard it save a couple of wenches-and the captain more than half-inclined to be lenient toward a real bout of drunkenness. It was an opportunity not to be missed; strange that the idea had not occurred to seven thirsty men before.
Now the provost declared that he would go down first, others could follow him in turn, but two must always remain in the tap-room in case the captain called, their comrades would supply them with wine from below. The provost descended-candle in hand-so did four of the men, but Katrine was no longer in the cellar. They hunted for her for awhile, and discovered a window, the shaft of which sloped upwards to a yard at the back of the house. The window was open and there was a ladder resting against the wall of the shaft.
The men swore a little, then went back to investigate the casks of wine. With what happened in the cellar after that this chronicle hath no concern, but those soldiers who remained up in the tap-room had a curious experience which their fuddled brains did not at first take in altogether. What happened was this: the door which gave on the passage was opened, and a man appeared under the lintel. He was dressed in sombre, tight-fitting doublet and hose, with high boots reaching well above his knees; he had a hood over his head and a mask on his face. The soldiers stared at him with wide-open, somewhat dimmed eyes.
The masked man only spoke a few words:
"Tell your provost," he said, "that señor captain don Ramon de Linea lies dead in the room yonder."
Then he disappeared, as quietly as he had come.
CHAPTER V
VENGEANCE
I
"Satan! Satan! Assassin!"
Donna Lenora had stood beside the dead body of her lover and kinsman wide-eyed and pale with rigid, set mouth and trembling knees while her father explained to her how don Ramon de Linea had been murdered in the tavern of the "Three Weavers" by an unknown man who wore a leather mask. She had listened to the whole garbled version of the sordid affair, never thinking to doubt a single one of her father's words: don Ramon de Linea, according to the account given to his daughter by Juan de Vargas, had-while in the execution of his duty-been attacked in a dark passage by a mysterious assassin, who had fled directly his nefarious work had been accomplished.
The murderer, however, was seen by the provost in command and by two of the soldiers, and was accurately described by them as wearing doublet and high-boots of a dark-brown colour, a hood over his head and a mask of untanned leather on his face. The man had rapidly disappeared in the darkness, evading all pursuit.
And donna Lenora-thus face to face for the first time in her sheltered life with crime, with horror and with grief-had, in the first moment of despairing misery, not even a prayer to God in her heart, for it was filled with bitter thoughts of resentment and of possible revenge.
She had loved her cousin don Ramon de Linea with all the ardour of her youth, of her warm temperament and of a heart thirsting for the self-sacrifice which women were so ready to offer these days on the altar of their Love. She had never thought him shallow or cruel: to her he had always been just the playmate of childhood's days, the handsome, masterful boy whom she had looked up to as the embodiment of all that was strong and noble and chivalrous, the first man who had ever whispered the magic word "love" in her ear.
Now an unknown enemy had killed him: not in fair fight, not in the open, on the field of honour, but-as her father said-in a tavern, in the dark, surreptitiously, treacherously; and donna Lenora in an agony of passionate resentment had at last broken the silence which had almost frightened her father and had suddenly called out with fierce intensity: "Satan! Satan! Assassin!" Her father had given her an account of the horrible incident, which was nothing but a tissue of falsehoods from beginning to end, and Lenora had listened and believed. How could she doubt her own father? She hardly knew him-and he was all she had in the world on whom to pour out the wealth of her affection and of her faith.
II
Truth to tell, de Vargas had received the news of don Ramon's death with unbounded satisfaction.
Lenora had obeyed him and had been this night publicly affianced to Mark van Rycke; but between her consent to the marriage and her willingness to become Alva's tool as a spy among her husband's people there was the immeasurable abyss of a woman's temperament and a woman's natural pity for the oppressed.
But the outrage to-night-the murder of the man whom she still loved despite paternal prohibitions-was bound to react on the girl's warm and passionate nature-and react in the manner which her father desired. He trusted to his own powers of lying, to place the case before his daughter in its most lurid light. He had at once spoken of "spies" and "assassins" and his words had been well chosen. Within a few moments after he had told Lenora the news, he felt that he could play like a skilled musician upon every string of her overwrought sensibilities. Her heart had already been very sore at being forced to part from her first lover; now that the parting had suddenly become irrevocable in this horrible way, all the pent up passion, fierce resentment and wrath which she had felt against her future husband and his people could by clever manipulation be easily merged into an equally fierce desire for revenge.
It was a cruel game to play with a young girl who by blood and race was made to feel every emotion with super-acuteness: but de Vargas was not the man who would ever allow pity or chivalry to interfere with his schemes: he saw in his daughter's mental suffering, in the shattering of her nerves and the horror which had well-nigh paralysed her, nothing but a guarantee of success for that comprehensive project which had the death of the Prince of Orange for its ultimate aim.
"It is strange," murmured the girl after awhile, "that when Ramon talked with me in the Town House last night, he said that these Netherlanders had a habit of striking at an enemy in the dark."
"A presentiment, no doubt," rejoined de Vargas with well-feigned gentleness. "Now, my child, you begin to understand-do you not? – why it is that we Spaniards hate these treacherous Netherlanders. They are vile and corrupt to the heart, every single man, woman or child of them. They fear us and have not the pluck to fight us in the open. Orange and his contemptible little army have sought shelter in Holland-they dare not face the valour and enthusiasm of our troops. But mark you, what Orange hath done! He hath sown the entire country with a crop of spies! They are here, there, everywhere-not very cunning and certainly not brave-their orders are to strike in the dark when and how they can. They waylay our Spanish officers in the ill-lighted, and intricate streets of their abominable cities, they dog their footsteps until they meet them in some lowly tavern or a tenebrous archway: then out comes their dagger, swift and sure, and they strike in the gloom-and a gallant Spanish officer's blood stains the cobblestones of one of their towns. It was don Ramon to-day-it will be Julian Romero perhaps to-morrow-or don Juan de Vargas-who knows? or mayhap the duke of Alva one day. Orange and his crowd are out on a campaign of assassination-an army of assassins has been let loose-and their captain-general wears a mask of leather and our soldiery have dubbed him 'Leatherface'!"
"I have heard of this man 'Leatherface,'" said Lenora slowly. "It is he, you think, who murdered Ramon?"
"Have we not the soldiers' testimony?" he rejoined blandly, "two men and the provost saw him quite clearly. As for me, I am not surprised: more than once our spies have reported that the man undoubtedly hailed from Ghent, and once he was traced to the very gates of this city. But," he added insinuatingly, "here he is surrounded by friends: every burgher in Ghent, no doubt, opens wide his hospitable door to the murderer of Spanish officers."
"Think you it is likely that the High-Bailiff of Ghent or … or … my future husband would harbour such an assassin?" she asked.
"Well!" he replied evasively, "all Netherlanders are treacherous. The High-Bailiff himself and his son Mark are said to be loyal … but there's another son … and the mother … one never knows. It would be strange," he continued unctuously, "if at some future time the murderer of Ramon should find shelter in your house."
"I shall pray to the saints," she rejoined with passionate intensity, "that he and I may meet face to face one day."
Indeed de Vargas had no cause to fear that henceforth his daughter would fail in her vigilance. The assassination of her lover had stirred her soul to its inmost depths. Indifference and light-hearted girlishness had suddenly given place to all the violent passions of her ardent nature. For the moment desire for vengeance-for justice she called it-and hatred of the assassin and his mates had swept every other thought, every soft aspiration away: all her world-the world as seen through the rose-coloured windows of a convent window-had tottered and opened beneath her feet, and through the yawning chasm she now saw evil and lust and cruelty dancing a triumphant saraband over Ramon's dead body.
"There is a means," resumed de Vargas after a slight pause, during which through half-closed lids he studied the play of every varying emotion upon his daughter's beautiful face, "there is a means, my child, whereby you or any faithful servant of our King can henceforth recognise at a glance the man who killed your cousin Ramon."
"A means?"
"Yes. He carries upon his arm the brand of his own infamy."
"Will you tell me more clearly what you mean?" she asked.
"Ramon had not breathed his last when the provost found him and ultimately brought him here to my lodgings. He was able to speak and to give a fragmentary account of what had taken place: how he was set upon in the dark and stabbed to death ere he could utter a cry. But at the last moment he made a supreme effort and wrenching his dagger from his belt he struck with it at his assailant. It seems that he inflicted a very severe wound upon the miscreant: the dagger penetrated into the left forearm close to the elbow and gashed the flesh and muscle as far as the wrist and right through to the bone. It is not likely that at this moment there is more than one man in Ghent who hath such a wound in the left forearm: the wound was deep too, and will take some time to heal, and even when it is healed it will leave a tell-tale scar which will last for years.
"I think," rejoined Lenora coldly, "that I should know the man who killed Ramon, even if he bore no brand of Cain upon his person."
Father and daughter looked at one another and for the space of a few seconds their souls-so different in every ideal, every feeling, every aspiration-met in one common resolve. He could hardly repress a sigh of satisfaction. He knew that he held her, closely, firmly, indissolubly at last. He held her by all the romance which her girlish imagination had woven round the personality of a worthless man, and by all the deep sense of injury which she felt as well as all the horror and the indignation at the dastardly deed. And his own warped and gloomy soul was at one with her pure and childlike one-pure because even the desire for revenge which she felt, she ascribed to God, and called it justice. The Moorish blood in her which mingles even with the bluest Castilian claimed with savage, primeval instinct that "eye for an eye" and "tooth for a tooth" which alone can satisfy a hot-headed and passionate race.
Lenora's eyes as she met those of her father lost their look of dull despair: something of the fanatical hatred which he felt for the whole of the despised race communicated itself to her, now that she too had so much cause for hatred.
"We understand one another, Lenora," he said. And like a feline creature sure of its prey, he drew quite close to her and took her hand, and began gently to stroke it.
"You will have to teach me what to do, father," she rejoined.
"Your heart and wits will tell you that. In a few days you will have entered the van Rycke household. Keep your eyes and ears open, and win the confidence and love of all those around you. Let not a word, a sign, a gesture escape you, and come and tell me at once all that you see and hear. Will you promise to do that, my Lenora?" he added, forcing his harsh voice to tones of gentleness.
"I promise," she replied fervently.
"The Lieutenant-Governor believes that Orange himself has been visiting Ghent lately! Keep your eyes and ears open, Lenora, you may be the means of bringing that arch-traitor to his just punishment. Promise me that you will listen," he urged.
"I promise," she reiterated firmly.
"The Lieutenant-Governor comes to Ghent in a few days' time. Wherever he goes there is always fear for his precious life. If Orange has been in Ghent then he hath hatched a plot against the Duke-on this I would stake my life-promise me that you will be on the watch, Lenora!"
"I promise."
"Upon your soul, my child?"
"Upon my soul!"
"And next to Orange himself, I'd sooner see that masked assassin Leatherface hang than any man in Europe; remember that, little one!"
"I'll not forget."
"The outrage on don Ramon de Linea must not remain unavenged, remember that."
"I'll not forget."
"Then let Orange and his rebels look to themselves!" ejaculated de Vargas with a note of triumph.
He took from the breast pocket of his doublet a piece of silk ribbon to which was attached a flat, yet curiously fashioned and shaped piece of steel.
"Take this, my child," he said significantly, as he held the trinket out to her. "This little bit of metal hath already done more service to our Lord the King, to our country, and to our faith than a whole army of spies."
"What is it, dear?" she asked.
"It is a little talisman," he replied, "that will turn any lock and open any secret drawer by whomsoever lock and drawer have been manufactured. It was made for me by the finest metal-cutter of Toledo-one in fact whose skill was so paramount that we had reluctantly to … to put him out of harm's way. He was getting dangerous. This pass-key was his masterpiece. I have tested it on the most perfect specimens of the locksmith's art both in Toledo and in Florence. It hath never failed me yet. Take it, my child, and guard it carefully. An I mistake not, you will find use for it in your new home."
Before she could protest he had thrown the ribbon over her head, and she-mechanically but with unaccountable reluctance withal-slipped the trinket into the bosom of her gown.
"Remember, my dear," concluded de Vargas, "that the day after your marriage I must return to Brussels. But if you see or hear anything that may concern the welfare of our Sovereign Lord the King, or of his government, you must come to me at once-do not hesitate-invent a pretext-come away in secret-do anything rather than delay. And remember also that anything you may tell me, I will treat in absolute confidence. Your name will never appear in connection with any denunciation … I mean," he interrupted himself hastily, "with any service which you may render to the State. Will you remember that also, my child?"
"I will remember," she replied.
It seemed almost as if she were under the potent spell of some wizard. She spoke and acted just as her father directed-and yet he looked so evil at this moment, hypocrisy and lust were so apparent in his jaundiced face, that even Lenora felt a sudden pang of doubt and of fear-doubt as to the purity of her own motives and fear at the terrible companionship which would henceforth exist between herself and her father's friends, men who-like him-were bent on the destruction of a nation and were actuated by blind hatred to oppress an entire people.
De Vargas-vaguely guessing what went on in the girl's mind-made an effort to regain his former bland manner: he strove by gentleness and soft words to lull her suspicions. After all, he was her father and she-a motherless child-had no one now in the world to whom she could cling, on whom she could pour out that wealth of love and tenderness which filled her young heart to overflowing. So now-very soon-she was kneeling close beside him, her head resting against his bosom-the dove nestling near the hawk; and the tears which would not come all the while that her soul was consumed with bitterness, flowed beneficently at last and eased her overburdened heart.
"You will not fail me, little one?" asked de Vargas even in the midst of tender, endearing words.
"Never!" she murmured, "if you turned against me, father dear, whither could I go? I have no one in the world but you."
As her head was bent and her eyes downcast, she could not see the cold and cruel glitter that shone in his face as he heard this simple profession of whole-hearted devotion and faith.
"Tell me what to do and I'll do it," she whispered again.
"Then will God Himself reward you," he rejoined unctuously, "for you will be serving Him and His Church, His anointed and the country of His chosen people."
After which he rose, kissed her and finally with a sigh of intense satisfaction left her to meditate alone, to dream and to pray.
BOOK TWO: DENDERMONDE
CHAPTER VI
A STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND
I
A week later was the marriage solemnised between donna Lenora de Vargas and Mark van Rycke, son of the High-Bailiff of Ghent.
The religious ceremony took place in the abbey church of St. Bavon in the presence of several members of the Grand Council and of all the high functionaries of the city. Nothing had been spared to make the occasion a magnificent and imposing one. The union between the two young people was known to have the warm approval of the King himself: His Holiness the Pope had sent a special blessing to the bride and bridegroom, whilst the Captain-General had granted the use of a number of picked troops to render the display more gorgeous. Seven hundred and fifty arquebusiers, spearmen and halberdiers lined the route of the bridal procession between the town-house and the church: they were dressed in the heraldic colours of the city of Ghent, one leg blue and the other yellow, and wore enormous hats with huge feathers dyed in the two colours.
The Regent too had graciously lent his court musicians for the occasion and they headed the procession with full orchestra playing the newest motets. The church itself had been magnificently decorated with tapestries, and a huge concourse of people lined the streets in order to view all this pomp and magnificence.
After the religious ceremony a grand banquet was held in the great hall of the Town House at which eighty-four privileged guests were bidden. It was served at separate tables each laid for a dozen guests, and consisted of twenty-five courses-which were both varied and succulent. There were fowls stewed in milk and dressed with sweetmeats and spices, there were pickled partridges and pastries, sausages and omelettes of every kind, whilst huge flagons of iced beer and Rhenish wines added to the conviviality of the entertainment.
Señor de Vargas presided at the chief table, and he had the bride on his right and the bridegroom on his left. The High-Bailiff also sat at this table as did Madame his wife and Messire Laurence van Rycke, and every one remarked that señor de Vargas was in high good-humour and that he bestowed marked evidences of his favour both upon the High-Bailiff and upon the bridegroom.
During the banquet the court musicians discoursed sweet music; in fact everything was done not only with decorum but with liberality: this was the first union between a noted and highly placed Spanish family and an equally distinguished patrician house of Flanders, and in a brief toast, tankard in hand, señor de Vargas expressed the hope that it might prove the precursor of a great many more.
Those present at the feast remarked moreover that the bride was beautiful beyond powers of description, that the bridegroom looked as usual, as if he had been spending half his nights in the taverns, and that Messire Laurence van Rycke looked pale and sick.
But nothing of any grave moment occurred during the length of this exciting and strenuous day. After the banquet the tables were cleared and many more guests arrived to take part in a grand reunion and ball which lasted well into the night. But neither the bride or bridegroom nor any of the grand Spanish seigniors stayed for that: a small procession was formed soon after the conclusion of the banquet, consisting of the parents of bride and bridegroom flanked by a guard of honour, which conducted the young couple from the Town House to the residence of the High-Bailiff, which was to remain their home until such time as a more fitting permanent abode could be provided for them.
II
And now the escort had taken leave of the young people: don Juan de Vargas and the High-Bailiff had to return to their guests at the Town House and Clémence van Rycke had gone to rest. The arquebusiers had gone and the serving men and women-with the exception of Pierre and Jeanne-had gone to watch the illuminations and to listen to the strains of the orchestra which could be heard quite plainly through the open windows of the Town House.
Clémence van Rycke had conducted the bride upstairs to the nuptial-chamber. With her own hands she had drawn a high-backed chair close to the fire and made the young girl sit down. Mark then placed a footstool to her feet and a down cushion to her back.
Lenora accepted all these little attentions without a word, but with a grateful smile. She was far too tired to speak, and when Clémence finally kissed her on the forehead and whispered a motherly: "God bless you, my child!" she could hardly murmur a feeble "Good-night!" in reply.
Then Madame van Rycke went away, and the house seemed suddenly to become very still. Lenora was still in her bridal gown, which was of stiff white brocade, with very high starched collar and hard stomacher that cramped her movements and made her sides ache. Her hair had been combed away from her forehead and only a few unruly curls lay moist against her brow: her delicate skin rebelled against the conventional white and pink unguents which the careful fingers of a highly-trained waiting woman had laid upon her cheeks and lips, and the dark lines of a black pencil round her lashes could not add lustre to her luminous dark eyes which, despite fatigue, shone with marvellous brilliancy.
She sat with hands folded before her, staring into the fire, and the flames in wanton frolic threw a golden glow upon her face and her gown and deep blue shadows all around her. Mark van Rycke-unseen by her-stood at the other end of the monumental hearth, one arm resting against the ledge, his head against his hand, so that his face was completely in shadow and she could not know that he was watching her.
"You are tired, Madonna?" he asked after a little while, and she replied, pathetically, like a child about to cry:
"Very tired, Messire."
"It has been a long and trying day for you," he continued lightly. "I confess to being very tired myself, and as soon as Jeanne comes to wait on you, I would beg of you that I might take my leave."
Then as she said nothing, but continued to stare into the fire in a listless manner, he added a little impatiently:
"Jeanne will not be long; she attends upon my mother every night, but will be at your service directly. Can you put up with my company, Madonna, till she come?"
"I am at your service, Messire," she rejoined stiffly, "if there is aught you wish to say to me."
"How cold you are, sweetheart," he said good-humouredly. "It would seem as if we were still in the presence of that awe-inspiring duenna of yours: what was her name? – I forget-but by the Mass! I tell you, sweet, that she froze the very marrow in my bones … and you were so formal in her presence too-brrrr! – it makes me shiver to think of those half-hours spent during the past week in such a freezing atmosphere!"
He laughed-a quaint little laugh-half merry and half shy, and after an instant's hesitation, he drew a low chair forward and sat down in front of the fire, close to her. Even then she did not turn to look at him.
"Had it not been for your eyes, Madonna," he said softly, "I would have sworn that you were fashioned of marble."
Now he was leaning a little forward, his elbow resting on his knee, his hand shading his face from the light of the fire. He was studying her face closely, and thought that he had never seen any woman quite so beautiful. "Laurence was a fool!" he was saying to himself as he took in every detail of the perfect face, the delicate contour of the cheeks, the pearly whiteness of the skin, the exquisite line of chin and throat, and above all those dark, glowing, unfathomable eyes which betrayed all the latent fire and passion which coldness of demeanour strove vainly to conceal. "Laurence was a fool! He would have fallen madly in love with this beautiful creature, and would have made her happy and contented with her lot, whilst the bonds of matrimony would have sat more lightly on him than on me."
He sighed, feeling a little sorry for himself, but nevertheless he stretched out his hand and captured hers-an exquisitely fashioned little hand it was, delicate to the touch and pulsating with life, like a prisoned bird. Mark was a young man-and one who had already got out of life most of the joys which it holds, but just for a moment he felt a curious thrill of unaccustomed pleasure, in holding this perfect thing-donna Lenora's hand. His own hands were strong, yet slender, finely shaped and warm to the touch, but it must be supposed that as he held hers, he must-quite unconsciously-have hurt her, for suddenly he saw that she turned even whiter than she had been before, her eyes closed and quite abruptly she withdrew her hand.
"Do I anger you, Madonna?" he asked.
"Nay, Messire," she replied coldly.
"May I not then hold your hand-for a very little while in mine?"
"If you wish."
But she did not voluntarily put her hand out to him, and he made no second attempt to capture it.
"We do not seem to be getting along very fast," he said quaintly.
She smiled. "Seeing how we came to be together, Messire," she said, "we were not like to have much in common."
"Yet, we shall have to pass our lives together, Madonna."
"Alas!" she sighed.
"I own that the prospect cannot be very alluring for you-it doth not seem to suggest an interminable vista of happiness…"
"Oh!" she murmured as if involuntarily, "I was not thinking of happiness."
"How strange," he retorted gently, "now, whenever I look at you, Madonna, I invariably think of happiness."
"Happiness? With me?"
"With you, sweetheart, if you will but allow me to work for that object. After all, my dear," he added with that whimsical smile of his, "we are both young, you and I; life lies all before us. I own that we have made a sorry beginning, that the first chapter of our book of life hath been ill-writ and by clumsy hands. But suppose we turn over a few pages, do you not think that we might happen on a more romantic passage?"
He drew nearer still to her, so near that as he bent toward her his knee touched the ground and his arm instinctively stretched out behind her, so that at the least movement on her part it would close around her and hold her-as indeed he longed that it should do. She was so very beautiful, and that air of settled melancholy, of childlike helplessness and pathos in her made an irresistible appeal to him.
"Madonna," he whispered, "an you would let me, I should like to make love to you now."
But she, with a quick, impatient jerk suddenly sat bolt upright and freed herself almost roughly from that arm which was nearly encircling her shoulders.
"Love!" she said with cold sarcasm. "You?"
He bit his lip and in his turn drew back: the dour look in his face became more marked and the merry twinkle died out of his eyes: his knee no longer touched the ground, but he remained quite self-possessed and said, still quite good-humouredly:
"Yes, I-your husband as it happens, Madonna. Would love from me be so very distasteful to you then?"
"I have no love for you, Messire, as you well know," she said coldly. "I told you what my feelings were toward yon, the first time that we met-at the Town House, the night of our betrothal."
"Yes," he owned, "you spoke very plainly then."
"And since then I have had no cause to change."
"I am as distasteful to you as I ever was?" he asked with droll consternation.
"Oh! – not distasteful, Messire."
"Come! that's something."
"Enough, methinks."
"Not by a long way, but it is a beginning. To-day I am not altogether distasteful-to-morrow I might e'en be tolerated … in a week toleration might turn to liking … and after that, liking to…"
"Never," she broke in firmly, "I should have to forget that which is indelibly writ upon my memory."
"And what is that?"
"That you married me without love and without wooing-bought me like a bundle of goods just because my father is powerful and yours ambitious. A week ago we were betrothed, Messire. Since then how hath your time been passed?"
"In wild, ecstatic half-hours spent in the presence of your duenna and sitting opposite to the chilliest bride in Christendom," he said whimsically.
"And the rest of the time in the taverns of Ghent," she retorted hotly, "and places of ill-repute."
"Who told you that?" he asked quietly.
