by Graham Brack
DISHONOUR AND OBEY
Master Mercurius Mysteries
Book Three
Graham Brack
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
A NOTE TO THE READER
ALSO BY GRAHAM BRACK
PROLOGUE
I am in my twilight years. There is no point in denying it; the evidence is there every time I try to climb a flight of stairs without something to lean on. No matter; I have arranged my life so that I can potter around my study, my bedroom and the university refectory without too much exertion; and, because my eyes are not as sharp as once they were, I leave most of the writing to my clerk, Jan van der Meer, whom I have had charity enough to retain for the better part of thirty years despite his imperfections. [Marginal note: his many imperfections.]
Without seeking public notice, I have kept company with many of the great men of this and other lands. I would have preferred to have been a simple professor, studying and writing here in Leiden, without the distractions of public service. In case my previous memoirs have not come to the reader’s notice, permit me to explain that it all began when three young girls were abducted in Delft and the mayor sent to the University of Leiden asking for the cleverest man available to help the city fathers solve the problem, so — of course — I was sent.
Word of this must have reached the Stadhouder, William of Orange, who requested my help in the small matter of a treasonous plot against him. It was an unpleasant business made only marginally more palatable by a very substantial fee. I would not have it thought that I am avaricious, but already having money means you don’t need to earn it, which would enable me to devote more time to my studies. There was never any danger that the University would pay me enough to arrive at this happy result.
I had hoped that I was quit of the Stadhouder’s service after this. I was wrong.
Occasionally nitpickers and other blackguards delight in finding fault with my accounts, pointing to alleged inaccuracies and my great age as evidence that my tales are not to be relied upon. I beg to differ. I was there, and they were not. I have copious notes — somewhere — and an excellent memory for distant events. Things like the location of my slippers may be a different matter.
CHAPTER ONE
Beloved in the Lord, we are assembled here in the presence of God for the purpose of joining in marriage (name) and (name). Since we have received no lawful objections to their proposed union, let us reverently call to mind the institution, purpose, and obligations of the marriage state.
The holy bond of marriage was instituted by God himself at the very dawn of history. Making a man in his own likeness, he endowed him with many blessings and gave him dominion over all things. Moreover, God said, “It is not good for the man to be alone. I will make a helper suitable for him” (Genesis 2:18). So God created woman of man’s own substance and brought her to the man. “For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and they will become one flesh” (Genesis 2:24).
Despite being an ordained minister, I have never had to say those words, because I don’t have a parish. As a lecturer at the University of Leiden I have to preach occasionally, but since all our students are male the chances that two will want to marry each other are very slight. After all, if they expressed an interest in so doing they would immediately be burned at the stake as sodomites.
Neither has anyone said the words to me. I have not married. There are two reasons for this. First, I haven’t had time. The life of an academic is very busy. Second, I am an ordained Catholic priest.
Yes, I know that seems a trifle odd, but I was first ordained as a minister in the Reformed Church; then, as a result of further study, the Bishop of Namur ordained me a priest, but in view of the persecutions then being visited on Catholics he instructed me to keep my ordination secret. He wanted a group of priests to call upon to form a new church if the old one were destroyed. This suited me because I am not enamoured of physical pain, and it seemed to me that the best way to avoid torture and imprisonment was not to let anyone know that I was a Catholic. There is also the little problem of losing my job if I were known to be Catholic; and I haven’t actually left the Reformed Church, just joined another one.
I am bound to remark that matters have never come to that in my own country. The Dutch genius for compromise came into play, so at intervals anti-Catholic measures would be introduced but nobody would do much to enforce them. We all knew the rules. Catholic churches had to be discreet, hidden in side streets, and we must not meet outside the hours of the Divine Services.
In some cities, such as Utrecht, there was even more toleration most of the time, but at the cost of one’s loyalty to the state being under question. And since it was the state that could hang you up by your thumbs in a dungeon and leave you there till you rotted, I chose not to upset it. Believe me, I’ve seen what the state is prepared to do to people who cross it, and while it was uncomfortable to watch I suspect it was a lot more uncomfortable for the poor wretches who were on the receiving end. There are some difficult pastoral issues that a man of the cloth must consider when a man begs you to show God’s mercy and cut his throat.
In the autumn of 1674, I bade farewell to the Stadhouder and his court and returned to my chamber in Leiden, firmly resolved not to get embroiled in anything of the kind again. That Stadhouder, William III, was a nice man, pious and honest, but he seemed to regard a man’s life as completely expendable when it came to defending his interests. I view things differently, especially where my own existence is concerned. I have no doubt that Heaven may be wonderful, but I am in no hurry to get there, and being cornered in dark alleys by knife-wielding fanatics is not something I want to experience too often.
Thus, for nearly two years I lived the peaceful life of a university lecturer with all that it entails. I taught, I marked, I examined, I wrote, I studied, I ate in the refectory, despite the cavalier disregard for cookery technique and elementary hygiene displayed by Albrecht the master cook, and whenever I could slip away I spent the evening in Jan Steen’s inn on the Langebrug. I eat at the University for free, but it was worth a few stijvers to eat something that had not been through the burning, fiery furnace of Albrecht’s oven. And Steen’s beer was a cut above the average, possibly due to the unstinting quality control he practised personally every evening at some cost to his health.
One of the effects of my service to the Stadhouder was that he allowed the Rector of our University to step down, as he had been wishing to do for some time. We had not expected that he would choose to retire altogether, but he decided that he had been away from teaching for too long, so he bought a house and spent much of his time cultivating tulips. A few times a year he returned for University events or to conduct his personal study, when we would exchange some friendly words, but he seemed genuinely happy to have laid aside the burden of his office.
The new Rector was a man called Johannes Coccius, who was a philologian, but none the worse for that. He was a fair man who could always see both sides of an argument and therefore had gr
eat difficulties in deciding between them; or, indeed, in making any other decisions. The great benefit of this was that the University’s governance returned to the pattern originally envisaged, namely, one in which the senior staff made their points and a collective decision was reached, with the Rector acting largely as a chairman. The concomitant problem was that these men were very reluctant to discipline their own kind, as a result of which the collective decisions were disobeyed with impunity. Thus one of my own students was expelled, reinstated, re-expelled and finally admitted to classes by the head of the school without the knowledge or agreement of the University council.
I kept myself to myself as much as I could. I was, if I remember correctly, researching a particularly interesting aspect of Aristotelian eudaimonia. One day I must finish writing it up, but the project is hampered by Van der Meer’s inability to spell some of the long words that I dictate to him.
At the point that this story begins, I had just returned from a secret assignation with Albrecht’s wife Mechtild. There was no vulgar purpose in this; Mechtild was robustly constructed and not comely in the conventional sense, but she had an angel’s touch with pastry that delighted the soul, and for some reason she felt the need to mother me, frequently expressing concern that I might be losing weight. I was, but so was everyone who ate her husband’s burnt offerings and had any sense of taste. Until I met Albrecht, I did not know that it was possible to burn soup.
So it was that from time to time Mechtild would whisper to me as she served at the refectory tables, intimating that if I came to the kitchen door at some appointed hour there might be an egg custard or cheese pie for me. It was for this reason that I ascended the stairs to my chamber with such a pie concealed in my sleeve and had just stowed it in my chest with a view to an evening treat when there was a knock at my door. When I opened it, the bedellus was standing there.
The bedellus is a species of superior janitor who carries the mace at ceremonial occasions and runs errands for the Rector. His current duty was to request my presence in the Rector’s chamber at my earliest possible convenience. When I prevaricated, it was made clear that my earliest possible convenience meant at once, whatever I was doing, so I meekly followed him, mentally retracing my actions for anything dishonourable. Had someone seen me accepting the pie and informed on me? Whilst trivial in itself, it was just the sort of thing that got staff dismissed, particularly since the tribunal would all be jealous if they knew I was receiving a private supply of pastry from Mechtild; and it is in the nature of weak leaders to punish those of lower standing and leave the superiors to flaunt their lack of respect.
We walked together to the Rector’s room, where the bedellus knocked and opened the door for me upon hearing the summons to enter. He stood in the doorway, making it extremely difficult to squeeze past, rather in the manner of a doorman expecting a tip, but at length I was able to gain entry and stood respectfully in front of the Rector’s desk.
‘Ah, Mercurius, thank you for coming so promptly.’
It seemed inappropriate to point out that his titan had required it, especially since he was still standing in the doorway. Perhaps his fat head was wedged there.
The previous Rector had been a small man, but neat and spry. This one was pasty-faced and lean. The old Rector had worn a skullcap over closely cropped grey hair; his successor had such a head of hair that opinion was divided as to whether it was a wig or not.
The Rector rummaged around his desk and produced a letter which he held with the ends of his fingers in the manner of one who has found a caterpillar in his salad. ‘The Stadhouder has written to you,’ he said, indicating the impression in the red wax seal in case I should suppose that he had opened it already. Coccius was a noted anti-monarchist, though quick to explain that he was unconcerned about the title that a man might have, but objected to autocracy of any kind. None of us had ever worked out where he stood on the issue of the De Witts, the brothers who had kept William of Orange from the Stadhoudership until a mob rose up and eviscerated them. The spontaneity of this action was doubtful given that everyone in The Hague knew it was planned except, apparently, their guards.
I thanked him and asked his permission to open it in his presence. This being given, I read quickly, and my heart sank. To be honest, it had started sinking when I saw the seal, because I could think of no circumstances in which the Stadhouder would write to me that did not fall under the heading of unwelcome tidings.
‘The Stadhouder wishes me to attend upon him at The Hague as soon as you give me leave,’ I announced. This was untrue, because the Rector’s consent was not sought in the letter, but it seemed politic to suggest that it was.
Coccius rubbed his cheek. ‘One must suppose that the Stadhouder would not send for you except in some great national cause, so we must not stand in your way. Please arrange for others to attend to your duties for the duration of your trip.’
I thanked him and made to leave.
‘In the circumstances, I do not propose to adjust your salary.’
It had never occurred to me that he would, but why did he need to say so?
As a mark of respect, we usually left the Rector’s presence backwards, bowing in the doorway and reversing out into the passageway. I had never quite mastered this action, and my rear end bore several indentations caused by the Rector’s door handle. On this occasion I was spared the door handle and enjoyed the immense pleasure of hearing a sharp intake of breath from the bedellus as my rump smacked into his groin.
CHAPTER TWO
There is a barge from Leiden to The Hague, but in good weather it is as quick to walk. On the morning when I set out the weather was fine and dry, but within a couple of hours it had changed for the worse, and by the time I arrived at The Hague I was wet through.
The guards at the Binnenhof did not recognise me — there was, I suppose, no reason why they should — but the letter from the Stadhouder gained me entry, and I was invited to stand near a fire and dry off in one of the upstairs chambers. The Stadhouder suffered from asthma and was affected by cold air, so he kept fires blazing, to the discomfort of some of us.
In the circumstances I was not displeased to have to wait a while, and this was reinforced by the ready provision of wine and ham to restore me after the journey. Bouwman, the Stadhouder’s personal secretary, whom I had met before, came to greet me and apologise for the delay. It seemed that William III was in conference with one of his ambassadors who had been recalled for some discussions. I suppose my four hour walk paled by comparison with his journey, so I contented myself with eating, drinking and enjoying the paintings that surrounded me, any one of which would probably have cost my whole year’s earnings; except, of course, that William probably had not paid for many of them since their artists, members of a peculiarly sycophantic profession, may well have given them gratis in the hope that visitors to these large buildings would admire them and offer further valuable commissions.
This was a hard time for painters in our country. The heady prices that had preceded the French invasion had evaporated, and even as fine a master as Vermeer had died penniless. In fact, he owed his baker for a couple of years’ bread, which just shows which is the more lucrative profession; and in hard times you can eat the bread you have made, but you cannot easily chew a painting.
It is just possible that after a long walk, two or three glasses of fine claret and a rest by a warm fire, I may have nodded off. In any event, I felt someone shaking my shoulder and jerked upright to see the Stadhouder walking towards me. He seemed amused rather than cross at my failure to bow, which I dashed to put right, and greeted me like an old friend. I had worked for him before, but I would not have presumed to call him an intimate acquaintance, although it seemed that he had remembered me.
‘Master Mercurius! Are you well?’ he asked. William was a small man, and his asthma had left him with a deformed chest rather like a pigeon, but he demonstrated his vigour by quick movement and a louder voice than was strictly nece
ssary.
‘Very well, thank you, Stadhouder. I trust that you are too.’
‘Apart from occasionally not being able to breathe, I am, thank you. I’m grateful to you for coming so promptly to The Hague. I shan’t beat about the bush, Mercurius. I’ve got a little job for you.’
Since the last “little job” the Stadhouder gave me nearly got me killed, the alert reader will understand my immediate feeling that someone had just kicked me in the groin several times.
‘I’m getting married, Mercurius!’
‘Congratulations, Stadhouder. May I ask who the lucky lady is?’
‘I haven’t decided yet. But I’m nearly twenty-six and I ought to find a bride, especially if I can enhance the security of these United Provinces by wedding a princess from one of the great powers.’
Obviously love was not a prerequisite, then.
‘I look at the last war, Mercurius, and think that it could all start again at any time. But if just one of the great powers had been allied to us, would the others have dared to attack?’
Writing now it seems hardly credible that in 1672 France, England, Sweden and a few Germans formed an alliance to attack us, and eventually we fought them off under the Stadhouder’s leadership. But we could hardly expect to do so again.
‘The obvious choices would be princesses of France or England. Unfortunately, the King of France’s daughters have all died, but he has two nieces, Marie Louise and Anne Marie. Anne Marie is only seven years old, but she would do at a pinch. Marie Louise is fifteen. I’ve seen a picture of her, Mercurius. She’s not repulsive.’
‘I am delighted to hear it, Stadhouder.’
‘My bigger concern is that I know Louis XIV. He’s the most self-centred man around, and if he took it into his head to attack us the fact that his niece was a hostage wouldn’t give him a moment’s pause. That rather defeats the object of marrying her. And, of course, she’s a Catholic and the people of this country are determined that they don’t want a Catholic leader. So if we had children I’d have to fight to bring them up as Protestants, and that would probably mean separating them from their mother’s influence and sending her to a nunnery.’