“I still have followers on that ship,” he said.
“The Zandaam?”
“Do not think it is over yet, my lady. I shall remember your words when I am free.”
It had been a mistake to come here. She had hoped to exorcise this demon by confronting him in his defeat. But he was still as poisonous now as he ever was. “You think I will die here on these miserable islands? God has preserved me for a purpose.” The eyebrows arched in that familiar and unnerving way. “We will meet again, you and I.”
“Not in this lifetime, Christiaan, nor I pray, in the next.”
“Never be sure about the next,” he said.
She turned and rushed outside.
“You miss me, don't you?” he shouted after her, and she heard him laughing all the way down the beach.
Chapter 100
The present day
“SO WHAT happened? To van Sant?”
Annamieke and the rest of the dig team were clustered in the tent around a gas lantern, gusts of wind whipping the canvas. The half-guildershe rolled in her cracked fingers flashed in the yellow light.
“They hanged the undermerchant on the seal island. Ambroise Secor decided not to bring him back to Batavia, he was afraid he would spread mutiny on the way back to the Indies.”
“And the others?”
“They executed them at Batavia Fort. For men like Steenhower the end was brutal and not quick. The only one to survive was the cabin boy, Strootman. He begged for his life and Secor set him off on a beach on the mainland. No one ever heard from him again.”
“What about Cornelia?” someone else asked.
“She returned to Holland. The story is that she went back to Michiel’s home town at Winschotten to tell his brother how Michiel had died. I imagine he must have been shocked to see such a fine lady but not so overawed that he didn’t charm her a little. According to the church records she married him two years after she got back from the East Indies.” Annameike held the half’guilder between her finger and thumb. “This has been in our family ever since. It was passed down through Cornelia’s great grandchildren, and then to theirs, and to theirs. Just before the Great War it was owned by a man called Roland van Himst, a jeweller in Amsterdam. He was my own great grandfather.”
“How did you get it?”
“When I knew we were coming here to do the dig I wrote to my cousin in Holland. She lives in Twente, just near the German border. It was in the vault of the Nederlandsche bank just off Stadhouderskade in Amsterdam. I flew over to see her and she gave it to me, made me promise I would guard it with my life. I said I would bring it back with its other half..” She picked up the other coin they had found that afternoon in the grave, held the two halves together, one in her right hand, the other in her left. “I came here to keep Cornelia’s promise. She said one day she would come back for him, just like he came back for her.” She slipped the two guilder halves in the pouch. “And now it’s done.”
It was quiet except for the hissing of the gas lamp. Another gust of wind hammered against the walls of the tent.
“That’s a nice story,” one of the women said.
Annemieke went outside and walked down to the narrow beach. As she sat down on the sand she thought she heard a woman’s voice cry out somewhere in the darkness. But it was only the sound of the mutton birds and the distant thunder of the waves on the reef.
Afterword
ANYONE even vaguely familiar with West Australian history will know of the ill-starred journey of the VOC retourschip Batavia and its foundering off what is now the town of Geraldton in 1629. It is surely the most shocking story of shipwreck in the annals of maritime history. It was clearly the inspiration behind my tale of Cornelia, Michiel and the wreck of the Utrecht.
However, history does not always lend itself kindly to good fiction, no matter how spectacular it is. Besides, the story of the wreck has been told many times and it is a tale of unrelenting horror; my story is about the love between a man and a woman who would not otherwise had ever been in the same room together, let alone the same bed.
There are many similarities to the Batavia story, but East India is a novel in the way that history can never be. But if you are interested in reading the real story - and if you think for a moment that men could never behave as they did here in this book - there are many great books written about the wreck. I found Islands of Angry Ghosts by Hugh Edwards the most readable, but there are literally dozens of accounts and I think I’ve read most of them.
I would like to extend my thanks to Sue Cox at the WA Maritime Museum in Fremantle for her assistance and for access to documents stored there. My special thanks to Bruce Melrose, pilot, pioneer diver and scholar, whose work also greatly assisted the writing of this book.
The Rubens vase is now in the Walters Art Gallery in Baltimore. The Great Cameo is now the chief attraction in the Royal Penningkabinet at Leiden in the Netherlands.
The poem recited by van Sant was a contemporary work, The Anacreontic by Pieter Corneliszoon Hooft.
THE END
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Isabella
She was taught to obey. Now she has learned to rebel.
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“YOU will love this man. Do you understand? You will love him, serve him and obey him in all things. This is your duty to me and to France. Am I clear?”
Isabella is twelve years old, pretty, bony and awkward. She keeps her eyes on the floor and nods her head.
Her father, the King of France, is the most handsome man she has ever seen. In the purple, he is magnificent. His eyes are glacial; a nod from him is benediction, one frown can chill her bone-deep.
He puts his hands on the arms of her chair and leans in. A comma of hair falls over one eye. He rewards her now with a rare smile. “He is a great king, Isabella, and a handsome husband. You are fortunate.”
A log cracks in the hearth.
She raises her eyes. He strokes her cheek with the back of his hand. “You will not disgrace me.”
She shakes her head.
“Much is dependent on this union.”
Her, breathless: “I will not disappoint you.”
Phillip goes to the fire and stands with his back to it, warming himself. It is the heart of winter and this is as cold and draughty a castle as she has ever been in. She can smell the sea. There is ice in the air.
“If he has cause to reprove you, you will listen and obey him. If he is angry, you shall be kind. If he is dismissive, you shall be attentive. Cherish him, give him your attentions. Be sweet, gentle and amiable. Patience is your byword. You will make him love you.”
He stares at her. He can stand like this for an eternity; fix a look on his face as if he is carved from marble. It is unnerving.
“No matter the provocation.”
“Provocation?”
“What do you know of Edward?”
“He is King of England. His father was a great warrior. They say Edward is tall and as fine a prince as England ever had.” (Though it is hard for her to imagine a finer king than her father, or a more handsome man.) She has always promised herself she will have a man just like him: as fair, as strong, as feared.
“Your new husband disputes Gascony with me. One road leads to war. A less thorny path leads to the day when my grandson-to-be inherits the throne of my most ancient enemy.”
“What provocation?” Isabella said.
Phillip frowns.
“You mentioned provocation, Father.”
“Did I? I meant nothing by it. Tomorrow you will be Queen of England. Remember always that you are also a daughter of France. Make me proud, Isabella.”
He nods to her nurse and she is taken from the room.
She can barely contain her excitement. She has rehearsed this moment in her mind for years. A handsome prince, a throne, estates: it is what she was born for. From tomorrow she will live her life at the side of a great king.
Happiness is assured.
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Vientiane, April, 1959
NOELLE thought she would have noticed him even if he hadn't driven his Packard through the front bar of the Hotel Constellation.
He was outrageously handsome, even when he was drunk. He had blue-black hair, with a pronounced widow's peak, swept straight back from the forehead, and the damndest blue eyes. His skin was olive dark and there was a reed-thin black moustache on his top lip. He wore a white linen suit, an affectation usually reserved for visiting potentates and ambassadors. It looked as natural on the Corsican as his own skin. Underneath the suit he was wearing a black silk shirt.
The bar was open to the street, so there were no walls to absorb the impact; but the unexpected arrival of a large burgundy red American automobile with massive rear fins quickly scattered the occupants, who were mostly bored foreign correspondents and diplomats. The chrome bumper bar splintered several rattan tables and chairs, and demolished half of the bamboo bar. Dusty bottles of Vermouth, Byrrh and black rum toppled off the shelves and shattered on the floor.
There was a deathly silence.
Then Baptiste Crocé leaned out from the driver's side and beckoned the startled Lao barman. 'I'll have a large cognac,' he said in French.
There was a ripple of applause from the western journalists, who were also drunk. Any madness was a welcome diversion. At that moment Baptiste saw Noelle, stood on the bench seat of the Packard, and gave her a low bow.
'Imbecile,' Noelle's escort muttered. 'He's drunk. A disgrace.'
Marcel Rivelini was her father's choice for her escort that evening; he certainly would not have been hers. He was one of his business associates from Bangkok, wealthy, sophisticated and insufferable. He was also almost as old as her father. I would not have minded that so much if he had a sense of humour, she thought.
The barman brought the Corsican his cognac. He raised the glass towards her in salute and climbed out of the Packard. He made his way, a little unsteadily, across the bar towards them. Rivelini looked tense.
This should be interesting.
'May I have the pleasure of this dance?'
Noelle smiled. 'But monsieur, there is no music,' she said.
'That is beside the point, mademoiselle. All I want is the exquisite pleasure of having such a lovely young woman in my arms.'
Rivelini stood up and punched him under the jaw. The Corsican fell backwards, breaking another rattan table. There was a hiss of disappointment from the gathered journalists.
Noelle stood up.
'I'm sorry if he offended you,' Rivelini said to her.
Noelle threw her Pernod at him. He gasped in surprise, staring in horror at the stain on his silk shirt. The journalists cheered again.
'You little bitch,' he muttered.
Noelle pushed him in the chest, harder than she intended. He fell backwards, his legs tangled in his chair, and landed in a sprawl among the tables. He twisted his knee as he fell.
Noelle knelt down beside the Corsican.
'Are you all right?' she said.
He was bleeding from the lip. He felt around the inside of his mouth with his tongue. 'Are any teeth missing?' he said.
'You're lucky he didn't kill you. He's a gangster from Bangkok. Are you crazy?'
'Look, my suit's ruined. Bastard.'
'Here, I'll help you up. You're drunk.'
'Just a little.' As she held out her hand he pulled her towards him. 'But not so drunk that I don't know I've just met the most beautiful woman in Asia.'
'Get back in the car.'
Rivelini had struggled to his feet. His knee would not take his weight and he had to lean on a table for support. 'Where are you going?'
'Thank you for an entertaining evening, Marcel,' she said and helped the Corsican into the Packard. Then, to a final chorus of cheers from the journalists, she got behind the wheel and reversed out. A rattan chair was tangled in the rear bumper and got dragged along behind as she drove off down the street.
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“Colin Falconer is one of those historical fiction authors that takes a subject and not only researches it thoroughly but also has the talent to take you to the heart of the matter whilst making you feel that you’re seeing history being made at the time of the events. As with his other work the story has a cracking pace, the lead character Philip of Vercy believable and when blended with religious heresy alongside crusade, makes for an edge of your seat read. Add to this top notch prose a wonderfully almost cinematic feel to the story and of course a lead character that you can really get behind and all in it’s a wonderful read. Great stuff.” - Dros Delnoch, Falcatta Times
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East India Page 32