ONCE AGAIN FRANCESCA was able to settle to work without the shadow of Ludolf’s presence in Delft looming over her. Pieter was coming to see her during Delft’s annual kermis in September, a week of festivities when people from all walks of life rubbed shoulders in the general merriment. Last year she had been allowed a day off from the studio to enjoy the Delft kermis with the Vermeer children, but this year she would be with the man she loved. Jan was letting her borrow a mask and a red cloak from the atelier chest and with her hair covered by the hood she could be with Pieter without fear of recognition.
She counted the days as preparations for the kermis began to take place. Booths, tents and stalls were being set up in the market square and along the streets. There would be plays and concerts, archery contests and other sports, games of chance, processions, dances and fireworks as well as special entertainments for the children.
On the opening day people came early into town from miles around and a large crowd congregated for the procession of the local militia into the square. The Vermeers took up a position outside their own house where the children could stand at the front, Francesca helping to shepherd the youngest of them while Rina took her hand and remained at her side. Catharina had made them all little banners to wave, including Francesca, and Beatrix jumped up and down with excitement as she waited for the procession to appear.
Fifes and drums, combined with the blare of long-stemmed trumpets, heralded the approach of the militia. Then came the standard-bearer in pumpkin-yellow brocade embroidered in gilt thread and sashed with orange silk, white plumes in his sweeping hat. He carried the standard in such a way that it whirled dramatically, although the air was mild and still with no breeze. Behind him marched the officers and men in all their finery. Cheers resounded around the square and Beatrix ran forward to join with the children running alongside them, Francesca and Rina rushing to keep abreast of her to make sure she did not get lost in a crush of people afterward.
After returning the two girls back into their mother’s care, Francesca and Jan went back indoors. He had stocked up his gallery with paintings and etchings over the past weeks and would have a busy time throughout the kermis, for people would be in a spending mood. She, as an apprentice, would have one day off on the morrow.
Next morning the highlight was to be a procession of the Guilds, in which Jan was taking part. He went off in his best coat and breeches of dark blue velvet to muster near the Old Church. Francesca in her mask watched from the studio window until she saw Pieter come to stand near Mechelin Huis at the end of the row of trees that divided off the square from the surrounds of the New Church. Then she hastened from the house by way of the gallery and ran joyously into Pieter’s embrace. Nobody in the merry, milling throng paid them any attention. There was so much to see and to do. Vendors shouted out their wares or their entertainments in rhyme, which were often comic and brought forth roars of laughter. Pieter was not masked, but many were in carnival costumes and Francesca in her mask did not receive a second glance. They were able to join in the country dances together, watch a drama, eat and drink and try out their luck at various competitions. Once they saw Clara, a lonely little figure, who had limped painfully from Kromstraat to see the festivities in the square.
“I only wish we could let her join us for a little while,” Francesca said after pointing her out to Pieter. “She has such a wretched time under Geetruyd’s thumb, but I mustn’t let her recognize me.”
“She does look sad there on her own. Just wait here for me.” He darted to a peddler selling posies and bought one. Making his way through the crowd to where Clara stood, he swept off his hat, bowed and kissed her hand. Then as the little woman stared at him in blushing astonishment, he presented her with the posy, behavior quite in order at a kermis, when it was acceptable to pay respectful tribute to any woman. As he left her Clara stared dazedly after him, a smile wreathing her face. He put his arm around Francesca, drawing her deeper into the crowd.
“I’m glad you did that,” she said happily. “You’ve made Clara’s day as wonderful as ours.”
During the afternoon they left the festivities and walked out into the countryside, where for a little while she was able to remove her mask and let the hood fall back from her hair. They lay in the tall grass together and renewed their love for each other.
“When shall we meet again?” he asked as they wended their way back to the town.
“In Amsterdam when I go home for Christmas. Sybylla’s marriage to Adriaen is to take place then.”
“That’s a long time to wait.”
“The weeks will pass quickly. I have to be more careful than ever now that Geetruyd should not suspect we’re seeing each other.”
“Yes, it would be disastrous if incarceration stopped your gaining Guild membership at this late stage.”
“It’s not only that!” She halted and pressed herself close to him, throwing her arms about his neck. “Ludolf would hear of it and I’m terrified he might kill you!”
He put his hands on her waist, looking guardedly into her face. “Whatever makes you think he would go to such extreme measures?”
“He’s so mad for me that I think jealousy might drive him to the most desperate deed. No normal man would have used such means as he did to snare me as a wife. I’ve given him nothing but rebuffs, made it plain that I’m not a willing participant in that contract and all I want is to be free of him, but still he will not let me go. It’s a sickness. He’s so obsessed that sometimes I wonder if he really sees me as an individual anymore, but as some prize that he would maim or murder for if the need arose!”
Her head drooped forward against him and he stroked the nape of her neck with his fingertips, thinking how all unknowingly she had accurately summed up the character of the man who had already murdered once and most probably twice. “You mustn’t ever be afraid for me. Remember, I’m a militiaman and trained to both attack and defend with my sword and pistol. Put all your fears at rest as far as I’m concerned.”
She looked up anxiously at him again. “Nevertheless, we must take no more risks. I wouldn’t have dared to meet you today if I hadn’t been masked.”
“Then it’s farewell now until December,” he said ruefully.
“It is, my dearest love.”
When they reached the town they parted where they had met by the row of trees. She returned the mask and cloak to the atelier chest before she walked back to Kromstraat with Weintje through all the festive trappings of the kermis, where colored lanterns and bright flares added to the general enchantment of the scene. Her thoughts followed Pieter riding back through the night, the bulb-selling season being in full swing and demanding his presence at Haarlem Huis just as his land would always draw him back.
Clara came with the posy to show her, full of it being a gift from a dashing stranger. “I wish you could have seen him, Francesca.”
“I’m so pleased he singled you out.”
Geetruyd, who was within hearing, sniffed contemptuously. “I expect the posy had been refused by every other woman at the kermis.”
Clara’s eyes filled with tears at the hurtful gibe. “That’s not true! He was being courteous to me because I was on my own, not for any other reason. He could have given the posy to any one of the pretty girls there and not been spurned. As a matter of fact, he had his own sweetheart. I saw them together and the posy could have been hers if he had wished it, but he had bought her something else. I saw them earlier at one of the stalls.”
“What made you notice them?” Francesca asked gently.
“The way they kissed as if they were alone on an island instead of being in the midst of hundreds of people.” There was a wistful note in Clara’s voice.
Geetruyd had come up to her. “You should know better than to watch such abandoned behavior in public!”
“There were plenty of other sweethearts kissing and cuddling,” Clara retorted with unusual spirit. “It always happens at a kermis.”
“Tha
t’s why I disapprove of such roistering. The kermis is a tradition that should be abolished.” Her glare silenced any further expression of personal opinion by Clara, who went meekly to her room to return her posy to a vase of water.
Francesca also went to her own room. There she gazed again at the ring Pieter had bought her at the stall. It was just a pretty bauble, but its significance went deep.
CONSTANTIJN LOOKED AT Aletta from under his brows as she dealt the cards for a game they were about to play. “Why haven’t you been to the kermis?”
“I wouldn’t go without you,” she replied crisply.
He was taken aback. “What do you mean?”
“Only that I would have enjoyed it if you had had the courage to escort me.” She was trying a tactic now of goading him in the hope of it having some good effect. The weeks since his parents’ visit had been painful in the extreme.
“Huh!” he shouted derisively, sorting his cards. “What a spectacle that would have made! You could have put me in the tent for the freaks and gone off to enjoy yourself in the dances and games.”
She lowered the fan of her cards to look at him angrily across the table. “Who would want to view you? You’re only a man without legs. Why do you always imagine yourself to be so special?”
“You’re damnably impertinent for a housekeeper!”
“And you are abominably rude for a master!”
He opened the play with a slapping down of a jack. It pleased him that she was never at a loss for words, even when he reduced her to this quarrelsome bickering. “How do you suggest I should have seen the entertainments of the kermis? By peeping through the drawn-down blinds of a sedan chair?” He was remembering bitterly the many kermises he had enjoyed with wild pranks and sports and the tumbling of girls.
“You could have gone on wooden legs.” She was scrutinizing the hand she held. It was the first time she had even hinted at the stump legs that had been ready for a long time, together with the crutches, which had been delivered as promised.
“Why not on stilts?” he gibed. “That would be even better.”
“I daresay you could manage that too if you had crutches that were long enough.”
He saw by her serious air that she had meant what she had said about the wooden legs, but for the past two days the distant music and noise of the kermis, which reached him through the open window, had added to his despair, reminding him he could never compete dangerously again in any test of sporting skill.
“You mean well, Aletta,” he said quietly, “but it’s not just the walking. My previous life held so much that is lost to me forever.”
“But—”
“The subject is closed. Let’s get on with this game.”
As they continued to play she knew he was as far away as ever from what she wanted most for him. He had not yet forgotten the woman he loved. Maybe Isabella, by breaking off the betrothal when he had needed her most, had also broken him forever.
AT HAARLEM HUIS, Pieter puzzled over the message from Gerard that he had received that evening. It asked him to be in a certain place in Haarlem’s St. Bavo Church at an early-afternoon hour the next day and no reason was given. For a wild moment he had hoped he might see Francesca there, but he realized almost immediately that such a happening was highly unlikely.
He rode into Haarlem the following afternoon with ten minutes in hand. He hitched his horse to a post by the Butchers’ Hall and removed his hat as he entered the huge church, its quietness falling over him like a cloak. An old woman in black sat in meditation on a distant bench and there was another in the little Dog Whippers’ Chapel, so named for those of that trade, who had made it their own in the past when employed by the church to keep out troublesome dogs. Neither the two women nor a stranger, who stood looking down at Frans Hals’s stone, paid him any attention as he went by. He tried to be as quiet as possible, but inevitably the heels of his riding boots made some sound.
At the end of the church he came to the Bread Bench, by which he had been asked to wait. It was here in times gone by that Guild members had once sat and from which they had distributed bread among the poor after the services. He whiled away the time by studying the carving, which was a masterpiece of medieval craftsmanship. When footsteps approached leisurely he expected to see Gerard, but instead it was the stranger whom he had seen earlier, coming to view the historic bench. As good manners demanded, they bowed their heads to each other.
“What a treasure the church has here,” the stranger said, placing a hand on the old wood. He was about Pieter’s own height, similarly athletic in build, with sandy hair, a thin mustache and a small pointed beard. “Don’t you agree, Heer van Doorne?”
Pieter raised an eyebrow in surprise. “You know me?”
“It was at my request that Gerard Meverden arranged for you to be here.” The man indicated that they should keep their voices low, which they were doing to a degree in any case, being in a holy place. “Let us stroll together about this church as we talk and appear to be looking at everything of interest. My name is Paulus van Roos.”
“What is your business with me?”
“It is not mine. I’m only the messenger. The duty with which I have been entrusted is to put two questions to you. The first is to ask if you would risk your life for our Prince and the freedom of our country.”
“I have already dedicated myself to that purpose by my oath taken when I enlisted as a reservist in the militia. Before you ask me anything else I have a right to know who sent you and to what purpose.”
Van Roos stopped as if to study a Spanish cannonball on display, a relic of the siege of Haarlem during the war with Spain. “Ah! May those days never come again.”
“It’s not Spain we have to fear but France!” Pieter commented strongly.
“Precisely!” Van Roos looked piercingly at him. “I have heard a clarion call to that effect in a voice that has been hushed far too long.”
Pieter released a slow breath. So the twenty-two-year-old Prince Willem of Orange was about to assert himself at last against those who had long dominated Dutch political affairs. “Ask your other question.”
“Can you be in Amsterdam tomorrow evening?”
“I can.”
“Then go to the Margere bridge at nightfall. A boat will be waiting.”
“How shall I know which is the one?”
“I’ll be watching out for you. Now I bid you good day.”
Van Roos strolled away and when Pieter judged him to be gone from the church he left too. He did not ride straight home, but went first to Gerard’s house, only to learn that his friend had left that morning on a business trip and it was not known when he would return, as he traveled around so much.
Turning his horse for home, Pieter thought about the Prince, who had listened to the call of the people and had been waiting astutely until the time was right. Born a month after his father’s death, reputed to be wise and intelligent beyond his years, he had been kept in the background while Johan de Witt, an admirable man in himself, straightforward and honest, had done much good for the country over a long period of time, but he no longer held the people’s trust regarding his dealings with France. It would soon be the Prince’s hour.
Pieter had a number of business matters to settle before he left for Amsterdam, having no idea how long he might have to stay there, and he worked late into the night and again in the morning before leaving his manager in charge. When he arrived at his city house Vrouw de Hout was surprised to see him, not having expected him for another two weeks. She fussed about, lighting the fire in the drawing room and apologizing for not having done so previously.
“I never come in here except to clean when you’re away,” she explained, “and there’s not much in the house for dinner.”
“Don’t concern yourself,” he said, sitting down with his long legs stretched out before him. It was good to relax and warm himself by the first flickering flames. “Anything will do, but I would like to eat as soon as pos
sible. I have to go out again at nightfall.”
That made her fuss more than ever. He heard the copper pans clattering in the kitchen. Before long she served him a perfectly adequate meal of leek soup followed by fish and rounded off with candied fruit and a selection of cheese. She would have served him coffee too, but he declined it.
“There’s no time. It’s getting dark already.” He rose from the table. “I’m unsure of my plans. I may be back tonight and I may not.”
It was a black night without a star. Pieter carried a lantern and the pale yellow rays caused the rain-wet cobbles to sparkle underfoot. He followed the streets that took him to the bridge. He was not going on this expedition unarmed, but had a pistol in his belt and a sword at his hip. It was a simple precaution against being set upon by robbers on the way and any unexpected danger that might arise through this curious meeting. The canals glinted gold in the reflected light of the windows and passing candle lamps. As he approached the bridge van Roos came from an archway.
“This way,” he said without greeting, leading Pieter to some old stone steps not far from the bridge that led down to the canal. A boat was waiting, a man at the oars. Pieter took a seat, followed by van Roos. There was no conversation between them. The oars dipped in and out of the water until they came alongside one of the rear doorways common to houses backing onto canals, which gave access to either boat or sleigh according to the season.
The Golden Tulip Page 56