As Above, So Below

by Rudy Rucker

  At Franckert’s urging, Mayken and Peter drank rather more than their custom. Fat Franckert could hold any amount of alcohol and still dance with his wife, but Peter grew more and more disheveled and stupid. He couldn’t stop talking about having wiped blood from the Bosch in William’s gallery, and then nothing would do but that he and Franckert disappear upstairs with candles to study The Garden of Earthly Delights. Mayken’s mother and Marcus Noot were devouring pancakes at the long dining table, Hennie was deep in a discussion of tapestries with Anne Smijters, and for the moment Mayken was quite dizzy and alone.

  “You look very lovely,” said a familiar voice.

  Mayken turned; the tall man behind her wore a Cardinal’s cape and a copper mask shaped like the sun. His cape hung open to reveal a black jersey and tight breeches with a prominent red codpiece.

  “Williblad!”

  “Hush,” he said, holding out his arm. “I’m not welcome here. Can we go off and talk in private?”

  “I’m married now.” Yet she found herself placing her hand upon his arm. A kind of shock traveled through her fingers. She took a quick, dizzy look around the room. Nobody was watching them. Peter had abandoned her and nobody cared.

  “I think we might find a quiet parlor over here,” said Williblad, steering her through the crowd. And then they were alone in a small book-lined room that made Mayken instantly think of the Cardinal’s library. Well, not quite alone, as one of Lady Anna’s ladies-in-waiting had fallen into a stuporous slumber upon one of the room’s two couches.

  Williblad took off his mask and closed the door. To Mayken’s surprise, his fine straight nose had gone crooked.

  “Oh, Williblad, what happened to you?” she said, raising her hand to her own nose.

  “William the Sly’s men gave me quite a beating the night they told me to leave town. They broke my nose and one of my arms. Perhaps your Peter told them to.”

  “Oh, you poor thing.” Seeing the sadness in his eyes she stepped forward and gave his face a little caress. “You’re still handsome, though.”

  “You’re wonderful to say that.” He seemed so needy for love. With a flourish, he removed his red cape and tossed it over the head of the inert woman on the couch. “To ensure that the parrot stays asleep,” he said, with his old smile. He strode across the room and plopped down on the other couch. “Come sit with me, Mayken. Just like old times. I’ve missed your kisses.” She sat by him and he pressed her hand. He was hungry for her touch.

  Mayken had really meant to just talk with Williblad about how happy she was with Peter, but she felt so sorry about the broken nose that somehow one thing led to another and before long Williblad was on top of her, with her dress pulled up around her waist and his codpiece all undone. How he made her heart pound!

  Suddenly the door to the parlor swung open. It was the pale young Bengt Dots. He flushed bright pink and quickly left, slamming the door behind him. The lady-in-waiting beneath the cape stirred and grumbled, fumbling at the heavy silk. Mayken twisted free of Williblad and ran out into the great, noisy hall. She found Peter, took him home, and made love to him like never before.

  A month later Mayken realized that she was pregnant. Peter was thrilled to see Mayken’s belly swell. For her part, Mayken was dreadfully uneasy. She and Williblad had stopped before he’d reached his climax, but perhaps that didn’t make a difference. With these things one never knew.

  “How does it feel?” Peter wanted to know.

  “It feels strange,” said Mayken. “There’s someone tiny alive inside me, and only God knows what she—or he—looks like.”

  Summer and fall shaded into the hardest winter that any of them could remember, with the ground frozen solid from the start of November. It was bitter cold outside, with icicles hanging down off the eaves. A fire burned in every room. As Mayken swelled, Peter grew more romantic. He worked a bit less and chatted with her more. He was learning how to be a loving husband. And for Mayken’s part, with the baby on its way, she appreciated more than ever Peter’s ability to earn money with his labors. Sometimes, lying in a patch of sunshine on their bed, she’d imagine them coming out of the dark canyon and into the bright plain of their future. Mayken would become the matriarch of a great line of artists.

  With Peter so affectionate, and Mayken’s hopes so high, she no longer had any thoughts of any other man. The one shadow upon her pleasure was the apprentice Bengt Bots. The boy stared at her provokingly when their paths crossed. She did her best to avoid him. How could she have let herself get re-entangled with Williblad? God willing, he’d gone straight back to Antwerp. There’d been no sign of him since Carnival, and thankfully no visits from Ortelius. The business with Williblad at the palace was nothing but a half-remembered fever dream, and if Bengt would only keep his council, it need never have even happened.

  Peter was on the home stretch with his Bearing of the Cross. He’d given the painting a low, cloudy sky that receded off into vast distances. There were any number of crows flying about; the closer Mayken looked, the more of them she could find. Peter loved crows, loved to draw them, loved the sounds of their caws, loved to speculate about their behavior, loved to point them out to Mayken whenever they were outside.

  The wearisome Bengt, whose skills seemed to be coming along quickly, worked at Peter’s side, painting a watercolor copy of the Bearing of the Cross on a large piece of paper. Peter had it in his mind that soon he’d have a proper workshop, producing multiple copies of his compositions. Bengt’s copy would be saved for Bruegel’s archives, to be used as the model for the finished copies to come.

  Bengt’s presence was becoming more and more of a burden for Mayken. Though the boy had said nothing to Peter yet, Mayken felt sure that he was constantly thinking about the sight of her beneath Williblad. She began to imagine that the quiet, bloodless lad had some hope of making love to her himself. He actually seemed to be making calf eyes at her. Did he take young Mayken for as great a goose as old Mayken? She treated Bengt with icy hauteur. She was a woman now, the manager of the family business, a wife and very nearly a mother.

  When Peter finished his Bearing of the Cross for Jonghelinck in November, the snow lay very deep upon the ground. Jonghelinck had business in Brussels anyway, so he came to fetch his picture with a horse-drawn delivery sled. Bruegel made sure to have Mayken with him throughout their discussions.

  As they’d been hoping, Jonghelinck loved the painting so much that he immediately commissioned a new one. With his strong, loving arm around Mayken, Peter suggested he paint an Adoration of the Kings, with Mary and her baby, painted as a winter scene. Jonghelinck gladly acceded. And once again Mayken was able to negotiate for Peter a much larger fee than he would have accepted on his own. And a good thing too, as the family coffers were all but empty.

  “You’ve a good business head,” Jonghelinck told Mayken, closing the deal with a squeeze of his large hand. “Peter’s a lucky man to have such a helpmeet.”

  And then, at the very bottom of the year, Mayken’s child was born in Brussels. A boy. To Mayken’s enormous relief, the babe was pink like Peter, not copper skinned like Williblad.

  They had a christening party; Ortelius came down from Antwerp to be the godfather—without Williblad, of course—and Peter invited William of Orange. To their surprise, William arrived accompanied by Graaf Filips de Hoorne. Mayken sat with the babe in her lap, and the three guests presented gifts, just like magi, each of them uncommonly interested in looking at what the others had brought, with kindly Father Ghislain to one side. William gave them a fine, gilded censer filled with clove incense, the Graaf had brought a large silver chocolate pot with his family coat of arms, the pot filled to the brim with costly nutmegs, and Ortelius presented a nef, a golden ship with an enameled seashell set into it, the shell filled with saffron strands, and a carved ebony monkey leaning out of the shell. Exquisite objects, of great virtu, and more spices than one could purchase with several months’ work. But for Peter, the greatest gift was
plainly the moment when the Graaf embraced him like a brother.

  It would have been a perfect day if it weren’t for Bengt. Yes, at the christening party, Bengt took it upon himself to lean over and whisper something into Peter’s ear. From the jut of Peter’s jaw, Mayken knew right away what Bengt had said. Peter glared at Bengt, then leaned over to pet the baby.

  “My son,” he said, loud and clear. “Peter Bruegel the Younger.”

  Later that evening before bed, dreading the moment when they’d be alone, Mayken heard Peter saying something odd to Bengt. “The attic’s haunted,” he was telling the boy. “The ghost of Master Coecke. I’ve seen him there once or twice. If you persist in your calumnies of his daughter, I don’t like to think what could happen to you.”

  “I know what I saw,” said Bengt stubbornly, the color rising to his cheeks. And then, seeing Mayken listening, he ran upstairs to his cot.

  In their bedroom, Little Peter was lying in a basket, his bright eyes fixed upon the nearest candle. Mayken picked him up and began nursing him. How full and swollen her breasts were. Her husband sat silent off in the corner of the room, bending over something. Finally Mayken could stand it no longer.

  “It’s true Bengt saw me with Williblad at that Carnival party,” she burst out. “It’s terrible the way that boy creeps around. I only did it because I felt sorry for Williblad. Your friends broke his arm and nose.”

  “Does that mean you have to couple with the man? With my apprentice looking on? I’m glad they broke Williblad’s nose. He nearly ruined you! That assassin friend of his could have cut my throat. Williblad’s lucky that Prince William left him a nose at all. He shouldn’t stick it where it doesn’t belong.”

  Peter looked at her, his face wild and sad. For some reason he was holding some cloth and an old sword in his lap. What mad project did he plan? Certainly he was making no gesture to threaten her or the baby. “Aren’t I enough for you, Mayken?” he pled.

  “Oh, you’re fine, Peter, you’re wonderful,” said Mayken, the baby nursing at her breast. “It wasn’t really what Bengt thinks he saw. I don’t know how it happened. Maybe at first—maybe at first I felt trapped. About having to be an old wife already. I didn’t realize yet how much I’d come to like our life together. Oh, Peter, don’t let this ruin everything.”

  “Trapped,” said Peter in a gentle, musing tone. “I know the feeling, Mayken. I’m trapped by my career. We’re God’s flowers, planted only to bloom and die. But while it lasts—oh, Mayken, it could be so sweet to work and live together. You’re my heart.”

  “Don’t fret so, Peter,” said Mayken, touched by his words. She glimpsed the broad, sunny plain of a happy future together. “Let’s forget my mistake. And, yes, the baby is yours.”

  “I know,” said Peter, holding up a piece of moonlight green silk. Now Mayken recognized it as her father’s old Moroccan caftan. “But Bengt questions us,” added Peter with an odd little smile. “I’m going to put a scare into him. Shut him up for good.” He had her father’s turban as well, and the sword in his lap was her father’s broad, curved scimitar. Peter took out a whetstone and began sharpening the blade.

  “Don’t harm Bengt, Peter! You’re frightening me!”

  “I won’t. But Prince William once advised me never to wield a sword that isn’t sharp.” The stone made a slithery sound moving up and down the damask steel. “I’m going to sit up for a few hours,” said Peter presently. “To properly scare Bengt, I’ll wait for the dead of the night.”

  “Oh, stop this foolishness and get in bed.”

  “I have to do this,” said Peter, stubbornly continuing to sharpen the scimitar. He looked over at her, and now she could see there were tears in his eyes. “And you know, Mayken, as long as the sword’s good and sharp, maybe you should go ahead and slit my throat if you don’t love me.” His voice broke, but still his hand moved steadily up and down along the curve of the sword.

  Mayken switched Peter the Younger to her other breast. “You men and your dignity.” She sighed. “Your swords and your codpieces. Look at me. I’m nursing your son. I’m your wife. What more could you want? You’ve enjoyed forgiveness—learn to forgive.”

  “Say you won’t go with Williblad again,” persisted Peter.

  “Maybe you should be a better husband,” said Mayken, suddenly annoyed by his doubts. “That means talking to me in the morning before you run upstairs. And it means seeing me when you stop work—seeing me and not your pictures.” But now the pulling of the little baby’s mouth on her nipple softened her heart. “Oh, don’t worry, dear Peter. Of course I won’t go with Williblad again. That time at Prince William’s palace was a silly, drunken dream.”

  Peter set down the sword and came over to kiss her. “The Holy Family,” he murmured, smiling at Mayken and Little Peter in the candlelight.

  “Yes,” said Mayken, feeling the moment realer than real, feeling herself as one with all the mothers up and down time. It was like being in a painting. How miraculous the baby was, how perfect in every detail. There was a tiny bubble of milk at the corner of his little triangle mouth. “Now come to bed.”

  “I will,” said Peter.

  Mayken drifted off to sleep in the strong arms of her loving husband. But wild shrieks awoke her in the dead of night. It was Bengt, quite mad with terror. Though she didn’t see him, Mayken heard Bengt go crashing down all three Bights of stairs, then heard the door open, and heard Bengt’s light footsteps running off into the night. Downstairs Waf began violently barking.

  An eerie glow appeared at their bedroom door, and Peter came gliding in, dressed in the caftan and turban, with the scimitar and a little green-glassed lantern in his hand. His face was pale green; he’d covered it with watercolor paint.

  “That’ll do it,” he said, chuckling, and Mayken, comprehending the jape he’d pulled, began to giggle too.

  “What’s happened?” cried Mayken’s mother from the second floor, and then Mienemeuie was calling out from her room off the kitchen on the first floor. “Have we been robbed?”

  “It was young Bengt,” called Peter down the stairs. “I think he had a bad dream.”

  “He didn’t even close the front door,” complained Mienemeuie’s voice. “What a nonsense. Quiet down now, Waf.”

  Of course the baby woke up and began squalling, so Mayken changed him and began nursing him again. Peter cleaned his face, hid his costume away, and took the sword back up to its place upon the studio wall.

  The next morning they slept late, waking only to baby Peter’s crying. Mayken and Peter spent a friendly couple of hours in bed, chatting and watching the baby, enjoying the bread and chocolate that Mienemeuie brought up. As they were talking, Mayken came up with an idea for a commission big enough to pay their bills for the next two years. Peter should ask Jonghelinck to purchase a series of panels based upon the seasons or the months of the year. Why make a deal for only one painting at a time when you could sell four or even twelve of them? Doing a series was a common enough practice, so why not Peter? He liked the idea immediately, Mayken could see that it set him to dreaming great things.

  Bengt appeared around noon, looking paler than usual.

  “What was wrong with you last night?” demanded Mayken’s mother. “You woke us all!”

  “I—I saw a ghost,” said Bengt uneasily. “I think it was your husband.”

  “I see,” said Mayken’s mother. Mayken could sense that her mother had guessed every bit of the whole story. “Perhaps you’ve done something to anger Master Coecke’s spirit,” her mother told Bengt. “If that’s the case, you better not do it again.”

  “I won’t,” said Bengt abjectly.

  “Then let’s go upstairs,” said Peter. “We have work to do. Mayken has a plan for our grandest commission yet when we finish the Adoration of the Kings.”

  Twelve

  The Hunters in the Snow

  Brussels, January 1566

  “It’s possible that the Foreigner thinks of you, Peter,
” said William of Orange, looking down at the paper in his hands. It was a copy of King Philip’s letter to his sister, the Regent Margaret, a much-copied-out epistle which, since its arrival in Brussels in November, had been spreading around the Low Lands like news of the plague. The letter treated of the King’s refusal to soften the Blood Edicts, and of methods to best keep down the Low Lands citizenry. Prince William had brought a copy over to Bruegel’s studio to share it with him. He smoothed his short, reddish hair forward and read the contemptible words.

  “ ‘I cannot but be very much affected by the lampoons which are continually spread abroad and posted up in the Low Lands without the offenders being punished. This, of course, happens because the authors of earlier ones were not punished.’ ” William paused and gave Bruegel a worried look, then continued reading. “ ‘You should consider what remains of my authority and yours, and of the service of God, when it is possible to do such things with impunity in your very presence, Madame my dear sister. Therefore I pray you take the necessary measures so that this does not remain unpunished.’ ”

  “I don’t draw lampoons these days,” said Bruegel, feeling very easy in his skin. “The Tyrant’s fulminations mean nothing to me.” It was a cold midday in January, with a few flakes of snow falling outside. Bruegel, Mayken, William, and old Mayken were sitting in his great attic studio, warmed by a crackling fire, the convex mirror shining reassuringly from the wall. Bruegel’s son, Little Peter, lay on a cloak on the floor, pawing at Waf. His apprentice Bengt was at work with boards and a hammer, making up crates for Bruegel’s six new pictures, three of them leaning against the walls, and three on easels. “Look around you, Prince William,” said Bruegel, wondering a bit at William’s blindness to anything except the latest doings of the court. “Look at my new paintings. They’re very far indeed from being lampoons.”

  And what paintings they were. Bruegel’s grandest commission yet, a cycle of six Seasons for Jonghelinck, who’d built himself a new house in Antwerp with the profits from his somewhat questionable dealings with the wine importer Daniel de Bruyne. Jonghelinck’s house had a hexagonal salon waiting for Bruegel’s Seasons. To make up six times of the year, Bruegel had split both Spring and Summer in two.