The Sea Beggars

by Holland, Cecelia;

  A hand shook her awake. “Girl? Oh, girl, are you all right?”

  She startled awake, every hair turning, and looked into the face of a little boy, solemn as an alderman. She had seen him before; where, she could not remember.

  “I’m all right,” she said, and started to get up.

  “Come with me,” he said. “You can come to my father’s shop and lie down.”

  “I’m all right.” For a moment, her mind clogged with fatigue, she had difficulty remembering what she was supposed to be doing. “I’m looking for my mother.”

  “Your mother.”

  “She wandered off—she’s not—not well. She goes off, sometimes, wandering.”

  “Do you remember me?” The boy walked along beside her, down the street; they were near the center of the city, and the people going up to their jobs and down to the wharves crowded around them. “My father is Clement de Vere, the printer. My name is Philip.”

  “Philip,” she said, mechanically. The crowd was so thick here she could see only a few feet away.

  “My father’s shop is just around the corner here. Come and rest a little.”

  Too tired now to resist, she let him lead her that way. The printer’s shop was down the street from the Bourse, where men traded in money. Over the door of the shop hung a sign in the shape of a wooden ruler and a curling sheet of paper. The air inside stank of lead and ink. Clement’s boy sat her down on a chair just inside the door and went off into the back of the shop, where the presses stood like trees.

  The smell bothered her nose. The shop was dirty, the counters gray with dust, the boxes of type that lined the walls dripping cobwebs. A gray cat slept in a ball on the stool by the fire. The warmth reached her and she started toward it, reaching out her hands to it, sighing. Clement’s boy came back with a cup of steaming soup.

  Hanneke exhaled an exclamation. Her stomach ached at the smell, and the warmth made her head stuffy. She wrapped both hands around the cup to warm them and Clement’s boy dispossessed the cat of the stool so that she could sit down. While she sipped the hot pea soup he sat on the floor and turned the pages of a book.

  “What’s that you’re reading?” she said, when the soup was gone.

  He held up the book for her. On the spine was printed DE REVOLUTIONIBUS ORBIUM COELESTIUM.

  “On the turning of the heavenly spheres,” she said.

  “Do you know Latin?”

  “A little. My father let me learn—he had a great respect for learning.”

  “My father said Mies van Cleef was as brave a man and wise as there was in Antwerp.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, he was.”

  Now somehow she had let him down, had lost his wife and son, and herself become a drudge in his factory. She stared into the fire, too worn even to care.

  “I have to go work on the presses soon,” Clement’s boy said. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

  “No—thank you, I must go home now myself.”

  “We can go part of the way together.”

  They went out to the street again and started across the city. The boy still had the book under his arm. Hanneke said, “How old are you?”

  “I’m nine.”

  “And you are reading a book about the heavenly spheres? What does it say?”

  “It’s a wonderful book. It offers a new system of the world, and many proofs and arguments in its favor—” The boy held out the volume to her, his face eager. “That the sun and not the earth is the center of things, and the earth and all the planets and stars turn in circles around the sun.”

  Hanneke laughed, taking the book and turning it in her hands; it fell open to a page of neat printed letters. “That’s mad. The earth doesn’t move.”

  “His arguments are very mighty,” said Philip. “Perhaps it does, and we are so used to it we don’t notice it.”

  Again she laughed; in her fatigue her mind slipped away easily from the powerful architecture of the ideas she had grown up with, and she lifted her eyes toward the sun, blazing in the ice blue sky above Antwerp. It moved; she saw it move, day after day, rolling across Heaven to its rest.

  “It only seems to move,” the boy said, “because we are moving past it.”

  Her gaze still lifted to the sky, she let herself imagine that, and the planets wheeling all in concert; if that were so, then now in the sky above her were little worlds, invisible in the sun’s veil of light. Under her feet, suddenly, the earth seemed to grind slowly forth into motion.

  “It’s mad,” she said. “It’s so mad that if he has proof, then it must be true.”

  That sounded like madness itself in her ears. She lowered her eyes to Clement’s boy.

  “Thank you very much,” she said. “You found me in extremis and gave me charity, and I am most grateful to you.” She put out her hand.

  The boy took it, beaming. “I am glad I could help you.”

  “Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye, Hanneke.”

  He went off, turning once to wave, and she watched him go away into the crowded street. A church bell began to ring somewhere. Only nine, she thought, and already reading such grave books. The moment’s talk of ideas, of books, took her back to the days before her father’s arrest; she felt suddenly much stronger. She remembered talking to him about the things she read. He had never cared much for stars and the motions of the planets, but he had loved to talk of ideas. Still thinking about the stars and her father, she turned into the Swan Street, toward her home.

  He was late for Mass, Carlos Demedos knew, and also knew he would not go to Mass at all this day; the sun was fully risen and still the Dutch girl Hanneke had not come home. He had been waiting for her all night, in the Kelmans’ garden, and now, gnawed with fear and rage, he left the yard and walked up the street toward the center of the city, watching for her.

  Gone all night. He knew what that meant—he guessed even whom she had been with, the broad-faced, blue-eyed baker’s boy Michael she had been seeing so much of lately. He clenched his teeth. For Carlos she could not spare a gentle word. To the baker’s boy she gave—

  She was coming. He saw her at the end of the street, walking swiftly, her basket over her arm. Quickly, without forethought, he moved back into the shelter of the sprawling linden tree beside the wall.

  She came toward him, tall and slender as a young tree, her cheeks flushed with the chilly sunlight, her pale hair encased in a tight cap, and his heart contracted. She was so beautiful, to have betrayed him, so young, to be corrupt. When she passed him he leapt out and caught her arm.

  “Where have you been? Slut!”

  She recoiled from him, her entire body flexing in surprise, and he gripped her skirt in his other hand. A swift glance showed him the street was empty, but in full daylight anyone might come along, at any time, and he pulled her over toward the tree’s covering protection. She struggled. Her breath whistling between her teeth, she pulled at her skirt and wrenched her arm in his grasp, and suddenly broke into a babble of her hard-edged throaty talk, pleading with him.

  “Slut,” he said. “You slut.” He understood nothing of what she said. She understood nothing of him; as he snarled at her the helplessness of it all brought tears to his eyes. He loved her, and she had betrayed his love, and he could not tell her so. He flung his arms around her and kissed her.

  Her struggling doubled. She flung herself from side to side in his grasp, whining, twisting her face away. The broad touch of her body against his, even through the thick layers of their clothing, brought all his nerve ends tingling alive. He wanted her so much, to hold her, to love her, to have her love him. He crooned endearments to her, and she struck at him with her hands; he tried to kiss her again and she bit at him.

  “Whore,” he cried, despairing. “Slut.”

  He bore her down to the ground under the linden tree. She cried out, her arms thrashing, and he pinned her down with his weight. With one hand he yanked at her skirts. She had no right to deny him what she
gave to someone else—to the baker’s boy. When his hand touched her bare leg she gave out a low wail. A wild rush of exhilaration flooded him. She was in his power now.

  Her fist thudded off his forehead. He grappled her arms down again, his breath hot in his lungs. Pressing her down under him, he wrenched at his points and codpiece.

  “My girl,” he said, his voice harsh with exertion. “My girl. You’re mine.” His hard manhood freed at last, he aimed it up between her thighs and shoved.

  She screamed. The sound spurred him. He rode over her like a god, enormous, full of power, the power welling in him, overwhelming. He poured out his power into her, a gift of love, himself overflowing into her body, bursting beyond himself into the world.

  When he drew out, there was blood on his organ. So he had been first, not the baker’s boy.

  “My dear one.” He put out his hand to her face.

  She spat at him. Tears slicked her cheeks. Released of his weight, her body rolled limply to one side, and she buried her head in her arms. Carlos got to his feet, looking around them. The street was empty still. No one seemed to have witnessed it, but she had made a lot of noise, and probably behind the walls around them people listened and knew. Pulling up his hose, he fastened the points and hooked his codpiece into place and yanked down his doublet.

  The girl was sitting up. Bits of dead leaf clung to her fine wheaten hair. He bent to help her up and she shrank from his touch. Firmly he possessed himself of her hand and pulled her onto her feet. They faced each other, her arm flexed in his grip, and looking deep into her eyes, he thought of taking her and smiled at her.

  She swung her free hand at him. He thrust her away, propelling her down the street toward Kelman’s house. “Hurry.” Her dress was filthy and stained with blood. If anyone saw them, there would be trouble, perhaps for Carlos and certainly for Hanneke. She ran off down the street, and he followed her, one step behind her, to protect her; he had that right now, a matter of pride.

  They reached the wall in front of the house, and she dashed in the gate and slammed it shut in his face. When he got into the garden she was gone.

  He shrugged. His body was still warm from the fulfillment of his lust. She was here, somewhere; he would see her tomorrow, the next day, the day after, and when he could, he would take her again. In the end, full of him, she would have to love him. He went in through the front door.

  When she reached the little attic room her mother was there, asleep in the bed, snoring. Hanneke sobbed. She had forgotten why she had been out all night searching. She looked down at her ruined clothes. It hurt still; when would it stop hurting? She bunched her skirt up in her fist and pushed the wad of cloth up against her groin, to staunch the blood.

  She had only four dresses. This one was ruined now, so she had only three left. Going into the corner, where the washbasin and the pitcher stood in a cabinet, she stripped herself to the skin. She was sore all over, her back from the rough contact with the ground, her thighs from trying to hold him out, her breasts from his weight on her. There was blood all over her thighs. She clenched her teeth against the sobs in her throat.

  “Hanneke?”

  Her mother. Whatever it required of her, she must never let her mother know what had happened. Stooping, her back to the old woman, she gathered up her filthy clothes into a knot.

  “Hanneke! Where have you been? Why are you naked?”

  “I’m bathing, Mother.”

  “Where were you all night?”

  “I could ask you that, Mother. Where were you?”

  That silenced the old woman. Hanneke stood still a moment, waiting to hear some answer, but the bed creaked, and the sheets rustled, and when she glanced over her shoulder she saw that her mother had rolled over to put her face to the wall.

  Hanneke was supposed to be at the factory, sweeping and scrubbing. She was too tired for that now, too tired and too unhappy. She bundled the bloody cloth away into a back corner of the cupboard and got into the bed with her mother to sleep.

  At the Kelmans’ front gate, Michael found the foundryman from the shop at the corner of the street, collecting all Vrouw Kelman’s old pots, and the housewife herself leaning over the wall sharing a morning’s gossip with him.

  “Well,” said the foundryman, “the word is that the Prince is bringing a great army of Germans, and Lord Alva is removing every soldier he can find to go fight them.”

  The housewife folded her arms on the top of the wall. “That explains why my Spanish boy went off so quickly last night. God keep them.”

  “Orange is coming,” Michael said, surprised into forwardness.

  “So they say,” said the foundryman. He dumped a broken pot lid on top of the rest of the things in his sack, which clanked. “Lord Alva will master him.”

  He hoisted the jangling sack up onto his shoulder. Suddenly Vrouw Kelman flung out her arm.

  “Wait—wait—I remember one more thing.” She ran away into the house, spry as a girl, for all her bulk.

  The foundryman turned to Michael; his grin showed the gaps in his big yellow teeth. “So life goes on, eh, young fellow? I’ll wager you’re glad not to have to go to fight the King of Spain’s wars.”

  “I would he did not fight them here,” said Michael.

  “Oh, now, better he fight Orange and a pack of paid Germans than send his men around to yank honest folk out of their beds in the night.”

  “I suppose,” Michael said.

  He straightened. Hanneke was coming out the front door of the house. His throat was full of words he would hail her with, yet he kept silent, surprised at her manner. She came out so quietly, like a little mouse; she peeped out the door and looked all around the garden, her face pale. Michael put up his hand to her.

  “Hanneke!”

  She startled. The foundryman said, “Well, well, life goes on.” Vrouw Kelman was hurrying up the path from the kitchen door, a clutch of pewter ladles in her apron.

  “Hanneke.” Michael leaned across the gate toward her. “Why were you not at your work? I saw the leadman—he said you had not come all day.”

  She crossed the garden to him, still peering fearfully all around her, her face very pale. She said, “I was out the night long looking for my mother—she disappeared again; I thought she was lost forever.” Her voice croaked. With the cuff of her sleeve she scrubbed at her eyes. “Where is Carlos?” she asked Vrouw Kelman.

  “Did you find her?” Michael asked.

  “He’s gone,” said the housewife. “Poor boy. Marched off to fight, the poor thing. If his mother knew, she’d fear for him terribly.”

  Hanneke’s face slipped from its taut mask of fear into a smile; the change was so marked that the foundryman let out an exclamation, and Michael reached for her hand. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” She drew her hand out of his reach. “Yes, she came back. I don’t know where she was.” She pushed the gate open and went to stand beside Michael, looking up at him. “Was he angry—the leadman? Did he say I could go tomorrow to work?”

  “He was worried more than angry.”

  “I had to find my mother, and then I was so tired—” He was reaching for her hand again, and she jerked her arm angrily out of his grasp. “Please, Michael!”

  He bit his lips, embarrassed; the foundryman and Vrouw Kelman laughed at him. Hanneke was going off down the street. Michael chased her a few steps, caught up with her, and said, “Now where are you going? Why are you so cruel to me?”

  “Please don’t touch me.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the factory—to tell them I am sorry and will work the rest of the day.”

  “Don’t do that. Aren’t you hungry? Come to the bakery—we’ve made some biscuits. At least come there first, so you won’t be hungry.”

  He knew how she longed for sweets, and now her face was nervous with indecision and she wavered in her step. Without touching her, he herded her toward a side street that arched over the canal on the
way to the bakery, and she went along with him.

  “I saw that girl Hanneke this morning,” said Clement’s boy, standing on the far side of the press; he reached across the press to take the top of the fresh sheet of paper that his father held out to him, and between the two of them they fastened it to the tympan, which would hold it while the print was being impressed upon it. “She was looking for her mother, all night long.”

  “Her mother. Did she find her?”

  The boy shook his head. He was small for his age, and grave from so much reading; his face had an old man’s solemnity. “I helped her awhile.”

  “Good for you,” Clement said.

  “I brought her here and gave her some soup.”

  “Good.” Clement smoothed the paper on the tympan and reaching to the side lifted the heavy iron frame hinged to the long edge of it and folded it over the fresh paper; this was the frisket, which covered all parts of the paper save that to be printed on. He thought of Mies van Cleef’s daughter with a heart that leapt. Of all those men who had helped the Prince of Orange during the troubles, Clement alone remained alive and free. He wondered why the Duke of Alva had not taken him and knew it would not last long. Carefully he folded the tympan and frisket together down over the typeform.

  “Why was her mother missing, do you know?”

  The boy shook his head. “She did not say. We talked about Copernicus. I like her—she is very clever.”

  “Her father was a clever man.”

  He ran the inked form under the platen of the press and reached for the long lever that worked it. His son stepped back out of the way.

  This letter they were printing came from Orange; Clement meant to have copies of it all around Antwerp by nightfall. The Prince of Orange was marching to the Low Countries with an army. He needed help—the rising of the cities in his favor, the general outburst of the people against the tyrant Alva—and he would not get it. Clement had never known Antwerp so quiet. People stayed indoors now and peeped through their shutters, and at the sound of trouble hid away under the dining room table. Clement raised the press and pulled the typeform out from under it, and unfolded the frisket and the tympan and lifted the printed page up off the pins that held it fast through the whole process. Black and bold, the letters marched like soldiers across the white paper.