by Kate Mosse
A red-letter day.
Then she thought of how much might go wrong in the coup – all it would take was one nervous boy with a rock in his hand – and her thoughts clouded.
There was a sound behind her as Frans came into the chamber. ‘Madame, the master wants to know if you will join him below?’
Minou shut the lid of the casket. ‘Tell him I will.’
Rather than taking his leave, the boy sauntered over to the window.
‘Are you recovered?’ she asked kindly.
‘I can take care of myself,’ he said with bravado. ‘I recognised him – one of Houtman’s men. Joost Wouter. He’s an idiot. I’ll kick him up the arse next time I run into him.’
She laughed. ‘You will do no such thing!’
‘Speak of the Devil,’ Frans said, peering out of the window.
Minou moved to join him. ‘Is that the man who hurt you? Wouter, did you say?’ She followed the line of his gaze to Sint Antoniespoort opposite.
‘Nah, that’s Jan Houtman. He’s in charge.’ He sniffed. ‘Mind you, there’s a few tales I could tell about him.’
‘What kind of tales?’
‘Tales he wouldn’t want getting about, I’ll tell you that for nothing.’
Minou had the glimmering of an idea. Firmly, she put her hands on his shoulders and turned him to face her.
‘Frans, this might be important. Tell me everything you know about Jan Houtman.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
PLAATS
Monday, 26 May
At the beginning of the day in which Amsterdam crossed from the past into its future, the air was muggy, greasy with the smells and sounds of an overcrowded city. The wind blew briskly over Op ’t Water towards Damrak, setting the ensigns and flags snapping. There was a whispering in the rigging of the ships on the IJ, as messages were passed between the lighters and the barges. There was a shimmering in the sky as the sun went in and out of the scudding clouds.
When Minou looked out of the top-floor casement, she noticed a group of men clustered at the corner of Zeedijk. She turned her head to the right and saw that the gates of the Grey Friars monastery, a few paces from their little house, were still closed even though the sun had risen. Opposite, outside Sint Antoniespoort on the far side of the square, she realised some soldiers were still at their posts despite the night watch having finished some hours ago.
The action – if all went ahead according to plan – was to take place in Plaats in the afternoon when the council was in session.
Her nerves taut in her chest, Minou turned away from the window, hoping that what Frans had told her about Houtman might be the leverage to force him to keep his word. Houtman was the key. His men would follow his lead. If he ordered them to attack, they would. If he ordered restraint, they would obey.
* * *
But a little after midday, Minou heard a musket shot ring out from Sint Antoniespoort. She rushed to the front door and saw a man running across the square, waving rebel colours.
‘Any who love Orange, show heart and follow me!’
The action was supposed to begin at Plaats, but yet something was happening here. It was too soon. She watched nervously as the gates of Sint Antoniespoort were thrown open and men staggered out with hay bales, then others started to roll cannons across the bridge over the moat into the square.
‘What’s happening?’ Alis asked anxiously, appearing at her side. ‘Is it starting?’
‘I’m not sure. I must tell Piet.’
‘I’m coming with you.’
Minou hesitated. ‘Very well. Tell Agnes to lock the doors and keep the children inside until we return.’
As Alis went, Minou turned back to watch. On the far side of the square, she could now hear the sounds of fighting – the schutterij and the men of the night watch – and it was impossible to know on which side any man’s loyalty might lie.
* * *
They hurried over the canals towards the main square. It was market day, so the streets were crowded. So far, the disturbance at the eastern gate didn’t yet seem to have spread into the heart of the city.
But when they arrived at Plaats, Minou saw how the rebels had closed off all the entrances into the square. The small streets leading into the main square from the north and the west were already blocked. A line of men was standing at Damrak.
‘Are they Catholic or Protestant?’ Alis whispered.
Minou remembered the white armbands and painted crosses upon the doors of Catholic houses on the night of the St Bartholomew’s Day massacre, and realised how much more complicated things were in Amsterdam.
‘It’s hard to tell. There are men of both denominations within all of the schutterij guilds and the Watch.’
The Stadhuis stood impassive in the overcast day. Once one of the city’s finest medieval buildings, the passing of time and fire had tarnished it. Slogans supporting the Revolt had been daubed on the peeling plaster. The weathervane atop the tower had fallen to one side, giving the impression the wind was coming up from the cobbles of the square rather than from the west.
‘Is Piet here?’ Alis asked.
‘Somewhere.’
As Minou scanned the crowd, looking for sight of him, she realised that there were very few women about. And all around the square traders were attempting to leave: closing up their wooden shelves with a snap, loading their goods onto carts to be wheeled away from Plaats and trouble. Without an order being given or a shot fired, the Stadhuis had become a muster point. Members of the watchmen and schutterij sympathetic to the Calvinist cause, would protect the gates. The leaders of the Geuzen would go into the chamber to disrupt the session. The aim was to intimidate Dircksz and the burghers into submission through force of numbers.
Piet had explained that Houtman and his men would approach from the direction of Sint Nicolaas. Minou kept looking until, finally, she saw her husband standing in the middle of the three wide stone arches in front of the council house. He was with Houtman, who was on the point of mounting the steps.
‘There,’ she said urgently to Alis. ‘Come.’
Quickly, they made their way across the square until she was close enough to catch his eye. Piet nodded, then, as arranged between them the previous evening, he slipped away from Houtman’s side so that Minou could take his place.
‘Meneer Houtman?’
‘Not now, woman.’
‘Meneer,’ she insisted, in her careful Dutch. ‘I would speak with you.’
Houtman ignored her. Minou darted up the steps to stand directly in front of him. She had to make him listen.
‘Get out of my way.’
She held her ground. ‘I know you are a man of honour.’
‘Get out of my way.’
He tried to move past her, but again Minou blocked his path. ‘Go into the chamber armed with words, not weapons.’
He hesitated. ‘What!’
‘We want no bloodshed. We have seen enough.’
Houtman went to push Minou aside, but Alis grabbed his wrist and dragged his arm up behind his back. One of Houtman’s men moved to intervene, but Piet blocked him.
‘Let him go, sister,’ Minou said quietly.
Alis jerked his arm up between his shoulders, then released him.
Houtman rubbed his wrist. ‘Who do you think you are? I’ve no time to listen to the prattling of women.’
Minou met his gaze. ‘Indeed, I heard the opposite. That, in fact, so much do you enjoy the company of women that you have not one but two wives, and two households. The question is do the ladies know about one another? Do our Calvinist ministers know?’
Houtman’s face turned puce. ‘It’s a lie.’
‘A pretty house near Heiligeweg – there’s a line of blue tiles above the lintel – and the other, rather less salubrious, by Sint Olofspoort.’
Houtman brought his face close to hers. ‘Who told you that?’ he spat. ‘Whoever it was, they lied.’
Minou smiled. ‘Perhaps it is a
misunderstanding, but men will talk and common gossip spreads so quickly, true or false.’
‘If I do support any residence in Sint Olofspoort, it is for charitable reasons alone. All good citizens should know their Christian duty.’
‘That is honourable.’ Minou smiled to mask her true feelings.
Houtman turned on Piet. ‘Is this your doing, Reydon?’
‘Listen to what my wife has to say, Houtman.’
‘What is it that you want, woman? Speak. I cannot wait.’
‘Only that there should be no bloodshed.’
He laughed. ‘And you think I can prevent it?’
‘I think that you have the respect of your men,’ Minou replied in a level voice. ‘Where you lead, they will follow.’
Houtman paused. ‘And if I do speak for moderation, you will not utter a word of this heinous gossip?’
Minou held his eye. ‘If you do your best to ensure that this transition will be peaceful, then I will keep what I know to myself. Use your influence, Meneer Houtman. No weapons, no mock trials, no executions.’ Then she bent down and whispered the final damning piece of information in his ear.
Houtman pulled back in fury. ‘I will do all I can,’ he said, ‘you have my word.’ Then he swept up the steps and into the town hall.
Minou signalled to Piet, waiting now on the corner of Kalverstraat, letting let him know the message had been delivered, then took Alis’s arm and walked away from the Stadhuis. It was in Piet’s hands now.
‘Alis, are you all right?’ she asked, realising her sister was struggling to keep up.
‘I walk a little slower these days.’
‘I didn’t think, forgive me.’
Alis took a couple of deep breaths. ‘Do you remember, when I was little, I used to be able to outrun even Aimeric.’
‘Yes. And just now you were courageous – my thanks. Tackling Houtman like that.’
‘Old habits.’ Alis pulled a wry smile. ‘These past years, I’ve picked up one or two tricks to discourage men with straying hands. Strike first, ask questions later.’
Minou laughed. ‘I can’t imagine what Aunt Salvadora would have to say about that. Strange to say, I miss her company.’
‘We’ll see her again. We’ll see Toulouse again.’
Alis looked around at the crowds that were gathering. Some were shouting, but most were quiet. ‘What are they waiting for?’
‘To see what happens next.’
‘What should we do?’
Minou wasn’t sure. The cannons dragged from Sint Antoniespoort and elsewhere were now lined up near Damrak. Close to Oudezijds, the dam was blockaded with hay bales and in the water below two barges, guarded by schutterij, were moored and waiting. If there was trouble, then she and Alis would be trapped.
‘At the first sign of trouble, we’ll leave,’ Minou said in a low voice.
Her heart was racing now, with hope or with dread, she couldn’t tell. How long would it be before there was news from within the chamber?
‘Why would Houtman be so worried about such a secret?’ Alis asked. ‘There was barely a man in La Rochelle who didn’t have a mistress tucked away somewhere.’
‘Amsterdam is a city that thrives on order. The Calvinists are very austere in matters of morality. They judge men’s venial habits almost as harshly as they do those of women. If Houtman wishes for advancement in the new regime, he cannot afford to have a scandal against his name.’
‘It seems such a trivial matter. Not to the women themselves,’ she added quickly, seeing the look on Minou’s face. ‘But, to me, it seems so little with which to bargain with a man like Houtman, that’s all.’
‘Frans – he’s the oldest of our boys in the hofje, you met him last evening – he told me that Houtman’s new wife in Heiligeweg is wealthy, an elderly widow with no children. His first wife, on the other hand, is young – and has given him three sons in so many years – but as poor as a church mouse.’
Alis raised her eyebrows. ‘So he married again unlawfully to support them. I see.’
Minou nodded. ‘It seems so. Amsterdam is not like Toulouse, where only men from the oldest families are allowed to serve in civic positions. But to advance, Houtman will need money. Without it, he has no chance of reaching high office.’ Minou gestured to the new warehouse buildings, the freshly painted shutters, the keystones above the doors, the gleaming brass door knockers reflected in the surface of the still water. ‘Look around you. All this respectability comes at a price.’
‘And this is the kind of man you put your trust in? If our leaders are dissemblers, dishonest, then what hope for the rest of us?’
Minou’s expression grew grave. ‘I know. I only hope it’s enough.’
‘Do you really think one man’s word can make the difference?’
‘In my experience, it is always one man’s voice that makes the difference. For good or for ill. If Houtman makes his case well, others will follow.’ Minou sighed. ‘And it’s to be hoped it isn’t just me. In Amsterdam, as true as we stand here, there’s an army of women using their powers of moderation and persuasion to the same end. To persuade men to lay down their weapons.’
‘A regiment marching to peace not war.’
Minou looked down at her own reflection in the water. With her white coif, her modest gown and matron’s collar, these days she looked quite the Dutch housewife. She smiled.
‘Exactly so.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
PLAATS
Piet found a place in the balcony that ran high up around three sides of the debating chamber.
The Calvinists had taken possession of the Stadhuis with little resistance. Though the crowds outside in Plaats were noisy, they had been orderly, as if there was no question of dissent and the Geuzen had walked unchallenged into the building, flanked by armed civilians and soldiers.
When the leaders had continued into the courtroom itself – sparking fear and outrage amongst the council members – their supporters had remained in the hall to ensure the official guard had no reason to intervene.
Sitting in wooden stalls, far below Piet, were the burghers, magistrates, councillors, court officials, with their flat, black hats and fur stoles of office. Some were on their feet objecting to the occupation of the chamber, most were waiting in silence to see what would happen.
On the raised dais at the west end of the chamber stood Hendrick Dircksz, burgomaster and leader of the council for forty years. His closest allies sat behind him in two rows of high-backed oak chairs. In front of the dais, two scribes and the council Recorder were positioned on high stools at a long narrow desk, their quills poised in their hands as if paused in the act of some official business that might never now be concluded.
Piet was assailed suddenly by a memory of his younger self stealing his way into another such meeting in Toulouse in the early days of the wars. On that day in April in 1562, the wrong decision had been taken, resulting in a massacre that lasted five days and destroyed whole sections of the ancient city. Many thousands of Huguenots – Catholics too – had been slaughtered, all because their leaders had been unable to agree a compromise. Piet caught his breath. Pray God, that would not happen again.
This was Amsterdam not Toulouse.
Standing in front of Dircksz was the leader of the Calvinist Geuzen, flanked by his comrades. Piet could see the glint of the silver crescent medals on his black doublet, so although Piet didn’t know who he was, he knew he must have done great service to the rebel cause to have acquired himself such ornamentation.
Piet cast his eyes around the chamber, picking out those men he knew from his own side and on the council: Willem van Raay, standing to one side; Burgher Jansz, a soap merchant on Warmoesstraat; the van Raays’ neighbour, Jacob Pauw; Joost Buyck, one of the most successful grain merchants in the city. On the opposite side of the chamber, stood Jan Houtman with Wouter at his side.
Like the calm before a summer storm in the Pyrenees, the atmosphere in the chamber cra
ckled with expectation and menace as the two opponents, enemies for many years, at last found themselves face to face.
‘These are our demands,’ the Calvinist leader said, holding out a document.
Piet watched Dircksz take it. Calmly, his hand appearing steady, he began to read. It seemed to Piet that every man in the chamber, however he worshipped God, was holding his breath.
Dircksz read the document through a second time, then raised his head.
‘I regret that, without better safeguards, I cannot agree to these terms.’ He slapped the paper with the back of his hand. ‘We need guarantees that you will abide by what you say. How can we be certain you will honour these conditions in return for our agreement to step down?’
Piet had expected Dircksz to refuse to negotiate point blank, even to summon the guard, but yet he appeared to be suggesting there was some kind of negotiation to be had. Was there reason to hope? Gripping the wooden balustrade, he leant further out.
‘Are you doubting my good faith?’
‘I am asking for proof of it,’ Dircksz replied.
Then someone from the floor uttered an oath and the chamber erupted. In an instant, everyone was arguing, fingers jabbing at the air, a priest raising his hands as if to Heaven. Several of the Calvinists turned and shouted insults until, at a sign from Dircksz, a sharp rap of a gavel cut through the commotion.
‘I will have silence!’ the Recorder shouted. ‘Burgomaster Dircksz will speak!’
But the Calvinist leader stepped forward. ‘You insult the Prince of Orange, and our nationhood, by refusing to comply with the terms of the Satisfaction. He is the rightful ruler of these Provinces, not a Spanish king who shores up his debt-ridden Empire from Madrid on the back of our taxes.’
‘A king rules by divine right.’
‘Not in Holland, he doesn’t. He’s no more than a man.’
Dircksz crossed himself. ‘You offend God by your blasphemy.’
The Calvinist turned away. Again, his followers burst into noisy objection.