My Lady of Orange

Front matter

"Ten crowns!" I shouted

MY LADY OF ORANGE

BY H. C. BAILEY

Chapter 1

CHAPTER I

AN AUDIENCE OF ORANGE

No saint am I: nay that is true enough, else had I scarce done my work in the world and lived to sit here at sixty by my own fireside with the children chattering round me and Gabrielle's eyes still looking into mine. 'Tis thirty years ago now, and the joy of my old battles is but a dull memory, and the smoke has rolled away, and the shouts and screams have fallen to silence; but not yet have we forgotten here in Holland the days when Alva coiled himself like an iron serpent round the land, and castle and town sank down together amid blood and fire. I am English born and bred, and quarrels of Dutchman and Spaniard were no work of mine, yet something a man must do in the world, and this was the work that came to my hand: to fight Alva with his own two weapons—the sword and the lie, and with both I beat him, cordieu! with both!

At the first I said I was no saint, and that, it may be, is the reason why first I fought for Alva ere my turn came to meet him fairly in the field. I was true to him; save that at the last I left him for William of Nassau, I was ever true to him, and I fought for him as a man may at Mechlin, and Zutphen, and Harlem sack. Nought did we owe to Alva; it was no little he owed us; may not soldiers of fortune choose their leader? Did we not choose well when we 'chose Orange in Alva's stead? "Ay, ay," you answer, "choose you may; but your choice should be made once." Well, 'twas a mistake, I confess, and all men make mistakes at times—else would victories be few.

Mistake or no mistake, it was ended, and I, John Newstead, rode into Delft, to William of Nassau:

"An Englishman asks audience of the Prince!"

"Ay, ay, English ye call yourself, Spaniard ye look," grumbled the serving-man. I caught him by the collar:

"Cordieu! I a Spaniard, knave? I, John Newstead? 's wounds! Madre Dios! Do I look a Spaniard?" I cried, raising my whip.

"Well, ye swear like one," he answered, and the knave wriggled away.

A moment later I was standing in an inner room, fronting the man who had set himself alone to meet the power of Spain, the man who held out still though all his country lay in the hollow of Alva's hand. In truth, William of Nassau was a man. He sat there behind a table, with a fellow at his elbow who eyed me askance as I entered, and whispered low in his master's ear. The Prince did not answer; his steady dark eyes sought mine, and he sat with his fingers drumming on the table watching me.

"Nay, you look not like an assassin," he said quietly.

"I will cut his heart out who says it!" I cried.

"And so prove his words," said the secretary.

"Enough, Cornput. Your name and your purpose, my friend?"

"My name is John Newstead. I come to take service under your Highness."

"Your name tells me nothing," the Prince answered.

"I have three hundred stout soldiers outside the town."

"Ah! What say you, Cornput?"

"Three hundred? Ay; stout, ay, I doubt it not. How many loyal?" said the secretary.

"Each as loyal as myself!" I answered.

"That may well be," said Cornput, with a sneer. "Numbers, stoutness, loyalty, all on the surety of their commander. Faith, you value yourself too low."

"That seems uncommon in Delft," I said sharply. "For their numbers, your Highness may count them. For their loyalty, try them. For their stoutness—they fought at Harlem." Prince and secretary started.

"At Harlem?" said the Prince slowly. "You are a bold man, my friend."

"You and your men sacked Harlem under Alva?" cried the secretary.

"I said we were stout soldiers," I answered. "There was but one sack of Harlem; we were there."

"And you come here—here?" stammered the secretary.

"Oh, your questions grow wiser!" I cried.

"Why do you come to me?" asked the Prince. 'Twas not too easy to answer. Why did I leave the winning side for one that never had much to give, and now less than little? I know not even now; it was folly—folly twice told—and the world does not think me a fool.

"I lead a free company," I answered; "no money have my men had for months. They have sworn to fight for Alva no more, and so I lead them to William of Orange. And for myself, cordieu! I had rather fight for your Highness than any black Spaniard of them all!" Ay, that, methinks, was my reason; 'tis hard ever to tell why a man's deeds were done. When I think of it, it seems folly, and yet as I spoke the words in the little room at Delft I believed them. Do I believe them now? Well, perhaps. Gabrielle does.

I saw his eyes brighten as I spoke, and even the sneering secretary looked at me with more favour.

"You choose a cause that can give little—and needs much, my friend," said the Prince.

"And I can do much and ask little," I answered.

"And your men?" asked the secretary. It was a home thrust: my men had revolted—deserted—what you will—from Alva because he would not pay them. Were they likely to serve Orange better, who could not?

"My men?" I muttered. "Madre Dios, Alva would not give them their wages—well, they shall take them!"

"Three hundred men from fourteen thousand!" said the secretary coolly.

"Oh, the odds are his; I knew that," I cried, "I knew that or ever I came to Delft."

"Spain against the Netherlands? Philip against Orange?" said the Prince dreamily. "Man against time; iron against God; whose are the odds, my friend?"

I did not answer. I wondered on which side God fought when three thousand men and women were slaughtered at Harlem, for it needed then a greater man than I to believe God was on the side of Orange. Any knave believes it now.

"Desperate tasks are all I can offer," said Orange. "Scant wages if your own efforts fail"—he paused, looking at me for a moment—"scant wages and desperate tasks."

"So only they be not impossible," said I. "For the wages—Alva!"

"The impossible God does every day," he answered. "You have come to me when the clouds are very black, sir. Alva lies before Breuthe: and if Breuthe falls how will you fare?"

I stood silent; if Breuthe fell there was nothing left.

"Will you take the risk?" he said quietly; his steady eyes fixed themselves on me.

"I will take the risk of Alva's worst," I answered slowly. Call it folly if you will, you who never saw William, the first Stadt-holder. I was looking into his eyes.

He smiled.

"Alva lies before Breuthe town; hang on his rear, cut off his convoys, let him never rest. Is that to your liking?"

"I accept," said I.

The Prince wrote for a moment and gave me a parchment.

"I trust your honour," he said.

"And I pledge it," I answered.

And the next morning we rode away from Delft, trusted deserters, three hundred men to fight fourteen thousand. I, John Newstead, captain of lances, came forth to pit myself against Ferdinando of Alva, the greatest soldier in Europe. There was one of us that had cause enough to regret my audience of Orange.

Chapter 2

CHAPTER II

THE USE OF A BRIDGE

"So we have e'en changed masters, captain," grunted Gaspar Wiederman, my lieutenant, as we jogged along through the woods, in the crisp air of the early morn.

"Well, it can scarce be for the worse," said I.

"Ach! Who knows?"

"Who knows?" cried Henri Vermeil at my other elbow. "Why, we all know; we cannot do more than we did for Alva, or worse; and, ma foi, we can scarce get less."

"More defeats, no pay, no plunder. They say the Orange is pious," grunted Gaspar.

"Well, well; he can pray for your sins, Gaspar," cried Henri. "The good man will live on his knees."

"True, there are the convoys," said Gaspar. "Ach! Halt!"

We had come near the road. A few yards below was a mean little inn; further away, the road crested a hill; and, coming quickly over the brow of the hill was a horseman all alone. With two lances, Gaspar and young Vermeil and I rode on towards the road. On and on came our traveller, leaving a trailing cloud of dust behind. At the inn he pulled up, and we heard him cry out for something, but we knew not what. There came out an old crone with a flagon, and he bent from the saddle and raised it to his lips. Just then across the road came a trim, bare-headed girl, and her hair shone in the sunlight. He tossed the flagon back, then, bending to his saddle-bow, he caught the girl in his arms, and drove in his spurs sharply. The horse bounded forward, and he half-turned in his saddle towards the screaming inn-woman.

"Alva's men travel free!" he said.

"Ach! so," grunted Wiederman.

On he came, galloping down the road, while the girl struggled wildly for her strength. He was just passing us when Gaspar looked sharply round at me. I nodded. The thing was done in an instant. He rushed his horse suddenly forward, caught the Spaniard's neck in his arm, threw his weight back and his horse on its haunches. Girl and Spaniard fell together.

The Thing was Done in an Instant

"Gott! You may travel free, but not far, my friend, not far," said Gaspar, looking down at him.

The girl had staggered to her feet, but the Spaniard still lay where he had fallen. Oh, the Spaniard was under, be sure of that! It was Gaspar that threw him.

"Alas! the fate of incontinence, mon cher!" cried Henri Vermeil.

"What was your errand?" I asked in Spanish. The fellow set his teeth, and said nought.

"What was your errand?" I said again. Still he was silent. "Search him," I cried to the two that had come with us.

"To Don Guzman d'Astorgas,

"These:

"Press on with all speed, for that the King's service demands you come quickly. The bearer will be your guide.—Alva."

Such was the purport of the paper he bore. I read it, and passed it to Gaspar. He shrugged his shoulders.

"He seems anxious, the great Alva," said he.

"Sangdieu! This tells little," cried Henri Vermeil.

"You think so?" I answered, and fell a-thinking.

"Where is d'Astorgas?" at last I said to the Spaniard. There was no answer.

"You are fond of silence, my kidnapper," said Gaspar.

"We can gratify you with the opportunity of eternal silence," Vermeil said with a chuckle.

"I will wait three minutes; then—speak or die," I said shortly. Ay, I knew he would never speak. Your true Spaniard is hard as iron to others, but—give the devil his due—he is cast in steel himself.

"Will you answer?" He shook his head. I nodded to our two troopers. But the girl ran forward I think we had all forgotten the girl—and caught my hands.

"No, no," she cried. "He must not die."

"Gott! 'tis his own choice," growled Gaspar.

"Will you speak?" I asked again.

"I die for the Faith and the King," he cried; and I signed to the troopers again, and turned away, while the girl hid her face.

"And I hope his Faith is a better colour than his King," grunted Gaspar. The girl looked up.

"You—are you of the Faith?" she cried.

"Oh! perhaps, mademoiselle, perhaps," said Vermeil.

"Of which Faith?" I asked.

"The Reformed—the Faith of Orange."

"Ay, ay; our Faith is our master's," said Gaspar.

"We are in the service of the Prince of Orange," I said.

"Ah!" she clasped her hands in joy. "Take me, take me with you." Vermeil smiled behind his hand.

"Teufel! The ways of women!" said Gaspar.

"Take me to the Prince," she cried again.

"The Prince? Are you mad? You—a girl from an inn?"

The little minx drew herself up with something like a smile.

"Yes, I, a girl from an inn," she said.

I looked at her, and from her to Gaspar, and from Gaspar to Vermeil. Vermeil nodded.

"You will find I am worth taking," she said. I eyed her again. Truly, she was a strange maid to come from an inn. Her hands were small and white, and on brow and neck ran the thin lines of blue under the clear white skin. A maid from an inn! Scarce only that; and so she came with us on her way to the Prince.

"And now for d'Astorgas," said I.

"We know neither where he is nor what he does; only Alva is in a hurry," quoth Gaspar.

"Not where he is, truly; he brings a convoy, I wager my horse," said I. "Shall we send him a guide?"

The two looked at me in silence.

"Seal up the parchment again. One bearer is as good as another. 'The bearer will be your guide.’"

Gaspar chuckled.

"We know not where he is," said Vermeil.

"Gott! I could smell a convoy ten miles off," cried Gaspar,

"You will go?"

"Ay, I will go, and guide him to hell if you will."

"Nay, not so far; only to Veermut bridge."

"What is the use of a bridge?"

"Much—when it's broken," said I.

So Gaspar Wiederman mounted and galloped off to smell out Don Guzman, and we rode on towards the bridge of Veermut. By my side rode the girl, sitting her horse like a queen—steed and saddle Henri Vermeil had found her. The steed was the Spaniard's—a great iron-jawed Normandy stallion. For a little there was silence. I was pondering how we had best receive Don Guzman, and ever and anon the thought would come across my mind, how would my men ever endure the service of Orange? They had been ready enough to leave Alva. Now it was done, how would they like the change? And I, who cared nought for Alva, cared more than a little for the man I had seen but once—the thin, weary man, with the great dark eyes, at Delft. Suddenly, while I pondered:

"Why did you kill him?" asked the girl.

I looked up, startled.

"So perish all the enemies of the Faith!" quoth Vermeil.

"Nay, not without repentance!" she cried.

"Repentance!" said I. "A Spaniard repent!"

"Murder never aided a cause," she answered.

"One cannot make war in white gloves," I said, and she answered nothing.

By long and by last we came to Veermut bridge, the narrow old wooden bridge to which belongs the fame and the honour of the first hard blow struck at Alva the invincible. "To the bridge?" you ask. Ay, to the bridge. On one side were Don Guzman d'Astorgas and Gaspar Wiederman and the convoy; on the other, Alva and Breuthe town; and betwixt the two only a few miles of causeway and a river. Well, and we, too.

"Halt!" I cried, and down I sprang to see what the bridge timbers were like.

"Vermeil, take a hundred men, go you a mile or more along the road, let them pass you, hang on their rear, see to it that the guard passes the bridge last. When they are all but over, charge on the rearmost, but do not come on the bridge."

Vermeil bowed.

"And the others?" he asked.

"There will be no others, Vermeil."

It were a long tale to tell: the sun was setting when d'Astorgas and his trusty guide came down the long narrow road with Vermeil hanging like a terrier on their heels. The convoy came on the bridge; the convoy crossed; the guard were packed thick between the parapets; and then suddenly came a flash and the bridge jumped up a little at one end and fell sideways into the stream, with splash and clash and roar and shrieks all mingled, in a thick cloud of smoke. The engineer's is a useful craft. Out from the shelter of a coppice we charged on that hapless, defenceless convoy, and at the end of one wild rush Don Guzman's convoy had changed its owner.

"Gott! Alva throve on our blood, belike we shall thrive on his food," quoth a gruff voice in my ear.

"Gaspar!"

"Ay, Gaspar, captain. I like a drier road to heaven than a broken bridge."

"You led him easily?"

"Like a butcher the sheep! Gott! he asked me how to stave off Vermeil," cried Gaspar with a laugh.

"Ay, Vermeil is no fool," I answered.

"No, no fool," grunted Gaspar shortly. "No—fool."

In truth, Vermeil had done well, and he brought his men safely across the river, though by Veermut the current is strong and the banks steep.

"So we cry 'check' to Alva!" he shouted gaily.

"Ach! but not 'mate,’" quoth Gaspar.

Cantering down the hill towards us came the girl with the little guard I had left by her riding behind.

"Oh, it was splendid!" she cried while she was still far off; and then, as she came nearer and saw the men that lay bloody and torn and trampled before her horse's feet, she stopped sharply and wheeled round with a little cry.

"Ach! the ways of women," quoth Gaspar. "Now that is how I judge a charge," and he pointed to the dead beneath him.

"What if she had seen Harlem!" said Vermeil with a smile. Gaspar shrugged his shoulders with a chuckle, and I sat silent looking at her as she walked her horse slowly away, with the troopers chuckling behind her.

"Who moves next, captain, Alva or we?" asked Gaspar. I turned to stare at him.

"Dieu! the man is made of iron," cried Vermeil.

"The man need be iron whom Alva strikes," said I.

"Ay, when he strikes," grunted Gaspar with a sneer.

"How if we strike first?" I asked slowly.

"Ay, ay, that's war," quoth Gaspar. "Gott! that is no training for it, though," he said sharply, pointing to the convoy. In truth he was right: a swarm of rascals were round a waggon loaded with wine casks, and more than one cask was broached already. I galloped up.

"Cordieu! stand back, knaves," I cried.

"Fair words, captain; the fight's over; here is your health," quoth one rascal with a mock bow.

"’S death! Do I command? Stand back!"

"All in good2" he began, but the sentence was never ended. It was no time to parley. I reached forward over my horse's neck and fired, and the rascal's blood mixed with the spilt wine on the ground.

"Do I command?" I thundered. "Ere morning we march. A fair portion of meat and wine to every man, and, cordieu! no more. Vermeil, this is work for you."

Gaspar and I rode back up the hill to settle our plans, and as we passed the girl suddenly she turned her horse towards me.

"Is two murders a day your custom, sir?" she asked.

I did not answer; a woman's scorn is not easy to answer.

"Will you send me to the Prince?" she asked again.

"When I can safely," said I.

"And till then, sir?"

"Till then you must trust me."

"Trust—you!" she cried, and her eyes flashed cold, like steel.

Chapter 3

CHAPTER III

THE POSTERN GATE

The moon had set, and all around us was dark as we broke our bivouac at Veermut and moved through the pinewoods towards Breuthe, with a cloud of skirmishers feeling our way. "Touch not the cat but the glove," saith the proverb, and in truth Alva was a mighty cat. Three hundred men were we: four thousand, and Alva himself, lay before Breuthe town, and many more no long journey away. What could we do against them? Yet there lay Alva, and the town was doomed if no help came, and, Breuthe taken, the country lay at his feet. All that was clear enough, and no less clear was it when Gaspar put it bluntly into words as we sat by the camp fire.

"And so nought is possible, think you?" said I at last.

"There is little probable," quoth Gaspar, "at Breuthe."

"Then Orange is lost," I muttered, half to myself.

"Teufel! What would you have?" cried Gaspar sharply. Men grow angry before inevitable ill. "What would you have? We are but men: the odds are his."

From behind us came a sharp, short, scornful laugh. We both started: it was the girl.

"The odds are his!" she said to herself, and she laughed again. In the firelight I saw Gaspar flush, and I felt the blood rise to my own face; and Gaspar muttered a German oath and wiped his brow. Neither dared meet the other's eyes, for if aught will rouse a man it is a woman who tells him he is a coward.

I rose and walked to and fro in the shadow, gnawing my lip. "The odds are his!" I had said that too—and I had had my answer. And the glory, if it could be done! The glory, ay, and the gold! We should have a claim on Orange then—a claim that would mean broad crowns. So my thoughts ran.

"Well?" asked Gaspar, as I lay down again.

"We try Breuthe," I said curtly.

"Ay, ay, I thought so," he grumbled. "Why not wait for the convoys?"

"We try Breuthe!"

So we rode on in the darkness on a rash errand, because a girl laughed, while Gaspar swore and grumbled, and Henri Vermeil broke jests at all and sundry, and I rode silent with my eyes on my horse's mane, and the reins dangling loose in my hand.

There lay Alva; his tents loomed white through the darkness to eastward of the town. The pinewood sloped down to the very tent doors on his eastward side, but to the south the ground rose bare and steep. I sprang down and felt the brushwood. It crackled in my hand.

"’S death! If we knew where the gates were," I muttered.

"The main gate is on the east side." I started and turned. It was the girl who had spoken.

"Are you certain?" I asked quickly. "Cordieu! not that it aids us; we can scarce ride through Alva's camp."

"And the postern is to the south."

"Ach! so," grunted Gaspar. "How wide?"

"Wide enough for a miller's wain."

"You know it?" I cried; she nodded. "He can scarce have his lines close drawn with that force," said I, looking at Gaspar.

"No; but he wakes easily, Ferdinando Alvarez."

"Cordieu! we will wake him! Double-horse half the convoy! Fire the other waggons! Spare the powder! Twist fuse there!"

Then did we fire the brushwood and the pines, and the flames swept roaring down before the east wind on Alva's tents; and down the bare hill we sent the powder-barrels bounding with a lighted fuse hissing at the end of each, till there was much noise among the Spaniards, and some of them woke hurriedly, and some of them never woke again. To and fro they ran, beating the flames, and the blazing staves of the powder-barrels danced gaily amid the tents. So the grey morning light broke over Breuthe town with a camp burning yellow against the sun, and soldiers fighting a foe that used strange arms. Truly a burning powder-barrel travelling swiftly is a weapon of much service. Wherefore to this day there be certain Spaniards think me the devil; belike they are those who thought Alva a god.

Swiftly we moved round to the southward, and there in the first faint light of morning we saw the narrow postern, and a picket between us and it.

"Charge! Now, through to the gateway, charge?" I cried, and down we swept. The Spaniards would not meet us. They drew off to one side and up to the very walls we came without a man lost.

"For whom are ye?" cried the men on the walls.

"Orange! Orange!" shouted we all.

"Ach! the fools," growled Gaspar. Still the gates did not move.

"We fired the camp," I shouted. "Open, open, in God's name! Cordieu! Do you doubt us? Look!"

There on our flanks hovered the picket, reinforced now, and we stayed there still like sheep with the fold gate shut.

"It's we, or they," I muttered "We must charge first. Wheel by the2"

"Let me pass! Let me pass!" cried the girl from the centre, where we had put her. She rode a little apart from us, and

"Open, open to me, Gabrielle de St. Trond!" she cried. Loud cries came from the walls, and in a moment the gate was flung wide.

"Vive Gabrielle de St. Trond!" cried Vermeil.

"Get the waggons through," grunted Gaspar. "A thousand fiends! Wheel about! Charge!"

And as they swept down, hoping to cut us off, Gaspar hurled himself with half our men at the Spaniards. I never knew a charge of Gaspar's fail. The slow heavy German, cordieu! when he charged he became a thunderbolt, and he tore through that Spanish troop, swung his men round, and dashed in at the gate on our heels. But not all who had ridden with him came back.

There in the streets of Breuthe town—a dusty, weary company—we halted.

"We are in!" cried Vermeil.

"Ay, who is the better for that?" quoth Gaspar.

"Faith, it was time," said I. "They have near quenched the fire."

"Ach! breakfast is cooked," grunted Gaspar. "We must share ours with these, I suppose," he grumbled, and turned to a townsman. "You look hungry, my friend."

"There is leather still," said the man simply. His skin was stretched tight from bone to bone.

"Where is the Governor?" I asked. A tall, stately man—they were all thin in Breuthe—came forward.

"At your service, sir, Laurenz de St. Trond," said he.

"I am John Newstead, and these my men," I answered. "What harm we could do Alva we have done. What food we could bring we have brought. I would it were more, but2"

"I thank you, sir," he broke in, "I thank you. What of my daughter?"

"Your daughter? Oh, the girl—is she not here?"

"No, sir." He could scarce speak the words, and we stood there silent, while I saw the gulps break in his throat and the sunken eyes grow duller still. Cause enough there was; I had fought with Alva, and how women fared in a Spanish camp I knew perhaps better than he, and I knew too well that his grief was just.

"She may be dead," I said slowly. That was the only comfort.

"I—I pray God …" he said under his breath.

I felt a fool and a knave before that man. Had I seen another man saved by my daughter, yet suffer her to fall into the hands of Spaniards, curses had been more ready to my lips than prayer. To break through Alva's lines to bring a convoy into a town at its last gasp—yes, that was well enough. To be unable to save one poor girl from the fate of the women of Harlem—that was scarce as well. And it was the girl who had found us the postern, before whom the postern had opened to us ere she was borne away in Gaspar's charge. Cordieu! I wished her father had struck me, and I believe I should have borne the blow.

"How came she here, sir?" he asked calmly.

"A Spaniard carried her away from an inn beyond Veermut, and we caught him in the act. She begged us to bring her to Orange, and so she came with us. She2" I looked at Gaspar. "I charged. Her horse bolted," growled Gaspar, and he did not look at St. Trond.

"Ay, the Spaniard, the Spaniard everywhere. Exsurge Domine. … She was left there ill when I came to Breuthe; and I thought her safe in hiding."

"Sir, we ought to have brought her safe. I would give my honour to do it now!" I cried.

"Once, sir, you saved her, and I thank you. You have done your duty in full," said Laurenz de St. Trond. "There are twenty men in Breuthe would go alone into Alva's camp to save her were it possible for man"—he paused, and his lips trembled. "My God! my God! would it had been I!" he cried with breaking voice, and then suddenly he turned to me. " And now, sir, to quarter your men," he said.

Chapter 4

CHAPTER IV

A COUNCIL OF DESPAIR

"By the eyes of God! I will not leave a rat alive within the walls of Breuthe!" So the Duke of Alva had cried when his storming party was beaten down; and the men who hurled back the best troops of Spain that day knew well what their fate would be if they failed then, or if they should fail thereafter.

But Alva's words had come true already. The tanneries had given up their hides, the trees were stript of their leaves, the very nettles that grew beneath the walls were plucked, and all had become food for the hollow-eyed, skin-cheeked men, who clung still to the little shattered town. Rats were a luxury of the past in Breuthe. So I stood on the wall gazing at the charred tents in Alva's camp, and back again at the lean sentinels that paced by me, and I saw that the end must come very soon. Nay, it did not daunt me; I have yet to hear of the day when John Newstead was daunted. There, too, somewhere in that half-burnt camp, was Gabrielle de St. Trond, dead or alive; and as I stood watching I vowed it should go hard with the man who took her if she were wronged, even a little. And of aught else was there little hope.