But it mattered not. Alva had burned too deeply.
And, in the end, for no purpose. Alva's policy would backfire-and backfire badly. Whether they wanted to or not, the population of the northern provinces really had no choice but to fight a ferocious war of resistance. So, a cruel and vicious old man would create a rebellion which not only defeated him, but would endure for as long as he had lived himself. Sixty years, now.
She and the prince stared at each other. Yes, sixty years-until now. But what would happen next?
"I am still glad of it," she said softly. "The world does not need another Alva, Prince. However greatly that may burden your task."
Frederik Hendrik squared his shoulders. "And I am glad of it also, in the end. I am only a prince to a certain point. Or, it might be better to say, beyond a certain point I need to consider what the very word 'prince' means in the first place."
He tilted his head to one side, eyeing Rebecca shrewdly. "But let us move now to the immediate circumstances. What do you want from me, Madame Stearns? And what do you offer?"
Rebecca's response came instantly. "I can offer you an immediate alliance with the United States. And I am quite certain-although I cannot speak for him-with the king of Sweden."
The prince said nothing, for a moment. Then, bringing his head level, he pursed his lips. "I find myself-quite astonishing, really, for a prince-possessed by an overwhelming urge to speak the truth. Madame Stearns, I will gladly accept your offer. But I must warn you in advance that, in the end, I will almost certainly betray you."
Rebecca nodded. "Of course. You will seek a settlement, not a victory. Which is, in my opinion, exactly what you should do."
Frederik Hendrik hissed in a breath, his eyes widening. "Good God, am I that transparent?" He seemed genuinely aggrieved.
Barely, Rebecca managed to keep herself from emitting a nervous giggle. "Oh… not to most people, I think."
"I had heard you were shrewd," the prince murmured. "The reputation does not do you justice."
"Ah… I think that is because people underestimate my husband, actually. They see me, and estimate the intelligence of a cosmopolitan Jewess, sired and raised by the philosopher Balthazar Abrabanel. And so they miss the influence-and training-of the man I married."
The prince spread the fingers of his hands, inviting her to continue.
"Insofar as Europe's nobility knows much at all about my husband-insofar as they deign to do so, I should say-what they see is simply a man who is reputed to have once been a leader of unruly workmen." Again, Rebecca suppressed a giggle. Truth be told, Mike's coal miners were a fairly unruly lot. "But that is only part of it, Prince. The American trade unions of his time were not a mob of apprentices in the streets, hurriedly assembled and waving torches about. It was an organized movement-and one which had more than a century of history behind it before he was even born. So he also knows how to negotiate as well as fight; retreat, as well as advance; concede, as well as demand. Most of all, he understands when a settlement is worth making, and when it is not. Or, as he puts it, when a settlement allows for later victory, whatever it costs at the moment."
She fell silent. Frederik Hendrik looked away and studied one of the paintings on the wall of his chamber. It was a Brueghels-the Younger, Rebecca thought, although she was not certain-and depicted a tranquil scene of daily life in a Flemish town.
"Yes," he said softly. "I, too, you know, have gotten my hands on a few of these now-famous history books of yours. Copies of them, rather." His eyes moved back to her. "I am curious. When you read them, did you ever consider what that future history looks like-from the perspective of a Dutchman?"
Rebecca was a little startled by the question. "Ah… no. No, Prince, as a matter of fact. I never did."
He nodded ponderously. "Of course not. That is because Holland is a little country, in the world which produced those books. One which enjoyed-would enjoy-a century in the sun. This century, as it happens, the Seventeenth. 'The Golden Era,' they would call it. Thereafter… just a little country. Like our neighbors-relatives, really-just south of here. Two little countries, Holland and what will be called Belgium, surrounded by greater powers. Prosperous little countries, to be sure." His lips tightened. "And, about every quarter of a century, from what I can determine, destined to be overrun and plundered by foreign armies."
Now, he was scowling. "I find myself not very thrilled by that prospect. And I find myself also wondering what the world would look like-from a Dutchman's point of view-if Alva's savagery had not forever separated the two halves of the Spanish Netherlands. If, instead, that single country had been able to mature slowly. Still a smallish country, to be sure. But not so small-and also a country which, even divided as it is now, has a population and wealth which is already the envy of Europe."
"The Spanish-"
He waved her down. "Oh, don't be silly, Rebecca!" he snapped. Then, realizing at the same time she did that his unthinking use of the familiar name had allowed a certain genuine warmth into their relationship, gave her a friendly smile. "You know as well as I do that-in almost any world I can imagine-the grandiose and creaking empire built by Charles V is destined to disintegrate sooner or later. It was all Philip II could do to hold onto most of it-and he was quite a capable king, you know. Now…" He shook his head. "Spain has grabbed too much; certainly more than it can handle any longer. That was true even before your Americans arrived and stuck a very large spoke in history's wheel."
Rebecca leaned back in her chair, her thoughts leaping ahead, following the prince's. God in Heaven, the man is right. Mike and I never considered this possibility…
"An interesting point, Frederik Henrik." The informality was calculated. Might as well find out how friendly he's prepared to be. "A very interesting point. It is in the nature of things that a Spanish viceroy resident in Brussels-especially one who oversees the entire population and wealth of the Low Countries-will soon discover that he has different interests from those of Castile."
"Not an accident, you know," murmured the prince, "that almost every archduchess regent wound up clashing with the king of Spain. Those were genteel ladies, however-and often elderly. So I find myself wondering how a brash young prince-especially one who is now covered with glory from the greatest feat of Spanish arms in a century-is going to react to the admonitions of his older brother. The older brother, perched in Madrid, in that pile of stones they call the Palacio Real; surrounded by Castile and its narrow-minded provincial hidalgos. The younger brother, in Brussels-or perhaps even in Amsterdam." His eyes moved back to the painting. "Surrounded by what is today-I'm boasting, I admit it-perhaps the world's greatest collection of artists-"
"Hardly boasting!" chuckled Rebecca. "Rubens, Van Dyck, not to mention Rembrandt-who's only what, now? Not more than thirty years old, I'm sure."
"Twenty-seven, I believe," said Frederik Hendrik with satisfaction. "With-assuming all goes well-a full lifetime ahead of him."
Again, they exchanged warm smiles. "Yes, indeed," Rebecca said. "It is an interesting thought. Surrounded by artists, philosophers, scientists, cosmopolitan merchants and financiers-not to mention that the populace as a whole is the best-educated in Europe, which is hardly true of Spain's. Craftsmen, artisans, manufacturers, seamen. For that matter, you have the world's most advanced farmers here, also."