That left the prince of Orange the effective ruler of one and a half provinces-Overijssel and what was left of Gelderland-along with the city of Amsterdam. But Amsterdam-on this no one seemed to have any doubt-would very soon be completely surrounded and under siege itself.
After taking a seat on a chair a few feet away, Frederik Hendrik gave Rebecca a wan smile. "So, Madame Stearns. We meet at last." His French was fluent and impeccable. "I cannot begin to tell you how many times I have cursed myself for listening to the advisers who urged me to keep a distance from you."
This was no time for smug I-told-you-so's, Rebecca told herself firmly. "It might very well not have made a difference anyway, Prince. Perhaps, yes. But… by the time you could have investigated my warnings-admittedly based on sketchy evidence-Richelieu's scheme would already have been underway. Could you have called back Tromp's fleet, in time to save it?"
Frederik Henrik shrugged. "Quite possibly not. But I still would have been better prepared myself. The disaster was not simply a naval one." For a moment, he glowered ferociously. "What in the name of God were those idiots in Haarlem thinking, anyway? A flotilla of Dutch ships-badly battered-arrives in the waterway leading to the Harlemmermeer, and they do nothing more than gawk at them? Cretins! Why would Dutch vessels damaged in battle not have docked at Amsterdam?"
Rebecca hesitated. She did not want to increase the prince's gloom, of course. On the other hand, she thought Mike and Gustav would appreciate better information than she'd been able to provide them so far, based on the fragmentary and rumor-laden reports she'd received.
"What exactly did happen in Haarlem, Prince?" she asked. "I know that the Spanish seized the city, but not really how they managed to do it."
Frederik Hendrik's lips twisted. "They did it by a combination of reckless impetuosity on the part of that young prince of theirs-the 'cardinal-infante,' they call him-combined with Dutch stupidity. Admiral Oquendo, as you may know, was apparently injured in the sea battle. Though not fatally, alas, because he remained in command of the main body of the Spanish fleet. The Spanish prince, Don Fernando, took command of a flotilla made up of a number of captured Dutch vessels. Then, loaded them with Spanish soldiers and sailed into the Zuider Zee, past Amsterdam-in broad daylight, no less!-and landed them on the eastern side of Haarlem. Meanwhile, Oquendo ordered the bulk of his fleet to disembark most of the Spanish troops on the North Sea coast."
The Prince made a little squeezing motion with his hand. "A pincer attack, if you will. Investing the city from east and west simultaneously, avoiding the very strong fortifications on the south." He erupted in what seemed a combination of a cough and a laugh. "Exactly the kind of flashy and dramatic maneuver beloved of dramatic young princes and storytellers! And which-in the real world-almost never works."
Gloomily: "But it worked this time. From what I can determine, the idiots at Haarlem decided that Don Fernando's flotilla was a relief force. So instead of rushing the troops garrisoning the city itself to meet the disembarking Spanish soldiers-who could have been easily hammered as they were trying to come ashore-they rushed them instead to reinforce the soldiers fighting off the main body of Spanish troops on the western side of the city. That left Haarlem's eastern approaches effectively unprotected. The prince led his men ashore and more or less stormed into the city. That, of course, panicked the Dutch troops on the North Sea fortifications. Soon enough, everything was chaos, Oquendo's troops surged forward, and our soldiers either fled or surrendered."
He threw up his hands. "My whole life, spent mastering the genuine art of war! And-now this! A stripling Spanish prince makes a mockery of it all with something that belongs nowhere outside of a troubadour's tale!"
Rebecca swallowed.
"Was there… ah, a massacre thereafter?"
Frederik Hendrik took a deep breath, and then abruptly shook his head.
"No massacre. Neither there nor, so far as I have been able to determine, anywhere the Spanish have overrun us. In fact-"
He gave her a smile which, for the first time, was not simply sardonic. "They've taken Rotterdam and The Hague also. As of three days ago."
Rebecca felt herself grow tense. By far the largest Jewish community in the United Provinces was in Amsterdam. But there had also been, for decades, a small Jewish population in The Hague. And while Rebecca did not consider herself "Jewish" in the sense of that term which was the most common one in the Europe of her day-religiously observant-the ethnic sense of the term was already gaining ground. The Spanish Inquisition had begun that process, with their obsession over "secret Jews" and maintaining the "pure blood" of Christian Castile-limpieza, as the Spanish called it.
"It seems that as soon as the Spanish took the city," the prince continued, "a few Inquisitors took it upon themselves to round up the Jews. From the reports I've gotten, the cardinal-infante immediately ordered them to release their prisoners. And-" Here the smile widened. "When the Inquisitors objected, he promptly had three of them executed."
Rebecca's eyes widened. The Spanish Inquisition, unlike the Papal Inquisition, was officially under the authority of the crown of Spain. In the century and a half since its foundation, however, the Spanish Inquisition had developed a great deal of autonomy. Now, it seemed, a Spanish prince had decided to remind them-in the crudest way possible-that they were subordinate to royalty. Rebecca doubted if the cardinal-infante was any less anti-Semitic than any other Spanish hidalgo. But prejudice was one thing, a challenge to his authority another. And he might even be cunning enough to realize that Protestants, seeing a Spanish prince protect Jews, would be that much more likely to believe his promises of toleration.
Frederik Hendrik's smile faded away, replaced by the drawn and haggard look which had been on his face when Rebecca entered his chambers. "Which speaks well for the prince's humanity, of course. Or his shrewdness, at least. But-I will not lie to you, Rebecca Abrabanel-I almost wish he were another Alva."
He raised a hand abruptly. " 'Almost,' I say. Not… quite. But I must now think like a prince myself. And if I am to rally what remains of the Dutch republic, my task would be far easier if I faced another Alva."
Rebecca understood the point, just as she understood the prince's subtlety in using her maiden name. Rebecca might not consider herself "Jewish," but that did not mean that others would agree with her estimate-especially her enemies. Amsterdam would be under siege, soon, along with its three thousand Jewish inhabitants. If the duke of Alva were overseeing that siege… every one of those Jews could look forward to death and torture if the Spanish took the city. As great an incentive as possible, in other words, to throw themselves into the fight.
And not just them. Any "heretic." When the duke of Alva had been given the task of suppressing the Dutch Revolt by Philip II, he had followed the most savage policy possible. Even the Mongols, after all, had spared people who surrendered soon enough.
Not Don Fernandez Alvarez de Toledo, third duke of Alva. From the moment he arrived in the Low Countries, in 1567, the duke conducted himself like a beast. An old man when he landed, he had spent sixty years of his life accumulating a full store of religious bigotry, Castilian harshness and hidalgo arrogance. The gout and other bodily ailments which plagued his final years made him more vicious than ever.