Almost immediately, his brutality drew objections from the Spanish authorities on the spot. Archduchess Margaret, the Spanish regent in the Low Countries, resigned in outrage after Alva executed two leading magnates who had remained loyal to the Church-and had been assisting Margaret herself in trying to find a peaceful settlement.
But Alva did not want a peaceful settlement. Alva intended to simply terrorize the Netherlands into submission to the Spanish crown, and he set about it with a vengeance. The Conseil des Troubles was established under his supervision, with a staff of 170 prosecutors, and began the activities for which they soon became notorious. Thousands were investigated and sentenced for treason and heresy, more than one thousand of them executed outright.
In the southern provinces of the Low Countries, Alva's brutality succeeded in squelching the revolt. But in the northerly provinces, where Protestantism had sunk deeper roots, they had exactly the opposite effect. The Dutch rallied in 1568 under the leadership of William the Silent-the father of the man sitting across from Rebecca this moment-and the long war began.
It was a war which, in its early years, was marked by pure savagery. Alva set the pattern and never wavered from it. When the town of Mechelen threw open its gates at the approach of his army, Alva allowed his soldiers to sack the city and massacre its inhabitants. Another massacre followed when he took Zutphen. And, at Naarden, Alva set the seal on his reputation. He ordered the entire population of the city slaughtered-men, women and children alike.
The moral reputation of the Spanish empire would never survive Alva, in the universe which had produced the history books which Rebecca had read in Grantville. She knew that for a certainty. Coming atop the Inquisition and the conquistadores, Alva would ensure that history's memory of the Spanish in their heyday-that much of it written in the English language, at least-was one of simple cruelty, brutality and intolerance.
Which, in truth, was hardly fair. Spain would produce Parma and Spinola, also, just as it produced the line of shrewd and tolerant archduchess regents of the Spanish Netherlands beginning with Margaret and ending now with Isabella, reported to be lying on her deathbed. The same nation which produced Torquemada and Pizarro would also produce Bishop de las Casas and Miguel Cervantes. As a Sephardic Jewess, Rebecca understood the contradictions perfectly. Her own people had been driven out of Iberia by that Castilian darkness-yet still retained the culture of a land which was actually quite sunny. To this day, in private, she and her father Balthazar spoke to each other in Spanish. And why not? It was their tongue also.
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."