“A rabble of Scots at Scone tossed a crown at Charles’s head,” d’Avaux said, “and then he came and lived here, begging for handouts from Dutchmen, until 1660 when the cheese-mongers paid him to leave. Practically speaking, his reign began when he sailed to Dover.”
“If we are going to be practical, sir,” shouted an Englishman, “let us consider that your King did not practically begin his reign until the death of Cardinal Mazarin on the ninth of March, 1661.” He raised a tankard to his lips and quaffed deeply, pausing between gulps to emit little moans of satisfaction.
“At least my King is alive,” d’Avaux muttered. “You see? And they love to accuse Jesuits of sophistry! I say, is your beau wanted by the Guild of St. George?”
Civic order in the Hague was maintained by two Guilds of civic guards. The part of the city around the market and the town hall, where normal Dutchmen lived, was looked after by the St. Sebastian Guild. The St. George Guild was responsible for the Hofgebied, which was the part of the city containing the royal palace, foreign embassies, houses of rich families, and so on. Both Guilds were represented among the crowd of spectators who had gathered round to partake of the spectacle of d’Avaux and his English counterparts freezing to death. So d’Avaux’s question was partly intended to flatter and amuse the genteel and aristocratic St. George men-perhaps at the expense of the more plebeian St. Sebastian guards, who seemed to be favoring the English delegation.
“Don’t be absurd, monsieur! If he were, those brave and diligent men would have apprehended him long ago. Why do you ask such a question?”
“He has covered up his face like some sort of a volunteer. ” Which meant, a soldier-turned-highwayman.
Eliza turned round to see Gomer Bolstrood lurking (there was no other word for it) around a corner of the canal a stone’s throw away with a long strip of tartan wrapped over his face.
“Those who live in northerly climes often do this.”
“It seems extremely disreputable and in the poorest taste. If your beau cannot tolerate a bit of a sea-breeze-”
“He is not my beau-merely a business associate.”
“Then, mademoiselle, you will be free to meet with me here, at this hour, tomorrow, and give me a skating-lesson.”
“But, monsieur! From the way you shuddered when you beheld me, I thought you considered such sports beneath your dignity.”
“Indeed-but I am an Ambassador, and must submit to any number of degradations…”
“For the honor and glory of la France?”
“Pourquoi non?”
“I hope that they widen the street soon, comte d’Avaux.”
“Spring is just around the corner-and when I gaze upon your face, mademoiselle, I feel it is already here.”
“’TWAS PERFECTLY INNOCENT,Mr. Bolstrood-I thought they were sculpture until eyes turned my way.”
They were seated before a fire in a stately hunting-lodge. The place was warm enough, but smoky, and bleak, and entirely too filled with heads of dead animals, who seemed also to be turning their eyes Eliza’s way.
“You imagine I’m angry, but I’m not.”
“What’s troubling you, then? I daresay you are the brooding-est fellow I have ever seen.”
“These chairs.”
“Did I hear you correctly, sir?”
“Look at them,” Gomer Bolstrood said, in a voice hollow with despair. “Those who built this estate had no shortage of money, of that you can be sure-but the furniture! It is either stupid and primitive, like this ogre’s throne I’m seated on, or else-like yours-raked together out of kindling, with about as much structural integrity as a faggot. I could make better chairs in an afternoon, drunk, given a shrub and a jackknife. ”
“Then I must apologize for having misread you, as I supposed you were angry about that chance encounter, there-”
“My faith teaches me it was inevitable-predestined-that you would enter into a flirtation with the French Ambassador just now. If I’m brooding over that, it’s not because I’m angry, but because I must understand what it means.”
“It means he’s a horny old goat.”
Gomer Bolstrood shook his colossal head hopelessly, and gazed toward a window. The pane shouted as it was hit by a burst of wind-driven slush. “I pray it did not develop into a riot,” he said.
“How much of a riot can eight frozen Englishmen and seven half-dead Frenchmen accomplish?”
“It’s the Dutchmen I’m worried about. The commoners and country folk, as always, side with the Stadholder.*The merchants are all Frenchified-and because the States-General are meeting here at the moment, the town’s crowded with the latter-all of ’em wearing swords and carrying pistols.”
“Speaking of Frenchified merchants,” Eliza said, “I have some good news for the Client-whoever he is-from the commodities market. It seems that during the run-up to the 1672 war, an Amsterdam banker committed treason against the Republic-”
“Actually any number of ’em did-but pray continue.”
“Acting as a cat’s-paw for the Marquis de Louvois, this traitor-Mr. Sluys by name-bought up nearly all of the lead in the country to ensure that William’s army would be short of ammunition. No doubt Sluys thought the war would be over in a few days, and that King Louis, after planting the French flag on the Damrak, would reward him personally. But of course that is not how it happened. Ever since, Sluys has had a warehouse full of lead, which he’s been afraid to sell openly, lest word get out, and an Orangist mob burn his warehouses, and tear him apart, as they did so memorably to the de Witt brothers. But now Sluys has to sell it.”
“Why?”
“It’s been thirteen years. His warehouse has been sinking into the Amsterdam-mud twice as fast as the ones to either side of it, because of the weight of all that lead. The neighbors are beginning to complain. He is taking the whole neighborhood down!”
“So Mr. Sluys should offer an excellent price,” Gomer Bolstrood said. “Praise God! The Client will be most pleased. Did this same traitor buy up gunpowder? Matches?”
“All ruined by humidity. But a fleet of Indiamen are expected at Texel any day-they’ll be heavy laden with saltpeter, most likely-powder prices are already dropping.”
“Probably not dropping enough for our purposes,” Bolstrood muttered. “Can we buy up saltpeter, and make our own?”
“Sulfur prices are also agreeable, owing to some fortuitous volcanic eruptions in Java,” Eliza said, “but proper charcoal is very dear-the Duke of Braunschweig-Luneburg controls his Faulbaum inventory like a miser counting his coins.”
“We may have to capture an arsenal very early in the campaign,” Bolstrood said, “God willing.”
Talk of campaigns and arsenal-captures made Eliza nervous, so she attempted a change of subject: “When may I have the pleasure of meeting the Client?”
“As soon as we can find him clothed and sober,” Bolstrood answered immediately.
“That should be easy, in a Barker.”
“The Client is nothing of the sort!” Gomer Bolstrood scoffed.
“How very strange.”
“What is strange about it?”
“How came he to oppose Slavery if not through religion?”
“You oppose it, and you’re no Calvinist,” Bolstrood parried.
“I have personal reasons for feeling as I do. But I phant’sied that the Client was one of your co-religionists. He does oppose slavery, does he not?”
“Let us set aside phant’sies, and speak of facts.”
“Can’t help noticing, sir, that my question is unanswered.”
“You appeared at the door of our church in Amsterdam-some felt, like an Angelic visitation-with a most generous donation, and offered to make yourself useful in any way that would further our work ‘gainst Slavery. And that is just what you are doing.”