1633

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.'

The prince was almost grinning. Almost, but… not quite. And then the smile closed down abruptly, replaced by a face which was no longer haggard but still grim enough.

'All of it is true, Rebecca. But it is only a possibility. Nothing more than idle speculation, at the moment. It would need to be made true.' He drew another deep breath. 'And, for that, I will need both time and breathing space. After Dunkirk and Haarlem, the prince of Spain will be too full of himself to listen to anyone. I will need to bloody him a bit. More than a bit, in fact. I-or someone-will need to buckle his knees and smash his head about. Then… maybe.'

He gave her a level stare. 'So. There it is. Are you still prepared to make an alliance with me? Knowing-in advance-that I will someday almost certainly tear it up. And bend my knee to your enemy, the prince of Spain.' Softly: 'I will have no choice, Rebecca. The disaster is too great. All I can do now is try to force the best settlement possible-which will still be a settlement on Spanish terms.'

'Yes, we are.' The words came instantly and firmly. Rebecca hesitated a moment. Then, decided that it was worth the risk to be on frank speaking terms with the one ruler in Europe she had encountered thus far-even including Gustav Adolf-who seemed genuinely able to think the unthinkable.

'My husband calls it 'buying time,' Frederik Hendrik. Win what you can, cede what you must; compromise where possible, do not where it isn't. Most of all, never lose sight of what you are striving for in the first place.' Her voice hardened. 'Which is not the aggrandizement of princes, whether they be noble or common of birth. It is not even 'victory' at all, except insofar as a midwife might use the term when she successfully brings a new life into the world.'

She pointed a finger at the painting, depicting Flemish townsfolk about their daily life. 'There is victory, Prince of Orange. Nothing else is worthy of the name.'

The prince nodded. 'My father would have enjoyed meeting your husband, I think. Do you know why they called him 'William the Silent'?'

Rebecca shook her head.

'A bit of a mysterious name, really. My father was as far removed from taciturnity as possible. A most loquacious and voluble man, in fact. So everyone who knew him tells me. I can't remember him myself, of course, since he was assassinated the same year I was born.'

Frederik Henrik chuckled. 'I think the name was actually coined by his enemies. They called him 'the Silent' because they accused him of never saying what he really thought. But I think, myself, that is simply the surliness of defeat. What my father was, was the most adroit statesman in Europe. Who used his victories on the field of battle to disguise the blade in his left hand, which he wielded at the negotiating table.'

He rose to his feet. 'Done, then, Madame Stearns. You may tell your husband that the prince of Orange sends a workman his warmest regards. And will pray every night that the day comes when a cardinal of France, thinking he stands astride the world, glances down and discovers he has been disemboweled in the process. And never noticed it at the time, so craftsmanlike was the hand that did the deed.'

Chapter 31

That night, after he got Becky's message, Mike walked out of the radio room before answering. The radio operator assured him he'd have at least two hours to send a reply before transmission became too difficult, and Mike needed time to think. The decision he had to make was, in more ways than one, the most difficult he'd ever had to make in his life.

When he left the embassy building, he found his feet taking him down to the Elbe. Mike had always found the sight of moving water both restful and a help to concentration. This was a decision he needed to make standing on a wharf, watching the flow of a river, not staring at the walls in a room. The chill in the autumn air was just enough to be invigorating, given the heavy jacket Mike had brought for the flight up here.

Fortunately, the sky was clear and there was enough of a moon to see. The 'street lighting' in the area was not even a joke. There wasn't any at all except an occasional lamp in an open window or signaling the entrance to a tavern. So Mike had no great difficulty picking his way through the mud puddles and finding the occasional patch of half-finished cobblestones, and was confident he could make it back to the radio room within a few minutes once he'd made his decision.

But when he arrived at the wharf, he instantly regretted having done so. By bad luck, Simpson was already there, standing on the wharf himself with his hands clasped behind his back. Apparently he found staring over water as relaxing as Mike did.

He was a lonely looking figure, staring down at the water in the moonlight. Mike's dislike for the man had been so constant, for so long, that he'd never really given any thought to what Simpson's own life must have been like, since the Ring of Fire. He had simply been a political opponent to be defeated.

Now, for the first time, he found himself wondering about it. And didn't take more than a moment to conclude that the lonely-looking figure on the wharf was a lonely man in truth. Neither Simpson, nor certainly his wife, could have found the transition easy-the more so after having, from their own sheer haughtiness and arrogance, alienated their own son so completely.

Well, that's a small horse or two I can trade easily enough, Mike thought. But I'll worry about that later.

He began to turn around, planning to retrace his steps. Staring at the walls of a room was not an attractive prospect, to be sure, but it beat trying to make small talk with Simpson while he wrestled with this decision.