Lysbeth, a Tale of the Dutch by H. Rider Haggard (red white royal blue TXT) 📗

When Lysbeth’s mind recovered from its confusion she found herself still in the sledge and beyond the borders of the crowd that was engaged in rapturously congratulating the winner. Drawn up alongside of the Wolf was another sleigh of plain make, and harnessed to it a heavy Flemish horse. This vehicle was driven by a Spanish soldier, with whom sat a second soldier apparently of the rank of sergeant. There was no one else near; already people in the Netherlands had learnt to keep their distance from Spanish soldiers.

“If your Excellency would come now,” the sergeant was saying, “this little matter can be settled without any further trouble.”

“Where is she?” asked Montalvo.

“Not more than a mile or so away, near the place called Steene Veld.”

“Tie her up in the snow to wait till to-morrow morning. My horse is tired and it may save us trouble,” he began, then added, after glancing back at the crowd behind him and next at Lysbeth, “no, I will come.”

Perhaps the Count did not wish to listen to condolences on his defeat, or perhaps he desired to prolong the tête-à-tête with his fair passenger. At any rate, without further hesitation, he struck his weary horse with the whip, causing it to amble forward somewhat stiffly but at a good pace.

“Where are we going, Señor?” asked Lysbeth anxiously. “The race is over and I must seek my friends.”

“Your friends are engaged in congratulating the victor, lady,” he answered in his suave and courteous voice, “and I cannot leave you alone upon the ice. Do not trouble; this is only a little matter of business which will scarcely take a quarter of an hour,” and once more he struck the horse urging it to a better speed.

Lysbeth thought of remonstrating, she thought even of springing from the sledge, but in the end she did neither. To seem to continue the drive with her cavalier would, she determined, look more natural and less absurd than to attempt a violent escape from him. She was certain that he would not put her down merely at her request; something in his manner told her so, and though she had no longing for his company it was better than being made ridiculous before half the inhabitants of Leyden. Moreover, the position was no fault of hers; it was the fault of Dirk van Goorl, who should have been present to take her from the sledge.

As they drove along the frozen moat Montalvo leant forward and began to chat about the race, expressing regret at having lost it, but using no angry or bitter words. Could this be the man, wondered Lysbeth as she listened, whom she had seen deliberately attempt to overthrow his adversary in a foul heedless of dishonour or of who might be killed by the shock? Could this be the man whose face just now had looked like the face of a devil? Had these things happened, indeed, or was it not possible that her fancy, confused with the excitement and the speed at which they were travelling, had deceived her? Certainly it seemed to have been overcome at last, for she could not remember the actual finish of the race, or how they got clear of the shouting crowd.

While she was still wondering thus, replying from time to time to Montalvo in monosyllables, the sledge in front of them turned the corner of one of the eastern bastions and came to a halt. The place where it stopped was desolate and lonely, for the town being in a state of peace no guard was mounted on the wall, nor could any living soul be found upon the snowy waste that lay beyond the moat. At first, indeed, Lysbeth was able to see nobody at all, for by now the sun had gone down and her eyes were not accustomed to the increasing light of the moon. Presently, however, she caught sight of a knot of people standing on the ice in a recess or little bay of the moat, and half hidden by a fringe of dead reeds.

Montalvo saw also, and halted his horse within three paces of them. The people were five in number, three Spanish soldiers and two women. Lysbeth looked, and with difficulty stifled a cry of surprise and fear, for she knew the women. The tall, dark person, with lowering eyes, was none other than the cap-seller and Spanish spy, Black Meg. And she who crouched there upon the ice, her arms bound behind her, her grizzled locks, torn loose by some rough hand, trailing on the snow—surely it was the woman who called herself the Mare, and who that very afternoon spoke to her, saying that she had known her father, and cursing the Spaniards and their Inquisition. What were they doing here? Instantly an answer leapt into her mind, for she remembered Black Meg’s words—that there was a price upon this heretic’s head which before nightfall would be in her pocket. And why was there a square hole cut in the ice immediately in front of the captive? Could it be—no, that was too horrible.

“Well, officer,” broke in Montalvo, addressing the sergeant in a quiet, wearied voice, “what is all this about? Set out your case.”

“Excellency,” replied the man, “it is a very simple matter. This creature here, so that woman is ready to take oath,” and he pointed to Black Meg, “is a notorious heretic who has already been condemned to death by the Holy Office, and whose husband, a learned man who painted pictures and studied the stars, was burnt on a charge of witchcraft and heresy, two years ago at Brussels. But she managed to escape the stake, and since then has lived as a vagrant, hiding in the islands of the Haarlemer Meer, and, it is suspected, working murder and robbery on any of Spanish blood whom she can catch. Now she has been caught herself and identified, and, of course, the sentence being in full force against her, can be dealt with at once on your Excellency’s command. Indeed, it would not have been necessary that you should be troubled about the thing at all had it not been that this worthy woman,” and again he pointed to Black Meg, “who was the one who waylaid her, pulled her down and held her till we came, requires your certificate in order that she may claim the reward from the Treasurer of the Holy Inquisition. Therefore, you will be asked to certify that this is, indeed, the notorious heretic commonly known as Martha the Mare, but whose other name I forget, after which, if you will please to withdraw, we will see to the rest.”

“You mean that she will be taken to the prison to be dealt with by the Holy Office?” queried Montalvo.

“Not exactly, Excellency,” answered the sergeant with a discreet smile and a cough. “The prison, I am told, is quite full, but she may start for the prison and—there seems to be a hole in the ice into which, since Satan leads the footsteps of such people astray, this heretic might chance to fall—or throw herself.”

“What is the evidence?” asked Montalvo.

Then Black Meg stood forward, and, with the rapidity and unction of a spy, poured out her tale. She identified the woman with one whom she had known who was sentenced to death by the Inquisition and escaped, and, after giving other evidence, ended by repeating the conversation which she had overheard between the accused and Lysbeth that afternoon.

“You accompanied me in a fortunate hour, Señora van Hout,” said the captain gaily, “for now, to satisfy myself, as I wish to be just, and do not trust these paid hags,” and he nodded towards Black Meg, “I must ask you upon your oath before God whether or no you confirm that woman’s tale, and whether or no this very ugly person named the Mare called down curses upon my people and the Holy Office? Answer, and quickly, if you please, Señora, for it grows cold here and my horse is beginning to shiver.”

Then, for the first time, the Mare raised her head, dragging at her hair, which had become frozen to the ice, until she tore it free.

“Lysbeth van Hout,” she cried in shrill, piercing tones, “would you, to please your Spanish lover, bring your father’s playmate to her death? The Spanish horse is cold and cannot stay, but the poor Netherland Mare—ah! she may be thrust beneath the blue ice and bide there till her bones rot at the bottom of the moat. You have sought the Spaniards, you, whose blood should have warned you against them, and I tell you that it shall cost you dear; but if you say this word they seek, then it shall cost you everything, not only the body, but the spirit also. Woe to you, Lysbeth van Hout, if you cut me off before my work is done. I fear not death, nay I welcome it, but I tell you I have work to do before I die.”

Now, in an agony of mind, Lysbeth turned and looked at Montalvo.

The Count was a man of keen perceptions, and understood it all. Leaning forward, his arm resting on the back of the sledge, as though to contemplate the prisoner, he whispered into Lysbeth’s ear, so low that no one else could hear his words.

“Señora,” he said, “I have no wishes in this matter. I do not desire to drown that poor mad woman, but if you confirm the spy’s story, drown she must. At present I am not satisfied, so everything turns upon your evidence. I do not know what passed between you this afternoon, and personally I do not care, only, if you should chance to have no clear recollection of the matter alleged, I must make one or two little stipulations—very little ones. Let me see, they are—that you will spend the rest of this evening’s fete in my company. Further, that whenever I choose to call upon you, your door will be open to me, though I must remind you that, on three occasions already, when I have wished to pay my respects, it has been shut.”

Lysbeth heard and understood. If she would save this woman’s life she must expose herself to the attentions of the Spaniard, which she desired least of anything in the world. More, speaking upon her oath in the presence of God, she must utter a dreadful lie, she who as yet had never lied. For thirty seconds or more she thought, staring round her with anguished eyes, while the scene they fell on sank into her soul in such fashion that never till her death’s day did she forget its aspect.

The Mare spoke no more, she only knelt searching her face with a stern and wondering glance. A little to the right