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.”