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  “I’ve seen one of them at Fugger’s,” said Ortelius, hoping to change the subject. He didn’t want to hear Bruegel’s confidences. Why must the man be so thickheaded about the Maykens? Why did he need to long for them so? “All covered with gold and silver threads,” continued Ortelius urbanely. “I believe the Habsburgs stuck the Fuggers with the bill for all twelve.”

  “Quite likely,” said Bruegel, not to be deflected from telling his tale. And here it came. “Well, while Master Coecke was conquering Tunis, I was conquering his wife. Or rather, she was conquering me. She and I were alone in the house for six months with the maids and one other apprentice, a smeary twenty-year-old fellow named Cornelius who lived in the shed in the garden. Yes, Coecke quickened his Mayken’s womb and sailed off to Africa for adventure. One night soon after Coecke left, I was walking down the hallway and Mayken called me into her room. It was lit by candles. She was lying on her back with her night-clothes pulled up and her legs in the air. I could see everything. I knew what a female looked like from my little games with Anja, but the sight of Mayken—well, I’d almost say it frightened me. She was a grown woman, you understand, waiting for me in full readiness. It was, in its way, a terrible sight. I still don’t know why she approached me in such wise. Perhaps loneliness, or the action of her swollen womb upon her humors, who knows?” Bruegel paused, smiling ruefully. “The old Mayken has never been the kind of woman to flirt with a man; if anything she’s rather stiff and cold. Lacking in social graces. But there she was on her back with her legs in the air. A moment of folly. Very clumsy, very human.”

  Ortelius shuddered at Bruegel’s coarse image. Why did Bruegel perpetually have to discuss—and depict—such things? Ortelius had never seen a naked woman and he didn’t want to. “I’ve met Mayken Verhulst,” he said finally. “A dignified personage. I can hardly imagine what you’re describing. Did you run away?”

  “Of course not,” said Bruegel with a rueful laugh. “I was frightened, but I was seventeen. I stayed and swived her. She had me do it to her once or twice a day for the whole time that Master Coecke was gone. By the end her belly was as big as your Earth globe.”

  “Did the others know?” asked Ortelius.

  “At first nobody said anything,” said Bruegel. “But secrets don’t last long in a household. The other apprentice, Cornelius, made it clear that he knew where I went when I crept down the hallways of an evening. Though he lived in the shed, he was in the house nearly every night with the cook. There was a kind of mad lewdness in the air. Cornelius was jealous of my success with the mistress of the house, I suppose. It was he who told Master Coecke.”

  “Oh Lord,” said Ortelius, laughing weakly. Despite himself he’d been drawn into the tale. “What a life you lead, Peter.”

  “Soon after his return, Master Coecke called me into his studio, high on his house’s fourth floor, an enormous, high-ceilinged attic with gable windows. He was dressed as a Turk, in a green silk caftan the color of moonlight, wearing a turban and holding a curved scimitar. A canvas and a mirror stood before him; he’d been using himself as a model for an image of Suleiman the Magnificent. The sword put me ill at ease, the more so when he closed the door and placed the blade against my neck. ‘You’ve made merry company for my wife,’ said Master Coecke. I backed away, but he followed me, always with that great sharp blade at my throat. I begged for mercy. I told him I would leave his house forever if he so wished. He handed me the sword, put his face in his hands, and began to weep. ‘Kill me now if you plan to touch her again,’ he sobbed. ‘You’re like a son to me, Peter. I don’t want to lose you or my Mayken. But I’d rather die than be a cuckold.’ In time we smoothed things over. Indeed, we grew closer than before. I stayed on as his apprentice for five more years. And, good as my word, I never made love to old Mayken again. Nor, for her part, did she again petition me.”

  “A happy ending, then,” put in Ortelius, not wanting to hear any further talk about Bruegel’s Maykens. “Perhaps it’s time for bed.”

  “I’m not finished,” said Bruegel stubbornly. “There’s more to tell.” He drank from his wineglass and continued. “After young Mayken was born, Master Coecke and old Mayken were busy with their work, and it often fell upon me to care for the girl. She was a delight, the joy of the household. I’d carry her on my shoulders when I went out to make purchases for Coecke, and at home I’d draw her pictures and tell her tales. She was fond of me.” Bruegel sighed. “But now I worry that she thinks of me as an uncle. Or as her mother’s lover.”

  “How would she possibly know that?” cried Ortelius.

  “For the first months of her existence, I was drumming at her door!” exclaimed Bruegel. “More fool I. Mightn’t a homunculus sense such a thing? There’s knowing and there’s knowing, eh? When a bird flies back from the South, she knows the nest where she hatched, without being able to tell any man how. Oh, Abraham, if young Mayken feels me to be her mother’s lover, then I’m as odious to her as a lecherous, unnatural father. What if she rejects my suit?”

  “But old Mayken backs you, no?” Ortelius felt even sicker than before at the thought of that seasoned rake Williblad seducing young Mayken. And at Granvelle’s behest. Should he tell? Impossible, Williblad had asked him not to. There was no way he could tell. Bruegel would see the wolf in the fold soon enough.

  “Yes, now that I’m free of Anja, old Mayken’s all for the marriage,” prattled Bruegel. “The union was always her and Master Coecke’s wish. I was the best of their students and old Mayken bore no sons. They expected that in due time I’d come back into the house of Coecke. Old Mayken is doing well enough, but her trade is small, and she has, I believe, not so good a head for business.”

  “But you do?” said Ortelius, sadly smiling at his friend, at the Bruegel who refused to paint portraits, who turned his back on the Italianate style sought by the churches, who depicted people defecating, who drew seditious lampoons, who insulted the Regent, who recently gave away a third of his commissions for the sake of an unfaithful woman friend, and whose latest work was a miniature that had taken him six months to paint in exchange for a horse and a few coins.

  Bruegel caught some of what Ortelius was thinking. “I get commissions,” he protested. “I sell everything I can paint or draw. But, yes, I’ll grant that I’m not the shrewdest of men.” He shook his head. “I make enough to live on, and that’s it. When will I, alone, ever own a house? When will I, alone, have a full studio, with apprentices to grind my paints? I’m tired of being a struggling artist, Abraham. I’m a master in my prime, and I live like a student. Who knows how much longer I have? Death comes when you have him least in mind. I hope and pray the Maykens will take me in.”

  “God grant that it be so,” said Ortelius, on the point of tears. “No more talk, dear Peter. I must sleep.” And so, for the second time, Ortelius betrayed his closest friend.

  Ten

  The Peasant and the Birdsnester

  Brussels, November 1562

  The ride to Brussels took all of a long, wet day. Bruegel and Waf found lodging at an inn near the docks of the newly dug Willebroek Canal. The next morning they made their way to the Coecke house. It was a narrow, four-story redbrick building in the Marolles district, a busy but not so fashionable neighborhood of merchants and artisans, down the hill from the city’s great palaces.

  The house was much messier than it had been in the days when Master Coecke was alive. Old Mayken had always been a poor housekeeper. She met Bruegel at the door, her hair in an untidy gray bun, her wise face wreathed in smiles at the sight of Peter. They exchanged a few quiet words about why he’d come. And then she kissed him on the cheek and sent him upstairs to see her daughter. Bruegel found young Mayken alone in a sunny studio on the second floor, sitting at a table sorting threads. His heart beat faster at seeing her, at scenting her breath in the room. For her part, Mayken acted quite unromantic.

  “Peter Bruegel! Have they thrown you out of Amsterdam as well?” Mayken tossed her h
ead and gave a little laugh. “Draw me a picture of a pig.”

  She’d often greeted him with this request as a girl and now, as in the old days, Bruegel sketched a pig in the air with his finger. The jumbled studio had Bruegel’s Children’s Games on one wall, paint-spotted Turkish rugs on an equally spotted inlaid wood floor, a brick fireplace with ashes all around it, a dusty couch mounded with skeins of thread, and two worktables, one covered with threads and tapestry cartoons, the other covered with paints. Three tiny easels sitting upon the second table held miniatures that old Mayken was working on. Two high windows looked out upon the Hoogstraat, the crowded, narrow street that ran the length of the Marolles. Waf circled the room, then lay down at young Mayken’s feet.

  “It’s wonderful to see you,” said Bruegel, stepping closer. “You’re quite the young woman now.” Mayken’s long blond hair was in braids that she wore piled upon her head, exposing a pale, alluring neck. Her lips were full and kissable. He wanted to reach out and pet her, but just now his hands felt like clumsy paws. His grin felt stupid. It was finally time to press his suit, and he hardly knew how to begin. “I’m overcome by your beauty.”

  “Don’t be silly. Sit down and tell me what you’ve seen. Draw me a real picture, of a Hollander. I know you’ve got a pen and paper with you. You always do. Inky Peter.”

  “What are the threads for?” asked Bruegel, not getting out his pen.

  “Mother’s designing a tapestry for William of Orange’s new wife. Princess Anna of Saxony. I’ve met her, a gossipy, lecherous little thing with a limp. She wants a Hunt of the Unicorn, with fine strong huntsmen and a buxom virgin that looks like her.” Bruegel recalled that the falconer’s son, young Bengt Bots, had mentioned showing a falcon to the Maykens at William’s palace.

  “I went falconing with William while I was in Mechelen,” said Bruegel, thinking Mayken might be impressed. “And I’ve just finished a picture for him. I left it back at the inn.”

  “I want to learn more about falconry. Why don’t the falcons fly away? But why are you staying at an inn instead of with us?”

  “It’s not fitting.” There. He was finally approaching the topic.

  “Why not?” Mayken’s voice was sweet and bright, yet artificial. She was deliberately making it hard for him.

  “Because I’m courting you,” exclaimed Bruegel. He felt his face burning. What an oaf he must seem. “As if you didn’t know. Dear Mayken, I want to marry you.”

  Mayken fell silent for a minute or two, looking down at her skeins of thread, moving a few of them back and forth with the tips of her delicate fingers. The noises from the street drifted in: voices in discussion, the hooves of horses, the wheels of carts rumbling past, someone playing a hurdy-gurdy.

  “Mother told me to expect this,” said Mayken finally. “She wants it too.”

  “And you, Mayken? Will you have me?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I’m not who you think I am. It’s been forever since we’ve really talked. But now let’s just be silly like the old days. Be my Inky Peter and draw me a falcon attacking a Holland pig.”

  “All right,” said Bruegel, and took out his pen. Though Mayken’s rebuff came as a severe disappointment, there was still room to hope. She had a point, after all. They hardly knew each other anymore. First they should get comfortable with each other again.

  Bruegel and Mayken spent a pleasant hour together, chatting while he drew things for her, though every now and then he’d have to pause, quite overcome with longing for her. Every aspect of the girl seemed perfect to him: the curve of her bosom, the rhythm of her breath, the intimate scent of her hair and skin, oh, how she had ripened. Old Mayken joined them after a while, and showed Bruegel the cartoon for the unicorn tapestry, which indeed included some falcons. Old Mayken wasn’t happy with her drawing of a falcon in flight, and at her request, Bruegel rubbed it out and used a bit of charcoal to draw in a better one. Few could limn birds as well as he. While he was at it, he added a heron. The talk about William of Orange reminded him that he should deliver his picture, so after a bit he took his leave, with nothing about his and young Mayken’s future resolved.

  “She’s been filled with fantasy of late,” old Mayken told him at the door. “She’s not her old self.”

  “Do I have a rival?” asked Bruegel, speaking quietly lest young Mayken overhear.

  “I don’t know,” said old Mayken. She was a large-nosed woman with a generous mouth. “People come and go at our house on all sorts of business. And we’re out in the city all the time. Perhaps she could have met someone. I’m not sure what she’s up to. Of late she’s shown an uncommon interest in going to afternoon mass, but if I try and accompany her, she says she’d rather not go.”

  Lost in thought, Bruegel made his way to William’s Nassau palace. Young Mayken was certainly pretty enough to have attracted another man. When she’d said, “Maybe I’m not who you think I am,” could she have possibly meant that she was no longer a virgin?

  The palace was a magnificent stone structure of arches and buttresses on a long hill near the Coecke house. A servant showed Bruegel and Waf into a vast wood-paneled dining hall with tapestries, stained-glass windows, and a long linen-bedecked table laden with steaming food redolent of cinnamon, garlic, and cloves. William the Sly was sitting at one end, chatting with two other nobles. His customary bodyguard, Grauer, stood alertly behind his chair. The gimlet-eyed Grauer was the first to notice Bruegel’s entrance.

  “It’s our Bruegel,” called William. “And the noble Waf. Peter, let me introduce you to Graaf Egmont.” Egmont was a handsome man with dark hair combed down over his forehead. He acknowledged Bruegel with a curt nod.

  “And I believe you know Filips de Hoorne?” continued William. It had been years since Bruegel had seen Filips de Hoorne. Filips had grown a spade-shaped beard and his head had turned bald. As usual, Bruegel wondered if Filips might be his half brother. Like Bruegel, he had gray eyes, but Bruegel could see little other resemblance to his own features.

  “Peter,” said de Hoorne, getting to his feet. “William told me of your adventures in Mechelen with our Regent Dulle Griet. I’m proud of you.” He gave Bruegel a little pat on the shoulder. “Father did well to have this fellow educated,” de Hoorne told the others. “He was a foundling at our Ooievaarenest farm.”

  “With his paternity quite unknown, eh, Filips?” said William, instinctively going to the heart of the matter. Bruegel dared not add anything. As a result of the old Graaf’s many kindnesses to him, he’d always felt himself to be under an unspoken agreement not to make any claims. But he dearly would have liked for once to discuss his paternity. Filips merely frowned at William’s sally and resumed his seat.

  “I brought Prince William’s new painting,” said Bruegel, pulling the box out of his pouch. It would be nice to have Filips see what kind of man he was. William called a servant to clear a space on the table, and Bruegel set out the Suicide of Saul.

  “It’s small,” observed Egmont. Evidently he was a dunderhead. In the echo of his ignorant slight, the picture looked very tiny in this great, arched hall.

  “A gem,” said de Hoorne, leaning over it. “What mastery he has. Father knew it when he first saw him drawing on the wall of our barn. Explain the picture to us, Peter.” Bruegel’s heart bloomed and enfolded Filips.

  Smiling in Filips’s eyes, Bruegel briefly summarized the story of Saul. When he was done, William pointed to the dying king and the dead armor bearer in the painting’s corner.

  “Bruegel doesn’t like to say so out loud, but this is Philip and this is Granvelle,” said William. Grauer stepped forward a pace to peer at the dying men. His hard face split in a smile and he winked at Bruegel.

  “Very subtle,” said de Hoorne approvingly. “And very daring. The Tyrant dies, to be replaced by—whom?”

  “By me,” said William confidently. “I’m the new David, out there on the horizon somewhere.”

  “Why you instead of me?” said Egmont,
not quite jokingly.

  “Because it’s my picture,” said William, playfully sidestepping the proffered debate. He raised his voice and called to the other end of the table, where a group of women sat. “Come see what Peter Bruegel’s painted for us, Anna.”

  A dark-haired little woman came rapidly their way, with several ladies following along. She moved with an irregular gait; her spine was a bit crooked. She had a pretty face and a loud, gay voice. She liked the picture well enough, and complimented Bruegel on the way he’d painted the trees.

  “A pity you’re not known at the imperial court,” she remarked. “My councilors in Saxony have never heard of you. And I wonder, do you ever paint women? I see nothing but soldiers in this little picture. Women, after all, are more than half the race.”

  “My last painting was primarily of women,” said Bruegel ingratiatingly. “It was called Dulle Griet. It was sent off to Vienna, so perhaps your councilors will hear of me soon.”

  “How nice for you,” said Princess Anna, maintaining her somewhat cutting manner. “What are you painting next, Mijnheer Bruegel?”

  “A large Tower of Babel,” he said. “As soon as I can set up a studio in Brussels. Perhaps you and Prince William would like to commission something else?”

  “Maybe next year,” said Princess Anna. “But not just now. I’m busy having Mayken Verhulst produce some tapestries for me.”

  “I’ve seen the cartoons,” said Bruegel wanting to show himself to be at ease in the artistic circles of Brussels. “I’m a good friend of Mayken’s. I helped her redraw the falcons just this morning.”