As Above, So Below Page 27

  “I don’t like having you here,” Bruegel told him in curt French. “You’re not fit to be my apprentice. Tell me frankly what you want to accomplish, and let’s get it over with.”

  Lazare was unwilling to give a direct answer, so Bruegel set him to work finishing the new oak panel. Lazare was to assiduously polish the wood by rubbing it with a damp cloth and sand, after which Bruegel would paint on a thin coat of quick-drying gesso, which Lazare would sand off, followed by a fresh coat of gesso, a fresh sanding, and so on, through seven iterations, each time using a finer grit of sand. “I want the smoothest possible finish for the Cardinal. And once we finish the front of the panel, we’ll start on the back.”

  “The back?” said Lazare with a puzzled frown.

  “I see you know very little about the painter’s craft,” said Bruegel, grimly enjoying himself. “For the greatest works, we masters paint the sky onto the back of the panel. It adds a certain profondeur.”

  Bruegel turned his attention away from the villain and went back to his painting. Let Lazare sand until his fingers bled, and maybe then he’d talk. And meanwhile, yes, Bruegel would paint. What else was there to do?

  Soon he was safe inside his picture, free of his worries about Mayken. The tower was like life, with layer upon layer, detail upon detail, and the unfinished top in the clouds. The joke of the painting was that the inner parts and the outer parts of the tower didn’t match. You could see the insides up above, and the outsides down below. The structure was incompletable.

  After an hour of sanding, Lazare began to grumble. The work was not to the tough’s liking. Bruegel coldly told him that this was the only task that he had for Lazare this month and that, yes, seven sandings of the front and the back of the panel could easily take several weeks. He told Lazare that if and when the Cardinal’s panel was smooth enough, he’d have Lazare start in on sanding some panels for the paintings to come. But if the work didn’t suit him, well, then he could go home to his great-uncle with his mission incomplete.

  Lazare continued to sand and complain for a while longer. Bruegel kept an eye on him, using him as a model for one of the stonemasons who knelt before King Nimrod in the foreground of the large Tower of Babel.

  “I heard you sold your most recent picture to William of Orange,” said Lazare finally. There was a sly glimmer in the man’s small, muddy eyes.

  Oho, thought Bruegel. The rat peeks out of his hole. “Prince William and I are great friends,” he said encouragingly.

  “Does he ever come to your studio?” wondered Lazare.

  “Indeed,” said Bruegel. “Would you like to meet him?”

  “Very much,” said Lazare, sanding savagely.

  Bruegel painted on in silence, finishing off the details of a great mechanical hoist. The day’s light was nearly gone, and it was time to stop.

  “William owns all the land around my village,” said Lazare from the gloom. “His agents took away my family’s farm. If—if I could speak with him, then perhaps there would be justice.”

  “Speak with him?” said Bruegel, feigning indifference as he washed the paint off his brushes. “What would you say?”

  “That’s between me and him,” said Lazare, sullenly throwing down his panel and his sanding cloth. “Once you introduce the two of us, I’ll be off your hands. Why don’t you ask him to come here tomorrow?”

  “We’ll see,” said Bruegel, maintaining his careless tone. It had by now occurred to him that Granvelle had sent Lazare to murder William. Cheroo himself had suggested as much in those odd last remarks of his. It was hard to fully hate the mercurial Williblad. Now let Granvelle see that Bruegel too could play at intrigue. “Off with you, then, Lazare. I’ll put some gesso on your panel to dry overnight. I’ll expect you back for work quite early tomorrow morning.”

  “I thought I’d be eating and sleeping here,” protested the Walloon. “Like a proper apprentice.”

  The long day’s frustrations came crashing in on Bruegel. This cat’s paw was to live here as his apprentice? Instead of some friendly, talented fellow like young Bengt Bots? Was Bruegel to have no control over even this tiny wretched studio? “Go to the Cardinal’s,” he roared. “God knows it’s not far. Give the fat, conniving sack of shit all the latest news about me. Out with you!” He strode menacingly towards Lazare. Lazare was powerful enough to snap Bruegel’s back, but he was cowed by the older man’s rage, and perhaps a little frightened by Waf, who’d bared his teeth in a fierce growl. He clattered down the stairs into the rainy dusk.

  And now Bruegel was alone. Gradually his pulse slowed and the steel entered his thoughts. He lit some candles and continued cleaning up from the day’s work, and when that was done he began pacing back and forth across the room, with Waf anxiously dogging his steps. Normally he’d go to the Coeckes’ of an evening, but today that was out of the question. Surely Mayken had seen Cheroo again today. Cheroo had only promised to break off the affair after Lazare had done what it was he’d come to do. It was conceivable that this very afternoon Williblad and Mayken had lain together in Granvelle’s library. It would be unbearable for Bruegel to see her.

  “Dye den nest weet, dye weeten, dyen roft, dy heeten,” muttered Bruegel. It was a Low Lands proverb about taking a girl’s maidenhood: “Who knows the nest, knows it, who robs the nest, has it.” In his mind’s eye he saw a placid, unaware peasant pointing back over his shoulder towards a tree with a nest he plans someday to take. And there, wriggling in the crotch of the tree, as yet unseen by the peasant, was a birdsnester, the kind of fellow who takes a nest as soon as he sees it. The damnably smooth Williblad.

  It was long past time for action. Bruegel found his cape and hat, and set out into the darkness, hurrying towards William’s palace with Waf at his heels. He had the beginnings of a plan, and William the Sly could help him.

  The next morning Lazare arrived early. It was another rainy day.

  “Good news,” Bruegel said over Waf’s barking. He’d hardly slept, so intense was his anticipation. “We’re going to Prince William’s palace today. Don’t bother taking your cloak off, we can leave on the instant. He’s expecting us. We’re to get a tour of his collection. That should help slake your curiosity about art, eh?”

  “I’d hoped to meet him here in your studio,” said Lazare. “In full privacy.”

  “Never fear,” said Bruegel heartily. “You won’t find any of his courtiers in the painting gallery; they’ll be in bed or at his dining table. You’ll have ample opportunity to speak with William as privately as you wish. It’s my intention that today our mutual business shall reach its climax.”

  “You do me and my people a great service, Matre Bruegel,” said Lazare doffing his hat in one of his extravagant bows. Waf snapped at the hat as it swept past. “Can we leave your dog at home?”

  “Very well,” said Bruegel. “He had a good bit of exercise last night.”

  As meddlesome Dame Fortuna would have it, Bruegel encountered Mayken as soon as he entered the palace. The way to William’s private sitting room led through the palace dining hall. Mayken and her mother were sitting with Princess Anna at one of the endless linen-covered tables, studying the cartoons of the unicorn tapestry. Old Mayken gave him an oddly exuberant wave. Young Mayken jumped out of her seat and came hurrying across the stone floor. She had something to tell him; her face was shining with her news. News about what? After yesterday, Bruegel didn’t care to know.

  “Not now,” said Bruegel before she could start. His face was a mask of ice, his belly a ball of flame. “I don’t have time to talk with you.” Her face fell. Some fierce part of Bruegel was glad to crush her. Perhaps this morning’s little game would even end in his death. Let her taste sorrow. He pushed past Mayken and hurried up the palace stairs, Lazare close at his heels.

  They found William in a wood-paneled sitting room before a fire, in conversation over white bread and spiced hot chocolate with his purser Groelsch. The room was cozy and warm, with a rich tapestry, an exquis
ite carpet on the floor, and finely carved chairs with silk-cushioned seats. On a bench by the velvet-curtained window sat a lute and a little pile of leather-bound books, and by the bench was a large celestial globe on a stand with legs twisted like climbing vines. A servant poured out the chocolate from a silver pot with a greyhound upon the lid, and the rich scent of cacao and cardamom filled the air.

  “Ah, Peter,” said William. “I was expecting you. You’ve come to visit my collection, eh? Just another minute and I’ll show you up personally.” Bruegel noted that Grauer was nowhere to be seen. All was proceeding according to the plan that Bruegel and William had worked out last night. How sweet it was to be, for once, the driver of the steeds of fate.

  Bruegel smiled. “You’re too kind, Prince William. I’ve taken the liberty of bringing along my new apprentice, Lazare.” He switched into French. “Lazare is most honored to meet your lordship. He comes from Luxembourg.” Lazare bowed and smiled unctuously, but Bruegel could see the emotions in his eyes. Granville had handpicked this man for his hatred of Prince William. Lazare was an assassin.

  “Welcome to Brussels,” said William in French, keeping well back from the Walloon. “So then, Peter and Lazare, we’ll head up to the gallery. We’ll take the spiral staircase over here; it’s a handy thing, a bit of a secret passageway. It leads straight up from a little entrance down on the street. A good way for sneaking in and out of the palace when I’ve the need, eh? But, hush, not a word to anyone else about it, least of all my wife!” William winked and grinned, playing the womanizing braggart. Let Lazare believe he’d have a clear path of escape. William pushed aside a tapestry to reveal the low stone door in the wall. He popped through; Bruegel and Lazare followed.

  William rushed up the stairs at a run, with Bruegel behind him, and with Lazare in the rear. Lazare made as if to push up past Bruegel, but the stairs were steep and narrow enough that Bruegel could easily block him with his elbows. He felt as powerful as a cat with a mouse. A minute later they were emerging from behind another tapestry into the gallery.

  It was a long wide hallway with bare wood floors, chilled with November. One side of the hall was all windows, the other was a wall hung with pictures, interrupted by two dark, open doorways. William sped across the glossy floor like an ice-skater, finally stopping before a huge triptych, fully twelve feet by six feet in size. From this angle, the light glared off the picture so that Bruegel couldn’t make it out.

  Lazare brushed past Bruegel and pressed forward towards William, speaking rapidly in a low, penetrating voice. “A word with you, Prince,” said the Walloon. “Do you know that your tax assessor took my father’s farm? And that one of your soldiers dishonored my sister? Eh? Do you know how many you’ve ruined in Luxembourg?” Matters were coming to a head.

  William took a step backwards, glancing anxiously towards the nearest doorway. But he gave no spoken response.

  “Nothing to say, Prince William?” said Lazare, his voice tight with fury. “Here in your fine palace with your silver and your spices, you’ve no worries about a little person like myself, eh? Never give it a thought. Why would you? Ah, but now, but now, but now the little person’s here and, by God, you’ll pay the price.”

  Bruegel plucked at Lazare’s cloak, trying to slow him down.

  “Keep your distance or I’ll kill you too,” said Lazare, not even looking back. He shrugged and his cloak fell free, making a velvet puddle on the floor. Lazare was holding a dagger. He strode onward, tense and alert, stalking his prey. Bruegel hung back, all gloomy desires for self-immolation fled from his mind. It occurred to him that neither he nor William were armed. He wished he’d paused to speak with Mayken. What had she wanted to tell him?

  “I’m ready!” snarled Lazare, eyes fixed on William. “Are you?” He moved in for the kill.

  But as the assassin passed the darkened doorway in the wall, a figure sprang out at him with a roar. It was Grauer, swift as a falcon. There was the thud of flesh, a clatter, a shriek, and then Lazare was tottering about, his hands clenched over his belly, trying to staunch a great spreading stain of blood. His face wore an expression of surprise, reminding Bruegel of Father Michel, dead on the barn floor of that peasant wedding. No man ever believed that Death would truly come for him.

  Grauer was holding Lazare’s dagger as well as his own. Two more of William’s guards appeared from the darkened doorway.

  “Finish him off, Prince William?” asked Grauer.

  “Not quite yet,” said William, his voice a little shaky. “Question him.”

  Lazare had slipped to his knees before the triptych. It was the masterpiece by Bosch called The Garden of Earthly Delights, with Eden on the left, Hell on the right, and the huge six-foot-square central panel filled with birds, fruits, and naked lovers. Kneeling before the picture, the wretched, wounded Lazare seemed part of the painting’s Crooked World. The scene made Bruegel dizzy, and now, as in Mechelen, he felt Master Bosch beside him, gibbering into his ear.

  “Who sent you?” Grauer was saying to Lazare.

  “Get a physician,” groaned Lazare. “A priest. I’m mortally wounded.”

  “Who sent you, dog?” repeated Grauer, slapping Lazare across the face.

  By way of an answer, Lazare spat at Grauer. The spit was red with blood.

  “The Cardinal Granvelle sent him,” said Bruegel, speaking loud enough to drown out Bosch’s voice. “It’s as I told you last night.”

  “Is it true?” Grauer asked Lazare, pressing his knife so tight against the Walloon’s neck that the blood began to flow.

  “The Cardinal helped,” whispered Lazare. “But it was my dead father who sent me.”

  Grauer glanced over at William. William nodded. And the knife swept across Lazare’s throat. The blood spurted out, soaking Grauer’s arm and splattering the bottom part of Bosch’s great central panel.

  Bosch’s shade pressed forward, more solid and animated than ever before, as if drawing substance from the blood steaming in the frigid air. In the past the spirit had only murmured—of colors and forms and certain grotesqueries—but now he was speaking to Bruegel as clearly as the other voices in the room. “Clean off the blood!” commanded Master Bosch. “Clean my picture.”

  Bruegel stepped forward, drawing out his kerchief. He knelt down beside the twitching corpse of Lazare and began wiping the blood off the painting. He had to dampen a corner of the cloth with his spit to fully wipe the stains away. Lazare’s hot, puddled blood began soaking into the knees of his breeches: a terrible sensation, a feeling from Hell. As Bruegel labored to wipe off every spot, splatter, and drop, Master Bosch’s voice was excitedly twittering, but the words were hard to understand. At the same time, William and his guards were talking among themselves—talking about Bruegel. They thought his behavior odd.

  “Not a glance for your unfortunate apprentice, Bruegel?” asked William dryly.

  “He’s dead,” said Bruegel, pausing from his work to take a quick glance around. “If left to stand, blood stains forever.”

  Just then a pageboy came clattering down the hall, drawn by the commotion. His wide eyes took in the corpse and the crouched, bloodstained Bruegel. The boy fled downstairs to spread the news. What would Mayken make of it? Bruegel was eager to see. For the first time since Williblad’s visit to his studio, he felt a measure of peace. His ruse against Lazare had succeeded.

  With Bruegel’s calm came a fading of his sense of Master Bosch’s presence. Even so, he returned to his task of preservation, rubbing the bespattered image of a great pomegranate whose seeds spilled upon painted grass.

  “The man cares more about a painting than a human life,” said Grauer, amiably chaffing him. “A colder fish than I.”

  “It’s not I who chose to kill Lazare,” protested Bruegel, wanting to push away the blood guilt, although he knew some measure of the guilt was his. With the guilt came pity. Lazare had been a murderous villain, but he’d started as a village boy, the same as him.

  But enou
gh weak thoughts. Lazare had been sacrificed for Mayken. Was it enough? “What are you planning to do to the Cardinal and Cheroo?” asked Bruegel.

  “I’ve no power over the Cardinal,” said William. “But my men will take care of Cheroo.”

  Looking at Lazare’s blood, Bruegel felt unable to hold something back. “You should know that Cheroo gave me a hint,” he said. “I don’t think he wanted the assassination to succeed.”

  “I know where to find Cheroo,” rasped one of the guards, as if ignoring Bruegel. “I’ll go for him today.”

  “Don’t—don’t kill him,” said Bruegel. Despite everything, there was something about Williblad that touched his heart. But the man had to leave Mayken alone! “Just make him leave Brussels.”

  “He’ll leave,” said Grauer. “He’ll want to leave.”

  “Let it be so,” said William. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Peter?”

  “Young Bengt Bots wants to be my apprentice,” said Bruegel, dabbing a last few small drops of blood from two pairs of naked legs sticking out of a great hollow fruit. Two pale, two coppery. Mayken and Williblad. One way or another that was taken care of now. But would Mayken want Bruegel? Soon he’d see.

  “Ah,” said William. “Bengt mentioned the matter to me, but I didn’t take it seriously. An unlettered boy like that—an artist? You actually want him?”

  “He hasn’t got the money for my apprenticeship fee,” said Bruegel, marveling at his own aplomb. He was like a gambler coolly picking up another trick. “Will you pay it?”

  “Of course,” said William. “You’ve done me a great service in flushing this assassin.”

  There was a hubbub coming up the main stairs. News of the attack had spread throughout the palace. Finished with cleaning the picture, Bruegel got to his feet, stepped back and looked at it. Huge birds and pink lovers. A marvel. But yet, after all, only a picture of Hell, or of something like it. Master Bosch’s shade was quite gone. Poor dead Lazare lay curled on the floor, his head thrown back and his neck sticky with clotting blood. Bruegel had led him into this trap, and if he had to, he’d do it again. For Mayken. And here she came, running out from the crowd coming down the hall.