20

Set on high land, above the flood plains of Antwerp, the village of Berchem commanded a fine view of the shimmering metropolis a few miles away.

‘This must be a rich town,’ observed Cornelis. ‘Look at the dwellings, they are all of stone.’

‘And that church has a clock set in its spire,’ added Amir, in quiet amazement.

Even Bunting, who felt it inappropriate to marvel at wealth, was taken aback by the town’s opulence. ‘They say that all of Antwerp and its surrounds are paved in gold,’ he said. ‘If it were an exaggeration, it is not by much!’

Wide-eyed, the four dusty, weary travellers trudged along the bustling high street, their slim builds and modest garb contrasting with the plump and well-dressed locals.

‘There is a butcher, a baker and a grocer all in a row,’ marvelled Jakob.

‘My sisters would not believe a street could contain so many dressmakers, milliners and drapers,’ added Cornelis.

‘Even a cobbler and a barber shop!’ commented Bunting, unable to contain himself.

When they were through the main town, past the chandlers, printers and stationers, they noticed a tented encampment with banners and flags fluttering in the fields. A military base? As they approached, the size of the army became clearer; hundreds of tents dotted the undulating landscape.

‘This is of some concern,’ said Jakob, glancing furtively at the soldiers sitting around the encampment. ‘Whose army is this, and what is their purpose?’

‘I think they are Spanish. Look at their helmets,’ said Bunting, then under his breath, ‘Hush, Jakob, some are approaching.’

Both knew well the reputation of the Spanish army. In their attempts to suppress the revolt of the people of the Netherlands against Catholic rule from Madrid, the Duke of Alba had ordered his men to massacre and pillage rebellious cities. The road was filled with refugees with horrific tales of wanton cruelty. Not even women and children had been spared in Mechelen, where for three days marauding Spanish troops had slaughtered, raped and sacked the city. Proud of his achievements, Alba reported to King Philip that ‘no nail was left in the wall’. Zutphen, Naarden, Haarlem and Aalst received similar cruel treatment, even after surrendering to the superior Spanish forces. Traumatised refugees throughout the lowlands now referred to the events as the Spanish Furies.

Three Spaniards swaggered towards the group, their half armour glinting in the sun. All wore similar dress, with red-white sashes lying diagonally across their chests and knee-length baggy pantaloons. They had colourful tasselled pouches hanging from their belts and their heads were protected by the typical Spanish morion helmet. The only indicator of rank was the decorative comb and cheek-guards with detailed filigree, worn on the morion of the middle soldier.

‘Eh, Sacerdote, you come with us,’ he said in guttural Spanish, indicating with his finger and pointing towards the encampment.

‘No, señor, we must be on our way. We have an appointment in Antwerp,’ replied the priest.

From the few Spanish words he could grasp, Bunting understood what the soldier wanted. ‘Don’t fuck with us, Sacerdote. Our captain will want to see you,’ was the gist of it. Bunting shrugged and, with a resigned look to Jakob, set off with the group to follow the soldiers.

Unkempt, stinking soldiers, sitting in groups, eyed them as they walked through the tented city. But Bunting could see that, despite the apparent chaos, there was some order too. Each set of tents had a fire burning. Some had pots boiling with utensils at their sides. There were makeshift lines set up to dry out ragged clothes. Long pikes stood in menacing rows at the side of each section. Painted women moved freely between the tents. Jakob looked at his son, who was trying not to stare at the open bodices and flesh on display, but there was no escaping the grunts and moans from within the tents.

As they moved further towards the centre, the rows of pikes were replaced with rows of arquebus. The soldiers of this tercio wore a different uniform to the pikemen, and Bunting noticed they spoke with different accents. Some sat cleaning their weapons while others played cards. Over the general noise, Bunting could hear men singing and noticed a group gathered round one soldier, strumming and picking a battered vihuela. The song was mournful and the few words Bunting understood talked of mountains and home. He was interrupted from his thoughts by the sound of neighing and whinnying. The tents were now spaced further apart and horses of all sizes and colours were tethered to poles between them. Attendants ran back and forth, watering, feeding and grooming the animals.

The leading soldier grunted at Bunting – an unsubtle order to enter the largest tent. Jakob, Cornelis and Amir were motioned to sit outside. It took a few seconds for Bunting’s eyes to adjust to the relative dark of the tent.

‘I am tired of this work, Priest,’ said a voice in passable German from the gloom. ‘The men are tired. They want to go home. What do I tell them, eh? Many have been with me for ten years. Now it seems the rumours of Philip’s bankruptcy may be true. How the fuck can a king go bankrupt? Tell me that!’

The captain’s anger was palpable, but Bunting knew no answer was expected, so remained silent. He could now just make out the captain’s shape. The man stood with his arms folded and his back to Bunting.

‘Some shit about 400,000 florins being stolen by the English.’ He laughed to himself. ‘That will not do, not at all.’ He shook his head from side to side. ‘I have held my men back from the rampant looting of Alba’s men, so help me God, I have … but this is too difficult. Do I tell them that their pig’s arse of a king is a halfwit who has lost all of their wages on his ridiculous indulgences? Or perhaps, that it is “God’s Will” that their years of service should amount to nothing?’

Bunting took the opportunity to speak while the captain seemed lost in his own thoughts. ‘I know nothing of these matters, sir. The predicament of the army of Spain is not my concern. My friends and I would like to proceed to Antwerp without delay.’

‘And now Alba has arrived from Aalst,’ the captain continued as if Bunting had not uttered a word. ‘His troops are so loaded with booty and satiated with raping and pillaging that my men look on jealously. It is a recipe for disaster.’

The captain turned and looked at Bunting for the first time. He was a stocky man of medium height. His hair, unaffected by age, was black and curly and his manicured moustache and beard indicated a vanity. However, his lined and tired eyes also revealed a caring disposition. His swarthy face, like all career soldiers of his time, carried the scars of previous violent encounters. Bunting guessed he was a man of about forty years of age. ‘Eh, Priest, you did not expect a confession, did you?!’ The captain laughed to himself again. ‘My men have their whores to satisfy them for a while but, if there is to be no recompense, there will be a disaster.’ He sighed and gathered himself. ‘I need your holy services. One of my men lies dying. He requires Last Rites. Let us go.’

‘But, Captain … I am not a Catholic priest as this man would expect. I am a German Lutheran. Your man does not want me, surely?’

‘My man would not know … or care … You look the part, that will suffice.’

‘But, Captain, as I understand the Catholic faith, the Eucharist – or as you call it the Viaticum – it is a sacrament to prepare the dying person’s soul for death and to provide absolution for sins by penance, grace and prayers by anointing, for the relief of suffering. It is not possible for me to administer that.’

‘Listen, Priest, I have seen many men dying and you know what they all cry for at the end … their mothers. The holy man could be a Catholic, a Protestant or a fucking Oriental for all they care. Now, follow me!’

And with a sudden movement he grabbed his helmet, strode past Bunting, pushed the tent flap aside and stepped out. Jakob, Cornelis and Amir looked up as they came out into the light. Bunting shrugged at Jakob and followed the captain.

‘I am Captain Diego Rodrigo de Figueroa, once of Galicia,’ said the captain without looking back, ‘and you can be Sacerdote Luis Alvarez de Outeiro.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Bunting.

‘He will die knowing that you come from the same country as him. Outeiro is not far from his village.’

‘But I thought you all came from Spain?’

‘What is Spain? A name only. All my men are from Galicia. That is who they fight and die for. Not a pompous girl-king in Madrid!’

The conversation was cut short as they arrived at the dying man’s tent. On entering, Bunting was assailed by an awful stench of rotting flesh and faeces. Despite the stink a number of soldiers were gathered around a man lying white-faced and unconscious on a rough straw bed. On seeing Bunting, the men whispered to each other and nodded their heads in approval. They parted as he approached, lowering their heads and murmuring ‘gracias, muchas gracias.’ Some touched him and made the sign of the cross over their hearts. Bunting knelt at the side of the man.

A soldier sitting on the other side of the man gently spoke: ‘Fernando, Fernando. The sacerdote is here. Our beloved mother has sent him from home.’ There was no reaction, just shallow, rattling breathing. The soldier repeated himself to his brother. Bunting, unsure of the correct procedure, clasped the man’s limp hand and spoke in Latin.

‘Through the prayers of our holy fathers, Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on us. O Heavenly King, Comforter, Spirit of Truth, Who art everywhere present and fillest all things, Treasury of good things, and Giver of life: come and abide in our son, and cleanse him from every sin, and save his soul. Holy God, Holy Mighty, Holy Immortal, have mercy on your child. Glory to the Father and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, both now and ever, and unto the ages of ages. O All Holy have mercy on his soul O Lord, blot out his sins; O Master, pardon his iniquities. Glory to the Father and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, both now and ever, and unto the ages of ages. Amen.’

Bunting raised his eyes and nervously glanced at the brother. Whether he thought the prayers strange or unusual, Bunting could not tell as he was too intent on his brother’s care, but the gathered men standing around had responded ‘Amen’ when he paused. Growing in confidence, Bunting removed his cross from his belt and placed it on the man’s chest. Then, recalling Catholic traditions from his readings, he used his free hand to pull out a small flask of water from his knapsack and gently sprinkle it over the man’s face and upper body while reciting the Lord’s Prayer.

It may have been his imagination but the dying man did seem more at peace. Bunting stretched towards him, kissed him on his forehead and said, ‘May the Lord have mercy on your soul,’ to which the gathered soldiers also responded, ‘Amen.’ He stood up and, taking his flask and cross, made his way out of the tent and through the group of soldiers who once again touched him reverently, bowing and thanking him.

‘You did well, Priest,’ said the captain grudgingly. ‘My men will supply you and your friends with food and a place to sleep. Tomorrow morning, they will escort you to the outskirts of Antwerp. I suggest you do not stay in the city for too many days. I fear a terrible evil may befall, which neither I nor God can do anything to prevent.’

With these ominous words, the captain turned and walked away.