Pieter-Lucas knocked on the door of Hans’ house and struggled with an uncomfortable combination of excitement and dread. Inside he would find Aletta preparing herbal cures with Oma Roza and her granddaughters. But he had not come to see Aletta!
Oma ushered him in. The big room was filled with steam and the aroma of brewing herbal potions. He shuffled across the floor to the far end. All the way, he gazed at Aletta and she at him with the sort of intensity they might expect if they knew they were not to see each other again for a long, long while.
With one final glance at his betrothed, Pieter-Lucas shoved open the secret door behind Hans’ weaving loom and entered the bare-walled meeting room of the Children of God. His heart beat an apprehensive pattern in his chest as he walked toward the row of elders seated on benches facing the table below the high bare windows.
The abrupt silencing of their low-pitched conversation sent him a familiar disquieting message. Over a month ago now, Pieter-Lucas had given Hans one more week to arrange permission to set his wedding date. They’d chosen, instead, to bring him back here to this place every week and question him until they were satisfied that he was ready.
Always the sessions ended the same way. Hans would say, “You are learning well. Come back in one more week.”
They had repeated this now for five weeks. Each week, Pieter-Lucas determined not to submit to the maddening examination any longer. Then he went home and ate dinner at Dirck Engelshofen’s table and simply could not find it in himself to threaten to take this kindly man’s daughter away by stealth. So each week he returned and answered more questions.
Pieter-Lucas seated himself and surveyed the group of men. Next to Hans sat the chief elder, tall, grayed, stern. His questions always made Pieter-Lucas feel small and ignorant. Beside him was Johannes, the printer, married to Aletta’s moeder’s sister, a fiery man with a sharp nose and firm ideas. Being a part of Aletta’s family, he was not allowed to help them decide the matter, but he could ask as many questions as he liked, and he seemed to delight in making the young man uncomfortable.
Then came the weaver who lived behind Hans. Next to him sat the fisherman who had lost an arm in a boating accident. He always smiled and tried to soften the hard words from some of the others. Finally, on a bench by himself and leaning on a cane, sat the gnarled little old man everybody called Oude Man. He didn’t hear well and always asked to have everything repeated. Then he’d look serious while he stroked his white beard. Almost without exception, he’d end up nodding his approval to whatever the others decided. “Wise decision,” he would say with an air of irrefutable authority.
What questions would Pieter-Lucas be asked this day?
“Who was Jesus?”
“How can one have salvation?”
“What is the meaning of baptism? The taking of a civic oath?”
“I’ve already given you all the answers,” he wanted to shout. “Just let me have my bride.” He sat quietly waiting, but his toe tapped insistently on the straw.
Hans broke the silence by clearing his throat. Rubbing his hands together, he looked at Pieter-Lucas. “Almost we have made the decision you are waiting for. First, two more questions.” He gestured toward the fisherman.
The man straightened his body on the bench, laid his single arm on his knee, and asked, “I want to know, in the years ahead, when God blesses your union with a son, what will you teach him about our doctrine of nonresistance?”
Pieter-Lucas said without hesitation, “No son of mine will ever carry a sword—only a paintbrush!”
“Nor will you carry one?” Hans added.
“Never have I. Never shall I!”
The elders nodded their heads slightly, and Oude Man mumbled, “Wise words, young man, wise words indeed.”
Then the chief elder spoke. “I, too, have one final question.” He stared at Pieter-Lucas with an unsettling expression. “When you have married one of our young women, you will become a part not only of her family but also of the larger family of the Children of God. Are you prepared to become one of us, in heart and mind and purpose, to live with us and die with us?”
Pieter-Lucas felt his heart stop and perspiration run down his neck. The question was filled with blind alleys and branch-covered traps. He must begin on safe terrain.
“As I learned from you, I trust the blood of Jesus Christ as the only work acceptable by God to earn my salvation.”
The elder nodded. “That means, then, that you trust not in the sacraments or in confessing your sins to a priest to save your soul from eternal damnation?”
“Ja,” Pieter-Lucas agreed.
“But what of living with us here? I hear it rumored that you cherish plans of pursuing a life work that will take you and your wife away from our community, perhaps cause you to live where there are no others of our like faith.”
Pieter-Lucas looked at each face and considered his words carefully. “Before my opa died, I was anointed in the Great Church of Breda for a special job in God’s world,” he began. “Opa told me I was to use the gift of painting to bring about healing in a world ruled by the sword. If I am to pursue this calling, I must do my apprenticeship. I know not where that will take me. But wherever I go, I am prepared to live by the faith you and Hans have taught me, to live as one of the Children of God.”
“And to encourage and instruct your wife and children to do the same?”
“That is my intent.”
“But are you ready to face death for the crime of being a baptized Child of God?” Johannes pressed the point, his whole being astir.
Pieter-Lucas felt six pairs of eyes fastened on him. He must speak his heart. “From the safety of this place I could easily say, ja, I am ready,” he confessed, “and mean it with all my heart.”
“You will say it then?” Johannes prodded him.
Pieter-Lucas stared at his circle of interrogators. Aware that his answer to this one heart-wrenching question could finally cost him the thing he’d waited so long to gain, he phrased his answer with especial care. “I’ve heard that many of the Children of God, especially in the early years when persecution was a daily occurrence, welcomed the martyr’s sword—some even sought it. If that is what is required of me, then I fear I shall never be ready. I think I would be willing to die if need be, but until I stand before a Papist who is pointing a sword at me, waiting for my brave words to incriminate me, I can never know for sure.”
The men sat stunned, then broke into a buzz of conversation. Finally, above the hubbub of the discussion, Oude Man’s cane pounded on the floor, and his authoritative voice spoke. “Truer words have never been heard in this place.” He raised his cane and pointed it at each man in turn. “Is there a man among us,” he challenged, “who could truthfully answer such a question before he reaches the moment when that answer will determine whether he lives or dies?”
Only the mad beating of Pieter-Lucas’ heart broke the silence that held the room in its grip for a long space. Then Oude Man spoke again. “I am ready to welcome this honest young man into our company.”
“I, as well,” added the fisherman, nodding with his whole body.
One by one the men agreed with the Oude Man except for the chief elder, who stared at him again and asked, “So you know what it means to become one of us in every part of your life, and you are ready to do so?”
Pieter-Lucas bristled inside. “As far as a man can know.” He held his breath and waited. What more could there be?
The tall straight man nodded toward Hans, who spoke for the group. “Pieter-Lucas, on the basis of your confession of faith in Jesus Christ and your commitment to the doctrines found in His Holy Scriptures, we are ready to give you both baptism and marriage.”
“How soon?” Pieter-Lucas asked.
“Before Flower Month has ended,” Hans said, a smile lifting the corners of his patriarchal beard and a sparkle coming from his warm brown eyes.
“This month?” Pieter-Lucas exclaimed.
“We entrust you and your soon-to-be bride to God’s protective care,” Hans said, a hearty smile rounding off the corners of his bearded mouth.
In an eyeblink Pieter-Lucas’ whole world came to life with light and bird songs and new hope. With great effort he restrained himself from giving vent to the full enthusiasm filling him. He smiled on them all and said with as much reserve as he could muster, “To you all, a hearty thanks!”
Hans smiled. “You may go now, jongen. I think you bear some good news that your betrothed will be eager to hear.”
****
Once Pieter-Lucas had passed through the room, Aletta continued to work at Oma Roza’s roughhewn table, spread with bunches of dried herbs and an assortment of jars and mixing paddles. But her heart refused to be tethered to the task.
Two terrifying questions consumed her attention and determined the pace at which her heart beat. If the elders finally decided that Pieter-Lucas’ faith was not good enough to qualify him as a member of their church, would Vader Dirck let her marry him anyway? If not, what would she do?
Once before her vader had separated them. She would never forget the anguish in her soul when Vader Dirck, fearing reprisals by association with Hendrick van den Garde, the image-breaker, had refused to let her see Pieter-Lucas. Then he’d taken the whole family far away, and she and Pieter-Lucas spent months wondering whether they would ever find each other.
She could not let him do it again! But to disobey her vader and leave her family in order to marry Pieter-Lucas…?
Great God in the Heaven, let me never face such impossible choices, she cried out in her soul as she went on crushing herbs, stirring brews, mixing potions, and speaking to no one.
By the time the secret door opened, Aletta was faint with apprehension. But one look at Pieter-Lucas’ face, lightened as if by some inner flame, and a new strength surged through her. She abandoned her place at the table and rushed across the room to him. “They said ja?” she shouted.
He grabbed both her hands in his. “The questions are over. You are to be mine!”
“But when?”
“Before this month is ended!” His words sounded like the ringing of a golden bell.
She clapped a hand over her mouth and squealed. “Oh, Pieter-Lucas!” Then turning toward Oma, she began, “Oma…”
The older lady was smiling, waving a hand, shaking her head, and speaking. “Now, go to home. The girls and I will finish the work.”
Aletta gasped. “Thank you, Oma,” she said, reaching for her cape and slipping her feet into the street shoes beside the door.
Hand in hand, the almost-bride-and-bridegroom stepped out into the street where a spring shower had newly passed. It left the cobblestones shiny and turned the sky into a blue field dotted with billowy white clouds. Above the bright red tile rooftops, a pale swath of rainbow colors spread, as if from a celestial paintbrush.
“A promise in the heaven!” Aletta exclaimed.
“Remember the day you first promised to wait with me for this day?” Pieter-Lucas asked. He wrapped an arm around her waist.
Aletta laughed. “Out in that old deserted animal shed, and you dressed in a monk’s disguise. You were going out to find Hendrick for your moeder, and I was frightened half to death.”
Pieter-Lucas gave her a squeeze, and she snuggled up close till she felt the vibrations of his chest as he talked.
“And I thought I would be home within a few days. Ach! How much we both had to learn about life and promises.” He sighed. “The darkness of those months was like a long winter night—cold, starless, desolate….”
Aletta pulled back from his embrace to smile at him. “That’s all past now! It’s only a bad dream, fading quickly into the shadows of night.” The gorgeous and cozy “now” wrapped her up and bound her to her smiling soon-to-become bridegroom.
“Ja, ja,” he said. “It’s so near I can hear it whispering delights in my ear. Then I’ll be through with title pages forever, and we’ll ride off to Dillenburg and the Julianas’ herb garden.” His voice sounded as if it were floating toward the soaring clouds above.
“You’ll never be content to spend the rest of your days drawing and painting little pictures of herbs for the prince’s sister!” Aletta knew he would always chafe until set free with a full palette of paints and huge canvases.
“Only till the war is over,” he reminded her. “Then off to Leyden to study with the great painters who learned from Lucas van Leyden. Opa promised it, and so has Juliana. Ah! But our wedding brings us one step closer!”
“Always I dreamed of our wedding day,” she said, “even when we were children and you were carving all those marvelous little wooden animals and drawing all those creatures with my initials intertwined among the horns and whiskers, tails and noses.”
“Whatever did you dream about weddings back then?”
“Oh,” she said, her mind whirling with pleasant memories. “Fragrant candles, glowing jewel-like windows, rich paintings, soul-stirring strains from the big old organ, an elegant black gown, and a wreath of summer flowers plucked fresh from your moeder’s garden. I planned it all a hundred times!”
“Not quite the way it’s going to be, I fear,” Pieter-Lucas said, kicking a stone ahead of them in the cobbled street.
She sighed. “I know it can never be so grand and splendrous as I’d planned. Such dreams are childhood fancies.”
He shrugged. “Dreams don’t make a wedding, my love. A clergyman and two hearts ready to become one—what more can we ask?” The sound of his voice and the adoration sparkling in his eyes made her heart skip nearly out of control.
One more house lay between them and their destination. Under the gigantic spread of a budding oak tree, Pieter-Lucas stopped and whirled her around to face him. He lifted her chin with his forefinger and said, “I only wish it were today!”
He had a fanciful lilt in his voice, a dreamy look in his eyes. Breathless, trembling, torn between desire and fear, she stood dumb before him. For an instant, nothing seemed as important as being close to Pieter-Lucas. Then she heard the sound of not-too-far-distant footsteps and pulled free from his grasp.
“We’ve only a little while,” she said softly.
In whispered tones, he added, “Then we shall be forever free from delayed promises and prying eyes.”
While her heart beat wildly, she reached out her hand to him and urged, “Come, let’s go home before some elder finds us lingering too long beneath this tree and changes his mind.”
****
Tante Lysbet lay on her back on a bed of stale straw, both hands pillowing her head. She stared out the high barred window at a sky turning pale blue in the light of dawn. The silence of the dingy cell was broken only by the song of birds in the trees below and the raspy breathing of Betteke at her side.
“How many weeks has it been since we’ve seen a tree or a bird?” she mused.
If she were alone in this unjust suffering, stoicism might come easier. After all, she was an old woman with a life that had been filled with opportunities to lend her hands to the assistance and healing of others.
But Betteke here—young, pious, compassionate—was forced to spend her dwindling energies in an undeserved confinement, struggling just to take a breath. Where was justice for her? Lysbet looked across the cell at the spot where Lompen Mieke had been chained earlier. Impudent, greedy, caring only to hurt others. After one short week in this place, the guards had set her free to go pick pockets once more. Lysbet choked back the emotions that shattered her stoicism. Betteke was coughing again.
The cell door opened and a pompous procession of official personages swaggered through. They came every day. Heartless in their persistence, they plied both Lysbets with questions designed to intimidate them into a confession that would make them appear worthy of death.
“Bloodlusting tormentors!” Lysbet fumed inaudibly.
This morning the procession was led by a jurist in billowing black robes, hung with a floor-length cowled sash of crimson velvet. He came to a stop directly above Betteke and ordered, “Stand forth, woman, and hear the judgment of the courts.”
Still not fully awake, her whole body convulsing with deep coughing, Betteke struggled to raise herself to her elbows. The judge was not satisfied.
“On your feet, woman,” he barked.
“Have you no mercy?” Lysbet pleaded.
The soldiers flanking the judge on both sides stepped forward, their halberds gleaming in the ray of sun that filtered through the dust and grime of the windowpane. They lowered their weapons and pointed them in her direction.
The judge sneered. “If you’re so concerned about mercy, show a little yourself. Drag her to her feet.”
Lysbet hesitated, breathing deeply, trying to calm the anger that burned in her bosom. God, her heart cried, if you’re anywhere in this cell, please help.
The judge kicked at Lysbet and shouted, “Make haste, you dallying hag.”
At his signal the soldiers moved closer, till their halberd blades hovered so near she fancied she felt them indenting the sides of her headdress. Deliberately, she ignored them and bent over Betteke. Slipping the girl’s arms around her neck and grasping her with her own arms, she struggled to her feet. When Betteke could no longer hold on to her neck, Lysbet maneuvered herself around to support her from the back, lifting her up by the armpits. With enormous effort, she bit her tongue and refrained from shouting at the judge to make his own haste before they both fainted fast away.
“That’s more like it,” he gloated.
Then he pulled from his pocket a scroll, untied its cord with a flourish, and cleared his throat with disgusting affectedness.
Lysbet buried her face in Betteke’s headdress and prayed, Great God, if you have a drop of mercy left for this poor innocent woman, then allow her not to hear the awful words about to be poured out upon her ears.
Already the judge was reading as if his document were a declaration of triumph over his last great enemy. But Betteke’s cough did not slacken, and her body sagged in Lysbet’s arms.
“Whereas the examiners have investigated Lysbet de Vriend in great detail,” the dull voice began, “and whereas she freely offered to one of the inquisitors a page of the verboden boeck, the Holy Bible, in her moeder tongue.”
Lysbet cringed, remembering that awful night, wishing she’d found a way to stop her unsuspecting friend from making that one fatal error, yet knowing it would not have been enough to save her life.
“And whereas her master, Pieter van Keulen, condemned to heresy for participation in the image-breaking of Harvest Month, 1566, has confessed to having heard of her participation in same image-breaking proceedings; and whereas the city magistrates have reviewed the facts and witnesses to this case, and the Council of Troubles has pronounced said Lysbet de Vriend guilty of desecrating the sanctuary of the Great Church of Breda by trampling the sacred host of the Eucharist under foot on the day of the image-breaking riots; His Highness, the Duke of Alva, has determined that Lysbet Jacobsdochter de Vriend of Breda is condemned to death by burning at the stake.”
All through the reading, Betteke coughed without a break, then stopped short. Lysbet felt a tear trickle across her cheek. God, she prayed, you finally visited this unholy place and answered one prayer.
“Woman,” the judge roared one more time at Betteke, “have you heard the words my lips have read to you?”
“As my Heavenly Vader has willed,” Betteke said, “so be it unto this His handmaiden.”
“You shall learn the depths of the mercy of both His Majesty King Philip, and the Duke of Alva,” the judge offered, his smile too broad and his voice too honeyed to be trusted. “Every day between now and your execution, a priest shall come to you and offer you the opportunity to repent and be reinstated into the Holy Catholic Religion. If you are wise, you will heed his words so that you may save your soul from eternal damnation after your body has been reduced to ashes.”
As pompously as Betteke’s cruel tormentors had come, they paraded out of the cell without a backward glance.
Lysbet laid her patient out on the straw with all the gentleness her strength would allow. Betteke smiled up at her. “My Vader knows I didn’t do it, and He’ll help me die with peace an’ joy. An’ the man I gave the promises to can never forget them—never, never, never.”
Lysbet grabbed a cracked dirty mug and offered it to her patient. She cringed as she put it to the girl’s lips and prayed, “God have mercy once again.”
Almost she believed He would do it.