Chapter 37
Margaretha
The ball cracked against the racket, echoing in the tennis court as Felipe grunted to return the volley.
Egmont easily shot it back, sending the prince dashing to the back wall to make the return while the spectators offered their “oohs” and “aahs.” I was more interested in the little physician entering the viewing gallery, snapping his fingers.
Three days had passed since I’d begged Felipe to send Vesalius to Samuel, and each night at supper the prince would promise me, “Soon.” Today the physician’s snapping was more pronounced than usual, and my suspicion of his news made the rapid pace of the game intolerably slow.
Egmont was gaining in points, showing the prince no clemency as he hit the ball with great force into the tightest corners of the serving court.
Where Felipe was dripping sweat and frantic, Egmont’s confidence only increased, his hits becoming surer until he launched the ball into the grille and beyond the prince’s reach, winning the game.
The spectators applauded, and the two men came together at the net, bowing to each other in a display of respect, though Felipe’s flashing eyes betrayed his true feelings.
Egmont did not cower. He straightened his shoulders and faced the prince, each man staring the other down until Felipe’s rushing attendants collected his racket and offered him a towel.
Egmont took advantage of the diversion by leaving the tennis courts ahead of the spectators ambling toward the doors.
The little physician was fighting his way through the departing crowd in an effort to reach Felipe.
I did the same, earning the condemnation of more than a few ladies in my hasty efforts to “chase after the prince.”
Meeting the two men standing at the net, I tried not to notice the prince’s bare chest beneath his gaping white silk shirt or the hard curves of his arm as he toweled the back of his neck.
He seemed to know my mind, for he flashed a tantalizing smile that drew me unconsciously closer.
He responded by reaching for my hand. The simple gesture calmed my racing nerves.
Once the building was finally empty of spectators, I accosted Vesalius with my questions. “Have you seen to Samuel? What is your opinion?”
“Vesalius hasn’t seen your brother yet.” Felipe gave me an amused smile. “He goes now. With you.”
“With . . . me . . . ? I’m going to see Samuel?” My voice rose an octave in my excitement, and I hugged Felipe.
He laughed. “If we’re quick.”
We trotted up the steps from the Coperbeek Valley, crossing through the arcade and into the main building, where we navigated deep into a corridor that was wholly unfamiliar to me.
When we’d passed through a short, thick set of doors, Vesalius retrieved a waiting lantern and pouch from a table, then led the way to a flight of circular stone stairs.
“Where are we going?” I asked. “This isn’t the way to the Maison du Roi.”
Felipe and Vesalius exchanged glances.
“Your brother isn’t with the Landgrave of Hesse or the Elector of Saxony,” Felipe answered. “They keep the lower nobility here. In the dungeons.”
I stared in disbelief. “The dungeons? Then it is little wonder my brother’s health is failing.”
Felipe dropped his eyes but didn’t answer me directly. “I go no farther,” he said. “Vesalius will take you on.”
My hands shaking and my breath coming fast, I let the physician lead me down the steps to the palace dungeons.
At the top of the stairway the windows had been wide, pulling warmth and light to flood the space, but down here, they were nothing but begrudging slits, jealously holding back all but the barest slivers of sun.
The damp was heavy, and the smells of filthy bodies and waste grew stronger.
With every step downward came the rising panic of walking into dark, icy waters that would soon cover my head.
The physician’s lantern light was the only thing of warmth, and I leaned toward it.
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Vesalius offered a handkerchief. “For the smell.”
“I thank you.” My voice was muffled behind the kerchief.
I followed him down a row of barred cells, past guards and dim torchlights.
“Why is my brother here, Vesalius?” I asked. “Why is he not with the Landgrave and Elector?”
Vesalius shrugged. “Is there ever sense in the rules of war?”
I pulled down the kerchief. “But he’s ill!” My protest echoed off the walls.
“Margaretha?” A weak voice carried from somewhere deep in the dungeon. Though hoarse and rough from misuse, I’d have known that voice anywhere.
“Samuel!” I ran ahead, finding my brother struggling to prop himself up on a filthy tick mattress.
The physician motioned to a guard standing outside the cell, and the man flipped slowly through a ring of keys until he’d finally unlocked the door. I yanked it open and found my way into Samuel’s arms, giving him a hug so tight he started coughing.
“Careful, Margaretha,” he panted. “I’ve only one set of lungs.”
I prompted him to lie down, helping his head to his pillow before pulling the ratty, moth-eaten blanket up to his chest.
“Best stay back.” He scratched his neck, exposing red bumps. “I’m f-food for the fleas. Fleas now, maggots later.” He smiled, but a shiver overtook him.
“Samuel, your humor is as ill-timed as ever,” I chided, fighting back emotion with a smile of my own. I knelt in the filthy straw beside his cot, pulling off my gloves to hold his hands in mine. They were warm. Too warm. “Do you get enough rest? Do they feed you well?”
The tremor of chills shook his hands. “Food is better than anything Cook served,” he teased, and I wondered that, even as sick and in danger as he was, he was still Samuel, making jests at every turn.
“How fare Father and M-Mistress Hatzfeld and . . . everyone?” he asked.
“All well, though Father worries about you. So do I. When I saw you at the Ommegang, you looked so ill. Though the light is dim, I still think you too pale and thin,” I prattled as I watched the rapid, straining movements of his chest, tallying all the symptoms of his malady in my mind to form a frightening conclusion: pneumonia.
“You accuse me of being pale?” He closed his eyes, his bravado fading with his strength. “I’m tired and cold.”
I looked to Vesalius, whose expression showed some of the concern I felt. He settled his lantern in the straw and moved to my brother’s mattress, resting two fingers on my brother’s neck. He touched the back of his hand to Samuel’s brow, then studied the bumps on Samuel’s neck.
I quietly waited while Vesalius moved through his examination process, squeezing Samuel’s hand whenever the rattling wheeze vibrated through his chest.
“His pulse is quick, and he’s febrile,” Vesalius whispered.
“I’ll prepare a tonic.” Carrying the lantern to the corner of the cell, he surveyed the contents of his pouch to retrieve his supplies.
A desperate helplessness weighted down my limbs.
My elder brother, always bigger and stronger, always my protector, lay frail and weak before me.
I studied him—his brow beaded in sweat, his eyes swollen, and his lips cracked—and a tear escaped down my cheek.
Scrubbing a hand against my tingling nose, I sniffed.
Samuel cracked an eye open. “There you go, rubbing your nose again. I th-thought you would have outgrown such a habit by now.”
Kissing his hand, I rested my cheek against it, turning my face to conceal my anguish. “I beg you will forgive me, Samuel,” I whispered. “For nearly two years your freedom is all I’ve striven for, and now . . . I should have had you out sooner. If only I were more capable—”
“Th-there is nothing to forgive,” he chattered. “I never meant to put such a burden on you. I’m only grateful I got to see you once more.” He slid his hand down to my chin, turning my face to meet his. “You’ve grown up so much.”
I shook my head. “Don’t talk this way. You’re not beyond saving yet. I will try harder, find some way to free you.”
“There’s nothing more you need do,” Samuel said. “It was never your responsibility to save me. My life is in God’s hands.”
“I can’t lose you.” My eyes filled again. “Don’t give up yet.”
“Never, Retie.” He forced a trembling smile. “I’ll outlive you and d-dance on your grave.”
My laugh made the tears drip down my face. “You’re a buffoon.”
“Comitem de Waldeck, I have tobacco water for you.” Vesalius returned to Samuel’s mattress. “Can you lift your head to drink it?”
Samuel nodded, straining to raise himself while the physician set a cup to his lips. When Samuel lay back down, the doctor began snapping and cleared his throat. “I’ll need to examine his urine.” He avoided my eye as though he were embarrassed, and realization dawned on me.
“Oh, yes. I’ll be with Prince Felipe if you need me.”
I gave Samuel a parting smile, which quickly faded when I was alone on the walk out of the dungeon. I wouldn’t let myself cry again. There was hope to be had, and I was walking toward the very man who could give it.
When I neared the top of the stone steps, Felipe rose to his feet. “How does he fare?”
“Not well. I suspect pneumonia.”
The prince took my hand, and his brows lifted. “You’re shivering.” He pulled me into his arms, letting me lean into his warmth, his security.
“Felipe, what am I to do?” My voice cracked with emotion. But I knew exactly what needed to be done.
We stood in silence for a time, Felipe stroking my back as I gathered my courage. Taking a shaky breath, I asked the question I’d been longing to ask since my arrival in Brussels. “Could you . . . help him? Could you speak to your father on my behalf and see if Samuel could be released?”
He did not even hesitate, as if he’d already anticipated my request. “Of course.”
“Of course? Do you really mean that?”
He chuckled. “You should know by now, I cannot deny you anything.”