Still Life

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

GRIETE HOUSE, ANTWERP, 1604

Confused and unsure what awakened her, Clara bolted upright, her heart leaping and fluttering. Embers glowing red in the banked fire and thin light from the night candle stole in around the bed drapes. Then she heard it: an animal howl. A scream like nothing she had heard before. She pushed back the curtain and slipped from the bed, climbing carefully down the ladder before tying a shawl around her nightgown with trembling fingers, sick with terror. Another shriek rang out and she covered her ears. Opening her door a c***k, she was alarmed to find the glow of candlelight shining up through the shadows from the floors below. What could be happening? Who was screaming?

She tightened her shawl against the chill and made her way down the gloomy stairs, arriving outside her mother’s chamber just as the door flew open and Aunt Fabiana rushed out, a dark shape silhouetted against an explosion of light.

‘Child? Go back to bed at once. There’s nothing for you here.’ Another scream split the air.

Clara blinked in the sudden brightness, peering inside the room at many women, some she did not recognise. ‘Is someone hurt, Aunt? Have robbers come?’ Her voice shook.

‘What nonsense is this?’ Fabiana closed the door. ‘Your mother is giving birth. She must suffer for Eve’s sin. We shall work more on your Scriptures tomorrow, Clara. You’re ten years old yet seem not to have learnt them.’

Aunt Fabiana pushed by her and hurried downstairs holding her candle aloft, illuminating her black house-gown and single grey braid hanging to her waist. Clara watched her move beyond the blazing wall sconces at the bottom of the staircase into the shadowy passage leading to the kitchens at the back of the house.

Clara did not return to her room. Instead, she sat on the top step, covering her ears, bewildered by her aunt’s words. She knew the stories of Christ’s miracles by heart, imagining them in pictures full of blue sky and sunshine. If Our Lord died for our sins, why must Maman suffer now? She would ask Father Cornelis at Mass on Sunday. Then she began to cry, for she did not wish her mother to suffer at all.

After Aunt Fabiana returned to the chamber, Clara wandered down to the kitchen parlour where she could no longer hear her maman’s cries. Henri dozed on a stool beside the fire. Just the sight of him there brought her comfort. ‘Henri?’

He yawned. ‘My father’s gone to Antwerp with your papa to fetch the physician. He sent the midwife’s surgeon away. He be not sufficient skilled.’

‘I can’t bear to hear her.’ She wiped away tears. ‘My room is too close.’

Henri stood, pulling her into his arms. ‘Don’t fret, little one.’ He patted her back awkwardly.

At thirteen, he already had Papa’s height. Clara pressed her face into the coarse fustian of his coat, smelling horses and smoke from the fire. Smelling him. ‘I don’t understand what’s happening. Why does she cry out so? Aunt Fabiana said it was God’s will, but how could it be?

‘Come.’ He held her hand, leading her into the small storeroom. ‘All the women is with her. You shall have a fine brother or sister come morning. Trina won’t trouble if we take her cot for a while. You needs sleep, little Clara. We’ll ride beside the river like always then, with this all forgot. You’ll see.’

‘Papa said I might ride Lucia tomorrow.’ Maybe she would win their race for once, then. She lay down beside him on the straw mattress, struck by how their hair mingled like coals and fire. And, just before sleep found her, she felt herself galloping on Lucia’s back, overtaking Henri to soar over a ditch ahead of him. Her laughter echoing in her ears as oblivion finally grabbed her ankles and dragged her down inside the safety of his arms.

When Trina dropped onto the narrow bed, Clara sat up, rubbing her eyes. Henri must have been long gone, for the mattress was already cold beside her.

‘Mistress. Oh, Mistress, they be looking for you.’ Trina covered her face with her apron and began to sob.

Fabiana marched into the tiny room ‘Stop wailing, girl–’ She halted, her hand flying to her breast. ‘Clara … my child.’ She straightened her back. ‘Go to your room and dress. Your papa awaits you in the great hall.’

Clara stood. Her aunt’s face looked carved from stone. She wondered what Trina had done to make her so angry. ‘May I see Maman now?’

‘Do as I say, Clara.’

In her chamber, she dressed in her green velvet with the white slashed sleeves and tiny white flowers embroidered on the stomacher. Of all her gowns it was Maman’s favourite, and she hoped it would please her. She must be sleeping now. Papa would explain it all she felt sure, yet anxiety churned inside her. Chewing her lip, she tucked her hair under a clean lace coif and hurried downstairs.

He stood before the carved stone fireplace, the gilded foliage entwined around its pillars aglitter in the dawn light, the fire unlit with last night’s ashes still scattered across the hearth. With his coat creased and his grey-streaked hair dishevelled, he looked up at the full-length portrait of her mother. Clara waited as the sun began to tint the light a tender pink and birdsong filled the silence.

‘Papa?’

Jan Peeters swung around with a start. ‘Clara. We couldn’t find you. Where have–’ With a strangled cry – half sob, half groan – he moved to her, clutching her into his arms.

Clara remained still though his embrace hurt her, understanding somewhere deep inside, it was for him and not for her he held her so. And knowing this made her even more afraid.

With a shuddering breath he released her and, holding her hand, led her to a settle where he eased her down beside him, cupping her face with trembling fingers. ‘You must remember this is God’s will, Clara.’ His voice shook. ‘We need not understand but we must–’ He pressed his lips together to still their tremble. ‘We must accept.’

His eyes were red and leaking tears now. She did not know papas could weep. ‘I don’t …?’ And then, with sudden awful understanding, she covered her ears. She would not hear it. ‘No. Please, Papa.’

The room, now full of soft pink light seemed to slip away, blurred by tears, becoming one she no longer recognised. He pulled her to him again and she buried her face, her sobs muffled against the soft velvet of his coat.

Clara stood outside the chamber door looking in, just as she had hours before, sensing that once she crossed the threshold, she would enter a different life where nothing would ever be the same again. So, if she did not go in, could she then remain in the safe familiar one she knew? Her papa’s hand, resting on her shoulder, gently but firmly moved her inside, overpowering any thoughts of resistance.

The window drapes were closed against the dawn with candle flames guttering in air smelling of beeswax … and the unmistakable metallic taint of blood. The only light came from the dying fire and two tall candelabra, encrusted with solidified wax, on either side of the damask curtained bed where she lay.

‘Clara, you must say adieu to Maman now.’ He crossed himself.

She felt adrift inside this other life. How could the woman with bruised grey eyelids and a white sunken face be her mother? She looked carved from marble. Carved from ice. Empty. ‘Should we pray for her soul?’ she whispered.

‘Prayers matter nothing. She’s safe with God,’ he said shakily.

Aunt Fabiana, kneeling in prayer beside the bed, looked up. ‘Whose faith is this, Jan?’

‘Not yours, Sister, for which I am especially grateful.’

‘Nor Maria’s. You know she would want the Masses said.’

Clara watched him take a quivering breath before moving to look down at the woman who could not be her maman.

‘You dare speak of purgatory to me?’ He bent to kiss her forehead, his tears falling upon her face and pooling there as though she wept for her own death. ‘But she will get them … and Father Cornelis his price, for do we not all bend the knee to Rome under Spain, Fabiana, even you?’

Bewildered by those tears and angry words that made no sense to her, Clara slipped from the room unnoticed. None of it was real. How could it be? For she loved her mother with all her heart and knew she would never leave her. Out in the long gallery, she was startled by the sound of an infant’s cries. She had forgotten about the child. Walking to the closet adjoining Maman’s room, she found the door ajar. The infant was cradled in the arms of a plump woman she had not seen before, lit by buttery light from the small window.

‘Is this my brother?’

The woman looked up. ‘Ah, Mistress. I’m so sorry for …’ She bit her lip. ‘This be Adela and I’m Megriete Elias.’ She reached out and clasped Clara to her bosom, close beside her sister. ‘But everyone calls me Meg.’

‘I know I’m dreaming, Meg. I wish to wake-up now.’