The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or
dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2013 Foreworld, LLC
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or
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Published by 47North
PO Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
eISBN: 9781477856109
For James
Contents
Chapter 1: To Kill a Prince
Chapter 2: The Welsh Captain
Chapter 3: For God and King
Chapter 4: Patrolling the Prinsenhof
Chapter 5: Considering the Contract
Chapter 6: The Arrival
Chapter 7: The Silence
Chapter 8: Flight
Chapter 9: The Prince’s Legacy
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Foreworld Saga
Chapter 1: To Kill a Prince
Antwerp, 1582
His footsteps were lost on the cobbles of the street, buried under the noise of continuous foot traffic.
Crowds were leaving church, and the sound of birds in the harbor echoed in his mind as the timid man
moved toward his destination. Here, in the very capital of the revolution, he would do as his master
bid him, and he would be compensated. He held a paper in one hand, and the hem of his coat sleeve
concealed the pistol he had procured.
His hands shook as he addressed the halberdiers who stood outside the gate. “I bring a petition
for His Highness the Prince of Orange,” he said, the words practiced hundreds of times before his
master’s mirror. His breath almost caught on the syllables, but the guards took it for the fear that was
due the Prince of Orange, and they believed him. They did not even search him before he proceeded
inward.
Bells tolled in the gray skies, his shoes shuffling against the ground as he passed through
gardens and grand, ornate doors of worked wood and wrought iron, finer than any he’d walked through
in his life. He steeled himself, focusing on what lay on the other side of the killing: a reward grand
enough to never again be the simple man he’d been before now, immortality, money, status. Those
things made walking through the doors easier, and he did it. The walls were hung with tapestries; the
windows gave the building a light that illuminated a breadth of space he’d never experienced save in
church. He passed people, recalling in his mind over and over again every detail he’d been given about
the interior of the prince’s household, the right turns to take, how to not miss the important room at
the important time.
A king’s ransom awaited him on the other side. He could not afford to balk, could not afford to
slip when the balance was in his hands. He had come here with reason and purpose, and even if his
courage failed, those who had put him up to the task would not tolerate failure. For the good of God,
for those who know best the course of the world, you must do this.
The words echoed in his mind as he turned a corner. Light flooded from the door to the dining
hall, and the sounds of laughter and music poured into the hall without. Men with halberds stood on
either side of the entryway, and they barred his path when he approached, seeing the paper in his hand
and judging him a petitioner. “His Highness still dines. Wait without and he may agree to see you
when he is done with his meal.”
He stepped back obedient as a sheep in the field, his eyes downcast, a man beneath notice,
dutifully falling into line. He only hoped that his show of humility would hide the fact that his heart
was hammering in his neck, and his hands were sweating so severely he feared the pistol might slip
prematurely from his fingers. He wondered if the two guards would think themselves fools for not
recognizing that the mouse in front of them would kill their prince when he walked through the door
between them. He supposed that in a few moments, he would know.
Waiting, he became increasingly aware of how many people were about, how they were armed
and armored. Antwerp was the heart of the revolution, the capital from which William the Silent
directed his forces for the past eleven years. Soldiers mingled with bureaucrats and court functionaries
in the halls. Weapons were everywhere, and he had to force himself to keep his focus where it
belonged: the moment, the task, the gun. Thoughts of escape were a distraction. He had his
companions to help cover that angle.
Further thought was stopped by the sound of stirring beyond the door, of the movement of
chairs and the clattering of dinnerware. He breathed deeply, forcing himself to do so against the urge
to panic. He watched as the man at the head of the table beyond the doorway rose and began walking
toward him. William the Silent—known for his shrewd tendency toward taciturnity—looked tired, but
there was still a verve and an energy about him as he spoke with one of his halberdiers.
The man in the hallway breathed deeply as William approached, stepped through the door. The
words left his lips as his feet propelled him forward, not trusting himself if he hesitated. “Your
Highness,” he intoned, showing the paper in his hand. “I have a petition, if you will but consider it for
a moment.”
He was aware of the prince taking the paper from his hand, holding it up to look at it. His eyes
passed across the text, and the would-be assassin realized with a moment’s surprise that William was
actually reading what had been put in front of him with some degree of attentiveness. Any sense of
sentiment for the nobleman was beaten out of the assassin’s mind, however, by the second voice that
screamed silently to act now. His arm was raising—fast as it could—the pistol in his hand, but still
horribly slow, to his mind. He pulled the trigger, and the world became smoke and flash announced by
a deafening bang.
Then everything went wrong at once. Sparks flashed into the assassin’s eyes, burning across his
face, and he lost his tenuous balance as the recoil of the weapon ripped through his arm and into his
shoulder. He staggered back, a single thought in his mind: run.
He didn’t get the chance. A sword cut through the smoke, and his attempt to move rapidly out
of the way only garnered him a sharp pain in his leg and the scent of his own blood. He tried to turn,
but the butt of a halberd struck him in the gut. He doubled over, seeing William lying on the floor,
clutching at his neck, in agony but still alive. Failed. I have failed.
The second halberd hewed into his back and he screamed, falling forward and rolling to the
side. His eyes beheld the high vaulted ceiling and a mass of faces, mouths stretched in horror and hate.
The last thing he saw was the steel edge of yet another halberd sweeping down to fill his vision.
The bells tolled across the city in a discordant clang that Cederno had to work to ignore. He knew why,
and though the city of Antwerp trembled in horror over what had transpired earlier in the day, he felt
only disgust. They had come so close: their assassin’s bullet had wounded the traitor prince, and yet
William the Silent lived. The bells called the people to pray, not to weep. Cederno had seen enough
great men die over the years to know the mood of the public when a killer failed. As he sat in the
offices of the patron with whom he’d shared the work of supporting this abject failure, Cederno found
himself idly toying with the pommel of the rapier he wore. If only that wretch Juan de Jáuregui were
still alive, he thought, to be properly punished for stupidly botching what had been a perfect
opportunity. However, there was little doubt in Cederno’s mind that de Jáuregui was dead. Soon, he
would have to flee the city, lest his master be implicated in this by his presence. Parma had to remain
clean, else Cederno would have done this himself a long time ago.
He heard noise behind him, rapid and mouselike. The patron was coming through the door, and
Cederno could have bathed in the cowardice dripping off him. Venero was a short man, with wide,
frightened eyes.
“All is lost!” Venero exclaimed.
“Yes,” Cederno replied. “This is what happens when you select a wretched coward to do your
dirty work for you.”
Cederno rose and walked toward the back door of the merchant’s shop. “I would find your
master, Gaspar de Añastro, if you can. It will not be long before they are at your doorstep.”
“Gaspar has left the city already, days ago!” Venero pleaded, following on Cederno’s heel. He
made a grab for the cloak the taller man wore, and Cederno turned swiftly on his heel, backhanding
the smaller man in the side of the head with all the force he could muster, crumpling him to the floor.
“Try not to piss yourself when they come for you.”
The Italian made his way out into the streets through a back door. Antwerp was in chaos, as
news spread like wildfire. The citizens of the city gathered about like an inane, twittering flock of
birds, seeing little and knowing less. He loosened his cloak to allow himself freedom to draw the
rapier that rested on his hip if there was need, and he moved like a ghost through the crowds. The
guards were no better than the rest of the citizens, necessity dictating that they appear to be doing
something, but Cederno could tell they had little sense of what to do.
He slipped out one of the gates, using his master’s gold to bribe one of the guards, and acquired
his horse, proceeding onward down well-traveled roads. Farnesse would not be happy about this; much
hope had been gambled upon Gaspar de Añastro’s accountant killer, and he would not be happy to
discover that the attempt had failed. It was fortunate, then, that Cederno had used an identity two
layers deep to connect with the would-be killer and his accomplices. By the time any word of him
might have gotten back to the prince, Cederno would be long gone to report to his master.
That, admittedly, was not the most appealing of prospects, and someone new would have to be
found—that much was certain. Farnesse had invested a great deal in this attempt, and to have the
whole affair botched so horrifically was a shame on both of them, and Cederno hoped only that he
would not fall out of favor for having been the individual’s handler. No, he would not be thrown aside
so quickly. He had value still—his worth was measured in what he could still do, rather than in the
mistakes of others.
Nevertheless, William the Silent was not dead, and he was a strong man who possessed a
powerful will to live with the devil’s own cunning. Juan had been willing to kill at his master’s
bidding, but in the end, he had faltered. Gaspar, showing his true nature by fleeing before the task was
even attempted, was nothing more than a coward who relied upon fools.
Cederno set his will into the task ahead of him. They would need someone determined and
willful, committed to absolute success at any price, with a resolute, keen mind, and no regard for
whether or not his victory came at the cost of his own life. They needed a hero, not a coward. Cederno
reflected on this as he rode. They were going to need a man who was simultaneously extremely
capable and extremely foolish. The beast of the details lay in how to find this man.
Chapter 2: The Welsh Captain
Roger Williams arrived in Antwerp a month after the attempt on William’s life. A soldier by trade,
with twenty years’ fighting experience behind him, there had been others both better and worse for the
task that lay before him, but few who could have done what Lord Dudley had asked of him:
“England’s future is entwined with Prince William’s rebellion against Philip,” Robert Dudley had said
as he tasked Roger with his orders. “You have fought beside him before. You know him. As God and
Her Royal Highness Elizabeth I as my witness, you know that Spanish agencies will try to kill
William again. I act in her name in this matter, and you may treat my commands as you would her
own.”
William the Silent had not come to his position as leader of the Dutch Rebellion swiftly. At
first he had been merely an advocate for the Protestants of the country, and one among many
noblemen advocating for more freedom in governing the Netherlands. He and his compatriots had first
sought to be reformers, but cries for change directed at the Catholic king had fallen on deaf ears, and
relations between William and his former liege lord had broken down. William the Silent had gone
from reformer to rebel, and now fought with the agents of Philip II of Spain. War had come to the
Netherlands, had been waged back and forth among the Dutch rebels, the Spanish, their loyalist allies,
and those mercenaries from England and France who were of the same mind as the Dutch nobles that
had arisen first. Roger had fought in the early days of William’s rebellion. Now, on Dudley’s orders,
he was here again, and wishing the circumstances could be better.
The Welsh captain arrived at William’s dwelling in Antwerp on an April morning, when the
crisp air blew from the harbor across the city, giving the already cool air a distinctive chill. Security
around the estate was already elevated, and Roger was nearly denied entry by a pair of halberdiers at
the gate before one of them recognized him.
“You,” the older of the two guards said, “I know you. You were at the Battle of Rijmenam.”
Roger smiled. He was of even height with the two men, though his hair showed more gray than
either, and he had more scars upon his hands and face. “I was,” he answered. “I have come to enter the
service of the Prince of Orange once again, on orders from Queen Elizabeth of England.” He let the
words hang among the three of them before softening his smile somewhat. “Now, if you would be so
kind as to let me pass…”
The older of the two nodded at the younger. “I will vouch for him,” he said, and gave Roger a
severe look. “Be it on my head if anything goes ill within.”
“I shall remember that, and thank you,” Roger answered as the gates opened to admit him. He
walked swiftly, his boots thumping against the rain-slick cobbles beneath his feet. Servants and
soldiers passed him, though none questioned his errand, for he walked toward the house with direct
and unquestioned purpose. That will have to change, he thought as he watched how little he was
hindered in his travel.
Make him safe, Dudley had commanded him. A man walked up to the prince, handed him a
piece of parchment, and put a bullet in his neck. No man thought to stop him from the moment when he
entered the house until the moment after he pulled the trigger. The Prince of Orange lives only by the
grace of God. They will try again, and you must make his household ready. You—and I—are the only
shield the innocent have left. We must not falter.
Reaching Prince William’s chambers was distressingly easy. As on the grounds, none
questioned his purpose, and those who knew him gave no sign that they thought there might be any
possibility of foul play. Chivalry was the law by which they lived, by which even most of royal or
noble blood in England still lived—or at least by its pretense—but the near death of a prince at the
hand of a pistol-wielding assassin meant that chivalry was dying. Trusting to its rules would kill the
Prince of Orange.
“Captain Roger Williams is here to see His Highness the Prince of Orange,” Roger told the
guard outside the door, who at least had the good sense to look on him with at least a degree of doubt,
before he told him to wait outside. Good, Roger thought as he waited for the man to introduce him. At
least he didn’t throw me through the door without so much as a second thought.
The man returned a moment later, his halberd still held in one hand. “His Highness will see
you, and says that it has been too long.”
Roger paused, raising an eyebrow at the guard who had addressed him, which clearly made the
man uncomfortable.
“With respect, Captain,” the man said after a moment’s awkward silence, “you have your
permission.”
“I know,” Roger said. “Why have you not searched me?”
“Captain?”
“Your prince was nearly killed because his would-be assassin was able to pull a pistol from his
clothes as His Highness read the petition his assassin placed in his own hand. The next time any man
is admitted to the presence of the Prince of Orange, he will be searched first; is that clear?” To
punctuate his point, he removed his own pistol from beneath his cloak, pressing it forcefully into the
man’s hand, and unbuckled his sword from about his waist before handing it over as well. “I have
done your job for you. Do not make me do so again.”
He stepped through the door, leaving the baffled and embarrassed household guard behind him.
William’s chambers were luxurious, though Roger had seen ones far more ostentatious in his
time, and the prince himself was seated upon the edge of his bed, dressed in a robe as his wife,
Charlotte of Bourbon, tended to the dressings that covered the wound he had received on the left side
of his neck. Roger saw only a hint of the angry, red flesh beneath the bandages before the woman’s
skilled hands finished the wrapping and hid them from sight. Still, the severity of the injuries was easy
to see, and to think of how close William the Silent had come to death was chilling.
“Your Highness,” Roger said.
“Captain,” William’s eyes brightened in recognition. “I thought you were returned home to
England.”
Roger smiled as he drew closer. “Word reached my Queen’s ear swiftly of the attempt on your
life,” he said with a congenial smile. “It is her will that I…reform the security Your Highness relies
upon, so as to prevent her allies from being so easily slain.”
“I pray you do not make light of what has happened,” Charlotte said softly. “It is not right.”
“I beg your forgiveness, Milady,” Roger answered. “But it is precisely because of the severity
of the situation that I have come.”
At this, he knelt, bowing his head. “My Prince, the Queen has sent me to give you aid, but it is
not within her power to command you to take it. If it is your will, I offer my service. I will reform
your household guard, and this shall not happen again. You know that my word of honor is good.”
Silence hung between them as Roger stared at the floor, not yet raising his graying head to look
upon the man he had come to protect. Dudley’s wishes and money could only bring him so far; here
and now it all depended on whether or not the prince Roger had once fought beside still trusted him
enough to place his life in his hands.
“Look at me,” William said after the silence had dragged nearly to its limit. Roger obeyed.
“I accept the offer, both in the spirit it is intended and because I trust the man who bears it.
Now rise, my friend. You’ve come quite a long way, and the very least I can do is offer you a drink.”
Roger’s original service with the Prince of Orange—the reason for which Lord Dudley had deemed
him the ideal man for this task—had been several years past, when the current troubles between the
Dutch and the Spanish had first embroiled the Prince of Orange in what was now a war for
independence against King Philip of Spain.
Roger was not born to the life of a soldier, but he had chosen it nonetheless. Having attended
Brasenose College in Oxford, he’d been taught all the skills of a properly educated man, only to learn
that academic life was simply something for which he had been unsuited. Perhaps it was his penchant
for fighting, his enthusiasm for arms, or simply a desire for adventure that had driven him, but early in
life he had sought his fortune selling his sword on the continent, and was no longer a young man by
the time he had met William of Orange and fought in his armies. Perhaps it was because he was no
longer gripped by the impetuousness of youth that he saw something singular in the prince. While
William the Silent was reticent to commit to violence—a trait that made him beloved by his people—
he was also swift to do what must be done.
It was no surprise, then, for Roger to learn that the two coconspirators of Juan de Jáuregui had
been garroted ten days after the attempt had been made on the prince’s life, when William had
sufficiently recovered from his wounds to rule upon what was to befall them. It was a merciful death,
all told. Far worse executions had been doled out for lesser crimes against royalty, and Roger had been
present to see some of them in his younger days.
Unfortunately, it meant that the traitors were no longer alive to be interrogated. More than
simply reform William’s security, it was Roger’s intent to learn everything he could of the men that
had tried to take the prince’s life, a feat that was made more difficult by all of them being dead.
So it was that on a morning one week after his arrival, he went to speak with the man who had
conducted his own brief interrogation of the conspirators. Gerolf was a member of William’s guard,
brought aboard since Roger had departed his service to return to England years ago. He was a thinfaced man with blond hair and a weak chin, but his eyes were quick, and he did not seem the sort of
man prone to missing details he considered important.
“How may I be of assistance, Captain?” Gerolf asked when Roger found him in the guardhouse.
Roger caught the apprehension in his tone, and that was not surprising. Roger had been a
harbinger of chaos to the prince’s household since William had accepted his offer. Men had been
dismissed where he was able, or demoted where he was not, when they displayed gross incompetence
in their duties, and Gerolf was no doubt nervous as to what their meeting portended for his future.
“I am not here to dismiss you,” Roger said honestly as he seated himself across from the other
man at a table in the guardhouse, empty but for a serving girl tending to the fire. The atmosphere
about them was quiet and smelled of ale and ash.
“You will forgive me, Captain, if I have my doubts until after we’re done,” Gerolf said.
“I understand you questioned the associates of Juan de Jáuregui’s that we managed to capture,”
Roger said. “I just want to know everything that you can tell me of them.”
“Venero and Timmerman,” Gerolf said with a tone that could not hide his contempt. “The
former was a clerk, the latter a monk. Both were close associates of Gaspar de Añastro, a Spanish fur
merchant. He was the one who put them all up to it, but the bastard fled the city before his man made
the attempt. Hoping to claim his reward, no doubt.”
“Four men is a high number to fire one pistol,” Roger said. “And all of this was Gaspar’s
plan?”
“So far as I could tell from what I learned from them,” Gerolf said, and then gave a small snort.
“Believe me, I have seen bigger, more complicated plots. I almost wish more fools had been
entangled. It would have increased the chance of someone talking and blowing the whole affair before
they’d had a chance to act.”
“You are certain, then?” Roger asked. “There are no more fools involved?”
Here Gerolf drummed his fingers against the uneven wood grain of the table between them, his
brows coming together in thought. “These four were the lot,” the guard said after a moment, “but…
Venero resisted arrest, understand, so by the time I was able to speak with him, he’d already taken
enough blows to the head to addle his memory. I was lucky to glean as much from him as I did, but
once or twice he mentioned another—a man with a rapier, whom Gaspar relied extensively upon.
Timmerman—” He snorted again. “Timmerman was all hellfire and ‘God will judge you.’” He leaned
against the table. “Never try to get information from a man who fancies himself a martyr,” he said.
“You just end up with a bloody man and a sore fist.”
“And Gaspar,” Roger asked, after he gave a small laugh, “what do you know of him?”
“Only that he was not the sort of man to ever take a risk to himself when he might make
another take it for him. He was, what did others call him? Ah, yes. Suggestible.”
Roger nodded, understanding the nature of the plot. Gaspar and his coconspirators had put the
plan to kill the prince into effect themselves, but they had not been the ones to devise it. Someone else
had helped them, someone who had been effective enough to avoid implicating himself.
“Thank you, Gerolf,” he said presently. “You’re one of the first people I’ve talked to who made
no excuses. I wouldn’t worry about your position.”
“Sir,” Gerolf said, rising at the same time that Roger stood from the table. “With respect, you
should know that not all the men in William’s household are inclined to listen to your directives. I
can’t name names, as all I’ve heard is mumbling and rumors, but some of these men hold themselves
up as paragons of duty and the old ways of doing things. They don’t recognize that a coward with a
pistol getting past them was their own damned fault. The fact that you’re English doesn’t help, either.”
Roger paused. He’d expected, and feared, that something like this might happen, and there was
not much he could do about it other than put his foot down, and hard, when it was brought to his
attention. “Thank you,” Roger said. “The next time you hear such talk, bring it to my attention
immediately.”
“I will, sir.”
“And it’s Welsh,” Roger said.
“Sir?” Gerolf looked momentarily off footed.
“Welsh,” Roger said. “I’m Welsh, not English.”
Roger had been in dozens of battles in his career. He had seen the best of men, and the very worst. The
Battle of Rijmenam had shown him both. He had heard cowards and brave men alike shrieking in the
bloody melee, as musket balls sang overhead. All warfare was deception, and soldiers highborn or low
who failed to realize that did not survive to become famous—except by the infamy of their failure—
and Rijmenam had been one of the most masterful deceits Roger had ever seen played. As the weeks
followed his arrival and he set about the task of reforming William’s protection, he was reminded
over and over that security was warfare writ small, and that deterrence relied in no small part upon
that same deceit.
At Rijmenam, the Count of Boussu, Maximilien de Hénin Liétard, had shown the Spaniards
attacking their line precisely what they wanted to see: by lining his army up in front of the village he
had goaded them into attacking a perceived weakness, safe from his artillery. Instead, the Spaniards
had walked directly into the fury of Maximilien’s cannons on one side and the mad charge of the Scots
on the other. The memory of the Highland scream as the Scots charged, stripped to the waist, into the
Spanish flank still made Roger smile at times. He wished that the Count of Boussu were here to advise
him now, but Maximilien had died not long after that battle, and his wisdom had died with him.
As Roger crossed the courtyard of the prince’s estate, the sounds of the city rang in his ears as
an accompaniment to the stares of the household guards and staff. They did not trust him Ironic, given
that at Rijmenam the armies of the Netherlands had consisted almost entirely of English, Welsh, and
Scottish mercenaries, as well as French Huguenots. It was the foreign allies of these very same guards
and staff who had beaten the Spanish back then, and now here they were once again.
His leads on Venero, Timmerman, and Gaspar had turned up little. Associates of the former
two had likely been terrified into silence by their execution, and Gaspar was long gone by now, well
beyond Roger’s reach. All he could do was speculate on the sort of man who would have been sent to
help them, and who might have sent him. It was obvious, of course, that he would have to have been
an agent of Philip II. The question was merely how far removed from the crown he might be, and what
sort of clout he could wield in finding a new and better assassin.
Roger presented his suspicions to the prince after dinner in William’s chambers. His wife was
also present, and Roger could not help but notice how tired and haggard Charlotte of Bourbon
appeared. The strain of her husband’s wound—and the subsequent realization of the prince’s mortality
—were aging her prematurely.
“They will try again, Highness,” Roger murmured as he sat across from the prince. “There is
little upon which to proceed, but those who conspired to murder you were aided by an Italian whose
name I have not been able to glean. All indications are that he was adept at making himself almost
invisible to your own men’s investigations. If he was some agent of Philip’s, serving as some sort of
adviser to your would-be assassins, then we may assume that it is not random glory seekers we must
worry most about but men attempting, and aided, in getting close to you. This man will find another.
They will learn from their mistakes.”
Wrapped in an evening robe, William took this in. The Prince of Orange had not yet recovered
his full vigor in the aftermath of the attempt on his life, but he was looking healthier, Roger had to
admit. His constitution has not suffered, then. Good.
The prince nodded, accepting with an enviable grace that all this was inevitable. “Men have
been trying to kill me for years, Captain. On the battlefield, in the courts, more than once on the
streets. We will learn from this, and next time, we will be ready. I have faith in you.”
“You honor me, Highness,” Roger answered. “I have done what I can in the short term to
change the practices of your personal guards, with as little inconvenience to yourself as can be
managed. I need to find this Italian. Unless he is an agent of the king himself—which I find unlikely
—I suspect him to have been an intermediary between Gaspar and a man of some influence and
power, willing to facilitate communication between the two.”
“Who do you suspect may have hired this man?” William’s question was backed by an intent,
thoughtful stare. “I think it unlikely that he may be struck at directly, but knowing might tell us of
how he will operate.”
“As you said, Highness, you have no shortage of enemies,” Roger said with a small smile.
“And this person has done a fine job of covering his tracks. I feel less that I am chasing a flesh-andblood man than the shadow he left behind.”
Charlotte’s face paled even more at these words, and Roger spoke quickly. “I promise,
Highness, Milady, that I will do everything in my power to uncover what lies at the root of this plot.”
“May God grant you the grace to do so,” Charlotte said in a quiet voice. “This household, and
this land, can ill afford another incident such as this.” She paused, her hands toying with the lace of
her sleeves, and when she spoke again, her voice was so soft that Roger had to strain to hear her
words. “I wish never to witness such a thing again.”
Roger nodded curtly, silently swearing to uphold her desire.
Charlotte got her wish, though it was through no action on Roger’s part. In time, William the Silent
recovered from his wound with only a starburst of scar tissue on his neck as a reminder. Charlotte,
however, did not recover from the strain of those first few months after the attempt. The burden of
caring for her husband sapped the lady of strength, and as the months turned, the couple’s roles were
reversed as a sickness burned through her while winter fled and spring came to Antwerp. On the fifth
of that May, she died, and the loss shook the prince almost more than the wound had. The household
passed into mourning, and Roger woke each day with the weight of Charlotte’s last wish pressing upon
his chest.
He would carry it with him for the next few years as he struggled to find the truth behind the
plot to kill the Prince of Orange. Gaspar de Añastro remained infuriatingly out of reach, the dead
stayed silent in their graves, and the benefactor that had helped the conspirators attempt murder
remained impossible to find…
Chapter 3: For God and King
Antwerp, 1584
“For twenty-five thousand Spanish crowns, for God, and for His Majesty King Philip of Spain, I will
kill Prince William of Orange.”
The words hung between the two men, an irreversible utterance that could neither be forgotten
nor taken back. Balthasar Gerard stood at one end of the long table, his hands resting upon the
polished wood, staring at the man who sat at the other end. Balthasar was not a man of great status. He
held no titles, nor had he to his credit any particular acts worth fame. He had always considered his
great strength to be one of principles, and the revolt of the Prince of Orange had offended those
deeply. That he should stand against Philip II, whose right to rulership is beyond contestation, blessed
in the eyes of God, is a thing that cannot be forgiven.
His fervor had taken him to Luxembourg, where he had enlisted in the governor’s army, hoping
that such an assignment would provide him with an opportunity to do God’s will. But God had not
provided him with such a blessing. Balthasar had been both outraged and relieved when he heard of
the ill-fated attempt on the prince’s life.
God had a plan for him, of that he was certain, and this certainty was what had brought him—
honest soldier, devout servant to God and Philip—to this meeting with Alexander Farnesse, son of the
Duke of Parma. Farnesse wore a contemplative expression at the far end of the table, one ringbedecked hand holding the letter Balthasar had personally placed before him, describing his plan. The
letter had been sent at the advice of the Regent of the Jesuits. One did not approach the powerful
without first making overtures, and Balthasar had wished to ensure that he received credit, and
support, for what he hoped to do. Alexander Farnesse was Philip’s most powerful agent in the region,
and if any man could lend help to this sacred errand, it was him.
Farnesse’s intent, dark eyes rose from the parchment to take Balthasar in, and an eyebrow
arched as he laid the paper aside.
“What makes you believe you are suited to this task?” Farnesse asked. Outside the window, the
sounds of Antwerp rose and fell like waves lapping on a shore. The palpable silence in the aftermath
of Farnesse’s words made the ambient noise all the more grating, and Balthasar had to force himself
to tune it out. He could not afford to be distracted. This was his opportunity for glory, the moment of
which those who came after him might sing.
“I am no one,” Balthasar replied after a long moment. “Neither William nor his people could
ever know anything about me, and I am a Frenchman—not Spanish. They will have no reason to
suspect, and the chance that I will be waylaid en route is all the less likely.” He paused. “And I am
loyal,” he added. “As I said in my letter: the vassal ought always to prefer justice and the will of the
king to his own life.”
“You said in your letter that you served in the army of the governor of Luxembourg for two
years, and that you failed to get close to him,” Farnesse replied. “Being a vassal of fortitude and
loyalty is of no use if you cannot execute the plans you yourself have made.”
“When I began, I was not prepared, I confess,” Balthasar replied. “But, my Lord, you know that
service and battle change a man, and that the wise one pursues other avenues when his initial
endeavors bear him no fruit. Were I the fool you describe, I would still be in the army, waiting for an
opportunity that would never come.”
Silence, again. Balthasar sweated as Farnesse considered. The ring on his right hand glinted in
the sunlight streaming through the window.
“You have verve and faith—that much I will grant you,” Farnesse said at last. “But those
virtues do not necessarily combine to make a man capable of killing a prince.” He paused. “If you fail,
there will be no help coming to you.”
“I expect none,” Balthasar replied, and meant it. “My life is worth the chance at taking his, and
what good that might do His Majesty King Philip II, may he reign long and well.”
Farnesse’s eyes rooted him to the spot, as if they might gaze through his chest and into the
depths of his heart like some surgeon at work on an unwilling patient. “Your commitment, however, is
touching. There are many in this day and age that do not fully appreciate what was once the
unquestioned order of things.”
Rising, Farnesse seemed to stretch, the light dancing off the ring. Balthasar wondered what it
was, but could not for the life of him conjure up a recollection of any similar thing.
Farnesse held out the hand with the ring upon it. “I was wrong,” he said. “You are a vassal
more suited to this charge than I realized.”
Balthasar hesitated as he stood before Farnesse, the proffered seal filling his vision. Two
bladed staves were etched upon it, both bent so they resembled two halves of a sundered omega
symbol. The ambient sounds of the city seemed to fade into the background, save for the noise of
some bird outside the window. This was the gateway through which he had to pass if he was to serve
the will of king and God both. For the Prince of Orange to meet his righteous punishment in hell,
Balthasar needed Alexander Farnesse.
He bent slightly, and pressed his lips against the metal.
Farnesse withdrew his hand, turned his back, and walked back the way he’d come, saying
nothing.
“My Lord?” Balthasar said to the aristocrat’s retreating figure. His voice hung in the space
between them.
“Cederno will see to your needs,” Farnesse said, and as he spoke, a man stepped through the
door into the small room. Balthasar had not heard him, or marked his approach. He was in all ways
unremarkable, being of average height and common dress—unusual for one in the confidence of
someone of Farnesse’s status—and bore few distinguishing marks. His hair was dark, his beard neatly
trimmed. But the way he moved was unnerving.
“In service of his grace and God’s will,” Cederno said.
Balthasar smiled. After three long years, greatness was finally at hand.
For God and king…
Chapter 4: Patrolling the Prinsenhof
Delft, 1584
Another guard had disregarded Roger’s orders and admitted a man into the presence of the Prince of
Orange without searching him. Now he faced Roger and Gerolf in the dim light of the guard barracks
adjacent to William’s residence in Delft, which the locals were taking to calling the Prinsenhof.
“Captain, the man I allowed past was a trusted servant of His Highness’s wife. Had I insisted
he be searched, her Ladyship would have been furious with me.”
Roger’s eyes narrowed. He was leaning with his back against the stone wall. William’s guards
were no longer as foolish on the whole as they had been when he first resumed service in the prince’s
household, but lapses in security such as this alarmed him. Did they imagine that only strangers bore
assassin’s weapons?
“What is your duty?” Roger asked after a moment.
“Captain, I—”
“What is your duty?”
“To protect and serve His Highness the Prince of Orange.”
“Where in that mandate does it say that you are to neglect those duties in service of Lady de
Coligny’s preferential treatment of her servants?”
“Captain, she would have been furious.”
“Her Ladyship’s anger is not my concern.” Roger attempted to keep his voice calm. It had been
nearly a year since the prince had remarried, and Roger had not yet relinquished his memory of the
prince’s previous wife as readily.
“Captain—”
“Keeping her Ladyship’s royal husband alive is my concern,” Roger said. “My sole concern.”
The guard’s face fell. “My apologies, Captain.”
“Apologies do nothing to cover a dereliction of duty. Should this happen again, you will be
dismissed. Am I understood?”
The man looked relieved to be granted even that much of an opportunity to prove himself.
“Perfectly, Captain.”
“We’re done here,” Roger grunted. “Get back to your post.”
As the guard departed, Gerolf sighed. “It’s not near as common a failing as it used to be, and
that is not nothing.”
Roger watched the man return to his post. He walked with a vexed lilt to his step, angry and
relieved all at once. “Her Ladyship is always something of a special case,” he said, “but that she asks
for her servants to be treated with trust does not concern me half so much as how often His Highness’s
guards disregard their orders to accommodate it.”
God alone knew how easy it would be for a truly determined spy to slip through their nets. Men
came and went day and night from the Prinsenhof, and the duty of ensuring that none of them might
smuggle a weapon into the prince’s presence was Roger’s burden. He still had dreams of the ashen-
faced Lady Charlotte in the weeks before her death, and the promise he had made to her. Robert
Dudley’s charge to protect William the Silent haunted him as well. He had many enemies, and as
impenetrable as Roger might make the wall of steel and bodies that defended his prince, on days like
this all the Welsh captain could see were the gaps.
As the two men made their way across the courtyard, the bark of a small dog nearly startled
Roger into reaching for his pistol. Looking down, he grunted in irritation.
“How did that one get out?” Gerolf muttered, crouching to scoop up the pug that was cheerfully
urinating on the stones, holding the beast so as to avoid the stream of piss.
“One of the puppies,” Roger grumbled, changing their course so as to return the animal to its
keepers. Some years ago, when Roger had first served in his army, before Juan de Jáuregui’s attack
changed everything, the Prince of Orange had nearly been taken unawares by Spanish attackers that
had crept into his camp under cover of darkness. He had been saved, not by a guard or a bold knight,
but by the frantic barking of a pug named Pompey. Thereafter, William had seldom been without a
beast of Pompey’s lineage, and his household in Delft had many.
It irritated those among the household staff who did not care for small dogs, but Roger did not
object, except when the little beasts managed to get themselves underfoot, which was more often than
he would have preferred.
“I assume the list of all visitors is being maintained?” Roger asked as they entered the
Prinsenhof. Gerolf, in the time since their first meeting, had become something of a right hand upon
which Roger could rely, especially when affairs required him to be in the field with William. On the
battlefield, he entrusted the charge of the prince’s safety to himself and those guards he had
handpicked for their perception, courage, and skill at arms. It was always imperfect, but it let him
sleep better. Having the younger guard upon which he could rely was invaluable.
“As well as I may,” Gerolf answered. “It is still a challenge, ensuring to it that the names of the
less noteworthy individuals are recorded, but we are catching more now than we were a year ago.”
When they had first come to Delft, and William had established himself in the Prinsenhof,
hiring new servants had become a necessity, as had ensuring the trustworthiness of those servants who
had come with Lady Louise de Coligny. Those months had been nerve-racking, filled with worry about
nameless comers and goers. Worse, he still had no leads on the enigmatic Italian.
“Do you still think our mystery man will send another killer?” Gerolf asked, as though he could
read Roger’s thoughts.
“I do,” Roger said. “These sorts of men are patient, and a few years is nothing when it buys you
the perfect opportunity to strike.”
Others might have thought him paranoid, but Gerolf remembered how close they had almost
come. So he nodded. “A perfect opportunity also requires the perfect man to take it, Captain.”
“I know,” Roger said. “Trying to puzzle out what sort of man it might be is what keeps me up
at night.”
Chapter 5: Considering the Contract
Antwerp
“Fanatics are not always the best for the job,” Farnesse said. A single candle illuminated the room,
and the flickering light made the ring on his hand gleam. “Your man, Gaspar, was a fanatic.”
Cederno shrugged. “Gaspar was a cowardly opportunist who used his hired men to kill for
him,” he said, conscious of the risk such correction carried, but his master made use of him for—
among other things—his ability to speak with candor. “Balthasar is dedicated, capable, and, as you
say, a fanatic. With my guidance, he can more than suit our purpose.”
“The last time, we came perilously close to a needless amount of attention being directed
towards my activities,” Farnesse said. “Be certain that our hand is not so obvious in this that it forces
my allies to be concerned with needless exposure. This Protestant movement is possibly the most
dangerous thing that we have faced since the days of Innocent IV. I would not play such an overt hand
in the affairs thereof, but this mess about the Prince of Orange needs to be taken care of before it
spreads. Losing England was bad enough without Holland slipping away as well. Remember what I
told you, Cederno, if a dragon menaces your home, cut off its head and the beast will die.”
“With respect, my Lord,” Cederno said, “do not be so swift to underestimate Balthasar.
William the Silent will die, and his rebellion will crumble like a castle made of sand. Even rebels long
to be freed from those who force them to shake off the comfort of their place in the world.”
Farnesse was silent, his fingers toying with the ring, which continued to sparkle in the dim
light. “He has a new protector. I understand that he has been looking into Gaspar de Añastro’s plots.
He was sent by Robert Dudley in England.”
“The Welsh captain, Roger Williams,” Cederno said. “He is a skilled soldier, but not a
detective or spymaster. I left no names for him to follow. He can look all he wishes, but Gaspar’s
conspirators are dead. Why does Dudley matter?”
“He matters.” The son of the Duke of Parma idly adjusted the ring on his hand. “Eliminate the
Welshman as well, if you can. A dog on your trail is still an irritating thing to shake, even if it’s only a
mongrel.”
“The mongrel means nothing, my Lord,” Cederno said with a smile. “He will be disposed of.”
“Balthasar meets with Christoffel d’Assonleville tomorrow,” Farnesse said. “Supervise the
process. Everything must be done properly, for posterity as much as to ensure that the reward money
ends up in the right hands.” He paused, glancing at his own hands. “And mine stay clean,” he said, his
voice soft.
When they met, Christoffel d’Assonleville asked Balthasar to put his intentions in writing in return for
absolution to be granted by a priest who was also present. If Balthasar was to commit the sin of
murder in God’s name, the church would see to it that he was absolved, lest he condemn himself to
hell. One assassin had already tried, come close, and failed to take the life of William the Silent, and
the name of Juan de Jáuregui was well-known and reviled in the Netherlands. Necessity dictated that
Balthasar’s intentions be placed in writing, that it be understood who had done the deed, and who was
responsible. None but you can claim the reward, Cederno had explained to him.
As Balthasar pressed quill to page, he felt the weight of responsibility press down on his
shoulders. It was to his credit that his fingers did not tremble. History would remember, and his lieges
would reward that service which he provided in the name of the higher cause. A war might be cut
short, before it spiraled out of control and threatened Philip II’s claim to control over the Netherlands.
When power was challenged, it had to answer, or what it possessed would be lost.
I am about to keep company with heretics and atheists, and I must blend with them, so as to
arouse no suspicion, and give no threat to my sacred charge. Balthasar felt Cederno’s cold eyes upon
him as he signed his name to the page. The priest, Cederno, and Christoffel examined what had been
written for what seemed an eternity. The sunset was coming through the window of the small room in
which they’d met, tinting everything from the hearth to the dust motes hanging in the air an iridescent
gold.
Thoughts of endings and beginnings flashed through Balthasar’s mind, and he felt his fingers
tremble for a moment. He was glad that they chose now to shake, rather than when he held the quill, or
when he would hold the weapon that would kill the prince. There was time to be afraid, right now,
when so many things might still go wrong with his endeavor.
He had already spent two years chasing his mission, and had suffered for it and learned. There
was no reason for his hands to shake, save for the joy of knowing that its fulfillment was near.
God, may my hands be steady when the time comes. May I not falter, and may I make you
proud.
“I will provide for my own purse,” Balthasar said, “and within six weeks you will hear of me.”
The words felt bold.
“Go forth, my son,” Christoffel replied, “and if you succeed in your enterprise, the king will
fulfill all his promises, and you will gain an immortal name besides.”
“The name is nothing,” Balthasar replied. “Only the service I can provide. I thank you for your
blessing.”
Chapter 6: The Arrival
Delft
Balthasar and Cederno reached the city of Delft in early May. The journey had not been difficult so
much as it had been tedious, though both men had to proceed with caution. The Netherlands had been
a contested territory for years now, with alliances between the cities shifting with each season. The
prince had had to shift his place of residence several times since being declared an outlaw and rebel by
Philip II. The lands through which the two men passed were suspicious and, in the current political
climate, filled with spies. As they approached the walls of Delft, Cederno brought his horse close to
Balthasar’s and spoke in a low voice.
“I will be able to prepare for you to make good your exit,” Cederno told him, “but should you
falter in the crucible, I will not help you, nor will I risk exposing my Lord to this affair. Do you
understand?”
“Has it ever been different?” Balthasar replied, keeping his eyes upon the rooftops behind the
city walls. “I was a soldier for two years for the sake of this mission,” he said. “I might have died at
any time, had God not been kind to me. I am meant to do this.”
Cederno looked at him with his cold eyes. “Let us hope that God wills it so.”
Balthasar closed his eyes briefly as if to punctuate Cederno’s brief prayer to God. When he
opened them again, he knew that no more of this matter would ever be spoken between them.
The walls were closer now, halberdiers walking the tops as sentries. The noises of the city
flowed out from open gates, carried on a crowd of people moving down the road. The pair joined the
throng, little more than a minor nobleman and his batman amid the travelers. They passed through the
gates, and Balthasar reflected on how easy it was to walk into a city. It did not matter, it seemed to
him then, how many soldiers or bodyguards a man might have, or how many walls he might hide
behind. There were simply too many streets, too many ways that a man with the means and the
determination might slip past unnoticed.
Men and mice both were like that.
Balthasar had never been to Delft before, but ever since William of Orange had made the city
his residence, it had grown ever more militarized, and the signs of that were clear enough. Soldiers
were everywhere he looked, and a nervous energy hung about the populous, mingled with a tense
excitement over recent events. That their elation at the defiance of their rightful King Philip continued
unpunished made Balthasar grind his teeth, even as he felt the same fervor wash over him, albeit only
because the first phase of his plan was now about to unfold. He would keep his eyes and ears open. He
had to learn as much as he could about the city in a short amount of time so as to ensure he knew
William’s residence well enough to make good his escape when the time came to kill him.
“You there, goodman,” Balthasar asked of a passing soldier. “I have come to call upon the
Prince of Orange. Pray can you tell me where I might find his residence?”
“You’re very near it,” the soldier said. “The Prinsenhof is two streets beyond where you stand,
and to the left.”
They followed the soldier’s directions and shortly Balthasar was afforded his first view of the
home of William the Silent. The Prinsenhof was a beautiful stone building that had served as a
monastery once, years and years ago. A house of God, Balthasar thought, now nothing more than a
hovel for a traitor to the faith. It was with great effort that he kept his anger from showing on his face
as he and Cederno approached the gates of the estate.
Another guard, dressed similarly to the one he had spoken to earlier, hailed them. “State your
business,” the guard said brusquely.
“I am Lord Balthasar, come on an errand to the Prince of Orange, with a gift that might aid in
his cause. This”—he gestured to Cederno—“is my bodyguard, Fredo.”
The guard took his measure with a contemplative glance.
“I cannot allow either of you within the grounds armed, by order of Captain Roger Williams.”
Balthasar glanced momentarily sideways at Cederno, and the cold-eyed man smiled, as if
realizing something that amused him.
“My Lord Balthasar carries no weapons,” Cederno said, “but if it is the rule of the household, I
shall leave my sword in your keeping, though I think it highly irregular.”
“I merely follow my orders,” the guard said, accepting the Italian’s rapier and long knife
before turning and ordering the gate opened. “They shall be waiting for you upon your return.”
As they proceeded inward and a page saw to the stabling of the horses, Balthasar realized that
this was going to be more difficult than he had expected.
Since the prince had relocated his headquarters to Delft, the flow of petitioners had been continuous
and would likely not be broken. The messages simply piled up while William was on campaign, and
many a night Roger had watched the exhausted prince listen as they were read to him one by one by
his seneschal. It was enough to make Roger glad that he held no title, for all the supposed benefits.
Roger had been at drills when word arrived that William had a noble visitor, taking a rare
opportunity to relieve the tension on his shoulders by cutting at a pell with his saber, allowing the
exertion to help clear his mind of the frustration he felt at his lack of leads and the fact that holes in
the prince’s security continued to appear. At least, he reflected as he dressed to join William, this
Balthasar and his guard were made to turn over their weapons before they entered the grounds.
Roger strode down the halls of the Prinsenhof, still feeling out of place beneath its vaulted
ceilings and amid the finery, despite the time he’d had to become accustomed to it. No matter how
often he might be surrounded by them, there were some things to which no man could become
acclimated. He passed soldiers and guards, and various advisers of the prince, some in a hurry and
some not. This Balthasar was apparently a guest from France who had come to call upon William, or
so Gerolf had said, with news from the south. And a gift.
He has come at great risk, Roger reflected. Enlisting the aid of the Malcontents, those Catholic
noblemen to the south of Delft, had been one of Alexander Farnesse’s first coups of strategy when he
had arrived as the primary agent of Philip II in the struggle for the Netherlands and as the commander
of his armies in the field. Farnesse’s agents made it difficult for William’s sympathizers to reach him
in Delft. That, alone, made the presence of this guest from France, this “Lord Balthasar,” worth
observing. Roger steeled himself as he reached the hall where William was receiving the man, greeted
by the sound of barking dogs. He took a deep breath and walked through the door.
William the Silent was so much the portrait of a prince that the fact that he had betrayed his sovereign
and holy God was made all the more poignant in Balthasar’s eyes when first he saw him. He was
brought before the Prince of Orange in the main hall of the Prinsenhof, and took a knee in reverence,
internally begging Christ to forgive him for bowing in the presence of an agent of Satan.
The presence of the small, squash-faced pug dogs was the only thing about the image that was
difficult to take seriously. Balthasar had heard that William the Silent was fond of the animals, but he
had not expected there to be so many of them. Balthasar counted nearly ten amid the prince’s group of
retainers.
“Rise,” the prince said, after “Lord Balthasar” was introduced by William’s herald, and strode
toward him. Beside him were several courtiers and military advisers, many of whom Balthasar knew
by reputation, and of each of whom he had endeavored to learn. There—he recognized him by the
description Cederno had provided—was Roger Williams, the Welsh mercenary who had protected the
prince since Juan de Jáuregui’s failed attempt on his life. His hair was graying, and he looked like a
man aged before his time by hardship. Balthasar made note of the man responsible for the prince’s
security: Roger was the one he must outwit in order to succeed when the time came to kill William.
First, however, he needed to deceive the Prince of Orange himself.
William was before him, now. For all his fifty-one years, he still stood tall and strong, with a
reserved energy about him that was hard not to be drawn to. He had hazel eyes with laugh lines inset
around the edges, his beard and mustache neatly trimmed, and his manner surprisingly gentle for one
who had so foiled and defied his masters at war. When the prince spoke, it was easy to imagine why he
was called “the Silent.” His voice was soft and his tones even. It was the voice of one who did not
waste words. The dog nearest his leg barked.
“I am honored to welcome you into my court, Lord Balthasar. I would offer you refreshment
after your journey, but my gatekeeper said that you had important news, and I would not give
disrespect to your haste by delaying you. It is seldom that allies from France are able to reach us
here.”
The disguise had worked, and the money Balthasar had provided to finance it, though it had
cost him dearly, had been well spent. The ruse was simple: Balthasar carried with him the seal of
Count Peter Ernst I von Mansfeld, the governor of Luxembourg and one of the military leaders
fighting for the Spanish; he meant to give William the seal as a token of his loyalty, and with it,
William could create forgeries that would spread disinformation and dissent among his enemies. The
prince would not dismiss such a gift, and with it, Balthasar would get the access he needed to the
prince. Only then could he plot the actual deed, ensuring that he made good his escape in time to
collect his reward.
“I see the rumors of your hospitality are not exaggerated,” Balthasar said. “I come in sympathy
to your cause, bearing a gift to aid you and yours in your endeavors.” His face was a mask of humility
and ardent belief. I will stand before the devil and deceive him to his face.
When the prince offered him a small nod, Balthasar presented him with a small wrapped object
tied with string. “It was acquired at some difficulty and at great risk,” Balthasar explained.
The seal of Peter Ernst von Mansfeld sat in William’s hand, and with some satisfaction,
Balthasar watched the eyes not only of the prince, but of his companions widen as well.
“It is my hope that it will be of use to you,” Balthasar murmured.
“This is no small gift,” William replied, and the sincerity of his voice was all the confirmation
Balthasar needed. It was a mercy that his small sigh of relief would make sense for his disguise as