mbering only vague details about the kidnapping, he is convinced that his father’s family was ashamed of him, and that somehow he was partly responsible for Detlef’s death. Although the publisher took great pains to protect the child, he was unable to fully shield Jacob from bitter remarks by Ruth’s less generous associates about the romantic futility of her martyrdom or comments by individuals who had resented both Detlef’s politics and position.
Suffering from the innuendo and the overt attacks, but not remembering enough to be able to retaliate articulately, Jacob has become fiercely committed to reinventing himself. He has even changed his name to the plain Dutch Scheems. Jacob Scheems. A talented young poet on the rise, a simple Hollander with no specific race or religion. Damn my mother and my father, what right do they have over my life, he thinks, irritated by the memories and emotions the arrival of the stranger has stirred up in him. He has not shed any tears since Ruth’s death, not since he vowed on her death bed that he would never again feel self-pity or be afraid. He is successful, he reminds himself as he strides past the flower market, breathing in the rolling mist of scent and colour. His first volume of poetry is recently published, he has his own lodgings, and now his first mistress. He is complete—what harm can this stranger do to him?
Despite these reassurances he is filled with dread as he hurries up the stairs of his lodgings.
The Gryphon waited, his handsome eagle head laid
Upon a twisted thorny staff cut from Pain,
He shook his lion’s mantle wet from morning’s dew,
Then roaring, spoke to the Keeper at the Gate:
I am neither Man nor Beast but a noble creature who
In Joy and Terror hath been born from Two
Whose Love cast out a Prince and usurped Nature,
The Empire’s Golden Eagle and the Lion of Fair Judah.
And although my changeling form Man doth hate,
Know this: I am a being of my own making, of Living Truth not Doctrine,
As such I shelter the orphaned and courageous beneath my wing,
Stoic and resigned, the lonely path of the Hermit is my Fate,
The prickly quill of Knowledge clasped in my paw,
With Mathematics and Astronomy as my only Law…
The sound of the heavy oak door startles the elderly aristocrat. He looks up from the poem he is reading, the pages of which are scattered across the plain wooden table, to see its author enter the room.
The boy is a man now, the count thinks, marvelling at the graceful and as yet unscarred beauty of the youth. He stands taller than his father, with the same shaped eyes and brow, yet the full mouth, almost sullen in its pout, is that of the mother, as is the colour of the eyes, while the hair is the same gold as Detlef’s. The lad is dressed far more expensively than his income allows, the count observes, he has obviously inherited the inclination towards dandyism from somewhere other than his parents. Myself perhaps, Gerhard wonders, amused. In short, the boy is a creature hovering at the apex of his physical beauty, but as yet unconscious of his powers.
‘You do not know me, sir, although I now have the distinct advantage of knowing you as a bard.’ Gerhard speaks formally, a cynical smile playing over his thin lips.
Jacob notes that although his visitor wears the austere uniform of the Lutheran, the dark wool of his tunic is of the highest quality and the white lace at his sleeves and collar appears to be from Bruges.
‘Indeed, and how do I rate?’
‘You have promise, but the pretence of inexperience taints the verse. However, that is your prerogative.’
Jacob steps nearer, then falters as the silver pendant the old man wears around his creased neck comes into view. It is embossed with a family crest, an emblem the young poet recognises immediately. In an instant he has snatched the pages out of the aristocrat’s hand. Gerhard reacts with barely a raised eyebrow, not entirely surprised by the boy’s impetuousness.
‘I shall not take your criticism to heart for I suspect it lacks objectivity.’ Jacob stands with the poem clasped to his chest.
‘From your actions I assume you know who I am?’
‘I do, and now having made your acquaintance, I must ask you to take your leave.’
Count von Tennen looks sharply at the seventeen year old before him. He guesses the clothes must have been a gift. From the observations of the Dutch spy he hired to find his nephew, he knows the boy has little to no money and is entirely dependent on the patronage of his employer, a publisher of dubious political reputation. It is evident that whatever money the youth makes he spends on books, for the room is lined with them. Volumes on philosophy, poetry, history, scientia nova: Descartes, Aristotle, Plato, Grotius, Christiaan Huygens, Leibniz, Sir Josiah Child, Milton’s Paradise Lost, and many more.
‘Do not be a fool. Judging by the poverty in which you live, you need me as much as I need you.’
‘I need no man, sir, and certainly no one from my past. I have rewritten myself in a stanza of my own making. And now I want nothing except to be left in peace so I may live out my invention.’