5 A Very Murdering Battle (17 page)

Daniel was amused. ‘Don’t you believe in self-sacrifice?’

‘Only if there’s a profit at the end of it,’ she replied, honestly. ‘I made all sorts of sacrifices to ensnare my first husband. I even followed Will Baggott into battle and had my hat shot off my head. I almost sacrificed my life for him. It was the same with Ned Granger, my second husband. Henry may turn out to be the most difficult of the three. I’m ready to make any sacrifice for him.’

‘It could all be in vain, Rachel. Besides, you once told me that you’d never marry again because you’d already buried two husbands and didn’t want to see a third lowered into the ground.’

‘Henry changed my mind.’

‘How did he do that?’

‘I don’t know, I just felt drawn towards him.’

‘I’ve never heard a woman say that about him before.’

‘Well, you’ve heard one say it now.’

When she was not feigning anguish over the death of a non-existent father, Rachel was a jovial companion. Daniel was fascinated to hear about her adventures. In spite of many setbacks and disappointments in life, she’d retained an unassailable optimism. She’d endured all the privations of camp life and was ready to continue to follow in the footsteps of the army. Whether it would be in the company of Henry Welbeck was an open question. Daniel believed that even her stratagems would fail to win over his friend. The sergeant’s misogyny was like granite.

A persistent drizzle made the ride unpleasant but they pressed on regardless. After the best part of a day in the saddle, they were still almost ten miles short of Mons. As the sky began to darken, they looked for accommodation for the night. The track took them into a wood and its canopy robbed them of further light. Riding side by side, they came into a clearing and were halted by a peremptory command.

‘Stop there!’ yelled a voice.

Daniel tugged at the reins then looked around. Nobody was in sight.

‘Show yourself, my friend,’ he said, mildly.

A French soldier emerged from the undergrowth with a pistol in his hand. A second man came up behind them and a third stepped out from behind a tree. All three were unshaven and unkempt, their uniforms spattered with dirt. Daniel knew at once that they were deserters.

‘Have you any food?’ demanded the man with the gun.

‘Yes,’ said Daniel, ‘and you’re welcome to share it.’

‘Give it here – we haven’t eaten for days.’

As soon as Daniel took the bread from his saddlebag, it was snatched from him. The three men grabbed a piece each and gobbled it down. When Daniel took out a flask of wine, that too was seized from him and passed around. Rachel had pulled out her handkerchief and was weeping into it but she kept a close eye on the three men. Concealed in her saddlebag was a pistol and, on Daniel’s advice, she kept it loaded. She had an uneasy feeling that it might be needed.

The leader of the trio looked up at them.

‘Where are you going?’ he asked.

‘Mons is our destination,’ said Daniel. ‘My sister and I are visiting our mother to console her. We had news of our father’s death but were too far away to reach the town in time for the funeral. We need to pay our respects at his grave.’

‘Then you can go on your way.’ He stood aside. When the two of them nudged their horses forward, the man pointed his weapon at Rachel. ‘Not you,’ he said. ‘We have need of some female company.’

The three soldiers looked at her and grinned lasciviously. What they had in mind was all too obvious. Having deserted the army, they’d been living rough in the woods. A prize had just fallen into their hands and they wanted to make the most of it.

‘My sister is overcome with grief,’ said Daniel, indignantly.

‘Then we know the perfect way to cheer her up,’ said the man with a coarse laugh. ‘Be on your way or you’ll join your father in the grave.’ He cocked the pistol and aimed it at Daniel’s head. ‘This is no place for a priest. There’s man’s work to be done with your sister. Now – will you go or would you rather stay and be shot?’

Whenever he was outnumbered, Daniel followed the same rule. He always attacked the person who was strongest and most dangerous. In this case, it was the man with the pistol. The other two soldiers were apparently unarmed. Surprise was on Daniel’s side. Nobody would expect a parish priest to be able to take care of himself in a fight. The soldier clearly thought that the threat of death would send him on his way so that they could take it in turns with his sister. Daniel pretended to concede defeat. After a gesture of helplessness to Rachel, he turned his horse as if to leave. The man lowered his weapon and switched his gaze to Rachel. She was plainly outraged at the thought of being raped by all three of them and braced herself to resist. Daniel came to her aid. Flinging himself suddenly from the saddle, he knocked the man beside him to the ground, forcing him to drop his weapon in the process. Face in the mud and with Daniel on his back, he was quite unable to defend himself properly. Daniel grabbed his head, pulled it upwards and twisted it with great force so that the man’s neck broke with an awesome crack.

The other soldiers gaped at what they saw, allowing Rachel time to pull the pistol from her saddlebag. As one of the men dashed to avenge the death of his friend by grappling with Daniel, she took aim and fired, hitting him between the shoulder blades. Though it didn’t kill him outright, the shot sapped all his energy. He slumped against Daniel who dispatched him with a dagger he’d kept hidden in his boot. The third soldier reviewed the odds. He was up against a priest who could kill with his bare hands and a woman who obviously knew how to defend herself. His chance of sexual pleasure had vanished in less than a minute. Lust became panic. Without offering any fight, he raced off into the trees as if his breeches were on fire.

Daniel went after him. Mounting his horse, he used his heels to goad it into a canter and pursued the man through the undergrowth. His quarry didn’t get very far. Before he’d gone fifty yards, he was panting for breath. When he heard the hoof beats behind him, he broke into a nervous sweat. There was no escape. Unable to outrun the rider, he turned to confront him, hoping to pull him from the saddle and somehow overpower him. But Daniel gave him no opportunity to do that. Instead, he used the bottom of his foot to stamp hard against the man’s chest, sending him cartwheeling backwards. Bringing the horse to a halt, Daniel leapt off and dived on top of the soldier, pinning him to the ground and hitting him with a relay of punches until he was groggy. Arms up to protect his head, the man cowered and begged for mercy.

‘Don’t hurt me, Father,’ he pleaded. ‘We meant no harm.’

‘You meant a great deal of harm,’ said Daniel, vehemently.

‘I swear that it was all in fun.’

‘Don’t lie to me. You’re deserters with nothing to lose. You tried to take advantage of what you thought were two defenceless travellers. Your friends paid with their lives. You’ve been left to suffer a different fate.’

When Daniel stood up, the man knelt before him in supplication.

‘Don’t take me back to my regiment,’ he wailed. ‘Desertion means death.’

‘It’s no more than you deserve,’ said Daniel, ‘but I have work for you to do before I start thinking about your punishment. You can help to bury your friends in a shallow grave. Like you, they’re despicable cowards but they still deserve a decent burial.’

‘Yes, yes – I’ll do that gladly.’

‘Afterwards, I have a much more important task for you.’

‘What’s that, Father?’

Daniel yanked him to his feet. ‘I want you to tell me everything you know about the disposition of the French army.’

The soldier became suspicious. His eyes narrowed as he appraised the curé. ‘You’re not a priest at all, are you?’

‘No,’ said Daniel with a grin. ‘I’m the Bishop of Beauvais and I’ve come to take confession.’

Holding him by the collar, Daniel led him back in the direction of Rachel Rees, taking the horse’s rein in the other. Being accosted by three deserters had been a testing experience for them but they might reap something of real value from it. The deserter would be a mine of information about the French army, telling them things they could never glean elsewhere. Such intelligence would be very welcome in the Allied camp.

The citadel was holding out but there were distinct signs that its resistance was slowly diminishing. Its artillery was less active, its musket fire more sporadic and its successes in the tunnels largely neutralised. Walls repeatedly pounded by cannon fire had been breached in several places. Viewing the stronghold through a telescope, Marlborough could see that the Allies were finally getting the upper hand. To do so, however, they’d suffered appreciable losses. As well as taking far longer than anticipated, the siege of Tournai had so far accounted for over five thousand casualties, many killed in horrific circumstances. Plague victims had to be added to the number of those who fell in combat. As the prospect of enemy surrender came nearer, there was no triumphalism in the Allied camp. What the captain-general and his men felt was an overwhelming sense of fatigue and disappointment. The siege had been debilitating.

On other fronts, the news was no more inspiring. Allied probes in the direction of Marchiennes had been effectively repulsed by the French and the word from Spain was that a virtual stalemate had been reached. But it was further east and south that the major setback came. Marlborough had pinned faith in a double attack launched in Piedmont and on the Rhine. Its aim was to distract the French from Flanders and leave Villars substantially weakened. The plan was now in chaos. Reports filtered through that the Elector of Hanover had been soundly beaten at Rumersheim depriving the Allies of the advance on which they’d counted. None of Villars’ troops would be diverted from Flanders now. Marlborough would face an army that was heartened by the news of a French victory in the field. While they still commanded the sea, the Allies had only shifting control on land. The frontiers of France remained inviolate.

It was no wonder that Marlborough was suffering from one of his migraines. When he returned to his quarters, he found something that turned a headache into a small explosion inside his cranium. A courier had brought letters from England. Marlborough read those from Godolphin and Walpole first. Written days earlier, they displayed an ignorance of recent developments at Tournai but they both contained useful information about political machinations back in England. The third letter was from Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough. Having recognised her characteristic hand, her husband had saved it to the end. He opened it with dread.

‘God help us!’ he gasped as he read the contents.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Cardonnel.

‘The fat is truly in the fire now, Adam.’

‘In what way?’

‘I
implored
my dear wife to show tact and restraint with regard to Her Majesty but she’s incapable of doing so. Sarah has continued to bully and blame her.’

‘Yet she must realise what harm that can do to you.’

‘When she loses her temper, she forgets the consequences.’

‘What’s provoked this latest outburst?’

‘A rebuff from Her Majesty,’ said Marlborough, worriedly. ‘She is clearly exasperated at Sarah’s incessant ranting and has told her that it is impossible for her to recover her former kindness.’

‘It was more than kindness, Your Grace. They were like sisters.’

‘The bond between them has been broken irreparably. Henceforth, Sarah will be treated solely as my wife and as the Groom of the Stole. Position and prerogative have been taken away. The Queen’s coldness has an Arctic feel to it.’

‘I can imagine how Her Grace reacted,’ said Cardonnel with a slight grimace. ‘That would only have made matters worse.’

‘It will certainly not advantage us,’ groaned Marlborough, both hands to his head in a vain attempt to still the agony within it. ‘Blenheim Palace will never be finished if we antagonise the very person who holds the purse strings. No matter how many victories I deliver, Her Majesty will not be appeased. And the worst of it is that Sarah wishes me to intercede as if I can wave a magic wand and make this falling-out disappear. I lack the power to do so, Adam,’ he went on. ‘When I raised the issue with the Queen, she refused even to discuss it and she dismissed my request that I might be made captain-general for life as if I’d made an obscene suggestion. There was no precedent for it, she claimed, and my hopes were snuffed out like so many candles. Oh, why am I doing this?’ he cried, wincing as a hammer struck the anvil of his brain. ‘What do I stand to gain? Where is the profit from all this suffering?’

‘The profit lies in the proof of your superiority as a commander.’

‘Have I not provided evidence enough of that?’

‘Undoubtedly – but France has not yet been forced into abject capitulation. There’s work still to be done – more sieges, more battles and more victories.’

Marlborough brandished the letter. ‘What use is victory when I have this to contend with at home?’ he asked. ‘When I look to the future, I shudder. If Sarah persists in abusing the Queen, she’ll bring Blenheim Palace crashing down around our ears and we’ll spend the rest of our lives as outcasts.’

‘Why did you desert your regiment?’ asked Daniel.

‘The pay was poor and the food was dreadful.’

‘A soldier should be used to that.’

‘We were afraid we’d be killed.’

‘Why?’

‘The Duke of Marlborough always wins a battle.’

‘If you fear death, why did you join the army?’

‘We were drunk. The recruiting officer duped us.’

‘When did you realise you’d made a mistake?’

‘When we built our defences in the pouring rain,’ said the man, bitterly, ‘and stood guard in trenches with mud up to our knees. We were bored, famished and soaked to the skin. The water tasted like piss. There were rats everywhere. When we complained about the conditions, we were threatened with a flogging.’

‘So you decided to make a run for it?’

‘Anything was better than staying there.’

After the two soldiers had been buried, Daniel questioned the man closely. His name was Marc Goujon and he was pathetically eager to provide all the information sought. He talked about the structure of command in the French army and gave full details of his own regiment and its movements. From snatches of conversation he’d picked up from officers, he was able to give some indication of French intentions. He and his two companions had not been the only deserters. While Daniel sat on a log beside the man, Rachel was a short distance away, watching them carefully. Goujon might be cooperative but she didn’t trust him for a moment. He was a greasy man in his late twenties with swarthy skin and a rough beard. The prospect of being assaulted by him made her stomach churn. Unnoticed by Goujon, she’d reloaded her pistol and kept it within easy reach.

‘What will happen to me?’ wondered Goujon.

‘I know what ought to happen to you,’ said Daniel. ‘You should be lying beside those other two renegades under the ground.’

The man was frantic. ‘Please don’t kill me. I can be of use to you.’

‘How?’

‘I can enlist in
your
army instead. I can fight for you.’

‘Our soldiers respect women. They don’t try to rape them.’

‘That wasn’t in our minds,’ claimed Goujon. ‘We just wanted some sport. We’d not have harmed her at all.’

‘You’re a liar.’

‘Let me make amends. I know from the interest you’ve shown in the French army that you’re in the pay of the Allies. Take me back with you. Give me a red coat and I’ll fight as hard as the next man.’

Daniel was unmoved by the offer. ‘You’d desert within a week.’

‘I won’t, I promise you. Give me a chance to atone for what I’ve done.’

‘We don’t want your kind polluting our army.’

‘Then what do you want?’

Before he answered, Daniel had to ponder. They couldn’t keep the man as a prisoner, nor could they let him go. There was always the chance that he might return to the French camp and buy favour by disclosing details of a spy posing as a curé and accompanied by a chubby female. Goujon knew that they were heading for Mons. Daniel didn’t want to be caught there by a French patrol alerted by the deserter. As he turned over the possibilities in his mind, Daniel was momentarily distracted. Goujon was quick to take advantage. The cringing figure beside Daniel sprang into life, punching him hard in the face and knocking him backwards off the log. When he made a dash for it this time, Goujon headed for the horses, intending to take one and pull the other behind him. But he had to get past Rachel in order to reach the animals. Getting up, she tried to reach for the pistol but was far too slow. Goujon deliberately cannoned into her and knocked her flying. Seeing the weapon on a boulder nearby, he snatched it up.

Daniel had recovered swiftly. When he leapt to his feet to chase the deserter, however, he saw the pistol pointing directly at him and slowed to a halt.

‘Come on,’ beckoned Goujon, teeth bared. ‘I’m going to blow your brains out then fuck your sister or whoever this fat cow really is.’

The insult was like a bee sting to Rachel’s pride. Rolling over, she reached a hand between Goujon’s open legs and squeezed his genitals so hard that he let out a yell of agony. After crouching for a moment with a hand to his groin, he turned on Rachel and levelled the weapon at her head. But the momentary delay was fatal because it gave Daniel time to hurtle towards him and tackle him around the waist. Both men hit the ground hard and the pistol went off, its bullet shooting upwards into a tree and evicting its tenants. As the birds squawked in protest, they looked down at a fierce struggle below. Goujon was strong and fighting desperately for his life. He tried everything to get the better of his adversary, punching, pulling, biting, spitting and using his knees to explore Daniel’s ribs. With a surge of energy, he rolled Daniel onto his back and tried to get hands to his neck. He squeezed hard. Daniel broke the man’s grip and bucked so violently that he dislodged his attacker. It was Goujon’s turn to be trapped on the ground with a pair of hands at his throat. Daniel showed no mercy. Though Goujon continued to twist, turn and flail away with both arms, Daniel tightened his hold inexorably. Taking all the punishment that the deserter’s fists could hand out, he exerted pressure until the Frenchmen’s expletives became no more than a gurgle of despair. Goujon’s resistance faded, his face changed colour and his eyes bulged. A minute later, he was dead.