5 A Very Murdering Battle (2 page)

‘You were misinformed.’

‘I think not.’

‘Be off with you.’

‘Your suspicion is understandable.’

‘Farewell, monsieur.’ When the apothecary tried to close the door, Daniel grabbed it with a firm hand and held it ajar. ‘Leave go,’ said Futrelle, angrily.

‘Not until we’ve discussed the symptoms.’

‘You said that you didn’t want medicine.’

‘I’m not talking about
my
condition,’ said Daniel, ‘but that of France itself. It’s eaten away with a disease that no apothecary can cure. Don’t you agree?’

Futrelle looked at him anew with a mixture of curiosity tempered by caution. He asked a few apparently irrelevant questions and Daniel gave him the correct answers. They were talking in code. Once the old man was satisfied with his visitor’s credentials, he told Daniel to tether his horse in the stable at the side of the property. The two men then adjourned to a room at the back of the shop and sat either side of a table. A crackling fire helped Daniel to thaw out. Since there was still a vestigial suspicion in the apothecary’s eyes, Daniel produced a letter from inside his coat and handed it over. Reading it by the light of the candle, Futrelle gave a nod. Daniel was accepted.

‘You are welcome, monsieur,’ he said.

‘Let us remove all trace of this,’ said Daniel, taking the letter from him and holding it over the candle until it was ignited. ‘We don’t want anyone else knowing who sent me.’ He tossed it into the fire and it was soon consumed. ‘There – it’s as if it never existed.’

‘One can’t be too careful.’

‘Pierre Lefeaux taught me that.’

Futrelle was startled. ‘Pierre died years ago.’

‘I know,’ said Daniel. ‘I found him hanging from the rafters beside his wife. He obviously hadn’t been careful enough.’

‘Someone betrayed him. He was a brave man.’

‘I’m glad to see that you are equally brave.’

‘Not me, monsieur,’ said Futrelle with a self-deprecating laugh. ‘Brave men don’t tremble as much as I do, nor fear for their lives every time a stranger comes into the shop. Because I’m terrified of meeting Pierre’s fate, I trust nobody.’

Daniel warmed to the old man. He was one of the go-betweens employed by the Allied army, people with a strong enough grudge against France to help its enemies by acting as repository for intelligence gathered by agents in the city. Futrelle had no idea what was in the various missives that he stored before passing them on at regular intervals. He just hoped that he was helping a cause in which he passionately believed and accepted – albeit nervously – the consequent risks.

‘I have nothing for you at the moment,’ he explained, ‘but, as it happens, I expect a delivery this very day. Your arrival is timely.’

‘It’s no accident,’ said Daniel. ‘I was warned to be here on the thirteenth of the month because that’s the date when word is sent from Versailles. I just hope that it gets through. This weather would deter most couriers.’

‘He’ll be here, monsieur, I assure you.’

‘Will he come to the shop?’

‘That’s far too dangerous. The exchange is some distance away.’

‘Do you always take the delivery?’

‘No,’ replied Futrelle, ‘I have a number of agents and we take it in turns to be there on the thirteenth of the month. January is always my turn.’

‘I’ll go in your place.’

The apothecary smiled gratefully. ‘Then you are doubly welcome, monsieur. I’d hate to go out on a night like this. I have potions to cure almost anything but being chilled to the marrow is a condition I cannot relieve. And I am of an age when I feel the cold more keenly.’ He lowered his voice. ‘He’ll need to be paid first.’

‘I have plenty of money with me.’

‘You obviously came prepared.’

‘Prepared and eager,’ said Daniel. ‘Teach me the code.’

Once on his way, the courier had found his journey less onerous than he had feared. The snowstorm eased and the wind became less capricious. It was still not a pleasant ride but at least he no longer had doubts about reaching his destination. Paris was some ten miles distant from Versailles, so he had ample time to get there. He stopped at a wayside inn to take refreshment and to rest his horse. With hot food and a glass of brandy inside him, he felt able to face the next stage of the journey. It never occurred to him that he was being trailed by two men. No sooner had the courier ridden off than the pair stepped out of the inn and made for the stables. Mounting their horses, they gave pursuit, staying close enough to keep him within sight and far enough behind him to avoid arousing suspicion.

When he reached Paris, the courier had hours to spare and decided to make the most of them. After picking his way through the deserted streets, he turned into a courtyard, dismounted, tethered his horse to a post then rang the doorbell of a house. Recognised by the servant who opened the door, he was admitted at once. The two men arrived in time to witness his disappearance.

‘Do we follow him in?’ asked Yves, impulsively.

‘There’s no need,’ said Armand.

‘But he’ll be making his delivery.’

‘He won’t be handing over any correspondence here. He’s making a visit of a very different kind. This place is a brothel.’

‘How do you know?’

Armand grinned. ‘How do you
think
I know?’

Yves was indignant. ‘Do we have to stay freezing out here while he’s between the thighs of some greasy harlot?’

‘Show some compassion,’ said his friend, tolerantly. ‘Let him enjoy it. Before the night’s out, he’ll be dead.’

Even the meeting place had a number.
Les Trois Anges
was an inn in one of the rougher parts of the city but there was nothing angelic about it. Cluttered, low-ceilinged and dirty, the bar was gloomy and malodorous. The fire did little to dispel the abiding chill. Needing to make the exchange at precisely eight o’clock, Daniel arrived ten minutes early and bought himself a drink. The weather had robbed the inn of most of its habitués, so he had a choice of tables. He took one near the door, then casually put six coins on the table before arranging them in a triangle. It was all the identification needed. He sipped his wine and waited, checking, as usual, for any other exits from the building. In the event of an emergency, it was always wise to have an alternative means of leaving a place. The precaution had saved his life on more than one occasion. He looked up as the door swung open but it was not the courier he was expecting. The big, slovenly man who stumbled in was too early and hardly a person to be trusted with so important a task. His torn clothing, massive hands and fearsome gaze suggested someone used to manual labour. He would never have been allowed near Versailles.

Hunched over his table, Daniel used his arms to shield the telltale money. It was when a distant clock began to boom that he sat up and exposed the triangle of coins. The courier was punctual. He came in with a quiet smile on his face, walking past Daniel and appearing not to notice the signal on the table. He ordered a glass of brandy and stood at the bar as he sipped it, trading banter with the landlord. When he’d finished his drink, he bade farewell and headed for the door. Daniel was ready for him. Passing the table, the courier slipped the package into his hand and received a small purse in exchange. He let himself out. Daniel, meanwhile, had secreted the package in a pocket inside his cloak. It was all over in seconds. Nobody in the bar noticed anything untoward but the eyes at the window were more observant. They saw what they had come to see and acted accordingly.

Daniel lingered for a few minutes before downing his wine in one last gulp. Then he swept up the coins, thanked the landlord for his hospitality and went out. Intending to reclaim his horse, he was surprised to be confronted by two men who blocked his way. One of them held a pistol on him while the other extended a hand.

‘I’ll thank you for that package, monsieur,’ said Armand.

Daniel was unperturbed. ‘You are mistaken, my friend. I have no package.’

‘It was given to you by the courier.’

‘What courier? There’s clearly a misunderstanding here. I received nothing from anybody. I was merely enjoying a drink. If you doubt me, ask the landlord.’

‘We followed him from Versailles,’ explained Armand, ‘and the trail ended here – with you. As for the courier, the trail ended altogether for him.’

The two men moved apart so that Daniel could see the figure sprawled on the ground behind them. Enough light was spilling through the windows of the inn for Daniel to see that the courier’s throat had been cut from ear to ear and that he was lying in a pool of blood. His visit to
Les Trois Anges
had cost him his life.

Yves raised the pistol and aimed it at Daniel’s head.

‘We’ll ask you one last time, monsieur,’ he said, menacingly. ‘Hand over that package while you’re still alive to do so.’

Daniel needed no convincing. If they could kill the courier with such casual brutality, they’d have no compunction about sending Daniel after him. He therefore came to an instant decision. Since he couldn’t bluff his way out of the situation, a show of compliance was required. With a shrug of defeat, he reached inside his cloak.

‘You have the advantage of me, messieurs,’ he said, resignedly.

‘Hand it over,’ insisted Yves.

‘I will, I promise.’

But it was not the package that he brought out. What emerged from his cloak was a dagger that flashed upwards and pierced the wrist of the hand holding the pistol. As Yves let out a cry of pain, the weapon jerked skywards and discharged its bullet harmlessly into the air. Daniel pushed him hard in the chest and he tottered back, tripping over the corpse and falling to the ground. Yves was more concerned with stemming the flow of blood from the wound than anything else but Armand wanted revenge. His hand went to his sword. Before the man could draw, however, Daniel kicked him in the groin, making him double up in agony, and shoved him on top of his friend. While the two of them struggled to get to their feet, they rid themselves of a stream of expletives. Daniel didn’t hear them because he’d already run off to his horse and mounted it at speed. Not knowing where he was going, he galloped off into the night.

Armand and Yves were soon in pursuit. Cursing their folly and mastering their pain, they delivered a valedictory kick at the dead courier before staggering across to their horses. Though Daniel had a good start, there was an immediate problem. As he clattered over the cobbles, his horse’s hooves echoed along the empty streets and gave a clear indication of his route. All that the two enraged men had to do was to follow the sound. There was a secondary consideration. Daniel was riding blind while they, he reasoned, probably knew the city well. They’d be aware of any short cuts and might be able to intercept him. Since he couldn’t outrun them, he was faced with a choice. He could either hide somewhere or turn and fight. The obvious refuge was Claude Futrelle’s shop but Daniel was unsure of finding it in time and, in any case, wanted to lead his pursuers away from the apothecary. It would be unfair to put Futrelle in jeopardy. Apart from anything else, the old man would certainly break under torture and endanger the lives of other agents. The complex network of spies simply had to be protected.

Daniel reined in his horse and listened. The sound of furious hooves could be heard in the distance. They were after him and wouldn’t give up until they caught him. The decision was made for Daniel. He had somehow to dispose of them before they killed him and recovered the documents he was carrying. Kicking his mount into action again, he rode on until he came to what appeared to be a commercial district. Warehouses loomed up on both sides of the road, then he passed a timber yard. When he came to a turning on the left, he took it, only to discover after fifty yards or so that he was in a cul-de-sac. Instead of being dismayed, Daniel was pleased. Here was a possible chance of turning the tables on his enemies. He rode back to the corner, dismounted and lurked in the shadows. Armed with a dagger and a pistol – and with long experience of escaping from such predicaments – he felt that the advantage had now tilted in his favour. He’d not only chosen the ground for combat, he had the element of surprise.

As the two riders approached, Daniel could hear them slowing their horses so that they could search for their quarry. He waited until they got closer then put his plan into action. Slapping his horse on the rump, he sent it galloping down the cul-de-sac. Armand and Yves responded at once, drawing their swords and spurring their mounts on. Pistol in hand, Daniel was ready for them. When they came hurtling around the corner, he let them get within yards of him before stepping out and firing his weapon at the nearest rider. The bullet hit Yves in the middle of the forehead, blowing his brains out and knocking him from the saddle. As it bounced on the ground, Daniel leapt forward to snatch up the dead man’s discarded sword. Armand was shocked at the loss of his friend and infuriated that they’d ridden into a trap. Yanking on the reins, he pulled his horse in a semicircle then jumped to the ground. He could only see Daniel in silhouette but it was enough to set the blood pulsing through his veins. Sword in hand, he stalked his prey.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

‘Why not come and find out?’ invited Daniel, coolly.

‘Yves was my friend. You’ll pay for his death.’

‘Take care that you don’t pay for the courier’s death. I’m not an unsuspecting man leaving an inn and there are no longer two of you against one. We fight on equal terms, monsieur, and that means you will certainly lose.’

Armand brimmed with confidence. ‘There’s no hope of that happening.’

‘We shall see.’

They were now close enough to size each other up, circling warily as they did so. Daniel knew that his adversary would strike first because the man was fuming with rage and bent on retribution. Armand didn’t keep him waiting. Leaping forward, he tried a first murderous lunge but Daniel parried it easily. Their blades clashed again and sparks flew into the air. Daniel was testing him out, letting him attack so that he could gauge the man’s strength and skill. Evidently, Armand was a competent swordsman but he had nothing of Daniel’s dexterity, still less his nimble footwork. Each time he launched himself at his opponent, he was expertly repelled because he was up against a British army officer who had regular sword practice. Aware that he couldn’t prevail, Armand became more desperate, slashing away wildly with his blade and issuing dire threats as he did so. Daniel remained calm and chose his moment to bring the duel to a sudden end. Unfortunately, the frosted cobblestones came to Armand’s aid.

As Daniel poised himself for a final thrust, his foot slipped and he was thrown off balance. Armand seized his opportunity at once, putting all his remaining power into a vicious attack that drove Daniel back until his shoulders met a wall.

Laughing in triumph, Armand went down on one knee to deliver what he felt would be the decisive thrust but Daniel was no longer there. Moving agilely sideways, he let his opponent’s sword meet solid stone and jar his arm. Armand’s moment had gone. A slash across the back of his hand forced him to drop his weapon, then Daniel thrust his blade into the man’s heart. With a gurgle of horror, Armand slumped to the ground and twitched violently for several seconds before expiring. The commotion had aroused nightwatchmen in warehouses nearby and loud voices were raised as they came to investigate. First on the scene was a man with a lantern held up to illumine Daniel’s face. Others soon converged on him. There was no time to search for his horse at the other end of the street. Tossing the bloodstained sword aside, Daniel pushed his way past the newcomers and melted quickly into the darkness, sustained by the thought that he’d saved the vital package and done something to avenge the murder of the hapless courier.

Army life had accustomed Ronan Flynn to having his sleep rudely disturbed. He was used to being roused in the early hours of the morning to make a hasty departure from camp. Rising well before dawn, therefore, was no effort for him and he’d settled into a comfortable routine. He awoke in the dark, got out of bed and groped for the clothes he’d left on the chair. Once dressed, he gave his wife a token kiss on the forehead, then tiptoed out and crept down the stairs. When he’d lit a candle, he made himself a light breakfast and reflected on the changes in his life. The visit of Daniel Rawson had left him with mixed emotions. Flynn was glad that his soldiering days were over and that he was now happily married to a gorgeous young woman in his adopted country. He had a new occupation and a new set of responsibilities. At the same time, however, he felt that something was missing. The sense of adventure embodied in Daniel had a heady appeal and he was reminded of the thrill of courting danger at every turn. While he had no wish to return to the army, he’d begun to feel regrets that had been dormant for years. Work as a baker was safe, undemanding and profitable. Yet it was also mundane and repetitive. It lacked the excitement and the camaraderie he’d found when in uniform.

Shaking his head, he tried to dismiss such thoughts. He knew who to blame. ‘Damn you, Dan Rawson!’ he said to himself. ‘Why the devil did you have to come to Paris and stir up memories I’ve tried so hard to forget?’ He addressed his mind to what lay ahead. When he got to the bakery, the ovens would already be lit by his assistant and Flynn would be able to start making loaf after loaf. It was a staple food that people needed every day. Providing it gave him satisfaction and, after all this time, he still savoured the tempting aroma of fresh bread. The bakery was owned by his father-in-law, Emile Rousset, but he’d been happy to let Flynn gradually take charge. It was a far cry from the menial jobs he’d done as a boy in his native Ireland. Having mastered his new trade, he applied himself to it and soon built his reputation. He was liked and respected by his customers for his excellent bread and for his cheery disposition. It was something of which Flynn could be justly proud.

Breakfast over, he put on his ratteen coat and reached for his hat. With an old cloak around his shoulders, he was ready to step out of the house into another wintry day. He carried the lighted candle, cupping a hand around the flame to prevent it from being blown out. In the stable, he set the candle up on a shelf and went to work in its flickering circle of light. After harnessing the horse, he had difficulty persuading it to go between the shafts of the cart and had to swear volubly in French at the animal. It was only then that he realised he was not alone in the stable. Something seemed to be moving under the pile of sacks on the back of the cart. Holding the candle in one hand, he used the other to grab a sickle that was hanging on a wall.

‘Come out of there,’ he ordered, standing over the cart.

As the sacks were peeled off one by one, Flynn watched with his weapon held high and ready to strike. Angry that someone had dared to trespass on his property, he resolved to punish the interloper. When the final sack was moved aside, however, a familiar face came into view. Daniel gave him an apologetic smile.

‘Good morning, Ronan,’ he said. ‘I hope you don’t mind me bedding down here for the night. I had a spot of bother.’

The Duke of Marlborough divided opinion. While everyone agreed that he was a supreme strategist on the field of battle, there were those who criticised him for what they perceived as his characteristic meanness. Compared to other generals in the Allied army, he maintained rather modest quarters and was quicker to accept an invitation to dine elsewhere than to offer hospitality himself. His friends argued that he was always in such demand as a dinner companion that he had to share himself around, but his many detractors discerned guile and parsimony. The protracted siege of Lille had extended the campaign season well beyond its usual limit and it was not until the subsequent fall of Ghent in the first week of January 1709 that hostilities were finally suspended. His coalition army was at last able to retire into winter quarters and try to keep up its spirits in the atrocious weather conditions. Unable to sail back to England, Marlborough contrived to get himself invited to stay in The Hague at the commodious home of an obliging Dutch general. When they saw him and his entourage take over half the entire house at no expense, critics said it was one more example of his stinginess, while others countered that he could hardly refuse such a generous offer and – rather than offend his host – had therefore accepted out of sheer politeness. At all events, it meant that the captain-general of the Allied army spent January in the Dutch capital, enjoying a warmth and comfort denied to the vast majority of his men.

Marlborough was not, however, idle. His day started early and he crammed a great deal into it – writing dozens of letters, planning the next campaign season, meeting with senior members of the Dutch army, wooing his other allies and maintaining a busy social life. Adam Cardonnel, his loyal and conscientious secretary, was usually at his side to assist, advise, console or congratulate. In the course of the long and arduous war, they’d been through so much together that they’d been drawn close. Their interdependence was complete. They were seated at a table littered with reports, maps and accumulated correspondence. Finishing a letter, Marlborough read it through before signing his name with a flourish. He pushed the missive aside with a long sigh.

‘It was a waste of time writing that,’ he said. ‘It can’t be sent in this weather.’

Cardonnel looked up from the document he was reading. ‘Is it another appeal to Her Majesty?’

‘Yes, Adam, and it’s doomed to failure.’

‘Not necessarily.’

‘It is. The chances of my dear wife being clasped to the royal bosom again are extremely faint. She pestered Her Majesty to the point where she became intolerable. I’d never dare to say this to her, of course,’ he admitted, ‘but Sarah is largely to blame. She seems to forget that the Queen is recently widowed and still mourning her husband. Limited as the poor fellow undoubtedly was, she doted on Prince George. It’s a time for tact and sensitivity, qualities with which my wife, alas, is not overly endowed. Had she not continued to browbeat the Queen, the rift in the lute wouldn’t have widened beyond repair.’  

‘Her Majesty may yet relent.’  

Marlborough shook his head. ‘Too many of our enemies have the royal ear. My own position at home is fragile and my wife’s antics hardly improve it. You see my dilemma, Adam?’ he asked, face clouding with concern. ‘If I’m deprived of the support of Her Majesty, how can I retain my position as the leader of the Grand Alliance?’  

‘It’s surely not in any danger,’ said Cardonnel, earnestly. ‘One only has to look at your achievements in last year’s campaign. Oudenarde was a triumph that rocked the French to their foundations and it will take them an age to recover from the battle. You then took the prized citadel of Lille before bringing Ghent to its knees. It was one victory after another.’