5 A Very Murdering Battle (5 page)

‘How many of the stalls will be there today?’

‘Oh, I think most people will brave the weather. They have a living to make, after all.’ She looked at the tapestry folded up in the corner. ‘I daresay that you’re all missing Ramillies.’

‘We are,’ replied Pienaar, nostalgically.

Dopff nodded in agreement and gave a hopeless shrug.

‘It’s the best thing I’ve ever been privileged to work on,’ said Geel, seizing the opportunity to talk to Amalia. ‘Your father is a genius.’

‘That’s what I keep telling him, Nick,’ she said.

‘It’s wonderful to work with a master of his trade.’

‘An increasingly
tired
master of his trade,’ corrected Janssen, massaging an ache at the back of his neck. ‘But it’s reassuring to know that I have the respect of my employees.’

‘It’s not respect,’ said Geel, gaze still on Amalia, ‘it’s veneration.’

Geel and Dopff had both been apprenticed to Janssen and honed their skills under his expert tutelage. Pienaar, by contrast, approaching forty but looking a decade older, had only joined Janssen four years earlier but had quickly settled in. Of medium height and carrying too much weight, he was utterly reliable and very industrious. Until the death of his wife the previous winter, he’d been a talkative man. Pienaar now preferred to be alone with his thoughts and rarely started a conversation. The ebullient Geel had more than enough to say for all three assistants.

Janseen drew Amalia aside for a private word with her.

‘Take care,’ he said. ‘The pavements are slippery.’

She was amused. ‘Perhaps I should get a pair of skates.’

‘They’re far too dangerous.’

‘People are skating on the canals all the time.’

‘Well, my daughter isn’t about to join them. Apart from anything else, it’s an unladylike activity. You’d lose all dignity on a pair of skates.’

‘But I’d have such
fun
, Father.’ About to leave, she remembered something. ‘By the way, have you seen anyone looking at the house?’

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I’ve seen dozens of people. In my own small way, I’m quite famous. People are bound to stare at my house as they pass by.’

‘You haven’t seen one particular man, then?’

‘I’d have said so if I had.’ His brow crinkled. ‘What’s going on, Amalia? You asked me this question before. What’s your concern?’

‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ said Amalia, briskly. ‘The man is not actually there. I
knew
that Beatrix was inventing the whole thing. She needs to get out in the fresh air to clear her mind. That’s the best way to dispel her anxieties.’

For all his boldness on the battlefield, the Duke of Marlborough was a cautious man when it came to contemplating the future. He believed in covering all options. Aware that peace negotiations were going on between Grand Pensionary Heinsius of Holland and Colbert de Torcy, the French foreign minister, Marlborough wished that he could have some influence upon them. Since he was excluded from the discussions, he worried lest decisions were made to his personal disadvantage. He therefore sent a stream of letters to his nephew, the Duke of Berwick, Marshal of France. Any correspondence between such sworn enemies might be viewed with astonishment by most observers but Marlborough saw nothing wrong or remotely treacherous in it. As the illegitimate son of Arabella Churchill, Marlborough’s sister, Berwick was a kinsman. His father had been the Duke of York, brother to Charles II and, later, King James II. Berwick therefore had a strongly Jacobite lineage and chose to fight for Catholic France while nurturing the distant hope that he’d one day see a Stuart monarch restored to the English throne.

Since secrecy was essential, Marlborough always signed himself with the monogram ‘oo’. Two years earlier, the captain-general had been offered a
douceur
of two million gold livres for his good offices in arranging a peace acceptable to France. Unable to achieve that, he’d now written to Berwick to tell him that he hoped the offer would still be honoured, knowing that his nephew would be certain to pass on the hint to Versailles. At the time when he was planning his strategy for the next campaign, therefore, Marlborough was allowing for the possibility that the current peace negotiations would come to fruition. In that eventuality, he sought – and felt that he deserved – the handsome reward once dangled enticingly before him by the French. What would shock and sadden the other commanders in the Allied army didn’t trouble Adam Cardonnel in the least. He understood and approved of the way that Marlborough’s mind worked. The war could not last for ever. Having given such sterling service for so many fraught years, the captain-general ought to reap a substantial benefit out of the peace.

After signing another missive to his nephew, Marlborough looked up as the door opened and his secretary came in. There was no need to conceal the letter.

‘Well?’ asked Marlborough. ‘Has winter frozen the negotiations?’

‘No, Your Grace,’ replied Cardonnel. ‘My information is that tentative discussions continue through the agency of an interlocutor, Herman von Petkum.’

‘But we’ve no idea of their eventual outcome?’

‘It’s far too early to make predictions.’

‘What is Louis offering?’

‘We’d all like to know that, Your Grace.’

‘And what has the old devil said about
me
?’ wondered Marlborough, adjusting his periwig. ‘I hope that old age hasn’t dulled his memory. From the start, I’ve always been wholeheartedly for peace. He should remember that.’

‘Nobody can review this war without thinking of you,’ said Cardonnel with a sincerity shorn of any whisper of flattery. ‘Your pre-eminence has acquired the status of a legend.’

‘Even legends require remuneration for their services.’

‘I’m sure it will be forthcoming, Your Grace.’

Cardonnel sat on the opposite side of the table and reached for some documents. The two men were soon absorbed in their reading. When there was a knock on the door, they glanced up as a man in the uniform of a British lieutenant stepped into the room with one hand on the arm of a dishevelled individual with a ragged beard and a torn cloak. Since the visitor held his head down, it was impossible to make out his features clearly.

‘He claims that he has an important message for you, Your Grace,’ said the lieutenant, sceptically. ‘We searched him and relieved him of a dagger and a pistol. Yet we found no dispatches on his person.’

‘That’s because you didn’t search me properly,’ said Daniel, raising his head. ‘My name is Captain Rawson of the 24
^th
Foot and I’ll thank you for the return of my weapons, Lieutenant. His Grace will vouch for me.’

Marlborough peered at him. ‘Is that really
you
, Daniel?’

‘I’d never have guessed,’ said Cardonnel with a laugh.

The lieutenant was perplexed. ‘You know this man?’

‘Captain Rawson is a member of my personal staff,’ said Marlborough, ‘and I vouch for him without hesitation. Have his weapons ready for return.’

He snapped his fingers to dismiss the man and the lieutenant went out. Daniel immediately sat on a chair and eased off a boot. Concealed inside was the package he’d received from the courier in Paris. It was much reduced in size.

‘I memorised what I could,’ he explained, handing the package over and replacing his boot, ‘so that I had less to carry. I destroyed what I no longer needed. If you give me pen and paper, I’ll retrieve the information from my memory.’

‘You’ve been away so long,’ said Cardonnel, ‘that we were starting to give up hope. It’s such a relief to see you back here unharmed.’

‘What happened?’ asked Marlborough. ‘Did you encounter problems?’

‘None that I was unable to surmount,’ replied Daniel, getting to his feet, ‘though my visit to Paris was not without its setbacks.’

He gave them a brief account of his adventures, mentioning the death of the courier but saying nothing about his stay with Ronan Flynn and his family. They were highly diverted by the tale of how he’d escaped from the inn after depriving three French soldiers of their horses. On the long journey back to The Hague, there’d been many other obstacles to negotiate but Daniel made light of them. He’d completed his assignment and that was all that mattered.

Opening the package, Marlborough glanced through its contents.

‘By all, this is wonderful!’ he exclaimed with a chortle of delight. ‘I have Louis’s own words in my hand. This one paragraph sweeps away weeks of rumour and speculation. At last we know what he has in mind.’

‘That could only have come from someone very close to the King,’ noted Daniel. ‘Evidently, you have agents in high places.’

‘We have one particular source and that person is wholly reliable. Everything of importance that occurs at Versailles comes to his ears and – in time – is passed on to us. I regret that these documents cost the courier his life but he can easily be replaced. Thank you, Daniel,’ he went on. ‘What you’ve brought us is invaluable.’ He indicated a chair. ‘But do sit down,’ he suggested. ‘Adam will furnish you with writing materials and you can unpack that clever mind of yours. Like all good agents, you have an excellent memory.’

Daniel sat at the table. ‘The mind is one place that can’t be searched.’

Cardonnel passed him a pen, an inkwell and a blank sheet of paper. Daniel immediately began to write down the information he’d taken such pains to memorise. As he did so, Marlborough leafed through the rest of the letters, passing them on to Cardonnel after he’d read them. Daniel worked quickly and steadily, filling the page before reaching for another. When he read what had so far been written, Marlborough was astonished by the detail committed to memory. Page followed page until Daniel sat back and put his pen aside.

‘Now you have everything that came out of Versailles that day,’ he said, ‘give or take a few grammatical irregularities.’

‘This information is priceless,’ said Marlborough, reading the final page. ‘You’re to be congratulated – congratulated and rewarded. I insist that you dine with us this evening.’ His gaze fell on Daniel’s beard and tattered cloak. ‘When you’ve smartened yourself up a little, that is.’

‘It’s a kind invitation, Your Grace, and I accept it with thanks.’

‘Your endeavours deserve more than a good meal, Daniel. You’ve earned a long rest. Take time off to enjoy the splendours of The Hague. It’s a fine city. But no,’ he added as he recalled Amalia Janssen, ‘you’re far more interested in the splendours of Amsterdam, aren’t you?’

‘That’s where I most wish to be,’ admitted Daniel.

‘Then you must leave first thing tomorrow. I had word from Emanuel Janssen that my tapestry of the Battle of Ramillies is now complete. You can cast a discerning eye over it on my behalf. I can’t wait to see it for myself.’

* * *

At the end of the working day, Nicholaes Geel was the last to leave. Janssen was the first to go, followed by Dopff. Pienaar remained long enough to ignite his pipe then he waved a farewell to his young colleague and waddled out. Left alone in the gloom, Geel picked up one of the candles and went across to the tapestry folded up on the floor. He carefully peeled back a corner of it to expose a tiny area of the battlefield. It was his own handiwork and he was immensely proud of it. Sitting down beside it, he caressed the tapestry as if he were stroking a favourite cat. Geel purred softly.

Winter had relented somewhat in Amsterdam. The howling wind had gone, the frost was less harsh and there was a noticeable rise in temperature. It wasn’t enough to thaw the ice in the harbour but at least it tempted more people onto the streets. Amalia and Beatrix were two of them. As they strolled along together, the servant had a basket over her arm so that she could carry anything that was bought. Sunlight filtered through the clouds and dappled the buildings. Birds were singing. Amsterdam was an attractive city, clean, well ordered and served by a network of canals. What had once been a sleepy fishing village was now the most thriving port in Europe, even if the vessels in its harbour were temporarily ice-bound. Amalia was intensely proud of the place where she’d been born and brought up. London might be larger and Paris more ostentatious but, in her opinion – and she’d visited both capitals – neither could rival her beloved Amsterdam.

‘It’s milder today,’ she remarked.

‘Then why do I feel so cold?’ grumbled Beatrix with a shiver.

‘You should have worn more clothing.’

‘If I do that, I start to perspire.’

Amalia laughed. ‘There’s no pleasing you, is there?’

‘I always hate winter. It’s lowering.’

‘Then you must make more effort to keep your spirits up, Beatrix. That’s what I do and I know it’s what Father does. We never let things wear us down.’

‘Well, I’m different,’ said the other, sourly.

They walked on and Amalia exchanged greetings with a neighbour who came towards them. Before crossing the narrow street, they paused to let some carts and coaches rumble past. Traffic was heavier than it had been for some time. It was as if the city had at last come out of hibernation. Something approximating normality was being restored. While Amalia was relishing the walk, she was conscious that Beatrix was morose and preoccupied. Fond of her servant, Amalia tried to bring her out of her reverie by engaging her in conversation.

‘I told you that he was a phantom,’ she said.

‘Who are you talking about, Miss Amalia?’

‘That man you thought you saw.’

Beatrix bridled. ‘I
did
see him. I’d swear that on the Holy Bible.’

‘You
believed
you saw him, Beatrix, and I don’t criticise you for that. Our imaginations can play tricks on us sometimes. But I’ve made a point of looking out of the window every day and I haven’t seen anyone keeping watch on us.’

‘He’s still there,’ said Beatrix, grimly.

‘You’ve actually seen him recently?’

‘No, but I feel his presence.’

‘Then perhaps you can explain why my father has never managed to catch sight of him. His bedchamber gives him a clear view of the street. Yet when I asked him if he’d seen this man of yours, Father said that he hadn’t spotted anyone.’

‘Then he should open his eyes,’ muttered the other woman. Adopting an apologetic tone, she raised her voice. ‘I don’t mean to be disrespectful to either of you but you should be more …’ her face puckered, ‘… more … oh, what’s the word?’

‘Vigilant?’

‘Yes, that’s it – more vigilant like me.’

‘I think you’re too suggestible.’

Though not understanding what Amalia meant, Beatrix was nevertheless offended. She sniffed loudly and lapsed into a hurt silence. Amalia had to pacify her before their conversation could resume. It was agreed that they’d talk about more neutral subjects. Argument was pointless. As far as the man was concerned, Beatrix was adamant that he’d been keeping watch on the house and it had unsettled her. The fact that nobody else had seen him was irrelevant. The servant trusted her own eyesight. It had never let her down before.

It was good to find more of a throng back in the market. Stalls had increased in number and something of the old bustle had returned. Amalia made some purchases from a bread stall and they went straight into the basket. Beatrix cheered up as she recognised familiar faces but it was when they began to look in shop windows that she became more animated. As they studied some fashionable dresses on display in one shop, Beatrice jabbed a finger at the glass.

‘That would suit you,’ she said with approval.

Amelia was unsure. ‘Do you think so?’

‘Blue is your colour and that style is ideal for you. I’d love to see you wearing a dress like that, Miss Amalia. It might have been made for you.’

No other servant was allowed to make such personal remarks to Amalia but Beatrix was different. The adversity they’d experienced during their ill-fated stay in Paris had bonded them together. Beatrix felt able to discuss almost anything with Amalia, who, in turn, didn’t object when the servant occasionally took on an almost maternal role as she was doing right now. After scrutinising all the dresses in the window, they returned to the one favoured by the servant. She nudged Amalia.

‘Persuade your father to buy it for you,’ she advised.

‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’

‘I’m sure that he would if you wanted it enough.’

‘That may be,’ said Amalia, ‘but when would I ever wear it? That’s a dress for a special occasion and there are none of those on the horizon.’

‘Then your memory is very short,’ chided Beatrix. ‘One of these days, Captain Rawson might call on you. If that’s not a special occasion, what is?’

Amalia gave a wan smile. A visit from Daniel would indeed be a special event but she felt that it was unlikely to happen. It was February now and she’d not heard from him for almost a month. The only explanation was that Daniel had been sent off on a secret assignment about which he couldn’t tell her beforehand. All that she could do was to wait patiently and pray that he came to no harm. She looked at the blue dress once more. Beatrix was right. It would suit Amalia perfectly and she envisaged wearing it at a ball with Daniel at her side in his dress uniform. They’d make a striking couple. The image vanished instantly from her mind. It was wrong to build up her hopes, she told herself. Disappointment was inevitable. Amalia had to school herself to be realistic. Since she was in love with a soldier, she simply had to accept the consequences.

Daniel was probably hundreds of miles away.

It was almost impossible to startle Henry Welbeck. Having spent most of his youth and all of his adult life in the British army, he’d seen sights that would make most people vomit and he’d survived endless perils on the battlefield. A veteran sergeant in the 24
^th
Regiment of Foot, he was a dour, cynical, teak-hard man with a well-earned reputation for maintaining discipline among his men. Welbeck loathed being stuck in winter quarters when there was little to do but eat, drink, smoke his pipe, play cards, keep his men under control and argue with his fellow sergeants. He was in the middle of a heated debate with Sergeant Curry when the apparition came into view. It was one of those rare moments when Welbeck was genuinely startled.

‘Lord a bloody mercy!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s a ghost.’

‘Hello, Henry,’ said Daniel, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘How are you?’

‘I was fine until you came back from the dead to give me a scare.’

‘I’m as alive as you are.’

‘Yes,’ argued Welbeck, ‘but, to all intents and purposes, you’re dead to me when winter comes. While I have to spend months of despair with the ranks, you sneak off with the other officers to wallow in luxury.’

Daniel grinned. Being chased by soldiers through the streets of Paris was not his idea of luxury but he wasn’t about to say so in a tavern. Too many people were within earshot. Welbeck was sharing a table with Leo Curry, the only sergeant in the British ranks who was actually uglier than him. Curry and Welbeck enjoyed a combative relationship that usually stopped just short of blows. Yet they’d willingly slipped away together from the camp to a nearby tavern. Unlike them, Daniel wasn’t in uniform but Curry recognised him and immediately became deferential.

‘I can see that you two would rather be alone, Captain Rawson,’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘We’ll continue our discussion another time, Henry.’

Welbeck glared at him. ‘There’s nothing to discuss, you pig-headed idiot.’

‘I’m right and you’re wrong.’

‘Stop talking through that hole in your arse.’

‘I’ll be back,’ warned Curry, raising a bunched fist.

As the sergeant walked away, Daniel took his seat. Though he was on his way north to Amsterdam, he’d made a slight detour to one of the camps where British soldiers were spending the winter months. Welbeck was his best friend and had been since they’d served in the ranks together. Over the years they’d weathered many crises, most recently when the pair of them bluffed their way into the besieged city of Lille in order to rescue an imprisoned woman. The three of them had eventually got out alive only to be shelled by their own artillery.

‘What are you doing here, Dan?’ demanded Welbeck.

‘Don’t sound so inhospitable.’

‘You don’t belong in a camp like ours.’

‘I belong wherever my regiment happens to be,’ said Daniel, loyally, ‘and I wish I could spend more time with it. As it is, I was needed elsewhere.’

‘Staying with Corporal John in The Hague, I daresay.’

‘His Grace had other work for me. It took me to Paris where it’s even colder than here. One way and another it was a hazardous visit. Believe me, I’d have been far safer here, listening to you and Sergeant Curry trading insults.’

‘It’s all in fun, really,’ admitted Welbeck. ‘Leo and I are two of a kind.’

‘Yes, you’re both as ugly as sin.’

They shared a laugh and exchanged a warm handshake. Now that he’d got over his amazement, Welbeck was very pleased to see Daniel, the only officer for whom he had any real respect. He broke off to buy his visitor a drink and to refill his own tankard. Back at the table, he appraised his friend.

‘I hope you behaved yourself in Paris,’ he said, meaningfully.

‘Strictly speaking,’ Daniel told him, ‘I was there to
misbehave
and certain people took exception to that. I had to fight my way out.’ He looked around before lowering his voice. ‘I’ll give you more detail when we’re somewhere more private.’

‘I’ll remind you of that, Dan.’

Welbeck lifted his glass to acknowledge his friend before taking a long sip. He was a stocky man with rounded shoulders and a barrel chest but it was his face that held the attention. Red, rugged and hopelessly misshapen, it was given a sinister aspect by the long, livid scar down one cheek. Daniel knew that Welbeck’s body carried many more scars but the deepest wound had been inflicted on the man’s soul. Continual exposure to war and its multiple horrors had robbed him of any belief in God and given him in exchange a kind of rabid atheism. Much as he loathed army life, he was quick to realise that it was the only thing at which he excelled, so he was destined to follow the drum in perpetuity. It made him a defiant pessimist. What Welbeck could never understand was how Daniel seemed to thrive on the very things that were anathema to the sergeant. Daniel had been through the same searing experiences, yet his soul remained unscarred and he was able to take pleasure from all he did in the name of the British army.

Welbeck spoke in a whisper. ‘What are the chances of peace?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

‘You’re close to Corporal John. You must have heard something.’

‘Talks are going on, Henry, but nothing has been decided.’

‘What does your instinct tell you?’

‘There’ll be a lot more fighting to come,’ said Daniel.

‘And then?’

‘And then – eventually – one day, years hence from now, we’ll have peace.’

‘What will you do when that happens?’

‘I’ll buy you a drink to celebrate.’

‘I’m serious, Dan,’ said Welbeck, fixing him with a stare. ‘When this war finally ends, we’re not needed any more. Our occupation is gone.’

‘There’ll always be a need for good soldiers.’

Daniel sat up with a start when he heard what he’d just said. Without thinking of the implications, he’d blithely committed himself for ever to a military life. Fighting was in his blood. He wasn’t at all sure that Amalia would understand that and his mind went back to Ronan Flynn. The Irishman had turned his back on the army in order to embrace family life. Daniel wanted both – a wife and family in addition to continued service in a red coat. Welbeck saw the consternation in his friend’s eyes and guessed its origin.

‘You’re thinking of
her
, aren’t you?’

‘I’m always thinking of Amalia,’ confessed Daniel.

‘Women and war don’t mix, Dan. You know that.’

‘His Grace is married and so are most of his senior officers.’

‘But where are their wives?’ asked Welbeck. ‘They’re pining away at home, wondering if they’re still married or if their husbands are lying dead somewhere.’

Flynn had said something similar to Daniel but it still jolted him.

‘I had the sense to stay single,’ said Welbeck.

‘Your turn will come, Henry,’ teased Daniel.

‘Hell will freeze over before I look at a woman.’

‘You looked at Rachel Rees.’

‘She wasn’t a woman – she was a witch.’

‘That’s unkind. Rachel was a remarkable lady. How many other women would venture into an enemy stronghold in the way she did? It showed bravery.’

‘I’d call it stupidity.’

‘Then you showed the same stupidity in helping to rescue her.’

Welbeck was rancorous. ‘That was my biggest mistake. We should have left her where she was. The best place for a woman like that is behind bars where she could be fed on raw meat.’

Rachel Rees was an ebullient Welsh camp follower who’d buried two husbands but was not averse to marrying a third soldier. It was Rachel who’d entered Lille with Daniel then been arrested as she tried to leave. Welbeck had been recruited to help liberate her, thereby earning her heartfelt gratitude. Embarrassed by Rachel’s gushing affection for him, Welbeck had been relieved to hear that she’d decided to return home to Brecon. At a deep level, she’d made him feel threatened.