‘This weather will be the death of me,’ he moaned.
‘It’s done none of us any favours,’ said Daniel. ‘All France is suffering.’
‘Nobody’s stayed here for almost a month.’
‘Well, you’ll have a guest tonight, my friend. I need a room.’
‘You can take your pick, monsieur.’ He moved towards a door. ‘I’ll call the lad to stable your horse.’
‘I have no horse,’ said Daniel, stopping the landlord in his tracks. ‘That’s to say, I did have one but the poor creature slipped on the ice and broke a leg. I had to put him out of his misery.’ It was a plausible lie and the other man accepted it. ‘Can you tell me where I might buy another mount tomorrow?’
‘There’s only one place I know and that’s a mile or more back in the direction of the city. It will be a long trudge on foot, especially if this snow keeps falling.’ Self-interest brought a faint smile to his lips. ‘You might have to stay here longer than you thought.’
That was the last thing Daniel intended to do. He was still on the very outskirts of Paris and wanted to get away as soon as possible. Having left two dead soldiers behind him, he knew that there’d be a thorough search for him. In one sense, the snowstorm was a boon because it would slow down any pursuit. At the same time, unfortunately, it would also hamper his escape. He felt able to take the risk of staying one night at the inn but lingering there any longer would be to court danger. It was some time since he’d last eaten, so he ordered himself a meal and sat at the table nearest the fire. Edible rather than appetising, the food was served by a dark-haired woman in her twenties with a swarthy complexion and a glint in her eye. After sizing him up, she gave Daniel a sly grin. As she leant over to put the platter in front of him, she let her breast brush gently against his shoulder. He ignored the signal.
The landlord was curious. ‘Were you going towards Paris or away from it?’
‘I had business in the city.’
‘I wondered why you had no luggage with you.’
‘I’m travelling light,’ said Daniel, ‘because I expected to be back home this evening – and I would’ve been had my horse not fallen.’
‘What type of business might you be in, monsieur?’
‘It’s one that takes me to a lot of inns like this. I’m a wine merchant, though I dread to think what I’ll have to sell. The last harvest failed and the frost has split the vines. There’ll be precious little profit for me this year.’
It was a disguise that Daniel had often used in the past. His forged papers were in the name of Marcel Daron and he knew enough about wine to hold his own in a discussion with the landlord of an inn. They talked about prices and compared their individual preferences. All the time, however, Daniel was conscious of being watched by someone. Though he couldn’t see her, he suspected that it was the serving wench. Deciding to go to bed early, Daniel was shown upstairs by the landlord. There was a rough-hewn quality about the accommodation. Luxury was not on offer. Given the choice of five rooms, he chose the one above the bar because some of the heat from the fire came up through the cracks in the ceiling and the gaps in the floorboards. Left alone with a candle, he went to the window, opened the shutters and looked out at the yard. Snow was still falling and a gust of wind blew it in on him. He quickly locked the shutters again.
When Daniel tested the mattress, he found it hard and lumpy but there were thick woollen blankets to keep out the cold and his cloak could act as an auxiliary layer. The creak of the floorboards outside warned him that someone was coming and his hand went by reflex to the pistol holstered under his coat. There was a tap on the door then it opened to reveal the serving wench. Because she was holding up a candle, he was able to take a closer look at her. While her hair was greasy, the woman was not unattractive. She had a pleasant face, a well-formed body and a crude charm. One hand rested on her hip as she grinned boldly.
‘Do you have everything you want, monsieur?’ she enquired.
‘I think so,’ replied Daniel.
‘It’s going to be a cold night.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid that it will be.’
‘Would you like an extra blanket, sir?’
‘No, thank you. I can manage with the ones I already have.’
‘There are other ways to keep warm,’ she said, lifting a provocative eyebrow. ‘Would you care for some company?’
‘It’s a tempting offer,’ he said, politely, ‘but, as it happens, I’m very tired. I’ll be asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.’ She was crestfallen at the rejection. ‘It’s no reflection on you, mademoiselle. Under other circumstances …’
Anxious to dispel a misunderstanding, she stepped into the room.
‘I hope you don’t mistake me. I expected no reward.’
‘I never thought that you did.’
‘Please don’t think ill of me.’
‘I’d never do that,’ said Daniel with an appeasing smile. ‘It just happens that I am very tired.’
‘Then I’ll leave you alone,’ she said, backing away and pointing a finger down the passageway. ‘But if you do change your mind, my room is at the end.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
As soon as she’d gone, Daniel propped a chair against the door so that it couldn’t be opened. While he didn’t have the slightest inclination to go to her room, he sensed that she might come to him again in the night and try to slip under the blankets. It was best to obviate that possibility. In former days, when he was a roving young soldier, he would have shown more interest but that life was behind him now. He already had a woman to warm his bed for him. Thoughts of Amalia Janssen were a blanket in themselves and they gave him infinite satisfaction. His precaution was wise. Not long after midnight, he heard footsteps padding along outside, then someone tried the door. When it refused to budge, more pressure was applied but the chair held firm. The disappointed serving wench eventually went back to her room.
Conditioned by years of practice, Daniel slept lightly. It was well before dawn when he heard riders approaching in the distance. Out of bed at once, he lit the candle then crossed to the shutters and unhooked the latch. Listening carefully, he picked out the sound of three horsemen and knew that they were heading for the inn. When they got closer, he eased one shutter ajar so that he could peer down into the yard. Three men arrived, reining in their horses and dismounting before tethering them. They marched purposefully towards the main door and one of them banged on it with the butt of his pistol. In the stillness of the night, the noise was ear-splitting. Daniel moved swiftly. Folding up two of the blankets, he stuffed them under the remaining one to give the impression that someone was sleeping in the bed.
He opened the shutters and saw that, if he tried to flee through the window, he’d have to negotiate the slippery roof of the storeroom below. That would be tricky in the dark. Yet if he left by means of the room at the end of the passageway, he’d be able to drop straight down to the ground with no intervening obstruction. Hat on and cloak over his arm, he moved the chair from the door and went out, closing the door behind him. Still with the candle in one hand, he walked to the room at the end of the passageway and used his toe to tap on the door. Then he let himself in and shut the door behind him. Roused from her sleep, the woman sat up in fright until she realised who her visitor was. Her face was split by a welcoming grin and she extended both arms in welcome. Her desires would be fulfilled. The handsome guest had come to her, after all. To her chagrin, however, he only stayed a matter of seconds. Opening the shutters, he tossed his cloak out, raised his hat to her then clambered through the window. She heard a thud as he landed in the yard. Her promise of pleasure had disappeared, leaving her torn between dismay, annoyance and a sense of betrayal.
Grumbling at every step, the landlord came downstairs and wished someone would stop beating a tattoo on his front door. He pulled back the bolts and opened the door wide. About to berate the unwanted caller, he changed his mind when his candle illumined thre
e uniforms. He’d been hauled out of his bed by angry soldiers.
‘What do you want?’ he asked.
‘We’re looking for someone,’ said one of the soldiers, pushing him aside so that he could enter. ‘We’re hunting a killer.’
‘Well, you won’t find him here. This is a respectable inn.’
‘How many guests do you have here?’
‘There’s just the one at the moment.’
‘Is it a man or a woman?’
‘It’s a man,’ replied the landlord, ‘but he’s no killer.’
‘When did he arrive?’
‘He came on foot earlier this evening. He’s a wine merchant whose horse broke a leg and had to be destroyed.’
The soldier looked upwards. ‘Where is he?’
‘He’s probably sitting up in bed, wondering what all the noise is.’
‘Take us to him,’ ordered the soldier.
‘You can’t just barge in here,’ protested the landlord.
‘We can do as we wish,’ said the man, grabbing him by the elbow and hustling him towards the staircase. The other soldiers followed. ‘And if we find that you’re harbouring a fugitive, we’ll arrest you as well.’
‘But I’ve done nothing wrong, I swear it.’
‘Get upstairs.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said the landlord, obediently, ‘but you’re making a terrible mistake, I assure you. I’ve worked in this trade all my life. I know how to weigh up a customer at a glance. This gentleman is not the one you seek. I give you my word.’
Bundled upstairs, he was pushed along the passageway until he indicated a door. The soldier then shoved him aside and nodded to his companions. One of them snatched the candle from the landlord while the other opened the door. Both of them charged in and stood over the bed, using their drawn swords to prod at the blankets. When there was no response, one of them threw back the top blanket to show that there was nobody in the bed.
‘Where the hell is he?’ bellowed the man with the candle.
The explanation came in the form of departing hooves. They raced to the window and flung open the shutters. Down in the yard, a cloaked figure was riding off on one of their horses and towing the other two behind him. After yelling in vain at him, the three soldiers vented their fury on the landlord.
Daniel, meanwhile, made good his escape by courtesy of the French army.
Something was missing in the workshop. Emanuel Janssen had any number of commissions and enquiries from potential customers were coming in all the time. Both he and his three assistants were kept busy at their respective looms but they no longer laboured with the same controlled excitement. What was lacking was the sense of enormous pride they got from working on the tapestry for no less a customer than the Duke of Marlborough, the heroic captain-general of the Allied forces who’d trounced the mighty French army time and again as he protected Dutch territory and interests. On his return from England, Janssen had been able to describe the breathtaking scale and magnificence of Blenheim Palace. Marvelling at what they heard, his assistants were thrilled that a tapestry to which they’d contributed in greater or lesser degree would hang in a place of honour at Marlborough’s home. It made them come to work each day with a spring in their step.
It was different now. They were merely producing tapestries for wealthy Dutch merchants or rich politicians, few of whom had any real taste. Instead of having a whole battlefield on which to leave their artistic mark, they were confined to smaller scales and more mundane subjects. Nicholaes Geel, the youngest of the assistants, complained bitterly about the poverty of their customers’ imaginations. Even Aelbert Pienaar, the oldest and most tolerant of Janssen’s employees, regretted that he couldn’t work on something more inspiring. Kees Dopff was unable to speak his mind because he’d been born dumb but he overcame his handicap by developing a series of eloquent hand gestures and facial expressions. Like his companions, he was profoundly disappointed now that work on the Battle of Ramillies was finally over. Dopff was a small, thin, reserved man in his early thirties with billowing red hair that defied the attentions of comb and brush. He was the most naturally gifted of the assistants and, living at the house, was more or less a member of the Janssen family.
When Amalia came into the workshop, the looms were all working noisily away but she sensed a lack of enthusiasm in the staff. Pienaar gave her a warm smile and Dopff provided a nod of welcome. Geel, however, broke off to give her a cheerful wave. He was a tall, slim, sinewy young man similar in age to Amalia and he watched her with an adoration he found difficult to hide. Always friendly towards him, she offered him no encouragement whatsoever and Geel accepted that he could never hope to compete with someone like Daniel Rawson. But that didn’t stop him from feeling a surge of pleasure every time she came anywhere near him. Janssen strode across to his daughter, noting that she was dressed to go out.
‘It will be freezing out there,’ he warned.
‘I can’t stay imprisoned here for ever,’ she said, ‘so I’m going for a walk with Beatrix. We need a few things from the market.’
‘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 d
e 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.
5 A Very Murdering Battle Page 5