Fire and Sword E-Book

Edward Marston

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: Captain Rawson
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 412

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

CAPTAIN DANIEL RAWSON'S MOST DANGEROUS ESCAPADE YET Flanders, 1707. Returning to camp from a dangerous solo mission behind enemy lines, Captain Daniel Rawson finds himself stranded, with French soldiers in fierce pursuit. A kindly farmer helps Daniel hide and then to escape - but with dire consequences. Back in England there is political unrest. Queen Anne's favour has shifted causing the Duke of Marlborough to resign as Commander-in-Chief. And all the while, the treacherous and scheming Duc de Vendôme, is hell-bent on capturing Daniel, by any means at his disposal, including kidnapping the beautiful Amalia. With the odds stacked against him, Daniel, aided by his friend Henry Welbeck, must face his greatest challenge yet and fight for his life at the bloody battle of Oudenarde.

Leseprobe

Fire and Sword

EDWARD MARSTON

Contents

Title PageCHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENCHAPTER TWELVECHAPTER THIRTEENCHAPTER FOURTEENCHAPTER FIFTEENCHAPTER SIXTEENCHAPTER SEVENTEENCHAPTER EIGHTEENAbout the AuthorBy Edward MarstonCopyright

Fire and Sword

CHAPTER ONE

Flanders, 1707

Daniel Rawson rode at a steady canter along a winding track. It was late afternoon and autumn was already chasing some of the light from the sky. He was resigned to the fact that he wouldn’t reach the camp until well after midnight. Daniel was a captain in the 24th Foot and his regiment had gone into winter quarters. But he was not in uniform now. Instead, he was dressed in the civilian clothing that allowed him to slip through enemy lines so that he could act as a spy in Paris. The forged papers he was carrying bore the name of Marcel Daron, a wine merchant, a pose that was reinforced by his ability to speak French like a native and by his knowledge of certain vineyards in the country.

As on previous occasions, the disguise had served him well. During his stay in the French capital, he’d garnered some crucial intelligence. Most of it had been committed to memory so that he was not caught with sensitive documents in his possession. However, a couple of dispatches he’d managed to intercept were concealed in the lining of his coat. He smiled as he recalled how he’d got hold of them. The messenger had been left with a bad headache and had faced the ordeal of making an embarrassing confession to superiors in the French army. Severe punishment must have followed. Daniel had no sympathy for him. The messenger had been careless.

He was still musing on his encounter with the man when a noise brought him out of his reverie. A French patrol had suddenly appeared on the crest of the hill to his left. A dozen or so in all, they paused for a moment then kicked their horses into a gallop and came surging down the incline with predatory zeal. When he saw one of them draw a pistol, Daniel didn’t hesitate. He knew that Marcel Daron wouldn’t be able to talk his way out of an awkward situation this time. The soldiers were likely to kill him first and identify him afterwards. Digging in his heels and urging his mount on, Daniel fled, riding hell for leather and sending up small clouds of dust in his wake. The blue uniforms kept up hot pursuit. They were clearly gaining on him. His assignment was in danger of ending abruptly. The thunder of hooves behind him could be the sound of his death knell.

There was no chance of outrunning them. Daniel accepted that. Their horses had been chosen for speed and stamina. His, by contrast, was the kind of serviceable but willing animal that a wine merchant might be expected to own. It was only a question of minutes before he was overhauled. Since there was no hope of winning a race, Daniel’s sole means of escape was to elude them somehow. The wood ahead of him offered that vague possibility. Coaxing the last ounce of speed from his horse, he pounded towards it then veered off to the right, heading for the point where the trees and undergrowth seemed at their most dense. He was just in time. The moment he changed direction, a bullet from the pistol whistled harmlessly past him. Had he stayed on the track, it would have hit him squarely between the shoulder blades.

Unaware of his good fortune, Daniel rode on. Plunging into the wood, he had to slow his horse down so that he could pick a way through the trees and bushes with a degree of safety. He finally had something in his favour. Though most of the leaves had been shed, there was still a thick fretwork of branches above his head, darkening the interior of the wood and limiting visibility. It was like riding through a huge cavern with a timber roof. The deeper he penetrated, the murkier it got. When he stole a glance over his shoulder, he could barely make out the shadowy figures hunting him. Confident that their quarry could not escape, the soldiers had fanned out and were moving at a trot. Some of them taunted him, ignoring the scratch of bushes and the jab of low branches. Nothing would stop them. They were lusting for a kill.

Most people in that predicament would quail but fear was unknown to Daniel. What drove him on was an instinct for survival, sharpened by years in combat against French armies. Fear only induced panic and he always remained cool. As he zigzagged his way through the wood, his eyes were alert as he searched for ways to shake off the patrol. The half-dark that enfolded him had come to his aid but it now proved treacherous. Unable to see it properly, his horse misjudged the size of a fallen tree trunk. Instead of hopping easily over it, the animal caught its front hooves against the timber and pitched helplessly forward. Daniel was thrown from the saddle, hitting the ground hard and somersaulting twice before he came to a halt.

The horse was the first to get up. Momentarily dazed, Daniel scrambled to his feet but he was too late to stop his frightened mount from careering off into the undergrowth in the direction from which they’d just come. It was eventually caught by one of the soldiers.

‘I have his horse!’ he cried in triumph. ‘He’s on foot.’

The announcement produced a round of cruel laughter.

Daniel didn’t stay to listen to it. He was already running at full speed through the trees, dodging bushes, jumping logs, looking to left then right in a desperate search for a hiding place. His heart was pounding and his lungs were on fire. Any second he could be ridden down and hacked to death with a sabre. He came at last to a small clearing and clambered up a tree. Then he deliberately dropped his hat onto the ground below. Nestling against a thick branch, Daniel waited, trying to muffle the sound of his heavy breathing. He was no French wine merchant now but an experienced British soldier who’d been cornered by the enemy before. There had always been a way out in the past. The trick, he’d discovered, was to find it.

He could hear their voices, calling out to each other, placing bets on who would catch their prey first, boasting about what they’d do to him with their sharp blades. The only consolation was that they sounded a little distance away. Much nearer, however, were the jingle of harness and the rustle of hooves in the undergrowth. Somebody was coming towards him. Daniel had two weapons. One was the dagger he pulled out and the other was the element of surprise. What the soldier was looking for was a terrified fugitive, cowering under a hedge. He never thought to look up. When he saw the hat lying on the ground, he dismounted at once and drew his sword, remaining silent so that he didn’t lose the wager by rousing the others.

Daniel was ready. The moment the man bent down to retrieve the hat, Daniel hurled himself from the tree with a vengeance and hit him with his full weight. Stunned by the attack, the soldier had no time to resist. One hand over the man’s mouth, Daniel used the other to slit his throat. The soldier twitched and flailed impotently as his lifeblood drained inexorably away. Daniel kept him in an iron grip, squeezing him tight and waiting until he went limp before letting him drop slowly to the ground. Sheathing his dagger, Daniel recovered his hat, seized the discarded sabre and mounted the horse.

He then rode on again with renewed urgency. After a few minutes, he came to a path that meandered through the wood. It enabled him to pick up speed but he was not the first rider to find the path. One of the soldiers lurched out ahead of him on his horse to block his way. It was a direct challenge. Though he was in a regiment of foot, Daniel had also taken part in cavalry charges. He’d felt that soaring exhilaration before. Blood racing and sabre held aloft, he galloped towards the man and swung his arm with murderous force. Though the soldier parried the blow with his own sword, the sheer power of the strike snapped his wrist and he dropped the weapon with a howl of pain. Without even looking back, Daniel sped off into the darkness.

The farmer was short, stocky and round-shouldered. He used a wooden bucket to tip the mixture into the trough. The pig was on it immediately, grunting contentedly and dipping his nose to smell his food before gobbling it up. The animal was kept in a ramshackle pen with a small, low hut to protect it from bad weather. When winter came, it would be slaughtered and used to feed the family. A drumming sound made the farmer turn and he saw horsemen being conjured out of the gloom. They were French soldiers. Most of them sat tall in the saddle but one of them was hunched up as he nursed his broken wrist. Another man was slumped lifelessly across his mount. Towed along behind the cavalcade was a riderless horse.

Removing his hat, the farmer adopted a deferential tone.

‘Good day to you, good sirs,’ he said. ‘Can I help you?’

‘We’re looking for a fugitive,’ explained the sergeant. ‘He’s a man in a brown coat and has something of my build.’

‘We’ve seen nobody like that, sir.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘The only person to go past all day was a carter.’

‘Be warned,’ said the sergeant, pointing a finger. ‘If we discover that you’re hiding the villain, you’ll die alongside him. He killed one of my men and wounded another. We want him.’

‘I’m sorry, sir. He’s not here.’

‘He must be. He abandoned a horse a mile or so away, hoping that we’d keep chasing it all evening but we soon caught up with it. He couldn’t have got far. I think he came this way.’

‘You’re welcome to search.’

‘We don’t need your permission to do that,’ snarled the sergeant. ‘Right,’ he went on, nodding to some of the men, ‘look everywhere. Turn the place upside down.’

‘Do as you wish,’ said the farmer, spreading his arms in a gesture of welcome. ‘We’ve nothing to hide.’ As the men dismounted, he walked over to the sergeant. ‘Is there anything I can get you while you wait, sir – a cup of wine, perhaps?’

‘I don’t drink that Flemish piss.’

‘We have beer.’

The sergeant spat contemptuously. ‘That’s even worse.’

The farm was small so the search was short-lived. The soldiers didn’t stand on ceremony. Barging into the house, they began to look in every room. Outraged at the sudden invasion, the farmer’s wife and son came hurrying out to protest. He waved them into silence. While their home was being subjected to a rigorous search, the barn was also inspected along with the outbuildings. The hens were disturbed in their coop and the cows complained bitterly when soldiers burst into their byre. The old horse, munching hay in the stable, was offended when two men poked into every corner of its domain. Only the pig remained unruffled, head still deep in its trough.

‘Don’t you ever clean that sty out?’ asked the sergeant, wrinkling his nose. ‘It stinks to high heaven.’

‘You get used to it,’ said the farmer.

‘How can anyone get used to that stench?’

The question hung unanswered in the air because soldiers came out of the house and shook their heads. Those who’d searched the barn and the outbuildings had also done so in vain. Remounting their horses, they waited for orders. The sergeant was angry and frustrated.

‘He must have come this way,’ he insisted. ‘Spread out and make for the river. He might have made it that far. And whoever catches him,’ he added, curling a lip, ‘keep him alive until I get my hands on him. I want to make him suffer.’

The patrol galloped off and the farmer’s wife was able to give vent to her fury. She swore at the departing horsemen then told her husband what they’d done. Her husband went into the house and saw the mess. Chairs had been overturned, cupboard doors wrenched open and cooking pots swept aside so that someone could peer up the chimney. It was the same story upstairs. In all three of the tiny rooms, beds had been propped against the wall, chest lids had been lifted and their contents had been scattered everywhere. The trapdoor to the attic had been left dangling. Everything stored up there had been ruthlessly trampled on.

When her rage was exhausted, the farmer’s wife gave way to tears. It took him minutes to console her. Their son, meanwhile, was trying to tidy the place up. He noticed that some apples had been stolen from the table. Leaving the two of them in the house, the farmer ambled across to the sty. The pig had just finished the meal.

‘You can come out now,’ he said. ‘They’ve gone.’

Covered in muck and reeking of excrement, Daniel emerged warily from his hiding place. Nobody would take him for a wine merchant now. His clothes were soiled and his face filthy.

‘How did you know I was in there?’ he asked.

‘It was the way the pig behaved. You’re a brave man. He has a vile temper. If he’d been upset, he could’ve bitten clean through your leg.’

‘I was born and brought up on a farm,’ said Daniel, giving the pig a friendly pat. ‘I know how to handle animals.’ He grinned. ‘And that was the one place where they wouldn’t have searched. I’m indebted to you, my friend. You could easily have given me away.’

‘We hate the French.’

‘What if they’d found me?’

The farmer chuckled. ‘Then they’d have smelt almost as bad as you,’ he said. ‘Let’s find some water to clean you up. My wife won’t let you into her kitchen like that.’

It was two days before Daniel was able to return to the farm and he took the precaution of riding with a detachment of cavalry at his back. He was in full uniform now. Seated astride a black stallion, he used a lead rein to tow along the old horse he’d borrowed from the farmer. It had done good service and been well fed in camp. Daniel enjoyed the ride but his companion was a reluctant horseman.

‘I joined the infantry,’ argued Welbeck, ‘not the cavalry.’

‘Even you wouldn’t have wanted to walk all the way, Henry,’ said Daniel. ‘Apart from anything else, we’re on French territory.’

‘I’d sooner have my feet on the ground, Dan. All that horses ever do is to upset my stomach and give me a sore arse.’

‘I thought you’d like a chance to escape from the camp.’

‘Nobody told me we’d have so far to ride. Why bother to take that old nag back? You could have sent someone else.’

‘The farmer saved my life. The least he deserves is to see how grateful I am. I’m deeply obliged to him.’

Welbeck snorted. ‘I don’t know why,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t be grateful to anyone who sent me back to my regiment, riding a flea-bitten old jade and stinking like a latrine during a hot summer. Do you realise what you looked like, Dan?’

‘You should have seen me when I got out of the pigsty.’

‘I could smell you from twenty yards away.’

Sergeant Henry Welbeck of the 24th Foot was Daniel’s best friend in the regiment, and rank disappeared when they were alone together. The sergeant was a solid man of medium height with an ugly face decorated with a long battle scar. He had the greatest respect for his friend but even he had joined in the laughter when Daniel came back to camp in such an appalling state. Welbeck had continued to poke fun at him until Captain Rawson had bathed naked in the river, put on his scarlet uniform and at last looked like someone who deserved to be a member of the British army. In spite of his dislike of horses, the sergeant had agreed to accompany Daniel to the farm.

‘How much farther is it, Dan?’ he asked.

‘We’ll be there soon – it’s on the other side of that hill.’

‘At least we’ll get a warm welcome.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Use your eyes, man. Can’t you see that smoke up ahead of us? My guess is that they’re roasting that pig for you.’

Daniel made no reply. He’d only glanced at the hilltop before. Now that he looked properly, he could see dark smoke curling up into the air. No chimney would produce such billows. Handing the rein of the farmer’s horse to Welbeck, he kicked his own mount into action and galloped up the hill. As he neared the top, he could hear the distant crackle of flames and the sound filled him with alarm. Cresting the hill, he saw that his fears were justified. Down below him, blazing merrily in the sunshine, was the little farmhouse, the barn and the various outbuildings. It was a calamity. Everything that the farmer had stored against the winter had been destroyed.

When the others joined him, Daniel barked an order.

‘Come on!’ he yelled. ‘We may still be able to save someone.’

But he could see that it was a futile hope. As he led the charge down the hill, he watched the barn collapse and send up an enormous shower of sparks into the air. The roof of the house had already gone and the stable was a mass of charred timbers. There was no sign of the animals. Somewhere in the middle of the grotesque firework display was a family who’d come to Daniel’s aid in a crisis. He prayed that they were still alive. As the riders got closer, however, they were confronted by a hideous sight. Staggering out of the house was the farmer, a human inferno, engulfed in flames, his clothes, his boots and even his hair and beard alight. Yelling in agony, he still had the strength to raise a defiant fist at the approaching redcoats.

Reaching him first, Daniel leapt from his horse, pushed the farmer to the ground then rolled him over in an attempt to put out the blaze. He used his gloves to smother the flames on the farmer’s head and face. Instead of being thankful, however, all that the man could do was to curse and strike out at him.

‘It’s me,’ said Daniel, whisking off his hat. ‘Don’t you recognise me? I’m the man in the pigsty. I came to return your horse.’

The farmer stopped struggling and stared in amazement.

‘Is it really you?’

‘What happened here?’

‘They stole everything,’ said the farmer, coughing badly. ‘They killed my son. I was tied up and made to watch while they took it in turns with my wife. They were animals. I only got free when the fire burnt through the ropes holding me.’ Writhing in torment, he peered up at Daniel. ‘I thought we were friends.’

‘We are, we are.’

‘Then why did you let them do it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Why did you let them burn us alive?’

‘This was nothing to do with me,’ said Daniel, mystified. ‘I swear it. I came here in good faith to thank you. We brought your horse and some provisions for you. Why should you blame me?’ He indicated the house. ‘This was the work of French soldiers, surely.’

‘No,’ said the farmer, eyelids fluttering and voice dying to a hoarse whisper. ‘They were British. They wore red.’

CHAPTER TWO

January, 1708

Amsterdam was carpeted by a heavy frost that obliged its citizens to wrap up in warm clothing and walk along its streets with careful feet. Traffic adjusted its normal hectic pace. Coaches and carriages no longer hurtled along so wildly and few horsemen moved at anything above a trot on the slippery surface. It was a cold and dangerous start to a new year. Gazing out of the window, Beatrix Udderzook was glad that she was in a warm house on such a cold day. She was a plump woman in her thirties with a podgy face and a nervous manner. When she saw a man slip on the icy pavement and fall to the ground, she let out a gasp of horror and brought both hands up to her mouth. The next moment, her anxious face was lit by a broad grin as she spotted someone crossing the road towards the house. Beatrix ran out of the room as fast as her chubby legs would allow her.

‘Miss Amalia! Miss Amalia!’ she called up the stairs. ‘You have a visitor, Miss Amalia.’

‘Who is it?’ asked Amalia Janssen, appearing on the landing.

‘Captain Rawson.’

‘That’s wonderful! I’ll come at once.’

‘I’ll let him in,’ said Beatrix, determined not to be robbed of the pleasure. ‘I saw him first.’

While Amalia descended the stairs, the servant rushed to fling open the door at the very moment when Daniel was about to ring the bell. Beatrix beamed at him and ignored the cold blast of air coming in from the street. After exchanging a few pleasantries with her, Daniel stepped into the house and doffed his hat. While the door was being closed behind him, he gave Amalia a welcoming kiss then stood back to appraise her. Beatrix, meanwhile, was goggling at him.

‘That will be all, Beatrix,’ said Amalia, tolerantly. ‘I’m sure that you have plenty to do.’

‘Yes, yes,’ agreed the servant, taking Daniel’s hat from him and reluctantly backing away. ‘But it’s so good to see the captain again. I must tell your father.’

‘Don’t disturb him just yet.’

‘But he’ll want to know.’

‘Father can wait ten minutes.’

Amalia wanted some time alone with Daniel first. He wiped his feet on the doormat so that his boots would leave no marks on the spotless tiles of the voorhuis then he followed her into the parlour. It was a large, low room with exquisite tapestries woven by Emanuel Janssen on three walls. A fire blazed in the grate. Away from the watchful eyes of the servant, they were able to embrace each other properly before sitting down side by side.

‘I was beginning to forget what you looked like,’ teased Amalia.

‘That’s a problem I’ve never had,’ he said, feasting his gaze on her. ‘I can always remember exactly what you look like. I’m just sorry that we’ve been apart so long this time.’

‘Your last letter said that you’d been to France.’

‘Yes, I was back in Paris once more.’

‘I’m not sure that I’d ever want to go there again,’ she said with feeling. ‘I don’t have happy memories of our time there.’

‘But that’s where you met me,’ he pointed out, feigning dismay. ‘I’d hoped that that might qualify as a happy memory.’

She squeezed his hand. ‘It does, Daniel. You know that. I’m just sad that we met in such unfortunate circumstances.’

It was well over two years since Daniel had been sent to Paris to find out what had happened to Emanuel Janssen. Braving the accusations of betrayal, the tapestry maker had accepted an invitation to work for Louis XIV at Versailles in order to gather intelligence for the Allies while in such a unique position. Daniel had arrived in the French capital to learn that Janssen was imprisoned in the Bastille and that, even if he managed to rescue him, he would then have to spirit him, his daughter, his assistant and Beatrix out of the closely guarded city and back to the safety of their own country. Though the seemingly impossible feat was finally accomplished, it had been beset by recurring perils.

In the course of their adventures, he and Amalia had been drawn together into something more meaningful than a friendship. Since he was constantly on the move, he could maintain only a fitful correspondence with her. Whenever he was able to visit Amsterdam, however, he always made straight for her house. Seeing her again was a joy. Amalia was short, slight and fair with a delicate beauty that had captivated him. Having been a soldier all his adult life, Daniel was used to taking his pleasures where he found them before moving on. In Amalia Janssen, he’d at last found a woman who was much more than a passing conquest.

‘Tell me where you’ve been since we last met,’ she pressed.

‘It would take far too long.’

‘I want to know everything, Daniel.’

‘You’d only be bored,’ he said. ‘Let me just tell you about my time in France and about my brush with death on the way back.’

‘With death?’ she cried in alarm.

‘Don’t look so worried, Amalia. As you see, I survived.’

He reassured her with a smile then gave a brief account of his weeks in Paris, describing how he’d contrived to acquire secret information, though revealing none of its actual content. It was when he talked about his encounter with the French patrol that he went into more detail. She was horrified to hear about the grisly fate of the farmer and his family.

‘British soldiers killed them?’ she said in disbelief.

He nodded grimly. ‘That’s what I find hard to accept. It’s so untypical. There were no foraging parties out. His Grace, the Duke of Marlborough, always makes sure our army is fully provisioned so that it never has to be a burden on any farms nearby. More to the point,’ he went on, earnestly, ‘he’d never condone rape and pillage. I was shocked that anyone in a British uniform could behave like that.’

‘Could you find out who those soldiers were?’

‘I’ll make it my business to do so,’ he said. ‘I’ve made some enquiries already but nobody knows of any patrol that might have been in that area. I won’t stop looking,’ he vowed. ‘That farmer saved my life by putting his own in danger. However long it may take, what happened to him and his family needs to be avenged.’

‘It must have been a gruesome sight.’

‘It was, Amalia. I’ve been forced to see some hideous things in battle over the years and accepted them as the fortunes of war. This was very different – kind, innocent, defenceless people, left dead in the smoking ruins of their home. It’s preyed on my mind ever since.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ she said, touching his arm in sympathy.

‘However,’ he went on, brightening, ‘I didn’t come here to dwell on the miseries of warfare. You’ve seen enough of those for yourself at first hand. I came because I missed you so much.’

‘How long will you be in Amsterdam?’

‘Only for a couple of days, I fear.’

Her face clouded. ‘Is that all?’

‘I have to sail for England.’

‘Can’t you stay here for a week at least?’

‘My passage is already booked,’ he explained, ‘and His Grace is expecting me.’

‘Tell him you had to spend more time with Father, advising him about his tapestry of the battle of Ramillies. After all, it was commissioned by the Duke himself and he ordered you to help.’

‘I’ve spoken to your father at great length about the battle and he must already be well advanced on the tapestry.’

‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘Her Grace, the Duchess of Marlborough, wrote to say that there was no immediate hurry. It may be years before it can be hung in Blenheim Palace. Building work is very slow, apparently. Father is engaged on other commissions at the moment. You’d have to jog his memory about Ramillies.’

Daniel sighed. ‘I’ll have to jog my own memory,’ he confessed. ‘It seems such a long time ago now. When we routed the French that glorious day, I thought it would be a turning point in the war and that King Louis would agree to peace on our terms.’

‘Father says that he’ll never concede defeat.’

‘Failing that, I hoped that we could build on the success of Ramillies in last year’s campaigns and strike into France itself but, somehow, it just didn’t happen. We had endless disappointments.’

She smiled sadly. ‘I know all about disappointments.’

‘Cheer up, Amalia,’ he said, kissing her on the cheek. ‘Make the most of me while I am here. I only have one other call to make and then I’m entirely at your disposal.’

‘I think I can guess what that other call is.’

‘I have to pay my respects to another very special woman.’

‘You want to visit your mother’s grave.’

‘She was born and brought up in the city. Though she enjoyed living in England with my father, she felt that it was only right that she should be buried here.’

‘An English father and a Dutch mother,’ she observed.

‘It’s a case of divided loyalties.’

‘Which has the stronger pull on you?’

‘Each of them.’

‘That doesn’t make sense, Daniel.’

‘It does to me,’ he said. ‘When I’m fighting in a British regiment, I feel English blood coursing through my veins and a sense of true patriotism. When I’m here in Amsterdam, however,’ he continued, pulling her close and looking deep into her eyes, ‘I feel as Dutch as a field of tulips and want to stay here for ever.’

‘Why have you never remarried?’ asked the Duke of Marlborough.

‘Oh, I’m much too senile for such things, John.’

‘Nonsense, man – you’re only five years older than me.’

‘I’ll not see sixty again,’ admitted Godolphin with a shrug. ‘Besides, there’s an insuperable barrier to my ever entering into holy matrimony again.’

‘You can’t mourn Margaret for ever.’

‘It isn’t just out of respect to my late wife. Margaret was a godsend and I could never find anyone else like her. No, there’s a much simpler reason, John – I’ve never been wholly at ease in the company of women. The truth of it is that I feel far more comfortable with racehorses.’

Marlborough laughed. ‘Does that mean you’d prefer to propose to a bay mare?’

‘It means that I’m a contented widower and relieved that I won’t ever have to go through the frightening process of selecting a wife.’

‘Choosing Margaret was not frightening, was it?’

‘That was different – she was an angel.’

The two men were enjoying a glass of brandy after an excellent dinner at Holywell House, the favourite home of John Churchill, Duke of Marlborough. He and Sidney, Earl of Godolphin, were more than friends and political allies. After a marriage of barely a year, Margaret Godolphin had died in childbirth. Francis, the baby son who’d lived, had grown up to marry Marlborough’s daughter, Henrietta, thus uniting the two families. Long commitments abroad meant that Marlborough didn’t see as much as he would have liked of the man who, as Lord Treasurer, provided the substantial funds needed for the continuance of the war. In order to do that, Godolphin had to become an adroit manipulator of Parliament.

‘What news of Blenheim?’ asked Godolphin, stroking the dark periwig that reached down to his chest.

‘Are you referring to the battle or the palace?’

‘The one led to the other.’

‘Indeed,’ said Marlborough, ‘and we are eternally grateful to Her Majesty for her kindness in bestowing the palace on us. Unhappily, it’s proceeding at a snail’s pace. There’s been definite progress in the grounds but the building itself has yet to take on any real shape. Sarah is there at the moment, cracking the whip over them.’

Godolphin smiled fondly. ‘I can imagine her doing that.’

‘My dear wife likes to have things her way.’

‘How is she getting on with the architect?’

‘Not too well,’ conceded Marlborough. ‘It was never going to be a marriage of true minds, alas. Vanbrugh came up with some splendid drawings and was very enthusiastic at the start of the project. Then Sarah decided that she wanted some changes.’

‘Oh, dear – have there been arguments?’

‘Let’s call them extremely warm discussions.’

‘Well, I, for one, can’t wait for Blenheim Palace to be finished,’ said Godolphin, firmly. ‘It’s not just a fitting home for you. It will be a visible reminder to everyone – including Her Majesty – of just how much you did for us as captain general of the Allied armies. Blenheim was a remarkable triumph.’

‘So it seemed at the time,’ said Marlborough. ‘Unfortunately, this damnable War of the Spanish Succession obliges me to produce a Blenheim year after year and that’s just not possible.’

He reached for the decanter and poured more brandy into both the glasses. There was a tap on the door and a liveried servant came into the dining room. He spoke with profound respect.

‘Captain Rawson presents his compliments, Your Grace, and asks if this is a convenient moment to see you.’

‘By all means,’ said Marlborough. ‘Bring the fellow in.’

‘Yes, Your Grace.’

The man bowed and withdrew silently.

‘Captain Rawson,’ said Godolphin. ‘That’s a name I know.’

‘You met him once in this very house, Sidney. Daniel Rawson was the boy with the sword.’

‘I remember now. It was after the battle of Sedgemoor. He was only ten but, when one of your soldiers tried to molest his mother, the lad killed the man with his own sword.’

‘In recognition of his courage, I presented the weapon to him even though his father had fought against us in the rebel army. Daniel has put that sword to good use over the years. He’s a fine soldier.’

‘Coming from you, that’s a real compliment.’

‘I promoted him to my personal staff.’

‘That’s a signal honour.’

‘It was well deserved.’

The servant escorted Daniel into the room then bowed and went out again. Marlborough gave the visitor a warm welcome. Daniel was pleased to find him in such a convivial mood. The last time he’d seen his commander, Marlborough had been weary and downhearted after a series of setbacks in the field.

‘Do join us, Daniel,’ said Marlborough, pointing to a chair. ‘We’ve not drunk all of the brandy yet.’

Daniel sat down beside him. ‘Thank you, Your Grace.’

‘We’ve met before, Captain Rawson,’ said Godolphin. ‘I hear nothing but good things of you.’

‘That’s very gratifying, my lord,’ said Daniel.

Marlborough rang a small bell and a servant appeared at once. He found a glass for the visitor and poured him some brandy before quitting the room. It was not the first time Marlborough had invited Daniel to join him at a table. Unlike some commanders, he didn’t distance himself from his officers in order to preserve his authority. He willingly sought their company.

‘Your good health!’ said Daniel, raising his glass to them then taking a first sip. ‘That’s very welcome after a long ride.’

‘Have you come from London?’ asked Godolphin.

‘Yes, my lord. My ship docked this morning.’

‘What sort of crossing did you have?’

‘A cold and cheerless one – we were caught in a squall.’

‘It’s not the ideal time of year to put to sea.’

‘I managed to get here in one piece,’ said Daniel before turning to Marlborough. ‘I have several letters and dispatches for you in my saddlebag, Your Grace.’

‘Then I must decline them,’ said Marlborough, holding up a palm. ‘They no longer hold any relevance for me.’

‘But I’ve brought reports of troop movements by the French.’

‘They’ve come to the wrong address.’

‘Your orders were to deliver everything to you in person.’

‘Things were different when I issued those orders.’

Daniel was bewildered. ‘In what way, Your Grace?’

‘During your absence, there have been some changes.’

‘Yes,’ confirmed Godolphin, ‘some very radical changes at that. It’s the reason you find us at leisure for once. We are no longer burdened by the affairs of state.’

‘I’m not sure that I understand, my lord,’ said Daniel.

‘Let me explain,’ volunteered Marlborough. ‘The Lord Treasurer no longer holds the office and I have ceased to be the captain general. A situation arose that made it necessary for us both to offer our resignations. In short, Daniel, you are answerable to me no more.’

Daniel was astounded. ‘This is dreadful news!’

‘That was our view initially. Now, however, having had the time to savour retirement, Sidney and I are coming to see its attractions.’

‘There’s no attraction whatsoever in it for the Allied forces,’ said Daniel, stoutly. ‘If I may be candid, it smacks of disaster. You are the one person in Europe capable of leading a coalition army against the French. Without you, we’ll be in a sorry state.’

‘It’s very kind of you to say so.’

‘Who created this situation of which you speak? It must be someone well versed in the black art of politics.’ Godolphin chuckled. ‘I apologise, my lord. I meant no offence to politicians.’

‘None was taken, Captain Rawson,’ said Godolphin. ‘Black art is an appropriate description. Parliament has rather more than its share of would-be sorcerers. They are always mixing potions designed to bring about one man’s rise and another’s downfall. His Grace and I have been victims of such sorcery. We are both ousted.’

‘This is madness,’ asserted Daniel, rising indignantly to his feet. ‘You’ve kept our army and our navy in fighting trim between you. His Grace has supplied the leadership while you, my lord, have helped to raise the money to make that leadership effective. To dispense with your services is an act of sheer lunacy. Have they forgotten Blenheim? Don’t they remember our victory at the Lines of Brabant? Does the name of Ramillies mean nothing to them?’ He lowered his voice. ‘I’m sorry to speak out so boldly, Your Grace, but I’m only saying what every British soldier will say. To lose you is an absolute catastrophe.’

‘Kind words, Daniel,’ said Marlborough, ‘and inspired by your loyalty to me. Others, alas, have forsaken loyalty.’

‘Then they must be brought to their senses. This is a decision that must be reversed at the earliest opportunity. I refuse to believe that Her Majesty approved of your resignations.’

Godolphin winced slightly. ‘She did so with equanimity.’

‘And there the matter ends,’ said Marlborough, dismissively. ‘You’ve performed some remarkable deeds in your time, Daniel, but even you couldn’t make our beloved Queen change her mind on this issue.’ He hunched his shoulders. ‘Our time is over. We’ve learnt to accept that.’ He waved an arm. ‘Now why don’t you sit down again and drink some more of this exceptional brandy?’

CHAPTER THREE

The ride to Somerset was a journey into his past. It was a pilgrimage that Daniel made every time he was on English soil. Ordinarily, he’d be preoccupied with memories of his father and of the events that led to his untimely death at the end of a hangman’s rope. That tragedy had helped to mould Daniel’s character. On this occasion, however, he spared Nathan Rawson only a few random thoughts. Even the murder of the farmer and his family had been pushed from his mind for once. What simmered in Daniel’s brain as he rode along was the prospect of returning to the theatre of war without the Duke of Marlborough.

It was highly disturbing. Marlborough’s experience, stamina, tactical brilliance and ability to improvise during a battle had earned him a reputation unmatched in military circles. He was revered by his men who called him Corporal John because of his readiness to take notice of the lower ranks. At the same time, he was feared by French marshals and by other commanders who’d faced him in the field. He’d been such a dominating presence in European warfare for so long that he’d acquired almost legendary status. Yet that legend had now been discarded. Daniel could foresee the utter dismay in the Allied army when the word spread. By the same token, he could envisage the sheer delight among the enemy when they realised that their conqueror had relinquished his office. The whole balance of the war would shift in favour of the French. Daniel was troubled.

Reaching his destination, he dismounted and tethered his horse before he even realised where he was. The church tower cast a long, all-embracing shadow over him as if in reproach at his lack of due respect. He’d come to mourn a dead father not to bewail the loss of a living soldier. Daniel was sobered. With the image of Nathan Rawson before him, he went penitently into the churchyard and sought out his father’s grave. Kneeling beside it, he offered up a prayer and apologised for being so distracted. Then he began to clear some of the weeds that encroached on the little headstone.

He was still on his knees when he heard the excited voices of children. Daniel looked up to see a small boy being chased by an even smaller girl. They were running through the churchyard with such joyful irreverence that he was mildly shocked for a moment. He rose to admonish them but their father saved him the trouble. Calling the children over to him, he told them to play on the village green instead. As they raced off happily again, Daniel crossed over to the newcomer.

‘Is that you, Martin?’ he asked, peering intently at him.

‘Indeed, it is,’ replied Martin Rye with a surprised grin. ‘And unless my eyes fail me, I’m talking to Dan Rawson.’

‘Yes, it’s me.’ They shook hands warmly. ‘It’s good to see you again after all this time. You’re a married man now, I see.’

‘I’ve two lovely children to show for it. I couldn’t bring myself to punish them just now. After all, when we were their age, we used to play games here in the churchyard.’

Daniel smiled. ‘The verger chased us away many a time.’

It was over twenty years since he’d seen his old friend. Martin Rye was a boy from the village who’d worked on the Rawson farm for a short while. He’d grown up to be tall and sturdy. Apart from memories of childhood fun together, they shared something else. When the Monmouth rebellion had been crushed at Sedgemoor, Nathan Rawson had been a captain in the defeated army. Rye had two brothers who’d also responded to the call to arms and fought on the losing side. All three of them had been condemned to death at the Bloody Assizes.

‘I know what brought you here, Dan,’ said Rye with envy. ‘When your father was hanged, you cut down his body so that it could lie here in the churchyard.’

‘Yes, we did.’

‘I wish we could have rescued my brothers but Will and Arthur had already been tossed into a common grave with all the other poor wretches who danced on the gallows that day.’

‘We were lucky enough to reach my father in time. We brought him here in the dead of night and buried him under the bushes where nobody could find him. It was many years later,’ recalled Daniel, ‘that I was able to dig up the body and see that it had a proper Christian burial.’ He touched Rye’s arm. ‘I’m sorry that your brothers don’t lie in consecrated ground as well. They were brave lads.’ He stood back to look his friend up and down. ‘You’ve filled out since we last met. What are you doing with yourself now?’

‘I’ve taken over the forge from my uncle. Being a blacksmith is hard work but I’ve never been one to shy away from that. What about you, Dan?’ he went on. ‘When I heard you’d fled to Holland with your mother, I thought you’d find a farm there.’

‘I chose to follow the drum instead.’

‘I can see that from your uniform. What regiment are you in?’

‘The 24th Foot,’ said Daniel, ‘with the rank of captain.’

Rye was impressed. ‘You’ve done well for yourself.’

‘Soldiering is a dangerous occupation, Martin. I’d feel a lot safer if I was a blacksmith like you.’

‘Don’t be so sure about that,’ said the other with a laugh. ‘I’ve got burns all over my arms and horses can give you a nasty kick if they don’t want to be shoed.’

‘At least you don’t have someone trying to kill you every time you go into battle.’

‘That’s true. I’d hate that. How do you put up with it?’

‘You learn to survive.’

‘Are you married?’

‘Not yet.’

‘I don’t blame you.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Too many soldiers’ wives end up as widows.’

‘There’s always that risk,’ admitted Daniel, thinking wistfully of Amalia Janssen. ‘Casualties are often very high. It’s something you have to live with, Martin.’

‘I could never do that.’

‘It’s surprising what you can do when you’re put to the test.’

‘I like my life as it is, Dan.’

There was an endearing simplicity about Martin Rye. He was a big, strong, healthy man in his thirties with limited needs and narrow horizons. The village provided him with everything he wanted and he’d never dream of moving away from it. Had he stayed on the family farm, Daniel mused, he’d probably have grown up to be like his friend and to enjoy a stable existence in the rural tranquillity of Somerset. He’d have employed Rye to shoe the farm horses and drunk with him from time to time in the village tavern. It was a tempting prospect but well beyond his reach now.

‘Why do you serve in the British army?’ asked Rye. ‘I heard that you and your mother had fled to Amsterdam.’

‘That’s exactly what we did.’

‘So why didn’t you join the Dutch army?’

‘I served in it for years when King William was on the throne,’ said Daniel, ‘before deciding to wear a redcoat instead. British and Dutch armies fight side by side now.’

‘Have you fought in many battles?’

‘My whole life has been marked out by battles and sieges.’

‘What about Blenheim?’

‘I was there, Martin.’

Rye whistled in admiration. ‘Were you – what was it like?’

‘If you want the truth, it was desperate.’

‘Yet you don’t have a scratch on you.’

‘I was lucky,’ said Daniel, modestly.

‘We heard so many tales about Blenheim,’ said Rye. ‘The French were well and truly whipped that day. You’re a hero, Dan Rawson. What a wonderful thing to be able to tell your grandchildren – that you fought at Blenheim.’

‘In its own way, Ramillies was an even greater triumph. We beat the French into the ground and lost fewer of our men. I had a much better view of that battle,’ Daniel continued, ‘because I had the honour of serving on the Duke of Marlborough’s personal staff.’

Rye’s manner changed at once. ‘Don’t mention the name of that bastard!’ he said, vehemently.

‘But he was our captain general.’

‘Yes, Dan, and he was also one of the leaders of the army that mowed down the rebels at Sedgemoor. Because of him, and other cruel devils like him, my brothers ended up with a rope around their necks and so did your father.’

‘That’s all in the past, Martin.’

‘Is it?’ demanded the other with passion. ‘Then what are you doing here? Why are you still tending your father’s grave after all these years?’

‘It’s a duty. I’m proud of what my father did.’

‘You’re no more proud of him than I am of Will and Arthur. Before he became a farmer, your father was a trained soldier. He had proper weapons and knew how to use them. My brothers were raw lads with fire in their veins and a pitchfork in their hands. They stood no chance against that monster, Marlborough, and his army.’

‘He wasn’t a duke at the time of Sedgemoor,’ corrected Daniel. ‘He was John, Lord Churchill with the rank of major general and he wasn’t in overall command.’

‘What difference does it make?’ snarled Rye. ‘He was one of them. That’s all that matters. I detest him for what he did.’

‘He wasn’t directly responsible for the deaths of your brothers.’

‘Why are you defending him?’

‘Because I’ve had the advantage of getting to know His Grace,’ said Daniel, proudly. ‘In my opinion, he’s the finest soldier alive.’

‘Well, I think he’s a barefaced traitor.’

‘That’s absurd.’

‘I’m not stupid, Dan,’ said Rye, tapping his chest. ‘You may think we’re cut off down here in this little village but we get to hear things and we remember them. When the Duke or Lord Churchill or whatever you want to call him beat the rebels on that bloodthirsty day, he did so in the name of King James. Am I right or wrong?’

‘You’re quite right, Martin.’

‘Yet three years later, when he should have supported his king once again, he turns his back on him and joins up with a Dutchman, William of Orange. King James was forced into exile. That’s treachery to me.’

‘It’s a little more complicated than that.’

‘He stabbed King James in the back.’

‘That’s not what happened at all.’