Soldier of Fortune E-Book

Edward Marston

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

Seitenzahl: 436

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

IT IS 1704 AND EUROPE IS AT WAR 'Take this sword as you own and wear it with more honour than the man from whom you took it' With Lord Churchill's words ringing in his ears, the courageous young Captain Daniel Rawson embarks on a dangerous mission to lead his men into battle against the French enemy. He must succeed at all costs- the future of England is at stake. But Rawson is the target of the murderous General Salignac who will stop at nothing to see his adversary dead. As Rawson and his men march across the continent, he must keep one step ahead of Salignac's brigands and live to fight heroically at the Battle of Blenheim. The author of the bestselling Railway detective series triumphs with this stunning first book in the Captain Rawson series.

Leseprobe

Soldier of Fortune

EDWARD MARSTON

Contents

Title PagePROLOGUECHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENCHAPTER TWELVECHAPTER THIRTEENCHAPTER FOURTEENCHAPTER FIFTEENAbout the AuthorBy Edward MarstonCopyright

PROLOGUE

Saturday, July 4, 1685

Daniel Rawson saw him at once. The boy was walking across a field with his dog, Tinker, at his heels when he caught sight of a lone horseman coming over the brow of the hill. He sensed that it must be his father and broke into a spontaneous run. Thinking that they were playing a game, Tinker chased after him, shooting past him then zigzagging crazily in his path. Daniel did not even notice the animal. His gaze was fixed on the rider and his mind was racing. It was almost three weeks since Nathan Rawson had left home to join the Duke of Monmouth and it had been the longest and most agonising time of the boy’s life. Desperate to know how his father was faring with the rebel army, he had been fed on nothing but rumour, lies and tittle-tattle. At last, he would learn the truth.

Recognising his son, Nathan kicked his horse into a gallop then raised an arm in greeting. Daniel replied by waving both of his hands in the air and Tinker barked excitedly. By the time that father and son finally met, the boy was panting for breath but nevertheless able to blurt out a few words.

‘Welcome back, Father!’

‘How are you, lad?’ said Nathan, reining in his horse and dismounting to embrace him. ‘Is all well here?’

‘What news?’ Daniel gasped. ‘Have the royal forces been put to flight? Has the King been deposed? Have we won yet?’

Nathan shook his head sadly. ‘No, Dan. Not yet.’

‘But we will win – you promised me that we will.’

‘And we may still do so in time.’

‘Where’s the army now?’ asked Daniel.

‘No more questions until we get home,’ said the other, holding him by the shoulders to appraise him. ‘Let me take a good look at you. I’ve missed you and your mother so much.’ Tinker barked in protest and Nathan smiled wearily. ‘Yes, I missed you as well, Tinker,’ he added, patting the dog’s head. ‘I’ve missed you all.’

Thrilled to see his father once more, Daniel was at the same time distressed by his appearance. Nathan Rawson was a big, broad-shouldered man in his late thirties with the boundless energy that his son had inherited from him. There was no sign of that energy now. He looked tired, dispirited and much older than when he had left the farm to join a cause in which he fervently believed. In the eyes of a ten-year old boy who worshipped him, his father had shrunk in size and lost all of his buoyant self-confidence.

‘Come on,’ said Nathan, trying to conceal his anxieties behind a warm grin. ‘Let’s ride home together.’

‘How long will you be staying?’

‘Only until tomorrow – we’ve been granted furlough.’

‘Mother will be so pleased,’ said Daniel.

‘Then let’s not keep her waiting.’

Foot in the stirrup, Nathan mounted the horse then offered his hand to his son. Daniel was a sturdy boy but he was hauled up effortlessly to sit behind his father. With the dog scampering beside them, they began to trot across the fields in the afternoon sunshine, Daniel holding tightly on to his father with a fierce pride that was tempered by desperation.

Juliana Rawson was so delighted to see her husband return that she burst into tears and lapsed back into her native language. Since he could speak Dutch more fluently than his father, Daniel had a much clearer idea of what his mother was saying. As his parents threw their arms around each other, the boy realised that they needed some privacy. The most useful thing he could do was to stable the horse. It was only when he was unsaddling the animal that he noticed the ugly gash down one flank and the dried blood on its withers. His father had clearly seen action.

Set in the heart of Somerset, the farm was large enough to give them a comfortable living yet small enough to employ a mere five labourers and two domestic servants. Unlike some in the county, it had not been requisitioned by the rebel army nor had its livestock been plundered to feed hungry soldiers. It was ironic. Nathan Rawson had abandoned his military career to get married and take up farming. In the hope of putting the Duke of Monmouth on the throne, he had now given up farming to follow the drum once more.

When he got back to the house, Daniel found his parents in the kitchen, sitting side by side at the table. The boy took a chair opposite them and hung on his father’s words. Because of his experience in combat, Nathan had been promoted to the rank of captain and he was impressed by the men who served under him.

‘They lack nothing in courage,’ he told them, ‘and they come from all parts of the West Country. We have miners from the Mendips, fishermen from the south, wool-workers from Devon, mountain men from the Quantocks, graziers from Bampton, wild marsh-men from Axbridge and hundreds of other stout-hearted fellows ready to take up arms to rid the country of a Catholic tyrant.’

‘There’s talk of deserters,’ Daniel chipped in.

‘Every army has a few cowards who turn tail when the first shot is fired. We’re better off without them. Besides,’ Nathan went on airily, ‘we’ve recruited some deserters ourselves from the royal ranks. They’d much rather serve King Monmouth than labour under the yoke of King James.’

‘But where will it all end, Nathan?’ asked Juliana worriedly.

‘That’s in the laps of the gods, my love.’

‘What will happen to you?’

‘I’ll give a good account of myself in battle, have no fear.’

‘What about us?’

‘You and Dan must pray for our success.’

It was not the reassuring answer that she needed and her face clouded. Juliana was a comely woman in her thirties with vestiges of the youthful prettiness that had first attracted Nathan Rawson. He had been fighting in the Netherlands at the time and they had been on opposite sides. It was different now. Their respective countries were at peace with each other and their marriage symbolised the fact. She did not want her happiness to be shattered by warfare.

‘Have you killed anyone?’ asked the boy, wide-eyed.

‘Daniel!’ scolded his mother.

‘I want to know.’

‘The lad has the right to be told,’ said Nathan, subduing his wife with a hand on her arm. ‘Yes, Dan,’ he added, turning to his son. ‘I killed a man during a skirmish at Norton St Philip and wounded two others. They attacked us hard that day but we repulsed them in fine style. It was an important victory.’

‘Ralph Huckvale’s father died at Norton St Philip.’

‘We were bound to suffer losses.’

‘Ralph went off to serve in his place,’ said Daniel. ‘He’s only a few years older than me. Why can’t I join in the fight?’

‘No!’ cried Juliana. ‘I couldn’t bear that.’

‘You must stay here, Dan,’ said his father.

‘But you were a drummer boy at my age,’ argued Daniel.

‘That was different.’

‘I need you here,’ said Juliana. ‘You must stay with me, Dan.’

‘Listen to your mother,’ advised Nathan. ‘Your job is to look after her and the farm. When I go away, you’re the man of the house. Always remember that.’

‘Yes, Father,’ said the boy disconsolately.

‘We rely on you. Don’t let us down.’

It was a heavy responsibility to place on someone so young but, under other circumstances, Daniel would have been glad to shoulder it. He never shirked a challenge and always did his fair share of the chores on the farm. The problem, in this case, was that he longed to be with his father, to join the rebel army that had been formed with such enthusiasm when the Duke of Monmouth landed at Lyme Regis. The bold and dashing James Scott was the illegitimate son of the late Charles II but his followers believed that he was the rightful heir to the throne. The idea of marching with the future King inspired Daniel. Life on the farm offered many pleasures but it could not compare with the excitement of battle and the feeling of taking part in a momentous event. Daniel yearned for glory.

Seeing his disappointment, Nathan offered him recompense.

‘If you’d really like to help us…’ he began.

Daniel rallied. ‘Yes, Father?’

‘You can sharpen my sword.’

He indicated the weapon that lay across the other end of the table. Daniel snatched it up willingly and rushed off to the outhouse where the whetstone was kept. Watched by Tinker, he first cleaned the blade with an old rag then he carefully sharpened it until its edges were like razors. He was exhilarated by the thought that he was holding a sword that had killed an enemy and inflicted wounds on other men. When his work was done, he could not resist taking part in an imaginary fight, parrying blows from an invisible foe before beating him back and thrusting the sword deep into his stomach. For a short while at least, he was a member of the rebel army.

Nathan decided to inspect the farm, going out into the fields to speak to each of his men and to examine his small dairy herd. Daniel and Tinker accompanied him. At first, the boy thought that his father was checking on what progress had been made in his absence but, when it was all over, another thought occurred to him. Nathan Rawson was taking leave of old friends, giving each of them a few kind words by way of a last memory of him in case he never saw them again. Victory was obviously in grave doubt. Daniel shuddered.

That evening, Nathan tried to bring some comfort to his wife and child. Seated in his favourite chair in the parlour, he talked to them between puffs on his clay pipe and long sips of cider. He praised the Duke’s skill as a military commander and spoke highly of his deputy, Lord Grey of Warke, the only member of the gentry in his ranks. He also stressed their numerical superiority over the royal troops and county militias ranged against them. What he did not mention was that their supporters in Scotland had been routed and that the hoped for rising in Cheshire in the name of King Monmouth had failed to materialise. A rebel force that had once expected to reach London within a week was still pinned down in Somerset, licking its wounds and uncertain of its next move.

Cheered by what he heard, Daniel was still apprehensive.

‘They say that the Earl of Feversham is a fine soldier,’ he said.

‘He was a fine soldier,’ corrected Nathan, ‘but that was before he was badly injured in a house fire. He took a blow to the head that left him half the man he was. In any case,’ he continued, sitting up, ‘the Earl of Feversham is a Frenchman. It says much of King James that he chooses as a commander-in-chief a Roman Catholic from across the Channel. That’s something we fight against, lad – the prospect that England will be at the mercy of foreigners.’

‘I’m a foreigner,’ said Juliana.

‘You’re also a zealous Protestant, my love.’

‘But I’m not English.’

‘You’re my wife and that absolves you of any blame.’

‘Tell me about Lord Churchill,’ said Daniel. ‘You fought under him once, didn’t you? He’s reckoned to be a good general.’

‘Give the man his due – he’s the best of them.’

‘Do we have anyone to match him, Father?’

‘To match him and to put him to flight,’ said Nathan before downing the last of his cider in one long gulp. ‘You can forget Lord Churchill and the Earl of Feversham, lad. They are appointed to fight on his behalf while King James skulks in London. Our ruler – King Monmouth – leads his men from the front like a true soldier and that’s why we’ll prevail.’

They were stirring words to carry off to bed and they rang in Daniel’s ear for a long time. Later, however, when he lay awake in his bed with Tinker curled up on the floor beside him, he heard sounds from next door that were less heartening. His parents were talking and, though he could not pick out their exact words, he knew that they were having an argument of some sort. That, in itself, was such a rare occurrence that it troubled him. His father’s voice became louder, mingling anger, bravado and regret, to be followed in due course by his profuse apologies.

They came too late to appease his wife. Juliana Rawson had sobbed throughout. As her apprehension grew and her reproaches came more freely, she could hold back her pain no longer. The last thing that Daniel heard before he fell asleep was the sound of his mother crying her eyes out and begging her husband not to leave her.

The attack began at night. Though he had greater numbers, the Duke of Monmouth knew that he could not win a pitched battle. While the royal army consisted of well-trained, well-armed professional soldiers, led by seasoned commanders, his own force was made up largely of willing volunteers with little experience and poor equipment. Many of them had no weaponry beyond scythes, sickles, pitchforks and staves. The only hope of success lay in a night-time attack where the element of surprise would be crucial.

The omens were good. The government had pitched their tents behind the Bussex Rhine, a drainage ditch that ran from the moor to the River Parrett. They had not entrenched their camp and reports came in that the soldiers were enjoying the local cider, a potent brew that made men sluggish. When a thick mist descended to cover any nocturnal manoeuvres, the Duke issued his orders. At eleven o’clock that Sunday night, the rebels set out to change the course of history.

Discipline was savage. Like other captains, Nathan Rawson warned his troops that if anyone disturbed the army’s silent progress through the dark, he would be killed on the spot by his neighbour. The four thousand men who left their camp at Castle Field did not even dare to whisper. Instead of heading for the enemy in a direct line, they opted for a circuitous march six miles in length that would allow them to strike at the northern flank of the royal camp. Following the Bristol road, they reached Peasey Farm, where they left their baggage train, continuing their advance until they got to the Langmoor Rhine.

It was here that the plan faltered. In the swirling fog, the local man acting as their guide could not find the crossing that had been cut into the deep ditch. As he beat round in search of it, he was heard by an alert sentry on the other side of the Rhine. The man also picked up the sound of jingling harness and the shuffling of hooves in the grass. Firing his pistol to warn the patrol at Chedzoy, he galloped all the way back to the bank of the Bussex Rhine and raised the royal camp with shouts of ‘Beat the drums, the enemy is come! For the Lord’s sake, beat the drums!’

The battle of Sedgemoor had begun. When the alarm was sounded, the response was immediate. The royal army was not, in fact, lying in the drunken stupor on which the rebels had counted. It was ready for action within minutes. Seizing their weapons, the soldiers deployed between the tents and the Bussex Rhine in good order, helped by the fact that tapes had been strung out in advance to act as guide ropes in the darkness. They met the sudden emergency as if they had been expecting it.

The rebel infantry was still a mile from the royal camp but the cavalry had no need to hold back. Thundering across the moor, they headed for the Upper Plungeon, one of the cattle crossings in the Bussex Rhine. On their way, they were met by a sizeable mounted picket as it fell back towards the royal camp. Outnumbered three to one, the regular troops fired with such speed and accuracy that they drove the rebel cavalry back and managed to secure the Upper Plungeon. When he saw that the vital crossing was impassable, Lord Grey, the rebel second-in-command, was forced to lead the bulk of his cavalry along the front of the royal position in the hope of finding another passage across the gaping Rhine. It was a disastrous move.

Enlisted as allies, night and the eddying mist turned traitor, obscuring from them the fact that the ditch was not, as they had assumed, water-logged after recent heavy rain. It was simply caked in mud through which they could easily have ridden. As it was, they presented themselves as irresistible targets for the Royal Guards who unleashed such a devastating volley that it caused utter panic. As they were raked by a veritable blizzard of musket balls that killed or wounded indiscriminately, the rebel cavalry lost all order and control. Terrified horses and frightened riders could think only of escape.

The first ranks of infantry hurried towards the Bussex Rhine, only to be buffeted and scattered by their own cavalry in headlong retreat. When the horsemen reached Peasey Farm, they called out to the ammunition-handlers that all was lost and that they should take to their heels. It was a calamitous start to the battle. At one stroke, Monmouth had been deprived of most of his cavalry, had his infantry dispersed willy-nilly and lost all of his reserve of powder and shot. From that moment on, the result was never in doubt.

The rebels, however, did not acknowledge defeat. With their infantry stretched out along the Rhine, they fired successive volleys at the enemy and pounded them with their four cannon guns. While the artillery caused some damage, their musketry was largely ineffective because the royal troops lay flat on the ground and let the bullets fly harmlessly over their heads as they waited for light to improve. In the early stages, the royal army had three glaring deficiencies. They had no artillery, they lacked a full complement of cavalry and as yet they had no commander-of-chief in the field. When these weaknesses were rectified, as they soon were, the government forces were invincible.

While he waited for dawn, the Earl of Feversham prepared to turn defence into attack, consulting with Lord Churchill and his other commanders. By the time the light strengthened, the royal infantry was drawn up in disciplined ranks with the cavalry on its flanks, its artillery continuing its bombardment of the rebels. Monmouth had seen enough. Spurring his horse from the field, he was followed by Lord Grey and the other surviving riders. On a command, the royal troops swarmed across the Rhine in a general assault, dipping their pike-points and plug bayonets in readiness. The cavalry, meanwhile, surged across the ditch to attack both flanks of the enemy.

It was all over. The rebel lines broke and ran. Braver individuals stayed to fight on but they were soon overpowered. The moor was littered with dead bodies and dying men as the cavalry pursued the fleeing rebels and cut them down with ruthless efficiency. Those not killed were captured and Nathan Rawson, having fought bravely to the last, was among the hundreds disarmed and roped together. The Monmouth rebellion had been crushed beyond recall, its army vanquished and its humiliated leader a desperate fugitive.

It was two days before Daniel Rawson found out what had happened to his father. When he heard that his uncle, Samuel Penry, had been shot in action, that his friend, Ralph Huckvale, had been trampled to death by fleeing rebel cavalry and that the massive Joseph Greengage, who owned a neighbouring farm, had been cut to ribbons during the rout, he began to fear the worst. He eventually discovered that Nathan Rawson was one of over five hundred prisoners crammed into St Mary’s Church in Westonzoyland. Daniel was not allowed to see him and was dismayed to learn of the appalling conditions inside the church. Prisoners were unfed, wounds went untreated and those who died of their injuries were left unburied. Captives seemed to have no rights whatsoever. By way of retribution, a few of them had already been summarily hanged.

Daniel was still gazing up the dangling figures on the gibbets when he felt a jab in the ribs. He turned to see the anxious face of Martin Rye, an older boy from the village near his farm.

‘Go home, Dan Rawson,’ he urged.

‘But my father is held prisoner in the church,’ said Daniel.

‘Then there’s no hope for him. My two brothers were also captured at the battle but the only time I’ll get to see Will and Arthur again is when they string them up like these poor souls.’

‘I feel that my place is here, Martin.’

‘Go home while you have a home to go to.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Haven’t your heard?’ asked Rye. ‘If anyone took up arms in the name of King Monmouth, they’re either burning down his house or seizing his property. Your farm won’t be spared.’

‘Can this be true?’ said Daniel in alarm.

‘Ask any of these guards and they’ll tell you. But don’t get too close to them,’ cautioned Rye, gingerly rubbing the side of his head, ‘or they’ll give you a cuff to help you on your way.’

‘When will the prisoners come to trial, Martin?’

‘Forget about them. Go home – your mother needs you.’

It was a prophetic warning. Daniel had ridden the eight miles to Westonzoyland on a carthorse. On the journey back, he had to go across the battlefield, stained with the blood of the fallen and scarred by the cumulative brutalities of combat. The grim duty of burying the dead was still going on as putrid corpses were tipped into large pits to share a common grave. When he first traversed the moor, Daniel had been struck by the thought that his Uncle Samuel, Ralph Huckvale and Joseph Greengage all lay somewhere beneath that soil but he did not even accord them a passing sigh this time. His mind was on the possible loss or destruction of his home.

Old Nelly, the carthorse, had been bred for her power rather than speed and she could not be pushed too hard. Daniel nursed her along and only forced her into a canter when the farm at last came into view. Everything seemed exactly as he had left it. The house had not been torched and the livestock still grazed in the fields. His fears, it appeared, had been groundless. When he rode into the courtyard, however, his apprehension returned. Three horses were tethered to a fence and laughter was coming from behind the barn.

Dismounting quickly, he tethered Nelly and ran towards the noise. Tinker was barking now and the laughter increasing. When he came round the angle of the barn, Daniel saw two red-coated soldiers. One of them was lounging against the wall while the other was tossing a large twig for the dog to retrieve. Tinker had entered into the game with spirit but he lost interest the moment that he saw his master. Scurrying across to Daniel, he barked a welcome. The soldiers grinned and sauntered across to the boy.

‘You must be Nathan Rawson’s son,’ said one of them.

‘What if I am?’ retorted Daniel.

‘Then you’re about to lose your father.’

‘And your mother will have something to remember us by as well,’ said the other soldier with a smirk. ‘The sergeant is with her.’ When Daniel turned instinctively to go, the man put a hand on his shoulder. ‘You stay here, lad, until the sergeant has had his sport.’

Daniel was enraged. Pushing the hand aside, he ran towards the house. The soldier tried to follow but Tinker bit his ankle and refused to let go. After trying in vain to shake the dog off, the man seized a pitchfork that was leaning against the barn and used it to kill Tinker, jabbing away hard until his squeals of pain finally stopped. Daniel, meanwhile, had burst into the house. Guided by his mother’s screams, he hurtled up the stairs and into his parent’s bedroom. It was not occupied by his mother and father now. A distraught Juliana Rawson was lying on the bed, struggling hard against the soldier who was holding her down and trying to stifle her protests with guzzling kisses. He had already discarded his coat and lowered his breeches. Daniel’s mother was about to be raped.

The boy did not hesitate. Grabbing the man’s sword from the floor, he hacked madly at him until he rolled off his victim then he put all his strength into one purposeful thrust, piercing the ribs and going straight through the man’s heart. The sergeant’s eyes widened in disbelief for a second then he emitted a long gurgle before sagging to the floor in a heap. Juliana sat up on the bed and hastily smoothed down her ruffled skirt. She looked down at the dead body of her attacker with a mixture of relief and foreboding. Footsteps pounded up the staircase. Eyes blazing and sword in one hand, Daniel put a protective arm around his mother.

Major-General John, Lord Churchill was a lean, handsome, debonair man in his mid-thirties with an impressive military career behind him. The critical decisions he had taken at Sedgemoor, while his commander-in-chief was still asleep in bed, had saved the lives of royal troops and hastened the defeat of the enemy. He was entitled to feel proud of his contribution towards the quelling of the rebellion. While he admired their courage, Churchill had little sympathy for those who had taken up arms against King James. But their children were another matter.

‘Sergeant Hoskins is dead?’ he asked incredulously.

‘Run through with his own sword, my lord,’ explained the soldier before indicating Daniel Rawson. ‘And this is the young villain who killed him.’

Churchill’s gaze shifted to the boy. ‘Is this true?’

‘He deserved it, sir,’ replied the boy stoutly.

‘I didn’t ask you about his deserts. I want simply to establish the facts. Did you or did you not kill Sergeant Hoskins?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And do you regret your action?’

‘No, sir,’ said Daniel firmly. ‘I’d do the same again.’

‘What’s your name, boy?’

‘Daniel Rawson.’

‘His father is held prisoner at Westonzoyland,’ said the soldier.

‘There’s no disgrace in fighting for a cause in which you believe,’ said Daniel boldly, quoting his father word for word. ‘Had I been old enough, I’d have joined the Duke’s army as well. My father is Captain Nathan Rawson and he has great respect for you, sir. He served under you in Flanders.’

Churchill’s eyebrows rose. ‘Really?’

‘That’s where he met my mother.’

Juliana nodded sadly. They were in the parlour of a house that Churchill had requisitioned for his private use. Though he was not a tall man, he still towered over them. They stood before him with the armed soldier beside them. The blood-stained sword belonging to the late Sergeant Gregory Hoskins lay on a table nearby. His mother was cowed by the presence of so distinguished a man but Daniel met his searching gaze without flinching. Churchill looked from one to the other before glancing at the soldier.

‘There’s something you haven’t told me,’ he said quietly.

‘I gave you a full report, my lord,’ claimed the other. ‘Sergeant Hoskins went into the house to inform this woman that the property would be seized from her in due course. She reviled him and the sergeant tried to remonstrate with her. While they were arguing, the boy rushed in and killed him.’

‘And he did so with the sergeant’s own sword?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘It was very foolish of Sergeant Hoskins to hand the boy his weapon,’ said Churchill wryly. ‘A lad of this age is no match for a veteran soldier. Whatever possessed the sergeant to be so reckless?’

The soldier licked his lips. ‘He had put his sword aside, my lord.’

‘How do you know? You were not present at the time.’

‘It’s the only explanation.’

‘Very well,’ said Churchill courteously. ‘You’ve given me your version of events and I daresay that your companion at the farm will tell the same tale. Now I would like to hear what really happened.’

‘I’ve already told you,’ insisted the man.

‘Let the others speak – they were actually there. Now,’ he went on, looking at Daniel, ‘where did this distressing incident take place?’

‘In the parlour, my lord,’ said the soldier.

‘Hold your peace,’ advised Churchill, making it more of a polite request than a brusque command.

‘It was in my parents’ bedroom, sir,’ said Daniel quietly. ‘He had no right to be there and to be doing…what he was doing. If you don’t believe me,’ he added with a hint of truculence, ‘you can come to the farm and see for yourself. The bed sheets are covered in blood.’

‘A visit will not be necessary,’ said Churchill. ‘You came to your mother’s aid as any good son would do in that situation. You are to be commended, Daniel Rawson.’

Daniel and his mother exchanged a glance of surprise.

‘He killed Sergeant Hoskins, my lord,’ argued the soldier. ‘He must pay the penalty for that. I say that he should hang beside his father and be left to rot.’

‘Fortunately,’ said Churchill suavely, ‘sentence will not be left to you. Indeed, you are more likely to be facing justice than dispensing it. If I learn that you condoned the actions of Sergeant Hoskins, you and your companion will answer to me. I’ll not tolerate rape or pillage. I saw enough of both in Tangier to last me my whole life. Men who serve under me have a code of honour and I’ll not let one of them besmirch that code.’ He pointed a peremptory finger. ‘Wait outside.’

‘We had no idea what the sergeant was doing, my lord.’

‘I gave you an order!’

‘Yes, my lord.’

Drawing himself the attention, the man mumbled an apology then left the room quickly. Daniel and his mother could not believe what they had just witnessed. On the way there, they had been warned by the two soldiers to say nothing at all because they would not be believed. The least they could expect, they were told, was lengthy imprisonment. Instead, Daniel had been listened to and exonerated. Churchill had not merely understood what had happened at the farm, he had spared Juliana the embarrassment of having to recount it in detail.

‘On behalf of my men,’ said Churchill gravely, ‘I owe you my profound apologies. You will be given ample time to gather your possessions together before you quit the property. I give you my word that nobody will harass you. As for you, Daniel,’ he continued, picking up the sword from the table, ‘I can think of only one way to reward your valour. Take this sword as your own and wear it with more honour than the man from whom you took it.’

In the ensuing days, two names were heard on every side – those of Major-General John Churchill and Colonel Percy Kirke. Nothing bad was spoken of the one and nothing good of the other. While Churchill had enhanced his reputation as a soldier and gentleman, Kirke had added to the long record of unrelieved cruelty he had compiled while stationed in Tangier. Kirke’s Lambs, so called in ironic tribute to the atrocities they committed after the battle and in mocking reference to the Paschal lamb emblazoned on their regimental crest, consisted mainly of musketeers with a sprinkling of pikemen and grenadiers. Wherever they went, they left a trail of misery and destruction behind them, torturing and executing their captives at will.

It was not long before a third name was on everyone’s lips and it soon eclipsed the other two. George Jeffreys was a notably handsome man with a flair for vicious cross-examination and a fondness for low company. Though still in his thirties, he had risen to the exalted position of Lord Chief Justice and was accordingly dispatched to the West Country by King James to supervise the trials of those who had dared to raise their hands against their monarch. Under the strict and merciless control of Judge Jeffreys, the Bloody Assizes commenced.

The circuit began in Winchester and the trial of Dame Alice Lisle was a stark warning of the horrors that were to follow. A widow of eighty, Dame Alice was accused of harbouring two rebels, even though she had no idea who the men were and had little sympathy for the Duke of Monmouth’s cause. In a bruising six-hour trial, Jeffreys frightened and confused the old woman so much that she was unable to muster a proper defence. A reluctant jury was bullied into bringing in a guilty verdict and Jeffreys gleefully sentenced her to be burnt at the stake, the penalty for women convicted of high treason. Five days later, after an appeal to the King, she was spared incineration and was instead beheaded by an axe.

Everyone quaked when they heard the news. If an innocent old woman could suffer such a fate, what would happen to those who had actually fought beside Monmouth? The answer soon came. Gallows were erected successively in Winchester, Dorchester and Exeter as the judges continued their assize circuit. When they reached Taunton, Jeffreys and the rest of his judicial team had still not slaked their thirst for blood. With a blatant disregard for any evidence in favour of the defendants, Judge Jeffreys continued his reign of terror. Plagued by a kidney stone, he was sometimes in such agony that he turned into a ranting tyrant, moved to even greater extremes of savagery. Those who trembled in the dock before him did not realise how much money the Lord Chief Justice was making out of the Bloody Assizes by selling pardons and profiting from the traffic of those he sentenced to transportation. Suffering was a lucrative enterprise.

Nathan Rawson faced him with great courage and endured his cross-examination with calm defiance. His trial was brief. He was one of five hundred or more prisoners who were rushed through the court in a mere two days. Since Taunton was seen by the authorities as a hotbed of revolt, Jeffreys and the other judges were especially severe. Along with many others, Nathan was condemned to death. His wife and son were in the large crowd that gathered on the day of execution to watch their family members and friends being hanged. As her husband was taken up on to the scaffold, Juliana Rawson could not bear to look but Daniel did not take his eyes off the grisly proceedings. Most of the rebels showed fear and one pleaded aloud for mercy but Nathan Rawson met his end with fortitude, even managing a farewell smile to his son as the noose was put around his neck. Daniel had never felt so proud of him.

Later that night, when the guard had dozed off to sleep, Daniel cut down his father with the help of two friends and drove him away in the cart. They buried him with dignity in the churchyard of the village where he had been born. As dawn was breaking, Juliana and Daniel Rawson were driving away from the farm towards the coast. The cart was loaded with their possessions. Mourning the death of her husband, Juliana sat in silence with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. All she could think about was returning to the safety of her native country.

As he drove the cart along the winding track, Daniel wrestled with a welter of emotions. He was hurt, sorrowful, shocked, indignant, vengeful and bristling with rage. Too young to understand the full implications of what had happened, he knew one thing for certain. He was no longer a boy. Indirectly, the battle of Sedgemoor had turned him into a young man. He had killed a soldier with the sword that had now been presented to him. It was a weapon he could not wait to hold in his hand again.

CHAPTER ONE

March, 1704

Daniel Rawson had always disliked Paris. As he rode through its streets in the gathering darkness, he was reminded why he hated the place so much. It was the noisiest, dirtiest, most foul-smelling city in Europe. It was also the most crowded. Broad avenues and magnificent public buildings had been introduced to give it status and splendour but they could not hide the fact that the majority of Parisians lived in tiny, squalid, ugly, vermin-ridden houses or tenements. But the main reason why Daniel loathed it so much was that it was the capital city of a country against which he had been fighting ever since he had joined the army. He was at the heart of enemy territory.

In his opinion, however – and it was an opinion based on long experience – Paris had one redeeming feature. It was the home of some of the most beautiful women in the world, exotic birds of paradise with wonderful plumage, gorgeous ladies who were steeped in the arts of love and eager to pass on their secrets to the select few. That was what had enticed Daniel to enter the city in disguise and to ride with an anticipatory smile of delight on his face. He had an assignation.

Thoughts of what lay ahead did not distract him from the ever-present danger in the streets. Beggars had accosted him at every turn and prostitutes had tried to lure him brazenly into hovels where he could be overpowered and robbed. When he went down a narrow lane and saw two ragged men ahead of him, therefore, he knew instinctively that trouble was at hand. Though they were lounging against a wall on opposite sides of the lane, they were not really engaged in casual conversation. They had been waiting for someone to fall into their trap. As soon as Daniel drew level with them, they pounced. One man seized the reins of his horse while the other tried to haul him roughly from the saddle.

They had chosen the wrong victim. A swift punch from Daniel broke the nose of the man who had grabbed him and sent him reeling to the ground with blood streaming down his chin. Slipping a foot out of the stirrup, Daniel kicked the other man so hard in the chest that he yelled in agony and let go of the reins, thudding against the wall with a force that knocked the breath out of him. Daniel urged his horse into a brisk trot and left them to nurse their wounds and rue their mistake.

His destination was the fashionable Faubourg Saint-Germain, an area renowned for its countless inns and cabarets but replete as well with fine houses and imposing hotels. It was Daniel’s second visit to the address so he had no difficulty in finding it. As before, he was met with a welcoming signal. A candle burnt in an attic window to assure him that the coast was clear. He needed no more invitation. Riding down the side of the house, he dismounted in the courtyard at the rear and tethered his horse beside the stables.

The maid was waiting for him. As soon as he reached the rear door, she opened it for him, her pretty face glowing in the light from the lantern in her hand. She looked at the visitor and exchanged a conspiratorial nod with him before leading the way up the backstairs. After shutting the door behind him, Daniel followed, blessing the day when he had first made the acquaintance of Madame Bérénice Salignac and learnt how often her husband was away from his lovely young wife.

The maid reached a landing and checked that nobody was about before she conducted him furtively along it. When she came to her mistress’s boudoir, she gave a coded tap on the door then stood back. When he heard the expected three knocks from inside the room, Daniel dismissed the maid with a smile of thanks before opening the door and going through it. Bérénice had moved back to the middle of the room where light from the fire and from the flickering candelabra combined to show her at her best. Daniel feasted his eyes on her.

Removing his hat with a flourish, he gave a low bow before putting his hat on a chair and tossing his cloak over the back of it. When she offered her hand, he held it lightly between his fingers and bestowed a loving kiss upon it. Bérénice noticed his glove.

‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘That looks like blood.’

‘It is,’ he said, examining his knuckles, ‘but you need have no fear, my love. It’s not mine. It belonged to a man who was foolish enough to try to stop me reaching you this evening.’ He pulled off his gloves and dropped them on a little table, holding out both hands for inspection. ‘There you are – not a mark on them, as you see.’

Bérénice was fully reassured. Still in her early twenties, she was a shapely woman of middle height with exquisite features and complexion. Her blond hair, parted in the middle, fell down both sides of her head in ringlets. Though she was entertaining her lover, she was not wearing night attire in readiness. Her costly blue satin dress had a close-fitting bodice with a trained skirt worn open in the front. The sleeves were short to the elbows with turned-up cuffs and deep ruffles emerging from below. Hitched up at the back to give a bustle effect, the skirt revealed a decorative petticoat. Shimmering jewellery enhanced an already complete portrait of feminine beauty.

Daniel had learnt the rules on his previous visit. Bérénice Salignac liked to take her time and savour each moment. They began with wine, poured from a decanter, then sat beside each other on an ornate settee. Daniel kept up a steady stream of compliments in the fluent French he had taken pains to master. He was no longer the sturdy boy from a Dorset farm but a tall, slim, handsome, urbane gentleman, not far short of thirty, with a soldier’s bearing that was offset by his natural charm and tenderness. He had courted Bérénice studiously for some weeks before she had finally succumbed to his advances.

‘You have neglected me,’ she said, pouting slightly.

‘I’ll make amends for that this evening,’ he promised.

‘Where have you been?’

‘I told you, my love. I had business to attend to.’

‘What kind of business?’ she pressed. ‘I know that you are a merchant with interests all over the world but your work surely does not take precedence over me.’

‘Nothing could ever do that, Bérénice,’ he said, taking the opportunity to plant another kiss on her hand. ‘But let’s not waste time talking about trade. The only person with whom I’m interested in having commerce at this moment is the one I adore.’

Her eyes flashed coquettishly. ‘How do I know you adore me?’

‘I could give you at least ten good reasons.’

‘What’s the first?’

‘That would be telling,’ he said with a teasing smile. ‘And I’m not sure that you’re in the right mood to hear them.’

She stamped an impatient foot. ‘I want to be told, Daniel.’

‘Let me refill your glass.’

‘No,’ she said, grasping him by the wrist. ‘Stay here and recite these ten good reasons for me.’ She lowered her voice to a purr. ‘There may be a reward in store for you.’

He sealed the bargain with a laugh then he began. As he worked his way unhurriedly through the list, he was allowed to take a liberty each time, unhooking part of her dress or delicately removing an item of jewellery or even taking off a whole garment. At the end of his recitation, she stood before him almost naked, exuding a bewitching fragrance and making a visible effort to hold back her passion.

‘Now, it is my turn,’ she said, helping him off with his coat. ‘I must tell you the source of my adoration for you.’

Bérénice did so with deliberate slowness, undressing him at intervals, heightening their mutual pleasure by delaying its release until they both reached a point of explosion. Daniel could wait no longer. Picking her up in his arms, he carried her to the bed and placed her gently down beneath its richly embroidered canopy. No more words were needed. Their writhing bodies continued the dialogue in a much more expressive language. Bérénice surrendered herself completely and he responded with characteristic vigour, kissing her, caressing her and filling her with the urgency of his love. She matched his ardour at every stage, letting out a cry of ecstasy when she reached the peak of her pleasure and taking him into Elysium with her. They lay panting happily in each other’s arms.

‘Your husband is stupid,’ he said at length.

‘Stupid?’

‘How could any man spurn such joy?’

‘Armand has not spurned it,’ she said coldly. ‘He is probably sharing the same joy with his mistress at this very moment. I am a wife in title only. My husband sees me as no more than an attractive piece of furniture.’

‘Then he is blind as well as stupid.’

‘It was so different when we were first married.’

‘Were you happy then?’

‘I was treated with respect.’

Bérénice omitted to mention that she had been the mistress of Armand Salignac before becoming his wife after the untimely death of her predecessor. The extravagant promises with which she had been showered beforehand wilted under the tedium of domestic life. As his lover, she had been mysterious, desirable and only infrequently available. As a wife, she was there all the time, diminished in every way by sheer familiarity. Her mystery had soon vanished.

‘I should never have married a soldier,’ she sighed.

‘He’s wealthy and highly esteemed at Court.’

‘But he’s never here to enjoy that wealth or to take me to Court where I can share his esteem. It’s where I belong, Daniel – among the ladies at Versailles, earning smiles and glances from the King.’

‘Even I cannot compete with King Louis,’ he admitted.

She hugged him. ‘You outshine any man!’

‘Does that mean I can come here again?’

‘Yes – as often as possible.’

‘What about this blind, stupid, uncaring husband of yours?’ he asked. ‘He cannot stay away from the house forever. Surely, he will return to his wife soon.’

‘If he does, it will only be to pack his trunk.’

‘Is he off on another campaign then?’

‘Armand will leave next month,’ she said bitterly. ‘Knowing him, I doubt if he will even bring me back a present from Vienna.’

‘Vienna?’ Daniel’s ears pricked up. ‘Why is he going there?’

‘Armand swears they will capture it in a matter of weeks.’

‘Indeed?’

‘According to him…’

Bérénice talked about her husband with a candour she had never shown before. When she had first met Armand Salignac, she freely conceded, she had been impressed by his military prowess, his social position and his easy sophistication. He had been loving and attentive to her. Once married, however, he cared less about Bérénice and more about his career in the French army, subordinating her to the fringes of his life while he sought glory in the field. When the campaigning season resumed in April, he would desert her without a hint of regret.

Cradling her in his arms, Daniel listened intently until a more menacing sound was heard. It was the rattle of a coach, turning off the cobbled street and rolling down the side of the house to the courtyard. The lovers sat up guiltily. Without warning, Armand Salignac had returned home.

They leapt off the bed as if it had just been set on fire. While Bérénice ran to the door to check that it was locked, Daniel went to a window that overlooked the courtyard. He watched in horror as the coach came to a halt and a servant rushed to open its door. A bulky figure stepped out. It was clear from the deference shown to him that he was the master of the house. Daniel did not hesitate. Snatching up his clothes, he dressed himself with a speed born of practice. A hasty retreat was his only option.

Bérénice reached for her own apparel, alternately cursing her husband and apologising profusely to her lover. When she glanced in a mirror, she saw how ruffled her hair was and trembled with fear. Her husband must not be allowed to see her in that state. Having put on his own clothes, Daniel helped her into her dress, trying to calm her and insisting that she was not to blame for her husband’s unexpected return. The important thing was that she was not compromised in any way. He was still assisting her when there was a thunderous knock on the door.

‘Bérénice!’ shouted her husband. ‘Bérénice – let me in!’

It was no time to stand on ceremony. Taking a last kiss from his lover, Daniel opened the window and clambered out on to the roof. As he searched for a way to get down to the ground, he could hear the cuckolded husband, pounding on the door with a fist as if trying to knock it down. Escape was his priority but it would not be easy. When he looked at the courtyard, now illumined by torches, he saw that ostlers were loosening the harness on the horses so that they could be led forward out of the shafts. Daniel’s own horse had attracted the attention of a servant who was opening the saddlebags in the hope of identifying the animal’s owner.

An alternative route was needed and that meant scrambling across a steep roof made slippery by vestigial frost. It was a perilous manoeuvre. If he lost his balance, he would plummet down to certain death. Picking his way over the tiles with extreme care, he went up to the apex and cocked a leg over it. Daniel was able to rest briefly and consider his best course of action. From his elevated position, he could see, in the gloom, the guttering that ran along the base of the roof. Long, square, cast-iron drainpipes conducted rainwater to the ground. He had to trust that one of them would hold him.

Taking his weight on his hands, he pulled himself forward along the ridge tiles until he came to the part of the house that overlooked the garden and which was obscured from the stables by a high wall. It looked like the safest place to descend. On a raw evening like that, he still faced hazards. A biting wind had sprung up and a sudden gust whipped off his hat before sending it downwards in a spiral. For an anxious moment, Daniel feared that it would land in the courtyard and be spotted by someone but, unseen by him, it swung sharply to the left and came to rest in a flower bed.

With the wind plucking at his cloak, he inched himself slowly back down the roof until his boot eventually made contact with the guttering. Daniel worked his way along it until he came to a drainpipe then he knelt down and put a first tentative leg over the parapet. He did not dare to look down. Getting a grip on the drainpipe, he brought his other leg over then swung his body across. The drainpipe was old and rusted and, even with his gloves on, he could feel how cold it was but it had a brute solidity that cheered him.