Edward Marston - Fire and Sword

‘Come on in, Raoul,’ he invited, running a tongue over his lips. ‘I’d like you to join me in a glass of wine.’

The last time that Daniel had disguised himself as Marcel Daron, he’d been hounded by a French patrol. He was more circumspect on this occasion, joining a group of other travellers who’d be passing through Valenciennes. They got him there without incident. Daniel sought out the best tavern within easy reach of the French camp and took a room there. Early that evening, some officers rolled in for a drinking bout. Daniel watched them carefully from a table in the corner. He picked up some of their names and heard snatches of conversation. There was a general air of optimism about the campaign ahead.

Daniel soon selected his target. Major Crevel interested him for two reasons. The man was sufficiently senior to have some knowledge of any tactical decisions that had been made, and he couldn’t hold his wine. The more he drank, the more uninhibited Crevel became, laughing uproariously at the feeblest jokes and falling off his chair at one point. His companions hauled him upright again. Daniel chose his moment and crossed to their table.

‘Good evening, my friends,’ he said, ‘I couldn’t help overhearing what you’ve been talking about. I, too, wish to see the hateful Duke of Marlborough and his army ground into the dust. Allow me to buy you all a drink so that I may toast your success.’

Crevel giggled. ‘I never refuse a glass of wine,’ he said, peering at Daniel through bleary eyes, ‘but I do like to know the name of the person who bought it for me.’

‘My name is Marcel Daron and I’m a wine merchant by trade. That’s why I insist on buying a better vintage than the one you’ve been drinking so far.’ He snapped his fingers and the landlord bustled over. Daniel whispered into his ear and the man scuttled off. ‘The sooner you win this war, the sooner I can export my wine again.’

‘Oh, we’ll win it, Monsieur Daron,’ said Crevel, drunkenly. ‘By God’s grace, we’ll beat the Grand Alliance this year.’

‘You sound confident.’

‘We are,’ put in another man. ‘We have a larger army and better commanders. Our enemies have been very lucky so far.’

‘It’s true,’ said Crevel. ‘They’ve escaped by the skin of their teeth time and again. We came close to routing them at Ramillies. I was there. We had victory within our grasp.’

It was not how Daniel remembered it but he didn’t contradict the major. The battle had been a resounding triumph for the Allies. Major Crevel had been one of thousands of French officers who fled from the field in a panic. Pretending to be impressed, Daniel asked for details of Ramillies. The two flagons of wine that arrived at the table helped to lubricate the reminiscences of Crevel and his party. They gave the impression that the Allies had come close to extinction on the battlefield. In fact, as Daniel knew well, they’d suffered only limited casualties. It was the French army that had been cut to shreds.

‘What manner of man is the duc de Vendome?’ asked Daniel.

Crevel cackled. ‘A stranger one than you’ve ever met, my friend,’ he said with a knowing wink at his friends.

‘Is he as sanguine as you seem to be?’

‘Why do you want to know that?’ asked one of the men, eyeing Daniel with mistrust. ‘Just because you bought us a drink, don’t think you have the right to question us.’

‘I apologise,’ said Daniel, holding up both hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘I was simply making conversation. I’ve only just arrived in the town and what I really want to know is where I can find a warm woman for the night.’

‘We could all do with one of those,’ declared Crevel, banging the table for emphasis. ‘I like them warm and willing.’

‘Then you’re a man after my own heart.’

‘And she must be French — I’ll none of these Flemish doxies.’

‘Nor me,’ agreed Daniel, ‘they’re as plain as pikestaffs and as cold as a night in Siberia.’

‘Stick a hot pizzle in them and it’ll come out as an icicle.’

When the raucous laughter died down, they discussed local brothels they’d either visited or heard reports about. Feigning interest, Daniel said he’d call on one of them later. Crevel offered to do so with him but, when he tried to rise from the table, he collapsed back down onto his chair again. Ribald comments were made at his expense. Now that the talk had moved away from military matters, the men were more relaxed and unguarded. Daniel felt that he’d been accepted. He kept plying them with wine. When he mentioned a recent visit to Paris, all of them had boastful stories about their conquests in the French capital. Crevel nodded off to sleep at one point but woke up on cue when a fresh supply of wine arrived at the table.

‘What kept you, landlord?’ he complained. ‘I’m dying of thirst.’

‘Don’t listen to him,’ said one of the others. ‘He’s drunk more than the rest of us put together.’

‘My throat is parched.’

‘Then let’s slake your thirst,’ suggested Daniel, raising his cup.

‘To victory in the field!’

‘To victory in the field!’ they chorused.

‘And in the bedchamber,’ added Crevel, wildly.

He took a long sip of wine then realised that he was in dire need of using the privy. Two of his friends helped him to his feet. Seeing his opportunity, Daniel got up.

‘Let me take him,’ he said, grabbing the major’s arm. ‘I have to go out there myself.’ He got a firmer grip on Crevel. ‘Come on. We can manage it together.’

Looping an arm around Daniel’s neck, Crevel staggered out with him. The privy was in the courtyard at the rear of the tavern. It was dark outside but a lantern was hanging beside the door. Daniel got the major there and helped him inside. Then he stepped back into the shadows. As he did so, he was seized roughly from behind and pushed up against a wall. A dagger was held at his throat by one of Crevel’s friends. His voice was dripping with suspicion.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded. ‘What’s your game?’

Daniel was in great danger. It was evident from the tone in the man’s voice that he wouldn’t hesitate to kill his captive if he made a false move. He jabbed with the dagger. Daniel felt momentary pain then blood trickled slowly down his neck.

‘I saw you watching us from the corner,’ said the other, coldly. ‘You were waiting for your chance to move in and ingratiate yourself. Well, not all of us were as drunk as you thought even though you kept buying us more wine. I can still see and think clearly. What’s more,’ he went on, sniffing noisily, ‘I can still smell and what I’ve got in my nostrils is a nasty stink.’

‘That’s because we’re too near the privy,’ said Daniel.

‘Don’t jest with me,’ warned the man. ‘Who are you?’

‘I’ve told you. My name is Marcel Daron.’

‘What’s your real name?’

‘That’s it, I swear it. I’m a wine merchant.’

‘And why does a wine merchant suddenly turn up here at the very moment when the army happens to be in Valenciennes?’

Daniel shrugged. ‘It’s just a coincidence, my friend.’

‘I’m no friend of yours,’ said the other, ‘and I’m certain that you’re no friend of ours. You gave yourself away when you offered to help Major Crevel out here. You wanted to get him on your own so that you could wheedle information out of him. I knew there was something peculiar about you.’ The dagger point drew more blood. ‘Now for the last time, tell me who you are or I’ll slit your throat.’

‘I really am Marcel Daron,’ said Daniel, earnestly.

‘You’re lying.’

‘It’s the gospel truth.’