Edward Marston - Fire and Sword

‘Is that the beating administered by those three rogues?’

‘Yes, it was.’

‘Then where did they suddenly spring from?’

‘They were lying in wait in the privy,’ said Crevel, trying to brazen it out. ‘As I approached, they ambushed me. I had no chance against such odds.’

‘Ah, I see…and what about your friend, Lieutenant Jauzion?’

‘Sebastien?’

‘At the time you say you were set on by three men, his dead body was in the privy.’ Crevel gulped. It was news to him. ‘Are you asking me to believe that it was big enough to conceal four human beings?’

‘Sebastien is dead?’ croaked Crevel. ‘How could that be?’

‘If you’d stayed awake long enough, you might have saved his life. He was stabbed to death with his own dagger. When they found his corpse in the privy, your friends were certain that the killer was a wine merchant whom you befriended in the course of the evening.’ He snapped his fingers and Valeran retrieved the report from the ground before handing it to him. Vendome glanced at it. ‘The man’s name was Marcel Daron. Do you have any memory of him?’

‘Yes, I do. He was good company.’

‘Lieutenant Jauzion might not agree with that judgement.’

‘Poor Sebastien…I can’t believe he’s dead!’

‘It’s more than probable that he was murdered under your very nose. And not by three ruffians,’ Vendome went on, curling his lip. ‘He was stabbed by this so-called wine merchant, the same man who stripped you of your uniform and tossed you into a ditch.’ He took a step closer. ‘Why did you lie to me?’

‘I was telling the truth,’ bleated Crevel.

‘The only person you told the truth to was that crafty wine merchant, who will no doubt convey everything you divulged to his masters in the Confederate army. You were duped by a spy, Major Crevel. And you allowed a fine officer like Lieutenant Jauzion to be killed because you were too drunk and incapable to save him. What have you to say for yourself?’

Crevel’s head drooped. ‘It won’t happen again, Your Grace.’

‘Oh, there’s no danger of that,’ said Vendome, vindictively. ‘Nobody will be able to filch the uniform of a major in the French army again because you, sir, are no longer entitled to wear it. Take it off.’

‘I must protest,’ howled Crevel. ‘I hold my rank with honour.’

‘Take it off!’ roared Vendome. ‘Or I’ll tear it from your body with my bare hands.’

‘The matter must be referred to the duc de Burgundy.’

It was an unwise moment to remind Vendome that he was not the commander-in-chief. Losing his temper, he lashed out with a hand and slapped Crevel hard across the cheek. He then unleashed such a gushing stream of vituperation that the erstwhile major cowered before him and plucked hastily at the buttons of his coat. When it had been removed, Vendome snatched it from him and hurled it into the corner of the tent.

‘Get out of my sight!’ he yelled, quivering with rage. ‘You’re confined to your quarters until I can decide on your punishment.’

‘At least, give me leave to apologise,’ pleaded Crevel.

But there was no chance of that. Vendome raised his hand to strike again and Crevel gave up. Waddling ridiculously, he hurried out of the tent. It was some minutes before Vendome’s ire gradually subsided. Lieutenant Valeran, meanwhile, lurked silently in his corner, too frightened to venture an opinion lest the ducal anger be turned on him. He was relieved when the older man seemed to calm down. Vendome lowered himself onto a chair and was deep in thought for a while. Making a decision, he suddenly got up again.

‘I want him,’ he said.

‘Shall I fetch Major Crevell back?’ asked Valeran.

‘I don’t want him, Raoul. I never want to see that buffoon again. No,’ he went on, ‘the man I’m after is that venomous wine merchant. I won’t allow anyone to humiliate us like this. I want Marcel Daron — or whatever his real name is — standing before me in chains.’

‘How can we arrange that?’

‘Use your imagination, man. We have intelligencers in the enemy camp. Let them earn their money for once. Someone will have boasted of how they stole the uniform of a French officer. I want to know who he is.’ He put a hand on Valeran’s shoulder then lifted it to brush back a wisp of the lieutenant’s hair. ‘I need a name, Raoul,’ he said, eyes glinting, ‘then the hunt can begin.’

Lieutenant Jonathan Ainley was a tall, thin, pale-faced man with a long, beaky nose competing for facial dominance against an unusually large and dimpled chin that curved upwards. An efficient officer, he’d settled well into army life and learnt to accept its many shortcomings without complaint. Set against its defects, however, there were definite advantages. One of these was the warm camaraderie that existed and Ainley relished this aspect of his chosen lot. Drawing on their support, he was excessively friendly and obliging to all his fellow officers. In the case of Daniel Rawson, he hovered close to hero worship.

‘Tell me the story in your own words,’ he urged.

Daniel shook his head. ‘There’s nothing to tell, Jonathan.’

‘Nothing to tell?’ echoed Ainley. ‘If I’d abducted a French officer then used his uniform as a disguise, I’d be crowing about it from the rooftops.’

‘That’s perhaps why you’re not involved in espionage,’ said Daniel. ‘When you gather intelligence, discretion is everything. How did you come to hear about it?’

‘A little bird told me, Daniel.’

‘Then he’s been singing too loud. You might warn him that if I find out who he is, I’ll tie his beak shut.’

‘You’re among friends. Why not share your adventures?’

‘Loose tongues can cause trouble,’ said Daniel. ‘I’m sure that the major who loaned me his uniform has found that out by now. My guess is that he’s been severely punished.’

‘Whereas you should be feted for what you achieved.’

‘I did what I was told to do, Jonathan — no more, no less.’

‘You ought to take some pride in your exploits.’

‘Oh, I do,’ admitted Daniel, ‘but only in private.’

They were standing outside Ainley’s tent in the British camp, surrounded by activity and forced to raise their voices above the routine clamour. Drums were beating nearby as soldiers were being drilled. Supply wagons were rolling noisily past. Distant orders were being barked out. Artillery was arriving. Nobody took any notice of the light drizzle that started to fall. After the heavy rain that greeted the arrival of spring, it was a relief.

‘I’m surprised that His Grace could spare you,’ said Ainley. ‘You’re such an important member of his personal staff that he must want you constantly by his side.’

‘You overrate my importance, Jonathan,’ said Daniel. ‘I’m a very junior member of the staff. I’m far more useful if I gather intelligence than I would be if I sat in endless meetings with His Grace.’

‘I thought you acted as his interpreter.’

‘I do on occasion. My command of Dutch, French and German has been put to good use. But I’m not needed when Major General Cadogan is there, because he speaks all three languages.’

‘Heaven knows how he mastered Dutch. It’s so complicated.’

Daniel smiled. ‘That’s exactly what the Dutch say about English because they find it so fiendishly difficult to learn.’

‘All I’ve ever managed are a few phrases in French,’ said Ainley, scratching his chin. ‘Not that it matters, I suppose. On the battlefield, we speak the universal language of brute force.’

‘It is tempered with some subtler tones,’ replied Daniel.