Edward Marston - Fire and Sword

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.’

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.’