Edward Marston - Fire and Sword

‘What else did you find out between nights of madness in someone’s boudoir?’ asked Welbeck.

‘I discovered that King Louis had personally chosen the ground on which this year’s battles will be fought. It’s right here in Flanders,’ said Daniel with a sweeping gesture. ‘We’ll be up against a strong French army of 100,000 men under the command of the duc de Vendome.’

‘Vendome!’ The name was spat out in disgust. ‘He’s no match for us. The Duke has outwitted far better soldiers than Vendome. We beat Marshal Tallard at Blenheim and Marshall Villeroi at Ramillies.’

‘Both of them experienced commanders.’

‘Poxy old Vendome is useless.’

‘Give him his due, Henry,’ urged Daniel. ‘He had a lot of success in Italy then kept us completely pinned down here last year. He’s a worthy adversary and we should respect him.’

‘I respect nobody in a French uniform.’

‘Not even royalty?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s another little titbit that fell into my lap. Louis is sending his own grandson, the Duke of Burgundy, to put us to the sword. That shows you how seriously he’s taking this year’s campaign. Keep your men well drilled and ready for combat,’ said Daniel. ‘They may have the chance to spill some royal blood.’

Louis de France, duc de Burgundy, was a well-bred yet mettlesome young man in his mid twenties, deeply religious, inclined to arrogance and confident that he had the ability to lead a huge army to victory against the Confederate forces. Notwithstanding a lack of experience, he felt able to make critical military decisions in the field. With so many troops gathered at the French camp in Valenciennes, he didn’t even contemplate defeat. Burgundy was a royal prince in every particular. Impeccably attired and courtly in manner, he was therefore highly offended when the scruffily dressed duc de Vendome barged his way into the tent without warning. Burgundy turned away instinctively from the unpleasant smell that always accompanied the older man. Vendome was over twice his age and had notoriously dirty habits. His shirt was badly soiled and hadn’t been changed for several days. There was tobacco on his cravat, wine stains on his coat and his periwig was beginning to unravel. He was brusque, irreverent and angry. Vendome made little effort to show any respect.

‘I wondered if you’d come to your senses yet,’ he said.

‘I fancy that it’s your senses that are deficient, my lord Duke,’ said Burgundy with exaggerated courtesy. ‘I hoped that you’d come to appreciate the wisdom of my argument.’

‘Wisdom arises from experience.’

‘That’s why I’m careful to draw on the experience of older heads such as your own. I’ll always seek the best advice before I make a decision.’

‘Then why have you ignored it?’

‘In this case, I found your counsel unhelpful.’

‘Unhelpful!’ spluttered Vendome. ‘That’s an insult. We’re in a position to take the initiative and I believe that we should do so.’

‘On that point at least we’re in agreement.’

‘Then give the order to besiege Huy.’

‘I’ve chosen another course of action.’

‘Think of its situation, for heaven’s sake! Huy sits on the Meuse. Those wide, open plains nearby will favour a cavalry engagement and we have a marked superiority there. Why not use it?’

‘Because I’ve conceived another strategy,’ said Burgundy, evenly. ‘I prefer our initial advance to be towards Brussels. There’s a clear dissatisfaction with Dutch rule among the Flemish population. We must exploit that. Brussels will welcome us.’

‘All of Flanders will welcome us if you follow my plan.’

‘The matter is settled, my lord Duke.’

Vendome turned away and muttered some expletives under his breath. Forced to accept Burgundy as the titular commander-in-chief, he was seething with rage. The previous year he’d skilfully defended French positions in Flanders and kept the Allies at arm’s length. As the new campaigning season began, he’d finally been allowed to risk a major battle, if it could be fought under advantageous conditions. To manoeuvre Marlborough and his army into the places where he wanted them, however, Vendome needed a free hand but that was being denied him. Every decision had to be ratified by Burgundy.

‘Could I simply ask you to think again?’ said Vendome, injecting a faint note of deference into his voice. ‘On reflection, you may well come to see that the siege of Huy is the better option.’

Burgundy was peremptory. ‘It’s out of the question.’

‘Will you spurn my advice in such a cavalier fashion?’

‘We’ll move towards Brussels.’

‘May I remind you that I was in charge of operations in Flanders last year?’ said Vendome, cheeks reddening. ‘I know the terrain well. I know how best to make use of its natural advantages. More to the point,’ he went on as if playing a trump card, ‘I understand the way that Marlborough thinks and acts. I can anticipate him.’

‘Then it’s a pity your anticipation wasn’t more fruitful last year,’ said Burgundy with a touch of condescension, ‘or the campaign would not have ended in an impasse. That will not happen under my command, I assure you. I’m working to achieve a decisive result.’

Vendome scowled. ‘All that you’re doing is to squander an opportunity to strike a telling blow.’

‘You’re entitled to your opinion, my lord Duke.’

‘It’s the advice of a veteran soldier.’

‘Nobody questions your long record.’

‘But that, by implication, is what you’re doing,’ said Vendome with a hostile stare. ‘In rejecting my plan, you’re suggesting that it’s worthless.’ He pulled himself to his full height. ‘I’ve fought and won battles. I think you should remember who I am.’

‘It’s rather difficult to forget,’ said Burgundy, wearily. ‘Perhaps it’s you who should remember that I’m in command here. You are in the presence of a prince of the blood.’

Biting back a reply, Vendome stood there fuming and looked as if he was about to explode. Burgundy remained composed and that drove his visitor to an even greater pitch of fury. Unable to put his feelings into polite words, Vendome simply spun round and stormed out. As he strode through the camp with his eyes blazing, nobody dared to approach him. Instead, they stepped quickly out of his way. When he reached his own tent, Vendome thrust the flap aside and burst in, reaching for a flagon of wine and pouring a full glass. He flopped down onto his chair and took a long sip of wine. Brooding on the way he’d been rebuffed, he was oblivious to everything else. He didn’t even hear the tent flap open or see the head that popped tentatively in. Nor did he hear the deliberate cough made by the newcomer. It was only when the man stepped into the tent that Vendome at last became aware of his presence.

‘What do you want?’ he growled, looking up.

‘You sent for me, Your Grace.’

‘The devil I did! Who, in God’s name, are you?’

‘Lieutenant Valeran.’

‘Who?’

‘Raoul Valeran.’ With a slight bow, he moved backwards. ‘I can see that I’m intruding. Pray, excuse me.’

‘No, no,’ said Vendome, looking at him properly for the first time. ‘Stay here. I do believe that I may have sent for you.’

‘If this is an inconvenient moment…’

‘Say no more, Lieutenant.’

Vendome put a finger to his lips to reinforce the order then he gave a lazy smile. He studied Valeran from head to toe and was delighted with what he saw. The lieutenant was a tall, slender, handsome young man with an air of boyish innocence about him. He had a natural elegance that had caught Vendome’s attention and prompted him to find out the officer’s name. Anger slowly gave way to desire. Vendome needed something that would help him forget the way his advice had been rejected by Burgundy. Here was the perfect distraction. Eyes never leaving his guest, he had a much longer drink then he reached for the flagon.