another inn, he enjoyed sharing a meal with the bankers and their wives, the only people travelling by coach. Bowing to what they believed was his expertise, they let him choose the wine. The men had a prosperous air and the women were excited because they were being taken to Paris by indulgent husbands to look at the latest fashions. The war had not impinged on their life at all. It might have been happening on another continent.
His room was small but serviceable and overlooked the stables. Daniel removed his coat and shoes but kept most of his clothing on in case he had to make a sudden departure. When he got into bed, he kept his saddlebags within easy reach. Unlike the bankers, who had drunk themselves close to oblivion, Daniel had been abstemious at the table so that he could keep his mind clear. Even though he had been accepted into the group, it was important to keep his defences up. One slip could prove fatal.
It was after midnight when he finally dozed off but Daniel was a light sleeper. As soon as he heard the faint creak of floorboards in the passageway outside his room, he was wide awake. He lay there under the sheets as the door slowly opened. It was too dark for him to see anyone but he heard movement across the floor. The next sound that reached his ears was a slight clink. Someone was trying to undo the strap on his saddlebags. Thinking that it was a thief, Daniel reached for the dagger he kept under the pillow. Then he got up quickly and opened the shutters so that moonlight flooded into the room. He threatened the intruder with his dagger, only to find that he was staring at the barrel of a pistol. It was one of the discharged soldiers.
'I thought so,' said the man with a grin. 'You fooled the others but I knew there was something odd about you. How many wine merchants go to bed without undressing? And how many keep a dagger handy?' He gestured with the gun. 'Put it down on the bed.' Daniel tossed the weapon aside. 'That's better.'
'What do you want?' asked Daniel.
'I want to know who you really are.'
'I've told you — my name is Marcel Daron.'
'Then you'll have papers to prove it,' said the soldier. 'That's why I wanted to see inside your saddlebags.'
'Go ahead,' said Daniel, confidently. 'I've nothing to hide.'
'I think you do.' He opened one of the leather pouches and put his hand in. He brought out a purse. 'Do you always travel with so much money, Monsieur Daron?'
'I'll have a lot of expenses in Paris. The documents you want are in the other pouch,' said Daniel. 'If you give me leave to light the candle, you'll be able to read them properly.'
The man gestured with the gun again and Daniel lit the candle on the little table beside the bed. As he did so, he glanced at the door.
'I wouldn't advise you to make a run for it,' warned the man. 'My friend is at the other end of the passage and he'll run you through with his sword if you try to escape.' He looked at the saddlebag. 'Now then, what do we have here?'
Undoing the strap on the other pouch, he felt inside until his hand closed on a wad of papers bound with ribbon. He fished them out but was unable to untie the ribbon with one hand. When he put his pistol aside, he was momentarily unarmed. Daniel was on him in a flash, kicking the gun out of reach and punching the man's head with both fists until he was thoroughly dazed. Before the soldier could recover, Daniel had snatched the pillow and held it down over his face so that he could not cry out for help. Struggling frantically, the man tried to throw him off but Daniel was too strong and determined. With his life at stake, he had no sympathy for his victim. Grabbing his dagger from the bed, he inserted it between his adversary's ribs and thrust it home. The soldier gave a muffled gurgle and went limp.
Daniel had his shoes and coat on in an instant. He put the money and the documents back in the saddlebags then retrieved the pistol from the floor. The next thing he did was to haul the soldier on to the bed and cover him with a sheet. After blowing out the candle, he climbed nimbly through the window and dropped to the ground. Ten minutes later, Marcel Daron was riding hard along the road to Paris.
Chapter Six
Kees Dopff was a small, thin, shy, sinewy man in his late twenties with a mobile face under a thatch of red hair. Mute since birth, he conversed by gesticulating with his hands or by rearranging his features into any one of a whole range of expressions. After serving Emanuel Janssen as an apprentice, Dopff had eventually become his trusted assistant but his talents were not confined to the loom. He was a gifted cook who prepared all the meals in the house, sparing them the trouble of hiring an outsider. When they had first moved to Paris, they had inherited a French servant but Janssen felt that she was there to watch him and dispensed with her services. The four of them had learnt to manage on their own.
Every time that Amalia Janssen left the house, she'd been followed and that unsettled her greatly. Beatrix was too frightened to venture out on her own so Dopff had taken over all the errands. He liked going to market because he could choose the ingredients for the various dishes in his repertoire. When he was not in the kitchen, he was following Janssen's orders and continuing to work on the tapestry that was now so close to completion. He was busy at the loom when Amalia came through the door. Dopff broke off immediately.
'I'm sorry to interrupt you, Kees,' she said, getting a quiet smile in return. 'I was upstairs when I heard you come back. Did you see the man again today?' Dopff nodded. 'Did he follow you?' There was a shake of the head. 'Was it the same man as yesterday?' Dopff nodded again, using his hands to describe the man's height and girth. 'Did he threaten you in any way?'
The weaver shook his head again but Amalia knew that he was lying. Dopff was capable, conscientious and extremely loyal but he lacked courage. The person watching the house intimidated him as much as the two women. Nevertheless, he wouldn't hesitate to protect them if they were in danger even though he could only put up a token defence. He was more than just an assistant to Emanuel Janssen. Dopff had become a member of the family, an adopted son whose disability was at once accepted and ignored. He was made to feel that he had no handicap at all.
When she looked at the tapestry yet again, Amalia had serious misgivings. It was as resplendent and detailed as all of her father's work. It would be much admired when it graced a wall at Versailles. She was, however, disturbed by its subject. It was a depiction of a battle fought almost forty years ago when the French invaded the Spanish Netherlands during the War of Devolution. Under the command of the brilliant Marshal Turenne, the invading army had captured Douai, Tournai, Lille and other cities, annexing Artois and Hainault in the process. It dismayed Amalia that her father was celebrating a French victory on the battlefield. Janssen had argued that it was an honour to have his work hanging in the most celebrated palace in Europe and that it did not matter what it portrayed. He claimed that he was serving his art rather than anything else.
As she viewed it once more, Amalia was struck anew by its subtle blend of colours and by the way the scene came dramatically to life. It was an extraordinary piece of work. She just wished that it did not glorify a nation still fighting against her own. Before she could make that point to Dopff, there was a loud knock at the front door. Tensing at once, she traded a nervous glance with him. A moment later, Beatrix bustled into the room in a state of apprehension.
'What shall I do, Miss Amalia?' she asked.
'Answer the door.'
'It may be that man who's been watching us.'
'Then we must show we're not afraid — go on, Beatrix.'
The servant ran a tongue over her dry lips and breathed in deeply. Dopff, meanwhile, opened a drawer and took out a dagger, hoping that he would never have to use it. Amalia's heart was beating rapidly. She sensed bad news on the other side of the front door.
Daniel had reached Paris without further trouble and entered one of the city gates after showing his forged passport. Because of its noise, filth, stench and crowded streets, he had always disliked the French capital, preferring Amsterdam in every way. It was a relief to find that the address he was after was in a quarter reserved for the rich and powerful. Emanuel Janssen had clearly been treated well since his arrival. When nobody responded to his knock, Daniel banged on the door again. He heard a bolt being drawn then the door opened wide enough for
