gave you this warning.'
In taking Daniel close to the Bastille, Ronan Flynn had unwittingly given him an idea relating to Emanuel Janssen. Flynn had delivered bread to a tavern nearby. It might well be the place where some of the turnkeys from the prison came to drink. If not, there was bound to be another tavern within walking distance of the edifice. After telling his friend that he was going away for a while, Daniel left the others in the care of the Flynn family and rode to the Marais, a quarter inhabited largely by people with money and position. In the boulevard close to the Rue Saint-Antoine, he located the tavern that Flynn had visited that morning. The one thing he did know about the Fleur de Lys was that it would serve excellent bread.
Daniel took a room at the tavern and immediately changed out of his guise as a wine merchant. Putting on more workaday apparel and a large cap, he went out to study the Bastille in more detail and to walk along the bank of the Seine. To rescue the tapestry-maker from the prison was the major problem but a second one then had to be solved. Daniel would have to spirit four people out of the city. Since the police would certainly be searching for the Dutch contingent, it would be another test of his initiative. As he watched the boats and barges gliding serenely past on the glistening water, he wondered if the river might be the best route out of Paris.
Returning to the tavern, he lay on his bed and spent hours considering the possibilities. Each one involved putting himself into jeopardy but Daniel was accustomed to doing that. His personal safety was never a concern. What he had to ensure was the security of other people. His orders had been to find and rescue Emanuel Janssen but it was Amalia who occupied his mind. He was aware of the intense stress under which she'd been and the indignities she'd suffered. The only way that Daniel could bring relief was to reunite her with her beloved father. His fondness for Amalia was an additional spur. He longed to take the nagging anxiety out of her life and help her to return home.
When evening gently squeezed the last daylight out of the sky, Daniel returned to the Rue Saint Antoine and watched the Bastille from a distance. At a rough guess, he decided, the walls had to be around eighty feet high, ruling out any hope of climbing into the prison or of climbing out again. Emanuel Janssen was a middle-aged man who worked at a loom all day. He could hardly be expected to descend a very long rope in the darkness, especially as he might not be in the best of health as a result of his incarceration. The one conceivable exit was through the front doors. In order to bring him out of the Bastille, Daniel first had to get inside it himself.
Assuming that the turnkeys worked in shifts, he was pleased to see that he was right. Various men trudged up to the entrance in twos and threes. Those whom they replaced on duty eventually started to come out. Many dispersed to go to their homes but, as Daniel had predicted, some preferred a drink after a long day in the macabre surroundings of the prison. Instead of going to the tavern where he was staying, however, they walked along the river until they reached a smaller and noisier establishment. Daniel followed a group of them into the tavern. When they sat around a table and drank heavily, he stayed within earshot. After a while, when the wine had helped them to relax somewhat, Daniel hobbled across to them as if he had an injured foot.
'Did I hear someone mention the Bastille?' he said.
'Yes,' answered a thickset man with warts all over his face. 'We're all prisoners there.' The others laughed. 'Who are you?'
'I was a soldier until I got shot in the foot. I've had to look for something else to do. A friend suggested they always need turnkeys at the Bastille.'
'That's right, my friend. The stench kills off three of us a week.' The others shook with mirth. 'What's your name?'
'Marcel Daron.'
'Where are you from?'
'I was born here in Paris but joined the army when I was a lad.'
'Oh?' said the man with the warts, indicating the one-eyed turnkey who sat beside him. 'Georges was a soldier until he lost his eye at Blenheim. What regiment were you in?'
'I was a trooper in the Royal-Carabinier,' replied Daniel, thinking of his brief time in the courier's stolen uniform. 'I fought at Blenheim as well.'
'Tell us about it,' goaded the one-eyed man.
It was clear that they didn't trust him and that he would have to win their confidence. As they aimed questions at him, he was able to answer them all convincingly because he'd been at the heart of the battle. He reeled off the names of the French generals and talked about their disposition on the battlefield. At the start, Georges, the former soldier, was the most suspicious but Daniel's detailed knowledge persuaded him that he had no cause to be wary.
'He's telling the truth,' announced Georges.
'Then he can pull up a seat and join us,' said the wart-faced man. When Daniel ordered a flagon of wine, he got a slap on the back. 'You can come here any time you wish, Marcel.'
As the wine flowed, Daniel spent the first few minutes getting to know their names and finding out how long they'd worked at the prison. All of them grumbled about their work but none actually talked about giving it up.
'Long hours and poor pay,' said Georges. 'That's all we get at the Bastille. Then there's the stink, of course. The straw's never changed in some cells. I'd hate to be locked up in those shit- holes.'
'What sort of prisoners are they?' asked Daniel.
'There's only one kind, Marcel. Whatever they're like when they go in there, they soon end up the same. It doesn't matter what they did to get locked away. All we see is a lot of miserable, godforsaken wretches, crawling slowly towards death.'
'Our work is boring,' said Philippe, the man with the warts. 'We lock them up, we feed them and, if they're very lucky, we take them out for exercise. Most of them never leave their cells. And if they try to complain, we have some fun knocking them about.'
Georges smirked. 'That's what I enjoy,' he said. 'When one of them dared to throw food at me today, I beat him black and blue. That'll teach him.'
They were an uncouth bunch and, in the normal course of events, nothing would have induced Daniel to befriend them. Since he wanted to penetrate the Bastille, however, he would have to do so as part of its large staff. The men laughed, sang, joked and boasted about the way they mistreated the prisoners. At the end of the evening, Philippe wrapped an arm around Daniel's shoulders and grinned at him.
'Do you still want to be a turnkey, Marcel?' he asked.
'Yes,' said Daniel. 'I guarded prisoners in the army. I liked it.'
'Meet me outside the main gate at noon tomorrow. I'll take you along to meet someone. I can't promise anything, mind you,' he added, drunkenly, 'but I'll put in a good word for you.'
'Thanks.'
When Daniel eventually limped away, he was equally satisfied and dismayed. He was pleased to have the possibility of work at the Bastille but alarmed to hear how some of the inmates were treated. There was no point in trying to liberate Emanuel Janssen if the Dutchman was in no condition to walk out. In the brutal regime of the prison, he might by now be barely alive. On the other hand, if the intention had been to kill him, Janssen would already have been executed as a spy. For some reason, he'd been spared. Daniel therefore consoled himself with the thought that he might — if he was fortunate enough to secure employment at the Bastille — find out exactly what that reason was.
Chapter Nine
When business took him back to The Hague again, Willem Ketel made a point of calling on his close friend. Johannes Mytens shook him warmly by the hand then conducted him to the parlour. It was a large room with a polished oak floor and solid oak furniture. Paintings by Rembrandt, Vermeer and Hobbema adorned three walls. The fourth was covered by a magnificent tapestry depicting The Hague. They went through the social niceties before turning to the subject that exercised their minds most.
'What's the feeling in the States-General?' asked Ketel.
Mytens sounded weary. 'Most of us are as tired of this war as you are, Willem,' he said. 'We've spent far too
