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.’
CHAPTER TWO
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.’
‘With death?’ she cried in alarm.
‘Don’t look so worried, Amalia. As you see, I survived.’
He reassured her with a smile then gave a brief account of his weeks in Paris, describing how he’d contrived to acquire secret information, though revealing none of its actual content. It was when he talked about his encounter with the French patrol that he went into more detail. She was horrified to hear about the grisly fate of the farmer and his family.
‘British soldiers killed them?’ she said in disbelief.
He nodded grimly. ‘That’s what I find hard to accept. It’s so untypical. There were no foraging parties out. His Grace, the Duke of Marlborough, always makes sure our army is fully provisioned so that it never has to be a burden on any farms nearby. More to the point,’ he went on, earnestly, ‘he’d never condone rape and pillage. I was shocked that anyone in a British uniform could behave like that.’
‘Could you find out who those soldiers were?’
‘I’ll make it my business to do so,’ he said. ‘I’ve made some enquiries already but nobody knows of any patrol that might have been in that area. I won’t stop looking,’ he vowed. ‘That farmer saved my life by putting his own in danger. However long it may take, what happened to him and his family needs to be avenged.’
‘It must have been a gruesome sight.’
