Drums of War (9 page)

Standing
back from the shutters, Amalia looked down the street to the nearby corner.
People walked to and fro, a horseman trotted by then a cart rumbled past. There
was no sign of anyone keeping the house under surveillance. After keeping her
vigil for ten minutes, she felt confident that the man was no longer there and
she stepped forward to put her head out through the window. It was a grave
mistake. The moment she showed herself, a burly figure came around the corner
and looked directly up at her as if issuing a challenge. When their eyes met,
Amelia felt sick. She had never seen anyone look at her with such malevolence
before. His smile was so menacing that it made her flesh creep. She jumped
quickly back into the room.

'What
is it, Miss Amelia?' asked Beatrix, worriedly.

'He's
there.'

'Are
you sure?'

'See
for yourself,' said Amalia.

Taking
care not to get too close to the window, Beatrix gazed down into the street. It
was completely empty now. She looked in both directions but saw nobody.

'There's
not a soul in sight,' she said.

'He's
hiding around the corner.'

'Was
it the same man as usual?'

'Yes,
Beatrix. He gave me such a fright.'

'Well,
he's not there now,' said the servant. 'Wait!' she added as someone came around
the corner. She relaxed at once and let out a laugh of relief. 'It's only Kees,
back from the market.'

'You'd
better go down and let him in.'

Beatrix
went out of the room and clattered noisily down the oak staircase. Left alone,
Amalia brooded. The brief confrontation with the man outside had shaken her.
His eyes had been dark pools of evil. Even though Dopff was back, she didn't
feel safe. What troubled her was the thought that the disappearance of her
father and the presence of the sinister man outside were in some way linked.
She was overcome by a sense of hopelessness. Something else gnawed away at her
mind. It was the realisation that her father, who had always been so honest
with her, had deceived her.

In
the event of anything untoward occurring, he had told her, she was to send word
to an address in another part of Paris. At the time, she believed he was
referring to an accident that might befall him or a disease he might contract.
Her father's words now took on a different construction. It was almost as if he
knew that he might be in danger. Amalia had obeyed his command. On the day that
he failed to return from Versailles, she had dispatched Dopff with a letter to
the address she'd been given. Explaining that her father was now missing, she
begged for assistance. Over a week later, she was still waiting. Amalia was in
such anguish that she opened her mouth to let out a silent cry of despair.

'Will
nobody come to help us?'

Daniel
Rawson had crossed the French border with ease. Pacing his horse carefully, he
had reached Reims by nightfall and took a room at an inn. Having shed his
uniform, he was now posing as a French wine merchant on his way to Paris, and
he was dressed accordingly. Some travellers staying at the inn were also
heading for the capital so he joined them for safety. His perfect command of
the language allowed him to pass for a Frenchman and his knowledge of wines was
good enough for him to discuss the subject at length. His companions, a dozen
in number, were a mixed bunch. Three were merchants, two were musicians, one
was a farmer, two were bankers, each with their wives, and the remaining two
were former soldiers, returning to Paris in search of work.

Though
Daniel would have liked it to go faster, the convoy kept up a reasonable speed.
He spoke to as many of the others as he could and was interested to hear their
views of the war.

They
came in sharp contradiction to the opinions held in the Allied camp. He was
irritated when one of the soldiers held forth about the way that Marshal
Villeroi had forced the enemy into a hasty retreat from the River Yssche but
Daniel said nothing. To all intents and purposes, he was one of them. When they
broke their journey at 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.

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 him to see the fretful countenance of Beatrix.

'Is
this the home of Emanuel Janssen?' he asked in Dutch.

'The
master is not here at the moment, sir.'

'You
must be Beatrix.'

'That's
right, sir,' she said, eyeing him uneasily.

'I'd
like to speak to Miss Janssen, if I may.'

'What's
your business with her?'