Daniel was sobered. 'Are you telling me that he is a spy?'
'He is indeed, Daniel, and quite an efficient one. He lacked the charm to extract information in the way that you do but he kept his ears open and heard much that was of value to us.'
'Why do you want me to bring him back, Your Grace?'
'We fear that he may have been found out. At all events, he's vanished and nobody has any idea where he is. It's very worrying. Having talked him into accepting such a risky business, I feel it's our duty to go to his rescue — if, that is, we can find him.'
'Where was he last seen?'
'Here are all the details,' said Marlborough, handing him the letter. 'When you've committed them to memory, destroy this.'
'Start your search at his house,' advised Cardonnel.
'What if he's already been executed?'
'That's a strong possibility, alas.'
'The French have no affection for our spies,' said Daniel, 'even if they can weave magical tapestries. My guess is that Janssen is dead.'
'Then why have we not heard of his death?' asked Marlborough. 'They would surely have made an example of him and boasted to us that they'd uncovered our ruse. No, Daniel, we must suppose that Emanuel Janssen is still alive.'
'And if he's not, Your Grace?'
'Then you're to bring the others safely out of France.'
Daniel frowned. 'You made no mention of any others.'
'He has an assistant and a servant with him,' said Marlborough. 'But the person who wrote to tell us that he was missing was his daughter. You should enjoy meeting the young lady, Daniel,' he went on with a smile. 'I'm told she's very beautiful.'
Amalia Janssen's face was clouded with misery. She was short and slight with elfin features framed by fair hair that peeped out from beneath her bonnet. Anxiety had etched deep lines into her forehead and lack of sleep had painted dark patches beneath her eyes. She was standing in the front bedroom of their house. Beatrix, the servant, was a plump, plain-faced, nervous woman in her thirties. She was peering out of the window in such a way that she could not be seen from the street. The two women spoke in Dutch.
'Well?' said Amalia.
'I think he's still there.'
'Did you actually see him?'
'I'm not sure,' replied Beatrix. 'But I sense that he's out there.'
'He has been every other day this week. Today should be no different.' Amalia bunched her fists. 'Why is he watching the house? I feel as if I'm a prisoner here.'
'I'm worried about Kees. He's been gone a long time.'
'The market is some distance away.'
'He should have been back by now.'
'He'll have a heavy basket to slow him down.'
'Oh, I hope we don't lose him as well, Miss Amalia,' said Beatrix, turning to face her. 'It's bad enough that your father has gone astray.'
'He's not gone astray, Beatrix. He's been deliberately taken from us and the worst of it is that I have no idea why. You couldn't meet anyone as mild or harmless as Father. He wouldn't hurt a soul.'
'It looks as if somebody might have hurt him!'
'Don't say that,' scolded Amalia. 'We must never give up hope. Even in Paris, the name of Emanuel Janssen compels respect. His reputation has reached every corner of Europe.'
'That may be the trouble, Miss Amalia.'
'What do you mean?'
'Some people might be very jealous of him.'
'Who could be jealous of my father? He's the kindest man in the world. Even his rivals like him. He has no enemies.'
'We're Dutch,' said Beatrix, morosely, 'and Holland is at war with France. We're bound to have enemies.'
'Yet we've lived here for months without any mishap. This is a beautiful, big house and the streets around here are safe to walk in. When people knew what we were doing here, they gave us a welcome. Father is weaving a tapestry by royal appointment.'
'Does the King know that he's disappeared?'
'He must do, Beatrix.'
Amalia wrung her hands. In the time they'd been in Paris, they'd settled into a comfortable routine. While her father and Dopff, his assistant, worked at the loom, she and Beatrix looked after the house. Janssen visited Versailles occasionally to report on progress and to meet some of the other tapestry- makers employed there. Amalia had been thrilled when she had been invited to join her father at a royal garden party. She had never been to such a glittering event and had stared in awe at the ostentation on display. It was an overwhelming spectacle. French nobles and their wives brought a colour and vivacity that made Amsterdam seem dull and lifeless by comparison. When she saw Louis XIV in his finery, moving like a god around the exquisite gardens and acting as a cynosure, she understood why he was called the Sun King. The heady experience had remained a happy memory until now. Suddenly, a dark shadow had been cast over their whole stay in France.
'I thought it was wrong at the start,' grumbled Beatrix. 'We should never have come here. We belong in Amsterdam.'
'Father couldn't refuse such an offer, Beatrix.'
'We betrayed our country.'
'You mustn't think that,' said Amalia, earnestly 'because it's not what happened. Try to remember what my father told you. Art has no boundaries. French painters, musicians and tapestry- makers have worked in our country many times. Why shouldn't someone from Amsterdam work here?'
Beatrix said nothing. It was not her place to argue with her mistress, especially at a time when she was in such distress. It was her job to offer succour. Amalia had grown to like Paris and learn enough French to hold a conversation but their servant had always felt uneasy there. In view of what had now happened, Beatrix was even more perturbed. They were foreigners and being treated as such. She yearned for the security of their home in Amsterdam.
'Let me take a turn at the window,' said Amalia, changing places with her. 'Perhaps I can catch a glimpse of him.'
'I think he stays there all night, Miss Amalia — or someone does. I can feel their eyes watching me.'
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 anythi
ng 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.
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 grac
ed 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.
Drums of War Page 6
