Drums of War (12 page)

'Who
are
you?' demanded Daniel.

'I've
got no money if that's what you're after,' said the man.

'I
want to know why you're following those two ladies and why you've been outside
their house all week.' Daniel shoved him hard against the wall then pricked his
neck with the point of his weapon. The man yelped. 'Next time, I'll cut your
throat. Now - who are you?'

'My
name is Jacques Serval,' admitted the other, 'and I wasn't following anybody. I
live nearby and was on my way home.'

'Don't
lie to me or I'll slice you to pieces.' Daniel reinforced the threat with a
kick on the shin and a punch on the nose. Blood gushed down on to the man's
beard. He glowered at Daniel. 'Where is Emanuel Janssen?'

'I've
never heard of him,' said Serval, a hand to his nose.

'Why
keep his house under surveillance?'

'I
don't know what you're talking about.'

'Then
you're no use to me,' said Daniel, pulling back his arm as if to thrust the
dagger into him. 'Goodbye, my friend.'

'No
- wait!' exclaimed Serval, cowering.

'Have
I jogged your memory?'

'I
didn't take him away. The others did that. I was just asked to watch the house
to see what his daughter did. You've got no argument with me, sir. I'm not
important.'

'You're
important to me because you're the one person who can solve this mystery. I'll
ask you once more and, if you still insist you don't know, I'll send you off to
the Hell you deserve for tormenting those ladies.' With his free hand, he
slammed the man against the wall, knocking off his hat. 'Consider your answer
very carefully, my friend. Where is Emanuel Janssen?'

'Somewhere
you'll never reach him,' said Serval, defiantly.

'He
is
alive, then?'

'Yes.'

'Is
he still here in Paris?'

'Janssen
won't ever be leaving here.'

'Why
do you say that?'

'He's
in the one place where nobody leaves.'

'And
where's that?'

Serval
smirked. 'The Bastille.'

Daniel
was stunned. Relieved to hear that Janssen was still alive, he was dismayed to
learn that he was being held in the city's most notorious prison. It was like a
body blow to Daniel. As he tried to absorb the impact, he took a step backward.
Serval saw his chance and took it. Lunging forward, he grabbed the wrist of the
hand that held the dagger and tried to twist it away from him. Daniel fought
back at once, grappling hard, looking into the Frenchman's crazed eyes and
recoiling from his foul breath. With a sudden move and a swing of his leg, he
managed to trip Serval up. Falling to the ground, Serval kept an iron grip on
his wrist and pulled Daniel after him. They struggled violently. It was a trial
of strength now.

Serval
was a powerful man who had come off best in many tavern brawls. He spat into
Daniel's face then turned his head sharply to bite his wrist, forcing him to
drop the dagger. They were on even terms, needing to subdue or kill their
opponent with bare hands. After trying to gouge Daniel's eyes, Serval rolled
over so that he was on top for the first time, his substantial weight bearing
down on Daniel. The Frenchman was sweating freely and panting hard but he now
had the advantage. Rising up to sit astride Daniel, he got both hands to his throat
and began to throttle him, blood from his nose dripping on to Daniel's face.
Anticipating success, Serval let out a growl of triumph.

It
was premature. Daniel was not finished yet. Gasping for breath, he put all his
strength into a punch that caught Serval on the ear and knocked him sideways,
weakening his hold on Daniel's neck. A second punch dislodged his hold
altogether and Daniel was able to throw him off and scramble to his feet.
Serval was quick to recover, getting to his knees and pulling out his own
dagger. Daniel reacted by instinct. If he let the Frenchman get up, then the
result would not be in doubt. Serval had to be disarmed. With a firm kick,
Daniel caught him in the crotch and made him double up in agony. Then he dived
in to grab Serval's wrist, twisting it so that the dagger turned towards the
Frenchman's chest. With a howl of rage, Serval tried to pull himself upright
and turn the weapon back on Daniel but he slipped on the cobbles and fell
backwards. As Daniel tumbled to the ground on top of him, the dagger went
straight through the Frenchman's heart. Serval's body convulsed for a moment
then all resistance drained out of him.

When
he was sure that the man was dead, Daniel searched him quickly and took some
papers from his pocket. Then he lugged the body down the alleyway and hid it in
a doorway. Retrieving his own dagger, he put it in its sheath and went to
collect his horse. Now that the fight was over, he was able to address his mind
to what he had found out. He did not relish the task of passing on the
information to Amalia Janssen. Her father might be alive but he was
incarcerated in the infamous Bastille. That was a death sentence in itself.

Amalia
was increasingly worried. After their walk, she and Beatrix had returned safely
to the house, expecting Daniel to join them almost at once. While they'd been
on foot, he had a horse. She could not understand why he'd been delayed and was
immediately prey to all kinds of fears. Daniel was the only person who had
brought hope into her life and she needed him. Even on such a short
acquaintance, Amalia had been drawn to Daniel, struck by his bravery, grateful
for his honesty and touched by his charm. It was only when she heard the
clip-clop of hooves in the street outside that she began to calm down. Instead
of leaving the task to Beatrix, she ran to open the front door herself. Daniel
had come back.

'What
did you find out?' she asked, breathlessly.

'We
must leave tonight,' he said, dismounting and holding the reins. 'I'll fetch
the cart and be back within the hour.'

'What
about my father?'

'He's
alive, Miss Janssen.'

'Thank
God!' she exclaimed. 'Where is he?'

'I'll
explain that later,' he said. "The important thing is for us to reach a
place of safety as soon as we can. In due course, you'll understand why.'

Amalia
gave a stifled cry. It was fairly dark in the street but she had just stepped
close enough to Daniel to see the blood on his face and the tear in his coat.
She also noticed the dirt on his clothing.

'What
happened, Captain Rawson?' she said.

'This
is no time to discuss that.'

'Were
you involved in a fight with that man?'

'Forget
him,' said Daniel. 'Impress upon Kees and Beatrix that this is an emergency. If
they have to leave things behind, so be it. They must be ready to go the moment
I get back. It won't be a coach and four,' he apologised, 'but it will get us
there in one piece.'

'I'm
worried about
you,
Captain. Are you badly injured?'

'I'm
not injured at all, Miss Janssen.'

'Something
has obviously happened.'

'Tell
the others what I said,' he urged, mounting his horse.

'Where
exactly are we going?'

'You'll
find that out when we get there. Now please hurry up. There's no time to lose.
If you stay in this house one more night, then all your lives will be in
danger.'

Ronan
Flynn was a lanky, raw-boned man in his early forties with long grey hair and
curling eyebrows. Having served in an Irish regiment that fought in Louis XIV's
army, he had picked up a certain amount of the French language. It was when he
had met Charlotte Rousset that his fluency had perforce improved by leaps and
bounds. Falling in love with the pretty young Parisian woman, he had courted
and married her. Charlotte was almost eighteen years younger than her husband
yet they were so contented that the age difference became irrelevant. Flynn
lived happily in a small but comfortable house with his wife and baby daughter.
It was, he reminded himself every day, far better than being a soldier.

'There
are
four
of them?' said Charlotte with concern.

'It
will only be for a short time, my darling.'

'But
we don't have enough room for so many.'

'We'll
fit them all in somehow,' said Flynn. 'There's room in the attic for the man
and the two women will have to share.'

'What
about your friend?'

'Oh,
Dan Rawson will lay his head down anywhere. He's the one person you don't have
to worry about. He's a soldier, used to sleeping on the ground in all
weathers.'

'Why
are they coming here, Ronan?'

He
hunched his shoulders. 'They need a roof over their heads.'

Flynn
had told his wife as little as possible. All that she knew was that Daniel and
her husband had once fought alongside each other in the army. Charlotte didn't
realise that Flynn had been in the British army at the time. She assumed that
both men had served under the French flag. The salient point about their
friendship was that Daniel had rescued the Irishman when he'd been captured by
the enemy. There was an unpaid debt that had to be honoured. Flynn would not,
in any case, have been able to give his wife full details of why four strangers
were about to descend on her because he didn't know them himself and didn't
wish to know. A friend was in trouble. That was enough for Ronan Flynn.

'Who
are
these people?' asked Charlotte.

'They're
friends of Daniel and they've had to leave their house.'

'Why?'

'I've
no idea, my darling,' he said, kissing the chevron of concern on her brow.
'Let's wait until they tell us, shall we?'

'It
seems so odd, coming here at this time of night.'

He
beamed at her. 'Paris is an odd place. Where else could an ugly old Irishman
like me marry the most beautiful woman in the world?' Charlotte softened and
hugged him in gratitude for the compliment. 'If looking after these people for
a few days is all we have to put up with, I'd say that we were very lucky.
Doesn't the priest tell us every Sunday that it's good to help others? Or has
my French let me down? It sounds to me as if that's what he's saying.'

She
was still worried. 'Are they in trouble, Ronan?'

'Yes
- they have nowhere to sleep.'

'Where
is their house?'

'I
don't know,' he told her. 'Somewhere on the other side of the city, I think.
There are all kinds of reasons why people have to look for accommodation.
Perhaps they had a quarrel with the landlord or discovered the place was
infested with vermin. Maybe there was a fire. Whatever the cause, we mustn't
pester them with questions. Be nice to them, Charlotte, please. Will you do
that for me?'

'I'll
do anything for you,' she said.

Flynn
embraced her and kissed her on the lips. Before they could savour the moment,
however, there was a cry from upstairs as the baby came awake again. Charlotte
smiled tolerantly and went off up the steps. Flynn followed her.

For
the three Dutch passengers, the ride through Paris at night was nothing short
of an ordeal. Having lived in such a pleasant quarter of the city, they hadn't
realised that most of it was given over to narrow, fetid, swarming streets
lined with tenements and decaying old buildings. The pervading stink was
matched by a continuous din. Boisterous taverns and pleading beggars supplied
most of the noise. Yapping dogs and screeching cats added a descant. Daniel
drove the rattling cart with Amalia beside him. Amid a pile of belongings, the
others sat uncomfortably behind them. Beatrix clung to her bag so that none of
the grasping hands could steal it while Kees Dopff held the tapestry in his
arms as if clinging to a piece of timber in a swollen river. Both of them were
highly distressed at the number of drunks who lunged wildly at the cart or
threw missiles out of random malice. They were all relieved when they entered
the wide thoroughfare of a more respectable district. As the hubbub subsided,
they were able to hold a conversation at last.

'Who
is this friend of yours?' asked Amalia.

'He's
a mad Irishman,' said Daniel, 'and his name is Ronan Flynn. We met when he
served in the British army but he later joined a French regiment. That's when
we were on opposite sides.'

'Is
he ready to help an enemy?'

'We're
good friends, Miss Janssen, and we're no longer on the battlefield. Ronan owes
me a favour, that's all I'll say.'

'How
much does he know about us?'

'Precious
little,' said Daniel, 'and I wish to keep it that way. Kees is not going to
tell them anything and I doubt if your servant speaks much French but you're
obviously an intelligent young lady. I daresay you have some knowledge of the
language.'

'I
like to think that I do, Captain Rawson.'