Drums of War

'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.