‘I wondered if you’d come to your senses yet,’ he said.
‘I fancy that it’s your senses that are deficient, my lord Duke,’ said Burgundy with exaggerated courtesy. ‘I hoped that you’d come to appreciate the wisdom of my argument.’
‘Wisdom arises from experience.’
‘That’s why I’m careful to draw on the experience of older heads such as your own. I’ll always seek the best advice before I make a decision.’
‘Then why have you ignored it?’
‘In this case, I found your counsel unhelpful.’
‘Unhelpful!’ spluttered Vendome. ‘That’s an insult. We’re in a position to take the initiative and I believe that we should do so.’
‘On that point at least we’re in agreement.’
‘Then give the order to besiege Huy.’
‘I’ve chosen another course of action.’
‘Think of its situation, for heaven’s sake! Huy sits on the Meuse. Those wide, open plains nearby will favour a cavalry engagement and we have a marked superiority there. Why not use it?’
‘Because I’ve conceived another strategy,’ said Burgundy, evenly. ‘I prefer our initial advance to be towards Brussels. There’s a clear dissatisfaction with Dutch rule among the Flemish population. We must exploit that. Brussels will welcome us.’
‘All of Flanders will welcome us if you follow my plan.’
‘The matter is settled, my lord Duke.’
Vendome turned away and muttered some expletives under his breath. Forced to accept Burgundy as the titular commander-in-chief, he was seething with rage. The previous year he’d skilfully defended French positions in Flanders and kept the Allies at arm’s length. As the new campaigning season began, he’d finally been allowed to risk a major battle, if it could be fought under advantageous conditions. To manoeuvre Marlborough and his army into the places where he wanted them, however, Vendome needed a free hand but that was being denied him. Every decision had to be ratified by Burgundy.
‘Could I simply ask you to think again?’ said Vendome, injecting a faint note of deference into his voice. ‘On reflection, you may well come to see that the siege of Huy is the better option.’
Burgundy was peremptory. ‘It’s out of the question.’
‘Will you spurn my advice in such a cavalier fashion?’
‘We’ll move towards Brussels.’
‘May I remind you that I was in charge of operations in Flanders last year?’ said Vendome, cheeks reddening. ‘I know the terrain well. I know how best to make use of its natural advantages. More to the point,’ he went on as if playing a trump card, ‘I understand the way that Marlborough thinks and acts. I can anticipate him.’
‘Then it’s a pity your anticipation wasn’t more fruitful last year,’ said Burgundy with a touch of condescension, ‘or the campaign would not have ended in an impasse. That will not happen under my command, I assure you. I’m working to achieve a decisive result.’
Vendome scowled. ‘All that you’re doing is to squander an opportunity to strike a telling blow.’
‘You’re entitled to your opinion, my lord Duke.’
‘It’s the advice of a veteran soldier.’
‘Nobody questions your long record.’
‘But that, by implication, is what you’re doing,’ said Vendome with a hostile stare. ‘In rejecting my plan, you’re suggesting that it’s worthless.’ He pulled himself to his full height. ‘I’ve fought and won battles. I think you should remember who I am.’
‘It’s rather difficult to forget,’ said Burgundy, wearily. ‘Perhaps it’s you who should remember that I’m in command here. You are in the presence of a prince of the blood.’
Biting back a reply, Vendome stood there fuming and looked as if he was about to explode. Burgundy remained composed and that drove his visitor to an even greater pitch of fury. Unable to put his feelings into polite words, Vendome simply spun round and stormed out. As he strode through the camp with his eyes blazing, nobody dared to approach him. Instead, they stepped quickly out of his way. When he reached his own tent, Vendome thrust the flap aside and burst in, reaching for a flagon of wine and pouring a full glass. He flopped down onto his chair and took a long sip of wine. Brooding on the way he’d been rebuffed, he was oblivious to everything else. He didn’t even hear the tent flap open or see the head that popped tentatively in. Nor did he hear the deliberate cough made by the newcomer. It was only when the man stepped into the tent that Vendome at last became aware of his presence.
‘What do you want?’ he growled, looking up.
‘You sent for me, Your Grace.’
‘The devil I did! Who, in God’s name, are you?’
‘Lieutenant Valeran.’
‘Who?’
‘Raoul Valeran.’ With a slight bow, he moved backwards. ‘I can see that I’m intruding. Pray, excuse me.’
‘No, no,’ said Vendome, looking at him properly for the first time. ‘Stay here. I do believe that I may have sent for you.’
‘If this is an inconvenient moment…’
‘Say no more, Lieutenant.’
Vendome put a finger to his lips to reinforce the order then he gave a lazy smile. He studied Valeran from head to toe and was delighted with what he saw. The lieutenant was a tall, slender, handsome young man with an air of boyish innocence about him. He had a natural elegance that had caught Vendome’s attention and prompted him to find out the officer’s name. Anger slowly gave way to desire. Vendome needed something that would help him forget the way his advice had been rejected by Burgundy. Here was the perfect distraction. Eyes never leaving his guest, he had a much longer drink then he reached for the flagon.
‘Come on in, Raoul,’ he invited, running a tongue over his lips. ‘I’d like you to join me in a glass of wine.’
The last time that Daniel had disguised himself as Marcel Daron, he’d been hounded by a French patrol. He was more circumspect on this occasion, joining a group of other travellers who’d be passing through Valenciennes. They got him there without incident. Daniel sought out the best tavern within easy reach of the French camp and took a room there. Early that evening, some officers rolled in for a drinking bout. Daniel watched them carefully from a table in the corner. He picked up some of their names and heard snatches of conversation. There was a general air of optimism about the campaign ahead.
Daniel soon selected his target. Major Crevel interested him for two reasons. The man was sufficiently senior to have some knowledge of any tactical decisions that had been made, and he couldn’t hold his wine. The more he drank, the more uninhibited Crevel became, laughing uproariously at the feeblest jokes and falling off his chair at one point. His companions hauled him upright again. Daniel chose his moment and crossed to their table.
‘Good evening, my friends,’ he said, ‘I couldn’t help overhearing what you’ve been talking about. I, too, wish to see the hateful Duke of Marlborough and his army ground into the dust. Allow me to buy you all a drink so that I may toast your success.’
Crevel giggled. ‘I never refuse a glass of wine,’ he said, peering at Daniel through bleary eyes, ‘but I do like to know the name of the person who bought it for me.’
‘My name is Marcel Daron and I’m a wine merchant by trade. That’s why I insist on buying a better vintage than the one you’ve been drinking so far.’ He snapped his fingers and the landlord bustled over. Daniel whispered into his ear and the man scuttled off. ‘The sooner you win this war, the sooner I can export my wine again.’
‘Oh, we’ll win it, Monsieur Daron,’ said Crevel, drunkenly. ‘By God’s grace, we’ll beat the Grand Alliance this year.’