Soldier of Fortune

Taking his weight on his hands, he pulled himself forward along the ridge tiles until he came to the part of the house that overlooked the garden and which was obscured from the stables by a high wall. It looked like the safest place to descend. On a raw evening like that, he still faced hazards. A biting wind had sprung up and a sudden gust whipped off his hat before sending it downwards in a spiral. For an anxious moment, Daniel feared that it would land in the courtyard and be spotted by someone but, unseen by him, it swung sharply to the left and came to rest in a flower bed.

With the wind plucking at his cloak, he inched himself slowly back down the roof until his boot eventually made contact with the guttering. Daniel worked his way along it until he came to a drainpipe then he knelt down and put a first tentative leg over the parapet. He did not dare to look down. Getting a grip on the drainpipe, he brought his other leg over then swung his body across. The drainpipe was old and rusted and, even with his gloves on, he could feel how cold it was but it had a brute solidity that cheered him.

Descent was slow and laborious. Even in daylight, it would have tested his mettle. Groping in the darkness, with his cloak flapping in the wind like a pair of oversized wings, he needed all his strength and concentration. It seemed to take an age and Daniel began to wonder if he would ever reach the bottom of the pipe. He clung on tightly and persevered, sweat oozing from every pore in spite of the cold. At long last, his toe finally brushed the ground. He let go of the pipe and stood there until the fierce ache in his limbs slowly subsided.

Accepting that he had lost his horse, Daniel searched for his hat then turned his mind to the problem of quitting the city. Before he loped off, he blew a farewell kiss up to Berenice Salignac. He carried away fond memories of her. Though it had ended abruptly, his visit to the house had been, in more ways than one, very profitable.

Edward Marston

Soldier of Fortune

Berenice had waited until her lover had gone before she even thought of admitting her husband to the room. When she finally unlocked the door, he burst in and looked everywhere, opening wardrobes and even peering beneath the bed. It gave her time to recover her composure. Abandoning his search, Armand Salignac turned on his wife and glowered at her. Still wearing his hat and cloak, he was a big, heavy man in his forties with a neat black moustache and bristling eyebrows. He fixed an accusing stare on Berenice.

'Somebody was here,' he declared. 'I can feel it in the air.'

'You are much mistaken,' she said with righteous indignation. 'And I resent the way you tried to batter down my door.'

'Had you opened it when I first knocked, there would have been no need to bang on it so loudly. Why did you keep me waiting?'

'For the reason I've just given you, Armand. I was annoyed. As your wife, I surely have the right to privacy in my boudoir without having someone attempting to break in.'

'You were not alone in here.'

'Of course, I was,' she retorted, taking in the whole room with a sweep of her arm. 'Do you see anyone else besides me? Would you like to look up the chimney to make sure that nobody is hiding there?'

'Do not trifle with me, Berenice,' he warned.

'Then treat me as a husband should. There was a time when you begged me to spend a mere hour in your company and you were duly grateful when I did. Yet now,' she went on, 'you charge in here like a troop of cavalry and browbeat me as if I were guilty of the most unspeakable crime.'

'Infidelity is a heinous offence in my eyes.'

'You did not think so when you were married to your first wife.'

'She would never have betrayed me,' he asserted.

'No more would I,' said Berenice at her most poised. 'When I took the solemn vows of marriage, I swore to abide by them. It is a pity that you did not do the same.'

'We are not talking about me, Berenice. This concerns you and a secret visitor who entered the house this evening.' He took her by the shoulders. 'Tell me the truth, woman — did you or did you not receive a guest in this room?'

'No,' she replied calmly.

'You're lying!'

'Leave go of me, Armand.'

'I can see it in your eyes.'

'Let go of me!'

Pushing his hands away, she stepped back and gazed defiantly at him. Until that moment, she had not realised how much she loved Daniel Rawson. To save him, she would be ready to lie and prevaricate until her tongue turned black. Her husband could see that he was wasting his time. Doffing his hat, he removed his cloak and tossed it over his arm. He shrugged his shoulders apologetically.

'Excuse me, Berenice,' he said with an appeasing smile. 'I think that I was misinformed. My behaviour was boorish.'

'It was unforgivable, Armand.'

'I will inflict myself on you no longer.'

'Thank you.'

Swinging on his heel, he went out of the room. Berenice closed the door gratefully, turned the key in the lock then put her back against the timber and emitted a sigh of relief. They had survived. Daniel had escaped and she had withstood her interrogation without a tremor. She and her lover would meet elsewhere next time.

Her sense of triumph was premature. Armand Salignac was a resolute man. Having failed to wrest a confession out of her, he sought the truth from another source. Discarding his hat and cloak, he went downstairs to the steward's quarters. Celestine, his wife's pretty maid, was cowering in a corner as she was being questioned by Gaston, the steward, a tall, thin, sharp-featured man of middle years.

'What has the creature told you?' demanded the newcomer.

'Very little,' said the steward.

'Has she admitted that someone was here this evening?' When the other man shook his head, Armand Salignac rounded on the girl with his eyes blazing. 'You'll tell me everything, Celestine, do you understand — every single thing!'

'There's nothing to tell,' she bleated.

'How dare you lie to me!' he roared. Turning to the steward, he snapped his fingers. 'Strip her naked and whip her until she talks.'

'No!' screamed the girl, shrinking back and covering herself protectively with both arms. 'Please don't hurt me!'

'Then stop deceiving me. I'll not tolerate it. What was the name of the man who visited Madame Salignac this evening?'

'I do not know his name.'

'Ah!' he said with a smirk of grim satisfaction. 'So there was somebody here. We are making progress. Go on, Celestine,' he coaxed. 'Tell me the fellow's name.'

'I do not know it,' she said, tears streaming down her face.

'You must know it. You let him into this house. Letters would have passed between them and you would have carried them. Forget your loyalty to your mistress,' he told her. 'You have a greater loyalty to me. I want his name and you can either yield it up to me or, as God's my witness, I'll flay the skin off your back with my own hand.'

Celestine was trapped. She had been a willing accomplice in the betrayal of her master and he despised her for it. Her only hope of mercy lay in telling him what he wanted.

'Well?' he said quietly. 'What is the man's name?'

'Daniel Rawson,' she whispered.

CHAPTER TWO

Holywell was the favourite residence of John Churchill, Duke of Marlborough. Situated near St Albans in Hertfordshire, it was a place of refuge from the rigours of waging a war, a country home where he and his wife, Sarah, could enjoy the domestic life that his military duties so frequently interrupted. When they first took full possession of the estate, they had rebuilt the house and laid out the gardens and walks, planting fruit trees in abundance and creating floral colour everywhere. While he was abroad, Holywell was rarely far from of his mind and Marlborough was always sending gifts back to the house. As he and his guest dined that day, they had eaten off china shipped home by him years earlier from The Hague. They were now sharing a post-prandial drink.