Fire and Sword Page 3

  ‘This is madness,’ asserted Daniel, rising indignantly to his feet. ‘You’ve kept our army and our navy in fighting trim between you. His Grace has supplied the leadership while you, my lord, have helped to raise the money to make that leadership effective. To dispense with your services is an act of sheer lunacy. Have they forgotten Blenheim? Don’t they remember our victory at the Lines of Brabant? Does the name of Ramillies mean nothing to them?’ He lowered his voice. ‘I’m sorry to speak out so boldly, Your Grace, but I’m only saying what every British soldier will say. To lose you is an absolute catastrophe.’

  ‘Kind words, Daniel,’ said Marlborough, ‘and inspired by your loyalty to me. Others, alas, have forsaken loyalty.’

  ‘Then they must be brought to their senses. This is a decision that must be reversed at the earliest opportunity. I refuse to believe that Her Majesty approved of your resignations.’

  Godolphin winced slightly. ‘She did so with equanimity.’

  ‘And there the matter ends,’ said Marlborough, dismissively. ‘You’ve performed some remarkable deeds in your time, Daniel, but even you couldn’t make our beloved Queen change her mind on this issue.’ He hunched his shoulders. ‘Our time is over. We’ve learnt to accept that.’ He waved an arm. ‘Now why don’t you sit down again and drink some more of this exceptional brandy?’

  CHAPTER THREE

  The ride to Somerset was a journey into his past. It was a pilgrimage that Daniel made every time he was on English soil. Ordinarily, he’d be preoccupied with memories of his father and of the events that led to his untimely death at the end of a hangman’s rope. That tragedy had helped to mould Daniel’s character. On this occasion, however, he spared Nathan Rawson only a few random thoughts. Even the murder of the farmer and his family had been pushed from his mind for once. What simmered in Daniel’s brain as he rode along was the prospect of returning to the theatre of war without the Duke of Marlborough.

  It was highly disturbing. Marlborough’s experience, stamina, tactical brilliance and ability to improvise during a battle had earned him a reputation unmatched in military circles. He was revered by his men who called him Corporal John because of his readiness to take notice of the lower ranks. At the same time, he was feared by French marshals and by other commanders who’d faced him in the field. He’d been such a dominating presence in European warfare for so long that he’d acquired almost legendary status. Yet that legend had now been discarded. Daniel could foresee the utter dismay in the Allied army when the word spread. By the same token, he could envisage the sheer delight among the enemy when they realised that their conqueror had relinquished his office. The whole balance of the war would shift in favour of the French. Daniel was troubled.

  Reaching his destination, he dismounted and tethered his horse before he even realised where he was. The church tower cast a long, all-embracing shadow over him as if in reproach at his lack of due respect. He’d come to mourn a dead father not to bewail the loss of a living soldier. Daniel was sobered. With the image of Nathan Rawson before him, he went penitently into the churchyard and sought out his father’s grave. Kneeling beside it, he offered up a prayer and apologised for being so distracted. Then he began to clear some of the weeds that encroached on the little headstone.

  He was still on his knees when he heard the excited voices of children. Daniel looked up to see a small boy being chased by an even smaller girl. They were running through the churchyard with such joyful irreverence that he was mildly shocked for a moment. He rose to admonish them but their father saved him the trouble. Calling the children over to him, he told them to play on the village green instead. As they raced off happily again, Daniel crossed over to the newcomer.

  ‘Is that you, Martin?’ he asked, peering intently at him.

  ‘Indeed, it is,’ replied Martin Rye with a surprised grin. ‘And unless my eyes fail me, I’m talking to Dan Rawson.’

  ‘Yes, it’s me.’ They shook hands warmly. ‘It’s good to see you again after all this time. You’re a married man now, I see.’

  ‘I’ve two lovely children to show for it. I couldn’t bring myself to punish them just now. After all, when we were their age, we used to play games here in the churchyard.’

  Daniel smiled. ‘The verger chased us away many a time.’

  It was over twenty years since he’d seen his old friend. Martin Rye was a boy from the village who’d worked on the Rawson farm for a short while. He’d grown up to be tall and sturdy. Apart from memories of childhood fun together, they shared something else. When the Monmouth rebellion had been crushed at Sedgemoor, Nathan Rawson had been a captain in the defeated army. Rye had two brothers who’d also responded to the call to arms and fought on the losing side. All three of them had been condemned to death at the Bloody Assizes.

  ‘I know what brought you here, Dan,’ said Rye with envy. ‘When your father was hanged, you cut down his body so that it could lie here in the churchyard.’

  ‘Yes, we did.’

  ‘I wish we could have rescued my brothers but Will and Arthur had already been tossed into a common grave with all the other poor wretches who danced on the gallows that day.’

  ‘We were lucky enough to reach my father in time. We brought him here in the dead of night and buried him under the bushes where nobody could find him. It was many years later,’ recalled Daniel, ‘that I was able to dig up the body and see that it had a proper Christian burial.’ He touched Rye’s arm. ‘I’m sorry that your brothers don’t lie in consecrated ground as well. They were brave lads.’ He stood back to look his friend up and down. ‘You’ve filled out since we last met. What are you doing with yourself now?’

  ‘I’ve taken over the forge from my uncle. Being a blacksmith is hard work but I’ve never been one to shy away from that. What about you, Dan?’ he went on. ‘When I heard you’d fled to Holland with your mother, I thought you’d find a farm there.’

  ‘I chose to follow the drum instead.’

  ‘I can see that from your uniform. What regiment are you in?’

  ‘The 24th Foot,’ said Daniel, ‘with the rank of captain.’

  Rye was impressed. ‘You’ve done well for yourself.’

  ‘Soldiering is a dangerous occupation, Martin. I’d feel a lot safer if I was a blacksmith like you.’

  ‘Don’t be so sure about that,’ said the other with a laugh. ‘I’ve got burns all over my arms and horses can give you a nasty kick if they don’t want to be shoed.’

  ‘At least you don’t have someone trying to kill you every time you go into battle.’

  ‘That’s true. I’d hate that. How do you put up with it?’

  ‘You learn to survive.’

  ‘Are you married?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I don’t blame you.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Too many soldiers’ wives end up as widows.’

  ‘There’s always that risk,’ admitted Daniel, thinking wistfully of Amalia Janssen. ‘Casualties are often very high. It’s something you have to live with, Martin.’

  ‘I could never do that.’

  ‘It’s surprising what you can do when you’re put to the test.’

  ‘I like my life as it is, Dan.’

  There was an endearing simplicity about Martin Rye. He was a big, strong, healthy man in his thirties with limited needs and narrow horizons. The village provided him with everything he wanted and he’d never dream of moving away from it. Had he stayed on the family farm, Daniel mused, he’d probably have grown up to be like his friend and to enjoy a stable existence in the rural tranquillity of Somerset. He’d have employed Rye to shoe the farm horses and drunk with him from time to time in the village tavern. It was a tempting prospect but well beyond his reach now.

  ‘Why do you serve in the British army?’ asked Rye. ‘I heard that you and your mother had fled to Amsterdam.’

  ‘That’s exactly what we did.’

  ‘So why didn’t you join the Dutch army?
’

  ‘I served in it for years when King William was on the throne,’ said Daniel, ‘before deciding to wear a redcoat instead. British and Dutch armies fight side by side now.’

  ‘Have you fought in many battles?’

  ‘My whole life has been marked out by battles and sieges.’

  ‘What about Blenheim?’

  ‘I was there, Martin.’

  Rye whistled in admiration. ‘Were you – what was it like?’

  ‘If you want the truth, it was desperate.’

  ‘Yet you don’t have a scratch on you.’

  ‘I was lucky,’ said Daniel, modestly.

  ‘We heard so many tales about Blenheim,’ said Rye. ‘The French were well and truly whipped that day. You’re a hero, Dan Rawson. What a wonderful thing to be able to tell your grandchildren – that you fought at Blenheim.’

  ‘In its own way, Ramillies was an even greater triumph. We beat the French into the ground and lost fewer of our men. I had a much better view of that battle,’ Daniel continued, ‘because I had the honour of serving on the Duke of Marlborough’s personal staff.’

  Rye’s manner changed at once. ‘Don’t mention the name of that bastard!’ he said, vehemently.

  ‘But he was our captain general.’

  ‘Yes, Dan, and he was also one of the leaders of the army that mowed down the rebels at Sedgemoor. Because of him, and other cruel devils like him, my brothers ended up with a rope around their necks and so did your father.’

  ‘That’s all in the past, Martin.’

  ‘Is it?’ demanded the other with passion. ‘Then what are you doing here? Why are you still tending your father’s grave after all these years?’

  ‘It’s a duty. I’m proud of what my father did.’

  ‘You’re no more proud of him than I am of Will and Arthur. Before he became a farmer, your father was a trained soldier. He had proper weapons and knew how to use them. My brothers were raw lads with fire in their veins and a pitchfork in their hands. They stood no chance against that monster, Marlborough, and his army.’

  ‘He wasn’t a duke at the time of Sedgemoor,’ corrected Daniel. ‘He was John, Lord Churchill with the rank of major general and he wasn’t in overall command.’

  ‘What difference does it make?’ snarled Rye. ‘He was one of them. That’s all that matters. I detest him for what he did.’

  ‘He wasn’t directly responsible for the deaths of your brothers.’

  ‘Why are you defending him?’

  ‘Because I’ve had the advantage of getting to know His Grace,’ said Daniel, proudly. ‘In my opinion, he’s the finest soldier alive.’

  ‘Well, I think he’s a barefaced traitor.’

  ‘That’s absurd.’

  ‘I’m not stupid, Dan,’ said Rye, tapping his chest. ‘You may think we’re cut off down here in this little village but we get to hear things and we remember them. When the Duke or Lord Churchill or whatever you want to call him beat the rebels on that bloodthirsty day, he did so in the name of King James. Am I right or wrong?’

  ‘You’re quite right, Martin.’

  ‘Yet three years later, when he should have supported his king once again, he turns his back on him and joins up with a Dutchman, William of Orange. King James was forced into exile. That’s treachery to me.’

  ‘It’s a little more complicated than that.’

  ‘He stabbed King James in the back.’

  ‘That’s not what happened at all.’

  ‘I see what I see,’ affirmed Rye, thrusting out his jaw. ‘You can lick the Duke of Marlborough’s arse all you want but I’ll never forgive him for what he did to my two brothers.’ He nodded at the gravestone. ‘Unlike you, I could never serve a butcher who helped to put my father in the ground.’

  Turning on his heel, he stalked off and gathered up his children. Daniel was chastened. Caught up in his uncritical veneration of Marlborough, he’d forgotten that the Duke didn’t enjoy universal praise even in his own country. It was not only scheming politicians who harboured a grudge against the great man. Humble people like Martin Rye had long memories and still nursed wounds inflicted at the battle of Sedgemoor. Daniel stared down at the grave with unease. He wondered what Nathan Rawson would say if he knew that his son had now served a man who’d once helped to quash the rebellion to which the farmer and retired soldier had dedicated himself.

  When Daniel rode off, the words of Martin Rye rang in his ears.

  The blacksmith would be one of many people who’d rejoice when he heard that Marlborough had effectively been stripped of his command.

  On 19 February, 1708, the customary meeting of the Cabinet Council was held on a Sunday morning. The Queen’s most trusted advisers shuffled into the room and took their places either side of the long oak table. The pervasive air of solemnity was offset by the suppressed glee of one man. Robert Harley, Secretary of State, was now at the head of an administration with a distinct Tory bias. Not for nothing did he bear the nickname of Robin the Trickster. In appearance, he was small and rather insignificant yet he wielded great power behind the scenes. It had taken guile and perseverance to supplant Godolphin and to bring an end to Marlborough’s glittering military career. Harley was in the ascendant now. As he looked around the table, he was confident that a new and better political era was about to begin. It was time to flex his muscles.

  When a door opened, everyone struggled to their feet. Queen Anne hobbled into the room and cut anything but a regal figure. Flat-faced, overweight and plagued by gout, she wore apparel that verged on the drab. When she took her seat at the head of the table, there was a loud scraping of chairs as the others lowered themselves down again. After looking around the faces that peeped out from their periwigs, she gave Harley a nod. He was a poor speaker with a dry voice but for once it had some sparkle in it.

  ‘Thank you, Your Majesty,’ he began. ‘As Secretary of State, it is my duty to open this meeting and to set before you the business that we have to discuss.’

  Though he carried on, he did so over audible murmurs of protest from some ministers. The noise slowly built until it was too concerted to be ignored. Harley came to a halt and glanced at the Queen in consternation. Feeling that his position was secure, he’d never anticipated that he might face opposition. He looked down at the notes in front of him but he was quite unable to read them out. While Harley dithered and while the Queen shifted uncomfortably in her seat, the Duke of Somerset rose with dignity. His eyes flicked meaningfully at the two empty chairs at the table.

  ‘I do not see how we can deliberate,’ he boomed, ‘when the Commander-in-Chief and the Lord Treasurer are absent.’

  The announcement was greeted with murmurs of agreement and someone patted the table by way of approval. Somerset had clearly voiced a general opinion. Robin the Trickster made no reply. Facing humiliation, he had no idea what to do. Queen Anne was unable to help him out of his predicament. She, too, was squirming with embarrassment. Somerset pressed home his advantage and repeated his earlier statement. After a long and extremely awkward silence, the Queen realised that a form of mutiny was taking place and that she had no means of quelling it. The unthinkable had occurred. She’d lost her control of the Council table.

  ‘This meeting is formally ended,’ she said.

  Flushing angrily, and with lips pursed in exasperation, she got up and tottered out of the room. Muted laughter broke out and a few handshakes were exchanged as ministers congratulated each other on having made their point so forcefully. An important event had just occurred and it had constitutional significance. They’d openly defied the wishes of their sovereign and won a victory.

  Harley was mortified. He could only sit there in hurt silence and reflect that, for once, his trickery had woefully miscarried.

  Daniel Rawson’s second visit to Holywell House was in marked contrast to the first one. He’d left on that occasion in a mood that bordered on despair but he now returned with alacrity. He was shown into the library a
nd found Marlborough there, talking with his private secretary, Adam Cardonnel. They looked up as Daniel entered.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ said Marlborough, affably. ‘Your honour was but lately in our thoughts.’

  ‘I rode here as soon as I received your letter, Your Grace,’ said Daniel. ‘Let me congratulate you on being restored to the command that you should never have relinquished.’

  ‘It was very gratifying.’

  ‘A gross injustice has been righted.’

  ‘I agree with you, Daniel,’ said Cardonnel. ‘Her Majesty has been saved from making the most calamitous mistake of her reign.’

  ‘And there have been a few of those,’ said Marlborough under his breath. ‘But don’t just stand there, man. Take a seat.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Grace.’

  Daniel sat down opposite them. Delighted to find Marlborough in such high spirits, he was also pleased to see Cardonnel again. The secretary was a vital member of the captain general’s staff. A neat, handsome, engaging man, Cardonnel was a model of efficiency. He was also tireless, tactful and intensely loyal. He and Daniel had something in common. Both were refugees. In 1685, when Daniel and his mother fled after the battle of Sedgemoor, Cardonnel and his Huguenot family hastily left France to avoid the slaughter that followed the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes.

  ‘Order and common sense are restored,’ observed Cardonnel.

  ‘They should never have been abandoned in the first place,’ said Daniel. ‘What on earth persuaded Her Majesty to dispense with her acknowledged champion?’

  ‘Someone whispered in her ear, Daniel.’

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘It matters not. He’s been summarily dismissed now.’

  ‘It’s no more than Robin the Trickster deserves,’ opined Marlborough, ‘but he wasn’t the only villain here. A maggot had wriggled its way into the royal apple. It goes by the name of Abigail Masham, one of Her Majesty’s bedchamber women. My dear wife will tell you all about that devious little baggage. Suffice it to say that we are – if not exactly in favour again – firmly in charge of operations.’