Read Online 5 A Very Murdering Battle by Edward Marston - Free Book Online
Authors: Edward Marston
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work with a master of his trade.’
‘An increasingly tired master of his trade,’ corrected Janssen, massaging an ache at the back of his neck. ‘But it’s reassuring to know that I have the respect of my employees.’
‘It’s not respect,’ said Geel, gaze still on Amalia, ‘it’s veneration.’
Geel and Dopff had both been apprenticed to Janssen and honed their skills under his expert tutelage. Pienaar, by contrast, approaching forty but looking a decade older, had only joined Janssen four years earlier but had quickly settled in. Of medium height and carrying too much weight, he was utterly reliable and very industrious. Until the death of his wife the previous winter, he’d been a talkative man. Pienaar now preferred to be alone with his thoughts and rarely started a conversation. The ebullient Geel had more than enough to say for all three assistants.
Janseen drew Amalia aside for a private word with her.
‘Take care,’ he said. ‘The pavements are slippery.’
She was amused. ‘Perhaps I should get a pair of skates.’
‘They’re far too dangerous.’
‘People are skating on the canals all the time.’
‘Well, my daughter isn’t about to join them. Apart from anything else, it’s an unladylike activity. You’d lose all dignity on a pair of skates.’
‘But I’d have such fun , Father.’ About to leave, she remembered something. ‘By the way, have you seen anyone looking at the house?’
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I’ve seen dozens of people. In my own small way, I’m quite famous. People are bound to stare at my house as they pass by.’
‘You haven’t seen one particular man, then?’
‘I’d have said so if I had.’ His brow crinkled. ‘What’s going on, Amalia? You asked me this question before. What’s your concern?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ said Amalia, briskly. ‘The man is not actually there. I knew that Beatrix was inventing the whole thing. She needs to get out in the fresh air to clear her mind. That’s the best way to dispel her anxieties.’
For all his boldness on the battlefield, the Duke of Marlborough was a cautious man when it came to contemplating the future. He believed in covering all options. Aware that peace negotiations were going on between Grand Pensionary Heinsius of Holland and Colbert de Torcy, the French foreign minister, Marlborough wished that he could have some influence upon them. Since he was excluded from the discussions, he worried lest decisions were made to his personal disadvantage. He therefore sent a stream of letters to his nephew, the Duke of Berwick, Marshal of France. Any correspondence between such sworn enemies might be viewed with astonishment by most observers but Marlborough saw nothing wrong or remotely treacherous in it. As the illegitimate son of Arabella Churchill, Marlborough’s sister, Berwick was a kinsman. His father had been the Duke of York, brother to Charles II and, later, King James II. Berwick therefore had a strongly Jacobite lineage and chose to fight for Catholic France while nurturing the distant hope that he’d one day see a Stuart monarch restored to the English throne.
Since secrecy was essential, Marlborough always signed himself with the monogram ‘oo’. Two years earlier, the captain-general had been offered a douceur of two million gold livres for his good offices in arranging a peace acceptable to France. Unable to achieve that, he’d now written to Berwick to tell him that he hoped the offer would still be honoured, knowing that his nephew would be certain to pass on the hint to Versailles. At the time when he was planning his strategy for the next campaign, therefore, Marlborough was allowing for the possibility that the current peace negotiations would come to fruition. In that eventuality, he sought – and felt that he deserved – the handsome reward once dangled enticingly before him by the French. What would shock and sadden the other commanders in the Allied army
‘An increasingly tired master of his trade,’ corrected Janssen, massaging an ache at the back of his neck. ‘But it’s reassuring to know that I have the respect of my employees.’
‘It’s not respect,’ said Geel, gaze still on Amalia, ‘it’s veneration.’
Geel and Dopff had both been apprenticed to Janssen and honed their skills under his expert tutelage. Pienaar, by contrast, approaching forty but looking a decade older, had only joined Janssen four years earlier but had quickly settled in. Of medium height and carrying too much weight, he was utterly reliable and very industrious. Until the death of his wife the previous winter, he’d been a talkative man. Pienaar now preferred to be alone with his thoughts and rarely started a conversation. The ebullient Geel had more than enough to say for all three assistants.
Janseen drew Amalia aside for a private word with her.
‘Take care,’ he said. ‘The pavements are slippery.’
She was amused. ‘Perhaps I should get a pair of skates.’
‘They’re far too dangerous.’
‘People are skating on the canals all the time.’
‘Well, my daughter isn’t about to join them. Apart from anything else, it’s an unladylike activity. You’d lose all dignity on a pair of skates.’
‘But I’d have such fun , Father.’ About to leave, she remembered something. ‘By the way, have you seen anyone looking at the house?’
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I’ve seen dozens of people. In my own small way, I’m quite famous. People are bound to stare at my house as they pass by.’
‘You haven’t seen one particular man, then?’
‘I’d have said so if I had.’ His brow crinkled. ‘What’s going on, Amalia? You asked me this question before. What’s your concern?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ said Amalia, briskly. ‘The man is not actually there. I knew that Beatrix was inventing the whole thing. She needs to get out in the fresh air to clear her mind. That’s the best way to dispel her anxieties.’
For all his boldness on the battlefield, the Duke of Marlborough was a cautious man when it came to contemplating the future. He believed in covering all options. Aware that peace negotiations were going on between Grand Pensionary Heinsius of Holland and Colbert de Torcy, the French foreign minister, Marlborough wished that he could have some influence upon them. Since he was excluded from the discussions, he worried lest decisions were made to his personal disadvantage. He therefore sent a stream of letters to his nephew, the Duke of Berwick, Marshal of France. Any correspondence between such sworn enemies might be viewed with astonishment by most observers but Marlborough saw nothing wrong or remotely treacherous in it. As the illegitimate son of Arabella Churchill, Marlborough’s sister, Berwick was a kinsman. His father had been the Duke of York, brother to Charles II and, later, King James II. Berwick therefore had a strongly Jacobite lineage and chose to fight for Catholic France while nurturing the distant hope that he’d one day see a Stuart monarch restored to the English throne.
Since secrecy was essential, Marlborough always signed himself with the monogram ‘oo’. Two years earlier, the captain-general had been offered a douceur of two million gold livres for his good offices in arranging a peace acceptable to France. Unable to achieve that, he’d now written to Berwick to tell him that he hoped the offer would still be honoured, knowing that his nephew would be certain to pass on the hint to Versailles. At the time when he was planning his strategy for the next campaign, therefore, Marlborough was allowing for the possibility that the current peace negotiations would come to fruition. In that eventuality, he sought – and felt that he deserved – the handsome reward once dangled enticingly before him by the French. What would shock and sadden the other commanders in the Allied army
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