Rules of War. Iain Gale

humouring him, responded with a respectful nod. ‘Well your men have no need to worry about the French any more. They are beaten. They won’t be back quickly. Where are we exactly?’

      ‘You are in Wippendries. We are only a small village, but you are welcome to share what we have.’

      Steel surveyed the militia, took in their assortment of weapons and their ages. A single platoon of French regulars would have accounted for the lot of them in five minutes. But clearly, they had spirit and Steel knew that sometimes, on the battlefield, that could mean the difference between life and death for any troops – farmhands and guardsmen included.

      The man spoke again: ‘You are welcome to stay in our village, Captain. We would be honoured. Perhaps we can make up for shooting at you.’

      Steel laughed. ‘Perhaps. Don’t give it another thought.’

      You silly bugger, he thought. You don’t know how close you and your bunch of brave, stupid yokels came to death. If that shot had hit Tarling instead of his cap, we’d have had you quicker than any French bastards.

      ‘We’ll stay the night if we may. It will be a good chance for a rest. We’ve been forcing the march to catch the French.’

      ‘That is good to hear, Captain. We hate the French. For too long they have been our masters here. Like you, if we see any French, we kill them.’

      While ordinarily Steel would have agreed, he found himself thinking again of Argyll’s outburst in Ramillies and couldn’t help but wonder that there was so much hatred in this campaign, of a sort he had not seen these past seven years. Not since the bloody carnage in the north when he had watched with horribly detached interest as the Swedes and Russians had bled each other dry. This was a new and unexpected twist to the war. He knew that the French had been an occupying power here in the Netherlands, but till now he had not been aware of just how much they had been resented. He should have been cheered, he knew, by the news that the Belgians were his allies, but instinctively, something told him that this was going to complicate the conduct of the campaign. And Steel did not like complications – especially when they involved civilians.

      Some six miles to the southwest, similar local hospitality was being extended to another allied soldier, albeit on a grander scale. The Duke of Marlborough stood, surrounded by his immediate military family and a small bodyguard of dragoons in the great hall of the ancient Château de Beaulieu, five miles north of Brussels. Despite the lavish reception which had been laid on in his honour, the commander-in-chief was not happy.

      ‘I should not be here, William. This is not a general’s work and I am no politician. My place is out in the field, chasing the French, following up our victory. We cannot be complacent.’

      William Cadogan, quartermaster-general, laid a friendly hand upon the duke’s shoulder. ‘Your Grace, you must be patient. The French this day have quit the capital. We shall enter Brussels tomorrow. We should rejoice. But before we can possess the city we have pressing business here. It is an affair of state and you are the de facto representative of Her Majesty. It is your duty.’

      Marlborough sighed and rubbed at his temples. ‘Yes, yes. I know. How my head does ache so. I have written to the duchess about it. I hope for a cure – the queen too. They suggest …’

      Hawkins interjected: ‘I am sorry, Your Grace, but Cadogan is right. You must attend. You are rightly perceived as the victor and these men would laud you as a conqueror, as the liberator of their country. It falls to you, like it or not, to meet with these politicians. All are gathered here. The magistrates have come from Brussels together with the Estates of Brabant. Not only this, My Lord, but the entire Spanish government here in the Netherlands have declared against Louis and pledged themselves to Charles III, our candidate for the throne of Spain. The fate of Europe is in your hands. You must now treat with them. Now, your Grace.’

      Marlborough glared at him with steely green eyes. ‘Oh, James. I do so wish you were not always so very right.’

      Van Goslinga had re-entered the great hall now and smiled insipidly at the duke. Marlborough hissed, under his breath: ‘That man again. That odious little man.’

      Not hearing the comment, the Dutch liaison officer smiled ingratiatingly. ‘Your Grace, the deputies and magistrates would meet with you now, if you please.’

      Together, Hawkins, Marlborough and Cadogan were shown through into the grand salon of the castle. The painted and gilded walls were hung with vividly coloured Brussels tapestries depicting scenes of courtly life in the Middle Ages and portraits of the Dukes of Brabant. In the centre of the room stood a long table and around it sat some twenty middle-aged and elderly men in full wigs. Hawkins noticed that, while those on the right had the pale complexion of northerners, those seated to the left were more swarthy and sported moustaches. All were dressed in sombre black coats. It looked to the duke and Hawkins something like a meeting of physicians, but where in the centre of the table there should have been a cadaver ready for dissection there lay sheaves of paper and charters sealed with red wax and on top of them the swords of the deputies and the Spanish officials, their hilts pointing deliberately in the direction of the victorious British general.

      As Marlborough entered the men rose as one and made low bows over the table. The duke returned their greeting. The man nearest to him, a short, pale Dutchman with a small white goatee beard, spoke in mannered English.

      ‘We are a proud people, Your Grace. For four hundred years we have resisted French tyranny. For two hundred years we have been ruled by the Hapsburgs. Since 1515 by the Spanish. Under Spain our people were massacred for their refusal to accept the Catholic doctrine. We fought them for eighty years, until 1648. For the last thirty years we have been fighting against the French King Louis. The French bombarded our city of Brussels for three days in 1695. They reduced it to nothing – only the town hall survived. But from the ashes we have built the city you see today. We are survivors, My Lord Duke, and with your help we have thrown off the yoke of French rule. We pledge allegiance now to Charles III and ask you to acknowledge a new united Belgian state.’

      Marlborough bowed. ‘Thank you, mijnheer. I am a general, not a statesman. But I will accept your declaration and communicate it to my queen in England. I am aware of your country’s long agony under King Louis. I believe that our late victory has truly brought that to an end. I assure you that there will not be the least change in regard to religion. I intend to recall the ancient charter well known as the “Joyous Entry of Brabant”. I assure you that my men will be kept in firm control. They will not plunder or devastate your land or take your goods and they will pay due respect to your people. If they do not then they shall suffer for it. Any man – be he common soldier or officer – found stealing so much as a cherry from one of your orchards shall pay with his life. It will be death without mercy, gentlemen. Although I trust that I know my men well enough to say that I shall not need to implement such a penalty.’

      As one the deputies, magistrates and Spaniards rose to their feet and applauded Marlborough.

      The Duke smiled and as he did so inclined his head to the side in a whisper: ‘I pray to God, Hawkins, that we can stay true to our word.’

      ‘Oh, you need have no fear of that, sir. The men’ll do whatever you desire them to. The punishment is only for show. They wouldn’t dare.’

      Steel leaned against the wall of the house and, gazing into the farmyard, watched the man, Baynes, a wily country boy from the Scottish borders, near the town of Jedburgh. He was wrestling with two wiry yellow legs, attempting to avoid the claws as he manoeuvred them into his haversack.

      Unaware that he was being observed, Baynes was muttering half to himself and half to the chicken which, still alive, he was determined to conceal. ‘C’mon you little bugger. One more push. Just one wee heave and in you go. Get your bloody head in there.’ The bird, its head covered by cloth, panicked and nipped the Grenadier on the forefinger. ‘Ow! Ye little bugger, I’ll give you something to nip about. I was only going to eat yer legs but now I’ll boil the lot of you. Get in there will you.’

      ‘Having trouble, Baynes?’

      The