Flanders, 1707

Daniel Rawson rode at a steady canter along a winding track. It was late afternoon and autumn was already chasing some of the light from the sky. He was resigned to the fact that he wouldn’t reach the camp until well after midnight. Daniel was a captain in the 24^th Foot and his regiment had gone into winter quarters. But he was not in uniform now. Instead, he was dressed in the civilian clothing that allowed him to slip through enemy lines so that he could act as a spy in Paris. The forged papers he was carrying bore the name of Marcel Daron, a wine merchant, a pose that was reinforced by his ability to speak French like a native and by his knowledge of certain vineyards in the country.

As on previous occasions, the disguise had served him well. During his stay in the French capital, he’d garnered some crucial intelligence. Most of it had been committed to memory so that he was not caught with sensitive documents in his possession. However, a couple of dispatches he’d managed to intercept were concealed in the lining of his coat. He smiled as he recalled how he’d got hold of them. The messenger had been left with a bad headache and had faced the ordeal of making an embarrassing confession to superiors in the French army. Severe punishment must have followed. Daniel had no sympathy for him. The messenger had been careless.

He was still musing on his encounter with the man when a noise brought him out of his reverie. A French patrol had suddenly appeared on the crest of the hill to his left. A dozen or so in all, they paused for a moment then kicked their horses into a gallop and came surging down the incline with predatory zeal. When he saw one of them draw a pistol, Daniel didn’t hesitate. He knew that Marcel Daron wouldn’t be able to talk his way out of an awkward situation this time. The soldiers were likely to kill him first and identify him afterwards. Digging in his heels and urging his mount on, Daniel fled, riding hell for leather and sending up small clouds of dust in his wake. The blue uniforms kept up hot pursuit. They were clearly gaining on him. His assignment was in danger of ending abruptly. The thunder of hooves behind him could be the sound of his death knell.