The farmer stopped struggling and stared in amazement.

‘Is it really you?’

‘What happened here?’

‘They stole everything,’ said the farmer, coughing badly. ‘They killed my son. I was tied up and made to watch while they took it in turns with my wife. They were animals. I only got free when the fire burnt through the ropes holding me.’ Writhing in torment, he peered up at Daniel. ‘I thought we were friends.’

‘We are, we are.’

‘Then why did you let them do it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Why did you let them burn us alive?’

‘This was nothing to do with me,’ said Daniel, mystified. ‘I swear it. I came here in good faith to thank you. We brought your horse and some provisions for you. Why should you blame me?’ He indicated the house. ‘This was the work of French soldiers, surely.’

‘No,’ said the farmer, eyelids fluttering and voice dying to a hoarse whisper. ‘They were British. They wore red.’

CHAPTER TWO

January, 1708

Amsterdam was carpeted by a heavy frost that obliged its citizens to wrap up in warm clothing and walk along its streets with careful feet. Traffic adjusted its normal hectic pace. Coaches and carriages no longer hurtled along so wildly and few horsemen moved at anything above a trot on the slippery surface. It was a cold and dangerous start to a new year. Gazing out of the window, Beatrix Udderzook was glad that she was in a warm house on such a cold day. She was a plump woman in her thirties with a podgy face and a nervous manner. When she saw a man slip on the icy pavement and fall to the ground, she let out a gasp of horror and brought both hands up to her mouth. The next moment, her anxious face was lit by a broad grin as she spotted someone crossing the road towards the house. Beatrix ran out of the room as fast as her chubby legs would allow her.