‘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.’