FIVE
The dull thud didn't register with Sharper until he heard the whistling sound straight after. He looked at Harper, wide-eyed, as the cannon ball smacked into the village wall soundly.
"Shite!" Harper breathed. "They've started early, the Frog bastards," he cursed. Sharpe got up, crossing to the window in the tower and looking out.
"Four guns an all," he said thoughtfully. He turned and looked back at Harper and Harris, the only other two allowed in his tower room. He had secreted the three of them up there to avoid Colonel Adams, who had seen fit to send search parties for the three missing men. "Well?" he asked.
"Seems to me, sir," Harris said thoughtfully, pouring over the map in front of him, "that there are only four places she could be."
"Show me," he said, walking over and looking at the map. Harris reached out and patted the picture confidently.
"This place has three cellars, sir. I vote she's in one of those, and probably the one farthest from the kitchens," he added. "Less people to peer inside and see what's in there. The only other place would be the library, sir," he added.
"The library? Jesus, don't make this into a book-finding mission, Harris," Harper grunted. Harris grinned impudently.
"Actually sir, it appears to be highly fortified and only has one door. And no windows," he added thoughtfully. Sharpe nodded.
"Right then. There are four places and three of us." He looked at Harris. "You're the clever one, which one would you go for? And if you say the library, I'll make sure Harper halves yer tea rations," he said sweetly. Harris swallowed.
"The furthest cellar, sir." He looked at Harper. "Seriously! That's where I'd put anyone I wanted kept secret, sir."
"Good lad," Harper said, laying a heavy hand on his shoulder. He looked at Sharpe. "So what's the plan, sir? We don't have the book."
"Book?" Harris asked eagerly. Sharpe ignored him.
"Yeah, but the only one as knows that is the bugger than actually has it. Right?" he said craftily.
Harper and Harris waited, and there it was: the slightly glazed look in those green eyes, the tongue touching the upper lip lightly, the definite edge to his jaw. Sharpe was planning.
"Good afternoon," Charlotte Berry said pleasantly, walking into the room slowly. The single man by the door nodded to her. "Any trouble?" she asked.
"Nothing," he admitted, his French accent heavy and his eyes tired. She nodded and closed the door behind her. She walked deeper into the room, watching the girl sitting on the chair. She walked around the front of her.
"Marjorie?" she asked politely. "Marjorie, dear, wake up, I've something important to show you," she said nicely. Marjorie opened an eye, remembered where she was, and yanked at the ropes over her wrists fiercely.
"Nothing you could have would interest me," she spat, tugging still. The ropes had already burnt and cut her skin, but she tugged anyway. Charlotte smiled, opening her bag and pulling out some small, beige pieces of expensive cartridge paper.
"'My dear Richard'," she began, reading the paper, "'I've waited so long for a village where we're able to send letters. I hope when you get this you're still in one piece, and Pat's keeping you out of trouble'," she continued in a honeyed voice. Marjorie stared.
"Where did you get that?" she demanded hotly. Charlotte paused and looked at her.
"Oh dear. Not terribly bright, are you?" she asked. "This is mostly boring – but oh, wait, look at this! 'The nights here are drawing in, and Peter says it'll be proper winter soon. I wish you were here to keep me warm, as you do know how make me' –"
"Alright, I get it," Marjorie interrupted. "How did you get them?" she demanded.
"I stole them. Much like how your dear Richard is going to steal something for me," she said, smiling with satisfaction.
"You think he'll work for you?" Marjorie snorted. "He's too good a man. He wouldn't lower himself."
Charlotte crossed close to her, slapping her hard across the face. Marjorie cried out, surprised. She looked back at her venomously.
"He will, my dear Marjorie. Precisely because he is a good man. Because he knows if he doesn't, you'll be found all over this village. One part here, another part over there," she said airily.
"Bitch," Marjorie whispered. Charlotte nodded.
"I am. He made me this way." She stepped back, looking her over. "You don't seem so special a girl. I wonder what he could see in you," she muttered idly.
"I'm not a completely twisted evil whore," Marjorie offered sweetly. Charlotte's face turned angry, but she controlled herself. She thought for a long moment, then smiled to herself.
"You know, I think I'll get my revenge hurting you. I know how much Major Sharpe would be enraged by this. In fact, once you've begged me for release and I've cut your throat, I'll tell him as much."
"And why do you want to see him suffer?" Marjorie asked. "What did he ever do to you?"
Charlotte's face turned dark. She straightened unconsciously. "He killed my brother."
"And you killed mine!" Marjorie exploded. "If I do one thing in this life, I'll kill you for it!" she shouted, her face reddening. Charlotte laughed, clapping her hands together.
"Oh, dear me, this is going to be so much fun," she giggled. "If it hadn't included that whoreson of a miscreant from killing my only family," she snapped suddenly.
Marjorie lifted her chin and looked at her with eyes that would have taken the edge off a diamond. "If he were anything like you, he did the world a favour," she spat.
Charlotte stepped closer and slapped her again, this time with the back of her hand. Marjorie waited for the sharp pain to subside before licking a sore lip, looking back at her.
"You keep going, this is going to be fun," Charlotte said delightedly. "You know, I would have wanted to take it out on his wife, but… someone got to her first."
Bitch! Marjorie's brain screamed. She thought back to the conversations she had had with Sharpe – how he'd been cut to the bone by the loss of this wife. She thought back over his tales of prejudice, his accounts of Horse Guards' many refusals of his gazettes, and a fierce rage welled up inside her.
Why must this world always piss on the good people? This world's had more than its fair share of fun out of his bad luck. This whore's not getting anything out of him, even if it kills me to stop her. How dare she! Come on then, bitch, do yer worst! Screw you, and every one of your mis-begotten, bloody useless excuses for family! she raged. Charlotte stepped back, studying Marjorie's face.
"And don't think you'll withstand what we'll do to you," she said, "everyone breaks after a few days."
And every time I want to, I'll think of what you're trying to do to him, and I'll find a way to kill you, Marjorie thought vindictively. Just step a little closer.
Hardwick strode into the cavernous cellar, looking round at the arsenal silently. He counted the number of muskets stacked against the wall of the disused cellar. Something made him pause. He froze, wondering what might have alerted his soldier's instincts in such a dank and dismal place. He heard some small noise and edged toward the barrels of gunpowder.
Something shifted in the dust on the floor, and he heard it. Grinning, he pulled the loaded pistol from his belt as he put a hand round and grabbed at thin air.
A piece of material caught in his grasp and he yanked on it. There was a scuffling sound and pistol shot rang out.
The sound reverberated off the walls, then all was silent. Hardwick looked down at the form of Caron, lying, shaking, on the floor. The pistol he had let off was lying safely out of reach. Hardwick grinned.
"You're a poor shot, old boy," he said pleasantly. "And incredibly stupid. Do you realise how much damage you would have done, had that shot hit some powder? Dear me," he tutted, shaking his head. "Now I believe you and I have some rather urgent things to discuss." He bent down and hauled the man to his feet. Caron looked to the door but Hardwick grabbed his arm and raised his pistol. "Care to try me, Pierre?" he asked politely. Caron shook his head. "Good. I hope you won't think me immodest if I confess I'm rather a crack shot with one of these. Now then, there's really only one question I want answering," he said.
"I'm not telling you anything," he said proudly, sticking his chin out and puffing out his chest. Hardwick grinned suddenly, and Caron stared.
"Oh good. I was rather hoping you'd say that. Because I know someone who'd be very interested in persuading you to tell him," he chuckled. "Come along, don't dawdle. Must let him know the good news!"
"Mister Sharpe, sir!" Harper called across the cellar. Sharpe turned and looked back.
"Well there's no bugger in here then," he said sarcastically, walking back toward the steps in the gloom. Harper cleared his throat.
"Begging your pardon, but Colonel Hardwick is asking for you, sir," he said, more quietly.
"Oh aye? What does he want?" he asked, looking at Harper's cheerful face.
"Says he has something for you, so he does," he said, grinning. Sharpe dropped the torch, stood on the end to tamp it out, and followed Harper out of the cellar gratefully. They walked up the steps and out through the door, closing and barring it securely before walking back to the main part of the old castle.
It was dusty and grimy, everything covered in a thin layer of ancient gravel, and the two men crunched through it determinedly. Outside, the sound of French guns pounding at the walls was met by the occasional sound of musket fire and shouts of officers with Things To Do. Sharpe was glad that, just this once, he wasn't part of it. He imagined the 42nd Regiment organised and ready, taking pot-shots at the French soldiers stupid enough to get too close to the walls. He heard the sudden crack of a rifle and looked at Harper.
"They've been drafted in, so they have, sir," he said apologetically.
"Well as long as they're not expected to leave the castle," he growled, angry his best men were being wasted on some fool's idea of keeping the enemy at bay. They strode round to the library, currently favoured by Harper because it was easily defended. He swept in the door and waited for Sharpe to follow him.
He did, and stopped dead. He stared. "Bloody 'ell James, what you been doing?" he asked with a sly grin.
Hardwick looked at him, still holding his pistol on a now seated Pierre Caron. Caron looked at him with as much dignity as he could muster.
"Nothing much, Richard. Just a little seeking and finding," he grinned. "He's rather… reluctant to share the location of the book. He even maintains he does not know where it's hidden. However, I believe otherwise," he said, stepping away from him and pulling the pistol off cock slowly. He looked at Caron. "Now then, old boy, I think it would rather be in your best interests to tell Mister Sharpe here all you know. He's not nearly as… patient as I am, you see," he grinned. Caron looked at Sharpe.
"There's nothing you could say that would persuade me to divulge –"
"You think about yer next answer very carefully, yer bastard," Sharpe breathed, moving quickly across the wooden floor to stand in front of his chair. "It may be yer last."
Caron looked up at him. He swallowed.