SIX
Sharpe looked out at the walls, watching the men scurrying about, hearing the shouts of Colonel Adams and assorted officers.
Sieges don't look so bad from up here, he reasoned, watching the movements of the men, seeing all of their efforts to keep French bayonets from reaching the top of the walls. He stood, bitterly entranced, as redcoats easily defended the only entrance. Just a matter of time 'fore the Frogs call it off fer today. They'll wait till tomorrow now. He smiled slightly. Perfect.
He turned and walked back to the library, his hand closing and opening on the sword hilt by his left side unconsciously. He walked in, looking around.
"Ah, sir," Harper said cheerfully. "Will Miss Berry not be waiting for us, sir?" he asked. Sharpe snorted without mirth.
"Bloody hope so," he grunted. "She can come and find me, now that she must know we have the real book."
The door opened again and Hardwick entered, looking hot and more than a little used.
"Stone me, it's awful hot work out there," he breathed, opening his jacket and removing a simple white handkerchief, wiping his face vigorously. "How goes it with you, Richard?" he asked. Sharpe slid his hand inside his tunic and brought out the leather-bound book he and Harper had wrested from its hiding place not half an hour before. He waved it at Hardwick.
"Got it alright, but now we're just waiting," he admitted, looking down at the book. It was amazingly innocuous. A simply burgundy leather cover, plain except for some wear and tear on each corner, opened to reveal a list of seemingly unconnected names. There was no explanation, no foreward, no notes of any kind, simply the list of names that went on for many pages. Sharpe had cast his eyes through it, but none of the names had seemed at all familiar.
"So you're moving things along, eh?" Hardwick asked eagerly. Sharpe looked back at him, sliding the volume back inside his tunic.
"What am I supposed to do? Run round the castle shouting 'I've got yer book, bitch, come and get it'?" he asked ruefully. "We still don't know where she is."
"Oh, I see," he said, nodding. "Could Pierre not shed some light on this matter?" he asked. Sharpe smiled slightly.
"He's not in the mood," he said dryly. Hardwick could understand. After ten minutes in a locked room with no-one but Sharpe for company, Pierre Caron had given up the location of the book. He'd also seen fit to share his life story, one which included his bad luck at being trapped under siege, just when he'd found the book and was about to make off with it before Charlotte Berry could smoke him out. "He says he dunt really know the woman, only that she's not on his side."
"Oh, that's a blow," Hardwick admitted. "Was rather hoping they were in this together. So… if Miss Berry is just in this for the book, what's Pierre doing here?" he asked. Sharpe walked over to the large, comfortable leather chair and lowered himself into it wearily.
"He weren't very helpful about that. And to be honest, after he'd told me where it was it didn't seem to matter much. Why don't you ask him?" he said, wiping a hand over his face. Hardwick watched him, then looked at Harper.
"I say, old man, would you mind giving us a minute alone?" he asked cheerfully. Harper nodded.
"Pleasure, sir," he said, nodding respectfully and walking out, closing the door behind him. Hardwick looked at Sharpe.
"I, er… I've been on the rough end of Colonel Adams' wrath, most of this morning," he said slowly, walking to the table and helping himself to the drinks thereon. Sharpe just sniffed and unbuttoned the top few shiny buttons on his tunic. "He's… most displeased with you, Richard. Called you all kinds of names. Would have made a sailor blush, I rather fancy," he added thoughtfully. Sharpe smiled.
"Bugger the Colonel," he said happily. "All I have to do is get Mar and this book out of here, and then back to Wellington. The rest can go hang," he added fervently. Hardwick looked at the wine he'd just poured. He lifted the glass slowly.
"Hmm," he agreed doubtfully. Sharpe looked at him.
"What?" he asked mildly. Hardwick turned and looked at him.
"You know… you needn't stay here, Richard," he said quietly, looking at his drink. "You could take this Marjorie and repair to England." He paused, then looked up at Sharpe. "Had you thought about it?" he asked lightly. Sharpe sighed, wiping a hand over his face.
"Yes. And no," he said. "I'm not done here yet," he added. Hardwick raised his eyebrows.
"You're a Major, Richard. You have influence and a position. You could take this girl back to England and –"
"And do what?" Sharpe demanded quietly. "I've got nothing, James. I'm a Major, but that's it. A gazetted Major, left a little elbow room by Wellington from time to time when it suits him or when he wants me for summat. I've a bit of money put by in London, but what good is that when Mar's never going to –". He stopped himself, looking at the arm of the chair. He lifted a hand and smoothed it over the surface slowly. Hardwick nodded sadly.
"I see." He sipped at the wine, disliked it immensely, and set it back down on the silver tray. He folded his arms, leaning back on the table. "So you stay in this war, leading regiments and doing whatever Lord Wellington orders you to, hoping to stay alive and somehow achieve a higher rank. Not a good way to live, if you don't mind me saying, Richard," he said quietly.
"Oh aye? And how should I live? Go back to England, have Mar disappear cos she dunt want to marry some scruffy whipped peasant-boy with a torn Major's sash?" he asked bitterly.
"I just mean…" He sighed.
"You just mean well, James, like you always do." He huffed to himself. "Why do you carry on in this place? You could go home at any time," he added.
"I know. And I will. Just as soon as this siege is broken. I'd give it a day," he said airily. "It'll be shame to say goodbye to the whole army life, what with sleeping and eating in this beautiful country."
"It was beautiful. Now it's… full of ghosts, graves and broken promises," Sharpe said quietly. He stood abruptly. "Go home, James. And don't spare the horses," he said dryly, a small smile on his features. Hardwick looked at him, ignoring the sounds of men shouting and muskets crackling outside. Sharpe walked to the door, opening it to find Harper outside, pretending he wasn't listening in.
"Would like to see this thing through, Richard," Hardwick said proudly. "I feel somehow responsible for your involvement, you see," he added apologetically. Sharpe shrugged.
"I'll get Mar back, and the book. And if I don't, I'll just burn it."
"And the girl? This Miss Berry?" he asked. Sharpe looked at Harper, then back at Hardwick. He wet his lips slowly.
"I'll have her arrested," he said pleasantly, turning and walking out. Hardwick caught Harper's eye, and they shared a long look.
"No, me neither, Sergeant," he said quietly. Harper shook his head and walked off.
He felt a sharp push at his shoulder and was instantly awake. He looked up into the face of Charlotte Berry.
"Well, well, well," she smiled maliciously, holding a candle over his face. "If it isn't Lieutenant Sharpe."
"Major," he stressed, looking round the library in the gloom. He found Harper at bayonet point, torn between scowling at the burly looking Frenchman holding it, and looking at Sharpe. "Found me then? Took you long enough. Did you lose yer map?" he snarled, pushing off the blanket and standing free of the chair. She moved back, safely out of his reach, and smiled.
"Hardly. I was having far too much fun talking to your lovely woman," she said pleasantly. He looked at her with venom. "Come now, dear Richard, we can't stand here playing games when there's so much at stake. Where's the book?" she demanded suddenly. He looked at her, then over at the Frenchmen.
"You think I'd have it in here? That I'd just hand it over, without first seeing Marjorie?" he scoffed. "I'm not as stupid as you look."
"Hmm," she said, thinking. "So this is where I make you promise to follow me to visit with your darling Marjorie, and not try to jump us, is that so?" she asked lightly. "I don't think so. You'll sit here in fear while I go and fetch her up here. And Pierre here will watch the two of you." He looked around, but realised she was referring to the huge slab of Frenchman, and not Pierre Caron.
"What's the matter, afraid we'll jump the lot of you and run off across the fields wi' the book and your captive? Evading Frog patrols left, right and centre, making it to the next village without food, water, or horses?" he demanded. She grinned.
"You do have a point. But I'm not taking any chances. You and your pet bog-paddler are sitting tight. Wait for my return," she said icily. He reached out and grabbed her wrist cruelly. She gasped and swung back to look at him, reaching for his face with her free hand.
He ducked it easily, grabbing that wrist and clamping his hands tight around them. She struggled but he had a damned good hold.
"Now then," he breathed, bending her wrist round and yanking it across her back. She yelped and then cried out in pain. Sharpe looked at the Frenchman. "You," he spat. "Hand it over."
The man looked at him, then at Charlotte. Sharpe let go of her limp wrist and put his hand to the back of his breeches, sliding a shiny new dirk from its sheath. He brought it round slowly, making sure it caught the light near her neck.
"Tell you what, don't hand it over. I'll cut her throat and then the big Irishman next to you will do yours," he snarled. The Frenchman appeared to think about it. Sharpe grinned. "Oh Charlotte," he said, his voice mocking and cruel, "seems we have a problem. This man seems to like you, maybe enough to risk me killing you both here and now. Must be love, eh," he said to Harper. The Sergeant grinned.
"Sure enough, sir," he said impishly. Sharpe nodded.
"Well then," he said simply, pushing the blade against the soft skin of Charlotte's throat. She whimpered as he pressed slowly, staring at the Frenchman. Harper looked at him, then back at Sharpe.
"Oh sir, but it'd be a shame to get blood on that rug," he reasoned.
"Don't care, it's not mine," Sharpe said, amused. He pressed slightly, and the blade dug in just enough to pierce the skin. A single line of blood appeared, and the Frenchman cursed something. "I hope that's French for 'you win'," Sharpe snapped. The man huffed, then reversed the bayonet and shoved it in Harper's direction. "Looks like it," Sharpe said, then pulled the blade back a little, but it hovered ever close. "Now, you take us to Marjorie, and make damned sure there's no problems," he breathed at the back of her head. She swallowed.
"I'll kill you," she spat hoarsely.
"Not if I kill you first. Go," he barked, pushing on her arm. She cried out with the sudden jolt of pain, stepping forwards. He followed her closely, as Harper gestured with the bayonet. The Frenchman followed them silently.
They walked out of the library and across half of the castle, Sharpe cursing the map that had now been completely turned upside down in his head. She was doing it on purpose, he realised, trying to confuse him.
They stopped by a door and Charlotte stood firm.
"Now unhand me, you callous bastard," she spat. He scoffed openly.
"Unlock it. Now," he said. She sniffed.
"I can't. The key's in my pocket. You'll have to let me go," she pouted. He let go of her arm and pushed at her shoulder, thumping her against the wall next to the door. She gasped and bit her lip. He pressed the blade to the back of her neck where she could feel it, then put his hand to the pocket of her dress. "You lecherous –"
"Just shut it," he said, finding her pocket empty. He pulled his hand back, wondering what to do next, when his eyes suddenly fell on a knot in a cord, at the side of her neck. He put his hand to her back, sliding it up and feeling the shape of a key near her shoulder blade.
"How dare you!" she fumed. He didn't bother to reply, just put his fingers to the cord and pulled on it. The key started to slide out, but then caught on something inside the lining of her dress. He moved round and slid his hand inside the dress, along her shoulder, and she jumped. "You disgusting, sad excuse for a pervert!" she gasped. "How dare you handle me!"
"Bloody 'ell woman, if you think this is 'handling' you've had a deprived life," he snapped impatiently. His hand, though warm and dry, was rough to the touch as it slid along her shoulder and then turned toward her back. He found the key but had to push his hand in further to get them to it securely. He managed to get an index finger to it and pulled it out slowly. He heard Harper chuckling and looked at him. "What are you laughing at?" he asked indignantly.
"Oh, nothing at all, sir," he said, a huge grin on his face, his bayonet securely against the Frenchman's throat. Sharpe looked back at the key, yanking on it suddenly. The cord snapped and he handed it to Harper.
"Here," he said. Harper took it, his blade still on the Frenchman, as he gestured him to shuffle over. He did, and Harper unlocked the door, his eyes never leaving the big man. He swung the door open and Sharpe gestured Harper back. He grasped Charlotte's arm, pushing her in before him. "Mar?" he called into the gloom of three candles. "Marjorie?"
There was a muffled noise and Harper and Sharpe looked over. Marjorie, in her best riding outfit, was tied to a wooden chair by the far wall. She had what looked like a black silk shawl over her head. Sharpe looked over, then at Harper. He nodded and waved the Frenchman over to the chair.
A pistol cracked suddenly. The Frenchman fell.
Sharpe, Harper and Charlotte looked on as Pierre Caron appeared from behind the door, watching them as he reloaded the pistol carefully.
"Mister Sharpe. So good to see you again," he said suavely.
"You bastard!" Charlotte shouted at him. "You've killed Pierre!"
"Oh I shouldn't worry about him," Caron said to her glibly, "there are plenty more where he came from." He looked at Harper. "You're next," he said cheerfully. Harper shifted his feet but Caron lifted the now ready pistol. Sharpe shuffled to his left, and Caron turned it on him. "Don't!" he warned.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded, still holding onto Charlotte. He pushed her more in front of him.
"To collect the book, Mister Sharpe," he said. "Even a thug like you could understand how useful that would be to me."
"Why did Wellington let you come?" he snapped curiously. Caron grinned.
"I told him I knew Major Monroe," he shrugged. "Of course I do – I worked with him once. Well, when I say 'with', I really mean 'against'," he said wisely.
"Jesus – you're a French spy?" Harper interrupted. Caron looked at him.
"Ironic, isn't it? Although the real irony is that so is she," he added.
"Liar!" Charlotte hurled at him.
"You really shouldn't call people names when they're holding a loaded pistol, my dear," he said serenely. "Why don't you come clean? It seems to be far too late in the day to be pretending we're anything other than we are. Eh, Mister Sharpe?" he said cheerfully.
"You want the book. She wants the book. But I need the book," he replied.
"But I will have it," he said forcefully.
"Over her dead body," Sharpe snapped, pulling on Charlotte to bring her full in front of him, and both of them in front of Marjorie's chair. Caron kept his aim steady and low.
"Come on, man! Fight properly!" Caron huffed, unable to get a clean shot at Sharpe with Charlotte held in front of him. Sharpe grinned maliciously. He shoved Charlotte to one side and lunged at Caron.
The pistol cracked but nothing emerged from the gun. The ball had not been inserted. Sharpe was on him in a moment, his hands grabbing for the man's neck. Harper stepped around the scuffle and ran for Charlotte. She leapt on Sharpe, grabbing at his back and head with her bared nails.
Harper grabbed at her round the waist. She twisted and raked her nails dangerously close to his eyes. He staggered and Charlotte turned her attention back to Sharpe.
He had Caron pinned down underneath him, but Charlotte's nails in his neck made him lurch to one side in a bid to throw her off. They fell in a tangle of arms, legs, skirts and swords.
Caron crawled out, snatching at his sword and drawing it hurriedly. Sharpe rolled from him as fast as he could, his hand on his sword hilt before a searing pain abruptly screamed into his leg.
"Give me that!" Harper shouted, manhandling Charlotte back from the two men. She dropped the bloodied dirk, screaming insults and battering at the Irishman. He didn't think. He slapped her generously across the face, and she wilted dead away.
Sharpe dragged himself to his feet, aware the back of his trousers were wet and warm. He drew his sword and faced Caron, sucking air in through his nose desperately above the pain.
"Now then, yer bastard," he growled. Caron swallowed now that the green-jacketed devil was on his feet and brandishing his own weapon. He realised there was no alternative.
He rushed forward. The swords clashed, Caron stroked, Sharpe parried easily. Caron's slimmer, more elegant blade slid through the air like water off of silk. Sharpe's sword crashed through the gloom like pox through a regiment, catching Caron's blows every time. They staggered and pushed, swept and dragged blades.
Harper snatched up the pistol and reloaded it quickly, before tucking it in his belt and looking across the room. He slung Charlotte over his shoulder and crossed to the chair, letting Charlotte down to the rug. He fished around for the bayonet and scooped it up, using it on the ropes around Marjorie.
Sharpe slammed his shoulder into Caron. He fell to the floor but Sharpe staggered, his left hand clutching at his knee painfully. Caron saw his chance. He kicked out with all his weight. Sharpe's left foot folded and he went down in a heap. Caron was on him, bashing at him indiscriminately with the sword hilt. Sharpe struck out with his elbow, catching the pommel of the hilt full on his hand. There was an awful crack and Caron laughed out loud as Sharpe cried out in pain. His hand flicked open. His sword dropped to the floor with an almighty clatter.
Caron drew the sword back slowly, aiming the tip at Sharpe's eye. Sharpe stared at him, his chest heaving, his neck running blood and his breath coming ragged through his nose. He glared at Caron, his jade eyes spitting with hatred. He grasped at the first two fingers of his right hand, bent at such an unnatural angle, and Caron grinned delightedly.
"Don't worry," Caron said, "they won't hurt for long." He drew the sword back further, tightening his grip. Sharpe didn't move.
Caron thrust forward with his sword. Sharpe bent forward. The blade cut into his tunic and slid across his back, stinging as it cut open some skin. Caron grunted suddenly, then gasped and fell forwards. He landed heavily against Sharpe's back and shoulder, inert.
Harper jumped up, crossing quickly. He grabbed Caron and heaved him off, onto the floor. The shiny dirk sat proudly, plunged hilt-deep into Caron's chest. Harper looked at Sharpe, shaking his head.
"Jesus, Mary and Joseph, sir," he breathed, grasping the sword hilt and pulling it free of his tunic. "You cut it fine that time."
"Oh yer a laugh a minute, you are," Sharpe snapped irritably, his attention turning back to his dislocated fingers. He grabbed them tightly, hissing, as he climbed to his feet wearily. Harper put his hands out and knocked his away. He grabbed the fingers. "Don't even th-"
Harper wrenched them straight and Sharpe jumped, crying out and pushing Harper away from him with his left hand. Harper watched, amused, as Sharpe looked at his fingers curiously. He looked at Harper slowly.
"You could have warned me," he pointed out, wiping his forehead with his left arm.
"Not on your life, sir," Harper said indignantly, watching Sharpe squeeze them again with his left hand. Then he put his hand inside his tunic and over the book, checking it was still intact.
"Richard?" Marjorie asked, and they looked over. Sharpe crossed to her chair, spying Charlotte still apparently out for the count on the rug. He crouched in front of Marjorie slowly.
"Mar," he breathed, his face breaking into a grin, and she sat forwards and threw her arms round him. It jarred and stung every slice and injury, but he pulled her to him and held her tightly for a long moment. He pulled her away to look at her. He noticed her face was bruised and swollen. "I'm sorry we took so long," he said quietly. She grinned.
"Balls to it, I want to get out of this damned room," she said. He grinned, nodding. He helped her to stand and she turned to see Harper. "And you!" she said, letting go of Sharpe and crossing to him quickly, "You are a bloody hero!" She wrapped her arms round him and planted a huge kiss on his cheek. He looked surprised, then grinned.
"Oh, well, no trouble miss, I'm sure," he said cheekily. She chuckled, pulling herself back and looking round at Sharpe. She gasped and pointed at him.
"You!" Charlotte breathed behind him. He turned to find she was on her feet, her nails bared, her teeth flashing in the gloom.
There was a single pistol shot. Charlotte stopped abruptly, her hands slapping to her chest directly over her heart. She stepped back once. Then she fell to the floor. Sharpe immediately bent and checked her neck. The pulse he found threaded and faded. He blew out a long sigh, shaking his head and looking round.
"Bloody 'ell Pat, that were –". The sentence died on his lips.
Marjorie sniffed, lifted the pistol away from Sharpe's direction, and took a deep breath. She let it out slowly.
"You once asked me if I knew how to use one of these," she said simply. "Well, now you know, eh." She turned and handed it to Harper politely, who was staring at her in awe. "Bitch. Don't know who she thought she was," she grumbled to herself. She wiped her hands on her trousers, then looked round at Sharpe. She stopped, surprised at his face, watching her in shock. "What?"
"Let's..." he cleared his throat, knowing Harper's face mirrored his own. "Let's just get out of here," Sharpe said. "We've still got to get this book out an' back to Wellington," he said, standing slowly. He hissed and Marjorie walked over.
"Richard, yer bleeding from just about every patch of skin you've got," she tutted. "I've told you, if yer going to play rough, make sure you hurt 'em more 'n they do you."
"Come on. We have to find out how to get out from underneath a French siege," he said ruefully.
"Sir! Sir! Major Sharpe!" came a shout. Harris and Hagman appeared round the doorframe. They took in the scene in the room, and then dashed over to Sharpe.
"Well?" he demanded impatiently.
"They're in, sir!" Harris managed before Hagman could get his breath back.
"Who?" Sharpe asked, confused.
"The Frogs, sir!"