Sharpe 3-Book Collection 6: Sharpe's Honour, Sharpe's Regiment, Sharpe's Siege (21 page)

‘Nonsense. Just stand in the bath.’

For ten minutes, to unseemly laughter, he hunted her skin. She complained that it tickled as he explored for the fleas, dabbed them onto the soap, then pinched them between his fingernails, and by the time the last flea had been found she insisted on searching him for fleas and by the time she had done that she was on the bed, cursing the raw skin of her thighs, and his face was in her hair and her arms were on the scars where he had been flogged so long ago. She kissed his cheek. ‘Poor Richard, poor Richard.’

‘Poor?’

‘Poor Richard.’ She kissed him again. ‘I’d forgotten.’

‘Forgotten what?’

‘Never mind. Do you think that bloody bath’s cold?’

It still had enough warmth and she soaked herself, washed her hair, then put her head back on the wall. She was looking at him where he lay naked on the bed. ‘You look happy.’

‘I am.’

She smiled sadly. ‘It doesn’t take much to make you happy, does it?’

‘I thought it took a lot.’

Later, when they had eaten and when each had a bottle of wine inside, they lay in the bed. The fire was hot, the chimney warmed and drawing well, and La Marquesa smoked a ragged cigar that she had bought from the innkeeper. Sharpe had forgotten that she liked to smoke. She had a hand on his belly, twisting the small hairs with her fingers. ‘Will that man come into the town?’

‘I don’t think so. The
alcalde
said not.’ The mayor had said that the town fell into the fief of another Partisan leader, a man not fond of
El Matarife.

She looked at him. Her hair had dried soft and golden to spread about her face. ‘Did you ever think you’d see me again?’

‘No.’

‘I thought I’d see you again.’

‘You did?’

‘I think so.’ She blew a smoke ring and looked at it critically. ‘But not in a nunnery.’ She laughed. ‘I couldn’t believe it was you! I thought you were dead for a start, but even so! I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.’

They spoke of what had happened in their lives since the summer in Salamanca, and he listened in awe to her descriptions of the palaces she had seen, the balls she had attended, and he hid the jealousy he felt when he imagined her in the arms of other men. He tried to persuade himself that it was useless to be jealous about La Marquesa, a man might as well complain of the wind veering.

He spoke about his daughter. He told her about the winter in the Gateway of God, the battle, the death of Teresa.

She sat up to drink wine. ‘You weren’t popular with us.’

‘Because of the battle?’

She laughed. ‘I was quite proud of you, but I didn’t dare say so.’ She gave him the bottle. ‘So you gave all your money to your daughter?’

‘Yes.’

‘Richard Sharpe, you are a fool. Some day I’ll have to teach you how to survive. So you’re poor again?’

‘Yes.’

She laughed. She spoke of the money that was with the retreating French army, not her own money, but the hundreds of wagons that had been collected at Burgos. ‘You can’t believe it, Richard! They looted every monastery, every palace, every bloody house from here to Madrid! There’s gold, silver, paintings, plate, more gold, more paintings, jewels, silks, coin ...’ She shook her head in amazement. ‘It’s the fortune of the Spanish empire, Richard, and it’s all going back to France. They know they’re losing, so they’re taking everything with them.’

‘How much?’

She thought about it. ‘Five million?’

‘Francs?’

‘Pounds, darling. English pounds.’ She laughed at his expression. ‘At least.’

‘It can’t be.’

‘It can.’ She threw the cigar into the fire. ‘I’ve seen it!’ She smiled at him. ‘Your dear Arthur would like to get his fingers on that, wouldn’t he?’ Undoubtedly, Sharpe thought, Wellington would dearly like to capture the French baggage train. She laughed. ‘But he won’t. That’s what our army’s protecting.’ She raised her wine glass. ‘All for us, dear. Loser takes all.’

‘Will you get your wagons back?’

‘I’ll get my wagons back.’ She said it grimly. ‘And I’ll write a letter that will get you your job back. What shall I write? That the Inquisitor killed Luis?’ She giggled. ‘Perhaps he did! Or his brother.’

‘His brother?’

She turned her head to him. ‘
El Matarife,’
she said it as if to a child.

‘They’re brothers!’

‘Yes. He came and looked at me in the carriage.’ She shuddered. ‘Bastard.’

Sharpe supposed it made sense. Why else would the Partisan come to these far, inhospitable mountains except to do his brother a favour? But even so, he was astonished that the bearded, brutal man was brother to a priest. He looked at the beauty beside him. ‘For God’s sake write that your other letter wasn’t true.’

‘Of course I will. I shall say a nun threatened to rape me unless I wrote it.’ She smiled. ‘I am sorry about it, Richard. It was thoughtless of me.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘It does really. It got you into trouble, didn’t it? I thought you’d survive though.’ She smiled happily. ‘And if it wasn’t for that letter we wouldn’t be here, would we?’

‘No.’

‘And you wouldn’t be able to put grease on my thighs, would you?’ She handed him the pot, and Sharpe, obedient as ever to this woman of gold, obeyed.

He lay awake in the night, one arm trapped beneath her waist, and wondered if the letter she would write would be sufficient. Would it restore his rank or vindicate his honour?

The glow of the fire was on the yellowed ceiling. Rain still tapped at the window and hissed in the chimney. Helene stirred on him, one leg across his, her head and one hand on his chest. She had murmured a name in her half sleep; Raoul. Sharpe had felt jealous again.

He touched her spine, stroking it, and she muttered and pushed her head down on his chest. Her hair tickled his cheek. He thought how often in the last year he had dreamed of this, wanted this, and he ran his hand down her flank as though he could impress the sensation in his memory to last forever.

She had lied to him. He did not for one moment believe that the Church had murdered her husband, or made a plan to take her money. Something else was behind it all, but she would never tell him what it was. She would do what she could to save his career, and for that, he thought, he should be grateful. He looked at the tiny window and saw nothing but the dark reflection of the room, not a hint of a lightening sky. He told himself that he must wake in an hour, turned towards her warm softness, brushed his lips on her hair, and slept with her body tight in his arms.

He came awake suddenly, the small window showing grey, knowing he had slept longer than he should have. He wondered why Angel had not thumped on the trapdoor.

He rolled from the bed, making Helene grunt, and he saw that it had stopped raining. The fire was dead.

Then he froze with a sudden gut wrench of fear within him, and knew that he had failed utterly. A noise had woken him, and now he could hear it again. It was the noise made by horses, by many horses, but not horses in motion. He could hear their breathing, their hooves stirring, the jingle of curb chains. He reached for the rifle, thumbed the cock back, and went to the small window.

The grey-dawn street was filled with horsemen. El
Matarife
was there, and about him, the dew glistening on their shaggy cloaks, were his men. Next to El
Matarife,
on a superb horse, was a tall man in a silver cloak with a sabre at his hip. About the two men, crowding the narrow street, were at least two hundred horsemen.

‘Richard?’ Her voice was sleepy.

‘Get dressed.’

‘What is it?’

‘Just get dressed!’

El
Matarife
spurred forward on an ugly roan horse. He looked up at the inn windows. ‘Vaughn!’

‘Jesus!‘ La Marquesa sat up. ’What is it, Richard?‘

‘El Matarife.’

‘Jesus.’

‘Vaughn!’

Sharpe pushed the window open. The air was cold on his naked skin.
‘Matarife?‘
He saw the
alcalde
of the town behind the horsemen, and next to him was a priest. He knew suddenly what had happened.

The Partisan leader rode close beneath the window. He stared up. His huge beard was beaded with moisture. Strapped on his back, next to a musket, was a great poleaxe, the weapon of a slaughterman. He grinned. ‘You see the man in the silver cloak, Major Vaughn?’

‘I see him.’

‘He is Pedro Pelera, my enemy. You know why today we are friends, Major Vaughn?’

Sharpe could guess. He could hear La Marquesa dressing, swearing softly under her breath. ‘Tell me,
Matarife.’

‘Because you offend our holy place, Major Vaughn. You fight the nuns, yes?’
El Matarife
laughed. ‘You have ten minutes, Major Vaughn, to bring us La
Puta
Dorada.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘You die anyway. If you come gently, Major, then I will kill you swiftly. If you do not? We shall come for you!’ He gestured towards his men. Sharpe knew he could not fight so many, not even by staying at the top of the ladder. They would merely blast the trapdoor with musketry.
El Matarife
drove the point home. ‘There’s no help coming, Major. Your boy fled. You have ten minutes!’

Sharpe slammed the window. ‘Christ!’

La Marquesa was wearing the dress she had fetched from the convent, a confection of blue silk and white lace. She was putting the jewels about her neck. ‘If I’m going to die I’ll die in bloody jewels.’

‘I’m sorry, Helene.’

‘Christ, Richard, don’t be so god-damned stupid!’ She said it with sudden, vivid anger.

He went to the back wall and thumped it, as if it might be thin enough to break through, yet he knew that the Partisans would have the inn surrounded. He swore.

‘Are you going to die naked?’ Her voice was bitter. ‘How the hell did that bastard find me?’

Sharpe cursed himself. He should have known! He should have guessed that by breaking into the convent he would stir the whole countryside against him, and instead he had been so eager to share this bed that he had not given the danger a single thought.

He dressed swiftly, dressing as if for battle, yet he knew that it was over. This mad escapade in the hiils would end in blood on a muddy street, with his death. He should have been hanged these four weeks ago, and instead he would die now. At least, he thought, it would be with a sword in his hand. ‘I’ll go and talk to them.’

‘For Christ’s sake, why?’

‘To get a promise for your safety.’

She shook her head. ‘You are a fool. You really believe there’s decency in the world, don’t you?’

‘I can try.’ He pulled up the trapdoor. The room beneath was empty. He turned to look at her one more time and thought how splendid she was, how lovely even in anger. ‘Do you want my rifle?’

‘To shoot myself?’

‘Yes.’

‘The Holy Grail isn’t that bloody precious.’ She looked at his face and shook her head. I’m sorry, Richard, I keep forgetting that you think it is. What are you going to do?‘

‘Fight them, of course.’

She laughed, though there was fear in the laugh. ‘God help you in peacetime, Richard.’

He fingered the sword hilt and hesitated. He knew he should not say it, but in ten minutes he would be dead, butchered by the Slaughterman or his men. He would take some of them with him, he would give them cause to remember fighting against a lone Rifleman. ‘Helene?’

She looked at him with exasperation. ‘Don’t say it, Richard.’

‘I love you.’

‘I knew you’d say it.’ She was putting the diamond earrings into her lobes. ‘But then you are a fool.’ She smiled sadly. ‘Go and fight for me, fool.’

He went down the ladder, drew the great sword, and opened the door to the street where his enemies had gathered for his death.

Angel had woken before dawn. He had slept in the stable, wrapped by warm straw and his thick cloak. He had shivered as he yawned, wriggled from his bed, and went into the yard. He splashed water on his face and looked up at the dark roof beneath which Sharpe slept with the golden woman.

Angel had polished the saddles the night before. He had brushed the horses and made everything ready for this morning. Not just ready, but gleamingly ready. He had done it for a woman more beautiful than his dreams had dared imagine, and now, in yet more homage to her, he saddled Carbine and folded a blanket over the saddle in an effort to give La Marquesa a more comfortable seat. He knew she was French, and he hated the French, but no woman so lovely as she could be evil in Angel’s worshipping eyes.

He tried out his makeshift attempt at her comfort, riding out of the inn yard, and turning Carbine towards the south. The wind was at his back, bringing a chill to his thin body. The shapes of the townspeople were dark where they moved in alleys and courtyards. He put a hand on the butt of his rifle that he had pushed into the saddle’s holster.

The eastern mountains were edged with light. Angel put his heels back, letting Carbine go into a trot. He revelled in the feel of the big, black horse that lifted its hooves high and tossed its mane with impatience. Angel straightened his back, imagining that he was El
Arcangel,
the most feared Partisan in Spain, riding to battle. A woman of great beauty, with golden hair and grey eyes, waited for his return, though she did not believe that any man would return from so suicidal a mission.

He pulled the rifle from its holster, then twitched the reins to take Carbine down to the stream where the women of the town washed their clothes. He would let the horse drink there, and let his daydream run on to the delicious moment when he returned from battle, not too severely wounded, and the golden haired woman would run from the house, her arms wide; then Angel saw the horsemen over the stream.