She smoked a cigar. She lay on her back and blew smoke rings at the ceiling. ‘I practised those for months.’
‘You’re very good.’
‘At blowing smoke rings too.’ She giggled. ‘You’re not very drunk.’
‘Nor are you.’ He was dribbling champagne into her navel and sipping it. ‘Can you feel the bubbles?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
She said nothing for a few seconds, then, in a suddenly changed voice that made him stop his game to look at her, she told him that Major Ducos had made her sign the letter that had provoked the duel.
Sharpe stared into the grey eyes. ‘I know.’
‘Come here.’ She gestured at the pillow beside her, and when he was there she pulled the sheet over them both and hooked a leg over his. ‘Are you drunk?’
‘No.’
‘Then listen.’
She talked. She spoke of a treaty that was being made between the imprisoned Spanish king and the Emperor Napoleon. She spoke of Pierre Ducos’ part in the making of the treaty, and she described the terms of the treaty and how, if it was signed, it would force the British from Spain. ‘You understand?’
‘Yes. But what…’
‘… Has it got to do with that letter?’ She finished his question for him, then shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’ She threw her cigar onto the floor and put her hand on his waist. ‘I just don’t know, except that I think the Inquisitor must be helping Ducos, and I’m guessing that my money is the price of that help.’
He stared into her lustrous, beautiful face and he tried to sense whether this was the truth. He could not tell. It made more sense than her last story, but he knew this clever woman was a liar of practised fluency. ‘Why are you telling me?’
She did not answer the question, instead she asked if he had liked Major Montbrun. Sharpe shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’
She propped herself on one elbow, the sheet falling to her waist. It was almost dark, and Sharpe lit the candle beside the bed. She leaned over him to light a fresh cigar from its flame and he reached up with his tongue to touch her breast. ‘Richard! Will you be serious?’
‘I am.’
‘Why do you think Montbrun was here?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Christ! Think, you stupid bugger!’ She was half leaning over him. ‘Montbrun is one of Joseph’s men, and Joseph is King of Spain! He rather likes it, he likes being called ‘Your Majesty’! He doesn’t want to give up Spain. Even if we can keep a bit of Spain he’s got a kingdom, but now his brother’s planning to pull the throne out from underneath him and give it all back to Ferdinand. You understand?’
‘I understand. But why tell me?’
‘Because you’re going to stop it.’ She took a shred of tobacco from her lip and wiped it onto his chest. ‘You’re going to sign that parole and come with me. Then you’re going to escape. Montbrun will help, he knows about it. All that talk of crossing France was, for Raoul’s benefit. Instead we want you to escape.’ Her fingers were stroking his chest. ‘You go to Wellington. I’ll give you a letter and Montbrun will sign it.’ She was staring at his wide eyes. ‘You escape with our help, you go to Wellington, because if he makes a public announcement now then he can stop the treaty. No one will dare support it yet. Only Ferdinand can make the stupid bastards accept it, but if Arthur gets the Spanish to make an announcement now that it wouldn’t be accepted, then it will never get signed. So you stop it, do you understand?’
He frowned. ‘Why doesn’t Joseph stop the treaty?’
‘Because his brother will crucify him! They’re all scared of Napoleon. But if you tell Wellington, then no one can blame Joseph.’
‘Why don’t you just exchange me?’
She seemed exasperated by his questions. ‘We can’t. Ducos won’t allow it. He wants to parade you in Paris as proof of Britain’s bad faith. Besides, do you think we’d ever exchange someone like you?’
‘But you’ll let me escape.’
‘Because then Ducos loses. Because Joseph keeps a bit of Spain and gives me my wagons back!’ Her eyes flicked between his, judging him. ‘Montbrun will pay you, too.’
‘But didn’t you say the treaty would save France?’
‘Christ on the true cross! And I’ll be poor, and half of Joseph’s men will be ruined! We need this summer, Richard, that’s all! Besides, it was that bastard Ducos who arranged this, who had me arrested, who almost had you hanged! I want Ducos to be stood against the wall, I want that so badly, Richard, I can feel it in my guts. Next year they can make their god-damned treaty, but not now, not till Pierre Ducos is dead.’
‘And you want your money.’
‘I want that house.’
‘Lark pate and honey?’
‘And you can visit me from England. We’ll pay you, Richard. Two thousand guineas, in gold, or paper, or whatever. Just sign the parole and we do the rest.’ She watched him as he stood, as he walked naked to sit in the window. ‘Well?’
‘If I break my parole I have no honour.’
‘God spits on honour. Three thousand!’
He turned to her. She was leaning towards him, naked, her face alive with the moment. Her body, that was so beautiful, was lit and shadowed by the candle. He wondered if she felt anything when he embraced her. ‘You want me to sign away my honour?’
She threw the cigar at him. ‘For your country. For me! Anyway, it isn’t dishonourable!’
‘It isn’t?’
‘Montbrun misspelt your name on purpose. It’s not your parole.’
He turned away from her. Beneath him a carriage was coming into the courtyard between the strange piles of ammunition.
She heard it, swore, and began to dress. ‘Can you hook me up?’
‘Just about.’ He fumbled with his bandaged hand at the nape of her neck, then turned her. He looked into her eyes and she reached up and kissed him. ‘Do it for me, Richard. Finish Ducos and that bastard Inquisitor, and go back to your career.’ She put his hand on her breast and pressed it. ‘The war will be over in two or three years. Over! Come to me then. Promise me?’
She was more beautiful than a dream, more lovely than the stars in winter, softer than light. She kissed him, her lips warm. ‘Come to me when it’s all over.’
‘Come to you?’
She half smiled. She was heart-breakingly beautiful, and she whispered into his ear and her cheek was warm on his. ‘I love you, Richard. Do this for me and come to me.’
There was a knock on the door. She shouted at them to wait and dragged a hand over her hair. ‘Will you come to me?’
‘You know I will.’
She gestured at the parole. ‘Then sign, Richard. For both of us! Sign!’ She smiled at his nakedness, motioned him to stand behind the door, and then was gone into the night.
Sharpe drank steadily, his mood worsening. He was thinking of honour betrayed, of a woman who had promised herself to fulfil his wildest dream, of a treaty to expel Britain’s army from Spain. He had pulled on his overalls and jacket, lit more candles, and still he had not signed the parole.
He decided he was too drunk to sign the parole. Since Helene had left he had finished two bottles of wine.
He went to the table, amazed that he could stand upright, and took two bottles back to the window, reasoning that by carrying two he would save himself another complicated journey across the room when he had finished the first. The reasoning struck him as extremely clever. He was proud of it. He rested his head on the window bars. Somewhere a woman laughed, a low sound of pure pleasure, and he was jealous.
‘Helene.’ He said it aloud. ‘Helene, Helene, Helene.’
He drank more, not bothering with the glass. If he was to sign the parole, he thought, then he would be with her for a few days. Verigny could not be there all the time. They could make love in her carriage, the curtains drawn.
He would break his honour. He would break his parole. There would be no honour left to him if
he did that, none.
Yet he would save Britain from defeat at the price of his honour. He could make Helene rich for his honour. And, by forcing failure onto Ducos, he could disgrace the man, maybe even, as Helene had said, have him stood against the wall and shot. All at the price of his honour.
He thought of Ducos and lifted the bottle against the night. ‘Bastard.’ He yawned hugely, drank more, and tried to concentrate his vision on a lit window of the keep, but it kept sliding diagonally up to the right. He frowned at it. Perhaps she meant it, he thought, perhaps she did love him. He sometimes thought she was a treacherous bitch, beautiful as hell, but even treacherous bitches had to love someone, didn’t they? He wondered if love was a sign of weakness, and then he thought that it was not, and then he could not remember what he was thinking and he drank more from the bottle.
He wondered if Antonia would like to have a French aristocrat as a stepmother. He drank to the thought. He drank to lark pate and honey and white wine and her body in his arms and her breath in his throat and he wished she was still here and he drank more wine because it might take away the loneliness because she had gone.
Beyond the window, to the north west, it seemed as if there-was a glow in the sky. He noticed it, frowned at it, and thought the glow in the sky might like to be toasted. He raised the bottle and drank. He felt sick. He thought he might feel better if he was sick, but he could not be bothered to go to the bucket that was decently hidden behind a wooden screen made from an old packing case. They had all laughed when Montbrun had used the bucket and had seemed to piss forever. He laughed again now. She loved him. She loved him. She loved him.
He closed his eyes.
Then he jerked his head up, eyes open, and stared at the great red smear in the sky. He knew what it was. It was the camp fires of an army, seen far off, reflected on the clouds that threatened rain. The British were to the north and west, close enough for their fires to be seen on the clouds, close enough to be forcing a further retreat from this French army, this walking brothel. He laughed and drank again.
He threw the empty bottle into the courtyard, hearing it smash on the stones and provoke a shout from a sentry. Sharpe shouted back, ‘mignon! Mignon!’
He picked up the next bottle. ‘You shouldn’t drink it,’ he told himself, then decided that it was a terrible waste if he did not. He thought he might drink it in bed and stood up.
He held onto the wall. It all suddenly seemed clear with the marvellous prescience of the drunk. King Joseph and Montbrun wanted him to escape. Montbrun was a courtier. Montbrun knew more about honour than Sharpe, so it would be all right to break his parole. He would escape. He would go to the British army and he would be rich and he would marry La Marquesa when the war was done because even treacherous bitches had to love someone and he could not bear to think of her loving anyone else. He drank to the thought. Lark pate and honey, he thought, and wine. More wine. Always more wine, and then he pushed himself off the wall, aimed for the bed, and collapsed just short of it. He managed to save the bottle.
He sat by the narrow bed where he had loved her just this day. ‘I love you,’ he said. He pulled the blankets about his shoulders, and drank some more. It was all so easy. Escape and victory, marriage and riches. Luck was with him. It always had been. He smiled and raised the bottle.
He drank more wine, just to prove that he could do it, and then, when he was solemnly thinking he ought to work out a detail or two of the decisions he had made, his head went back onto the bed, the bottle dropped, and he slept the sleep of the drunk.
Chapter 17
Morning came like a sad groan. He was still tangled in blankets beside the bed. The dawn light was depressing.
He swore and closed his eyes.
Someone was using a sledgehammer within the castle, the blows were ringing through his skull.
‘Oh God.’
He opened his eyes again. A bottle of wine lay close to him on the floor, the wine trapped by the bottle’s neck dark with sediment. He groaned again.
He leaned his head on the bed and stared up at the whitewashed ceiling. The hammering seemed to be coming from the very walls of the room. He could not believe it was possible to feel this ill. His eyes felt as if they were trying to burst from his head, his mouth was fouler than the cell Ducos had first put him in, his stomach was sour and his bowels were water. ‘Oh God.’
He heard the bolts on his door shoot back, but did not turn round. ‘Bonjour, m’sieul’ It was the cheerful young guard.
Sharpe turned slowly, his neck hurting. ‘Jesus.’
The guard laughed. ’Won, m’sieu. Cest moi.’ He put the bowl on the table and mimed shaving. ‘Oui, m’sieu?’
‘Oui.’
Sharpe stood up. He staggered on aching legs, and wished he had stayed on the floor. He held a hand up to the guard. ‘A minute! Wait!’ He went to the wooden screen, held it, and vomited. ‘Jesus!’
‘Afsieu?’
‘All right! All right! What time is it?’
‘Afsieu?’
Sharpe tried to remember the word. He snapped the fingers of his left hand. ‘L’keure?’
‘Ah! C’est six figures, m’sieu.’
‘Cease?’
The soldier held up six fingers, Sharpe nodded, then spat through the window.
The young guard seemed happy to shave the English officer. He did it skilfully, chatting incomprehensibly and cheerfully as he lathered and scraped and washed and towelled. It occurred to Sharpe that he could elbow the boy in the belly, take his musket, shoot the man outside, and be in the courtyard within ten seconds. There had to be a damned horse there and, with luck, he could be through the gates and away before the guards knew what was happening.
On the other hand he did not feel up to morning mayhem, and it seemed distinctly churlish to attack a cheerful man who was shaving him with such skill. Besides, he needed breakfast. He needed it badly.
The boy patted Sharpe’s face dry and smiled. ‘Bonjourl’ He backed out of the door with the bowl and towel, came back a moment later for the musket he had left beside Sharpe. He waved farewell and shut the door, not bothering to bolt it.
The hammering still echoed in the room. He went to the window and .saw, where the ‘sentries paced their monotonous beats on the ramparts, that the guns which had defied Wellington last year were being destroyed. Their trunnions, the great knobs that held the barrels to the carriages, were being sawn through. When the hacksaws were halfway through, a man would give a great blow with a sledgehammer to shear the bronze clean. The blows rang dolorously through the courtyard. To make sure that the guns were far beyond repair they were being spiked as well, then heaved over the ramparts to fall onto the precipitous rocks below. The noise was shattering. He groaned. ‘Oh God!’
Sharpe lay on the bed. He would never drink again, never. On the other hand, of course, the hair of the dog that bit you was the only specific against rabies. Half the British army went to their rest drunk and could only face the next day by drinking the night’s dregs. He opened one eye and stared gloomily at an unopened bottle of champagne on the table.
He fetched it, frowned at it, then shrugged. He jammed it between his legs, and twisted the cork with his left hand. It popped boomingly. The sheer effort of pulling the cork seemed to have left him weaker then a kitten. The champagne foamed onto his overalls.
He tried it. It took the taste of vomit from his mouth. It even tasted good. He drank some more.
He lay back again, holding the champagne in his left hand, and remembered the parole on the table. He was supposed to sign it, then his escape would be engineered by those people in the French army who did not want peace with Spain. It all seemed so complicated this morning. He only knew that by signing the paper and then escaping he was sacrificing all honour.
The door opened again and he lay still as the breakfast, supplied by courtesy of General Verigny, was put onto the table. He knew what it would be. Hot chocolate, bread, butter, and cheese. ‘Mer
cy.’ At least, he thought, he was learning some French.
An hour later, with the breakfast and half the champagne inside him, he decided he was feeling distinctly better. The day, he thought, even had promise. He looked at the parole. He could not sign it, he told himself, because it would be unworthy of him. He would have to escape instead. He would have to go to Wellington with this news, but not by sacrificing his honour. Captain d’Alembord had said that honour was merely a word to hide a man’s sins, and La Marquesa had laughed at the word, but Sharpe knew what it meant. It meant he could never live with himself if he signed the paper and let Montbrun engineer his escape. Honour was conscience. He walked away from the table, from the temptation of the parole, and carried the champagne to the barred window.
He stared down, bottle in hand, at the piles of artillery shells that glistened faintly from the rain that had fallen in the night. An officer was checking the fuses. It would be a hell of a bang! Sharpe thought, and he wondered if he would get a view of it from the Great Road
.
He could hear womens’ voices. There were an extraordinary number of women with this army. What was it that Verigny had said yesterday? Sharpe frowned, then smiled. This army was a walking brothel.
He turned from the window and crossed to the table where the parple, splashed with red wine stains, still waited for his signature. He tried to make sense of the French words, but could not. Even so, he knew what it said. He promised not to escape, nor in any way assist the forces of Britain or her allies against the French armies until he was either exchanged or released from the bond.
He told himself he should sign it. Escape was impossible. He should sign it and refuse to accept La Marquesa’s offer of escape. He thought of travelling in her coach, the curtains drawn, and he remembered her saying that she loved him. He looked at the quill. Was it dishonour to sign the parole and then carry news of the secret treaty to Wellington? Did his country come before honour? Had Helene spoken the truth? Would she want him when the war was over, when he was a discarded soldier? She had spoken of three thousand guineas. He shut his eyes, imagining three thousand guineas. A man could live a whole life on three thousand guineas.