'You will, Ma'am, again.'
Josefina leaned close to Sharpe, her hair brushing his own. 'Will you take me to London?'
'Whenever you like.'
'Tonight?' She was smiling at him, teasing him, her thigh pressing rhythmically against his.
'I didn't hear your words, my dear?' Sir Augustus, unable to contain his anger, leaned forward.
She smiled at him prettily. 'I was counting the potatoes on Major Sharpe's plate. I think he is very greedy.'
'A man needs his strength.' Ducos said, his eyes going back and forth between Sharpe and Josefina.
'Which is why you eat so little, Major?' She smiled at Ducos and it was true that the small, plain-dressed man picked fussily at his food and ate little. She leaned back towards Sharpe and put her fork over his plate. 'One, two, three, four, five, you've eaten part of that one, six.' Her knee and thigh were hard against him. She lowered her voice. 'He sleeps like the dead. Three o'clock?'
‘Qui vive?' The shout was from outside the inn, the French challenge.
Josefina's fork was in her left hand, her right hand was beneath the table, its fingers running up the junction of green cloth and leather of his French overalls. 'Eight, nine. Ten potatoes, Major? Yes?'
'Three and a half would be better.' He said. He could smell her hair. She was hovering over his plate with the fork, deciding which potato to prong. She picked one, leaned away from him, and held the potato to his mouth. 'For your strength, Major.'
He opened his mouth, the fork came forward, and then the challenge was repeated, the door was hammered, opened, and the thick curtain was swept aside letting in a flurry of freezing air.
The diners stopped, forks halfway to their mouths, Josefina's fork an inch from Sharpe's lips, and there in the doorway stood Patrick Harper, grinning, and beside him, much smaller, her eyes dark, her hair black inside her hood, was Teresa. Sharpe's wife.
'Hello, husband.'
Chapter 17
She would not enter the inn, not Teresa, not while French officers were there. She hated the French with all the passion of her passionate soul. They had raped and killed her mother, she repaid them by killing as many as she could find and ambush in the border hills. Sharpe walked with her down the village street, towards the Convent, and she looked up at him. 'Forgotten how to eat, Richard?'
'She was only being playful.'
'Playful!' She laughed at him. The light of the straw torches showed her thin, strong face. There was none of Josefina's softness here, this woman had the face of a hawk; a beautiful hawk, but still a killer, a hunter, a creature of supple strength and small pity. The face was proud, the face of old Spain, mellowed only by lustrous, large eyes. The mother of his child. 'That's the whore-bitch Josefina, yes?'
'Yes.'
'And you still wear her ring, yes?'
Sharpe stopped, surprised. He had forgotten it, and Josefina had not mentioned it, but he did still wear the silver ring engraved with an Eagle that Josefina had bought for him before the battle of Talavera and before he had taken the eagle standard from the French. He looked at the ring, then up to Teresa's eyes. 'Jealous?'
'Richard.' She smiled. 'You wear the ring for the eagle, not her, I know that. Still, I suspect you think she is very beautiful, yes?'
'Too fat.'
'Too fat! You think anyone's too fat who's wider than a ramrod.' She was facing him and she punched him lightly on the arm. 'One day I'm going to become fat, very fat, and I will see if you truly love me.'
'I love you.'
'And you think that forgives all.' She smiled at him, stood on tiptoe, and he kissed her, aware of the interested gaze of a dozen French sentries as well as Harper's looming figure twenty yards away. She frowned. 'Is that how you love me?'
He kissed her again, holding her this time, and she slid her face against his cheek and whispered in his ear, and then she pulled away to see the expression on his face.
'Truly?' He asked.
'Yes. This way.' She took him by the hand and walked with him beyond the light of the torches, out into the open field. The mist was still thin, the stars still showing hazed overhead, but the clouds had spread further south and promised foul weather. She stopped him when they were well beyond the earshot of any Frenchman in the village.
'Six Battalions, Richard. They're in a village three miles down the road.' She gestured eastwards. 'And that's not all.'
'Goon.'
'Five miles beyond them there's more. Far more. We saw five batteries of guns, maybe six. More cavalry, more infantry, and big carts. Supply carts.'
'Jesus.' He felt himself sobering fast in the cold air, under the impact of Teresa's news.
The Partisans were moving, spurred by Nairn's request, and Teresa had ridden with a dozen men north and east. With instinctive wariness she had circled towards her destination, coming at Adrados from the east, and in the Christmas dusk she had seen the French troops that were hidden in the valley and aimed like a lance towards Portugal. She guessed ten French Battalions, at least, maybe more, and Sharpe knew that those troops had not been marched into the winter hills just to subdue Pot-au-Feu.
For what, then? To conquer north Portugal, as Nairn had suggested? That seemed a paltry ambition, a feather to lay in the scale against the leaden weight of the French defeat in Russia, but what then? Why was a French corps this far north, when the real prizes would be to recapture the border fortresses of Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz? If the Peer lost those towns then the campaign of 1813 would be set back by weeks, even months.
Teresa clung to his arm. 'Why do they say they're here?'
'The same reason as us. To destroy Pot-au-Feu.'
'Bastard liars.'
Sharpe shivered in the cold. He could see the fires at the watchtower and he thought of Frederickson preparing a defence, but a defence that had never been designed to beat off batteries of artillery and massed infantry.
Teresa's face was pale in the darkness. 'So what will you do?'
'It's not up to me. I'm not in command.'
'Major?'
'Yes?'
She laughed. 'A Major! Are you pleased?'
He laughed. 'Yes.'
'Patrick's pleased. He says you deserve it. I hope you're not going to run away from them.'
'Not if I can help it.' He turned and looked at the village. 'No. We won't run away, but we'll need help.'
She nodded, turning with him. 'My men are riding for help in the morning.' She named a half-dozen Partisan leaders who were within a day's ride.
'And you?'
She pulled her cloak tight about her. 'What do you want me to do?'
'Go west. Take a message to our lines. So far they don't even know there are any French in the valley.'
She nodded. 'And the message?'
'That we're holding the Gateway of God.'
She liked that, smiling in the darkness, her teeth white and even. She looked north. 'I'll go soon, tonight, before the snow.'
He wished she would wait till morning, but she was right, and Sharpe despised himself for needing her protection against his assignation at half past three. There would be no assignation, not this night, because he had a defence to prepare and a battle to fight in the dawn. Teresa seemed to sense his thoughts for she smiled at him, and her voice was teasing. 'I think the whore-bitch will be safe from you tonight.’I think so.'
They walked slowly towards the lights in the village street and Teresa brought out a wrapped package from beneath her cloak and handed it to him. 'Open it.'
Sharpe pulled the string open, undid the cloth wrapping, and there was a doll inside the parcel. He moved closer to the light, and smiled. The doll was a Rifleman. Teresa seemed worried. 'You like it?'
‘It's beautiful.'
'I made it for Antonia.' She wanted Sharpe to like it. He held it into the light and he saw the care and trouble that had gone into the tiny uniform. The doll was just six inches high, yet the green jacket showed every piece of black piping, small loo
ps intricate at the facings crossed by a thin, black crossbelt. The face was carved from wood. He lifted off the tiny black-peaked shako and saw black hair beneath.
'Wool.' She smiled. 'I was going to give it to her for Christmas. Today. It will wait.’
’How is she?'
'Lovely.' Teresa took the doll back and began to wrap it with delicate care. 'Lucia looks after her.' Lucia was Teresa's sister-in-law. 'She's very good with her. I suppose she has to be, we're not the best parents in the world.' She shrugged.
'Tell her the doll's from me, too.' He had nothing to give his daughter. She nodded. 'It's supposed to be you.' She smiled. 'She can have a doll and call it Father. I'll tell her it's from you as well.'
Sharpe thought of his words to Frederickson. Leave her to life. He did not want that. Antonia was his only flesh and blood, but she did not know him, nor he her, and he looked up into the mist at a blurred star and thought how selfish he was. He preferred to live on the blade-edge of danger and glory rather than raise a family in peace and security. Antonia was a child of war, and war, as Ducos had said, brought death more often than life. 'Does she speak yet?'
'A few words.' Teresa's voice was subdued. 'Mamma. She calls Ramon ‘Gogga’, I don't know why.' She laughed, but there was little pleasure in her voice.
Antonia would speak Spanish. She had no one to call Father except her uncle, Ramon, and she was lucky in him. More fortunate in her uncle than in her father.
'Major! Major Sharpe!'
The voice hailed him from the inn door, then Dubreton stepped into the street and walked towards them. 'Major?'
Sharpe put a hand on Teresa's shoulder, waited till the French Colonel was close. 'My wife, M'sieu. Teresa? This is Colonel Dubreton.'
Dubreton bowed to her. 'La Aguja. You're as beautiful as you are dangerous, Ma'am.' He gestured towards the inn. 'It would be my pleasure to have you join us. The ladies have withdrawn, but you would be welcome, I know.'
Teresa, to Sharpe's surprise, spoke politely. 'I'm tired, Colonel. I would prefer to wait for my husband in the Castle.'
'Of course, Madame.' Dubreton paused. 'Your husband has done me a great service, Madame, a personal service. To him I owe my wife's safety. If it is ever in my power, then I will feel honoured to repay that debt.'
Teresa smiled. 'You'll forgive me if I hope it is never in your power?'
'I regret we are enemies.'
'You can leave Spain, then we need not be.'
'To be your friend, Madame, makes the idea of losing this war bearable.'
She laughed, pleased with the compliment, and to Sharpe's utter astonishment held out her hand and let the Frenchman kiss it. 'Would you call my horse, Colonel? One of your men is holding it.'
Dubreton obeyed, smiling at the odd chance that had brought him so close to a woman on whose head France had a high price. La Aguja, 'the needle', fought a bitter war against his men.
Harper brought the horse, helped Teresa into the saddle, and walked back with her towards the Castle. Dubreton watched them go and took a cigar from a leather case. He offered one to Sharpe and the Rifleman, who rarely smoked, wanted one now. He waited as Dubreton blew the spark on the charred linen inside his tinder-box into a flame, then bent down to light the cigar.
The hooves of the horse faded on the brittle, frosted earth. Dubreton lit his own cigar. 'She's very beautiful, Major.'
'Yes.'
The cigar smoke vanished into the mist. A small breeze was blowing now, a breeze to blow cannon smoke away from the guns' muzzles. The mist would clear soon, blown into scraps, and then what? Rain or snow.
Dubreton gestured Sharpe back towards the inn. 'Your Colonel demanded your presence. Not, I think, that he needs or wants your advice, I suspect he merely wanted to deprive you of your wife's company.'
'As you deprived him?'
Dubreton smiled. 'My wife, who is no fool, has even suggested that the beautiful Lady Farthingdale is not all she is supposed to be.'
Sharpe laughed, made no reply, and stood aside to let Dubreton duck under the lintel of the inn door. Once inside, Sharpe pulled the curtain close, and found the room stuffy with the smoke of cigars, tense with serious talk. The Battalion of wine bottles had been destroyed, replaced with brandy that only the junior officers were drinking with enjoyment. Sir Augustus Farthingdale was frowning, Ducos was smiling his secret smile.
Dubreton looked at Ducos. 'I'm afraid you just missed La Aguja, Ducos. I invited her to join us, but she pleaded tiredness.'
Ducos turned the smile on Sharpe and kept it on his face as he made an obscene gesture. He made a loop with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand and thrust his right forefinger repeatedly into the loop. 'La Aguja, yes? The needle. We all know what we do with needles. We thread them.'
The sword came from the scabbard so fast that even Dubreton, standing at Sharpe's elbow, could not have stopped the movement. The steel glittered in the candle light, swooped as Sharpe leaned far over the table, and the tip stopped one inch from the bridge of Ducos' nose. 'Do you wish to repeat that, Major?'
The room was utterly still. Sir Augustus yelped his syllable. 'Sharpe!'
Ducos did not move. A tiny pulse throbbed beneath the pox-scarred cheek. 'She is a foul enemy of France.'
'I asked if you cared to repeat your statement? Or give me satisfaction.'
Ducos smiled. 'You're a fool, Major Sharpe, if you think I'll fight a duel with you.'
'Then you're a fool to provoke one. I'm waiting for your apology.'
Dubreton spoke in quick French, and Sharpe guessed he ordered the apology for Ducos shrugged then looked back to Sharpe. 'I have no words base enough for La Aguja, but for the insult to you, M'sieu, I offer you my regrets.' It was said grudgingly, scornfully.
Sharpe smiled. The apology had been graceless and insufficient and he moved the sword blade, fast, and this time Ducos did react for the steel tip had grazed his left eyebrow and struck the spectacles from his nose. He reached for them and stopped. The blade blocked his hand. 'How well do you see me now, Ducos?' Ducos shrugged. He looked myopic and defenceless without the two, thick lenses. 'You've had my apology, M'sieu.’
’It's difficult to thread a needle when you're half blind, Ducos.' The heavy steel rapped on one lens, shattering it. 'Remember me, your enemy.' The sword blade struck on the second lens and then Sharpe leaned back, reversed the sword, and thrust it home.
'Sharpe!' Farthingdale looked with disbelief at the broken glasses. It would take Ducos weeks to replace them.
'Bravo, sir!' Harry Price was drunk, happily drunk. Even the French officers, disliking Ducos, grinned at Sharpe and thumped the table with approval.
Dubreton walked back to his chair and looked at the outraged Sir Augustus. 'Major Sharpe showed restraint, Sir Augustus. I must apologize if one of the officers under my command is both offensive and drunk.'
Ducos smouldered. There had been two insults; that he was drunk, which he was not, and that he was under Dubreton's orders, which was equally untrue. A dangerous man, Sharpe knew, and a man whose emnity could stretch far into the future.
Dubreton sat, tapped ash onto a plate, and turned to Sir Augustus. 'Do I have your decision, Sir Augustus?'
Farthingdale touched the white bandage that hid part of his silver hair. His voice was very precise. 'You wish us to leave the valley at nine tomorrow morning, yes?’
’Indeed.'
'After which you have orders to destroy the watchtower?’
’Yes.'
'Following which you will go home.’Precisely!' Dubreton smiled, poured brandy and offered the bottle towards Sharpe.
Sharpe shook his head. He blew out a plume of smoke. 'Why do you want us to leave the valley before you destroy the watchtower? Couldn't we watch from the Castle?'
Dubreton smiled, knowing the question to be as false as the information he had already given to Sir Augustus. 'Of course you can watch.'
Farthingdale frowned at Sharpe. 'Your interest is laudable
, Major, but Colonel Dubreton has already given us good reason why it would be sensible for us to leave.'
Dubreton nodded. 'We have another three Battalions of Infantry in the next village.' He shrugged, and swirled the brandy in his glass. 'They have come as a marching exercise, a hardening of young troops, and much as I appreciate your company, Major, I fear that too many troops in the valley might be explosive.'
So Dubreton was willing to reveal part of his hand, Sharpe guessed because the Colonel had realized that Farthingdale could be scared off with numbers. Sharpe leaned back. 'You have orders to destroy the watchtower?'
‘Yes.’
’Strange.'
Dubreton smiled. 'It has been used in the past by Partisans. It is a danger to us, but not to you, I would suggest.'
Sharpe tapped his own cigar ash onto the floor. He heard the laughter of the women in the next room. 'I thought these hills were little used by ourselves, yourselves, or the partisans. Four Battalions seem a strong force to destroy one small tower.'
'Sharpe!' Farthingdale had lit one of his own cigars, longer and fatter than Dubreton's. 'If the French want to make a fool of themselves by blowing up a useless tower, then it's none of our business.'
'If the French want something, sir, then it's our business to deny it them.' Sharpe's voice was harsh.
'I don't need you to tell me my duty, Major!' Sir Augustus' voice was angry. Dubreton watched silent. The hand touched the bandage again, 'Colonel Dubreton had given us his word. He will withdraw when his task is done. There is no need for a useless confrontation in this valley. You may wish a fight, Major, to burnish your laurels, but my job is done. I have destroyed Pot-au-Feu, retaken our deserters, and our orders are to go home!'
Sharpe smiled. They were not Farthingdale's orders, they had been Kinney's orders, and now Kinney was in his grave looking westward at the hills, and Farthingdale had fallen into this command. Sharpe blew smoke at the ceiling, looked at Dubreton. 'You will go home?'