SIX

        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.

SEVEN

        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!”

EIGHT

        “Ah, finally!” Colonel Adams shouted, spying Sharpe managing slowly down the stone steps. “What the devil are you playing at, Sharpe? We’ve been looking for you for two days, man, needed you… at… the… Good Lord!” he cried, aghast, taking in Sharpe’s appearance. His green tunic was ripped at each shoulder, his bloodied shirt showing through very clearly underneath. The white cloth strip holding the two fingers of his right hand together matched the one staunching the blood flow from the back of his left thigh. His neck was scratched and bloodied, welts clearly beginning to form, and his face was bruised and dark with malevolence.
        “Sir,” he said clearly, stopping in front of him smartly. “I regret I have been unavailable for the past two days. However, I was following Lord Wellington’s orders to find and make safe two French spies within our own ranks, sir,” he said, keeping his chin up. Adams’ mouth worked but nothing came out for a long moment. He looked around him, uncertain.
        “Hardwick! Hardwick!” Adams shouted, his voice betraying his fright. He looked back at Sharpe. “Well, did you get them, man?” he demanded loudly.
        “Most definitely, sir,” he nodded confidently. Adams swallowed.
        “Right, well then… We are broken, Sharpe,” he said. “If you’d been here, fighting like a real man, you might have helped stay the ranks,” he snapped. “As it is we’re preparing for the French to start over that wall. They’ve already got in and to our magazine,” he said.
        “The magazine, sir?” Sharpe demanded angrily. “How the bloody hell could they get men in there so fast?”
        “They’re soldiers, man!” Adams shouted. “They do this for a living! How dare you question me!” he roared. “Luckily for us I’m not as cowardly as yourself, sir!” he spat. “We stood our ground, by God we did! We drove them back – for now,” he allowed. Sharpe pushed all the blood he could taste to the front of his mouth, turned to one side, and spat loudly and accurately. It just missed Adams’ boot. Adams recoiled instantly. “Why, you –“
        “Colonel Adams, sir,” Hardwick said from his right. Both men turned and looked at him. “Sir, we’re preparing the defence, we’ve got the four guns into position, sir. But we’ve lost all our tapers!” he reported. “They were in the magazine. And we’re down to four barrels of gunpowder, sir,” he added. Adams whimpered, wiping his forehead with a damp handkerchief.
        “Oh my,” he moaned to himself. “What is a Colonel to do?” He thought for a long second, then turned to Sharpe. “Right, sir, you will try and regain what modicum of respect you could ever hope to have by leading the men in the first bayonet charge,” he said imperiously. Sharpe looked at him – just looked. “And then, Hardwick, you shall –“
        “No,” Sharpe said suddenly. Adams stopped, dumbfounded.
        “What did you say?” he gasped, unable to comprehend.
        “No, sir,” Sharpe said. “We’ll find tapers. Get them guns going to cut ‘em down. Then we’ll face ‘em inside the wall. Pull the men off the top, get ‘em lined up, about thirty feet from the breach, and –“
        “How dare you impugn my command!” Adams shouted. Sharpe swallowed and took one step toward him. Adams took an involuntary step back, then looked at Hardwick. He cleared his throat. “I’ve had a better idea, Colonel Hardwick,” he said loudly, with as much dignity as he could muster. “We’re going to put Sharpe in charge of the guns. He’ll stay up there with them, and his riflemen, to cut down as many French as he can. We’ll regroup the men in this courtyard, and in three neat lines, if you will. I want them a good thirty feet back from the breach in the wall, is that understood?” he asked haughtily.
        “Yes sir, of course, sir,” Hardwick said immediately.
        “Good man. Then when any lucky French get over that wall, we lay down suppressing fire by ranks until they turn tail and run. Understood?”
        “Yes sir!” Hardwick said smartly. He saluted and ran off. Adams turned and looked at Sharpe.
        “Well? See to your guns and men, Sharpe,” he said dismissively. Sharpe shot him a look that would have shattered glass. He held his gaze until Adams swallowed and looked away. Then he turned and shuffled his way back toward the stone steps. He made his way up slowly, finding Harper there. He put a hand under Sharpe’s elbow and half-pulled, half-guided him up the final few steps.
        “What is he saying to now, sir?” Harper asked scathingly. Sharpe looked over his shoulder at the Colonel, strutting round the courtyard spewing orders. His eyes narrowed.
        “We’re to find tapers and get ‘em to the guns, along with the Chosen Men,” he said. Harper regarded him as he shook him off his elbow.
        “Oh, right then,” he said sarcastically. “Look at him, marching around like a cock of the barnyard,” he tutted.
        “Oh he’s a cock alright,” Sharpe said to himself.
        “And just where are we supposed to find tapers, sir?”
        “We have a book to burn, don’t we?” Sharpe asked. Harper looked surprised.
        “But isn’t that Nosy’s book, sir?” he asked innocently.
        “It’s my bloody book now, I’ll do what I like wi’ it,” he grumped, turning and walking for the ramparts. Harper grinned and followed.

*

        “Get them round to the ramparts, make it fast!” Sharpe shouted. The Chosen Men grabbed up as many books as they could carry, running down the corridor. “Wait!” he called suddenly. He ducked into the room next to the library and opened the window, looking out. He grinned, flinging all the windows open and turning back to the door. “You lot! Chuck them books out of this window, then climb out and take ‘em round. It’ll be quicker!” he called.
        The Men did as told, and the left wall of the library soon lost all of its inhabitants. The Men threw themselves through the windows, finding themselves on the path to the ramparts nicely. They picked up books and ran on toward the guns, standing ready. Eight men from the 42nd Regiment of Foot were standing by, ready to load and set off the guns at Sharpe’s command. The Men dropped the books in a pile by the guns, kneeling and ripping out pages as fast as they could. They grabbed up two or three pages together and twisted them into taper shapes, throwing them on the pile of growing tapers.
        Sharpe came round the corner, carrying books. He looked at the Men. “Alright, on yer feet. Rifles at fifteen paces, spread out and go fer officers!” he called. “You know Adams couldn’t defend a bible in a nunnery, we’ll just have to make sure we get as many of ‘em as we can before they reach the steps,” he spat as he dropped his books.
        The men from the 42nd looked at him, some smiling, and then looked ahead. The Chosen Men leapt up and grabbed rifles from their shoulders, running to the rampart wall and spacing out quickly and efficiently.
        “42nd!” Sharpe called, and they straightened smartly. “I know you lot are good gunners, Colonel Hardwick told me as much,” he said, lying generously. It didn’t matter; it had accomplished what he’d hoped, the men smiling and puffing out their chests. “All you have to do now is rake as many lines as you can. We can get clear shots from up here, and I expect you lot to do just that.”
        “Sir!” the men chorused, and he smiled to himself, turning and looking over the rampart wall. He unslung his own rifle slowly, reaching round to his cartridge box and loading it slowly without looking. The men from the 42nd watched him, curious. Sharpe watched Colonel Adams and Hardwick. They’d brought the men back from the walls, and were lining them up in three neat ranks. He nodded to himself, then looked down at his hands. The strip of cloth round his fingers had jammed in the frizzen. He cursed and snapped it open, pulling out the cloth and shaking his hand round in a circle, prompting the cloth to fall away. He bent his fingers experimentally, but they still hurt like blazes. He hissed and then swore; that’s me trigger finger an’ all.
        “Sir,” Harper said, appearing from his side.
        “Well?” he asked.
        “Looks like we have enough taper-fodder, sir,” he grinned. “And Mister James says don’t die, sir,” he added impishly. Sharpe grinned.
        “When this is over, I’ll go and thank him,” he said. “Get over there, make sure the Men get every one o’ them Frog officers down,” he added, clapping a hand to his arm. “And keep yer head down, Pat.”
        “Oh I will sir, don’t you worry,” he said, turning and walking off, swinging his volley gun up onto his shoulder. “Right then boys, it’s a hunting day in the woods, so it is!” he called cheerfully. “A whole pint of rum to the man that caps the most Frogs!” He stopped, looked at Sharpe, then back to the gunners. “And a pint of rum to the gun that fires faster than the rest of them!” he added, grinning. The gunners of the 42nd grinned and nodded eagerly.
        Sharpe nodded to him gratefully, then turned and looked back over the wall. He heard a familiar, unwanted noise and froze, as did the rest of the men.
        French drums.

NINE

        The guns boomed, the men grabbing and wheeling them back into place, dumping water over the entire design as they reloaded and aimed. Sharpe stood off to the side, the black smoke drifting across and impeding his view of the courtyard.
        The cannon kept firing, the balls whistling out and smacking dead square into the seemingly endless ranks of French soldiers. They simply stepped over or around, and kept coming. Sharpe looked over at the Chosen Men, their fingers itching on the triggers eagerly.
        “Dan?” he called, and Hagman looked up. “Too far?” he asked.
        “Aye. Give ‘em a moment, sir, they’ll make it easier as time goes on,” he said wisely, and looked back through his sights. Sharpe huffed to himself and looked back over the top. He shifted his weight to his right leg, feeling his left thigh throb with the waiting. The gun closest him boomed and he felt its thud vibrate all the way through him. He looked back over the top.
        “Good shooting, lads!” he cried, as the ball again ripped through the centre of the closing force. He lifted his rifle, unaware of the gunners of the 42nd watching him, unaccustomed as they were to officers firing worn, battered but much-loved rifles. Sharpe looked down its smooth barrel to the ranks coming toward him, using the sights to search for a plumed officer’s hat. He found one and smiled cruelly, squeezing his eye closed and concentrating on the moving, bouncing hat. He shifted it down slightly, noted the wind on his face and left hand supporting the barrel, and shifted slightly.
        It might be too far, but it’s a matter of principal. He let his finger smooth over the trigger, letting a few precious seconds, and therefore feet, pass by. He waited, and then knew he had him. He squeezed back on the trigger gently.
        The rifle cracked, his finger shot pain through his hand. He opened his eye and through the clearing smoke saw the plume was gone. He hoped that meant he’d got his target. There was a cheer from the men and then suddenly the rifles began cracking away with wild enthusiasm. He didn’t bother to reload his rifle; the damage to his finger had been done, and he doubted he’d be writing in the Day Book for at least a week. He watched the riflemen aim and get off perfect shots, unhurried except in their reloading. They managed two shots every minute, the seven men finding targets and taking down every one. The guns continued to boom, the smoke drifted and cleared, the men from the 42nd sloshed water, used pages for tapers, and ran around aiming and moving the cannon. The riflemen ignored everything except their targets, and Sharpe took a few steps back, watching everything flow with precision.
        He walked to the side and looked over the ramparts to the courtyard. He spotted Hardwick, readying the lines, and nodded to himself. He hoped he’d make it through today; he found he quite liked James Hardwick, for all his flowery manner and sometimes misplaced exuberance. He shook his head, sitting his rifle against the stone wall and taking his telescope from his tunic. He raised it to see the French were just ten feet from the wall. He couldn’t see a single officer, save the proud Colonel himself, astride a huge bay horse. He closed up the telescope and took a deep breath.
        Here they come.


        And come they did. The blue uniforms swarmed over the broken stone, easily hopping over the minimal obstacle and racing into the courtyard. Something was wrong, and from Sharpe’s viewpoint he could easily see what it was; the loss of the officers had prompted the infantry to simply dash in and hack at anything they could find with their bayonets.
        He turned to the Chosen Men and gunners. “You, gunners, keep firing! Choose yer spaces, don’t waste yer balls,” he commanded. “Stop ‘em from getting away again!”
        “But sir, they’re coming in,” one gunner said bravely.
        “They won’t be fer long! Chosen Men! The courtyard, now!” he shouted. The Green Jackets shuffled away from the wall, getting to their feet and pausing to fix bayonets to the rifles. They looked to Sharpe, who found Harper’s head easily. “Sergeant! Get ‘em down there and into the Frogs!” he commanded.
        “Yes sir!” he shouted with spirit. “Come on then lads, last one down there loses his tea ration!”
        The men stampeded past Sharpe and round the parapet to the door. Sharpe grinned as they fought for the door, running down as fast as their legs could carry them. He turned to look at the gunners.
        “Remember, get the bastards as they run fer the hills,” he called.
        “Yes sir!” they called. Sharpe drew his sword, turned, and ran for the door.
        “I think I’d like to join the Rifles,” one man said thoughtfully. Another soldier, his partner at the gun, picked out a good taper and twisted it carefully. He stopped and looked at him.
        “Are you mad? You have to be a crack shot to get in there,” he said. “Why would you want to join the Rifles, anyway?”
        “They gets tea rations,” he pointed out. “If I wants tea, I have to shag some senorita,” he added.
        “Oh yeah,” the man replied. “Good point.”


        Sharpe hobbled down the steps to the courtyard, finding the ranks of the 42nd trying to cut down marauding Frenchmen in ripples of three smooth volleys. If the French had been in formation and organised, it would have been easy. But without officers to harry them into ranks, they simply swarmed around the lines of fire.
        “42nd! Fix bayonets! Break ranks! Kill the bastards!” he bellowed from halfway down the steps. Colonel Adams looked up at him and opened his mouth, but any answer was lost in the cheer of the 42nd as they hastily fixed their bayonets. Sharpe reached the bottom of the steps and threw himself into the fray.
        Blue coats rushed him, meeting his sword too easily. The redcoats swarmed out from the ranks like angry bees, rushing and hacking down blue coats. More French appeared over the wall, running into the melee. Colonel Adams was shouting orders, but no-one bothered to stop and listen. The men had been given their head, and all Hell had broken loose.
        Bayonets slapped on musket stocks, swords and bayonet blades slammed into bone and man, and soldiers screamed war cries, scrambling to get closer to the enemy. Sharpe hacked at anything blue that moved, transferring his sword to his left hand. His right was becoming numb. He kicked and rammed his elbow into moving blue men, swinging the heavy sword and using its own weight to drive it into any man that came within reach.
        He found himself closer to the wall than was practicable. He chopped and elbowed his way free, tripping on something sprawled in the mud. He fell and grabbed at the form, ready to run it through.
        “Sharpe!” he heard. He looked down and saw Colonel Adams, blood running freely from his arm and neck. He looked up and parried a blow meant for his head. He stood and belted down with his sword, and it easily cleaved through the man’s arm. He fell away, screaming. Sharpe dropped to one knee over Adams.
        “Get up, man!” he shouted, grabbing his red officer’s jacket roughly. He yanked on it, helping the officer to his feet. His right leg buckled and Sharpe grabbed his arm, pulling him up by sheer dint of willpower. He looked at Adams, seeing fresh blood from his knee. He shifted his arm to under his, supporting the shorter man easily. “Come on! Over there!” he shouted. Adams simply grabbed onto his green tunic, trying to make his legs work as best he could. Sharpe half walked, half dragged him across the courtyard, battering at men and blades with his own. He pushed Adams to the wall, letting him cling on to the wooden stocks sticking out of it as he turned and hacked with all his strength at a screaming Frenchman. The man fell, his face lacerated, and Adams looked around.
        “I’ve lost my sword, man!” he cried fearfully. Sharpe seemed to ignore him, standing in front of him, chopping and hacking down anyone and anything that got too close. He belted one soldier aside, then bent and snatched up the dead man’s sword. He turned, handing it to him.
        “Here. Stay with yer back to the wall, kill anything that moves, you’ll be alright,” he shouted above the noise.
        “Much obliged, man, much obliged!” he called back, and Sharpe disappeared again into the noise of men and steel. He realised the blue coats were slowly disappearing, and made his way back to the stone steps. He climbed up them as fast as he could manage, stopping halfway to get some breath back and look out.
        He grinned. The French were turning and finding their own ways out of the courtyard. The Colonel, on his horse, was fuming and standing in the stirrups, shouting at the men. What I wouldn’t give fer me rifle right now, he realised, shaking his head.
        He heard a crack and then Hagman’s voice: “Got him.” He watched the French officer tumble from his horse. He turned, finding Hagman lying on the stone step, almost invisible, picking off men easily. He laughed out loud.
        “Hiding from the Frogs, Dan?” he asked. Hagman looked at him.
        “O’ course not, sir!” he said, grinning. “But all that swordin’ and bayonetin’ is a young man’s game, not fert likes o’ me, sir,” he allowed. “I’m happy up here, where I can do more damage.”
        Sharpe laughed again. “Yer right,” he allowed, climbing a few steps higher, letting himself down to sit on the steps wearily. He heard the guns start to boom again and grinned, lifting his sword, still in his left hand, to look at the tip idly. He sniffed and wiped his forehead with his right arm, looking down into the courtyard again.
        The men were finding themselves without a foe, and they started cheering and holding their muskets in the air. Colonel Adams, supported by two redcoats, walked to the middle of the courtyard and shouted, praising and grinning. The men of the 42nd cheered and walked back into ranks slowly, and Sharpe watched Hardwick take note of who was missing. He took a deep breath, nodded to himself, and stood slowly. Hagman was sitting up, dusting off his rifle carefully, smiling at it. Sharpe looked at him.
        “Tea, Dan?” he offered. Hagman grinned.
        “Be rude not to, sir,” he agreed warmly.

TEN

        Sharpe peeled off the green tunic and dumped it on the pile of jackets already there. He looked over his back but couldn’t see properly. He untucked his shirt and pulled it off over his head, finding the blood on the back of it had tried to dry, but then been sweated in. He huffed, balling the shirt and wondering where his pack had got to. He’d have to start a new shirt, he realised.
        “Sir!” Harper shouted, crossing to him, then tutting as he saw his back. “Dear me sir, you really should learn to duck, you know,” he said, and Sharpe looked over his back as best he could.
        “Stings like bloody hell,” he admitted.
        “Richard!” Marjorie called, running over, to the lusty jeers and cheers of the surrounding eavesdropping soldiers. Sharpe turned and looked at them, and the cheers turned into polite coughs and innocent whistling. He turned and looked at her.
        “What you doing here?” he asked. She noticed he didn’t smile.
        “I got bored of James telling me stories,” she admitted. “He’s a good laugh though. I can see why you like him,” she said slyly. He studied her face, then turned away to the bowl of water. “Bugger me! What happened this time?” she asked. Harper cleared his throat.
        “That Pierre Caron, Miss,” he said helpfully. Marjorie’s face darkened.
        “Oh,” she said quietly. She took the wet cloth from Sharpe’s hand and wrung it out. “Here, let me,” she said, turning him round and pressing it to the wide cut across his shoulder blades. He hissed at the sudden stinging, but she didn’t pause.
        The men laughed and jeered again, and even Harper’s stern face wasn’t enough to quieten them.
        “Got yourself a nurse-maid, sir?” one redcoat was brave enough to call out. Marjorie stopped and stepped round Sharpe, looking at him.
        “And what’s the matter wi’ you, private? Stubbed yer toe? Sprained yer wrist? I can imagine how that happened, judging by yer complete charm wi’ the ladies,” she snapped sarcastically. The other men fell about laughing, slapping his shoulder, and she put her hands on her hips. “Go on, piss of the lot of you!” she called. “If yer injured, get yourself to the tent. If yer not, get the tea on!” she commanded.
        The soldiers stood, most nodding respectfully to her before shuffling off, still pushing and jeering the poor private as he walked. She turned back to Sharpe, sniffing, and heard a wheezing sound. She pushed on his shoulder to make him turn, and found him chuckling.
        “And what are you laughing at?” she asked indignantly. He took the cloth from her and dumped it in the bowl.
        “Nothing,” he said, grinning, “I wouldn’t dare, would I?” he said.
        “You do and you’ll get a smacked bottom,” she said defiantly.
        “Oooh,” he said quietly, raising an eyebrow, and she laughed suddenly. Harper cleared his throat and Sharpe looked at him, suddenly aware he was still there. “Have you summat to be getting on with, Sergeant?” he asked sheepishly. Harper grinned.
        “I’m sure I could find something, sir,” he said, nodding and then looking at Marjorie. “Miss,” he said respectfully, and turned and walked off jauntily.
        “He likes you,” Sharpe said, looking back at the bowl of water. She folded her arms.
        “Of course he does, I know where the rum and the tea is,” she smiled. He snorted with amusement, fishing out the cloth and wringing it out, wiping his face and neck.
        “Richard!” called a voice, and they turned to see Hardwick advancing on them. “Well, well, well, look at you,” he said, then stopped suddenly, staring at Marjorie. “Oh, er… ma’am,” he said graciously, his face turning a little red as he bowed his head to her. She swallowed, putting a nervous hand to her neck and not looking at him. Sharpe watched, his eyes narrowing, but he didn’t say a word as he turned back to the bowl slowly.
        “Not dead then, James?” he said over his shoulder.
        “No, er, lucky, eh?” he answered, still looking at Marjorie. “I er, I came to tell you, Colonel Adams sends his complements, and asks if you’d see him in the library,” he said. “I think he wants to apologise for his brutish behaviour,” he grinned. Sharpe leaned over the bowl and thought about sticking his whole head in it. He resisted the temptation, instead picking up the towel and pressing it to his still dripping face and neck.
        “He can wait,” he said.
        “Oh. More important things to do, Richard?” he asked eagerly. “I say, what happened to that Caron? And Miss Berry?” he asked excitedly. “I’m afraid I was in the courtyard – we had a siege to break, don’t you know – so I missed all the fun!” he grinned. Sharpe looked at him, laughed suddenly, and then sobered, looking at Marjorie.
        “Yeah well. I’ll tell you later.” He looked at him pointedly, and he nodded.
        “I hope so, sounds ever so thrilling,” he said. “Ma’am,” he said politely, rather too politely, and then nodded to Sharpe before backing away. Sharpe looked at Marjorie, then to the uniform next to him. He picked up the tunic, sliding it on slowly, not bothering to button it up. She turned to him.
        “Oh God, Richard, I was so worried,” she breathed, letting her hand fall from her neck.
        “About me? You should have known better,” he said glibly. She smiled slightly and they looked at each other for a long moment.
        “You know… There are those days when… when you know it can go two ways,” she said quietly. “When it can go the way you want it to, or it can go the way you let it. I need to know… Oh look, Richard, I missed you,” she said, bumping into him and putting her arms round him. He squeezed her to him tightly, gratefully. She pulled him away and looked at him. “Richard,” she said carefully. “Now would be a good time to say… well, those… those three little words,” she managed, her face red.
        He eyed her, swallowing. Say it, his mind screamed. Say it! If you don’t, she’s gone. He looked over her head slightly to see Hardwick dragging his feet as he walked away slowly, shaking his head. He looked back at Marjorie.
        “Bloody hell, woman?” he offered, and she stared at him. She let her face melt into a small smile and giggled, some unnamed tension eased.
        “No!”
        “Steady on, lass?” he grinned, immeasurably relieved she wasn’t offended.
        “No!”
        “Get me tea?”
        “Those are the ones!” she laughed, squeezing his arms briefly before turning and walking to the fire between the tents of the Chosen Men, currently sleeping. She bent over to the urn over the fire, testing the heat. Sharpe saw Hardwick talking to Harper apologetically, and Harper patting his shoulder. He swallowed and looked at his feet. It’s not bloody fair. It’s never bloody fair, he snorted. He looked over at Marjorie, then back down at his feet. He huffed, torn. He looked up, spying Ramona carrying little Patrick across the camp, and it came to him in a flash.
        Is this what I want for her? Is this what I’ll condemn her to? A woman like her?
        He looked back over at Marjorie and studied her, really studied her, committing her to memory. Then he walked over toward her slowly.
        Harris had been leaning against a tree, his ears on Harper and Hardwick’s conversation, one eye on Sharpe and Marjorie, and one eye on his book. Now, watching with the foresight of Shakespeare, he snapped his book shut and pushed himself up from the tree quickly. He began to walk over toward Sharpe but Harper suddenly had a good grasp on his arm. Harris looked at him. Harper shook his head slowly, silently. Harris looked back at Sharpe plaintively, then back to Harper. He sighed and looked at his feet. Harris let his shoulders sag, and Harper released his arm slowly.
        Sharpe stopped just behind Marjorie.
        “What will you do now?” he asked her quietly. He took a deep breath. “Colonel Hardwick’s leaving for England tomorrow.”
        “And? Why would that interest me?” she asked, her face away from him. He recognised, or thought he did, the forced calm in her voice.
        “I… Look, I’ve seen the way he looks at you. He’s a good man,” he managed quietly. She appeared to ignore him, swilling the tea round the urn slowly.
        “And?” she said eventually.
        “Bloody ‘ell Mar – he’s going home rich and famous, he’s got a title, a position, and he’s a good, safe man. He’s just what you need!”
        “Oh, I see,” she said stonily, turning to look at him. “So yer tired of me now, are you? Peter was right, God rest his soul, and yer moving on.” She lifted the urn and filled a tin cup with hot, fresh tea carefully.
        Sharpe wet his lips slowly. Bugger me – alright, forget it! he raged on the inside. Stay with me, always be here when I get back, bloodied and cleaved! Be here to wipe away the blood and dirt! Say you’ll stay and never leave me! It ran through his head in a jumble, and he fought with himself to stop it tumbling out of his mouth. She turned, the cup in her hand, and watched him hesitate a long moment.
        “We… We move out tonight. To the next battle, and the next. How long will you write me letters before the Postmaster tells you there’s no-one to deliver to, cos I’m lying dead on some far-away field?” he challenged.
        “Oh Richard,” she said quietly, her face losing its stern gaze. “Don’t say that.”
        “You want me to lie? You want me to say I’m not going to die in the very next fight?” he demanded. “And if I don’t, what then? What do you expect to do? Live an army camp life, here with me? I’d never want this for you! This whole sorry escapade had you nearly killed, and all cos of me!” He paused, his face anguished. “Why would you stay? What is there for a woman like you, here?” he demanded angrily.
        “What is there for me here, Richard? Tell me! If I had something to stay for, I’d stay.” She paused, and they looked at each other in the cooling air. “Do I have a reason to stay?” Her eyes bored into his, searched his face for an answer, any answer, but he didn’t speak.
        Shit, she can see everything, he feared, and turned away quickly, making sure she couldn’t see his face.
        “Richard?” she dared, her voice just above a whisper.
        “No. There’s nothing for you here. You should go,” he said coldly. There was a long, chilling silence, and he hoped she was thinking of storming off.
        But suddenly she stepped up behind him and put her arms round him warmly, squeezing, being careful not to spill her tea. He closed his eyes, willing her to let go. But he just couldn’t move to peel her off.
        “Bloody hell, Richard, you’re… Look, yer right,” she breathed. She was silent for some moments. “I’ll go tomorrow. Yer right. I’ll go tomorrow, with Colonel Hardwick,” she said quietly, “but I’ll think of you.”
        He opened his eyes and turned around, putting his arms round her and holding her to him tightly. He smelt her hair, felt her arms under his, and squeezed his eyes shut.
        She pulled him away, then put her hand to his face. She ran it over slowly, feeling the scratchy stubble over his jaw, then up to the scar over his left eye tenderly. She ran it back down, pulling his face toward hers. She kissed him by the mouth firmly, then let her hand drop sadly.
        “When all this is over… come and see us, at Hardwick Hall. You may even meet a little lad running around the place. Happen I’ll call him Richard,” she smiled. He just looked at her, unable to speak or even nod. She nodded for him, pushing the tin cup into his hands and smoothing his hands round it gently. She turned and picked up her skirts, walking away quickly.
        He watched her go, then huffed abruptly and looked at the tin cup of tea. He held it in his hands, remembering her touch, cursing himself for telling her to leave. You can still stop her, he told himself. But he forced himself to wait another second, then another, then another, until he knew it to be too late. He let out a long, agonised sigh, raising the tea and looking at it. But he couldn’t drink.
        He let his arm fall, not caring as the tea splashed out and over the grass. He heard the sound of movement behind him and ignored it.
        “Sir,” Harper said quietly. Sharpe closed his eyes, willing him to go away. He waited, but couldn’t hear the Irishman move.
        “Eavesdropping again, yer bastard?” he accused harshly. He sniffed and found his nose strangely congested, lifting a hand to pinch at it briefly. He made sure he didn’t turn to look at Harper behind him. Harper just pushed his hand into his cartridge box and took out the flask, unscrewing the lid slowly. He didn’t walk around him, just offered it round his elbow. Sharpe looked at it for a long moment, before pushing the heel of his hand in his eye to clear its sudden unexplained blurriness. “I’ve told you before, there’s more to life than drinking,” he said, but it sounded like he was past caring.
        “No, no, sir,” Harper said warmly, “now maybe you’ll understand – there’s more to drinking than life. Especially one you don’t like.”
        Sharpe put his right hand up and took the flask slowly, before upending it and draining every last drop of rum. He sniffed again, stoppering it and turning to him. He couldn’t meet the Irishman’s eyes. It was silent for a long few moments. Harper took the flask back off him slowly, and they stood in silence for a while.
        “Got any more?” Sharpe asked timidly, looking up at him eventually. Harper was struck by his tone of voice.
        “For you, sir? Always more in reserve, sir,” he said kindly.
        “Look! I found it, and it’s in one piece!” Harris called enthusiastically, walking toward Harper hurriedly. Sharpe and Harper looked over at him as he neared them and stopped, oblivious of everything except the item in his hands.
        “And what would that be, Harris?” Harper asked.
        “My ‘Marriage of Figaro’!” he cried, best pleased. “It’s a good thing it didn’t get burnt in your taper caper,” he grinned impudently. Sharpe raised his eyebrows at him, looking over the cover of the book.
        “Bloody ‘ell,” he said, putting a hand out and lifting the cover to see properly. “Not another Pierre,” he said. “Do they have any other names in France?”
        “Another Pierre?” Harris asked, confused.
        “Aye – as in Pierre Caron,” Sharpe tutted. Harris looked at him.
        “I thought you didn’t read, sir,” he said. Sharpe glared at him. “For a hobby, I mean,” he added hastily.
        “I know what you meant,” he said irritably, not in the mood to get into one of Harris’ philosophical debates about some French book.
        “So how did you know his name was Pierre Caron, sir?” Harris asked.
        “Who?” Sharpe asked.
        “Pierre de Beaumarchais, sir,” Harris said, lifting the cover again to show the full name printed on the book. Sharpe and Harper looked at each other.
        “You’re saying the man who wrote that book – his actual name is Pierre Caron?” Harper asked carefully. Harris nodded.
        “Yes. He was rumoured to be a French agent, but it was never proved. He died, I think,” Harris added thoughtfully. Harper and Sharpe looked at each other for a long moment.
        “Popular name, is that,” Sharpe offered, unsure.
        “Oh, I’m sure it is, sir,” Harper said speciously, nodding to look more confident. “I’m sure there are hundreds of French men with just the same name, sir,” he added hastily.
        “Yeah. Must be,” Sharpe said, pinching at his nose absently before clearing his throat and turning away. He walked away, hearing Harper and Harris argue about the book and sighed, walking past the tents and to the grass beyond. He stopped, turning and looking around.
        He saw the tents, the small fires, the wounded soldiers, the linen being hung out to dry by faithful wives or opportunist girls, and smiled to himself. The light was fading, but he could make out the guns on the parapets of the village castle.
        “God save Ireland! It’s just a book, man!” Harper’s frustrated voice carried over the camp, and Sharpe nodded to himself.
        “That it was,” he said quietly. The reason for his march here, the kidnap of a girl, the revenge of a sister, the orders of a General. But in the end, it had been burnt along with all the other precious volumes from some library in a far-flung village in a lost corner of beautiful Spain. He wondered if Wellington would be upset when he got word to him that he’d destroyed it.
        The slight breeze ruffled his hair, pushed at his tunic, and reminded him he had Things To Do, one of them being to find a fresh shirt. The nights were indeed drawing in, and summer was fading. He looked at his bruised fingers, flexing them and shaking his head.
        Well then, he thought, best get Harris to scribble a note for Wellington, tell him his book’s lost. He paused. His book? he asked himself.
        No – from the day the General had ordered him out, from the moment Charlotte Berry had demanded it in return for Marjorie, from the moment he’d ripped out the first page to create tapers for the guns, it hadn’t been the General’s book at all.
        It had been Sharpe’s book.

THE END

Historical Note:
None of this really happened. I made it all up. There is no village of Venganza. There is a Hardwick Hall, but it has nowt to do with a family called 'Hardwick'.
No spirited young ladies from the north of England were harmed during the writing of this fan-fic. However, certain other young ladies will not be renewing their subscription to "Evil Wenches Monthly".

~ The Mardy Bum,
26th August, 2006.
Hong Kong S.A.R.