“You have a name?”
“Richard Sharpe, Ma’am, Sergeant Richard Sharpe, King’s 33rd.”
“Richard,” she said, trying it out, ‘it suits you. Richard the Lion Heart yes?”
“He was a great one for fighting, Ma’am.”
“For fighting the French, Sergeant,” she said reprovingly.
“Someone has to,” Sharpe said with a grin, and Simone Joubert laughed and at that moment Sharpe thought she was the prettiest girl he had seen in years. Maybe not really pretty, but vivacious and blue eyed and golden-haired and smiling. But an officer’s woman, Sharpe told himself, an officer’s woman.
“You must not fight the French, Sergeant,” Simone said.
“I won’t let you.”
“If it looks like it’s going to happen, Ma’am, then I’ll let you know and you’ll have to hold me down.”
She laughed again, then sighed. A fire had broken out not far away and scraps of burning thatch were floating in the warm air.
One of the smuts landed on Simone’s white dress and she brushed at it, smearing the black ash into the weave.
“They have taken everything,” she said sadly.
“I had little enough, but it is gone. All my clothes! All!”
“Then you get more,” Sharpe said.
“What with? This?” She showed him a tiny purse hanging from her waist.
“What will happen to me, Sergeant?”
“You’ll be all right, Ma’am. You’ll be looked after. You’re an officer’s wife, aren’t you? So our officers will make sure you’re all right. They’ll probably send you back to your husband.”
Simone gave him a dutiful smile and Sharpe wondered why she was not overjoyed at the thought of being reunited with her captain, then he forgot the question as a ragged volley of shots sounded in the street and he turned to see an Arab staggering in the gateway, his robes bright with blood, and an instant later a half-dozen Highlanders leaped onto the twitching body and began to tear its clothing apart. One of them slit the victim’s robes with his bayonet and Sharpe saw that the dying man had a fine pair of riding boots.
“There’s a woman!” one of the looters shouted, seeing Simone in the courtyard, but then he saw Sharpe’s levelled musket and he raised a placatory hand.
“All yours, eh? No trouble, Sergeant, no trouble.” Then the man twisted to look down the street and shouted a warning to his comrades and the six men took to their heels. A moment later a file of sepoys showed in the gateway under the command of a mounted officer. They were the first disciplined troops Sharpe had seen in the city and they were restoring order. The officer peered into the courtyard, saw nothing amiss, and so ordered his men onwards. A half company of kilted redcoats followed the sepoys and Sharpe assumed that Wellesley had ordered the picquets of the day into the city. The picquets, who provided the sentries for the army, were made up of half companies from every battalion.
There was a well in the corner of the yard and Sharpe hauled up its leather bucket to give himself and Simone a drink. He brought up more water for the Frenchwoman’s horse, and just then heard McCandless shouting his name through the streets.
“Here, sir!” he called back.
“Here!”
It took a moment or two for McCandless to find him, and when he did the Scotsman was furious.
“Where were you, man?” the Colonel demanded querulously.
“He got away! Clean away! Marched away like a toy soldier!” He had remounted his gelding and stared imperiously down on Sharpe from his saddle.
“Got clean away!”
“Couldn’t find men, sir, sorry, sir,” Sharpe said.
“Just one company! That’s all we needed!” McCandless said angrily, then he noticed Simone Joubert and snatched off his hat.
“Ma’am,” he said, nodding his head.
“This is Colonel McCandless, Ma’am,” Sharpe made the introduction.
“And this is Simone, sir.” He could not recall her surname.
“Madame Joubert,” Simone introduced herself.
McCandless scowled at her. He had ever been awkward in the presence of women, and he had nothing to say to this young woman so he just glowered at Sharpe instead.
“All I needed was one company, Sharpe. One company!”
“He was rescuing me, Colonel,” Simone said.