Bernard Cornwell – 1807 09 Sharpe’s Prey

“Oh no,” the man said unhelpfully.

“Are you Mister Skovgaard?”

There was a pause. “You are English?” the man asked cautiously.

“I need to see Mister Skovgaard.”

“It is too late!” the man said disapprovingly, ignoring the lingering light in the summer sky.

Sharpe swore under his breath. “Is Mister Skovgaard there?”

“You will wait there, please.” The window slammed down, there were footsteps on the stairs and, a moment later, the door was laboriously unbolted and unlocked. It opened to reveal a tall and lugubrious young man with long light-brown hair and a palely anxious face. “You are English?” the man asked.

“Are you Ole Skovgaard?”

“Oh no! No!” The young man frowned. “I am Aksel Bang. I am Mister Skovgaard’s overseer. Is that the word? I dwell here now. Mister Skovgaard has moved to Vester Filled.”

“Where’s that?” Sharpe asked.

“Vester Faslled is not far, it is not far. It is where the city is growing.” Bang frowned at the mud and hay on Sharpe’s clothes. “You are English?”

“My name’s Sharpe. Richard Sharpe.”

Bang ignored the introduction. “Mister Skovgaard insists the English are taken to him. It is his rule, you understand? I need a coat and then I shall take you to Vester Faslled. You will tarry here, please.” He vanished down the hallway and returned a moment later with a coat and a wide-brimmed hat. “Mister Skovgaard did dwell here,” he explained as he shut and carefully locked the door, “but he has bought a house outside the city. He went from this place a month ago. Not so long, I think, but Vester Fselled is not so far. It is where the new houses are. Not five years ago it was all meadow, now it is houses. You have just come to Copenhagen perhaps?”

“Yes.”

“My English is not so good,” Bang said, “but I practice. You know how I practice? By reading the Scripture in English. That is good, I think. There is an English church here, did you know that?”

“No.”

“Is there a Danish church in London?”

Sharpe confessed ignorance. He was becoming increasingly nervous, for he knew he looked odd. His coat was filthy and his boots were caked with mud, but it was the saber that seemed to attract most glances of disapproval, so Sharpe hitched the scabbard up into his left armpit and so hid it under his coat. He had just done that when a man lurched from an alley and startled Sharpe by trying to embrace him. Aksel Bang hurried Sharpe on. “That man is a bibber of wine,” he said disapprovingly, “a drunkard. That is bad.”

“You’ve never been drunk?”

“I abhor liquor. It is the devil’s drink. I have never touched a drop and with God’s help I never will. Never! We have not so many drunkards in Copenhagen, but there are some.” He looked at Sharpe earnestly. “I trust you are born again into Christ Jesus?”

“I trust so too,” Sharpe growled, hoping that answer would deter Bang. Sharpe did not much care about his own soul at that moment, he was far more worried by the city gate that lay just ahead of them. He brushed hay off his coat and hitched the saber up again. The gate was inside the long tunnel that led through the thick walls and it was wide open, but there were men in blue uniforms standing in the light of two great lanterns suspended from the tunnel’s roof. Were they searching for Sharpe? It seemed likely, but Sharpe hoped they were only investigating the incoming traffic.

“God so loved the world,” Aksel Bang said, “that He sent His only Son. You have surely heard that piece of Scripture?”

The tunnel was very close now. A uniformed man with a bushy mustache and a shouldered musket came from the guardhouse, glanced at Bang and Sharpe, then struck flint on steel to light a pipe. He sucked on the flame and his eyes, reflecting the small fire, stared hard at Sharpe. “How do you say that verse in Danish?” Sharpe asked Bang.

“The sƒledes elskede Gud Verden, at han gav sin Som den enbƒrne,” Aksel Bang recited happily, “for at hver den, som tror pa ham, ikke skal fortahes, men have et evigt luv.” Sharpe tried not to look at the mustached guard, hoping that the sound of Danish would mislead the sentries. The saber scabbard was high at his side, awkwardly trapped beneath his coat by his left elbow. He kept his head down, pretending to be paying close attention to Bang’s fervent words. Their footsteps echoed under the arch. Sharpe smelt the tobacco as he walked past the guard. He felt conspicuous, sure that one of the men would reach out and take his elbow, but they were out of the gate tunnel and crossing a wide-open area that lay between the walls and the canal-like lakes that protected the city’s landward ramparts. Sharpe sighed with relief.

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