“English travellers, sir.”
“And these are their books?” De l’Eclin gestured at two muddy Spanish testaments which lay on the upturned barrel. The French had clearly been curious about the spilt books, a curiosity which Sharpe tried to satisfy. “They’re Methodist missionaries, sir, trying to turn Spain from the Papacy.”
De l’Eclin inspected Sharpe for evidence of levity, found none, and burst into laughter. “They’ve as much hope, Lieutenant, of turning tigers into cows! What strange people it is a soldier’s privilege to meet. Do I have your word that these Methodists have not carried weapons?”
Sharpe conveniently forgot Louisa’s small pistol. “You have, sir.”
“You can send them out. God knows what we’ll make of them, but we won’t shoot them.”
“Thank you, sir.” Sharpe turned to go.
“But don’t leave me yet, Lieutenant. I’d like to talk to you.” De l’Eclin saw the flicker of worry on Sharpe’s face, and shook his head. “I won’t keep you against your will, Lieutenant. I do respect flags of truce.”
Sharpe went to the barn door and shouted to the farmhouse that the Parker family could leave. He also suggested that the three Spaniards in the farm might take this chance to escape, but it seemed none of them wanted to risk French hospitality, for only the Parker family emerged from the besieged house. Mrs Parker was the first to appear, stumping through the mud and rain with her umbrella carried like a weapon. “Dear God,” de l’Eclin murmured behind Sharpe. “Why don’t you recruit her?”
George Parker stepped hesitantly into the rain, then Louisa emerged and de l’Eclin breathed a sigh of appreciation. “It seems we have to thank you.”
“You might not, sir, when you meet the aunt.”
“I don’t intend to bed the aunt.” De l’Eclin ordered a Captain to take care of the civilians, then drew Sharpe back into the barn. “So, my Rifle Lieutenant, what do you plan to do now?”
Sharpe ignored the patronizing tone and pretended incomprehension. “Sir?”
“Let me tell you your plans.” The tall Frenchman, whose pelisse hung so elegantly from his right shoulder, paced up and down the barn. “You’ve succeeded in loopholing the end walls of the farm’s upstairs room, which means I cannot surprise you until it is dark. A night attack might succeed, but it will be risky, especially as you will doubtless have a stock of combustibles inside the house with which you plan to illuminate the exterior.” He cocked an amused eye to catch a reaction from the Rifleman, but Sharpe betrayed nothing. De l’Eclin paused to refill Sharpe’s cup. “I suspect you feel you can survive at least one more attack and you also gauge that, once that attack fails, I will wait for first light. So, at about two or three in the morning, when my men are at their weariest, you will make a sally. I imagine you’ll head west, because there’s a gully of brushwood just a hundred paces away. Once there you will be relatively safe, and there are woodland paths up to the hills.” De l’Eclin had begun his pacing again, but now swivelled back to stare at Sharpe. “Am I right?”
The chasseur had been entirely, utterly accurate. Sharpe had not known about the gully, though he would have seen it from the hole in the roof and would undoubtedly have chosen to make his attack in that direction.
“Well?” de l’Eclin insisted.
“I was planning something different,” Sharpe said.
“Oh?” The chasseur was exquisitely polite.
“I was planning to capture your men and do to them what they did to those Spanish villagers in the highlands.”
“Rape them?” de l’Eclin suggested, then laughed. “Some of them might even enjoy that, but I assure you that most will resist your bestial, though doubtless very English, lusts.”
Sharpe, made to feel extremely foolish by the Frenchman’s poise, said nothing. He also felt unbearably ragged. His jacket was torn and blood-stained, he was hatless, his trousers were gaping because of the missing silver buttons and his cheap boots were in shreds. De l’Eclin, in contrast, was exquisitely uniformed. The chasseur wore a tight red dolman jacket with loops and buttons of gold. Over it hung his scarlet pelisse; a garment of utter uselessness but high fashion for cavalrymen. A pelisse was merely a jacket that was worn on one shoulder like a cloak. Decorated with golden braid, de l’Eclin’s was fastened about his neck with a golden chain, and edged with soft black lamb’s fleece. Its empty sleeves hung down to the gold-coloured chains of his sabre slings. The inner legs and lower cuffs of his dark green overalls had been reinforced with black leather to resist the chafing of a saddle, while their outer seams were red stripes brightened with golden buttons. His tall boots were of soft black leather. Sharpe wondered how much such a uniform cost, and knew it was probably more than his salary for a year.