Hakeswill laughed, shuffled sideways down the balustrade. ‘Now, I’ll show you one bitch and you can talk to her. But!’ His finger pointed again at the brazier. ‘Remember the spikes. I’ll carve a bloody letter on her if you ask her where we keep her. Understand? You don’t know which bloody building they’re locked in, do you? And you’d like to know, wouldn’t you? So don’t bloody ask or else I’ll mark one of the pretties. You understand?’
Both officers nodded. Hakeswill turned and waved at a man who stood in the courtyard close to where the first woman had been dragged away. The man turned, called to someone behind him.
Sharpe sensed Dubreton stiffen as a woman was brought into the courtyard. She was dressed in a long black cloak and she stepped delicately over the broken canals. Two men guarded her, both with bayonets. Her hair, golden and wispy, was piled loosely on her head.
Hakeswill was watching the two officers. ‘Chose this one special for you. Chatters away in French and English. Would you believe she’s English and married to a Froggie?’ He laughed.
The woman was stopped in the centre of the courtyard and one of the soldiers nudged her, pointed upwards, and she looked at the balcony. She gave no sign of recognizing her husband, nor he of her, and Sharpe knew that both were proud people who would not give her captors the satisfaction of knowing anything about her.
Hakeswill sidled back towards the officers. ‘Go on, then! Talk!’
‘Madame.’ Dubreton’s voice was gentle.
‘Monsieur.’ She was probably, Sharpe thought, a beautiful woman, but her face was in shadow, was marked by tiredness, and the strain of captivity had deepened the lines either side of her mouth. She was thin, like her husband, and her voice, as they spoke, was dignified and controlled. One of the soldiers guarding her was French and he listened to the conversation.
Hakeswill was bored. ‘In English! English!’ Dubreton looked at Sharpe, back to this wife. ‘I have the honour to introduce Major Richard Sharpe, Madame. He is of the English army.’
Sharpe bowed, saw her incline her head in acknowledgement, but her words were drowned by a great cackle from Hakeswill. ‘Major! They made you a bleeding Major, Sharpy? Christ on the cross! They must be bloody desperate! Major!’ Sharpe had not put a Major’s stars on his shoulders; Hakeswill had not known till this minute.
Madame Dubreton looked at Sharpe. ‘Lady Farthingdale will be pleased to know you were here, Major.’
‘Please pass on her husband’s solicitations, Ma’am. I trust she, and all of you, are well.’ Hakeswill was listening, grinning. Sharpe desperately searched in his head for some form of words, any form of words, that might hint to this woman that she must give some indication of where the hostages were kept. He was determined that he would avenge this day’s insults, that he would rescue this woman and the other women, but Hakeswill had been right. If he did not know in which building they were kept, then he was helpless. Yet he could not think of anything that he could say which would not sound suspicious, which would not provoke Hakeswill into ordering the branding of Dubreton’s wife.
She nodded slowly. ‘We are well, Major, and we have not been hurt.’
‘I’m pleased to hear that, Ma’am.’
Hakeswill leaned over the balustrade. ‘You’re happy here, aren’t you, dearie?’ He laughed. ‘Happy! Say you’re happy!’
She looked at him. ‘I am withering in my bloom, Colonel. Lost in solitary gloom.’
‘Ah!’ He grinned. ‘Doesn’t she speak nice!’ He turned to the officers. ‘Satisfied?’
‘No.’ Dubreton’s face was harsh.
‘Well I am.’ He waved at the soldiers. ‘Take her away!’
They turned her and, for the first time, her poise went. She pulled at her captors, twisted, and her voice was pleading and desperate. ‘I’m withering in my bloom!’
‘Take her away!’
Sharpe looked at Dubreton, but still his face was a mask showing no reaction to his wife’s distress. The Frenchman watched her until she was gone and then turned, wordlessly, towards the upper cloister.
Harper and Bigeard were standing together and their faces showed relief as their officers came back into the cloister. The door was shut behind them, the soldiers once more were arrayed against the western wall, and Pot-au-Feu, still in his chair, spoke in French to Dubreton. When he had finished he spooned more of the stew from the great earthenware pot.