Two Riflemen crowded in behind Sharpe, curious, and he turned on them. ‘Get out! There’s a fight! Join it!’
Madame Dubreton frowned. ‘Major? Major Sharpe, is it?’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘You mean?’ She was still frowning, still disbelieving.
‘Yes, Ma’am. This is a rescue, Ma’am.’ He wanted to leave them, to go back and see how his men were faring, but he knew these women must be terrified. One of them was sobbing hysterically, staring at his uniform, and Madame Dubreton snapped at her in French. Sharpe tried a smile to lessen their shock. ‘You will be returned to your husbands, Ma’am. I’d be grateful if you would translate that for me. And if you’d excuse me?’
‘Of course.’ Madame Dubreton still looked as if she were in shock.
‘You are safe now, Ma’am. All of you.’
The woman whose face had been hidden in Madame Dubreton’s side pulled herself free. She had black hair, lustrous hair, and she pushed it away from her face as she turned hesitatingly towards Sharpe.
Madame Dubreton helped her upright. ‘Major Sharpe? This is Lady Farthingdale.’
Lucky Farthingdale was the thought of a half second, then utter disbelief, and the girl with the black hair saw Sharpe, her eyes widened, and then she screamed. Not in terror, but in some kind ofjoy, and she leaped across the room, running to him, and her arms were about his neck, her face pressed against his bloodied cheek, and her voice in his ear. ‘Richard!. Richard! Richard!’
Sharpe caught Madame Dubreton’s eyes and he half smiled. ‘We’ve met, Ma’am.’
‘So I see.’
‘Richard! God, Richard! You? I knew you’d come!’ She pulled back from him, keeping her arms about his neck, and her mouth was as hopelessly generous as he had ever remembered, and her eyes as tempting as a man could want, and even this ordeal had not taken the mischief from her face. ‘Richard?’
‘I have to go and fight a battle.’ The noise was loud outside, orders and shots, screams and the clash of steel.
‘You’re here?’
He wiped at the blood on her cheek. ‘I’m here.’ He pulled her arms from about his neck. ‘Wait here. I’ll be back.’ She nodded, eyes bright, and he grinned at her. ‘I’ll be back.’
God in his heaven! He had not seen her for two years, but here she was, as beautiful as ever, the high-class whore who had at last become a Lady. Josefina.
CHAPTER 9
He left one man guarding the hostages. Two each stood post in the passageways, the rest protected the stairway and the entrance to the gallery through the windows opening to the cloister. Smoke already clotted the gallery, Riflemen were slamming ramrods into fired barrels, others crouched waiting for a target. Harper was reloading the seven-barrelled gun. He looked up at Sharpe, grinned quickly, and held up four fingers. Sharpe raised his voice.
‘We’ve got the women, lads!’
They cheered, and Sharpe made a swift count. All his men were there, all seemingly unwounded. He watched a Rifleman bring his gun into his shoulder, aim swiftly, and a bullet spun into the cloister. There was a yelp from the far side, then a ragged volley of muskets, the balls going high. One struck an iron ring, suspended as a chandelier, old and rusty on its chains, and the four yellow candles fluttered as the ball struck. Sharpe moved to the stairhead.
Three bodies lay on the stairs, thrown back by rifle fire. The German Sergeant, Rossner, his face blackened by the powder from his rifle pan, looked happily at Sharpe. ‘They run, sir.’
They did, too. The deserters and their women were screaming and shouting, pushing and scrambling, going into the courtyard of the cloister. Sharpe looked for Hakeswill, but the big man in his priest’s vestments had disappeared in the crush. Rossner gestured with his rifle down the stairs. ‘We go down, sir?’
‘No.’ Sharpe was worried about Frederickson’s men. He would rather that the main force of Riflemen found the advance party concentrated, so that no one shot a man of his own side in the confusion and the shadows. He went back to the windows where Harper waited hopefully with the big gun reloaded. ‘Frederickson?’