God damn it, but the sun made it impossible. Sharpe made a slit with his fingers and peered through and he thought he saw the shapes riding on the valley’s side, but he could not be certain. ‘How many?’
One of Cross’s Sergeants guessed three, another man four, but when Sharpe looked again the shapes had gone. They had been there, but not now. Pot-au-Feu’s men? Scouting an eastward retreat? It was possible. Some of the prisoners had spoken of raiding Partisans, seeking vengeance for Adrados, and that was possible too.
Sharpe stayed on the roof because of the horsemen, but the dawn showed no more movement in the east. Behind him there were warning shouts as men carried bowls of hot water from the makeshift kitchens. The men not on guard started shaving, wishing each other a Happy Christmas, teasing the women who had elected to join their conquerors and who now mixed with the Riflemen as if they had always belonged. This morning was a fine morning for a soldier. Only the detail who had to climb the hill to fetch the packs from the gully were grumbling about work.
Sharpe turned to see them leave and was intrigued by a strange sight in the courtyard of the upper cloister. A group of Riflemen were tying strips of white cloth to the bare hornbeam that had broken through the tiles. They were in fine spirits, laughing and playful, and one man was hoisted piggy-back onto a comrade’s shoulders so he could put an especially large ribbon on the topmost twig. Metal glinted on the bare twigs, buttons perhaps, cut from captured uniforms, and Sharpe did not understand it. He went down the narrow ramp and beckoned Cross to him. ‘What are they doing?’
‘They’re Germans, sir.’ Cross gave the explanation as if it answered all Sharpe’s puzzlement.
‘So? What are they doing?’
Cross was no Frederickson. He was slower, less intelligent, and far more fearful of responsibility. Yet he was fiercely protective towards his men and now he seemed to think that Sharpe disapproved of the oddly decorated tree. ‘It’s a German custom, sir. It’s harmless.’
‘I’m sure it’s harmless! But what the devil are they doing?’
Cross frowned. ‘Well it’s Christmas, sir! They always do it at Christmas.’
‘They tie white ribbons on trees every Christmas?’
‘Not just that, sir. Anything. They usually like an evergreen, sir, and they put it in their billet and decorate it. Small presents, carved angels, all kinds of things.’
‘Why?’ Sharpe still watched them, as did men of his own Company, who had not seen anything like it.
It seemed that Cross had never thought to ask why, but Frederickson had come into the upper cloister and heard Sharpe’s question. ‘Pagan, sir. It’s because the old German Gods were all forest Gods. This is part of the winter solstice.’
‘You mean they’re worshipping the old Gods?’
Frederickson nodded. ‘You never know who’s in charge up there, do you?’ He grinned. ‘The priests say that the tree represents the one on which Christ will be crucified, but that’s bloody nonsense. This is just a good old-fashioned offering to the old Gods. They’ve been doing it since before the Romans.’
Sharpe looked at the tree. ‘I like it. It looks good. What happens next? Do we sacrifice a virgin?’
He had spoken loud enough for the men to hear him, to laugh, and they were pathetically pleased because Major Sharpe had liked their tree and had made a joke. Frederickson watched Sharpe go into the inner cloister and the one-eyed Captain knew what Sharpe did not know; he knew why these men had fought last night instead of deserting to their comfortable, lascivious enemy. They were proud to fight for Sharpe. It made a man good to match up to high standards, and when those standards led to victory and approval then the men would follow always. God help the British army, Frederickson thought, if the officers ever despised the men.
Sharpe was tired, cold, and he had not shaved. He walked slowly around the upper cloister, down the stairs, and found the large, chill room where Frederickson had put the naked prisoners. Three Riflemen guarded them and Sharpe nodded to a Corporal. ‘Any trouble?’