‘Sir?’
‘Four men to put Private Hakeswill into the dungeon! I want him tied up there!’
‘Yes, sir!’
The courtyard seemed to relax. Only Hakeswill, misshapen and naked, was tense with anger and hate. Riflemen pulled him away, the same Riflemen he had stripped of their greenjackets before the assault on Badajoz.
Dubreton gathered his reins. ‘I think, perhaps, you should have killed him.’
‘Perhaps, sir.’
Dubreton smiled. ‘On the other hand we have not killed Pot-au-Feu. He’s hard at work preparing your dinner.’
‘I look forward to it, sir.’
‘You should! You should! French cooks, Major Sharpe, have secrets. You, I’m sure, have none.’ He glanced at the stables, smiled, then raised a hand to Sir Augustus before turning his horse. `Au revoir!’
The sparks were brighter as the French accelerated through the gateway of the Castle. Sharpe looked at the stables. Six men, all in artillery uniform, stood gaping in the doorway. He swore at them, had a Sergeant take their names, and hoped that Dubreton had drawn no conclusions other than that Sharpe was hiding some guns. Tomorrow would reveal all.
It was nightfall, Christmas Day, in the Castle of the Virgin.
CHAPTER 16
German voices, singing carols, faded behind them as they rode horses slowly towards the village. Eight officers and Josefina were dining with the French.
The torches that illuminated the village street flamed inside soft haloes. There was a night mist. Sir Augustus was in a playful mood, a heavy playfulness, perhaps because Josefina was looking as sultry and beautiful as artifice could make her. He looked across her at Sharpe. ‘Perhaps they’ll serve you frog’s legs, Sharpe!’
‘One can only hope, sir.’
There would be a hard frost tonight. To the south and overhead the stars were visible through the fine mist, Christmas stars, but the northern sky was dark, spreading south, and Sharpe could smell bad weather in the air. Pray God it would not be snow. He did not relish struggling from the Gateway of God, guarding the British, Portuguese and Spanish prisoners who were crammed into the Castle’s dungeon, struggling with them and Gilliland’s carts down the snow covered pass. Then, he thought, they might not be leaving in the morning. It depended on the French and their plans.
Dubreton waited for them at the door of the inn. It was a large building, far too large for such a tiny village, yet once it had served as a house for travelling men who crossed the Sierra and wanted to avoid the tolls of the southern road. The war had dulled trade, but still the building looked inviting and warm. A tricolour hung from an upstairs window, lit by two straw and resin torches, while unarmed soldiers came forward to take the horses. Farthingdale left the introductions to Sharpe. Four Captains, including Brooker and Cross, and two Lieutenants including Harry Price.
Once inside, Dubreton conducted Josefina to the room where the Frenchwomen prepared themselves. Sharpe heard delighted voices greeting their former companion in misfortune, and then he smiled as he saw the trouble that had been taken for the meal.
All the inn’s tables had been pushed together, making one great table covered in white cloths, and tall candles showed more than two dozen place settings. Forks, as Hagman had feared, gleamed silver beneath the flames. Wine bottles stood open on a sideboard, ranks of them, a whole Battalion of wine, while bread, hard crusted, waited in baskets on the table. A fire burned in the hearth, its warmth already reaching to the inn’s main door.
An orderly took Sharpe’s greatcoat, another brought a great bowl from which steam arose and Dubreton ladled out glasses of punch. A dozen French officers waited in the room, their smiles welcoming, their eyes curious to see their enemy so close. Dubreton waited till the orderly had passed the punch around. ‘I wish you gentlemen a happy Christmas!’
‘A happy Christmas!’
There was a smell from the inn’s kitchens that could have been a foretaste of paradise.
Farthingdale raised his glass. ‘To a gallant enemy!’ He repeated it in French.
‘To a gallant enemy!’
Sharpe drank and his eye was caught by a French officer who, unlike the others, was not dressed as either an infantryman, a Lancer, or a Dragoon. His uniform was plain blue, very dark, without a single badge of rank or unit mark. He wore spectacles, wire bound, and his face showed the ravages of childhood smallpox. The eyes, small and dark like the man himself, caught Sharpe’s and there was none of the friendliness that the other officers showed.