The castle church had been used as an ammunition store. As the wagons made space in the big courtyard, squads of infantry began carrying shells and canister from the church towards the keep. Sharpe, with nothing else to do, watched.
After an hour the shells were no longer being carried into the keep, but instead were being piled in the courtyard. Pile after pile was made, starting by the keep door and working slowly down the courtyard towards him. He wondered if this was a punishment detail, forced to do one of the pointless chores that all armies gave their defaulters, but then, curiously, he saw French engineer officers running white fuses to each of the conical heaps, fuses that led back into the keep.
He realised suddenly that the French must be abandoning Burgos, that they were blowing the castle apart rather than delivering such a fortress intact to their enemies, yet it struck him as odd that they should go to the trouble of piling the shells in the courtyard instead of blowing them in one great mass in the magazine. Then, hearing footsteps on the stairs, he turned from the window and forgot the strange piles of ammunition.
He made sure the sword was within reach. He was half expecting Ducos to return and finish what he had begun, but it was a smiling French lancer who opened the door. On the man’s arm, incongruously, hung a basket covered with a linen cloth.
More such men came, men who arranged food and wine on the table in Sharpe’s room. None spoke English. They finished their job, left, then Sharpe heard her voice on the stairs. It was La Marquesa, looking as if she had bathed in dew and sipped ambrosia, her eyes bright, her smile welcoming, and her concern about his battered, blood-marked face oddly touching. With her was the tall, dark figure of General Verigny, while behind came another French officer, a plump Major called Montbrun who spoke fluent English and trusted that Major Sharpe was not in any great pain?
Sharpe assured him he was not. Major Montbrun nevertheless hoped that Major Sharpe would realise that his treatment at the hands of Sergeant Lavin had not been worthy of the great French army, and that Major Sharpe would forgive it, and offer Major Montbrun the pleasure of joining him in a small, light luncheon?
Major Sharpe would.
Major Montbrun knew that Major Sharpe had the honour of already knowing La Marquesa and the General. Montbrun explained that he was an aide to King Joseph himself, Napoleon’s brother who was the puppet King on the crumbling Spanish throne. Montbrun hoped that Major Sharpe would not take it amiss if he said that His Majesty King Joseph was flattered that so redoubtable an enemy as Major Sharpe should have been captured. Sharpe did not reply. La Marquesa smiled and brushed the crusted wound on Sharpe’s head with her fingertips. `Ducos is a pig.’
Montbrun frowned. `Major Ducos has explained what happened, my Lady. I’m sure we must believe him.’
`What did he say?’ Sharpe asked.
Montbrun held a chair for La Marquesa, then for Sharpe, then sat himself. `Major Ducos explained that Sergeant Lavin lost his temper. Most sad, of course. You’ll forgive us serving ourselves, Major Sharpe? I thought we might be more intimate without orderlies.’
`Of course. And how is Sergeant Lavin?’
Montbrun frowned, as though the subject was deeply distasteful. `He, of course, faces disciplinary charges. Can I suggest some of this cold soup? It’s most tasteful, I’m sure. May I have the honour of assisting you?’
He could. La Marquesa, dressed in lilac silk with a low, lace frilled neckline, smiled at him. Sharpe agreed with Montbrun that the spring had been wet, and that this summer had more rain than most in Spain. He agreed that the soup, a gazpacho, was delicious. Montbrun wondered if there was too much garlic for his taste, but Sharpe assured him there could not be too much garlic in anything for his taste, and Montbrun agreed how wise that view was.
Verigny grinned. His moustache was stained with the soup. `I think you demi kill that mignon Lavin, yes?’ He looked at La Marquesa. `mignon?’