Not that I am a drunk, of course.” “I have brandy,” Sharpe said, then watched as Malan fetched a length of rope from a pocket of his guardsman’s coat. “I’l1 go first,” Sharpe said. “You’ll follow me!” Malan insisted, as he tossed the rope to loop it over the projecting stone. “I have done this before. You hold the musket.” Malan was surprisingly nimble for a big man, though he was breathless by the time he reached the chapel roof. “I used to be able to do that in seconds,” he grumbled. “I thought you only did it once?” “Mademoiselle Lucille only saw me once,” Malan confessed. “Give me the musket barrel, monsieur, and I’11 pull you up.” He caught hold of the barrel and, with an enviable ease, hauled Sharpe up on to the roof. “Now what?” he asked. “The window,” Sharpe said, pointing to the small, blackened panes of the old attic window that was set into the higher gable next to the roof on which they were precariously perched. “Break it in.” “They’ll hear us!” “The choirs are singing fit to burst their lungs,” Sharpe said. “Break it in. It’ll be something else for you to mend.” “And what makes you think I’11 be working for you, Englishman?” “Because I’11 pay you, because you like Lucille and you’d rather work for a soldier than sweat for some bastard who stayed at home while you went to war.” Malan grunted, but said nothing in response. Instead he used the musket’s butt to push in the window panes, then he snapped out the old rotten mullions and struggled through into the attic. Sharpe followed him, relieved to be out of the snow. “Now follow me,” he whispered, “and go gently!
This place is full of rubbish.” It took a few moments to edge through the dusty, dark clutter, but at last Sharpe pushed the stuffed pike aside and crouched beside the old hatch. He put an ear to the wood, listened for a second, then angrily pulled the pistol from his coat pocket. “Let’s go to war,” he told Malan, then shoved the hatch open.
LUCILLE screamed when Sergeant Challon shoved her down on to the bed. She had thought she would be safe now the villagers were outside the chateau. She suspected Richard had somehow persuaded them to be there, though what else he might have arranged she did not know, but now she feared she would never find out for Sergeant Challon had pursued her upstairs and dragged her into the bedroom. “You burned me!” he had snarled at her, then struck her round the face with his wounded hand. Lucille screamed, then froze as Challon pointed his pistol between her eyes. He smiled when he saw her fear, then he tucked the pistol under his arm and began unbuckling his belt. “Boney gave us lots of practice with the ladies,” he said. “Italian skirts, Spanish skirts, Portuguese skirts, we hauled ’em all up. So get yourself ready. I ain’t a man who likes to be kept waiting.” The noise of the high hatch opening made Challon look up, but he had no time to pluck the pistol from under his arm before Sharpe’s boots raked down his face. Challon twisted away, falling under the impact, but before he could recover there was one hand stifling his mouth and another was holding a pistol at his neck. He was hauled to his feet and there, right in front of him, stood a sergeant of the Imperial Guard with a most unfriendly smile. “Hold him, Major,” Malan said.
Sharpe held Challon tight, Malan grinned, then kicked the dragoon between the legs. “Jesus!” Sharpe said in awe, as he let Challon fall. “He won’t walk for a month!” He grinned at Lucille. “Where’s Patrick?” “With Marie, next door, she gestured to the adjoining bedroom. Sharpe gave her a hand and helped her from the bed. “You know Monsieur Malan?”
“I am very glad to see you, Monsieur Malan,” Lucille said fervently. “What’s going on up there?” Maitre Lorcet shouted from the bottom of the stairs. He had heard the thump of Sharpe jumping on Challon, and the bigger thump as Malan followed. Sharpe opened the door.