“Lorcet? This Is Major Sharpe. I’ve got four of your men prisoner, I’ve got my wife back, I’ve got my child, and there never was any gold. And now I’m coming down the stairs and you can have a fight if you want one, but I’ve no mind to kill anyone at Christmas. Put the ruby on the table, Lorcet, and unlock the door. I’ve got a lot of guests coming for a Christmas drink, and I want you and your scum out of here.”
He dragged Challon down the stairs, then locked all the intruders inside the chapel. They could repent of their sins there until morning, when Sharpe would deal with them, but for now he had more important tasks. He had to light the fire in the big hall, for the folks who had been singing to hide the noise that Sharpe and Malan made breaking into the chateau were all chilled to the bone.
So he lit the fire and Jacques Malan went down to the cellar and hauled up dusty bottles that had been stored there since before the Revolution, and Sharpe, listening to the laughter, and wondering how Lucille had managed to find so much food in the house, reckoned he was staying in Normandy after all. It was Christmas 1816, he had neighbours at last, and he was safe at home.
The End