FROM the wood’s edge he could just see the roof of the farmhouse a mile away.
The Chateau Lassan, it was called, a castle, only it was not really a castle.
The farmyard’s gate was still an old castellated tower, and at one time, inside the circling moat, there had been a small stronghold where the Vicomte of Seleglise had lorded it over a dozen villages, but the castle had crumbled and all that was left was a chapel, barn, dairy, stables, the watermill and the big farmhouse where Sharpe had found Lucille. Lucille and happiness, he thought, except that a man could not live among a people who dismissed him as an enemy. He did not want to leave Normandy, and he knew Lucille would hate to go from the land that had been in her family for 800 years, but if the village did not accept him, then Sharpe knew he would have to surrender. Go back to England, he thought, and make a life there. But what life? He could not afford any land in England, not unless Lucille sold the chateau, and that would break her heart. It would break his heart, Sharpe thought, for he was learning to love this patch of stubborn Norman earth.
A group of six or seven people appeared on the road above the farm and Sharpe frowned in puzzlement. There was little enough traffic on that road at any time, let alone on a cold winter’s dawn. Then he wondered if they were hurrying to beat the snow and, glancing up at the heavy airy, he reckoned they might indeed be in for a blizzard. The small group vanished beneath the opposite crest and Sharpe waited for them to reappear where the road crossed the stream at the valley’s end. A cockerel crowed, and Sharpe looked to the east to see that the sun was rimming the layers of grey cloud with livid red.
Like blood seeping through bandages, he thought, and that image made him close his eyes. He still woke in the nights, shuddering with memories of blood and battles, but he consoled himself that it was all behind him now. He had Lucille, he had a son and, given time, he might even find happiness in this land of his erstwhile enemies. A rabbit thumped in warning, Nosey growled softly and Sharpe opened his eyes, slid the gun forward and waited.
LUCILLE fed Patrick his breakfast. “Almost two years old!” She told the child, tickling under his chin. “Big for his age” their housekeeper Marie said. “He’ll grow up to be a soldier like his father.” “I hope not,” Lucille said, crossing herself “Where’s papa?” Patrick wanted to know. “Shooting foxes,” Lucille said, spooning porridge into her son’s mouth. “Bang,” Patrick said, spraying the porridge over the table. “Patrick Lassan!” Lucille said reprovingly.
“Lassan?” Marie asked. “Not Castineau? Not Sharpe?” “Lassan,” Lucille said firmly. Lucille’s maiden name had been Lassan, then she had married a cavalry officer called Castineau who had died for France in the horrors of Russia, and now she lived with Sharpe, and the village, who rightly suspected that Lucille and her Enlishman were not married, never quite knew whether to call her Madame Lassan, Madame Castineau or Madame Sharpe. Lucille did not care what she was called, but she was determined that her family name would go on to the next generation and Patrick Lassan would see to that.
SHE JUMPED, startled, as the old bell clanged in the courtyard to announce that someone was at the main gate. “Who would call so early?” Lucille asked.
“The priest?” Marie suggested, taking a shawl from the hook behind the door.
“He might be wanting his firewood.” She draped the shawl over her thin shoulders. “Early or not, Madame, he’ll want a glass of brandy.” She went out into the yard, letting in a gust of freezing air. “Bang,” Patrick said again, reckoning that the sight of splattering porridge was worth the risk of a cuff about the ear, but Lucille was too distracted to notice. It was unlike Father Defoy to be up so early, she thought, and an instinct made her cross to the hearth where she reached for the rifle, then she realised the weapon was gone.