“Don’t move” Sharpe said, and hauled back the pistol’s cock. “No, monsieur!
Please!” the man said. The wheels of the upset cart were still turning. “I do hate dragoons,” Sharpe said, walking up to the man. “Should have killed you all when I had the chance.” He dragged the man free of the thorns, then cracked the pistol barrel over his skull to drive him down to the ground. He took that man’s pistol and found the third on the unconscious man. “Three dragoons against one rifleman,” Sharpe said, “no wonder we won the bloody war.
Lebecque! Stop croaking like a bloody frog and come here.” It took 15 minutes for the unconscious man to revive, and when he came to his senses he found his hands were tied behind his back and a vengeful Englishman was standing over him with a knife. “No, monsieur!” he pleaded. “Shut up,” Sharpe said, and get up.” He had found the knife in Lebecque’s pocket and had used it to cut the horses’ reins into short lengths with which he had tied all three men’s hands.
Now he kicked the three onto their feet and back up the hill towards the village. The snow was falling more heavily now, settling on the hedgerows and in the ruts of the road. It was mid-morning, but the clouds had turned the day into dusk. So far, Sharpe thought, so good. He had freed himself and defeated half of Challon’s small force, but that had been the easy part for a soldier like Sharpe. Now came the hard part. For now, instead of dealing with enemies, he had to make some friends.
THE goose that should have been Sharpe’s Christmas dinner was now roasting in the oven, though the bird would take some hours to cook and Challon was too hungry to wait, and so Lucille was frying eggs and bacon to feed the sergeant and one of his two dragoons who had stayed in the farm. The second dragoon was keeping guard in the gate-tower from where he could see both bridges across the chateau’s moat, while Lorcet declared he did not like eggs and was content to breakfast on bread and an apple. Sergeant Challon walked up behind Lucille.
“So why are you married to an Englishman?” he asked. “I’m not married,”
Lucille said, spooning hot fat onto the eggs. “A Frenchman isn’t good enough for you, eh?” Lucille shrugged. Lorcet was seated at the table where he was trying to decipher Sharpe’s account books. “Leave her alone.” he told Challon.
The big man ignored the lawyer. “So what’s wrong with a Frenchman?” he demanded of Lucille. “The Englishman came here,” Lucille said, “as simple as that.” Challon put his arms around Lucille’s waist. She stiffened. “I think you’re a traitor to France,” the sergeant said, then slid one hand up to a breast. He smiled, then yelled and leaped away from the stove. “Bitch!” he snarled, clasping the hand where Lucille had spooned steaming fat onto his skin.
HE LET go of the wounded hand so that he could hit Lucille, then went very still as he saw she was poised to throw the whole pan of eggs, bacon and fat into his face. “Sit-down, Sergeant,” Lorcet said tiredly, “and leave her alone. You have more apples, Madame?” “In the larder behind you,” Lucille said, then carried the pan to the table where she tipped eggs and bacon onto one of the plates, but paused before giving any to Challon. “You owe me an apology, Sergeant,” she said. He was about to curse her, then saw that the pan was poised over his groin. “I apologise, Madame,” he said grudgingly. Lucille tipped the rest of the food onto his plate. “Bon appetite,” she said sweetly.
“So why are you with an Englishman?” the lawyer asked. “I told you. He came here one day. He stayed.” “You let him stay,” Lorcet corrected her. “True.”
“An Englishman has no business in France,” Lorcet said. “His business,”
Lucille said, “is mending the mill, rearing lambs, raising cattle and tending the orchards.” “There are Frenchmen who could do that,” Lorcet said, “and who should do that. There’s no work, Madame. These men” he indicated the two dragoons who were eating as though they had not seen food in a month, “fought for France. They bled, they burned, they starved, they thirsted, and came home to what? To a fat king on a fat throne and to rich folk in carriages, while they have nothing. Nothing!” “So you let them steal?” “Your Englishman stole our gold,” Lorcet said. “I come merely to restore the gold to its rightful owners.” He twisted and peered at the window. “Is it still snowing?” “Harder than ever,” Lucille said. “Then pray your Englishman does not get stuck in a drift,” Lorcet said. “If I were you, Maitre,” Lucille said, “I would pray that he does get stuck.” The lawyer frowned at her with incomprehension, and Lucille smiled. “Because if he is stopped by the snow,” she explained, “he won’t come back here. And then you might live.” “You terrify us,” Sergeant Challon sneered at her. “You sent only three men with him,” Lucille said calmly, then made the sign of the cross, “May their souls rest in peace. But worry not, Sergeant. He will come back.” A gust of wind rattled the door and Challon whipped round, his hand going to Sharpe’s rifle that he had adopted as his own weapon. Lucille smiled at his alarm, then picked up some sewing. “My rifleman will come back, Sergeant,” she said, “I promise you that. He will come back.”