Читать книгу Sharpe 3-Book Collection 6: Sharpe’s Honour, Sharpe’s Regiment, Sharpe’s Siege - Bernard Cornwell - Страница 23

La Marquesa moaned, her eyes shut. She turned her head on the pillow, her lips open just enough for Sharpe to see her white teeth. The fire smoked into the room. Rain rattled a crisp tattoo on the tiny window through which, dim through the rain-smeared grime, Sharpe could see a candle burning in a cottage across the street.

‘Oh God, oh God, oh God.’ She paused, her head turning in its gold hair on the pillow again. ‘Oh God!’

He laughed. He poured wine for her and put it beside the bed. A tallow wick, held in an iron bracket, smoked above its dim flame. ‘Wine for you.’

‘Oh God.’

They had ridden till one horse had had to be abandoned, until even the two good British horses were heaving with tiredness, and until La Marquesa’s thighs, unused to the saddle, were rubbed raw like fresh meat. She opened her eyes slowly. ‘Aren’t you sore?’

‘A bit.’

‘I never want to see a bloody horse again. Oh Christ!’ She scratched her waist. ‘Bloody place. Bloody Spain. Bloody weather. What’s that?’

Sharpe had put a metal pot on the rough table. ‘Grease.’

‘For God’s sake why?’

‘For the sores. Rub it on.’

She wrinkled her nose, then scratched again. She was lying on the bed, too tired to move, too tired to take any notice as Sharpe had ordered the fire lit, food prepared and wine brought.

They had come to this town, a tiny place huddled in the mountains where there was a church, a marketplace, an inn, and a mayor who had been impressed that a British officer should come to this place. Sharpe, fearing El Matarife, would have preferred to have ridden on, to have found a place in the deep country where they could have hidden for the night, but he knew that La Marquesa could take no more. He would risk the town’s inn and hope that El Matarife, if he reached this far, would be inhibited by the townsfolk from trying to seize back La Marquesa. This was not the time, Sharpe thought, to tell her that he planned an early start in the morning.

She pushed herself up on her elbows and frowned about the room. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever, ever, stayed in a place so awful.’

‘It seems comfortable enough to me.’

‘You never did have elevated tastes, Richard. Except in women.’ She flopped back. ‘I suppose that hoping for a bath here is futile?’

‘It’s coming.’

‘It is?’ She turned her head to look at him. ‘God, you’re wonderful.’ She frowned again as she scratched. ‘This bloody shift! I hate wearing wool.’

Sharpe had hung the dress she had rescued from the convent by the fire. Her jewels were on the table. She looked at the dress. ‘Not very suitable for a wild flight, is it?’ She laughed and watched Sharpe peel off his wet jacket. ‘Is that the shirt I gave you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t you have a laundry in the British army?’

‘It couldn’t come with me.’

‘Poor Richard.’ She tasted the wine and grimaced. ‘One day, Richard, I’m going to have a house on the River Loire. I shall have an island in the river and young men will row me to my island where we will eat lark pâté and honey and drink cold, cold wine on hot, hot days.’

He smiled. ‘Which is why you want your wagons?’

‘Which is why I want my wagons.’

‘And that’s why the Church arrested you?’

She nodded. She closed her eyes again. ‘They arranged it all. Luis had no one to leave his money to but me, and they found the bloody will and the clause which said they’d get it all if I became a nun. Simple.’ She gave a wan smile. ‘It’s rather clever of them.’

‘So why did you write the letter?’

She waved a hand airily. ‘Oh, Richard!’ She looked at him and sighed impatiently. ‘They had to have Luis dead, didn’t they? They told me they wanted him punished, I don’t know why. I didn’t know what was happening, and I didn’t think you’d mind killing him. He never was much use to anyone.’ She smiled at him. ‘I never thought it would get you into trouble, darling. Truly! I’ll write you a letter for Arthur, telling him you’re innocent. What a lot of trouble you went to!’ She frowned again, scratching at the grey shift.

‘Helene.’

She looked at him, struck by the seriousness in his voice. She hoped that he was not going to question her lies, she was too tired. ‘Richard?’

‘It isn’t the wool.’

‘What isn’t the wool?’

‘Your scratching.’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’

He gestured at the discarded fur cloak she had taken from the dead Partisan. ‘You’ve got guests.’

She stared at him suspiciously. ‘Guests?’

‘Fleas.’

‘Christ!’ She sat up with sudden energy and hauled the shift above her knees. She frowned at her bared skin. ‘Fleas?’

‘Probably.’ He looked at her thighs, wondering why she had lied to him. He was sure that she had, he was certain that there was more to the letter she had written to her husband than the mere request of a church that wanted her riches, yet he sensed that he would have to accept her explanation because he was not clever enough to get the real truth from her.

She twitched the shift higher, peering at her legs. ‘God and hell and damnation! Fleas? I can’t see any.’

‘You won’t.’

She pushed the shift down. ‘I’ll never get rid of them!’

‘You will.’

‘How?’

‘The same as the rest of us. A piece of soap.’

‘Just wash them away?’

He grinned. ‘No.’

Someone knocked on the trapdoor that was the entrance to the room. Sharpe unbolted it, hauled it up, and the innkeeper’s wife pushed a great tin bath towards him. He took it from her and saw the buckets of water steaming at the ladder’s foot. ‘You have towels?’

‘Si, señor.’

Sharpe saw Angel by the fire at the end of the inn’s main room. The boy stared forlornly at Sharpe, jealous that the Rifle officer was in La Marquesa’s room. ‘And I want soap.’

‘Si, señor.’

La Marquesa was sitting, legs apart, on the edge of the bed. ‘What do I do with the soap?’

‘You dampen a corner, chase the fleas and dab them with it. They stick to the soap. It’s twenty times faster than trying to catch them with your fingers.’ He pulled up the first bucket and poured it into the tin bath.

She stared at him in disbelief. ‘What if they go to my back?’

Sharpe laughed. ‘The innkeeper’s wife will help you. She doesn’t want fleas in the bed.’ Privately he would be surprised if there weren’t fleas already in the bed, though it was possible, this being the inn’s only proper bedroom, that it was clean.

‘That woman?’

‘Why not?’

‘Christ, Richard! I don’t want her to know I’ve got fleas! You’ll have to do it.’ She shrugged. ‘You’ve seen it often enough before.’

He poured another bucket. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? A rescuer’s reward? Isn’t that why knights rode around rescuing maidens? Only they called it the Holy Grail which is a nicer name than some I’ve heard.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

She laughed at his smile. ‘I missed you. I often wondered what you were doing. I imagined you scowling through life, scaring all the rich young officers.’ She made a face at him. ‘I don’t even have a comb, let alone a brush! Is that all the water they’re giving me?’

‘There’s more coming.’

‘Thank God for that.’ She leaned back on the bed. ‘I could sleep for a month. I never want to see a bloody horse again.’

Sharpe lifted more buckets into the room. ‘You’ll have to ride one tomorrow.’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘I could leave you for El Matarife.’

‘He couldn’t make me more sore than this.’ She turned her head and watched him through the billows of steam. ‘I was sorry about your wife, Richard.’

‘Yes.’ He did not know what else to say to such abrupt sympathy.

She shrugged. ‘I can’t say I’m sorry about Luis. It doesn’t seem real, somehow, being a widow.’ She laughed softly. ‘A rich widow, if that bastard doesn’t steal everything.’

‘The Inquisitor?’

‘The bloody Inquisitor. Father Hacha. Is it ready?’

‘Just the towels.’

He took the thin linen cloths from the woman downstairs and closed the trapdoor. ‘Your bath, ma’am.’

‘You make a bloody awful lady’s maid, Richard.’

‘I think I’m relieved to hear that.’

‘Let it cool a bit. I don’t fancy being scalded as well as flea-bitten and sore.’ She sat on the side of the bed, her chin cupped in her hands, and looked at him. ‘What do we do now, Richard?’

‘What do you want to do.’

‘I want to go to Burgos.’

He felt disappointed. He had somehow, and he knew stupidly, hoped that she would come back to the army with him. ‘If the French are still there,’ he said dubiously.

She shrugged. ‘Wherever they are, that’s where I want to be. Because wherever they are, that’s where the wagons are.’

‘Won’t they arrest you again?’

She shook her head. ‘The Church can’t do it twice.’ She was thinking of General Verigny. ‘I won’t let the bastards do it twice.’ She reached over and put a hand in the water. ‘You’ve got the soap?’

‘Ready and willing, ma’am.’

She grinned, then crossed her arms to draw the shift over her head. She laughed at his expression, then pulled the grey wool up and over her head. ‘I’m cold.’

‘Nonsense. Just stand in the bath.’

For ten minutes, to unseemly laughter, he hunted her skin. She complained that it tickled as he explored for the fleas, dabbed them onto the soap, then pinched them between his fingernails, and by the time the last flea had been found she insisted on searching him for fleas and by the time she had done that she was on the bed, cursing the raw skin of her thighs, and his face was in her hair and her arms were on the scars where he had been flogged so long ago. She kissed his cheek. ‘Poor Richard, poor Richard.’

‘Poor?’

‘Poor Richard.’ She kissed him again. ‘I’d forgotten.’

‘Forgotten what?’

‘Never mind. Do you think that bloody bath’s cold?’

It still had enough warmth and she soaked herself, washed her hair, then put her head back on the wall. She was looking at him where he lay naked on the bed. ‘You look happy.’

‘I am.’

She smiled sadly. ‘It doesn’t take much to make you happy, does it?’

‘I thought it took a lot.’

Later, when they had eaten and when each had a bottle of wine inside, they lay in the bed. The fire was hot, the chimney warmed and drawing well, and La Marquesa smoked a ragged cigar that she had bought from the innkeeper. Sharpe had forgotten that she liked to smoke. She had a hand on his belly, twisting the small hairs with her fingers. ‘Will that man come into the town?’

‘I don’t think so. The alcalde said not.’ The mayor had said that the town fell into the fief of another Partisan leader, a man not fond of El Matarife.

She looked at him. Her hair had dried soft and golden to spread about her face. ‘Did you ever think you’d see me again?’

‘No.’

‘I thought I’d see you again.’

‘You did?’

‘I think so.’ She blew a smoke ring and looked at it critically. ‘But not in a nunnery.’ She laughed. ‘I couldn’t believe it was you! I thought you were dead for a start, but even so! I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.’

They spoke of what had happened in their lives since the summer in Salamanca, and he listened in awe to her descriptions of the palaces she had seen, the balls she had attended, and he hid the jealousy he felt when he imagined her in the arms of other men. He tried to persuade himself that it was useless to be jealous about La Marquesa, a man might as well complain of the wind veering.

He spoke about his daughter. He told her about the winter in the Gateway of God, the battle, the death of Teresa.

She sat up to drink wine. ‘You weren’t popular with us.’

‘Because of the battle?’

She laughed. ‘I was quite proud of you, but I didn’t dare say so.’ She gave him the bottle. ‘So you gave all your money to your daughter?’

‘Yes.’

‘Richard Sharpe, you are a fool. Some day I’ll have to teach you how to survive. So you’re poor again?’

‘Yes.’

She laughed. She spoke of the money that was with the retreating French army, not her own money, but the hundreds of wagons that had been collected at Burgos. ‘You can’t believe it, Richard! They looted every monastery, every palace, every bloody house from here to Madrid! There’s gold, silver, paintings, plate, more gold, more paintings, jewels, silks, coin…’ She shook her head in amazement. ‘It’s the fortune of the Spanish empire, Richard, and it’s all going back to France. They know they’re losing, so they’re taking everything with them.’

‘How much?’

She thought about it. ‘Five million?’

‘Francs?’

‘Pounds, darling. English pounds.’ She laughed at his expression. ‘At least.’

‘It can’t be.’

‘It can.’ She threw the cigar into the fire. ‘I’ve seen it!’ She smiled at him. ‘Your dear Arthur would like to get his fingers on that, wouldn’t he?’ Undoubtedly, Sharpe thought, Wellington would dearly like to capture the French baggage train. She laughed. ‘But he won’t. That’s what our army’s protecting.’ She raised her wine glass. ‘All for us, dear. Loser takes all.’

‘Will you get your wagons back?’

‘I’ll get my wagons back.’ She said it grimly. ‘And I’ll write a letter that will get you your job back. What shall I write? That the Inquisitor killed Luis?’ She giggled. ‘Perhaps he did! Or his brother.’

‘His brother?’

She turned her head to him. ‘El Matarife,’ she said it as if to a child.

‘They’re brothers!’

‘Yes. He came and looked at me in the carriage.’ She shuddered. ‘Bastard.’

Sharpe supposed it made sense. Why else would the Partisan come to these far, inhospitable mountains except to do his brother a favour? But even so, he was astonished that the bearded, brutal man was brother to a priest. He looked at the beauty beside him. ‘For God’s sake write that your other letter wasn’t true.’

‘Of course I will. I shall say a nun threatened to rape me unless I wrote it.’ She smiled. ‘I am sorry about it, Richard. It was thoughtless of me.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘It does really. It got you into trouble, didn’t it? I thought you’d survive though.’ She smiled happily. ‘And if it wasn’t for that letter we wouldn’t be here, would we?’

‘No.’

‘And you wouldn’t be able to put grease on my thighs, would you?’ She handed him the pot, and Sharpe, obedient as ever to this woman of gold, obeyed.

He lay awake in the night, one arm trapped beneath her waist, and wondered if the letter she would write would be sufficient. Would it restore his rank or vindicate his honour?

The glow of the fire was on the yellowed ceiling. Rain still tapped at the window and hissed in the chimney. Helene stirred on him, one leg across his, her head and one hand on his chest. She had murmured a name in her half sleep; Raoul. Sharpe had felt jealous again.

He touched her spine, stroking it, and she muttered and pushed her head down on his chest. Her hair tickled his cheek. He thought how often in the last year he had dreamed of this, wanted this, and he ran his hand down her flank as though he could impress the sensation in his memory to last for ever.

She had lied to him. He did not for one moment believe that the Church had murdered her husband, or made a plan to take her money. Something else was behind it all, but she would never tell him what it was. She would do what she could to save his career, and for that, he thought, he should be grateful. He looked at the tiny window and saw nothing but the dark reflection of the room, not a hint of a lightening sky. He told himself that he must wake in an hour, turned towards her warm softness, brushed his lips on her hair, and slept with her body tight in his arms.

He came awake suddenly, the small window showing grey, knowing he had slept longer than he should have. He wondered why Angel had not thumped on the trapdoor.

He rolled from the bed, making Helene grunt, and he saw that it had stopped raining. The fire was dead.

Then he froze with a sudden gut wrench of fear within him, and knew that he had failed utterly. A noise had woken him, and now he could hear it again. It was the noise made by horses, by many horses, but not horses in motion. He could hear their breathing, their hooves stirring, the jingle of curb chains. He reached for the rifle, thumbed the cock back, and went to the small window.

The grey-dawn street was filled with horsemen. El Matarife was there, and about him, the dew glistening on their shaggy cloaks, were his men. Next to El Matarife, on a superb horse, was a tall man in a silver cloak with a sabre at his hip. About the two men, crowding the narrow street, were at least two hundred horsemen.

‘Richard?’ Her voice was sleepy.

‘Get dressed.’

‘What is it?’

‘Just get dressed!’

El Matarife spurred forward on an ugly roan horse. He looked up at the inn windows. ‘Vaughn!’

‘Jesus!’ La Marquesa sat up. ‘What is it, Richard?’

‘El Matarife.’

‘Jesus.’

‘Vaughn!’

Sharpe pushed the window open. The air was cold on his naked skin. ‘Matarife?’ He saw the alcalde of the town behind the horsemen, and next to him was a priest. He knew suddenly what had happened.

The Partisan leader rode close beneath the window. He stared up. His huge beard was beaded with moisture. Strapped on his back, next to a musket, was a great poleaxe, the weapon of a slaughterman. He grinned. ‘You see the man in the silver cloak, Major Vaughn?’

‘I see him.’

‘He is Pedro Pelera, my enemy. You know why today we are friends, Major Vaughn?’

Sharpe could guess. He could hear La Marquesa dressing, swearing softly under her breath. ‘Tell me, Matarife.’

‘Because you offend our holy place, Major Vaughn. You fight the nuns, yes?’ El Matarife laughed. ‘You have ten minutes, Major Vaughn, to bring us La Puta Dorada.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘You die anyway. If you come gently, Major, then I will kill you swiftly. If you do not? We shall come for you!’ He gestured towards his men. Sharpe knew he could not fight so many, not even by staying at the top of the ladder. They would merely blast the trapdoor with musketry. El Matarife drove the point home.

‘There’s no help coming, Major. Your boy fled. You have ten minutes!’

Sharpe slammed the window. ‘Christ!’

La Marquesa was wearing the dress she had fetched from the convent, a confection of blue silk and white lace. She was putting the jewels about her neck. ‘If I’m going to die I’ll die in bloody jewels.’

‘I’m sorry, Helene.’

‘Christ, Richard, don’t be so goddamned stupid!’ She said it with sudden, vivid anger.

He went to the back wall and thumped it, as if it might be thin enough to break through, yet he knew that the Partisans would have the inn surrounded. He swore.

‘Are you going to die naked?’ Her voice was bitter. ‘How the hell did that bastard find me?’

Sharpe cursed himself. He should have known! He should have guessed that by breaking into the convent he would stir the whole countryside against him, and instead he had been so eager to share this bed that he had not given the danger a single thought.

He dressed swiftly, dressing as if for battle, yet he knew that it was over. This mad escapade in the hills would end in blood on a muddy street, with his death. He should have been hanged these four weeks ago, and instead he would die now. At least, he thought, it would be with a sword in his hand. ‘I’ll go and talk to them.’

‘For Christ’s sake, why?’

‘To get a promise for your safety.’

She shook her head. ‘You are a fool. You really believe there’s decency in the world, don’t you?’

‘I can try.’ He pulled up the trapdoor. The room beneath was empty. He turned to look at her one more time and thought how splendid she was, how lovely even in anger. ‘Do you want my rifle?’

‘To shoot myself?’

‘Yes.’

‘The Holy Grail isn’t that bloody precious.’ She looked at his face and shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Richard, I keep forgetting that you think it is. What are you going to do?’

‘Fight them, of course.’

She laughed, though there was fear in the laugh. ‘God help you in peacetime, Richard.’

He fingered the sword hilt and hesitated. He knew he should not say it, but in ten minutes he would be dead, butchered by the Slaughterman or his men. He would take some of them with him, he would give them cause to remember fighting against a lone Rifleman. ‘Helene?’

She looked at him with exasperation. ‘Don’t say it, Richard.’

‘I love you.’

‘I knew you’d say it.’ She was putting the diamond earrings into her lobes. ‘But then you are a fool.’ She smiled sadly. ‘Go and fight for me, fool.’

He went down the ladder, drew the great sword, and opened the door to the street where his enemies had gathered for his death.