Читать книгу Sharpe 3-Book Collection 6: Sharpe’s Honour, Sharpe’s Regiment, Sharpe’s Siege - Bernard Cornwell - Страница 26

Sharpe was led to one of the buildings in the castle yard that was still in a state of repair, then helped upstairs to a limewashed room, decently furnished with a bed, table and chairs, and with a view from a barred window into the fortress’s biggest courtyard. He could see across to the squat keep, past the castle church, and every spare inch of the courtyard was crowded with the treasure wagons.

A doctor came. Sharpe’s wounds were washed and bandaged. He was bled with lancet and cup, then given food and brandy.

A great tub was brought to his room, filled by a succession of buckets, and he soaked his body in it. His uniform was taken away, laundered, mended, and returned.

He was still a prisoner. Two guards were outside his door, at the head of the stairs which led down into the courtyard. One of the guards, a cheerful young man no older than Angel, shaved him. Sharpe could not hold a razor in his bandaged right hand.

His sword was propped by the bed. He had cleaned the blade with difficulty. In the ridges of the wooden handle, that should have been wrapped with leather and bound with wire, there was blood that he did not have the energy to clean. He slept instead; a sleep of bad dreams and intermittent pain.

His guards brought him food, good food, and two bottles of red wine. They tried to tell him something, grinning good-naturedly at his incomprehension. He heard the name Verigny and supposed that the General had sent the food. He smiled, nodded to show he understood, and the guards left him with candles and his own thoughts. He paced the floor, thinking only that soon all Spain would think that Wellington had released the murderer of a Spanish Marqués. He had failed Wellington, Hogan, and himself.

In the morning the doctor came again, unpeeled the bandages, and muttered to himself. He examined Sharpe’s night-soil in the bucket, seemed pleased by it, then bled Sharpe’s thigh into a small cup. He did not re-bandage Sharpe’s head, only the cut hand that was still painful.

His lips were swollen. Their insides were coated with congealed blood. Rather that, he thought, than the Sergeant’s wound.

He sat by the window all morning, watching the wagons roll out of the courtyard. Wagon after wagon left, their oxen prodded by drivers with pointed staves. The axle squeals never stopped as the courtyard slowly emptied. The French retreat, that had begun in Valladolid, had started again and Sharpe knew that the British must be advancing still, and that the French were sending the treasure wagons back on the Great Road towards France. He wondered if Helene’s six wagons were among the ones that left. He wondered why Ducos had arranged for him to be accused of the Marqués’s death, and why Helene had lied about it.

The castle church had been used as an ammunition store. As the wagons made space in the big courtyard, squads of infantry began carrying shells and canister from the church towards the keep. Sharpe, with nothing else to do, watched.

After an hour the shells were no longer being carried into the keep, but instead were being piled in the courtyard. Pile after pile was made, starting by the keep door and working slowly down the courtyard towards him. He wondered if this was a punishment detail, forced to do one of the pointless chores that all armies gave their defaulters, but then, curiously, he saw French engineer officers running white fuses to each of the conical heaps, fuses that led back into the keep.

He realised suddenly that the French must be abandoning Burgos, that they were blowing the castle apart rather than delivering such a fortress intact to their enemies, yet it struck him as odd that they should go to the trouble of piling the shells in the courtyard instead of blowing them in one great mass in the magazine. Then, hearing footsteps on the stairs, he turned from the window and forgot the strange piles of ammunition.

He made sure the sword was within reach. He was half expecting Ducos to return and finish what he had begun, but it was a smiling French lancer who opened the door. On the man’s arm, incongruously, hung a basket covered with a linen cloth.

More such men came, men who arranged food and wine on the table in Sharpe’s room. None spoke English. They finished their job, left, then Sharpe heard her voice on the stairs. It was La Marquesa, looking as if she had bathed in dew and sipped ambrosia, her eyes bright, her smile welcoming, and her concern about his battered, blood-marked face oddly touching. With her was the tall, dark figure of General Verigny, while behind came another French officer, a plump Major called Montbrun who spoke fluent English and trusted that Major Sharpe was not in any great pain?

Sharpe assured him he was not. Major Montbrun nevertheless hoped that Major Sharpe would realise that his treatment at the hands of Sergeant Lavin had not been worthy of the great French army, and that Major Sharpe would forgive it, and offer Major Montbrun the pleasure of joining him in a small, light luncheon?

Major Sharpe would.

Major Montbrun knew that Major Sharpe had the honour of already knowing La Marquesa and the General. Montbrun explained that he was an aide to King Joseph himself, Napoleon’s brother who was the puppet King on the crumbling Spanish throne. Montbrun hoped that Major Sharpe would not take it amiss if he said that His Majesty King Joseph was flattered that so redoubtable an enemy as Major Sharpe should have been captured. Sharpe did not reply. La Marquesa smiled and brushed the crusted wound on Sharpe’s head with her fingertips. ‘Ducos is a pig.’

Montbrun frowned. ‘Major Ducos has explained what happened, my Lady. I’m sure we must believe him.’

‘What did he say?’ Sharpe asked.

Montbrun held a chair for La Marquesa, then for Sharpe, then sat himself. ‘Major Ducos explained that Sergeant Lavin lost his temper. Most sad, of course. You’ll forgive us serving ourselves, Major Sharpe? I thought we might be more intimate without orderlies.’

‘Of course. And how is Sergeant Lavin?’

Montbrun frowned, as though the subject was deeply distasteful. ‘He, of course, faces disciplinary charges. Can I suggest some of this cold soup? It’s most tasteful, I’m sure. May I have the honour of assisting you?’

He could. La Marquesa, dressed in lilac silk with a low, lace-frilled neckline, smiled at him. Sharpe agreed with Montbrun that the spring had been wet, and that this summer had more rain than most in Spain. He agreed that the soup, a gazpacho, was delicious. Montbrun wondered if there was too much garlic for his taste, but Sharpe assured him there could not be too much garlic in anything for his taste, and Montbrun agreed how wise that view was.

Verigny grinned. His moustache was stained with the soup. ‘I think you demi kill that mignon Lavin, yes?’ He looked at La Marquesa. ‘Mignon?’

‘Bugger, darling.’

‘Ah! You kill the bugger Lavin, yes?’

Sharpe smiled. ‘He tried to kill me.’

Verigny shrugged. ‘You should kill him. I hate buggers.’

Montbrun hastened, with a courtier’s smoothness, to recommend the red wine which, though Spanish, had a certain plangency, he thought, which Major Sharpe might find pleasing. Major Sharpe, who was thirsty, found it very pleasing. He drank.

La Marquesa toasted him with her glass. ‘You should have more champagne, Richard.’

‘I shall save it.’

‘Why? There’s plenty!’ There was, too. The bottles of wine and champagne stood in ranks at the end of the table. Montbrun poured a separate glass of champagne for Sharpe. ‘I hear it’s scarce in your country now, Major, because of the war.’

Sharpe, who had never drunk champagne in England, and only in Spain when he was with La Marquesa, agreed it was scarce.

‘Indeed,’ Montbrun poured himself a glass, ‘I was told by an Englishman we took prisoner that you’re paying twenty-three shillings a bottle now in London!

Twenty-three shillings! Why that’s nearly thirty francs a bottle!’

La Marquesa looked astonished and wondered how anyone could possibly live with prices like that, and asked why there were not riots in the street by a champagne-starved populace. What did the English drink instead?

‘Beer, my Lady.’

Montbrun helped Sharpe to some cold ham and cold chicken. He apologised for such simple fare. The ham had been baked in a glaze of honey and mustard.

La Marquesa wanted some English beer and seemed unhappy that there was none immediately available in Burgos castle. General Verigny promised to find some. He grunted as he drew the corks of two more bottles of the red wine. ‘We have to drink it. We cannot take it with this bloody army.’

Montbrun frowned.

Sharpe smiled. ‘Bloody army?’

Verigny tossed back a glass of wine and poured himself another. ‘It is not an army, Major, not a true army. We are a–’ he paused, frowned, ‘un bordel ambulant!’

‘I think you’ll find the terrine especially good, Major.’ Montbrun smiled. ‘You’ll allow me to cut you some bread?’

‘A what?’ Sharpe asked.

‘A walking brothel, Major.’ La Marquesa smiled brightly. ‘There do seem to be rather a lot of ladies with us. Especially since King Joseph joined us.’

‘Allow me, Major.’ Montbrun put some of the terrine onto Sharpe’s plate. ‘More wine? Champagne, perhaps?’

‘Wine.’

When the meal was over, and when the peel of oranges littered the table among grape-stalks and the rinds of cheeses, Major Montbrun brought the talk to Sharpe’s future. He took from the tail pocket of his gilt-encrusted jacket a folded sheet of paper.

‘We’re most pleased to offer you parole.’ Montbrun smiled and put the paper in front of Sharpe. ‘General Verigny will count it an honour, Major, if you will let him provide you with all your necessities. A horse, your expenses.’ Montbrun shrugged as though the generous offer was a mere nothing.

‘The General has done me enough honour already.’ Verigny, in addition to providing this room and Sharpe’s food, had given Sharpe a new razor, a change of shirt, new stockings, and even a fine new tinder box; all to replace the articles stolen from Sharpe since he fell into Ducos’s hands.

Sharpe opened the paper, not understanding the French words, but seeing his own name, misspelt, on the top line. He looked at Montbrun. ‘Is my name to be submitted for exchange?’

They must have expected the question. An officer was rarely kept as a prisoner of war if he was captured close to the battlelines. Montbrun frowned. ‘We fear not, Major.’

‘May I ask why?’

‘You have, M’sieu, a certain notoriety?’ Montbrun smiled. ‘It would be foolish of us to release so formidable a soldier to wreak further damage on our cause.’

It was a pretty enough compliment, but not the answer Sharpe wanted. If he was not to be exchanged, then he faced a journey to the frontier, where he would be released on his parole to make his unescorted way across France. Verigny, speaking eagerly, explained that it would be his pleasure to provide Sharpe with the means to stay only in the best hotels, that he would, indeed, furnish him with introductions and the Major would be welcome to linger on his journey north to savour the summer delights of France. ‘Take the entirely summer, Major. You can drink, there are women, there are more drink!’ He demonstrated by finishing his glass. Already, Sharpe noted, Verigny was slurring his words.

There was yet more. Once at Verdun, the great northern fortress where officer prisoners were kept, Montbrun explained that the General would ensure that Sharpe had money to take rooms in the town, servants, and membership of all the best clubs organised by the captured British officers. Even, he said, the Literary and Philosophical Association, which was neither literary nor philosophical, but provided the wealthiest British captives with the discreet pleasures a man needed.

Sharpe thanked him.

Montbrun reached into his pouch and produced a quill and ink bottle. He pushed them to Sharpe. ‘You will sign, Major?’

‘When will I be leaving Burgos?’ Sharpe had not touched the quill.

‘Tomorrow, Major. The General is with the rearguard. You may travel by horseback or, if your wounds are troublesome, in the Marquesa’s coach. We will leave, it is expected, at nine o’clock.’

Sharpe looked at Helene and knew the temptation to yield now, to sign the paper, and share the journey with her.

She smiled. ‘Do, Richard.’ She shrugged. ‘We’re not going to let you go, you do know that.’

Verigny belched, Montbrun frowned. Sharpe smiled. ‘I may have to escape then.’

That shocked them. There was a second’s silence, then Verigny exploded into words, pleading words. If there was no parole then they would be forced to heap indignities upon a brave man who had suffered enough indignities at the hands of Frenchmen who were a disgrace to their country, their Emperor and their sacred flag. It was unthinkable that he should be marched as a common criminal to prison. Verigny would not hear of it! He must sign!

Yet if he signed he could not attempt an escape.

He looked at the paper again. ‘I will give my decision in the morning. Say at eight o’clock?’

It was the best they could do. They tried to persuade him, but he would not change his mind. ‘In the morning. Eight o’clock.’

Two more bottles were opened. Sharpe’s head was already feeling the effects of the first six, but he let Montbrun pour him more wine. They toasted Helene, they toasted her chances of recovering her wagons. It seemed, she said, that they had been sent to Vitoria already, but that General Verigny was confident that he would take them back for her. More wine was poured. Major Montbrun, his plump face gleaming with sweat, asked Sharpe’s permission to toast the Emperor which, the permission having been graciously given, they duly did. Out of courtesy to their guest they proposed the health of King George III, and then various other Kings including Arthur, Alfred, Charlemagne, Louis I to Louis XIV inclusive, Caesar Augustus, Old King Cole, the King of the Castle, Nebuchadnezzar, Wilfred the Hairy, and finishing with Tiglath Pileser III, whose name they could not by then pronounce, but who had the honour to take the first of the brandy.

General Verigny was asleep. He had slept ever since he had proposed the health of Richard the Lion-heart.

‘He was a mignon,’ Montbrun had said, then blushed because he had said it. Now, as the sun was setting and casting long shadows on the conical piles of shells in the castle courtyard, Montbrun decided they must leave. ‘You will give us your decision in the morning, Major?’ His words came out slowly. He tapped the parole.

‘In the morning.’

‘Good. I shall leave it with you, if I may.’ He stood, and his eyes showed alarm at the effects of the wine on his balance. ‘Good gracious!’

Two lancers were fetched to carry the General downstairs, and one to assist Montbrun. La Marquesa, who gave her hand to Sharpe to be kissed, seemed unaffected by the drink. There were still six untouched bottles on the table. She smiled at him. ‘Don’t escape, Richard.’

He smiled. ‘Thank you for coming.’

‘Poor, foolish Richard.’ She touched his cheek and followed the two officers to the stairs.

Sharpe sat. He listened to the General’s feet drag on the stairs, listened to the door open and close, heard the carriage creak, then clatter away. He stared at the parole, at the odd French words, and felt the temptation to share Helene’s coach.

The door opened.

She smiled. ‘I’ve told them to come back for me in three hours.’ She knocked on the door and Sharpe heard the bolt slide across outside.

She stared at him, her head on one side, then she walked to the bed, sat, and lifted one foot to untie the half boots she wore under her dress. ‘Come to bed, Richard, for Christ’s sake come to bed.’

He took a champagne bottle with him and she laughed. ‘You see how good it is to be a prisoner of France?’

He smiled and lifted his bandaged right hand. ‘You’ll have to undress me.’

‘I intend to, Richard. Come here.’

He went. He saw the white lace go, the dress fall, and she was naked in the red sunlight. Her hands reached for his jacket, then pulled him down to the bed and to her arms.

She smoked a cigar. She lay on her back and blew smoke rings at the ceiling. ‘I practised those for months.’

‘You’re very good.’

‘At blowing smoke rings too.’ She giggled. ‘You’re not very drunk.’

‘Nor are you.’ He was dribbling champagne into her navel and sipping it. ‘Can you feel the bubbles?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

She said nothing for a few seconds, then, in a suddenly changed voice that made him stop his game to look at her, she told him that Major Ducos had made her sign the letter that had provoked the duel.

Sharpe stared into the grey eyes. ‘I know.’

‘Come here.’ She gestured at the pillow beside her, and when he was there she pulled the sheet over them both and hooked a leg over his. ‘Are you drunk?’

‘No.’

‘Then listen.’

She talked. She spoke of a treaty that was being made between the imprisoned Spanish king and the Emperor Napoleon. She spoke of Pierre Ducos’s part in the making of the treaty, and she described the terms of the treaty and how, if it was signed, it would force the British from Spain. ‘You understand?’

‘Yes. But what…’

‘…Has it got to do with that letter?’ She finished his question for him, then shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’ She threw her cigar onto the floor and put her hand on his waist. ‘I just don’t know, except that I think the Inquisitor must be helping Ducos, and I’m guessing that my money is the price of that help.’

He stared into her lustrous, beautiful face and he tried to sense whether this was the truth. He could not tell. It made more sense than her last story, but he knew this clever woman was a liar of practised fluency. ‘Why are you telling me?’

She did not answer the question, instead she asked if he had liked Major Montbrun. Sharpe shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’

She propped herself on one elbow, the sheet falling to her waist. It was almost dark, and Sharpe lit the candle beside the bed. She leaned over him to light a fresh cigar from its flame and he reached up with his tongue to touch her breast. ‘Richard! Will you be serious?’

‘I am.’

‘Why do you think Montbrun was here?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Christ! Think, you stupid bugger!’ She was half leaning over him. ‘Montbrun is one of Joseph’s men, and Joseph is King of Spain! He rather likes it, he likes being called “Your Majesty”! He doesn’t want to give up Spain. Even if we can keep a bit of Spain he’s got a kingdom, but now his brother’s planning to pull the throne out from underneath him and give it all back to Ferdinand. You understand?’

‘I understand. But why tell me?’

‘Because you’re going to stop it.’ She took a shred of tobacco from her lip and wiped it onto his chest.

‘You’re going to sign that parole and come with me. Then you’re going to escape. Montbrun will help, he knows about it. All that talk of crossing France was for Raoul’s benefit. Instead we want you to escape.’ Her fingers were stroking his chest. ‘You go to Wellington. I’ll give you a letter and Montbrun will sign it.’ She was staring at his wide eyes. ‘You escape with our help, you go to Wellington, because if he makes a public announcement now then he can stop the treaty. No one will dare support it yet. Only Ferdinand can make the stupid bastards accept it, but if Arthur gets the Spanish to make an announcement now that it wouldn’t be accepted, then it will never get signed. So you stop it, do you understand?’

He frowned. ‘Why doesn’t Joseph stop the treaty?’

‘Because his brother will crucify him! They’re all scared of Napoleon. But if you tell Wellington, then no one can blame Joseph.’

‘Why don’t you just exchange me?’

She seemed exasperated by his questions. ‘We can’t. Ducos won’t allow it. He wants to parade you in Paris as proof of Britain’s bad faith. Besides, do you think we’d ever exchange someone like you?’

‘But you’ll let me escape.’

‘Because then Ducos loses. Because Joseph keeps a bit of Spain and gives me my wagons back!’ Her eyes flicked between his, judging him. ‘Montbrun will pay you, too.’

‘But didn’t you say the treaty would save France?’

‘Christ on the true cross! And I’ll be poor, and half of Joseph’s men will be ruined! We need this summer, Richard, that’s all! Besides, it was that bastard Ducos who arranged this, who had me arrested, who almost had you hanged! I want Ducos to be stood against the wall, I want that so badly, Richard, I can feel it in my guts. Next year they can make their goddamned treaty, but not now, not till Pierre Ducos is dead.’

‘And you want your money.’

‘I want that house.’

‘Lark pâté and honey?’

‘And you can visit me from England. We’ll pay you, Richard. Two thousand guineas, in gold, or paper, or whatever. Just sign the parole and we do the rest.’ She watched him as he stood, as he walked naked to sit in the window. ‘Well?’

‘If I break my parole I have no honour.’

‘God spits on honour. Three thousand!’

He turned to her. She was leaning towards him, naked, her face alive with the moment. Her body, that was so beautiful, was lit and shadowed by the candle. He wondered if she felt anything when he embraced her. ‘You want me to sign away my honour?’

She threw the cigar at him. ‘For your country. For me! Anyway, it isn’t dishonourable!’

‘It isn’t?’

‘Montbrun misspelt your name on purpose. It’s not your parole.’

He turned away from her. Beneath him a carriage was coming into the courtyard between the strange piles of ammunition.

She heard it, swore, and began to dress. ‘Can you hook me up?’

‘Just about.’ He fumbled with his bandaged hand at the nape of her neck, then turned her. He looked into her eyes and she reached up and kissed him. ‘Do it for me, Richard. Finish Ducos and that bastard Inquisitor, and go back to your career.’ She put his hand on her breast and pressed it. ‘The war will be over in two or three years. Over! Come to me then. Promise me?’

She was more beautiful than a dream, more lovely than the stars in winter, softer than light. She kissed him, her lips warm. ‘Come to me when it’s all over.’

‘Come to you?’

She half smiled. She was heartbreakingly beautiful, and she whispered into his ear and her cheek was warm on his. ‘I love you, Richard. Do this for me and come to me.’

There was a knock on the door. She shouted at them to wait and dragged a hand over her hair. ‘Will you come to me?’

‘You know I will.’

She gestured at the parole. ‘Then sign, Richard. For both of us! Sign!’ She smiled at his nakedness, motioned him to stand behind the door, and then was gone into the night.

Sharpe drank steadily, his mood worsening. He was thinking of honour betrayed, of a woman who had promised herself to fulfil his wildest dream, of a treaty to expel Britain’s army from Spain. He had pulled on his overalls and jacket, lit more candles, and still he had not signed the parole.

He decided he was too drunk to sign the parole. Since Helene had left he had finished two bottles of wine.

He went to the table, amazed that he could stand upright, and took two bottles back to the window, reasoning that by carrying two he would save himself another complicated journey across the room when he had finished the first. The reasoning struck him as extremely clever. He was proud of it. He rested his head on the window bars. Somewhere a woman laughed, a low sound of pure pleasure, and he was jealous.

‘Helene.’ He said it aloud. ‘Helene, Helene, Helene.’

He drank more, not bothering with the glass. If he was to sign the parole, he thought, then he would be with her for a few days. Verigny could not be there all the time. They could make love in her carriage, the curtains drawn.

He would break his honour. He would break his parole. There would be no honour left to him if he did that, none.

Yet he would save Britain from defeat at the price of his honour. He could make Helene rich for his honour. And, by forcing failure onto Ducos, he could disgrace the man, maybe even, as Helene had said, have him stood against the wall and shot. All at the price of his honour.

He thought of Ducos and lifted the bottle against the night. ‘Bastard.’ He yawned hugely, drank more, and tried to concentrate his vision on a lit window of the keep, but it kept sliding diagonally up to the right. He frowned at it. Perhaps she meant it, he thought, perhaps she did love him. He sometimes thought she was a treacherous bitch, beautiful as hell, but even treacherous bitches had to love someone, didn’t they? He wondered if love was a sign of weakness, and then he thought that it was not, and then he could not remember what he was thinking and he drank more from the bottle.

He wondered if Antonia would like to have a French aristocrat as a stepmother. He drank to the thought. He drank to lark pâté and honey and white wine and her body in his arms and her breath in his throat and he wished she was still here and he drank more wine because it might take away the loneliness because she had gone.

Beyond the window, to the north west, it seemed as if there was a glow in the sky. He noticed it, frowned at it, and thought the glow in the sky might like to be toasted. He raised the bottle and drank. He felt sick. He thought he might feel better if he was sick, but he could not be bothered to go to the bucket that was decently hidden behind a wooden screen made from an old packing case. They had all laughed when Montbrun had used the bucket and had seemed to piss forever. He laughed again now. She loved him. She loved him. She loved him.

He closed his eyes.

Then he jerked his head up, eyes open, and stared at the great red smear in the sky. He knew what it was. It was the camp fires of an army, seen far off, reflected on the clouds that threatened rain. The British were to the north and west, close enough for their fires to be seen on the clouds, close enough to be forcing a further retreat from this French army, this walking brothel. He laughed and drank again.

He threw the empty bottle into the courtyard, hearing it smash on the stones and provoke a shout from a sentry. Sharpe shouted back. ‘Mignon! Mignon!’

He picked up the next bottle. ‘You shouldn’t drink it,’ he told himself, then decided that it was a terrible waste if he did not. He thought he might drink it in bed and stood up.

He held onto the wall. It all suddenly seemed clear with the marvellous prescience of the drunk. King Joseph and Montbrun wanted him to escape. Montbrun was a courtier. Montbrun knew more about honour than Sharpe, so it would be all right to break his parole. He would escape. He would go to the British army and he would be rich and he would marry La Marquesa when the war was done because even treacherous bitches had to love someone and he could not bear to think of her loving anyone else. He drank to the thought. Lark pâté and honey, he thought, and wine. More wine. Always more wine, and then he pushed himself off the wall, aimed for the bed, and collapsed just short of it. He managed to save the bottle.

He sat by the narrow bed where he had loved her just this day. ‘I love you,’ he said. He pulled the blankets about his shoulders, and drank some more. It was all so easy. Escape and victory, marriage and riches. Luck was with him. It always had been. He smiled and raised the bottle.

He drank more wine, just to prove that he could do it, and then, when he was solemnly thinking he ought to work out a detail or two of the decisions he had made, his head went back onto the bed, the bottle dropped, and he slept the sleep of the drunk.