Sharpe 3-Book Collection 6: Sharpe’s Honour, Sharpe’s Regiment, Sharpe’s Siege. Bernard Cornwell
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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.