Sharpe’s Honour: The Vitoria Campaign, February to June 1813. Bernard Cornwell
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young man pushed the lick of hair away from his forehead. He had a voice like d’Alembord’s, but without the easy confidence. He smiled nervously. ‘I fear it looks bleak, sir.’
‘Tell me.’
Trumper-Jones seemed happier now that he could read from his papers. ‘It seems, sir, that you are acquainted with the Marquesa de Casares el Grande …’
‘True.’
‘And that you threatened her, sir.’ Trumper-Jones said it timidly.
‘I did what?’
Trumper-Jones nearly jumped out of his chair. ‘You threatened her …’ He blushed. ‘Well, you threatened her, sir.’
‘I did no such goddamn thing!’
Trumper-Jones swallowed, cleared his throat, and gestured with a piece of paper. ‘There is a letter, sir, from her Ladyship to her husband, and it says …’
Sharpe leaned back. ‘Spare me, Lieutenant. I know the Marquesa. Let’s accept they have a letter. Go on.’ So she had provoked the duel. D’Alembord had hinted at it, Sharpe had refused to believe it, but he supposed it made sense. Yet he found it hard to accept that a woman who had loved him could so easily betray him.
Trumper-Jones pushed the hair back again. ‘The letter provoked a duel, sir, that you were prevented from finishing?’
‘True.’ It all sounded so hopeless.
‘And because you were prevented from fighting, sir, the prosecution is alleging that you went to the General’s quarters last night and murdered him.’
‘Not true.’
‘They have a witness, sir.’
‘Really?’ Sharpe said the word scornfully. ‘Who?’
The papers rustled. ‘A Captain Morillos, sir, of the Princessa Regiment. He commanded the guard on General Casares’s house last night and he saw a British Rifle officer leave the house at three in the morning. The officer, he says, wore a straight sword.’
That was a nice touch, Sharpe thought. Rifle officers were issued with curved cavalry sabres, and only Sharpe wore a straight sword. He shook his head. ‘And why didn’t Captain Morillos stop this man?’
‘He was ordered only to stop people from going into the house, sir, not from leaving it.’
‘Go on.’
Trumper-Jones shrugged. ‘That’s it, sir. I thought, sir …’ He stopped, nervous again.
‘Well?’
‘I thought, sir, that if we presented your record to the court, sir, that they must be lenient. The Eagle, sir, the Forlorn Hope at Badajoz …’ His voice tailed away.
Sharpe smiled. ‘You want me to plead guilty and trust that they won’t shoot a hero, is that it?’
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