“Yes. But I didn’t know if I could trust you.”
“You can trust me.”
She tipped her head up to his and he could see that her eyes were gleaming. “I’m frightened of him, Richard. He does terrible things to people. I didn’t know! I never knew it would be like this.”
“I know.” He leaned down and her face did not move. He kissed her and suddenly her arms were round him and she clung to him fiercely and kissed him fiercely as if she wanted to suck the strength from him into her own self. Sharpe held her, his arms round the slim body, and he thought of what his enemy would do to this perfect, lovely, golden woman, and he despised himself for distrusting her because he knew, now, that she was braver than he, that she had led her lonely life in the great Palacio, surrounded by enemies, and in danger, always, of a terrible death. El Mirador!
His hand pressed on her back and, through the lace, hanging in fringes, he felt the hooks of her dress, and he slipped his hand between the hooks, felt her skin, and then pressed the bottom hook between finger and thumb, the finger and thumb that were more used to the pressure of flint on mainspring, and the hook slid out of the loop, and he moved his hand up to the second, pressed again, it opened, and she dropped her face onto his chest, still clinging to him. He could not believe this was happening, that he, Richard Sharpe, was on this mirador, this night, with this woman, and he moved his hand to the last hook, pressed it back through the loop and he could feel the metal scraping as it moved, and she seemed to stiffen in his arms. He froze.
She looked up at him and her eyes searched his face as though she needed some reassurance that this man could truly keep her from Leroux’s long Kligenthal. She gave a small smile. “Call me Helena.”
“Helena?” The hook snapped free, he moved his hand, and he sensed the wings of the dress fall away and he put his hand back, stroked, and it was pressed into the rich curve at the small of her back. Her skin was like silk.
Her smile went, all the harshness came back. “Let go of me!” It was snapped like an order, her voice loud. “Let go of me!”
He had been a fool! She had wanted protection, not this, and now he had offended her by imagining what was not to be, and he let go of her, bringing his hand back, and she stepped away from him. Her face changed again. She laughed at him, laughed at his confusion, and she had ordered him away so that she could stand free and let the dress, light as thistledown, rustle to the floor. She was naked beneath the dress and she stepped back to him over its folds. “I’m sorry, Richard.”
He put his arms round her, her skin was pressed against his uniform, his sword belt, his ammunition pouch, and she clung to him and he stared at the dark bulk of the San Vincente and he swore that the enemy would never reach her, never, not while there was breath in his body or while his arm could lift the heavy sword whose hilt was cold on her flank. She hooked a leg round his, lifted herself up, and kissed him again and he forgot everything. The Company, the forts, Teresa; all were scoured away, whirled far off by this moment, by this promise, by this woman who fought her own lonely war against his enemies.
She lowered herself to the floor, took his hand, and her face was grave and innocent. “Come.”
He followed, obedient, in the dark Salamantine night.
Chapter 10
Wednesday, June 24th
to
Wednesday, July 8th, 1812
Sharpe found himself resenting the progress of the trench that was being dug in the ravine. He knew that once the excavation reached the midpoint between the San Vincente and San Cayetano forts then the second assault was imminent. The second assault could hardly fail. The ammunition supply to the heavy guns had been restored, cart after cart came across the San Marta ford and screeched into the city and each cart was loaded with the huge roundshot. The guns fired incessantly, grinding at the defences, and to make it worse for the French the gunners heated the shot to a red heat so that the balls lodged in the old timbers of the convents and started fires that the French tried desperately to control.
For four nights Sharpe watched the bombardment, each night from the mirador, and the red-hot shot seared in the darkness and crashed into the crumbling forts. The fires blazed, were damped down, then blazed again and only the small hours of the morning brought a respite for the defenders. Some nights it seemed to Sharpe as if no one could live through the battering of the forts. The shot streaked over the wasteland while, high overhead, the fuses of the howitzer shells spun and smoked then plunged down to explode in flowering dark flame and thunder. The crackle of the flames rivalled the cracks of the Riflemen, creeping nearer, and each morning showed more damage; more embrasures opened wide, their guns unseated, smashed, useless. Wellington was in a hurry. He wanted the forts taken so that he could march north in pursuit of Marmont.
When the forts fell Sharpe knew he would go north. The Light Company would rejoin the regiment and he would leave Salamanca, leave La Marquesa, leave El Mirador, and each moment, marked by the slow extension of the attacker’s trench, was precious to him. He left the Palacio each morning, going out by the secret staircase that led into an alleyway beside the stables, and he went back each afternoon when the only disturbance of Salamanca’s siesta was the sound of the gunners crumbling at the forts.
The Light Company were puzzled, Patrick Harper most of all, but Sharpe said nothing and they could only speculate where their Captain disappeared each day and night. On the first morning he came back to them he had bathed, his uniform had been cleaned, mended and pressed, but he offered no explanation. Each morning he exercised the Company, marching them into the countryside and going through the evolutions of skirmishing. He drove them hard, not wanting them to become soft because of their stay in this soft city. Each afternoon he released them to their freedom while he went, secretly and cautiously, to the small door in the stable alley. Behind the door the stairs led to the private, top floor where only La Marquesa’s most trusted servants were allowed and where, almost to Sharpe’s disbelief, he found himself deep in a passionate affair.
He had lost his fear of her. She was no longer La Marquesa, now she was El Mirador, and though she was still a flawless woman she was also a person to whom he listened avidly. She spoke of her life, talking bitterly of the death of her parents. “They were not even French, but they took them. They killed them. The scum.” Her hatred of the revolution was total. Sharpe had worked out her age from the tales she told him. She had been ten when the mob came to take her parents, so now she was twenty eight, and in the years between she had studied the forces of a world that had taken her parents’ lives. She spoke to him of politics, of ambitions, and she showed him letters from Germany that spoke of Napoleon gathering a vast army that she said was destined for Russia. She had news too from across the Atlantic, news that spoke of an imminent American invasion of Canada, and Sharpe, sitting in the mirador, had the sense of watching a whole world drawn into a maelstrom of flame and shot like that which hammered, unceasing, below.
Above all Helena spoke of Leroux, of his famed savagery, and of the fear she had that he would escape. Sharpe smiled. “He can’t escape.”
“Why not?”
He had gestured at the wasteland. “It’s ringed, totally. No one can get through, not even a rat!”
That was his one certainty, that the Light troops which surrounded the beleaguered forts were too vigilant, too thick on the ground, for Leroux to slip past. Leroux, as Hogan had said, would try to escape in the chaos of the successful assault. Sharpe’s problem would be to make sense of that chaos and to recognise the tall Frenchman.
Helena had shrugged. “He’ll disguise himself.”
“I know. But he can’t hide his height, and he has a weakness.”
“A weakness?” She had been surprised.
“The sword.” Sharpe smiled, knowing he was right. “He won’t lose that sword, it’s part of him. If I see a tall man with that sword then I won’t care if he’s dressed as a British General of Division. That’s h
im.”
“You sound very sure.”
“I am.” He sipped at the cool, white wine and thought of the joy of owning that sword. The Kligenthal would be his, within a week, but with it would come the loss of this woman.
The loss would be secret, as it had to be, yet there were times when he wanted to shout his present joy from the rooftops, and times when it was hard to disguise. He walked towards the Company billets one dawn, crossing the great Plaza, and there was a shout from one of the upper balconies. “Sharpe! You rogue! Stay there!”
Lord Spears waved at him, turned into the building and reappeared a moment later in one of the doorways of the arcade. He walked, yawning, into the dawn light and then stopped. “By God, Richard! You look almost human! What have you done to yourself?”
“Just cleaned the uniform.”
“Just cleaned the uniform!” Lord Spears mimicked him, then prowled round the Rifleman, peering at him. “You’ve been putting your boots under someone’s bed, haven’t you? Sweet Christ, Richard, you think I can’t spot a sin at a thousand paces? Who is she?”
“No one.” Sharpe grinned in embarrassment.
“And you’re damned cheerful for the early morning. Who is it?”
“I told you, no one. You’re up early.”
“Up early? I haven’t been to bloody bed. I’ve been at the bloody cards again. I’ve just lost the Irish lands to some boring man.”
“Truly?”
Spears laughed. “Truly. It’s not bloody funny, I know, but Christ!” He shrugged. “Mother’s going to be upset. Sorry, Mother.”
“Have you got anything left?”
“The dower house. Few acres in Hertfordshire. A horse. Sabre. The family name.” He laughed again, then linked his good arm into Sharpe’s and led him across the Plaza. His voice was serious, pleading. “Who have you been with? Someone. You weren’t home last night and that frighten-ingly enormous Sergeant of yours didn’t know where you were. Where were you?”
“Just out.”
“You think we Spears are foolish? That we don’t know? That we can’t be sympathetic to a fellow sinner?” He stop-ped, pulled his arm free, and clicked his fingers. “Helena! You bastard! You’ve been with Helena!”
“Don’t be so ridiculous!”
“Ridiculous? Nonsense. She never appeared at that party of hers, she was said to be ill, and she hasn’t been seen since. Nor have you. Good God! You lucky bastard! Admit it!”
“It is not true.” Even to Sharpe it sounded lame.
“It is true.” Spears was grinning with delight. “All right, if it ain’t true, who were you with?”
“I’ve told you, no one.”
Spears took a deep breath and bellowed at the shuttered windows of the Plaza. “Good morning Salamanca! I have an announcement to make!” He grinned at Sharpe. „I’ll tell them, Richard, unless you admit the truth to me.“ He took another deep breath.
Sharpe interrupted him. “Dolores.”
“Dolores?” Spears’ grin grew wider.
“She’s a cobbler’s daughter. She likes Riflemen.”
Spears laughed. “You don’t say! Dolores, the cobbler’s daughter? Are you going to introduce me?”
“She’s shy.”
“Oh! Shy. How the hell did you meet her, then?”
“I helped her in the street.”
“Of course!” Spears pretended total belief. “You were on your way to feed the stray dogs or help the orphans, right? And you just helped her. Dropped her cobbles, had she?”
“Don’t mock. She’s only got one leg. Some bastard sawed off the bottom two inches of her peg.”
“A one-legged cobbler’s daughter? Saves her father a decent bit of money, no doubt. You’re a liar, Richard Sharpe.”
“I swear it.”
Spears took a huge breath and bellowed again. “Richard Sharpe has rogered Dolores! The cobbler’s hopping daughter!” He roared with laughter at his own joke and bowed to some astonished labourers who were dismantling the barri-cades that had been used for the previous day’s bullfight. He linked his arm with Sharpe again and dropped his voice. “How is La Marquesa?”
“How would I know? I haven’t seen her since we were at San Christobal.”
“Richard! Richard! You’re too clever for me. I wish you’d admit it, even if it isn’t true, it would be a perfectly delicious scandal.”
“I can’t see that stopping you spreading it.”
“True, but no one believes me!” Spears sighed, then suddenly became serious. “Let me ask you one more question.”
“Go on.”
“Have you heard of ”El Mirador“?”
“El Mirador?” In his surprise, Sharpe checked.
Spears stopped as well. “You have, haven’t you?”
“Only as a name.” Sharpe wished he had not betrayed his surprise.
“A name? What connection?”
Sharpe paused to think of an answer. It crossed his mind that this could be some kind of a test, arranged by La Marquesa, to see if he was really trustworthy. It brought home to him, as if he had forgotten, the total secrecy that had to surround her. He shrugged. “No connection. Is he one of the Guerilla leaders?”
“Like El Empecinado?” Spears shook his head. “No, he’s not a Partisan, he’s a spy here in Salamanca.”
“Ours or theirs?”
“Ours.” Spears bit his lip, then turned fiercely on Sharpe. “Think! Try to remember! Where did you hear it?”
Sharpe was taken aback by the sudden passion, then had an inspiration. “You remember Major Kearsey? I think he mentioned it, but I can’t remember why. It was two years ago.”
Spears swore. Kearsey had been, like Lord Spears, an Exploring Officer, but he was dead, swept off the ramparts of Almeida when Sharpe blew up the magazine.
“How do you know about him?” Sharpe asked.
Spears shrugged. “You hear rumours as an Exploring Officer.”
“Why is it so important now?”
“It’s not, but I’d like to know.” He jerked the arm in its sling. “When this is healed I’ll be back to work and I’ll need friends everywhere.”
Sharpe began walking again. “Hardly in Salamanca. The French have gone.”
Spears matched Sharpe’s stride. “Only for the moment, Richard. We have to defeat Marmont first, otherwise we’ll be scuttling back to Portugal with our tails between our legs.” He looked at Sharpe. “If you hear anything, will you tell me?”
“About El Mirador?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you ask Hogan?”
Spears yawned. “Maybe I will, maybe I will.”
At midday Sharpe went to the main battery and watched the gunners heating the solid shot in their portable furnaces. The assault, he knew, had to be close, even the next day, and it would mark the end of his visits to the Palacio Casares. He wished the gunners were not so industrious. He watched them slaving at the bellows fixed to one end of the forge while other men shovelled the coal from the bunker at the far end. In the centre was the cast iron furnace, roaring in the noon heat, the flames escaping at the bottom of the casing, and he marvelled that men could work with that heat, under the sun. It took fifteen minutes to heat each eighteen pounder shot until the red glow had gone deep into the iron and the ball could be dragged from the crucible with long tongs and rolled carefully onto the metal cradle, carried by two men, that took the shot to the gun. The barrel was loaded with powder, then with a thick wad of soaking cloth that stopped the heated shot from igniting the charge. It was rammed home swiftly, the men eager to preserve the red-heat, and then the gun bellowed and the shot left the smallest, finest trace of smoke in its flat trajectory into the demolished French defences. Hardly an enemy gun replied now. The next assault, Sharpe knew, would meet small resistance. He wondered if Leroux was already dead, the body laid out with the others killed in the siege, and that thus these gunners would already have done Sharpe’s work.
He found La Marquesa
writing at a small desk in her dressing room. She smiled at him. “How is it progressing?”
“Tomorrow.”
“For certain?”
“No.” He could hardly hide the regret in his voice, but he sensed that she shared it, and he wondered at that. “The Peer will make the decision tomorrow, but he won’t need to wait. It’ll be tomorrow.”
She laid the pen down, stood up, and kissed him swiftly on the cheek. “So tomorrow you’ll take him?”
“Unless he’s dead already.”
She walked onto the mirador and pushed open one of the lattice doors. The San Vincente showed two fires, pale in the strong sun, and the San Cayetano smoked where a fire had been extinguished by the defenders. She turned back to him. “What will you do with him?”
“If he doesn’t resist, then he’s a prisoner.”
“Will you parole him?”
“No, not again. He’ll be shackled. He broke parole. He won’t be exchanged, he won’t be treated well, he’ll just be sent to England, to a prison, and he’ll be held there until the war ends.” He shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe he can be tried for murder because he killed men when he was on parole.” .
“So tomorrow I’m safe?”
“Until they send another one to find you.”
She nodded. He was used to her now, to her gestures, to her sudden dazzling smiles, and he had forgotten the coquettish, teasing woman he had met at San Christobal. That was the public face, she told him, while he saw the private and he wondered if he would see her again, in the future, and he would see the public face surrounded by fawning officers and he would feel a terrible, keen jealousy. She smiled at him. “What happens to you when it’s done?”
“We’ll join the army.”
“Tomorrow?”
“No. Sunday perhaps.” The day after tomorrow. “We’ll march north and bring Marmont to battle.”
“And then?”
“Who knows? Madrid perhaps.”
She smiled again. “We have a house in Madrid.”
“A house?”
“It’s very small. No more than sixty rooms.” She laughed at him. “You’ll be very welcome though, alas, it has no secret entrance.” It was unreal, Sharpe knew. They never talked of her husband, or of Teresa. They were secret lovers, Sharpe and a lady, and they would have to stay secret. They had been given these few days, these nights, but fate was going to take them apart; he to a battle, she to the secret war of letters and codes. They had this night, tomorrow’s battle, and then, if they were lucky, just one more night, the last night, and then they were in fate’s hands. She turned to look once more at the fortresses. “Will you fight tomorrow?”
Sharpe 3-Book Collection 5: Sharpe's Company, Sharpe's Sword, Sharpe's Enemy Page 40
