'I look forward to it, sir.
'You should! You should! French cooks, Major Sharpe, have secrets. You, I'm sure, have none. He glanced at the stables, smiled, then raised a hand to Sir Augustus before turning his horse. ‘
The sparks were brighter as the French accelerated through the gateway of the Castle. Sharpe looked at the stables. Six men, all in artillery uniform, stood gaping in the doorway. He swore at them, had a Sergeant take their names, and hoped that Dubreton had drawn no conclusions other than that Sharpe was hiding some guns. Tomorrow would reveal all.
It was nightfall, Christmas Day, in the Castle of the Virgin.
CHAPTER 16
German voices, singing carols, faded behind them as they rode horses slowly towards the village. Eight officers and Josefina were dining with the French.
The torches that illuminated the village street flamed inside soft haloes. There was a night mist. Sir Augustus was in a playful mood, a heavy playfulness, perhaps because Josefina was looking as sultry and beautiful as artifice could make her. He looked across her at Sharpe. 'Perhaps they'll serve you frog's legs, Sharpe!
'One can only hope, sir.
There would be a hard frost tonight. To the south and overhead the stars were visible through the fine mist, Christmas stars, but the northern sky was dark, spreading south, and Sharpe could smell bad weather in the air. Pray God it would not be snow. He did not relish struggling from the Gateway of God, guarding the British, Portuguese and Spanish prisoners who were crammed into the Castle's dungeon, struggling with them and Gilliland's carts down the snow covered pass. Then, he thought, they might not be leaving in the morning. It depended on the French and their plans.
Dubreton waited for them at the door of the inn. It was a large building, far too large for such a tiny village, yet once it had served as a house for travelling men who crossed the Sierra and wanted to avoid the tolls of the southern road. The war had dulled trade, but still the building looked inviting and warm. A tricolour hung from an upstairs window, lit by two straw and resin torches, while unarmed soldiers came forward to take the horses. Farthingdale left the introductions to Sharpe. Four Captains, including Brooker and Cross, and two Lieutenants including Harry Price.
Once inside, Dubreton conducted Josefina to the room where the Frenchwomen prepared themselves. Sharpe heard delighted voices greeting their former companion in misfortune, and then he smiled as he saw the trouble that had been taken for the meal.
All the inn's tables had been pushed together, making one great table covered in white cloths, and tall candles showed more than two dozen place settings. Forks, as Hagman had feared, gleamed silver beneath the flames. Wine bottles stood open on a sideboard, ranks of them, a whole Battalion of wine, while bread, hard crusted, waited in baskets on the table. A fire burned in the hearth, its warmth already reaching to the inn's main door.
An orderly took Sharpe's greatcoat, another brought a great bowl from which steam arose and Dubreton ladled out glasses of punch. A dozen French officers waited in the room, their smiles welcoming, their eyes curious to see their enemy so close. Dubreton waited till the orderly had passed the punch around. 'I wish you gentlemen a happy Christmas!
'A happy Christmas!
There was a smell from the inn's kitchens that could have been a foretaste of paradise.
Farthingdale raised his glass. 'To a gallant enemy! He repeated it in French.
'To a gallant enemy!
Sharpe drank and his eye was caught by a French officer who, unlike the others, was not dressed as either an infantryman, a Lancer, or a Dragoon. His uniform was plain blue, very dark, without a single badge of rank or unit mark. He wore spectacles, wire bound, and his face showed the ravages of childhood smallpox. The eyes, small and dark like the man himself, caught Sharpe's and there was none of the friendliness that the other officers showed.
Dubreton returned Sir Augustus' compliment and then announced that dinner would be another half hour yet, that the orderlies would keep their glasses charged, and that his officers had been chosen for their English, mostly bad, but please would they consider themselves welcome. Farthingdale made a small response and then chivvied the British officers towards the waiting French. Sharpe, hating small talk, moved to a shadowed corner of the room and was astonished that the small dark man in his blue, plain uniform headed for him. 'Major Sharpe?
'Yes.
'More punch?
'No, thank you.
'You prefer wine? The voice was harsh, the tone mocking.
'Yes.
The Frenchman, whose English accent was almost too perfect, snapped his fingers and Sharpe was startled by the alacrity with which an orderly responded to the summons. This man was feared. When the orderly was gone the Frenchman looked up at the Rifleman. 'Your promotion is recent, yes?
'I don't have the honour of your name.
A quick smile, instantly gone. 'Ducos. Major Ducos, at your service.
'And why should my promotion be recent, Major?
The smile came again, a secret smile as if Ducos harboured knowledge and revelled in it. 'Because in the summer you were a Captain. Let me see, now. At Salamanca? Yes. Then at Garcia Hernandez where you killed Leroux. A pity that, he was a good man. Your name didn't come to my ears at Burgos, but I suspect you were recovering from the wound Leroux gave you.
'Anything else? The man had been absolutely right in everything, annoyingly right. Sharpe noticed the buzz of conversation growing in the rest of the room, the beginning of laughter, and he noticed too that all the French had given this small man a wide berth. Dubreton looked over, caught Sharpe's eye, and the French Colonel gave a tiny, almost apologetic shrug.
'There's more, Major. Ducos waited for the orderly to give Sharpe his wine. 'Have you seen your wife in the last few weeks?
'I'm sure you know the answer to that.
Ducos smiled, taking it as a compliment. 'I hear La Aguja is in Casatejada, and in no danger from us, I assure you.
'She rarely is.
The insult went past Ducos as if it had never been uttered. The spectacles flashed circles of candle-light at Sharpe. 'Are you surprised I know so much about you, Sharpe?
'Fame is always surprising, Ducos, and very gratifying. Sharpe sounded wonderfully pompous to himself, but this small, sardonic Major was annoying him.
Ducos laughed. 'Enjoy it while you can, Sharpe. It won't last. Fame bought on a battlefield can only be sustained on a battlefield, and usually that brings death. I doubt you'll see the war's end.
Sharpe raised his glass. 'Thank you.
Ducos shrugged. 'You're all fools, you heroes. Like him. He jerked his head towards Dubreton. 'You think the trumpet will never stop. He sipped his glass, taking very little. 'I know about you because we have a mutual friend.
'I find that unlikely.
'You do? Ducos seemed to like being insulted, perhaps because his power to hurt back was absolute and secret. There was something sinister about him, something that spoke of a power which could afford to ignore soldiers. 'Perhaps not a mutual friend, then. Your friend, yes. Mine? An acquaintance, perhaps. He waited for Sharpe's curious-ity to give voice, and laughed when he knew Sharpe would say nothing. 'Shall I give a message
