“Not if he’s Peymann’s aide,” Skovgaard said.
“Who’s Peymann?”
“The tall man next to His Majesty. He’s commander of the city.”
Lavisser was evidently staying. He offered the Prince a salute, then leaned forward and shook the royal hand. The Prince turned to the crowd who cheered even louder, then walked down a flight of stone steps to where a launch waited to row him out to a frigate. The frigate, the fastest in the Danish fleet, would take him back to Holstein and the army. The rest of the Danish fleet was in the inner haven and Sharpe could see its masts and spars above the tiled roofs of some warehouses on the far bank. “What I don’t understand,” he said, “is why you don’t just sail the whole fleet away.”
“To where?” Skovgaard asked sourly. His face was still swollen and white with pain. “Norway? It has no harbors so well protected as Copenhagen. We could send it to sea, I suppose, but there it will be intersepted by a British fleet. No, this is the safest place.” The harbor was not at the edge of the city, but hollowed out of its very center and to reach it the British would have to get past the forts, walls, redoubts, guns and bastions. “It is here,” Skovgaard said, “because it is safe here.”
Some nearby folk heard the language and frowned at Sharpe. “American,” he claimed.
“Welcome to Copenhagen!”
The cannons of the Sixtus Battery boomed out a twenty-one-gun salute as the Prince climbed the side of the frigate. “Did you hear that your army is landed?” Skovgaard said. “They came yesterday morning, not so far away”—he gestured to the north—”so they will be here within a few days. I think you should join them, Lieutenant.”
“And leave you to Lavisser?”
“This is my city, Lieutenant, not yours, and I have already taken steps to ensure my own safety.”
“What steps?” Sharpe demanded.
“I have written to Peymann assuring him of my loyalty.”
“I’m sure General Peymann will persuade the French to forget you,” Sharpe said.
“There are men who can be hired.” Skovgaard spoke icily. He was plainly irritated by Sharpe’s constant company. On the previous morning, after Sharpe had buried the three Frenchmen, he had accompanied Ole Skovgaard to a dentist while Astrid and the maids had packed the household belongings onto a wagon that would carry them to their old house in Ulfedt’s Plads.
The dentist had proved to be an obese man who shuddered at the ravaged state of Skovgaard’s mouth. He had packed the empty sockets with shreds of sphagnum moss, then given him oil of cloves to rub on his tender gums and promised he would have some new false teeth made. It seemed there were plenty of real teeth on the market these days, imported in the wake of the war in which France had beaten Austria and Russia. Austerlitz teeth, they were called. The rest of the day had been spent in moving furniture, linens, books and papers into the old house. The elderly servant was left to look after the new house while the coachmen and stable boys went to join the militia, taking Skovgaard’s horses with them. “I have no need of a carriage in the city,” Skovgaard had explained to Sharpe, “and our government needs horses to haul ammunition wagons.”
“You need protection,” Sharpe said, “and you’ve just lost all your male servants.”
“The city needs them more than I do,” Skovgaard had answered, “and Aksel has promised to find me some men. They will be cripples, probably, but a one-legged man can fire a musket.” Skovgaard had sounded bitter. “And there are plenty of cripples in Copenhagen, Lieutenant, thanks to your last attack.”
The bitterness had intrigued Sharpe. “Why didn’t you break with Britain then?” he asked.
Skovgaard had shrugged. “My dear wife was alive. Besides, when Nelson attacked, I could see some justice in the British cause. We were denying them trade and the lifeblood of a nation is trade. But now? Now we deny you nothing except what is undeniably ours. Besides, I have never done anything to jeopardize Denmark. I simply assisted Britain to combat France, that is all. Now, alas, we shall be France’s ally.”
Two men in black carrying valises stuffed with papers were waiting for Skovgaard when he returned from watching the Prince’s departure. Sharpe was instantly suspicious, but Skovgaard evidently knew the men and hurried them into his office. “They are from the government,” Aksel Bang told Sharpe.
“What do they want?”
“Perhaps they have come for you, Lieutenant?”
Sharpe ignored that jibe. He walked down the center aisle of the big warehouse. “Where does that lead?” He pointed to a staircase that vanished in the dusty rafters of the high roof. He wanted to check every door and window, looking for any place where men might break into the premises.
“It goes to my upper chamber,” Bang said, meaning a loft, “where I sleep now that Mister Skovgaard has returned.”
“Lost your house, have you?”
“I do not mind,” Bang said unctuously, “it is not my house and it is a blessing to have Miss Astrid back.”
“A blessing for you or for her?”
“For both of us, I think. It is like things were before they moved. It is good.”
Sharpe could find no weaknesses in the warehouse. Too much of value was stored in the place and Skovgaard had made it virtually thief-proof to protect the sacks of indigo, piles of jute, and barrels of pungent spices that reminded Sharpe of India. “So what does the government want with Skovgaard?” he asked Bang.
“They want to know if any of these goods belong to British merchants.”
“Why?”
“Because they will confiscate them, of course. We are at war, Lieutenant.”
Sharpe looked at the dusty bays filled with barrels, sacks and crates. “And is any of this stuff British?”
“No. We do not store goods for other merchants. It is all our own.”
“Good,” Sharpe said, meaning there was no excuse for any more visits from officials. He turned on Bang. “Tell me, when you delivered Mister Skovgaard’s letter, did you meet Lavisser?”
Bang blinked with surprise at Sharpe’s forceful tone. “I met Major Lavisser, yes. He was very gracious.”
“Did he ask you questions?”
Bang nodded. “He wanted to know about Mister Skovgaard, so I told him he is a good merchant and a committed Christian.”
“Is that all?”
“It is all God asks of us.”
Sharpe wanted to hit Bang. The man was nothing but a trumped-up clerk, but he had a sly and prickly pride about him. “What else did he ask you about Skovgaard?”
Bang pushed his long hair out of his eyes. “He asked if Mister Skovgaard had much to do with England. I said yes. I said he had many friends there and that he wrote there. That he had been married to an Englishwoman. Does it matter?”
“No,” Sharpe said. Lavisser must have guessed that Sharpe would get in touch with the man whose name had been given him by Lord Pumphrey, so when Skovgaard’s letter arrived it simply confirmed that suspicion. And, with the French on the point of evacuating their diplomatic mission, it must have seemed imperative to act immediately.
“I don’t understand why you ask me these questions,” Bang protested. He was genuinely confused why Skovgaard had moved back into the city and the explanation that his employer merely wanted to avoid the imminent British was made inadequate by Sharpe’s presence and even more inadequate by Skovgaard’s swollen face. “I think,” Bang told Sharpe, “that you have snared Mister Skovgaard in unseemly matters.”
“All you need to know,” Sharpe said, “is that Mister Skovgaard is in danger. So if any strangers come here, fetch me. Don’t let them in. And if anyone asks you about Mister Skovgaard, tell them nothing. Nothing! Don’t even say he’s a Christian because it’s none of their damn business.”
Bang looked mournful at Sharpe’s tone. “He is in danger? Then perhaps Miss Astrid is also in danger?”
“Miss Astrid too,” Sharpe said. “So just be watchful. Watch and pray, eh?”
“But maybe I should accompany Miss Astrid?” Bang sounded cheerful suddenly. “She goes to the orphanage.”
“To the where?”
“The orphanage! Every day she goes. I can go with her, yes?”
“You?” Sharpe could not keep the contempt from his voice. “And what will you do if she’s attacked? Pray for
