‘Are you all right, Mister Sharpe?’ Pat Harper called from the window.
‘Never been better, Pat. Come on in.’ More shots sounded outside. ‘What’s happening, Pat?’
‘There’s a dozen Crapauds running around, sir. No need to worry.’
Sharpe turned the pistol on the French officer, who had long fair hair falling across his face. ‘Madame?’ he said nervously.
‘You,’ Sharpe spoke in French, ‘go to the mushrooms and bring Mister Fox here. Go!’
The man looked for confirmation at Madame Delaunay, who was staring at Sharpe. ‘I said go!’ Sharpe snarled. ‘So go!’
‘Go,’ Madame Delaunay said resignedly.
Before the Frenchman could leave, the parlour door was pushed open and Rifleman O’Farrell stood there. ‘You need help, Mister Sharpe?’
‘Are you alone?’
‘Four of us here, Mister Sharpe.’
‘Go with this fellow,’ Sharpe pointed to the French officer, ‘and bring Mister Fox here.’
Sharpe was left alone with Madame Delaunay. ‘I should have killed you,’ she said bitterly.
‘You broke your collarbone?’ Sharpe guessed.
‘You did warn me. You will permit me to send for a doctor?’
‘Of course.’
She used her left hand to ring a bell, which brought a maid who was instructed to fetch Doctor Joseph. ‘And bring me brandy,’ she added, then looked back to Sharpe. ‘I just wanted to fire the rifle.’
‘And aimed at the open window?’
‘I did. If I had wanted to kill you, Colonel, I assure you that no doctor could have saved your life.’
‘Then I thank you, madame.’
‘And do put that pistol down. A harmless old lady is no danger to you.’
Sharpe sat, keeping the pistol close, and decided to be more honest about his visit to the house. ‘Tell me about la Fraternité, madame.’
She laughed. ‘So that’s why you’re here! You fools.’
‘Fools, madame?’
‘La Fraternité, you idiot, is nonsense! Medieval claptrap!’
The scornful answer surprised Sharpe. ‘Claptrap encouraged by your husband?’
‘Charles was a patriot, Colonel, and a strong supporter of the Emperor. He feared for the Emperor’s life in battle and recruited men who would avenge his death. If, indeed, such a tragedy happened.’
‘In battle?’
‘The ancient medieval fraternities were companions in battle, Colonel. They vowed to protect and avenge each other. I fear my husband’s brotherhood died with him, yet you have come all this way to discover it?’
The parlour door opened and Pat Harper came in. He was carrying Sharpe’s discarded coat and the volley gun. He bowed to Madame Delaunay. ‘Madame,’ he said.
‘My friend, Sergeant Patrick Harper,’ Sharpe made the introductions, ‘and Madame Delaunay.’
‘The widow Delaunay,’ she put in. ‘You’re another Rifleman?’
‘From Ireland,’ Harper said proudly.
‘And God alone knows why you fight in the British army, Sergeant! The English have been nothing but trouble to Ireland.’
‘And we’ve been a rare trouble to them too, madame,’ Harper retorted.
‘Good for you. Don’t stop.’
‘No danger of that, madame.’
Madame Delaunay’s eyes widened at the sight of the volley gun. ‘What is that weapon, Sergeant?’
‘Mister Nock’s volley gun, madame. A wicked thing, so it is.’
‘With a kick,’ Sharpe added, ‘that makes a rifle’s recoil feel like a sparrow’s kiss.’
‘I will resist trying it,’ Madame Delaunay said. ‘Do sit down, Sergeant, you’re making the room untidy.’
‘Thank you, madame.’
‘So!’ Madame Delaunay stared imperiously at Sharpe. ‘You came all this way to discover the truth of la Fraternité.’
‘Indeed, madame.’
‘What credulous fools you all are! A group of men takes a vow to protect the Emperor in battle and you assume they will start another war?’
‘If they kill the allied leaders, madame, they could well provoke a revenge.’
She shrugged and immediately flinched as her shoulder hurt. ‘You foresee slaughter in the streets? A national uprising of vengeful Frenchmen besieging your troops?’
‘I foresee nothing,’ Sharpe said, ‘but the Duke desires order, madame, and an assurance that French forces will accept the war’s outcome.’
‘And you believe my husband could have provided that assurance?’
‘His opinion would have been valuable.’
‘He would have told you to go to hell, Colonel. But for what it is worth I can assure you that the French are tired of war. They have had enough.’
‘Thank you, madame.’
‘And you, Colonel? Have you had enough of war?’
‘More than enough, madame.’
‘Enough of what?’ a familiar voice asked, and Alan Fox came from the hallway with Rifleman O’Farrell following. ‘You found me, Sharpe!’ Fox declared in a slurred voice. ‘Well done.’ He bowed to the widow Delaunay. ‘It seems I no longer need your hospitality, milady.’ Fox, still in the clothes he had been wearing when Sharpe last saw him, looked ragged and tired.
‘You’re well, Mister Fox?’ Sharpe asked.
‘In need of a bath and a good meal. These wretches took me to a bloody great cellar they use as a mushroom farm! Can you believe it?’
Sharpe ignored the question, turning to Harper instead. ‘All quiet outside, Pat?’
‘There were eight of the buggers, sir. Four have joined their ancestors, and the others are locked in a room off the hall here.’
‘Then we can go,’ Sharpe said. He stood and bowed to Madame Delaunay. ‘I am sorry for your injury, madame.’
‘Self-inflicted,’ she said tartly, ‘and it will heal.’
At that moment the maid returned with a tray on which were two glasses and a decanter of brandy. Fox seized the tray, put it on a table, and poured two generous measures. He handed one to the widow, then drank the other. ‘We can go,’ he announced.
Sharpe picked up the pistol, opened the frizzen and blew the powder from the pan so the gun could not fire. He tossed it back onto the sofa. ‘Madame,’ he said, bowing again.
‘Remember me to Lucille,’ Madame Delaunay said.
‘I shall, madame.’
‘And Colonel?’ For the first time Madame Delaunay seemed uncertain. ‘I am hoping my husband’s body can be brought back for burial. Is there any hope of that, you think?’
Sharpe remembered the fires in the valley, the great fires on which the naked French corpses blackened and shrivelled. ‘I would not hold out high hopes, madame. I’m sorry.’
‘He will have been buried already?’
‘With his men,’ Sharpe lied, unwilling to confess that the General must have been burned.
‘Sharpe! We can’t wait all night!’ Fox snarled, and strode from the room.
‘Obnoxious man,’ Madame Delaunay said quietly, then watched as Sharpe, O’Farrell and Harper left.
Sharpe gathered his men at the front porch where two French soldiers lay on the flagstones. ‘Back home, lads,’ he said.
‘Home?’ Fox asked. ‘You mean the warehouse?’
‘That’s gone,’ Sharpe said curtly, ‘and your paintings too. Place was swarming with Crapauds when we looked.’