The man whose elbow he had seized simply turned and tried to drive a fist into Sharpe’s belly, but Sharpe moved into the man, making him miss, and brought up his knee. The fellow collapsed, groaning, and Sharpe hammered a fist down onto his head. ‘I said stop it!’
A second man took a pace towards Sharpe, then a hard voice sounded. ‘Enough, Sergeant!’ The man stopped. The man who had spoken was at the foot of the cellar steps and now climbed towards Sharpe. ‘There is a problem, monsieur?’ he asked.
‘The Duke wants the noise to stop. So stop whatever you’re doing.’
‘We are bringing the Duke a gift of wine!’ the man said, now standing on the driveway.
The man was dressed in a plain brown coat over black breeches, but there was no mistaking his military stance. His face was in shadow, but Sharpe had no trouble recognising the saturnine face he had seen so often through his telescope. It was Colonel Lanier. ‘Twelve barrels of the finest red wine,’ Lanier said, sounding amused. ‘The Duke does not want the gift?’
‘The Duke wants the gift given in silence,’ Sharpe said. ‘Your men can carry the barrels down the steps.’
‘Ah! We disturb the Duke’s dinner?’
‘Carry them!’ Sharpe ordered. ‘Carefully!’
‘You heard him,’ Lanier said, ‘so tiptoe down the steps, boys, and be careful!’
Sharpe pushed past Lanier and went down into the cellar where three barrels lay on the stone-flagged floor. A lantern gave small light. Sharpe rolled one of the barrels close to some racks filled with wine bottles and heaved it upright. Something struck him as strange as he heaved the barrel, but there was no time to think about that because Lanier had followed him. ‘You would like the barrels there, monsieur?’ He spoke in English.
‘Here,’ Sharpe said. ‘And you are?’
‘I am Henri Fellion, one of Madame Delaunay’s vintners. And you, monsieur?’
‘Sharpe, Colonel Sharpe.’
‘This wine is four years old, it should be drunk now. Madame was generous. 1811 was a very good year for wine!’
‘You broke the door down,’ Sharpe said accusingly, still trying to identify what had struck him as odd about the heavy barrel.
‘I am sorry, monsieur, but no key was available. We can send men to make a repair?’
Captain Burrell had come down the stairs and now watched as the planks were taken from the steps and the next barrels were carried down into the cellar. ‘He is a boy,’ Lanier said to Sharpe, nodding at Burrell.
‘You have the same boys in your army.’
Lanier half smiled, as if recognising that Sharpe was not such a fool as to believe his tale of being a vintner. ‘We have them. They’re decorative, brave and useless. They die fast.’
‘So who is useful?’
‘Men who know their business, Colonel. Give me officers who fought in the ranks.’
‘So you served, Monsieur Fellion?’ Sharpe asked.
‘We have no choice, Colonel. We have conscription.’
‘And let me guess,’ Sharpe said, ‘you were a good Sergeant.’
Lanier laughed. ‘I was an excellent Sergeant! Even the Generals were scared of me.’
‘The Emperor too?’
‘We were all scared of him, Colonel. And you, Colonel? You haven’t been scared of Sergeants?’
‘Only when I was in the ranks, and I killed that bugger.’
Lanier checked. ‘You were in the ranks?’
‘Just like you.’
‘I thought the English did not promote men from the ranks?’
‘Only the mad ones,’ Sharpe said.
‘Mad?’
‘The ones who fight like monsters,’ Sharpe said.
Lanier smiled, recognising his own nickname. ‘And you are a monster, Colonel?’
‘I kill monsters, monsieur, it’s what they pay me to do.’
The two had moved closer to the lantern. Lanier’s men had finished bringing the barrels to the cellar and now watched them alongside a very uncomfortable-looking Burrell. Sharpe decided he had pretended long enough. ‘So tell me about Marengo, Colonel,’ he said.
Lanier smiled again. ‘My moment of glory, Colonel.’ He mocked the word glory with his tone. ‘But in truth we fought well that day. And you? You had a moment like that?’
‘Talavera,’ Sharpe said.
‘I missed the Spanish war. What did you do?’
‘I took one of your Eagles.’
For an instant Lanier looked offended, then he nodded. ‘I salute you, Colonel.’ He sounded sincere. He turned to glance at his men, and Sharpe saw that his long queue had been wrapped tightly with black ribbon and hung down beneath his neck. For a heartbeat Sharpe was tempted to take hold of the queue, haul it down, and slam his other hand hard onto Lanier’s exposed throat, then Lanier turned back and Sharpe had the odd thought that the Frenchman had recognised that impulse and was amused by it. Lanier touched the star on Sharpe’s breast. ‘They gave you that for your bravery?’ he asked.
‘You do know you’re supposed to be on the far side of the Loire by now?’ Sharpe ignored the question and spoke harshly.
‘I resigned from the army and stayed to help madame work the vineyard,’ Lanier said. ‘Believe it or not I know the trade. My father grew grapes in Burgundy. The war is over, Colonel.’
‘It is?’
Lanier gestured at the wine barrels. ‘We bring you the best Pinot Noir instead of bayonets.’ He turned to a small table beneath the lantern where there was a half full bottle of wine and a tray of glasses. He crossed to the table, uncorked the bottle, and sniffed the wine. ‘I assume this is what the Duke is drinking tonight?’ He poured wine into two of the glasses and handed one to Sharpe. ‘One day we must tell each other the tales old soldiers tell, Colonel.’
‘I’d like that,’ Sharpe said.
‘Your health, Colonel.’ Lanier lifted his glass.
‘Yours, Colonel,’ Sharpe said.
‘Vinegar,’ Lanier said, having tasted the wine. ‘My work here is done and the gift delivered. Au revoir, Colonel Sharpe.’
‘Au revoir, Colonel Lanier,’ Sharpe responded, and was rewarded with a chuckle.
Damn it, he thought, I like the man! He’s a lying, untrustworthy bastard, but I like him! He watched the men climb from the cellar and heard the wagon being driven away. ‘That was nice of them, sir,’ Burrell said.
‘Nice?’
‘They brought a gift, sir.’
Sharpe frowned. ‘They brought barrels,’ he said, ‘not bottles. Why?’
‘Not unusual, sir. My father always buys his claret in barrels. We decant it.’
A door opened at the top of the stairs leading into the house. ‘Colonel Sharpe?’ a voice called.
‘Coming!’ Sharpe said. He looked around the cellar and saw some tools on a bench. He found a chisel and hammer. ‘What happens when you roll a barrel of wine, Captain?’
‘No idea, sir,’ Burrell said.
‘It makes a noise! The stuff sloshes around. Did you hear it sloshing?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Exactly.’ Sharpe hammered the chisel into the top of a barrel, then levered up the shattered piece of wood. He sniffed and grimaced at the smell. ‘I knew something was wrong.’
‘Oh my God.’ Burrell had gone pale.
‘It’s safe enough,’ Sharpe said, ‘but they plan to come back later, don’t they.’ He pushed a hand through the gap he had made and brought out a handful of gunpowder.
‘I’ll call out the guard,’ Burrell turned away.
‘Don’t bother,’ Sharpe said, ‘the buggers have gone.’