‘What do we do?’ Burrell asked.
‘You get a squad of men to take the barrels into the garden. There’s a pond here?’
‘An ornamental lake, sir. With fountains.’
‘Drop them all in the lake. Then put a guard on the cellar to see who comes back later tonight.’
‘Dear God,’ Burrell said. ‘I should tell the Duke, sir.’
‘Don’t spoil his dinner! I’ll tell him later. Just get rid of the stuff.’
‘Sharpe!’ It was Major Vincent’s voice, peremptory from above.
‘Coming!’ Sharpe clapped Burrell on the shoulder, then climbed to the kitchen, where Vincent waited. ‘They can’t serve the main course till you return,’ the Major complained.
Sharpe went back to the dining room and took his seat. ‘All well, Sharpe?’ the Duke demanded.
‘Madame Delaunay has been very generous, Your Grace,’ Sharpe said, ‘a dozen barrels of the 1811 vintage. I’m told it’s excellent.’
‘It is,’ the widow put in.
‘You tasted it, Sharpe?’ Halkett asked.
‘No, sir, we just left the barrels in the cellar.’ He said that loud enough for the widow to hear.
‘There was a comet in 1811,’ the widow said, ‘and years with a comet always give the best wine. I hope Your Grace enjoys it.’
‘I shall, madame, and am most grateful for your generosity.’ The Duke scowled at Sharpe, then clapped his hands. ‘Roast leg of mutton and vinegar sauce,’ he announced happily.
‘Of course,’ Halkett grumbled. Sharpe liked roast mutton, but as he sat he suddenly wondered if he had been right. Supposing Lanier was not planning to return? Suppose there was a slow match in one of the barrels? Dear God, that is how he would have ignited the powder. He would have made a separate compartment in one of the barrels and secreted an artillery shell attached to a slow match that could even now be burning in the cellar. He had not smelt burning powder, and a slow match would be extinguished if the barrel was airtight, but he could not lose the suspicion, nor the fear that at any moment the whole house would be engulfed in a vast explosion. ‘You’ll forgive me,’ he said to the table at large, stood, and dashed back to the kitchen. Down the stairs and into the cellar where a half-dozen guardsmen were manhandling the last three barrels up to the garden. Sharpe followed to watch them rolling the barrels across the lawn to the ornamental pond with its two fountains. Captain Burrell stood watching. ‘That’s the last barrel,’ he told Sharpe. ‘All safe now.’
The barrel was rolled into the pond.
‘Well done, Captain. Keep a guard on them.’
‘I will, sir.’
Sharpe went back to the house, knowing he would have to explain his sudden exit. Sure enough the Duke gave him an unfriendly look. ‘You had a more pressing engagement, Colonel?’
‘I forgot to thank the men who delivered the wine, Your Grace. I thought they deserved some thanks.’
‘Even though they destroyed something?’
‘The outer cellar door, Your Grace, rather than trundle the barrels through the house. They couldn’t find the key.’
The Duke grunted. ‘Sensible, I suppose. Sit down, Sharpe. What did you give them?’
‘Twenty francs Your Grace.’
‘Good God, that was generous!’
‘They assured me it is very good wine, Your Grace.’
‘It is excellent wine,’ the widow put in, and Sharpe dared not meet her gaze.
‘I’ll reimburse you, Sharpe,’ the Duke said ungraciously, then sawed at the mutton with his knife. Lucille, Sharpe noted, was eating with feigned enjoyment. He winked at her and she half smiled.
‘You’re really planning to settle in Normandy, Colonel?’ Halkett asked him.
‘Already have, sir. Can’t wait to get back there.’
‘Understandable,’ Halkett said, looking at Lucille, ‘but if you stayed in the army there’d be advancement for you.’
‘I doubt it, sir. There’ll be too many Colonels and not enough war.’
‘There’s always war, Sharpe, it’s the natural state of mankind. Are you sure this is mutton? Tastes like goat.’
‘Long time since I ate goat,’ Sharpe said, ‘probably not since Portugal.’ And he thought how far he had come since those first battles in Portugal. He looked across the table at Lucille, who was speaking animatedly to the Duke. Would he really be happy in Normandy? Maybe he should stay in the army as Halkett suggested. Now he was a Colonel the promotions would come without effort; no purchase needed, just seniority. Live long enough, he thought, and he would be General Sharpe, and that thought made him smile. General Sharpe! That would be an achievement for a gutter-born boy from East London, but the thought was also ridiculous and he knew that as long as he lived he would always be the officer who had come from the ranks, and whose back was scarred by a flogging. In Normandy he had nothing to prove, except perhaps that he could farm Lucille’s acres as well as any other man. And he remembered the Duke at Waterloo, amidst the din of battle, under the thick powder smoke that hung over the ragged infantry, the trumpet calls and the drumbeats of the approaching French, and every man in that thin abraded line at the crest of the ridge had known that death was coming up the slope; death by musket fire, by bayonet lunges, by canister or by roundshot, and in the centre of that dread the Duke had called out that the reward for standing and surviving was peace, and for Sharpe that meant Lucille. ‘I’ll not stay in the army,’ he told Halkett, who looked slightly surprised at the sudden words. ‘The army’s been good to me, sir,’ Sharpe went on, but did not finish the thought. The army, he thought, had guided him to Lucille, so the army had done its job, as he had. He had fought on the ridge at Waterloo, and now he would take the Duke’s promised result; peace.
Except Lanier would break that promise. Fox had reckoned la Fraternité could start another war, a war of vengeance for the deaths of Dukes and Princes, and if Fox was right then there would be no sanctuary in Normandy, just another campaign and more battles. ‘I’ve fought long enough,’ he muttered.
‘Few have fought better,’ Halkett said. ‘You know you’re something of a legend, Sharpe?’
‘I doubt that, sir.’
‘Truly!’ Halkett insisted.
‘I remember in India, sir, a cavalry officer told me what I was. I was a Sergeant then.’ He paused.
‘What did he say?’ Halkett insisted. ‘Tell me!’
‘A lump, sir. He said I was a lump. Not sure he wasn’t right.’
The mutton was cleared away, the wine glasses refilled, then dishes of strawberries were put on the table with bowls of lemon ice cream. A clock in the hallway struck ten and the widow stood. ‘I must cross the city,’ she said, ‘so I hope you will excuse me?’
‘It was good of you to come,’ the Duke said, ‘and I thank you for the wine.’
‘I know you will enjoy it, Your Grace.’ She moved to the door, then looked back. ‘Colonel Sharpe! May I have a word?’
The Duke nodded permission and Sharpe followed the widow into the hallway. ‘Madame?’