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  'Thank you, Major Sharpe.' She bowed slightly towards him then, in a superb gesture, waved an arm around the whole Convent, a gesture that embraced all the watching Riflemen. She raised her voice. 'And thank you to all of you. Thank you!'

  They all looked pleased, bashful and pleased, and Sharpe nudged a Sergeant beside him. 'Three cheers for her Ladyship?'

  'Oh yes, sir, of course, sir.' The Sergeant beamed at the men. 'Three cheers for her Ladyship! Hip, hip, hip!'

  'Hooray!' They bellowed it twice more, startling the cat on the roof tiles, and Josefina acknowledged it graciously. She nodded to them all, finishing with Sharpe and he could have sworn that she gave him a wink as her head inclined.

  He went back to the flag, grinning. It was a morning of surprises. A Christmas tree for Christmas day, Josefina for Sir Augustus Farthingdale, and in the east three horsemen to trouble Christmas morning. The shadows in the pass resolved themselves into a skirmish line that climbed towards the Gateway of God, the Companies in column behind it. Sharpe looked up at the flag and his instinct still told him that trouble was in the windless air, that this Christmas held other surprises yet to come.

  Chapter 11

  Lieutenant Colonel Kinney sent his Fusiliers in open order for the last few yards of the scramble uphill. There was still a possibility that Pot-au-Feu might open fire with his captured Spanish guns, though the prisoners taken in the night swore that two of the cannon were in the watchtower while the third remaining in the deserters' hands was mounted on the east wall of the Castle and unable to bear on the pass. Kinney nevertheless took no chances.

  Sharpe experienced a sudden regret because he was no longer the senior officer in the Gateway of God. Kinney now outranked him, Sir Augustus Farthingdale too, and Sharpe presumed that the single Major of the Fusiliers was also his superior. Kinney slid from his horse at the Convent gate and held a hand out to Sharpe, ignoring the salute. 'Well done, Major, well done!'

  Kinney was generous in his praise, embarrassingly so, effusive about the difficulties of a night march, a silent approach, and an assault on a building that incurred no serious casualties among the attackers. Sharpe introduced Frederickson, Cross and Price, and Kinney spread his praise liberally among them all. Sir Augustus Farthingdale was less forthcoming. He dismounted stiffly, helped by his servant, and twitched the silk scarf that was tucked into the high collar of his cavalry cloak. Beneath the cloak he slapped a riding crop against his boots. 'Sharpe!’

  ’Sir.'

  'So you were successful!’

  ’Happily yes, sir.'

  Farthingdale grunted, sounding far from happy. His aquiline nose was red from the cold, the mouth more peevish than usual. The crop still slapped against the leather. 'Well done, Sharpe. Well done.' He managed to make the praise sound grudging. 'Lady Farthingdale well, is she?'

  'Perfectly, sir. I'm sure she'll be relieved to see you.'

  'Yes.' Farthingdale fidgeted, his eyes looking without interest at the Castle and the village. 'So what are, you waiting for, Sharpe? Take me to her.'

  'Of course, sir. I'm sorry, sir. Lieutenant Price?' Sharpe nominated Price as Sir Augustus' guide to his 'bride'. Sir Augustus turned at the Convent steps, removed the bicorne hat from his sleek silver hair, and nodded at Kinney. 'Carry on, Kinney!'

  'Does the man think I'm planning to go to sleep?' The comment was made loud enough for Sharpe to hear. Kinney had obviously had a difficult time with Sir Augustus during the long night march and now the Welshman kicked at a stone, sending it skittering against the Convent wall. 'God damn it, Sharpe, but she must be a remarkable woman to bring Sir Augustus all this way?'

  Sharpe smiled. 'She's a beauty, sir.'

  Kinney looked east where his Battalion were forming up well out of canister range from Castle or watchtower. 'What do we do now, eh?' The question was not aimed at Sharpe. 'Let's clear the beggars out of the village, then look at the Castle.'

  'The watchtower, sir?'

  Kinney turned towards it. The two guns in the watch-tower, if they existed, could fire into the flank of any attack made on the fallen east wall of the Castle. If there was to be a fight at the Castle, then the watchtower would have to be taken first. Kinney scratched his cheek. 'You think the buggers will fight?'

  'They haven't run away, sir.'

  Pot-au-Feu must know that his escapades were over. His hostages were gone, the Convent was taken, and now a Battalion of British infantry was in his valley. The sensible thing, Sharpe thought, was for the deserters to run again, to flee eastwards or northwards, but they had stayed. Pot-au-Feu's troops were visible on the Castle ramparts and in the earthworks at the foot of the watchtower. Kinney shook his head. 'Why have they stayed, Sharpe?'

  'Must think he can beat us, sir.'

  'Then the man must be disabused.' Kinney dwelt lovingly on the last word. 'I don't fancy any of my men dying today, Major. It would be a terrible tragedy on Christmas Day.' He sniffed. 'I'll roust the village with bayonets, then I'll have a chat with our man at the Castle to see if he wants to surrender. If he wants to do it the hard way ... ' He looked at the watchtower. 'I'd be grateful, in that case, for the loan of a Rifle Company, Major.'

  It was kind of Kinney to wrap an order in such politeness. 'Of course, sir.'

  'Let's hope it won't come to that. By then young Gilliland should have arrived.' The Rocket Troop was an hour behind the 113th, delayed by a loosened wheel-rim. Kinney smiled. 'Two of those fireworks up their backsides might persuade them to throw themselves on our tender mercies.' Kinney called for his horse, grunted as he pulled his considerable weight into the saddle, then grinned down on Sharpe. 'They probably haven't run, Sharpe, because they're all blind drunk. Well then! To work! To work!' He gathered his reins, then stopped, staring over Sharpe's head. 'My word! My word!'

  Josefina was in the Convent gateway, being handed down by a Sir Augustus Farthingdale who looked quite different. The peevishness was gone, replaced by a simpering attention to the gorgeous woman who dazzled Kinney with her smile. There was a wealth of pride in Farthingdale's voice, the pride of possession. 'Colonel Kinney? The honour of meeting my lady wife? My dear, this is Colonel Kinney.'

  Kinney removed his hat. 'Milady. We would have marched halfway round the globe to rescue you.'

  Josefina rewarded him with parted lips, dipped eyelashes, and a pretty speech that complimented both Kinney and his troops. Sir Augustus watched it with pleasure, enjoying the admiration in Kinney's eyes, approving as his 'wife' walked with small steps to pet Kinney's horse. When she was away from his side he plucked at Sharpe's sleeve. 'A word with you.'

  Had she told him that Sharpe had known her? It seemed unbelievable, but Sharpe could think of no other explanation why Sir Augustus should draw him aside, out of Josefina's earshot. The Colonel's face was furious. 'There are naked men in there, Sharpe!'

  Sharpe almost smiled. 'Prisoners, sir.' He had ordered a work-party of deserters to continue the hard slog of boring loopholes in the huge walls. 'Why the hell are they naked?’

  ’They disgraced their uniforms, sir.’

  ’Good God, Sharpe! You let my wife see this?' Sharpe bit back a retort that Josefina had probably seen more naked men than Sir Augustus ever had, instead he gave a mild answer. 'I'll see that they're covered, sir.’You do that, Sharpe. Another thing.'

  ‘Sir?'

  'You haven't shaved. You're hardly in a position to talk about disgracing uniforms!' Farthingdale turned abruptly, and his face changed to an indulgent smile as Josefina approached. 'My dear. Do you really want to stay ou tin this cold?’

  ’Of course, Augustus. I wish to see Colonel Kinney's men punish my oppressors.' Sharpe almost smiled again at the last word, but she had chosen it well for Sir Augustus. He straightened up, looking fierce, and nodded.

  'Of course, my dear, of course.' He looked at Sharpe. 'A chair for her Ladyship and some refreshment, Sharpe.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Not that there'll be much of a fight.' Sir Augus
tus was talking to Josefina again. 'They won't have the stomach for a fight.'

  An hour later it seemed as if Sir Augustus was right. The deserters who had stayed in the village fled with their women and children as Kinney's Light Company went in from the north. They fled, unmolested, across the valley floor and threaded the thorn bushes towards the watchtower. Two dozen were on horseback, muskets slung on their shoulders and sabres visible at their sides. Madame Dubreton and the other two hostages from the French army came out for a while, took tea with Josefina, but the cold drove them back into the Convent that had been their prison. Sharpe had asked Madame Dubreton what she had thought when she saw her husband in the upper gallery of the inner cloister.

  'I thought I would never see him again.'

  'You showed no recognition. That must have been hard.'

  'For him as well, Major, but I would not give them that satisfaction.'

  He had talked to her, while Price had tried to charm Josefina, of the difficulties of living as an Englishwoman in France, but she had shrugged the difficulties away. 'I am married to a Frenchman, Major, so my loyalty is obvious. Not that he requires me to feel enmity for my own country.' She smiled. 'In truth, Major, the war affects us little. I imagine it must be like living in Hampshire. The cows get milked, we go to balls, and once a year we hear of a victory and remember that there's a war.' She had looked down at her lap, then up again. 'It's difficult with my husband away, but the war will end, Major.'

  Pot-au-Feu's war was ending now. With the village cleared of the enemy, Kinney lined his Battalion in the crisp wintry sunlight, and then he rode forward, two officers at his side, walking the horses slowly towards the Castle. Sharpe walked up the valley so he could see the broken east wall, and

  Frederickson came with him. The Captain nodded towards the three horsemen. 'Calling for a surrender?'

  'Yes.'

  'I can't think why the bastards haven't run for it. They must know what's waiting for them.'

  Sharpe did not reply. The thought worried him too, but perhaps Kinney was right. Perhaps they were too drunk to know what was happening, or perhaps the survivors of Pot-au-Feu's band preferred to throw themselves on the mercy of the British army rather than face a cold winter in these hills that would be infested with vengeful Partisans. Or perhaps Pot-au-Feu simply did not want to leave. The prisoners, questioned in the night, had said that the fat Frenchman had set himself up in mock state in the Castle, lording it like a mediaeval baron, imparting justice and reward on his followers. Perhaps Marshal Pot-au-Feu's fantasy was strong enough to persuade him, and his followers, that the Castle could resist assault. Whatever the reason, he had stayed, and his men had stayed, and now Kinney with his two officers reined in eighty yards from the fallen east wall, the rubble of which made a chest high barrier that guarded the great courtyard.

  Kinney was standing in his stirrups, his hands cupped in front of his face. A group of men stood on the rubble and Sharpe saw one of them beckon the horsemen closer. 'They can't hear.'

  'Jesus!' Frederickson was frustrated. He did not approve of this parley with a dishonourable enemy. He fidgeted with the frayed edge of his eye-patch and obviously wanted to lead his Riflemen against the enemy who still beckoned Kinney closer.

  Kinney, in exasperation, kicked back with his heels and his horse trotted forward. He stopped fifty yards from the enemy, within musket range, and shouted again. Then he seemed to wrench at his reins, lean to his right to help the horse turn, for he had seen the movement to his left, the uncovering of the gun embrasured at the broken end of the eastern wall, but he was too late.

  Sharpe saw the smoke first, growing from the stub of wall, and then the bang came, a flat sound, echoing round the valley like dying thunder, and the sound had the distinctive crack of a splitting canister fired from a cannon. The tin can had burst in the muzzle-flame of the gun, spreading its musket-balls in a widening cone that centred on Lieutenant Colonel Kinney. Horse and man went down, knocked sideways, and while the horse vainly thrashed and tried to regain its feet, the man lay still in the torn spray of his blood. Sharpe whirled on Frederickson. 'Get your Company over to the Fusilier Light Company! You'll be attacking the watchtower!'

  ‘Sir!'

  Sharpe looked at his own men, lazing by the Convent wall. 'Sergeant!'

  Farthingdale was out of his chair, calling for his horse, then for Sharpe. 'Major!'

  ‘Sir?'

  'I want your men in front of the Castle! Skirmish order!'

  Frederickson, already running, heard Farthingdale and stopped, looking back at Sharpe. Sharpe looked at the Colonel who was swinging himself into his saddle. 'Not the watchtower, sir?'

  'You heard me, Major! Now move!' Sir Augustus touched spurs to his horse and it took off towards the silent, stunned Battalion that was lined across the road leading from the village. Sharpe pointed towards the Castle. 'Skirmish order! My Company left of the line, Captain Cross in the centre, Captain Frederickson to the right! Move!'

  Now why in the name of all that was holy had Pot-au-Feu prompted this fight? Did he really think he could win? As Sharpe ran across the hard pasture land of the valley he saw the two officers who had ridden behind Kinney lift the Colonel from the ground. One of them despatched the Colonel's horse with a pistol shot. The enemy ignored the two officers, content, perhaps, with a Colonel's death, but why had they done this? They must think they could beat a Battalion in a straight fight, and then Sharpe forgot about Pot-au-Feu's motives because the first musket balls were twitching at the grass and soil about his feet. Smoke was lingering in tiny clouds above the thorn bushes that grew between the Castle and watchtower, and Sharpe shouted for Lieutenant Price. 'Keep those bastards busy, Harry. Use the muskets and four rifles.'

  'Aye aye, sir.' Price spread his arms wide. 'Spread out! Spread out!' He took the small whistle from his cross-belt and blew the signal.

  Frederickson and Cross both used buglers to relay orders on the battlefield. Their lads, neither more than fifteen, were blowing as they ran, the notes ragged and broken, but the calls unmistakable ordering the Companies to form the skirmish chain. Sharpe anchored them a hundred yards from the broken wall, out of effective musket range, and he ordered Cross's bugler to play the single note, the sustained G, that told the Riflemen to lie down. 'Now the ‘open fire’, lad.’Yes, sir.' He took a breath, then the glorious run of three notes climbing a full octave, repeated till the Rifles were cracking down the line and the bullets were forcing Pot-au-Feu's defenders into hasty cover.

  Sharpe looked to his left. Price was keeping the scattered enemy in the thorn bushes busy, the Lieutenant walking up and down behind his men, looking for targets. To Sharpe's front the Castle seemed suddenly bare of defenders, driven behind the castellations or the rubble by the Rifles' accuracy. Behind him he could hear orders being bellowed at the Fusiliers. God damn it, but Farthingdale was proposing an immediate assault. The cannon, hidden in the short length of standing east wall, would only be vulnerable to fire from the right of Sharpe's line and he called Cross's bugler to him again. 'My compliments to Mr Frederickson, and ask him to keep an eye on the cannon.’Keeping an eye' was an unfortunate way to phrase it, but that did not matter, nor did it matter that Frederickson would doubtless not need to be reminded. The Rifle fire had slackened to an occasional burst whenever a defender showed his head, and Sharpe listened to the Lieutenants shouting at their men to call out their targets and not to waste shots. Behind them, way back at the village, Sir Augustus was forming the Fusiliers into two columns, four files wide, that were aimed like human battering rams at the broken wall. Sergeant Harper, exercising the privilege of his rank, stood up and joined Sharpe. Only sporadic musket shots came from the hillside, and the range was too great to concern either man. The big Irishman grinned sheepishly at Sharpe. 'Sir?’

  ’Sergeant?'

  'You wouldn't mind me asking, sir, but would that have been Miss Josefina in the Convent?’

  ’You recognized her?'

>   'Hard to forget, sir. She's growing into a rare looking woman.' Harper liked his women plumper than Sharpe. 'Is she the Lady Farthingdale?'

  Sharpe was tempted to tell Harper the truth, but resisted the temptation. 'She's doing well for herself.’

  ’She is that. I'll say hello to her.’

  ’I wouldn't do it while Sir Augustus is about.'

  ‘The big face smiled. 'Like that, is it? Would she mind?’

  ’Not at all.' Sharpe looked towards the Convent. He could see a few Riflemen on the roof, left there as guards for the womeh and on the prisoners, and he could see the dark green of Josefina's cloak a few yards from the gate. Was she the reason for this precipitate attack? Was Sir Augustus so eager to prove his virility to his young 'bride' that he would throw the Fusiliers into the Castle before the watchtower guns were silenced? Perhaps he was right. There had been no shots from any gun on the hill.

  The Fusilier Colours were taken from their leather cases, unfurled, and the flags were carried between the polished halberds of the Sergeants whose job was to protect them. Each halberd was a giant axe, the steel burnished to shine like silver, and the sight of the standards amidst the glittering blades would move any soldier. The panoply of war. Sir Augustus, in front of the Colours, removed his hat, waved it, and the two half-Battalion columns broke into the quick march.

  Sharpe cupped his hands. 'Fire! Fire!' It did not matter that there were few targets. What mattered now was to send the Rifle bullets singing about the defenders' ears, discouraging them, making them fearful even before the two columns burst over the rubble of the shattered wall. Cross's bugler came stumbling and panting back from his errand and Sharpe made him sound the advance and took the line forward twenty yards before he sounded the halt. 'Fire! Let them know we're here!'