Sharpe 3-Book Collection 6: Sharpe's Honour, Sharpe's Regiment, Sharpe's Siege (10 page)

‘Thank you, father.’

‘I bid you a good night, my Lord.’

In his own room the Inquisitor knelt and prayed God’s forgiveness for the lies he had told and the deception he had practised. God would understand. What Father Hacha did this night he did to preserve God’s church. There was no more noble purpose. He rose from his knees, opened his missal, and settled down to wait for the witching hour when his brother, who was thought to be the Inquisitor’s servant, would play his part to restore the glory of God’s kingdom of Spain.

The Marqués’ private chaplain was forced to be up every morning at half past four to waken his master at five o‘clock. Then, until half past six, the two men would share private devotions. After that the Marqués would take breakfast, then go to his first Mass of the day. The chaplain’s dream of heaven was a place where no one stirred from their bed until midday. He yawned.

He kissed his scapular, then draped it about his neck. He wondered if the Inquisitor would join them this morning, and hoped not. Father Tomas Hacha rather frightened the Marqués’ private chaplain; there was too much force in the man. Besides, the Inquisition was frightening anyway, its power secret and pervasive, its judgments harsh. The chaplain preferred a milder religion.

The servants who slept outside their master’s room jerked awake as the chaplain’s footsteps sounded on the stairs. One of them sat up, rubbing his cheek. ‘Morning, father.’

‘Good morning, my son.’ The chaplain opened one of the shutters on the landing and saw the grey dawn spreading up from the dark hills. ‘It’s going to be a fine day!’

Dogs barked in the town. Somewhere a cockerel crowed. The chaplain could see, dim in the shadows of the street, the shapes of the British guns. The Spanish and British armies collected here, waiting to plunge into French-held Spain. He was glad that it was none of his business. Fighting the rebels in the Banda Oriental north of the River Plate had been bad enough, but the thought of those great guns bellowing at each other was terrifying. He turned to the Marqués’ room and knocked softly on the door. He smiled at the servants. ‘A quiet night?’

‘Very quiet, father.’

He knocked again. One of the servants unbuttoned himself above the chamberpot on the landing’s corner. ‘He was up late, father. He’s probably still asleep.’

‘Late?’

‘Father Hacha was with him.’ The servant yawned as he pissed. ‘Say a prayer for me, father.’

The chaplain smiled, then pushed the door open. It was dark in the room, all light blocked out by the great velvet hangings over the windows. ‘My Lord?’

There was no answer from behind the curtained bed. The chaplain closed the door quietly behind him then groped uncertainly through the strange, heavy furniture until he reached the window. He reflected how wealthy these provincial merchants were who could afford such furnishings, then pulled the curtain back, flooding the room with a sickly grey light.

‘My Lord? It’s I, Father Pello.’

Still no sound. The Marqués’ uniform was carefully hung on a cupboard door, his boots, stretchers inside, parked carefully beneath. The chaplain pulled back the curtains of the bed. ‘My Lord?’

His first thought was that the Marqués was sleeping on a pillow of red velvet. His second thought was relief. There would be no prayers this morning. He could go to the kitchen and have a leisurely breakfast.

Then he vomited.

The Marqués was dead. His throat had been cut so that the blood had soaked the linen pillowcase and sheets. His head was tilted back, his eyes staring sightless at the headboard. One hand hung over the side of the bed.

The chaplain tried to call out, but no sound came. He tried to move, but his feet seemed stuck to the carpeted floor.

The vomit stained his scapular. Some of it dribbled down the dead man’s plump hand. The Marqués seemed to have two mouths, one wide and red, the other prim and pale.

The chaplain called out again, and this time his voice, thickened by the vomit in his throat, came out as a terrible strangled cry. ‘Guards!’

The servants came in, but to no avail. The body was cold, the blood on the linen caked hard. Major Mendora, the General’s aide, came in with drawn sword, followed by the Inquisitor in his night-robe. Even the Inquisitor’s strong face paled at the carnage on the bed. The Marqués of Casares el Grande y Melida Sadaba had been killed in his sleep, his throat opened, and his soul sent to the judgment of heaven where, the Inquisitor prayed aloud in his dreadful, deep voice, the soul of his murderer would soon follow for awful and condign punishment.

They came for Major Richard Sharpe at eight on the same morning. The Battalion was paraded, the companies already marching off to their tasks.

Richard Sharpe, as so often in the early morning, was in a bad mood. His mouth had the thick sourness of too much wine the night before. He was looking forward to a second breakfast and feeling only mildly guilty that his new rank gave him the freedom for such luxuries. He had scrounged some eggs from Isabella, there was a flitch of bacon that belonged to the Mess, and Sharpe could almost taste the meal already.

For once, this morning, he would not have three mens’ work to do. Colonel Leroy was taking half of the companies on a long march, the others were detailed to help drag the great pontoon bridges up to the high road, ready for the march into French territory. He could, he thought sourly, catch up on his paperwork. He remembered that he must try to sell one of the new mules to the sutler, though whether that sly, wealthy man would want to buy one of the tubed, half-winded animals that had turned up from Brigade was another matter. Perhaps the sutler would buy it for its dead-weight. Sharpe turned to shout for the Battalion clerk, but the shout never sounded. Instead he saw the Provosts.

The Provosts were led, strangely, by Major Michael Hogan. He was no policeman. He was Wellington’s chief of intelligence and Sharpe’s good friend. He was a middle-aged Irishman whose face was normally humorous and shrewd, but who this morning looked grim as the plague.

He reined in by Sharpe. Hogan led a spare horse. His voice was bleak, unnatural, forced. ‘I must ask for your sword, Richard.’

Sharpe’s smile, which had greeted his friend, changed to a puzzlement. ‘My sword?’

Hogan sighed. He had volunteered for this, not because he wanted to do it, but because it was a friend’s duty. It was a duty, he knew, that would become grimmer as this bad day went on. ‘Your sword, Major Sharpe. You are under close arrest.’

Sharpe wanted to laugh. The words were not sinking in. ‘I’m what?’

‘You’re under arrest, Richard. As much as anything else for your own safety.’

‘My safety?’

‘The whole Spanish army is after your blood.’ Hogan held out his hand. ‘Your sword, Major, if you please.’ Behind Hogan the Provosts stirred on their horses.

‘What am I charged with?’ Suddenly Sharpe’s voice was bleak, though he was already obediently unbuckling his sword belt.

Hogan’s voice was equally bleak. ‘You are charged with murder.’

Sharpe stopped unbuckling the belt. He stared up at the small Major. ‘Murder?’

‘Your sword.’

Slowly, as if it was a dream, Sharpe took the sword from his waist. ‘Murder? Who?’

Hogan leaned down and took Sharpe’s sword. He wrapped the slings and belt about the metal scabbard. ‘The Marqués de Casares el Grande y Melida Sadaba.’ He watched Sharpe’s face, reading his friend’s innocence, but knowing just how hopeless things were. ‘There are witnesses.’

‘They’re lying!’

‘Mount up, Richard.’ He gestured at the spare horse. The Provosts, blank faced men in red jackets and black hats, stared with hostility at the Rifleman. They carried short carbines in their saddle holsters. Hogan turned his horse. ‘The Spanish say you did it. They’re out for your blood. If I don’t get you under lock and key they’ll be dragging you to the nearest tree. Where’s your kit?’

‘In my billet.’

‘Which house?’

Sharpe told him, and Hogan detailed two of the Provosts to fetch the Rifleman’s belongings. ‘Catch us up!’

Hogan led him away, surrounded by Provosts, and Sharpe rode towards more trouble then he would have dreamed possible. He was accused of murder, and he was led, in the bright sunlight of a new morning, towards a prison cell, a trial and whatever then might follow.

They rode for an hour, threading the valleys towards the army’s headquarters. Major Hogan, out of embarrassment and awkwardness, kept Provosts between himself and Sharpe.

At the town, which they entered by back streets, Sharpe was taken to the house where Wellington himself was quartered. He dismounted, was led to the stable yard, and locked into a small, bare room without windows. It had a stone flagged floor that, like the wall above, was stained with blood. Above the bloodstains on the limewashed wall were large rusty nails. Sharpe presumed that shot hares or rabbits had been hung there, but the conjunction of rusty nails and blood somehow took on a more sinister aspect. The only light came from above and below the ill-fitting door. There was a table, two chairs, and an insidious smell of horse urine.

The door was locked. Beyond it Sharpe could hear the boots of his guard in the stable yard. He could hear, too, the homely sounds of pails clanking, water washing down stone, and horses moving in their stalls. He sat, put his heels on the table, and waited.

Hogan had ridden fast. Once at this house he had made a brief farewell, offered no words of hope, then left Sharpe alone. Murder. Sharpe knew the penalty for that well enough, but it seemed unreal. The Marqués dead? Nothing made sense. If he had been arrested for attempting to fight a duel, he could have understood it. He could have endured one of Wellington’s cold tongue lashings, but this predicament made no sense. He waited.

The sunlight that came beneath the lintel moved about the floor as the morning wore on. He smelt the burning tobacco of his sentry’s pipe. He heard men laugh in the stables. The bell of the village church struck eleven and then there came the scrape of the bolt in the door and Sharpe took his heels from the table and stood upright.

A lieutenant in the bluejacket of a cavalry regiment came into the room. He blinked as his eyes went from the bright sunshine into the makeshift cell’s shadow, and then he smiled nervously as he put a bundle of papers onto the table. ‘Major Sharpe?’

‘Yes.’ Somehow the young man looked familiar.

‘It’s Trumper-Jones, sir, Lieutenant Michael Trumper-Jones?’

The boy expected Sharpe to recognise him. Sharpe remembered there had been a cavalry Colonel called Trumper-Jones who had lost an arm and an eye at Rolica. ‘Did I meet your father?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’ Trumper-Jones took off his hat and smiled. ‘We met last week.’

‘Last week?’

‘At the battle, sir?’

‘Battle? Oh.’ Sharpe remembered. ‘You’re an aide-de-camp to General Preston?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Trumper-Jones put some papers on the table. ‘And your defending officer.’

‘My what?’ Sharpe growled it, making Trumper-Jones step backwards towards the door which had been closed by the guard.

‘I’m your defence, sir.’

Sharpe sat down. He stared at the frightened young man who looked as if he was scarce out of school. He beckoned at the vacant chair. ‘Sit down, Trumper-Jones, for God’s sake. Defend me from what?’ He knew, but he wanted to hear it again.

Trumper-Jones came nervously forward. He put his hat on the table beside his papers and pushed a lock of light brown hair from his forehead. He cleared his throat. ‘You’re charged with the murder of the Spanish General Casares, the Marqués de ...’

‘I know who the hell he is.’ Sharpe watched as Trumper-Jones fidgeted with his papers. ‘Is there a cup of tea in this damned place?’

The question only made Trumper-Jones more nervous. ‘There’s not much time, sir.’

‘Time?’

‘The General Court-Martial is convened for half past noon, sir. Today.’ He added lamely.

‘Jesus Christ!’ Sharpe shouted the words. Trumper-Jones said nothing. He was nervous of the scarred Rifleman who now leaned his elbows on the table. ‘Are you a lawyer, Trumper-Jones?’

‘No, sir.’

‘You’ve done this before?’

‘No, sir.’ He smiled weakly. ‘I’ve only been out here a month.’

‘Where’s Major Hogan?’

‘Don’t know, sir.’

‘So how do you plan to prove my innocence, Trumper-Jones?’

The young man pushed the lick of hair away from his forehead. He had a voice like d‘Alembord’s, but without the easy confidence. He smiled nervously. ‘I fear it looks bleak, sir.’

‘Tell me.’

Trumper-Jones seemed happier now that he could read from his papers. ‘It seems, sir, that you are acquainted with the Marquesa de Casares el Grande ...’

‘True.’

‘And that you threatened her, sir.’ Trumper-Jones said it timidly.

‘I did what?’

Trumper-Jones nearly jumped out of his chair. ‘You threatened her ...’ He blushed. ‘Well, you threatened her, sir.’

‘I did no such god-damn thing!’

Trumper-Jones swallowed, cleared his throat, and gestured with a piece of paper. ‘There is a letter, sir, from her Ladyship to her husband, and it says ...’

Sharpe leaned back. ‘Spare me, Lieutenant. I know the Marquesa. Let’s accept they have a letter. Go on.’ So she had provoked the duel. D‘Alembord had hinted at it, Sharpe had refused to believe it, but he supposed it made sense. Yet he found it hard to accept that a woman who had loved him could so easily betray him.

Trumper-Jones pushed the hair back again. ‘The letter provoked a duel, sir, that you were prevented from finishing?’

‘True.’ It all sounded so hopeless.

‘And because you were prevented from fighting, sir, the prosecution is alleging that you went to the General’s quarters last night and murdered him.’