Sharpe's Waterloo Part 6

Paulette frowned at Sharpe. "Because of you?"

He paused, seeking a modest answer, but could think of nothing but the truth. "Indeed."

Paulette cradled her cup of ale and stared through the open door into the stableyard where chickens pecked at oats and Sharpe's dog twitched in exhausted sleep. "Your French lady must love you."

"I think she does, yes."

"And you?"

Sharpe smiled. "I love her, yes."

"And she's here? In Belgium?"

"In Brussels."

"With the baby? What sort of baby? How old?"

"A boy. Three months, nearly four. He's in Brussels too."

Paulette sighed. "I think it's lovely. I would like to follow a man to another country."

Sharpe shook his head. "It's very hard on Lucille. She hates that I have to fight against her countrymen."

"Then why do you do it?" Paulette asked in an outraged voice.

"Because of my half-pay again. If I'd have refused to rejoin the army they'd have stopped my pension, and that's the only income we have. So when the Prince summoned me, I had to come."

"But you didn't want to come?" Paulette asked shrewdly.

"Not really." Which was true, though that morning, as he had spied on the French, Sharpe had recognized in himself the undeniable pleasure of doing his job well. For a few days, he supposed, he must forget Lucille's unhappiness and be a soldier again.

"So you only fight for the money." Paulette said it wearily, as though it explained everything. "How much does the Prince pay you for being a colonel?"

"One pound, three shillings and tenpence a day." That was his reward for a brevet lieutenant-colonelcy in a cavalry regiment and it was more money than Sharpe had ever earned in his life. Half of the salary disappeared in mess fees and for the headquarter's servants, but Sharpe still felt rich, and it was a far better reward than the two shillings and ninepence a day that he had been receiving as a half-pay lieutenant. He had left the army as a major, but the clerks in the Horse Guards had determined that his majority was only brevet rank, not regimental, and so he had been forced to accept a lieutenant's pension. The war was proving a windfall to Sharpe, as it was to so many other half-pay officers in both armies.

"Do you like the Prince?" Paulette asked him.

That was a sensitive question. "Do you?" Sharpe countered.

"He's a drunk." Paulette did not bother with tact, but just let her scorn flow. "And when he's not drunk he squeezes his spots. Plip plop, plip plop! Ugh! I have to do his back for him." She looked to see whether her words had offended Sharpe, and was evidently rea.s.sured. "You know he was going to marry an English princess?"

"I know."

"She couldn't stand him. So now he says he will marry a Russian princess! Ha! That's all he's good for, a Russian. They rub b.u.t.ter on their skins, did you know that? All over, to keep warm. They must smell." She sipped her ale, then frowned as her mind skittered back over the conversation. "Your wife in England. She does not mind that you have another lady?"

"She has another man."

The evident convenience of the arrangement pleased Paulette. "So everything is all right?"

"No." He smiled. "They stole my money. One day I shall go back and take it from them."

She stared at him with large serious eyes. "Will you kill the man?"

"Yes." He said it very simply, which made it all the more believable.

"I wish a man would kill for me," Paulette sighed, then stared in alarm because Sharpe had suddenly raised a hand in warning. "What is it?"

"Sh!" He stood and went in his stockinged feet to the open stabieyard door. Far off, like a crackling of burning thorns, he thought he heard musketry. He could not be certain, for the sound was fading and tenuous in the small warm breeze. "Do you hear anything?" he asked the girl.

"No."

"There it is! Listen!" He heard the noise again, this time it sounded like a piece of canvas ripping. Somewhere, and not so very far off, there was a musket fight. Sharpe looked up at the weatherc.o.c.k on the stable roof and saw the wind had backed southerly. He ran to the kitchen door which opened into the main part of the house. "Rebecque!"

"I hear it!" The Baron was already standing at the open front door. "How far off?"

"G.o.d knows." Sharpe stood beside Rebecque. The small wind kicked up dust devils in the street. "Five miles?" Sharpe hazarded. "Six?"

The noise faded to nothing, then any chance of hearing it again was drowned in the clatter of hooves. Sharpe looked down the high street, half expecting to see French Dragoons galloping into the small village, but it was only the Prince of Orange who had abandoned his carriage and taken a horse from one of his escort. That escort streamed behind him down the street, together with the aide who had fetched the Prince back.

"What news, Rebecque?" The Prince dropped from the saddle and ran into the house.

"Only what we sent you." Rebecque followed the Prince into the map room.

"Charleroi, eh?" The Prince chewed at a fingernail as he stared at the map. "We've heard nothing from Dornberg?"

"No, sir. But if you listen carefully, you can hear fighting to the south."

"Mons?" The Prince sounded alarmed.

"No one knows, sir."

"Then find out!" the Prince snapped. "I want a report from Dornberg. You can send it after me."

"After you?" Rebecque frowned. "But where are you going, sir?"

"Brussels, of course! Someone has to make sure Wellington has heard this news." He looked at Sharpe. "I particularly wanted you in attendance tonight."

Sharpe suppressed an urge to kick His Royal Highness in the royal a.r.s.e. "Indeed, sir," he said instead.

"And I insist you wear Dutch uniform. Why aren't you in Dutch uniform now?"

"I shall change, sir." Sharpe, despite the Prince's frequent insistence, had yet to buy himself a Dutch uniform.

Rebecque, sensing that the Prince still intended to dance despite the news of a French invasion, cleared his throat. "Surely there'll be no ball in Brussels tonight, sir?"

"It hasn't been cancelled yet," the Prince said petulantly, then turned back with specific instructions for Sharpe. "I want you in evening dress uniform. That means gold lace, two epaulettes with gold bullion on each and blue cushions. And a dress sword, Sharpe, instead of that butcher's blade." The Prince smiled, as if to soften his sartorial orders, then gestured at one of his Dutch aides. "Gome on, Winckler, there's nothing more to do here." He strode from the room, leaving Rebecque thin-lipped and silent.

The sound of the hooves faded in the warm air. Rebecque listened again for the sound of musketry, but heard nothing, so instead tapped the map with an ebony ruler. "His Royal Highness is quite right, Sharpe, you should be wearing Dutch uniform."