Sharpe 3-Book Collection 7: Sharpe’s Revenge, Sharpe’s Waterloo, Sharpe’s Devil. Bernard Cornwell

firing shots blindly into the trees. They scared a lot of pigeons and lacerated many leaves, but no shots were fired back.

      Lassan considered postponing the betrothal ceremony, but his mother was adamantly against such a course. It had taken the Dowager the best part of twenty years to persuade her adult son to take a bride, and she was not about to risk that happy eventuality because of a few vagrant scum lurking five miles away. It seemed her faith was rewarded, for there were no further incidents, and every guest travelled in safety to the château.

      The betrothal ceremony, though modest, went very well. The weather was fine, Marie Pellemont looked as beautiful as her relieved mother could make her, while Henri Lassan, in a suit of fine blue cloth that had belonged to his father, looked properly noble. The Dowager had brought out the remains of the family’s silver, including a great dish, three feet across and a foot deep, which was cast in the form of a scallop shell cradling the de Lassan coat-of-arms. A flautist, violinist and drummer from the village provided the music, there was country dancing, and there was the solemn giving of pledges followed by the exchange of gifts. Mademoiselle Pellemont received a bolt of beautiful pale-blue silk from China; a treasure that the Dowager had possessed for fifty years, always meaning to make it into a gown fit for Versailles itself. Henri received a silver-hilted pistol that had once belonged to Marie’s father. The village curé muddled the words of his blessing, while the local doctor, a widower, danced so much with Lucille that the tongues wagged happily about the château’s courtyard from which the compost heap had been removed in honour of this great day. Soon, the villagers thought, the widow Castineau would also be married, and not before time, because Lucille was nearly thirty, childless, and was a woman of the most excellent kindness and disposition. The doctor, the village thought, could do far far worse, though doubtless the widow Castineau could do far better.

      By midnight all the guests had gone, except for three male cousins from Rouen who would spend the night in the château. Henri put his new pistol into a drawer, then went to the kitchen where his three cousins were sousing themselves with good Calvados. Lucille and Marie, the elderly kitchen-maid, were scouring the great scallop dish with handfuls of abrasive straw, while the Dowager was complaining that Madame Pellemont had been insufficiently appreciative of the bolt of silk. ‘I warrant she hasn’t seen fabric of that quality since before the revolution.’

      ‘Marie liked it,’ Lucille was ever the peace-maker, ‘and she’s promised to make her wedding dress from it, Maman.’

      Henri, reminded of that ordeal which he faced in a month’s time, said he was going outside to release the geese. He did so, then, wondering whether he had made the right choice by agreeing to marry, he leaned against the château’s wall and stared up at the full moon. It was a warm night, even muggy, and the moon was surrounded by a gauzy halo. He could hear music coming from the village and he supposed that the revelry was continuing in the wineshop by the church.

      ‘It’s going to rain tomorrow.’ The Dowager came out from the kitchen door and looked up at the hazed moon.

      ‘We need some rain.’

      ‘It’s a warm night.’ The Dowager offered her arm to her son. ‘Perhaps it will be a hot summer. I do hope so. I notice that I feel the cold more keenly than I used to.’

      Henri walked his mother to the bridge which led to the dairy. They stopped on the bridge’s planks, just short of the new barricade, and stared down into the still, black and moon-reflecting water of the moat.

      ‘I see you’re wearing your father’s sword,’ the Dowager suddenly said.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘I’m glad.’ The Dowager lifted her head to listen to the music which still sounded from the village. ‘It’s almost like the old days.’

      ‘Is it?’

      ‘We used to dance a great deal before the revolution. Your father was a great dancer, and had a fine voice.’

      ‘I know.’

      The Dowager smiled. ‘Thank you for agreeing to marry, Henri.’

      Henri smiled, but said nothing.

      ‘You’ll find Mademoiselle Pellemont is a most agreeable girl,’ the Dowager said.

      ‘She won’t be a difficult wife,’ Henri agreed.

      ‘She’s like your sister, in some ways. She’s not given to vapours or airs. I don’t like women who have vaporous souls; they aren’t to be trusted.’

      ‘Indeed not.’ Henri leaned on the bridge’s balustrade, then jerked upright as the geese suddenly hissed behind him.

      The Dowager gripped her son’s arm. ‘Henri!’

      The Dowager had been alarmed by footsteps which had suddenly sounded by the dairy where flagstones provided a firm footing in the sea of hoof-churned mud. There were dark shapes moving among the mooncast shadows. ‘Who is it?’ Henri called.

      ‘My Lord?’ It was a deep voice that replied. The tone of the voice was respectful, even friendly.

      ‘Who is it?’ Henri called again, then gently pushed his mother towards the lit door of the kitchen.

      But, before the Dowager could take a single pace, two smiling men appeared from the shadows. They were both tall, long-haired men who wore green uniform jackets. They walked on to the far end of the bridge with their hands held wide to show that they meant no harm. Both men wore swords and both had muskets slung on their shoulders.

      ‘Who are you?’ Lassan challenged the strangers.

      ‘You’re Henri, Comte de Lassan?’ the taller of the two men asked politely.

      ‘I am,’ Lassan replied. ‘And who are you?’

      ‘We have a message for you, my Lord.’

      The Dowager, reassured by the respect in the stranger’s voice, stood beside her son.

      ‘Well?’ Lassan demanded.

      The two uniformed men were standing very close to the barricade, not two paces from Lassan. They still smiled as, with a practised speed, they unslung the heavy weapons from their shoulders.

      ‘Run, Maman!’ Henri pushed his mother towards the château. ‘Lucille! The bell! Ring the bell!’ He turned after his mother and tried to shield her with his body.

      The tallest of the two men fired first and his bullet entered Lassan’s back between two of his lower ribs. The bullet was deflected upwards, exploding his heart into bloody shreds, then flattened itself on the inside of his breastbone. As he fell he pushed his mother in the small of her back, making her stumble down to her knees.

      The Dowager turned to see the second man’s gun pointed at her. She stared defiantly. ‘Animal!’

      The second man fired and his bullet smacked through the Dowager’s right eye and into her brain.

      Mother and son were dead.

      Lucille came to the kitchen door and screamed.

      The two men climbed the barricade and walked into the château’s yard. There were other shapes in the darkness behind them.

      Lucille ran back into the kitchen where her cousins were struggling to their feet. One of the cousins, less drunk than his companions, drew his pistol, cocked it, and went to the door from where he saw the dark shapes at the far side of the yard. He fired. Lucille pushed him aside and raised the great blunderbuss that was kept loaded and ready above the soap vats. She cocked it, then fired it at the murderers. The butt hammered with brutal pain into her shoulder. One of the two killers shouted with agony as he was hit. The other two cousins pushed past Lucille and ran into the darkness, but a fusillade of gunfire from beyond the moat made them drop to the cobblestones. The bullets smacked into the château’s ancient stone wall. Marie, the kitchen-maid, was screaming. The geese were hissing and stretching their necks. The dogs in the barn were barking fit to wake the dead.

      Lucille snatched up an