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

had been no sentry on the tower, Lucille explained to Frederickson, because the roof timbers were rotten. So, a week after their drastic arrival at the château, Harper and Frederickson repaired the tower’s roof with weathered oak that they took from the disused stalls in the château’s stables. They adzed the timber to size, pegged it tight into the masonry, then spread layers of tar-soaked sacking over the planks. ‘You should have lead up there, Ma’am,’ Frederickson said.

      ‘Lead is expensive,’ Lucille sighed.

      ‘Yes, Ma’am.’ But Harper delved among the generations of debris that had piled up in the barns and discovered an old lead water-tank that bore the de Lassan coat-of-arms, and he and Frederickson melted it down and made thin sheets of the metal which they fixed between the courses of stone so that the tower at last had a watertight roof.

      ‘I don’t know why you God-damned well bother,’ Sharpe grumbled that night.

      ‘I’ve nothing better to do,’ Frederickson said mildly, ‘so I might as well help Madame about the place. Besides, I like working with my hands.’

      ‘Let the bloody place fall down.’ Sharpe lay swathed in stiff flax sheets on the goosedown mattress of a massive wooden bed. His right leg was encased in plaster beneath which the flesh throbbed and itched, his head hurt, and his left shoulder was a nagging viper’s nest of pain. The doctor had opined that Sharpe should have the whole arm off, for he doubted if he could otherwise keep the damaged flesh clean, but Harper had performed his old trick of putting maggots into the wound. The maggots had eaten the rotten flesh, but would not touch the clean, and so the arm had been saved. The doctor visited each day, cupping Sharpe with candle-flames and glasses, bleeding him with leeches, and distastefully sniffing the maggot-writhing wounds for any sign of putrefaction. There were none. Sharpe, the doctor said, might be walking again by the summer, though he doubted if the Englishman would ever again have full use of his left arm.

      ‘Bloody God-damned French bitch,’ Sharpe now said of Lucille. ‘I hope her bloody house falls down around her ears.’

      ‘Drink your soup,’ Frederickson said, ‘and shut up.’

      Sharpe obediently drank some soup.

      ‘It’s good soup, isn’t it?’ Frederickson asked.

      Sharpe said nothing, just scowled.

      ‘You’re very ungrateful,’ Sweet William sighed. ‘That soup is delicious. Madame made it specially for you.’

      ‘Then it’s probably bloody poisoned.’ Sharpe pushed the bowl away.

      Frederickson shook his head. ‘You should be kinder to Madame Castineau. She feels very guilty about what she did.’

      ‘She bloody well should feel guilty! She’s a murderous bloody bitch. She should be hanged, except hanging’s too good for her.’

      Frederickson paused, then blushed. ‘I would be deeply obliged, my friend, if you would refrain from insulting Madame Castineau in my presence.’

      Sharpe stared aghast at his friend.

      Frederickson straightened his shoulders as though bracing himself to make a very shameful confession. ‘I have to confess that I feel a most strong attachment towards Madame.’

      ‘Good God.’ Sharpe could say nothing else. This misogynist, this hater of marriage, this despiser of all things female, was in love?

      ‘I understand how you feel about Madame Castineau, of course,’ Frederickson hurried on, ‘and I cannot blame you, but I think you should know that I have the warmest of feelings towards her. Towards,’ he paused, tried to meet Sharpe’s gaze, failed, but then, with the coyness of a lover, said the widow’s Christian name fondly, ‘towards Lucille.’

      ‘Bloody hellfire!’

      ‘I know she isn’t a great beauty like Jane,’ Frederickson said with an immense but fragile dignity, ‘but she has a great calmness in her soul. She’s a very sensible woman, too. And she has a sense of humour. If I had not met her I would scarcely have believed that so many excellent qualities could have been combined in one woman.’

      Sharpe blew on a spoonful of soup and tried to accustom himself to the thought of Sweet William in love. It was like discovering a wolf purring, or learning that Napoleon Bonaparte’s favourite occupation was embroidery. ‘But she’s French!’ Sharpe finally blurted out.

      ‘Of course she’s French!’ Frederickson said irritably. ‘What possible objection can that be?’

      ‘We’ve been killing the buggers for twenty years!’

      ‘And now we’re at peace.’ Frederickson smiled. ‘We might even make an alliance to mark that peace.’

      ‘You mean you want to marry her?’ Sharpe stared at his friend. ‘I seem to remember that you thought marriage was a waste of money. Can’t you hire its pleasures by the hour? Isn’t that what you said? And do I remember you telling me that marriage is an appetite and that once you’ve enjoyed the flesh you’re left with nothing but a dry carcass?’

      ‘I might have questioned the validity of marriage once,’ Frederickson said airily, ‘but a man is permitted to reconsider his opinions, is he not?’

      ‘Good God Almighty. You are in love!’ Sharpe was flabbergasted. ‘Does Madame Castineau know how you feel?’

      ‘Of course not!’ Frederickson was profoundly shocked at the thought.

      ‘Why ever not?’

      ‘I have no wish to embarrass her by a precipitate declaration of my feelings.’

      Sharpe shrugged. ‘Love is like war, my friend. Victory goes to those who pounce first and pounce hardest.’

      ‘I can hardly imagine myself pouncing,’ Frederickson said huffily, but then, because he had a desperate need to share his feelings with a friend, he coyly asked Sharpe whether his looks would be a barrier to his suit. ‘I know myself to be ugly,’ Frederickson touched his eye-patch, ‘and fear it will be an insuperable difficulty.’

      ‘Remember the pig-woman,’ Sharpe advised.

      ‘My feelings in no way resemble the transactions of that squalid tale,’ Frederickson said sternly.

      ‘But if you don’t confess your feelings,’ Sharpe said, ‘then you’ll get nowhere! Do you sense her feelings in this matter?’

      ‘Madame behaves very properly towards me.’

      Sharpe reflected that proper behaviour was not what his friend sought, but thought it best not to say as much. Instead he wondered aloud whether Frederickson would take a letter to the carrier who risked the dangers of the country roads by travelling once a week to Caen.

      ‘Of course,’ Frederickson agreed, ‘but may I ask why?’

      ‘It’s a letter for Jane,’ Sharpe explained.

      ‘Of course.’ Frederickson sought to turn the subject back to Lucille Castineau, but did so in such a roundabout way that Sharpe might not suspect the deliberate machination. ‘It occurs to me, my friend, that there have been times when I might have been a trifle unsympathetic towards your marriage?’

      ‘Really?’ Sharpe flinched as a stab of pain went from his shoulder down to his ribs.

      Frederickson did not notice Sharpe’s discomfort. ‘I assure you that I jested. I see now that marriage is a very fortunate state for mankind.’

      ‘Indeed.’ Sharpe resisted discussing Frederickson’s new devotion to the married state. ‘Which is why I would like Jane to travel here.’

      ‘Is that safe for her?’ Frederickson asked.

      ‘I thought you and Patrick might meet her at Cherbourg and escort her here.’ Sharpe had resumed drinking the soup which, despite his earlier boorish verdict, was quite delicious. ‘And