by an Englishman we took prisoner that you’re paying twenty-three shillings a bottle now in London!
Twenty-three shillings! Why that’s nearly thirty francs a bottle!’
La Marquesa looked astonished and wondered how anyone could possibly live with prices like that, and asked why there were not riots in the street by a champagne-starved populace. What did the English drink instead?
‘Beer, my Lady.’
Montbrun helped Sharpe to some cold ham and cold chicken. He apologised for such simple fare. The ham had been baked in a glaze of honey and mustard.
La Marquesa wanted some English beer and seemed unhappy that there was none immediately available in Burgos castle. General Verigny promised to find some. He grunted as he drew the corks of two more bottles of the red wine. ‘We have to drink it. We cannot take it with this bloody army.’
Montbrun frowned.
Sharpe smiled. ‘Bloody army?’
Verigny tossed back a glass of wine and poured himself another. ‘It is not an army, Major, not a true army. We are a–’ he paused, frowned, ‘un bordel ambulant!’
‘I think you’ll find the terrine especially good, Major.’ Montbrun smiled. ‘You’ll allow me to cut you some bread?’
‘A what?’ Sharpe asked.
‘A walking brothel, Major.’ La Marquesa smiled brightly. ‘There do seem to be rather a lot of ladies with us. Especially since King Joseph joined us.’
‘Allow me, Major.’ Montbrun put some of the terrine onto Sharpe’s plate. ‘More wine? Champagne, perhaps?’
‘Wine.’
When the meal was over, and when the peel of oranges littered the table among grape-stalks and the rinds of cheeses, Major Montbrun brought the talk to Sharpe’s future. He took from the tail pocket of his gilt-encrusted jacket a folded sheet of paper.
‘We’re most pleased to offer you parole.’ Montbrun smiled and put the paper in front of Sharpe. ‘General Verigny will count it an honour, Major, if you will let him provide you with all your necessities. A horse, your expenses.’ Montbrun shrugged as though the generous offer was a mere nothing.
‘The General has done me enough honour already.’ Verigny, in addition to providing this room and Sharpe’s food, had given Sharpe a new razor, a change of shirt, new stockings, and even a fine new tinder box; all to replace the articles stolen from Sharpe since he fell into Ducos’s hands.
Sharpe opened the paper, not understanding the French words, but seeing his own name, misspelt, on the top line. He looked at Montbrun. ‘Is my name to be submitted for exchange?’
They must have expected the question. An officer was rarely kept as a prisoner of war if he was captured close to the battlelines. Montbrun frowned. ‘We fear not, Major.’
‘May I ask why?’
‘You have, M’sieu, a certain notoriety?’ Montbrun smiled. ‘It would be foolish of us to release so formidable a soldier to wreak further damage on our cause.’
It was a pretty enough compliment, but not the answer Sharpe wanted. If he was not to be exchanged, then he faced a journey to the frontier, where he would be released on his parole to make his unescorted way across France. Verigny, speaking eagerly, explained that it would be his pleasure to provide Sharpe with the means to stay only in the best hotels, that he would, indeed, furnish him with introductions and the Major would be welcome to linger on his journey north to savour the summer delights of France. ‘Take the entirely summer, Major. You can drink, there are women, there are more drink!’ He demonstrated by finishing his glass. Already, Sharpe noted, Verigny was slurring his words.
There was yet more. Once at Verdun, the great northern fortress where officer prisoners were kept, Montbrun explained that the General would ensure that Sharpe had money to take rooms in the town, servants, and membership of all the best clubs organised by the captured British officers. Even, he said, the Literary and Philosophical Association, which was neither literary nor philosophical, but provided the wealthiest British captives with the discreet pleasures a man needed.
Sharpe thanked him.
Montbrun reached into his pouch and produced a quill and ink bottle. He pushed them to Sharpe. ‘You will sign, Major?’
‘When will I be leaving Burgos?’ Sharpe had not touched the quill.
‘Tomorrow, Major. The General is with the rearguard. You may travel by horseback or, if your wounds are troublesome, in the Marquesa’s coach. We will leave, it is expected, at nine o’clock.’
Sharpe looked at Helene and knew the temptation to yield now, to sign the paper, and share the journey with her.
She smiled. ‘Do, Richard.’ She shrugged. ‘We’re not going to let you go, you do know that.’
Verigny belched, Montbrun frowned. Sharpe smiled. ‘I may have to escape then.’
That shocked them. There was a second’s silence, then Verigny exploded into words, pleading words. If there was no parole then they would be forced to heap indignities upon a brave man who had suffered enough indignities at the hands of Frenchmen who were a disgrace to their country, their Emperor and their sacred flag. It was unthinkable that he should be marched as a common criminal to prison. Verigny would not hear of it! He must sign!
Yet if he signed he could not attempt an escape.
He looked at the paper again. ‘I will give my decision in the morning. Say at eight o’clock?’
It was the best they could do. They tried to persuade him, but he would not change his mind. ‘In the morning. Eight o’clock.’
Two more bottles were opened. Sharpe’s head was already feeling the effects of the first six, but he let Montbrun pour him more wine. They toasted Helene, they toasted her chances of recovering her wagons. It seemed, she said, that they had been sent to Vitoria already, but that General Verigny was confident that he would take them back for her. More wine was poured. Major Montbrun, his plump face gleaming with sweat, asked Sharpe’s permission to toast the Emperor which, the permission having been graciously given, they duly did. Out of courtesy to their guest they proposed the health of King George III, and then various other Kings including Arthur, Alfred, Charlemagne, Louis I to Louis XIV inclusive, Caesar Augustus, Old King Cole, the King of the Castle, Nebuchadnezzar, Wilfred the Hairy, and finishing with Tiglath Pileser III, whose name they could not by then pronounce, but who had the honour to take the first of the brandy.
General Verigny was asleep. He had slept ever since he had proposed the health of Richard the Lion-heart.
‘He was a mignon,’ Montbrun had said, then blushed because he had said it. Now, as the sun was setting and casting long shadows on the conical piles of shells in the castle courtyard, Montbrun decided they must leave. ‘You will give us your decision in the morning, Major?’ His words came out slowly. He tapped the parole.
‘In the morning.’
‘Good. I shall leave it with you, if I may.’ He stood, and his eyes showed alarm at the effects of the wine on his balance. ‘Good gracious!’
