WRITTEN IN DUST,
CARVED IN BONEby Kitty Fisher
PART TWO
London, England. 1816."Will you take a look at that?"
Obedient, Sharpe put his glass down on the stained and scarred table and let his gaze follow the direction of Harper's wide–eyed appreciation. After a moment he nodded, then turned back to his drink. "Very nice."
"Oh, come on now, she's more than that?" Harper's brown eyes were transfixed as a girl ran playfully through the crowded room, squealing and laughing as hands grabbed at her, daring one and all to take up the offer of her near naked flesh. The Irishman didn't bother to hide his appreciation of the way she bounced so generously with every hop and skip about the room. "There's a handful to keep a man warm..."
Sharpe gave a short laugh, his eyes remaining quite cold. "A handful of pox, more like. Come on, Pat, Ramona would have your balls if she saw you lusting after a whore like that."
"Oh, but I'm only looking."
"Close your mouth or you'll be catching flies."
The big man snapped his mouth shut and grinned, tearing his eyes away from the girl in her thin shift and turning back to his companion. "Ah, it's a great and crying shame when you can't even have an eyeful any more."
"You're a married man. How many kids is it now?"
"Two, as you very well know."
"And another on the way."
Harper managed to look both proud and embarrassed at the same time. He had finally made an honest woman of the Spanish girl he had met whilst fighting against the French in the peninsular, and for all his complaining was really quite content. He'd brought them all home. All of them, including his officer. And that had been more of a close run thing than all the battles he'd fought put together. He stretched back in the settle, hearing the protest of the wood under his weight even above the noise of the crowd, and sighed in satisfaction. He was truly going to enjoy the peace–time life. "Well, I appear to have the gift of it."
"And Ramona."
Harper raised his glass, "To Ramona, as grand a girl as ever walked the earth?"
They both drank, the cheap brandy rough in their throats.
Sharpe refilled their glasses from the bottle on the table, carefully measuring out the last of the spirit between the two of them. Neither of them was drunk, but then neither was exactly sober either. "You'll be happy with her, Pat." Sharpe's voice was roughened from long talk and too much drink. He nodded sagely to himself. "I'm glad for you."
"Thank you. I just hope she takes to Dublin."
"She will, she's followed you half way across Europe as it is — like I said, you're a lucky bastard."
"So are we both, two arms, two legs and two eyes apiece." He crossed himself surreptitiously. "More than you can say for some poor bastards."
Sharpe hadn't noticed the superstitious gesture, he was too busy remembering. "Ay. We were lucky."
It was a year since Waterloo, a year since the chaos and terror and bloody stench of that decisive day. But whatever happened, neither man would ever forget. As it was, every street had its share of beggars, more than likely crippled and wearing the rags of the King's uniform; it took no more than a casual stroll to make any whole ex–soldier thank fate afresh.
Not that either of them wanted to think of such things tonight. They had for most of it carefully avoided any topic that might become serious. Tonight was for amusement; for Harper sailed for Dublin on the morning tide. Ramona and the children were already safely stowed aboard the ship, ready for departure. What was left of the night, which was a good few hours despite the lengthy drinking session, was for the two friends to say goodbye. A proper goodbye before Harper went home.
They looked at each other, and each saw reflected acute awareness of the few hours left to them. The hours could almost be counted on one hand; suddenly, neither man wanted to waste a single minute. Harper glanced around the group and began to lean across the table, but at that very moment the whore, remarkably still covered by her shift, squealed loudly and landed in Sharpe's lap. Her breasts had slipped out of confinement, a fact neither man could ignore. Flushed and laughing as she was, she looked uncommonly wholesome. She tossed her long red hair over her shoulder and took a good look at the man she'd sat on. And squirmed herself deeper into his crotch, breathless and alive with appreciation. "Evenin', handsome, buy us a drink?"
Sharpe leaned back and tried to escape the heady, none–too–clean scent that came off the girl's heated body. "No."
"Captain?" Harper was almost shocked at Sharpe's brusqueness. Very well, she was a whore, but such a pretty, lusty one that it couldn't hurt to be civil, at the very least.
"Oh, captain is it? One of King George's brave soldiers." She giggled and ran a finger down the sober broad–cloth of his coat. "Bet you looked fine in gold lace — go on, buy us a gin."
Pushing her away, Sharpe tucked her breasts back into her shift with casual disinterest and stood her up with a pat on the backside. Without appearing to search for it he produced a silver coin in his long fingers and offered it to her. She stood quite spell–bound by its dull glint, her mouth set in a round oh of anticipation.
"Here you are."
She licked her lips, then frowned. "What d'you want for it?" She glanced around warily, only taking the coin when she was sure her man wasn't looking. "I can't spend all night, 'e wouldn't like it."
Sharpe's expression softened, and he spoke quite kindly. "I don't want anything, lass. It's for you."
"Nothin' at all?"
"No."
"Why?" Such generosity was beyond her experience.
"Because my friend likes you, and because his wife would skin him alive if he did anything other than look." He met Harper's grin with a wry look. "Go on."
Encouraged by another gentle pat she took a pace away, then turning back smiled once, before disappearing into the crowd.
"Happy now?" Sharpe picked up his glass and took a long swallow.
"If seeing you get soft in the head can make me happy, yes, then I am." Harper was smiling at his friend.
"Soft in the head? I thought you liked her?"
"I did, but I was content to look, and if she'd been sitting on me I'd probably have had a little feel, but I wasn't the one going around giving away coin I can't afford."
"Oh, I think I can afford it. Besides, I won't need any more money tonight."
"No?"
"No." Sharpe finished his drink and carefully placed the glass back on the table, staring hard at a pattern made by interlocking rings of spilt wine, before finally looking up. "Come home with me, Pat?"
Harper took a deep breath. "I thought you'd never ask."
"All the arguments I told the girl are true — Ramona wouldn't like it."
"Ramona will have me for the rest of my life. I think she can spare you one night."
"We will meet again, Ireland isn't at the end of the world."
"Wait till you've been to Ardagh in the winter."
Sharpe ignored the attempted humour. "You know what I mean, Pat."
Harper nodded, and his eyes lifted, met Sharpe's. "I do at that." He suddenly wanted the world to be different, for Richard Sharpe to be happy. Though the sad truth was, that Harper himself had no control over such a thing. Sharpe didn't need him, not now, not now that peace had brought near to twenty years of fighting to a halt. What he did need Harper was lost to know, but if it had been himself, then he would have stayed, would probably have said goodbye to his wife — if he ever married her in the first place. Sharpe's answers were not that simple, if they ever had been. Though it was hard to think that they might be buried under the ruins of a castle far away in Spain. He nodded to himself, but spoke in reply; "Yes, you'll come to Ireland and I'll come to London, but this is goodbye, isn't it."
"Goodbye to the past. We can't live there forever."
"No." Sombre and ridiculously bereft, Harper reached across and took hold of a dark sleeve. "Come then, if this is the last time, let's make it worth remembering."
The flare of lust that jolted through Sharpe was so intense he almost groaned aloud. "Ay..."
Almost unnoticed they stood, slipped through the crowd and out of the smoke–dense room and into the cold London air. The whore was the only one to watch their departure, the only one to mark the way their hands brushed together as they walked. The man on whose lap she sat had his calloused hands up her skirt and she had almost let him take free possession of her, before she recollected herself, slapped his hand away and fell back to the age–old task of haggling.
* * * * *
The walk to Sharpe's rooms was not long. Despite the awareness that hung between them as thick as silk, they managed to talk of general matters, of the Chosen men, those who lived, and what they were all going to do in the grand peace that was to make England so prosperous. Too many of the men had died for the list to be long: but Harris was settled with a pretty young wife, his education finally of use as a clerk; Hagman was back in the village he had grown up in, living with the son no one had known he even had, and all the others, they were settled in one way or another — Sharpe had seen to that, making sure that the gold he had smuggled out of Spain went in a good cause. He'd kept some for himself, enough so he'd never starve, but that was about it. Sometimes he wished he had nothing at all.
Autumn was heavy in the air, the evening sharply chill after the stifling tap–room. Walking away from the noise, they headed into a maze of narrow alleys, walking until the only sound was of their boot–heels, loud in the silence. After a while their conversation died away, leaving a pleasant companionship all the sweeter for its imminent conclusion.
Sharpe had found accommodation in an old part of the town, it was cheap, yet reasonably clean and surprisingly respectable. The widow who ran it had a soft spot for soldiers, seeing in every face an echo of her husband and son, both lost to the guns at Corunna. Sharpe slid his key into the lock and offered up a silent prayer that she was asleep. He despised himself for appreciating the way she cared, though he ate her food and smiled with good grace when she mended his clothes. But tonight he didn't want a hot drink to help his sleep. He wanted Harper.
Thankfully, all was well. They crept through the sleeping house, climbing the narrow stairs to Sharpe's rooms and finally, safe behind a locked door, stood alone.
Though somehow neither man could think of words to say.
Harper watched as Sharpe crouched down by the small fire–place and busied himself setting the small heap of wood alight, fumbling with flint and tinder as if his hands were no longer his own. Harper smiled to himself, the clumsiness was so characteristic of his friend when ill at ease. Perhaps this was all for the best: to end it here; to become just friends with a thousand shared memories. The mere thought was like pulling a part of himself free, but if it was for the health of the whole, then it must be for the best. He sighed and dragged his gaze away.
The room was basically furnished, totally utilitarian. Almost as bare as a campaign tent. Harper frowned as he looked around, unsure at first quite what was so unsettling. Then he knew. This place was just somewhere to live, it wasn't a home. Apart from the sword hanging on the wall and a pile of ragged books set haphazardly by the bed, there was nothing to say who lived here. Nothing at all. The room was pleasant enough, but painfully empty, as if its tenant was merely passing through. Harper suddenly knew why he had never been invited before and he shivered slightly.
Crouched by the fire, Sharpe waited until the flames had caught, then stood up, turning almost shyly to face the other man, catching the pained expression on his face as he finished a tour of the room. He glanced around and gave a half shrug. "It's not much."
"It's fine, what more do you need for heaven's sake."
"Liar." Sharpe shrugged, then visibly relaxed, giving the beginnings of a smile. "I am glad you came back with me."
Harper nodded, his answering grin as broad as a summer's day. "So am I. Come here."
Slighter, far less heavy since the delights of peace had added to Harper's bulk and lessened his own, Sharpe went and stood in his one–time sergeant's shadow.
"I'll miss you, Richard."
"And I you. But we had some good times."
"More than most."
"Ay."
"I won't forget... If you ever need anything, a home, whatever, you know where to find me."
"I'll head for Dublin and ask the first rogue I see for the whereabouts of one Patrick Harper."
"Ask for the best beer in the city — then you'll find me."
Sharpe nodded.
They stood together for a while, quite at sea now that the world was their own, neither sure of making the first move. In the end it was Harper who took his courage and spoke, his voice soft, his lilt deepened by the difficulty of what he was about to say. "Richard, would you do me a small favour — seeing as this is goodbye and all that?"
"Name it."
He took a deep breath. "Would you kiss me?"
"Oh, Patrick." Sharpe would have done far more; this was such a small recompense. He swallowed hard and stepped very close; clumsy, ridiculously unprepared for the intimacy considering all they had shared, all they had done.
It was the first time he had really known of the difference in their heights, which, while not a great deal, was enough for Harper to need to bend to him, to curve his neck in almost the same way as Sharpe would have done to a girl. But the kiss itself took away any reservations; sweet and expressive, it stole his embarrassment and melted his doubt.
It was strange way to say goodbye, to kiss someone for the first time, but it was remarkably fitting.
Sharpe opened his lips and let his friend inside, shivering as the warm tongue touched his own, slid across his teeth, commanded as it beseeched. He held the wide shoulders tight in his hands, pressed deeper, tasting brandy and wine, tasting the need that pressed Harper's groin to his own with a urgency that felt like an iron bar within his breeches.
The last time. He shuddered and broke away from the kiss, swallowing hard on the thought. "Pat..."
Harper shook his head. "No, don't go and spoil it."
Sharpe took a deep, unsteady breath, then let it out with a rush. "No." He blinked, seeing his companion in the fire–light, seeing the strength he had relied upon for so long, seeing the love that he had never quite acknowledged.
The Irishman was right, words would never be enough. Instead, releasing his hold, he began to strip off his clothes, throwing them all haphazardly onto the floor. Then, naked, he reached for the buttons that held coarse wool tight across a broad chest.
A large hand stilled his movement. "No, let me see you."
"What?"
"Let me remember."
Confused but willing, Sharpe stood still while Harper paced around him. He began to laugh in embarrassment, but a finger laid itself across his lips and, obedient, he was quiet. Harper shook his head, "God, but you're beautiful..."
He pushed the hand away. "Don't be daft?"
"Shhh. If I want to say that, well, now I can. I can say anything, can't I?"
Sharpe blinked. "Suppose so."
"Gracious as ever." Harper grinned and ran his hands down the lean flanks, smiling as a soft sound of need escaped Sharpe's lips and a hand reached for him. He caught it, placed a kiss in its palm and tucked it back at Sharpe's side. "Be still, I won't be long." He made one last circuit of the stationary figure, seeming to touch every scar, seeming to remember every mark with a slight touch of his fingers. After a long while he stilled, and pushing aside the over–long, silken hair, kissed the vulnerable nape of his friend's neck. "Beautiful." The word was barely a whisper, but it stirred something long dead in Sharpe, and he shivered in response.
Running a quick hand down the length of Sharpe's back, Harper turned away to strip off his own coat. In no time he was out of boots, breeches and linen, standing as naked as his companion in the shadowy room.
Suddenly quite sure of himself, Harper went and sat on the bed, holding out a hand. "Come here."
Sharpe obeyed. Seeing the spear of flesh that rose ready from Harper's groin, his knees felt weak. Speechless, he stood between the outstretched thighs and closed his eyes as he was folded into a warm embrace. They held just so for a long while, hearing the beat of blood through each others' veins, breathing the scents and smells that would soon be out of reach, brushing fingers against skin. The intimacy was as deep as any they had ever known — deeper. For there would be no tomorrow to cast shame on today.
They drew apart and with casual ease, sure of what was about to happen, Sharpe pulled back the bed–covers and spread himself belly down onto the sheet. He waited, wanting this, wanting the moment when he would cease to think or reason and would only know the weight of a man on his back and the possession of a cock planted root deep in his arse. But a hand ran the length of his spine, curved around a buttock, then skimmed back up to his neck. The bed dipped as Harper moved; to lay by his side.
"What...?"
"Shhh, it's all right, I promise, this way'll be just grand." Harper grunted as he shifted onto the bed.
"But I thought you'd..."
"Fuck you."
"Ay, Patrick, it's our last time?" Fingers, suddenly white knuckled with need, clutched at a wide shoulder, shook it in emphasis.
"And we've all the rest of the night." Harper smiled, and shrugged as best he could. "I want to hold you, to watch you."
Sharpe swallowed his objections, for there were none, really. None that made any sense. He lifted his hand, took an unsteady breath and stroked Harper's dark, curling hair away from the broad brow. "Whatever you want, Pat, whatever."
"Then come here."
He went, letting Harper fit their limbs together and began the press and slide that would bring them both pleasure, all the while holding green eyes with his own. After a time Harper shifted, lifting Sharpe on top, holding tight to the delicious arse he could never resist, using his own strength to grind their bodies together, to control the push of cock against cock, of velvet skin over bone hard need. They were both sweating, grunting with effort as their bodies gave in, Sharpe slipping over the edge first, his eyes closing, his face twisting in the pleasure that was closest to pain as he spilled his seed between them, its warmth the only trigger Harper needed to arch high with need and cry out, the sound taken into his lover with a kiss that left them breathless, held tight to the fixed points of each other's need.
Afterwards, Sharpe crawled into the circle of Harper's arms and tried to keep awake. This was all the time they had left. he rested his head against the solid pad of muscle and wondered where else he had ever felt as at home. Only once. But that had been a long time ago, and besides, the man was dead. He pushed the memory away, resigned to its presence, but not wanting it now. Now was Harper's. He smiled as a gentle hand curved around his shoulders. Gods, but Harper was a good man. Better than most. At least Ramona would take care of him. He smiled and was considering the idea of Harper needing to be looked after as he slid painlessly into sleep.
* It was broad daylight when he awoke to an empty bed.
Wan light streamed through threadbare curtains and filled the room, sunlight pooling on the floor through a single gap. The fire was burned to ashes and from out in the street came the sounds of the world getting on with its living.
Harper would be gone. The ship sailed and halfway to the open sea. Out past Whitstable, skirting Dover, a salute to the Isle of Wight, Exmouth, Land's End and then the long pull across the sea to Dublin. All that to come and yet the journey only just begun.
Lying quite still, his face half buried in the pillow, Sharpe realised that for the first time in too many years to count, he was truly alone, his life was apparently without purpose.
He closed his eyes and pushed his face further into the pillow. He didn't want to think on the future. Couldn't. He ached too much from the wrench of Patrick's departure, from the loss of a friendship that had supported his through more than any man had right to expect.
But Harper had his own life. One he deserved. He couldn't coddle his friend forever, indeed, Sharpe didn't want that. But he wasn't sure what he did want in its stead.
It was certain though that Harper should have woken him. It would have been good to walk through the early morning mist down to the wharf, to have kissed Ramona one last time and waved the Merchantman off. It would have been good, or so he imagined.
He twisted in the crumpled sheets and stretched out onto his back, seeing the farewell in his mind's eye. Then frowned. Perhaps Harper would have been ashamed, knowing what had so recently happened between them. Afraid perhaps that something might have given them away, some glance, some lingering sweetness. Or maybe something as simple as the scent of one from the other. Ramona wasn't blind. Or simple.
Perhaps this was better.
Safer.
Sharper tried to smile, but the expression twisted itself into a grimace; a wry amusement that bordered on despair.
Besides, he would only have felt a fool, being left alone on the quayside, waving at the river. And Harper would have had his hands full keeping the children out of mischief without having to worry about his friend.
For worry he did.
Sharpe sighed, and remembered being woken in the dead of night by hands that pressed him to the bed and a hot eager mouth that kissed him soundly, taking in the safety of darkness all that daylight would not allow. With whispered words of command and entreaty, Harper had taken his fill of his officer, joining them one last time: taking the gift of flesh and transmuting it into a pleasure that flared bright in the darkness, leaving an imprint like the sun stared at too long on both their minds.
Sharpe knew he should have understood farewell when it came up and screwed him.
That thought did make him laugh, though the soft sound caught uneasily on another emotion. One he didn't want to recognise at all.
Abruptly, he sat up, pushing the sheets away. The room still looked empty and he glared at it, wondering if it was worth the effort of trying to make it into a place truly his own. Somewhere he'd be happy to bring friends back to. Not that he'd ever need to, for the only person he truly would welcome was just probably being sea–sick. There was no one else. The occasional doxy perhaps, but he knew better than to make any of them welcome. His experience being that the smallest kindness could easily be re–interpreted as a marriage proposal, and marriage was something he had no desire to experience again.
With a shiver of memory he climbed out of the tall bed and stood for a moment, his arms held around his chest. There had to be a reason to get up. There always had been, now was no different. There were things he should be doing. He looked around. The fireplace needed a good cleaning, the remains of last night's ashes lying heaped upon near to a week's leavings. The bed was a rumpled mess and could well do with the sheets being laundered, but they must still smell of Harper, and even so small a reminder was better than none. He wouldn't send them to be cleaned — not yet.
His sword, Harper's gift, stood rusting in a corner. Last night he should have been ashamed to have it in the same room as the man who forged it from a heavy, ugly brute of a blade, into the fine–honed weapon that had saved his life on more than one battle. His other sword, a gift from the Patriotic Fund was in hock, gone to pay for Harris' clerkship. Not that he missed it. A fine, ornate thing it had been, but no more use than a wooden stick.
He contemplated what needed to be done, but instead he pushed it all from his mind and began to ready himself to dress.
He was in trousers and shirt, sitting staring idly into space when a timid knock at the door roused him. Standing, he opened the door to his landlady.
"Morning Mr Sharpe."
"Morning, Mrs Moyes, I'm afraid I'm not quite ready to receive visitors."
She blushed slightly, her wrinkles standing out against the darkening skin. "Now, I wasn't going to disturb you so early, not after you had such a late night, and up most of the rest of it talking with your visitor, but this arrived for you, and I was told to bring it directly up to you, so I have." She held out a largish parcel that was bound up with brown paper and string.
"For me you say, who brought it?" With a frown Sharpe reached out and took it from her grasp.
"A boy, no one I know." Alice Moyes smoothed her gown and straightened her cap. "But I brought it right up — I thought it might be important." She waited, her eyes bright with curiosity.
"Thank you." He took a step back and began to close the door, then thought. "Did you have to pay anything?"
"No, the boy said it had all been taken care of."
"Right. Well, thanks again."
As the door was about to close she asked hopefully, "Will you be down for luncheon?"
The negative reply was almost drowned by the sound of the door being firmly closed and the key turning in the lock. Mrs Moyes gave a small indignant sound, and made her way back down the narrow stairs, already considering a visit to her friend and neighbour Anne Goodsby to pass on the latest scraps of gossip about her most interesting lodger.
Alone, Sharpe listened to the retreating tread of footsteps on the stairs. He held the parcel between his hands and wondered, then sitting himself down before the empty grate tore the wrapping away.
He physically felt the blood leave his face, coming as close to fainting for no reason as he ever had in his life.
Harper. He must have planned to leave this to Sharpe. Must, in fact, have carried it half–way around Europe in order to bring it here. Sharpe didn't know whether to laugh or cry. The wood was so familiar against his fingers, as if it was something he had touched every day of his life, though in truth he had only ever held it once. It had appeared in his dreams many times, sometimes for good, sometimes for ill.
With breath held tight in his body, he slipped the catch and opened the case up, the hinge resisting slightly before giving in to firm pressure. He blinked hard, then stared.
Carlyle.
Sharpe closed his eyes hard as pain, bitter as a knife in the heart, twisted his side. He took a shuddering breath and bowed over, holding the wood tight, not daring to look again, knowing the treacherous face that would stare at him, mock him. It had all been so long ago, yet the wound was as fresh as if it had been sliced into him but yesterday.
And the wife. The children. Without looking he knew the faces in the companion portrait set opposite Carlyle's; set so that when the case was closed the faces of the man and woman would almost touch. A lover's memento. Sharpe snapped it closed and tried to level his breathing, pain leaving his face bleached white, bone carving its way through the skin.
Without thought or care he pushed himself upright, barely hearing the crack as the case slid hard to the floor.
Damn Harper. Why had he done it? Why save something that was sure to give pain?
Unless he didn't think it was pain it would give.
From pacing the floor, Sharpe stopped in his tracks and fought a quiet battle with the truth. To admit the love he had felt was very hard. To admit, even to himself, that the love hadn't died with the flogging was well nigh impossible.
He shuddered once, then mind wiped clean of all but one thought, he finished dressing and headed out into the street, heading without hesitation for the first drinking house he could find.
* * * * *
The long room was dark and ill–lit, hardly occupied at all, yet he still had to wait to be served. He leaned on the table and rapped impatiently with a coin. Eventually a fat man with a greasy apron twisted around his girth appeared from a back room and shuffled towards him.
"Mornin', how can I help you?"
Sharpe was in no mood for pleasantries. "Brandy."
"Ay."
"Make it a bottle."
The landlord turned and, reaching high onto a shelf, pulled down a dusty bottle from the serried ranks standing there. It was not long since French Brandy had been once again on open sale, after over twenty years of war. Though from the dust that coated the bottle's shoulders it looked as if this particular one, probably along with a case or ten of its fellows, had been secreted away for regular customers.
Sharpe took the bottle in one hand, a glass in the other and left a coin for payment. He didn't reply to the message of goodwill that followed him across the room as, without hesitation, he moved to the most secluded table and settled there. Picking at the wax seal until it fell free, he levered the cork from the bottle. Immediately the rich smell of oblivion rushed out to meet him. Oblivion as a promise with a thousand memories chasing hard on its tails. He poured a full glass and took a long swallow.
They were better memories. The taste of the brandy was something he'd grown used to in Spain. He and Harper had liberated many a bottle from a dead man's pack. He sat quite still as a flotilla of recollections floated through his thoughts. How many bottles had there been in all, of Spanish brandy as well as French. One time they had found a wagon full of barrels, though perhaps found wasn't quite the right word.
He almost smiled: Carlyle almost forgotten. The level in the bottle sank gradually as he pulled at the strings of memory. Occasionally pain came back to gnaw at him, but each time a good swig would put paid to it.
Once, somehow, he allowed himself to consider what might have been, had he accepted Carlyle's proposal and stayed in Spain. To have left the army, left Harper. Where would they all be now? Dead probably. Surprisingly that possibility cheered him, and he celebrated with a toast to the future. For he was alive. Though quite what he was going to do with such a magnificent gift he wasn't at all sure. He put his glass down with a too heavy hand, almost upsetting it. Damn, but he wasn't drunk. Couldn't be. He straightened and peered at the bottle. It was empty. He raised an eyebrow at it, quite prepared to believe that someone had swapped bottles in a moment of his inattention.
He looked around. The place was suddenly very full. Where had they all come from so quickly? And why the devil weren't they out earning a living? He sat for a moment, stewed in befuddlement. Then, with decision, he stood up.
And regretted the impulse immediately.
Perhaps he had drunk all the brandy, after all.
Gathering himself he stood straight, one hand braced against the wall. Fresh air was undoubtedly all he needed, and on unsteady feet he made his way towards it, pushing through the groups of drinkers, muttering under his breath as he went.
Once outside, he saw to immense surprise that the day was nearly through. The shadows belonged to late afternoon and Sharpe had almost to pinch himself to believe the evidence of his own eyes.
Leaning against a wall he breathed in and out. Slowly and carefully. It was certain he was drunk, yet how had it happened? He held still and tried to form a coherent thought, but it was impossible.
"'ello, mister. What you doin' all alone."
He peered up blearily and saw a girl, swaying towards him. Though perhaps it wasn't the girl who was swaying. He tried to focus.
"Come on, dearie, I'll give you a good time."
She wasn't a girl, the complexion had come out of a bottle and left her raddled under the coarse artistry. Once she had been blond, probably the prettiest girl on her street. Now, gin and the myriad inconveniences of her trade had taken their toll. He shook his head. Not that he'd have been tempted had she looked like Helen of Troy.
"Don't be like that, darlin'. Pretty one like you, I won't ask too much." She came in close, so that all he could smell was her cheap scent that lay over the stench of her unwashed body like oil suspended over water.
Immediately, his stomach revolted and twisting to one side he heaved the brandy he'd spent to long imbibing into the gutter.
Head pounding, he remained bent over, unsure if that one convulsive heave was all his belly was going to give. At his side he could hear the woman laughing, the sound unbelievably harsh in his ears.
Then another voice: "'e's foxed, Lizzie? Try getting yourself someone who's up to it."
"Keep yer nose out? I found 'im first."
"Poor bastard, careful, 'e's not finished yet."
And he wasn't. Sharpe groaned and wished himself dead.
"There, you'll be done in a trice." A light hand touched his back. "Can you stand?"
"Rosie, I warned you? I found 'im first?"
"Have a heart, Liz, can't you see 'e's spent?"
"Can't see nuffin. But 'e might 'ave all sorts tucked in 'is boots."
"'nd you'd roll 'im, soon as look at the poor bugger, wouldn't you Liz?"
"Well, what's it to you, your ladyship?" Even Sharpe could hear the challenge.
"None of your business, but 'e's mine."
And he could hear the iron will in that statement. He had mind enough to wonder why, and struggled to stand straight. Clutching the wall he winced as blood pounded in his skull. Finally, the blurring of his eyesight cleared, and to his great surprise he found that the voice of his, so eloquent, defender, belonged to the girl he'd given the silver coin to the night before.
No wonder she was so possessive. She probably thought there was more where that had come from. Sharpe cleared his mouth and spat into the gutter, turning back to see his champion smiling up at him and the other doxy flouncing away down the street.
"Come on, 'andsome, let's get you 'ome."
"No, I'm fine." He tried for command. "Leave me be."
"With you still looking half cracked? I won't pinch nothin', not like Liz would've done." She smiled and put a hand on his arm. "Promise."
"Ay." He struggled to extricate himself. "But I'm fine." He pushed away from the wall, prepared to demonstrate quite how fine he did feel, but the world began a merry dance around him and he stood very still.
"There, told you. Now, I've a nice strong arm you can lean on."
Sharpe held an unsteady hand to his head, which seemed in imminent danger of falling off, and cursed, muttering softly under his breath; "How can I have got this drunk?"
It wasn't really a question, at least not one aimed at his companion, but she answered it anyway, nodding in sage sympathy. "Probably the second bottle did you in, that's what always gets me."
"Second bottle?"
"You were quite resolute."
"Jesus..."
"Ay, 'e's a comfort to us all." She paused, then gave a shrug. "Come on, Captain, if you don't want to come back with me, tell me where you lodge."
Sharpe was still confounded. "Two bottles?" No wonder he felt like a two day corpse; he'd drunk himself through drunkenness and straight into a hangover. And worst of all, the image that filled his head was still that of Carlyle. With careful gentleness he disengaged her hand from his arm. "You've been very kind. Really. But I reckon I'm not good company right now. But here," he reached into a pocket, "take this for your trouble."
She took the coin with a small smile. "Got a lady waitin', 'ave you?"
"No." He shook his head and fought the wave of self–pity that threatened to rise.
"Yeah, and the moon's made of cheese. Still, if you ever want company, ask anywhere round 'ere for Rose. That's me."
"Thank you."
With one backwards glance she walked away, and after a while, Sharpe pushed himself away from the wall and found he could stay upright, and more or less keep a straight line when he walked.
With little choice of where to go, he returned to his room, closing the door behind him with both relief and revulsion.
The picture was still on the floor. Careful of his head he crouched and picked it up. The case had cracked when he'd dropped it earlier and to his confusion the whole thing fell to bits in his hands.
He fumbled around on the floor, picking up from amidst the bits of wood the two ivory portrait miniatures.
And something else. He reached for it very slowly, holding it lightly in his fingers. A lock of hair. As if in a dream he picked up the painting of Carlyle's wife and children, they were all dark. This lock was light, almost blond as was his own. He swallowed hard and with a hand that stubbornly refused to hold quite steady, pulled forward a strand forward from where it lay against his collar.
The strands matched.
Through twenty years of battle and bloodshed he had rarely wept. Now all he wanted to do was to howl his grief to the sky; cursing heaven, God, Carlyle and himself.
Most of all himself.
He wouldn't weep. Not now, not when there was no hope left at all. In the end all he could do was curl tight around himself, splintered wood strewn around. With eyes wide, he stared blindly into space, into misery, the lock of hair grasped tightly in his fist.
* * * * *
Within a few weeks, winter had locked the city under an icy pall. Travel became more difficult and prices of foodstuffs rose as marketeers battled to bring their goods into the capital. The snow was at its worst to the north, and travellers told that only a few miles south there had been scarcely a snowflake and the roads, though icy, were clear. London, Essex and Hertfordshire sat under a blanket of winter, the worst seen in decades.
Only the young really enjoyed the violent change in London's weather, children fashioned fantastic creatures out of the seemingly endless supply of snow and skating became such a craze, with most of the city's lakes and ponds frozen over, that men and women from all classes took to the ice. But after the second week, the mercury dropped even further and it became too cold for games, leaving the streets deserted of all but the hardy or the desperate. Occasionally some very rich traveller could be seen venturing from one house to another, with carriage, footmen and elaborately warm clothing, though they were far fewer than the season demanded. The only other bodies found on the streets were those of the dead. The harsh winter killed off many of the beggars who had swarmed the streets, leaving old soldiers with the rags of their uniforms for winding sheets and street brats with nothing at all. Many bodies were tossed carelessly into open, shallow communal graves, the ground too hard to dig deep, the wind biting too cold for the grave–diggers to care about fighting the frozen earth for new ones.
Alone in his rooms, Sharpe ate when he was forced to by the pain in his belly and lit the fire when he remembered, or when his fingers finally were too cold to turn the pages of whatever book he was desultorily reading. He ceased bothering to shave the beard from his chin and became utterly careless of appearance, of everything except his daily supply of coarse wine and his nightly supply of brandy. Even his landlady, generous and warm–hearted as she was, gave up on him, and in the end she no longer climbed the narrow stairs with bowls of soup, or tried to draw him into conversation when he forayed down to the yard for the firewood he wouldn't let the maid bring to his room.
He knew he had given up, was quite aware that the listlessness that held him staring at the fire for hours was unhealthy. But he didn't care at all. He rarely ventured out of the one room, his bedroom left cold and his bed untouched. From his couch before the fire he would occasionally stand, restless, and wander over to the window to peer out into the gloom that never really seemed to lift from the street. There he would think about going somewhere, about visiting somebody. But there was never anyone he wanted to see, at least not enough to risk the ice and cold. He would lean on the window–frame and let his breath mist the glass, melt the ice–crystals that sparkled dully in the fire–light. There was nowhere he wanted to be. No one he wanted to see. If the sun had been burning brightly outside on a beautiful summer's day, then he would have had to despise himself. But it wasn't, and as far as he was concerned winter could last forever, the weather serving to allow him the things he craved; solitude and the bitter consolation of being drunk.
For the very first time in his life, Sharpe appreciated why men took refuge in a bottle and never came out; all the disgust such behaviour had engendered in him before burned away by the hollow need that cried to be filled almost before the moment he awoke. Night and day he slept badly, and when he did his sleeping hours were filled with wild dreams, plague filled nightmares that brought terror and a wild despair that left him blank–eyed, reaching unsteadily for the brandy bottle that sat in constant attendance by the couch he rarely left.
He lived because he had to, not by any conscious desire at all. He left the confines of his room only to buy drink, and if he remembered bread and maybe some cheese, then all well and good, if he forgot, then that scarcely mattered either.
But the alcohol was all important.
With the wind howling through the eaves of the houses and the fire smoking as the draught caught the wrong way, Sharpe reached into a cupboard and found his supplies had dwindled to nothing. There was a goodly supply of empty bottles, but none with any drink to wash away the taste of the last night's dreams. He cursed the lack soundly, then with a grunt of irritation, shrugged into his greatcoat and sat on the couch to pull on his boots. For a long moment he frowned at the cracked and peeling leather, then stood up, and slamming the door behind him stumbled down the stairs onto the street.
It was quite early and once outside he blinked in surprise at the sun, which was weakly peering past a bank of snow clouds. Briefly he wondered if the weather would break in time for Christmas, then pushed the thought away with a careless shrug. What did it matter, what did it matter if the world was shrouded in snow for the rest of eternity? As long as the wine merchants opened; he scratched at his beard and almost smiled
Buttoning his coat as he went, Sharpe set forth, careful to walk in the wheel tracks, watching his step and his footing on the treacherous ground. He took a deep breath of the fresh air and found a certain rhythm to his stride. Both hands burrowed deep into torn pockets, he decided that the sunlight must have confused his mind, for instead of where he had thought to go, to the wine–merchant, his feet were taking him a different way, towards the coaching inn that served such good mulled wine. Something hot and heady. Yes, that was what the day demanded. And he set a good pace along the almost empty street.
As he rounded the last corner he could almost taste the delicious concoction and his stomach gave a rumble, giving notice that some food would be much appreciated. He was considering the possibility of roast beef when every thought was seared from his head and he stopped dead in his tracks, breath driven from his lungs as if a giant fist had punched it away.
Outside the inn stood a horse, a splendid bay mare with glossy coat and richly fitted tack. Held still by a groom, she stamped in the chill, eager to be off while her owner climbed a mounting block and swung gracefully into the saddle. The man was swathed in a thick riding coat, a beaver hat close over his brows and he gathered the reins in strong fine hands.
If ghosts rode through the streets of London, then Sharpe knew he saw one. But unlike the creature who haunted his dreams, this was no spirit. It was a man of flesh and blood, for without doubt, and yet without possibility, it was Lord James Carlyle. The same lord who was long dead, buried far away in the dry and dusty peninsular soil.
As he watched unbelieving, the man pulled gloves onto his hands and with a casual salute to the groom was gone, urging his horse up the street without a single glance behind.
Still as one dead, Sharpe couldn't force a shout past his lips. Carlyle. The sight left him torn asunder by confusion.
Unbelieving, quite sure that he dreamt, Sharpe reached one hand to the other and deliberately pinched the skin on the back of his wrist, hard. Nothing changed. He didn't wake to the airless confinement of his room, the rider was still there. Sharpe watched painfully until the rider was one, quite proud of himself that not once did he even try and run after him; run after him and beg.
With a shuddering breath, Sharpe crouched down at the side of the street, coat–tails dragging in the filth, and taking a handful of snow rubbed it harshly across his face, hissing as the cold bit into his skin, stinging. But nothing changed, he was still awake.
And he had seen Carlyle. Alive.
Unless he had a brother. A twin.
Clumsy in his haste, Sharpe ran across the cart tracks that pitted the snow and seized the groom by his arm. "Who was that?"
"What..?" Startled by the touch, the baldly stated question, the groom could only stare at the wild man who had melting snow tangled through his beard.
"That man, the one who just rode away, what's his name?"
"Lord Ashcombe, if it's any business of yours, mister?"
The title gave him pause, but then he remembered that the father must have died, that Lord Carlyle was now Lord Ashcombe. He felt giddy, as if the world was spinning away from under his feet.
"I asked what business can it be of yours?"
"Oh, but it is, it is." Sharpe was almost feverish now, he knew he was frightening the man, but couldn't stop himself, couldn't find the calm needed to ask the question sanely. "Tell me, do you know his first names? Please, it is important..."
The man considered, feeling the tremor that ran from the scarecrow where he clutched his arm. A scarecrow whose coat had once been well cut. He summed it all up and made a decision, nodding to himself as he agreed to answer. "James, 'e stays 'ere from time to time, when 'e 'as business in town."
Sharpe swallowed and tried the only other possibility. "Do you know if he has a brother?"
"No he 'asn't, why d'you ask?"
"I thought I knew him. Thank you for your patience, thank you." Sharpe released the man's sleeve and stood quite still, a fierce pain shooting though his head. Carlyle. Alive. It could only be a jest to set the gods laughing.
"'ere, you all right?"
"I'm fine..."
"You don't look it." Pity clearly buried any wariness. There was no danger here anyway, the man was thin enough he could have blown away. "Come inside, I've a nice spot of Porter that'll set you right."
"No, no. Thank you, but I've got to go."
"It'll be on the 'ouse? Or what about a quick nip of brandy to bolster you up a bit, what d'you say?"
"I must go." But he didn't move, his legs ridiculously unwilling to obey his instructions. "I must..."
And with that he simply crumpled to the ground at the man's feet.
"Blimey..." The groom stared for a moment at the untidy heap of limbs and cloth that had landed by his boots, then shouted for a colleague to lend a hand. He cursed himself for a simpleton but, despite his muttering, dragged the unconscious man into the shelter of the stables.
* * * * *
Sharpe came to with brandy being forced between his lips. He coughed and tried to sit, managing the colossal task with the help of a kindly hand on his back. He took a deep breath and knew he was in a stables.
"There. Better?"
Swallowing nausea, Sharpe nodded, feeling the brandy burn like bile through his gut. He finally focused on the face that belonged to the man crouching by his side. "What happened?"
"You keeled over."
"Oh." Sharpe slowly reached a hand up to his head and winced to see it shaking.
"When did you last eat something?"
"Yesterday..." Sharpe closed his eyes and battled with the sickness, vaguely trying to think. "I can't remember." His shoulders moved in what might have been a shrug.
"Billy?" At the man's shout a boy appeared around the corner of the loose box in which Sharpe lay. "Go and ask Louisa for a bowl of stew." he glanced back at his charge. "And some bread. Of you go." He waited until the boy had run off. "You'll feel better with something inside you."
"But I can't trespass on your kindness, I'll be off..."
"Don't be a fool. What's a bit of dinner going to cost me. You should see what gets sent to the pigs. Besides," the man raised an eyebrow and gave the lean a body a detailed survey, ending at the pale, strained face. "You'll never make it to the end of the road, let alone home."
Sharpe met the steady gaze for a brief moment, then looked away. "Ay, I've been neglecting things of late."
"Can see that." Sharpe's Samaritan stood up and smiled, transforming his plain, wide face with kindness. "Come on, there's a table and chairs round here. You can eat in comfort." And he reached a hand down.
Hauled easily to his feet, Sharpe gave a watery smile.
"Jack Hardy."
"Richard Sharpe. Thank you..."
"Oh, enough of that, I wasn't going to leave you to freeze to death, was I?" Jack grinned. "And you made the street look untidy. Come on." And he led the way through the back of the stables and into a room that seemed to act as tack–room and Jack Hardy's nook, for apart from the leather goods that hung from the walls there was a table, chairs, a battered armchair and a generous blaze crackling in the fire–place.
Sharpe sat at the table. Almost immediately the boy arrived with a steaming bowl, his presence preceded by a wonderful savoury aroma that had Sharpe's belly rumbling in anticipation. He stared into the dish and reached slowly for the spoon, cursing under his breath as the shake of his hand made it clatter against the earthenware.
The first taste was heaven in a mouthful. Though the meat was tender he chewed well, swallowing it down with his eyes shut, every sense focused on the blissful delight, the taste of it. Something clattered by his elbow and he opened his eyes to see a plate of bread and Jack Hardy's smiling face.
"The wife makes a nice spot of stew."
Sharpe nodded, already spooning up another mouthful. Despite the lack of verbal response, Hardy grinned wider, then settled himself in a wide backed chair, chewing on a piece of bread to be companionable.
Whilst he ate, Jack poured them both a pot of ale, taking a long draught himself and sitting back with a sigh of satisfaction. He nodded to the boy who still shuffled from foot to foot by the door. "Thanks, Billy. Go out front and give us a shout if I'm needed." Billy left without a word.
Jack waited until the bowl was wiped clean and his guest was sitting still, the ashen tinge gone from his face, replaced by a healthier colour. "Better?"
"Ay." Sharpe breathed a sigh of satisfaction, quite ridiculously content now that he was warm and fed. "That was wonderful.
"Good. Now tell me, what's your interest in Lord Ashcombe?"
Drenched with reality, Sharpe suddenly remembered, amazed that even for a short time he could have forgotten.
"I knew him in Spain."
"Does 'e owe you something?"
"Yes." Sharpe thought, then realised that Carlyle did indeed owe him — the skin of his back to start with. "I should've called him back, but I wasn't sure. Besides, I'm not sure he'd have heard me, anyway."
"You were worn to the nub." Jack Hardy nodded in understanding, and reached to fill himself a pipe of tobacco. "I'm surprised you were on your feet at all."
"I'd like to have seen him, you see, I was told he was dead."
"Enough of our lot didn't make it back." Hardy puffed to get the pipe going, holding the lighted taper close to the bowl. After a moment it was drawing to his satisfaction and he sat back, tossing the taper into the flames. "My son for one."
"I'm sorry." There was nothing else to say, but Sharpe meant what he said with absolute sincerity. He'd seen enough death, too much; yet never got hardened to the sight.
"Well, it 'appens. He bought it at some place called Corunna. I just 'ope they buried 'im proper."
It was really a question, one that sought for reassurance. Sharpe remembered the pits that were dug to take the dead, fifty or a hundred bodies to each, their uniforms stripped away, their burial as their death, without any dignity at all. He brushed the memory away and nodded. There was no reason for truth here. "Ay, they would have done."
"Thought so. My lad loved the army, I was sure they would 'ave seen 'im right."
They talked a while longer, of the war, the weather and of peace. In the end, Sharpe shared the groom's supper of bread and cheese, though he hardly touched the offered alcohol, sticking to the occasional sip of weak ale to wet his throat. He stayed because of the man's kindness and also because, when he finally left in the gathering dusk, he was in possession of directions to Carlyle's house in Kent.
Sharpe walked back to his rooms quite content. He felt renewed, full of purpose for the first time in months. He knew where Carlyle lived. The anger that had been buried deep in him for years fed on the knowledge, growing as he walked. Carlyle was alive and within reach of revenge. Sharpe almost laughed out loud.
So far away was he that he almost walked by the house he lived in, but he caught himself just in time and went eagerly up the stairs. There was a great deal to be done.
He pushed open the door to his room and stood quite still, shocked. How had it all got into such a disgusting state? Utterly revolted by the filth and mess, Sharpe wondered when he had last really looked at the condition of his lodging. Weeks, if not months before from the disarray around him.
Stripping off his great–coat and coat, he hung them on the back of the door and rolled up his sleeves. There was only one cure — hard work. He set to, first of all gathering all the empty bottles into a sack and taking them down to the yard. An hour later two more sacks of rubbish went the same way. Clumping slowly back up the stairs Sharpe cursed his own lack of fitness. A bit of scrubbing and his shirt was damp with sweat and a few flights of stairs became a mountain. And there was more to be done. He surveyed his room from the door. It looked better, but not right. He took a deep breath, wiped the heel of one hand over his face and went back to work.
A couple of hours later a fire burned in the grate, a kettle was set to boil and the entire room was finally as clean as Sharpe could make it. Hands on hips he surveyed the room, then went with firm step over to the sword he had resolutely ignored until his self–set tasks were done, and taking it over to the fire, sat.
It was a good sword. Good for killing at least, and that was what the length of steel was meant for. He turned it in his hands, letting firelight play along the blade, catch on the pits and dents in the steel. He'd long lost count of the men who had died against its edge. It was no good for anything else but killing. There was no beauty in it, a true swordsmith would have laughed his head off at the crude balance of the blade, at the ugly grip that divided the hilt. Yet for all that, it was the truest sword Sharpe had ever touched: Because of why it had been made, and who had made it. A long time ago, Harper had transformed a basic, utilitarian cavalry sword into this, and at the same time perhaps saved his officer's life. Since that day, Sharpe had never fought with another blade, nor had he wanted to.
It seemed quite apt that this should be the means to kill Carlyle. The Patriotic Fund sword could stay in hock, it was a pretty toy, but it meant nothing.
Sharpe ran his hand gently down the flat of the blade. It was dirty, pitted. He'd been a fool to neglect it. He had been a fool. There, it was simple. Well, he wasn't going to be a fool any longer. Mad, maybe — probably. But not a fool.
Standing, he went over to the table and began the long task of cleaning the sword Harper had fashioned for him, working into the early hours of the morning until the metal gleamed and the hilt sparkled as he turned it in the lamp–light. It still needed to be sharpened, but there would be a blacksmith on the way to Kent who could be persuaded to carry out that task.
Utterly weary, but oddly content he stood, stretched his back, then picking up his candle carried both it and the sword to the bed. There was a faint glimmer of light around the curtains and he realised with a start of surprise that it was close to dawn.
He snuffed the candle, put the sword by the side of the bed and stood for a long moment in the half–shadows, quite still, eyes fixed firmly on nowhere. He came back to himself with a shiver that rippled through his body like a sigh.
Carlyle.
The thought held steady in his mind, like a flame. Then, for the first time in weeks, he stripped off all his clothes and climbed into bed, shivering as the cold sheets wrapped around his limbs. Pulling the covers high over his head, leaving only his nose to brave the frigid air he settled down, closed his eyes and was fast asleep even before he knew he was warm.
* * * * *
Sharpe slept through for five hours of the most restful sleep he'd enjoyed in far too long. He awoke filled with energy, determination singing through his veins. He didn't stop to examine any of his motives, or wonder exactly why or how it had come about that Carlyle was still alive — besides, that was going to be a short lived state of affairs anyway. In fact he thought of little at all, merely taking himself downstairs to wash and scrub under the outside pump. Half way through the process, Mrs. Moyes appeared, astonishment wide on her face, full of concern that he would catch his death from the unhealthy exposure to both cold water and fresh air. When he stripped off his filthy breeches and stood naked under the flow of water she ran away with a shriek, making the pot–boy who manned the pump giggle and Sharpe smile briefly, though in truth he hardly noticed she was there.
Clean, and wrapped modestly in a towel, he returned to his rooms, carrying with him a bowl of hot water that steamed copiously in the chill air. Resting it on the table, he shivered slightly. The fire had died down, so Sharpe added another couple of pieces of wood, crouching by the warmth until they caught, crackling and spitting as tongues of flame began to devour them.
Slowly, he scratched a finger through the thatch of hair coating his cheek. He wasn't looking forward to what he was going to do next. A long sigh added itself to the crackle of the fire and he gave a short laugh. Still, it had to be done. He stood up, wrapped the towel more firmly around his waist and went back to the table.
A cautious finger dipped and swirled, then, bending over he cupped the water up in handfuls to soak his face. It took along time and careful rubbing to soften the bristles enough, but after a while he was satisfied. Then, taking a blade, he slowly pared the beard away.
An uncomfortable time later his face was smooth, the skin pink and naked, bleeding desultorily in a couple of places where his fingers had refused to quite obey him. He peered at his reflection in the mirror and nodded; he would do.
There was quite simply no choice in what to wear. Though when he stood fully dressed with his sword strapped at his side he was ashamed to see that the uniform was no longer a perfect fit. He fingered the green cloth he had worn for so many years, very glad he hadn't thrown it to the rag–man. Though most rag pickers would have turned their noses up at the state of the old jacket and overalls, threadbare in places, holed or patched in others. The black silk frogging down the jacket was still intact, and a few silver buttons still fastened the front among the plainer lead ones.
Sharpe stood and peered at his reflection in the speckled mirror. He thought he looked the same, the weight he had lost made little difference. Carlyle would know him. Surely?
He reached up and fingered the hair that spilled past his collar. It was longer, in need of a cut perhaps, but that would have to wait. Was he the same? In the uniform he seemed to look the same, but inside he felt utterly different. Weary and full of anger all at once. Carlyle would remember him, wouldn't he?
There, that was the worst of it, the possibility that he had been forgotten. What if the time he had spent in that Spanish stronghold had only been of importance in his own mind, what if all that Carlyle had done and said had been just a way of passing time? There had been women in his own life he had slept with, spent time with, yet now he could scarcely recall their faces, let alone their names. Sharpe swallowed hard and blocked that pathway from his thoughts. Carlyle had to remember. It was impossible that it had all meant nothing.
And if it did? If Carlyle looked up and saw a stranger?
Sharpe's fingers flexed as if reaching for his sword. There were ways to deal with everything.
Pulling his great–coat over his uniform, Sharpe picked up a small pack of belongings. Most of his money, that which wasn't held in safe–keeping, was tucked into the one boot that was still completely whole. It would have to be enough. With one last look around he closed the door, unsure and uncaring if he ever came back.
He walked down the stairs with a lift to his step that had been missing for many a month. His goal was a fair distance away, but he was determined. If the roads were closed, then he'd walk. There would be a way, though they said the snow wasn't so bad to the south. That he should wait for the weather to clear not once occurred to him. His mind was set, concerned only with how far he needed to go, the state of his boots and his own stamina. Even if the roads were bad he'd manage. For nothing mattered; Carlyle was at the end of the journey.
* * * * *
PART I | PART II | PART III