Malan came through the door like a charging bull, only to find Sharpe sitting on the church's low wall. "Stand up, " Malan demanded. "Just get it over,»
Sharpe said. "Hit me." He saw the puzzlement on Malan's face. "That's what you've been wanting to do all year, isn't it?" he asked. "Hit me? So do it."
"Stand up! " Malan said again, and his supporters, who had followed Malan out of the church, growled their support. "I'm not going to fight you, Jacques,»
Sharpe said, "I don't need to. I've been in as many battles as you have, so I don't have to prove a thing. But you do. You don't like me. In fact you don't seem to like anyone. You do nothing all day except make trouble. You were supposed to deliver firewood to the church-house, weren't you? But you haven't done it. You'd rather sit in the tavern spending your mother's money. Why don't you make yourself useful? I could use you! I've got a rusted-up mill that needs rebuilding, and a mill channel that needs clearing, and next month I've got a load of stone coming from Caen to repave the yard. I could do with a strong man. But right now I need a soldier. A good soldier, not some fat drunk who lives off his poor mother's purse." Malan stepped forward and raised the cudgel. "Get up, " he insisted. "Why bother?" Sharpe asked, "if you're just going to knock me down again?" "You're frightened! " Malan jeered. "Of a drunk?" Sharpe asked scornfully. "You dare call me a drunk?" Malan shouted.
"You? The English? Who were always drunk in battle! " "That's true, " Sharpe admitted, "but we had to be, didn't we? If we were going to fight you lot."
Malan blinked, unsure how to take Sharpe's agreement. "You were drunk?" he asked, sounding surprised. "Not me, Sergeant Malan, not me. But a lot of the lads were. You can't blame them though, can you? They were terrified of the Imperial Guard. Best soldiers in Europe." Jacques, assuming the last four words applied to the Imperial Guard, nodded. "We were, " he said fervently, putting the cudgel on to his shoulder as though it were a musket. "And you know what that makes you and me, Jacques?" Sharpe asked. "What?" Malan asked suspiciously. "The best soldiers in the village." Sharpe stood. "You and me, Jacques Malan, two of the very best there ever were. Real soldiers! Not like those dragoons I dragged up here." Malan shrugged. «Dragoons!» He spat. "Girls on horseback." "So what I'm saying, Jacques Malan, is help me or hit me."
Malan frowned at Sharpe. "Help you?" "How do I get inside the chateau without them seeing me? They're bound to have a sentry in the tower, and there's only two bridges over the moat and that sentry can see both, but there has to be another way in." "How would I know?" Malan said indignantly. "Because you were sweet on Madame when you were young, " Sharpe said, "and one day you got on to the chateau's roof to look through her bedroom window, and you didn't get there by crossing either bridge, did you?" Malan looked embarrassed. "There is a way, " he admitted. "So show me, " Sharpe said, "and after that, if you really have to, you can hit me." "It will be my pleasure, " Malan said. "But first,»
Sharpe said, "we have to organise the choir." "The choir?" "Watch me, " Sharpe said. He clapped the big man on the shoulder. "I knew, from the moment when I was in trouble, that I needed you. Only you." He took one of the captured pistols from his pocket and pushed it into Malan's hand. "You'll find that more useful than a cudgel, Jacques." "I have my musket at home." "Then go and fetch it. Then join me here. And Jacques?" Sharpe paused. "Merci beaucoup." He hid his sigh of relief then went back into the church. He had some singing to arrange.
SERGEANT Challon finished off the last of the goose, patted his belly and leaned back in his chair. Lucille was putting Patrick to bed upstairs and Challon raised his eyes to the ceiling. "She can cook, that one, " the sergeant said appreciatively. "Goose is too much for me, " the lawyer said. "Too rich, too fatty." He had finished with Sharpe's accounts and was wondering why there was no evidence of the stolen gold in the columns. "I could eat another goose, " Challon grunted, then looked at the lawyer. "So what will you do with her when her Englishman gets back?" The lawyer drew a finger across his throat. "It's for the best, " sadly, he said. "I detest violence, but if we let them live they'll only tell the gendarmes. And Major Ducos's will is hardly clear title to the gold, is it? The Government will want it. No, we have to make certain that Major Sharpe and his woman do not talk." "So if the woman's going to die, " Chalon said, "does it matter what happens to her first?" Lorcet frowned. "I find your suggestion distasteful, " Sergeant. Challon laughed. "You can find it what you like, Maitre, but she and I have got some unfinished business." He pushed back his chair. «Madame,» he said, raising his eyes to the ceiling again, "you are about to enter paradise." But before Challon could move there was a sudden rush of feet on the stairs and the man who had been keeping watch from the tower ran into the kitchen. «Sergeant!» "What is it?"
"People! Scores of them! Coming here."
CHALLON swore and hurried after the man towards the tower. Lorcet followed them up the stairs, down the small passage and through the door which led to the circular stairs. Once at the top he could peer through the slits under the tower roof and he saw that a crowd of villagers was walking slowly down the hill towards the chateau. A priest dressed in his full vestments led them through the snow, while behind him a man carried a silver crucifix on a tall pole. Once at the chateau the small crowd split into two, some walking on towards the bridge which led into the gate-tower while the others followed the priest around to the rear of the farm. "Stay here, " Lorcet ordered the man who had been on guard. "Sergeant! Follow me." The two men went back to the kitchen and stared through a window at the priest, who was arranging his followers on the far side of the bridge. "What are they doing?" Lorcet asked. "God knows,»
Challon said. He was still holding Sharpe's rifle, but what was he to do?
Shoot the priest? "Are they going to sing?" the lawyer asked incredulously, for the priest had turned to his flock, raised his hands, and now brought them down. And so the crowd began to sing.
They sang carols in the falling snow. They sang all the beautiful old carols of Christmas, the carols of a baby and a star, of a manger and the shepherds, and of angels' wings beating in the winter snow over Bethlehem. They sang of wise men and of gold, of Mary and her child, and of peace on earth and joy in heaven. They sang lustily, as though the loudness of their voices could stave off the bitter cold of the waning afternoon. "In a moment, " Lucille had come down from the bedrooms, "they will want to come in. I must give them wine, some food." "They can't come in! " Lorcet snapped. "How will you stop them?"
Lucille asked as she folded Patrick's clothes on to the table. "They know we're here. We have lamps shining." "You will tell them to go away, Madame!»
Lorcet insisted. «Me!» Lucille asked, her eyes widening. "I should tell my neighbours that they cannot sing me carols on Christmas Eve? Non, monsieur, I shall not tell them any such thing, " "Then we'll just leave the doors locked,»
Sergeant Challon said, "and they can freeze to death. They'll get tired soon enough. And you, Madame, had better pray that your Englishman is bringing the gold." Lucille went back to the stairs. "I shall pray, Sergeant, " she told Challon, "but not for that." She went up to her child. «Bitch,» Challon said, and followed her. While outside the carollers sang on.