Free Sharpe's Waterloo by Bernard Cornwell Page A

back for him.’ She looked to see whether her words had offended Sharpe, and was evidently reassured. ‘You know he was going to marry an English princess?’
    â€˜I know.’
    â€˜She couldn’t stand him. So now he says he will marry a Russian princess! Ha! That’s all he’s good for, a Russian. They rub butter on their skins, did you know that? All over, to keep warm. They must smell.’ She sipped her ale, then frowned as her mind skittered back over the conversation. ‘Your wife in England. She does not mind that you have another lady?’
    â€˜She has another man.’
    The evident convenience of the arrangement pleased Paulette. ‘So everything is all right?’
    â€˜No.’ He smiled. ‘They stole my money. One day I shall go back and take it from them.’
    She stared at him with large serious eyes. ‘Will you kill the man?’
    â€˜Yes.’ He said it very simply, which made it all the more believable.
    â€˜I wish a man would kill for me,’ Paulette sighed, then stared in alarm because Sharpe had suddenly raised a hand in warning. ‘What is it?’
    â€˜Sh!’ He stood and went in his stockinged feet to the open stableyard door. Far off, like a crackling of burning thorns, he thought he heard musketry. He could not be certain, for the sound was fading and tenuous in the small warm breeze. ‘Do you hear anything?’ he asked the girl.
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜There it is! Listen!’ He heard the noise again, this time it sounded like a piece of canvas ripping. Somewhere, and not so very far off, there was a musket fight. Sharpe looked up at the weathercock on the stable roof and saw the wind had backed southerly. He ran to the kitchen door which opened into the main part of the house. ‘Rebecque!’
    â€˜I hear it!’ The Baron was already standing at the open front door. ‘How far off?’
    â€˜God knows.’ Sharpe stood beside Rebecque. The small wind kicked up dust devils in the street. ‘Five miles?’ Sharpe hazarded. ‘Six?’
    The noise faded to nothing, then any chance of hearing it again was drowned in the clatter of hooves. Sharpe looked down the high street, half expecting to see French Dragoons galloping into the small village, but it was only the Prince of Orange who had abandoned his carriage and taken a horse from one of his escort. That escort streamed behind him down the street, together with the aide who had fetched the Prince back.
    â€˜What news, Rebecque?’ The Prince dropped from the saddle and ran into the house.
    â€˜Only what we sent you.’ Rebecque followed the Prince into the map room.
    â€˜Charleroi, eh?’ The Prince chewed at a fingernail as he stared at the map. ‘We’ve heard nothing from Dornberg?’
    â€˜No, sir. But if you listen carefully, you can hear fighting to the south.’
    â€˜Mons?’ The Prince sounded alarmed.
    â€˜No one knows, sir.’
    â€˜Then find out!’ the Prince snapped. ‘I want a report from Dornberg. You can send it after me.’
    â€˜After you?’ Rebecque frowned. ‘But where are you going, sir?’
    â€˜Brussels, of course! Someone has to make sure Wellington has heard this news.’ He looked at Sharpe. ‘I particularly wanted you in attendance tonight.’
    Sharpe suppressed an urge to kick His Royal Highness in the royal arse. ‘Indeed, sir,’ he said instead.
    â€˜And I insist you wear Dutch uniform. Why aren’t you in Dutch uniform now?’
    â€˜I shall change, sir.’ Sharpe, despite the Prince’s frequent insistence, had yet to buy himself a Dutch uniform.
    Rebecque, sensing that the Prince still intended to dance despite the news of a French invasion, cleared his throat. ‘Surely there’ll be no ball in Brussels tonight, sir?’
    â€˜It hasn’t been cancelled yet,’ the Prince said petulantly, then turned