16 Sharpe's Honour by Bernard Cornwell

Author:Bernard Cornwell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Historical Fiction
ISBN: 9780006171980
Publisher: HarperCollins

CHAPTER 14

An­gel had wo­ken be­fore dawn. He had slept in the sta­ble, wrapped by warm straw and his thick cloak. He had shiv­ered as he yawned, wrig­gled from his bed, and went in­to the yard. He splashed wa­ter on his face and looked up at the dark roof be­neath which Sharpe slept with the gold­en wom­an.

An­gel had pol­ished the sad­dles the night be­fore. He had brushed the hors­es and made ev­ery­thing ready for this morn­ing. Not just ready, but gleam­ing­ly ready. He had done it for a wom­an more beau­ti­ful than his dreams had dared imag­ine, and now, in yet more homage to her, he sad­dled Car­bine and fold­ed a blan­ket over the sad­dle in an ef­fort to give La Mar­que­sa a more com­fort­able seat. He knew she was French, and he hat­ed the French, but no wom­an so love­ly as she could be evil in An­gel's wor­ship­ping eyes.

He tried out his makeshift at­tempt at her com­fort, rid­ing out of the inn yard, and turn­ing Car­bine to­wards the south. The wind was at his back, bring­ing a chill to his thin body. The shapes of the towns­peo­ple were dark where they moved in al­leys and court­yards. He put a hand on the butt of his ri­fle that he had pushed in­to the sad­dle's hol­ster.

The east­ern moun­tains were edged with light. An­gel put his heels back, let­ting Car­bine go in­to a trot. He rev­elled in the feel of the big, black horse that lift­ed its hooves high and tossed its mane with im­pa­tience. An­gel straight­ened his back, imag­in­ing that he was El Ar­can­gel, the most feared Par­ti­san in Spain, rid­ing to bat­tle. A wom­an of great beau­ty, with gold­en hair and grey eyes, wait­ed for his re­turn, though she did not be­lieve that any man would re­turn from so sui­ci­dal a mis­sion.

He pulled the. ri­fle from its hol­ster, then twitched the reins to take Car­bine down to the stream where the wom­en of the town washed their clothes. He would let the horse drink there, and let his day­dream run on to the de­li­cious mo­ment when he re­turned from bat­tle, not too severe­ly wound­ed, and the gold­en haired wom­an would run from the house, her arms wide; then An­gel saw the horse­men over the stream.

He was in the dark­ness be­neath chest­nut trees. He checked Car­bine and saw the grey shapes in the grey light and he thumbed back the cock of the ri­fle, think­ing that he should fire a warn­ing shot for Sharpe, then thought that the sound of the ri­fle would bring the men gal­lop­ing over the stream for his blood.

He pulled the reins, know­ing he must ride back to the town and warn Sharpe, but as Car­bine moved, so the men over the shal­low stream saw the move­ment, one shout­ed, and An­gel saw the wa­ter splash white as they drove their hors­es to­wards him.

They were ahead of him, cut­ting him off from the town, and the boy, now no longer the feared Ar­can­gel, but mere­ly An­gel rid­ing for his life, let the black horse have its head.

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