"b.u.g.g.e.r him," Sharpe said in English. He pushed open a door at random and found himself in a parlour that was crowded with the Prince's staff. They were embarra.s.sed to see Sharpe, imagining him as a prodigal come home for the Prince's pardon. Doggett alone offered the Rifleman a welcome, as well as surrendering his chair and volunteering to pour Sharpe a gla.s.s of wine. The chair was close to the fire in front of which, as in the kitchen, thick wool coats were hung to dry and were filling the room with a malodorous steam. "Where's Rebecque?" Sharpe asked the room at large.

"With His Highness," Doggett said. "Red wine?"

"What I would really like," Sharpe collapsed into the chair, "is a cup of tea."

Doggett grinned. "I shall arrange it, sir."

Sharpe stretched out his legs, and flinched as the old wound in his thigh shot a stab of agony up to his hip. He wondered if he would ever be dry again. He knew he should beg or borrow some writing paper and pen a swift letter to Lucille, but he was suddenly too tired to move.

"Sharpe!" The door had opened and Rebecque's scholarly face peered into the candle-lit room. "You are here! His Highness would like a word with you? Now? If you please?"

Sharpe groaned, flinched, and climbed slowly to his feet. "Can I get something to eat, Rebecque?"

"Royal commands do not wait on hunger." Rebecque took Sharpe's elbow and propelled him towards the staircase. "And remember my admonitions, will you? Be tactful!"

Rebecque led Sharpe upstairs where, without ceremony, he ushered Sharpe into the bedroom where the Prince was writing letters at a small table. The Prince was dressed in a thick woollen gown and had a flask of brandy at his right elbow. He did not acknowledge Sharpe's arrival, but instead concentrated on dripping a puddle of sealing wax onto one of his letters. He carefully centred his signet ring, then pressed it down into the wax. "I always seem to burn my fingers on sealing wax."

"Your Highness could buy gummed wafers," Rebecque suggested.

"I hate common things." The Prince dropped his ring and turned his glaucous eyes on Sharpe. "I thought I ordered you to dress in Dutch uniform?"

Tact, Sharpe told himself, tact. "It's drying out, sir."

"I think our men have a right to see their officers dressed properly. Don't you agree, Rebecque?"

"Entirely, Your Highness."

The Prince poured himself brandy. He seemed to hesitate, as though debating whether to offer his Chief of Staff and Sharpe a gla.s.s each, but then decided his own need was more pressing and so confined himself to the one gla.s.s. "You've seen tomorrow's battlefield, Sharpe?"

Sharpe had been expecting some reference to their altercation at Quatre Bras and had to hide his surprise at the question. "Yes, sir."

"And?" the Prince demanded with an arrogant tilt of his strangely small head.

"It'll do," Sharpe said laconically.

"Do? It's a ridiculous place to fight! A nonsense. It won't be my fault if there's disaster tomorrow." The Prince stood and began pacing the floorboards. A wooden pail stood in one corner of the room to catch the drips where the roof leaked. The rain seethed and beat on the windows. The Prince, frowning with thought, suddenly turned accusingly on Sharpe. "Did you look at the open flank on the right?"

"No, sir."

"Wide open! Wide open! Napoleon will be round that corner in a trice tomorrow, then we'll all be tumbled backwards like skittles. I've told the Duke! Haven't I told the Duke?" The Prince glared at Rebecque.

"Your views have been most strongly conveyed to His Grace, sir."

"And are doubtless being ignored." The Prince offered a very hollow laugh as though to suggest that, like ill genius, he was accustomed to his advice being ignored. "Tomorrow, Sharpe, we will prevent that tragedy."

"Very good, sir." Sharpe was suddenly aware that his soaking uniform was dripping water onto the Prince's floor. He was chilled to the bone and edged slightly closer to the small coal fire which warmed the Prince's bedroom.

The Prince, evidently forgetting the threat to the battlefield's right flank, stopped his pacing and pointed with his brandy gla.s.s at Sharpe. "Do you know why I particularly desired your presence on my staff?"

"No, sir."

"Because you have a reputation for boldness. I like that in a man, Sharpe, I relish it! I value it." The Prince began pacing again, his small head bobbing on his long and ludicrously thin neck. "I've been educated as a soldier, isn't that so, Rebecque?"

"Indeed, Your Highness."

"Educated, Sharpe! Think of that! My whole lifetime has been devoted to the study of warfare, and shall I tell you what is the one lesson I have learned above all others?"

"I should like to know, sir." Sharpe admired his own tactful restraint, especially as the Prince was just twenty-three years old and Sharpe had beena-fighting soldier for twenty-two.

"Boldness wins." The Prince confided the advice as though it was a secret that had been hidden from generations of military men. "Boldness wins, Sharpe. Boldness, boldness, boldness!"

All Sharpe wanted to do was get dry, eat, lie down, and sleep, but he dutifully nodded instead. "Indeed, sir."

"Frederick the Great once said that the greatest crime in war is not to make the wrong decision, but to make no decision." Again the Prince gestured at Sharpe with the brandy gla.s.s. "You should remember that axiom, Sharpe!"

Sharpe did not even know what an axiom was, but he nodded respectfully. "I will, sir."

"There are times when any officer may perceive a superior's decision as being mistaken," the Prince was clearly alluding to his behaviour at Quatre Bras, but so delicately that Sharpe, in his weariness, hardly noticed, "but such an officer should be grateful that his superior has had the boldness to make any decision at all. Isn't that so?" The Prince glared at Sharpe, who just nodded.

Rebecque hastened to offer the Prince the required verbal agreement. "It's very true, sir, very true."

The Prince, piqued that Sharpe had not responded, stood very close in front of the Rifleman. "I also think that the least I can expect from my staff is loyalty. Isn't that so? Loyalty?" The word came in a gust of brandy-stinking breath.

"Indeed, sir," Sharpe said.

Rebecque cleared his throat. "Colonel Sharpe has already expressed to me his deepest regrets for causing Your Highness any unhappiness. He has also a.s.sured me of his loyalty towards Your Highness. Isn't that so, Sharpe?" The question was almost hissed at the Rifleman.

"Indeed, sir." Sharpe had fallen back into his old Sergeant's ways, merely saying what an officer wanted to hear. It was always easy to keep b.u.mptious officers happy with a succession of yes, no and indeed.

The Prince, perhaps sensing that he had gained as much victory as he was going to get this night, smiled. "I'm grateful we agree, Sharpe."

"Yes, sir."

The Prince went back to his chair and slowly sat down as though the cares of Europe were pressing on his spindly shoulders. "I want you to station yourself on the right flank tomorrow, Sharpe. You're going to be my eyes. The moment you see any French outflanking movement, you're to inform me."

"Of course, sir."

"Very good. Very good." The Prince smiled to show that all was forgiven, then looked at Rebecque. "You have a spare Dutch uniform, Rebecque?"

"Of course, Your Highness."

"Provide it to Colonel Sharpe, if you will. And you'll wear it tomorrow, Sharpe, do you hear me?"

"Very clearly, sir."

"Till the morning, then." The Prince nodded a good-night to both men. "And Rebecque? Send my seamstress in, will you?"

Rebecque dutifully ushered Paulette into the Prince's room, then took Sharpe down the small landing to his own bedroom where he offered Sharpe a choice of uniforms from a tin travelling trunk.