JК
Sharpes Eagle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 108 из 203He was covered with sweat though the night was cool and a small breeze stirred the edges of the curtains either side of the open window, through which he could see a full moon. Josefina sat beside the bed, watching him, a glass of wine in her hand. “You were dreaming.”
“Yes.”
“What about?”
“My first battle.” He did not say any more but in his dream he had been unable to load the Brown Bess, the bayonet would not fit the muzzle, and the French kept coming and laughing at the frightened boy on the wet plains of Flanders. Boxtel, it had been called, and he rarely thought of the messy fight in the damp field. He looked at the girl. “What about you?” He patted the bed. “Why are you up?”
She shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep.” She had put on some kind of dark robe, and only her face and the hand holding the glass were visible in the unlit room.
“Why couldn’t you sleep?”
“I was thinking. About what you said. ”
“It may not happen.”
She smiled at him. “No.”
Somewhere in the town a dog barked but there were no other sounds. Sharpe thought of the prisoners and wondered if they were spending their last night awake and listening to the same dog. He thought back to the evening after he had come back from the guardroom and the long conversation with Josefina. She wanted to reach Madrid, was desperate to reach Madrid, and Sharpe had told her he thought it unlikely that the allies would get as far as Spain’s capital. Sharpe thought that Josefina had little idea why she wanted to reach Madrid; it was the dream city for her, the pot of gold at the end of a fading rainbow, and he was jealous of her desire to get there. “Why not go back to Lisbon?”
“My husband’s family won’t welcome me, not now.”
“Ah, Edward.”
“Duarte.” Her correction was automatic.
“Then go home.” They had had this conversation before. He tried to force her to reject every option but staying near him, as though he thought he could afford to keep her.
“Home? You don’t understand. They will force me to wait for him just like his parents do. In a convent or in a dark room, it doesn’t matter.” Her voice was edged with despair. She had been brought up in Oporto, the daughter of a merchant who was rich enough to mix with the important English families in the town who dominated the Port trade. She had learned English as a child because that language was the tongue of the wealthy and powerful in her home town. Then she had married Duarte, ten years her senior, and Keeper of the King’s Falcons in Lisbon.
“Yes.”
“What about?”
“My first battle.” He did not say any more but in his dream he had been unable to load the Brown Bess, the bayonet would not fit the muzzle, and the French kept coming and laughing at the frightened boy on the wet plains of Flanders. Boxtel, it had been called, and he rarely thought of the messy fight in the damp field. He looked at the girl. “What about you?” He patted the bed. “Why are you up?”
She shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep.” She had put on some kind of dark robe, and only her face and the hand holding the glass were visible in the unlit room.
“Why couldn’t you sleep?”
“I was thinking. About what you said. ”
“It may not happen.”
She smiled at him. “No.”
Somewhere in the town a dog barked but there were no other sounds. Sharpe thought of the prisoners and wondered if they were spending their last night awake and listening to the same dog. He thought back to the evening after he had come back from the guardroom and the long conversation with Josefina. She wanted to reach Madrid, was desperate to reach Madrid, and Sharpe had told her he thought it unlikely that the allies would get as far as Spain’s capital. Sharpe thought that Josefina had little idea why she wanted to reach Madrid; it was the dream city for her, the pot of gold at the end of a fading rainbow, and he was jealous of her desire to get there. “Why not go back to Lisbon?”
“My husband’s family won’t welcome me, not now.”
“Ah, Edward.”
“Duarte.” Her correction was automatic.
“Then go home.” They had had this conversation before. He tried to force her to reject every option but staying near him, as though he thought he could afford to keep her.
“Home? You don’t understand. They will force me to wait for him just like his parents do. In a convent or in a dark room, it doesn’t matter.” Her voice was edged with despair. She had been brought up in Oporto, the daughter of a merchant who was rich enough to mix with the important English families in the town who dominated the Port trade. She had learned English as a child because that language was the tongue of the wealthy and powerful in her home town. Then she had married Duarte, ten years her senior, and Keeper of the King’s Falcons in Lisbon.