Sharpe's Enemy by Bernard Cornwell

Major. I had to teach my own wife to cook.’
    Sharpe raised an eyebrow. There was an inflection in Dubreton’s words that was intriguing.
    The Frenchman smiled. ‘My wife is English. We met and married during the Peace of Amiens, the last time I was in London. She has lived the ten years since in France and is now even a creditable cook. Not as good as the servants, of course, but it takes a lifetime to learn how simple cooking is.’
    ‘Simple?’
    ‘Of course.’ The Colonel glanced at Pot-au-Feu who was delicately picking up a lump of meat that had fallen onto his lap. ‘He takes his hares, cuts the flesh off the bones, and then soaks them for a full day in olive oil, vinegar and wine. You add garlic, Major, a little salt, some pepper, and a handful of juniper berries if you have them. You save the blood and you mix it with the livers which you have ground into a paste.’ There was an enthusiasm in Dubreton’s voice. ‘Now. After a day you take the flesh and you cook it in butter and bacon fat. Just brown it. Put some flour in the pan then put it all back into the sauce. Add more wine. Add the blood and the liver, and heat it up. Boil it. You will find it superb, especially if you add a spoonful of olive oil as you serve it.’
    Pot-au-Feu chuckled. He had understood a good deal of what Dubreton had said, and as Sharpe looked the fat Frenchman smiled and lifted a small jug. ‘Oil!’ He patted his huge belly and broke wind.
    The scream came once more, the third time, and there was a helplessness in the agony. A woman was being hurt, horribly hurt, and Pot-au-Feu’s men looked at the four strangers and grinned. These men knew what was happening and wanted to see the effect on the visitors. Dubreton’s voice was low. ‘Our time will come, Major.’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    Hakeswill and his woman had crossed to the piles of money and he turned with a grin on his face. ‘All here, Marshal!’
    ‘Bon!’ Pot-au-Feu held out a hand and Hakeswill tossed him one of the golden guineas. The Frenchman held it up, turned it.
    Hakeswill waited until the twitching of his face had subsided. ‘Want your woman now, Sharpy?’
    ‘That was the agreement.’
    ‘Oh! The agreement!’ Hakeswill laughed. He plucked at the girl beside him. ‘How about this one, Sharpy? Want this one, do you?’ The girl looked at Sharpe and laughed. Hakeswill was enjoying himself. ‘This one’s Spanish, Sharpy, just like your wife. Still got her, have you? Teresa? Or has she died of the pox yet?’
    Sharpe said nothing. He heard Harper move restlessly behind him.
    Hakeswill came closer, the girl with him. ‘Now why don’t you take this one, Sharpy. You’d like her. Look!’ He brought his left hand round and plucked at the strings of her bodice. It fell open. Hakeswill cackled. ‘You can look, Sharpy. Go on! Look! Oh, of course. Bleeding officer, aren’t we? Too high and bloody mighty to look at a whore’s tits!’
    The men on the edges of the cloister laughed. The girl smiled as Hakeswill fondled her. He cackled. ‘You can have her, Sharpy. She’s a soldier so the money you’ve brought means she’s yours for life!’ She was a soldier because, like the men in the ranks, she would serve for a shilling a day. The girl pursed her painted lips at Sharpe.
    Pot-au-Feu laughed, then spoke in French to Dubreton. Dubreton’s replies were brief.
    Hakeswill had not finished with his game of taunting Sharpe. He pushed the girl towards him, pushed her hard so that she stumbled against the Rifleman, and Hakeswill pointed and laughed. ‘She wants him!’
    Sharpe slung his rifle. The girl’s eyes were hard as flint, her hair dirty. He looked at her and there was something in his eyes that made her ashamed and she dropped her gaze. He pushed her gently away, took the strings of her bodice and pulled it up, tying the knot. ‘Go.’
    ‘Major?’ Dubreton’s voice was low. He gestured beyond Sharpe to where the locked door in the western wall had been