Now he kicked the three onto their feet and back up the hill towards the village. The snow was falling more heavily now, settling on the hedgerows and in the ruts of the road. It was mid-morning, but the clouds had turned the day into dusk. So far, Sharpe thought, so good. He had freed himself and defeated half of Challon's small force, but that had been the easy part for a soldier like Sharpe. Now came the hard part. For now, instead of dealing with enemies, he had to make some friends.

THE goose that should have been Sharpe's Christmas dinner was now roasting in the oven, though the bird would take some hours to cook and Challon was too hungry to wait, and so Lucille was frying eggs and bacon to feed the sergeant and one of his two dragoons who had stayed in the farm. The second dragoon was keeping guard in the gate-tower from where he could see both bridges across the chateau's moat, while Lorcet declared he did not like eggs and was content to breakfast on bread and an apple. Sergeant Challon walked up behind Lucille.

"So why are you married to an Englishman?" he asked. "I'm not married,»

Lucille said, spooning hot fat onto the eggs. "A Frenchman isn't good enough for you, eh?" Lucille shrugged. Lorcet was seated at the table where he was trying to decipher Sharpe's account books. "Leave her alone." he told Challon.

The big man ignored the lawyer. "So what's wrong with a Frenchman?" he demanded of Lucille. "The Englishman came here, " Lucille said, "as simple as that." Challon put his arms around Lucille's waist. She stiffened. "I think you're a traitor to France, " the sergeant said, then slid one hand up to a breast. He smiled, then yelled and leaped away from the stove. «Bitch!» he snarled, clasping the hand where Lucille had spooned steaming fat onto his skin.