Triangulation 1/5
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rugbytackleTitle : Triangulation 1/5
Pairing : Sharpe/Viggo, Sharpe/Harper
Rating : NC-17
Summary : Sharpe is send on a mission, and this time Harper can't go with him.
Warning : AU, crossover
Authors :![[profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mooms (Viggo & Harper) govi20 (Sharpe)
Disclaimer : Sharpe and Harper belong to Bernard Cornwell, not to us, which is a shame. Written for fun, not for profit and indeed all dirty lies !
Pairing : Sharpe/Viggo, Sharpe/Harper
Rating : NC-17
Summary : Sharpe is send on a mission, and this time Harper can't go with him.
Warning : AU, crossover
Authors :
mooms (Viggo & Harper) govi20 (Sharpe)Disclaimer : Sharpe and Harper belong to Bernard Cornwell, not to us, which is a shame. Written for fun, not for profit and indeed all dirty lies !
Triangulation
Part1/5
29 December 1812
Sharpe
We buried Teresa yesterday, the men and I, and today Hakeswill died. It doesn’t bring Teresa back, but it still felt good, seeing the bastard die. It gave me a reason to keep going, as long as he was alive and somewhere deep inside me there was a bit of fear. Suppose he was right, and he just couldn’t be killed like he stated? Suppose not even eleven bullets could bring him down, what was I to do then?
But it’s done, he’s dead and the men cheered like I did.
Now I am back in my tent and facing my future. Tomorrow we’ll march on, we can’t wait any longer. We will take the long road, so I can stop by the little house just outside this village and say goodbye to Antonia, my daughter. She’s in good hands with that woman. There’s nothing I can do for her, no way I can take her along with me. She’s better off without me, a father who has nothing to offer but army camps, bad food and blood.
She clung to life, Teresa, so she could speak to me one more time before closing her eyes. There was no accusation in her eyes, only love even though she must have known about Isabella, as the woman calls herself now.
I draw in a breath, when I think about the night I spent with the whore, so easily falling back into my usual behaviour. And yet I had loved Teresa. Loved and betrayed her all the same. Something inside of me has been killed and buried together with Teresa, and it’s only right.
I shiver, as I am chilled to the bone, but I can’t bring myself to lie down on the camp bed and pull the blanket over me. Thinking how Teresa and I shared that bed the last night I was here, before I went out on that mission and all turned bad. I just sit here on the ground with my face in my hands.
As soon as the tent opens and he steps in I know who it is.
“Go away Pat,” I say, “let me be.”
He sighs audibly, when he lowers himself to the ground next to me, ignoring my words.
“Have a drink Sir,” he says, pushing the bottle into my hand. “It will make you feel better.”
“I don’t want to feel better Pat,” I say. “I just want you to leave me alone.”
“Ah, that I can’t do Sir. We need you, me and the lads. You’re our officer, whether you like it or not. We are all in distress about Miss Teresa, we all loved her, but life goes on Sir. Now take a drink.”
Again he pushes the bottle of brandy into my hand, and this time I drink. Just a small sip, but still it makes me cough and Harper puts a big arm around me. Again I drink, and a small fire inside me starts to fight with the numbness of my body.
Harper stands up and starts pulling at me, getting me on my feet.
“Let’s get you on the bed, Sir, you’re cold all over.”
His big hands steer me to the bed, and I let him take off my boots and my coat, allow him to pull me down. He cups my neck to support me, and I drink again, the brandy tasting better and better with every sip, warming me and slowly reducing the pain.
I lie back and close my eyes, feeling a bit better for the first time today. I don’t want to think any more, don’t want Harper to leave me with Teresa’s ghost, don’t want to turn my face and smell her on the pillow.
“Don’t go, Pat,” I say, still keeping my eyes closed. “Stay with me for a while.”
“Oh, I will Sir,” he replies, his hands stroking me. “I’ll be here as long as you need me.”
I drink again, and I am getting slightly drunk. My head is reeling and the touch of his hand is starting to feel better and better. I open my eyes and look at him. “I loved her Pat.”
“I know, Sir,” his hand slowly descending down my body. “Let me help you to relax, so maybe you can sleep a little.”
I arch up when his hand reaches my groin, pressing on my erection. “Oh God, Patrick..”
“I know Sir,” he says, “let it go,” and his fingers start unbuttoning my breeches until a big hand grabs my cock, stroking it firmly until I cry out.
It takes a while before I manage to find back my voice.
“Thank you, Pat,” I whisper, and then just before I sink back into a merciful sleep I hear him whisper back to me,
“You’re welcome, Richard,” and then he’s gone.
Harper
It’s bitterly cold as I slip out of his tent and make my way back to the one I share with Ramona. Snowflakes are beginning to fall, but a biting wind is stopping them from blanketing the ground.
She’s awake and sewing by the light of the tallow lamp. I feel a pang of affection at the sight of her red, work worn hands. The mending, laundering, drawing water and cooking are never ending and she doesn’t complain, although her belly is heavy with my child.
I press a kiss to the top of her bowed head and she looks up and smiles at me.
“How is he?”
I sigh and shake my head.
“I think he’s sleeping. I got the best part of a bottle of brandy down him. He needs a good battle.”
Ramona shakes her head,
“He needs a good woman.”
“Oh,” I say sadly, “he had one, but he lost her. He went and lost her, so he did.”
Ramona slides her hand over mine,
“Or a good man.”
I jerk my head up and meet her eyes. This is something that always lies unspoken between us.
“Ramona, you do know that I love you with all my heart?”
“You’re a big man, Patrick. You have a big heart. There’s room for more than one.”
She puts my hand on her swollen belly.
“You’ll have room for our child, when she arrives.”
“That I will, when he does arrive.”
“And you’ve room for your friend. We must give comfort, where we can.”
“You’re a generous woman, Ramona.”
“And you’re a good man, Patrick. I know that you’ll always do the right thing.”
I shift uneasily, suddenly aware of where this conversation is going.
“For instance, I know that you will do the right thing by me and the child.”
I blow out the lamp and wrap my arms around her, kissing her hard to silence her.
“Let’s go to bed now.”
It’s too cold to undress, so I just ease off me boots and we roll into bed. I know I haven’t heard the last of it and I do love Ramona, I really do. It’s just that it’s…complicated.”
That’s the thing with me and him. I would do anything for him and I am proud to call him my friend. I suppose I do love him, but when I take him in my hand, or in my mouth or even, when the opportunity arises and we can get some time alone, fuck him, it’s not complicated at all.
I can’t get him pregnant and he doesn’t expect me to marry him and take him home to Ireland and me mother, God save her.
There’ll always be another woman he’ll fall for. He’s not a stupid man, but he’s as silly as a sheep, when there’s a petticoat about. They can lead him by the dick. It’s a good thing he has me to look after him now!
But Miss Teresa, she was different, so she was. He loved her dearly and she loved him right back and bore him a daughter. She was fierce and brave, clever too - a fine match for him.
Not that he was faithful to her. He never could resist a willing woman with a well-turned ankle and a twinkle in her eye, but they meant nothing. She was the one.
Teresa died protecting Isabella, even though she knew they had a past together and probably guessed he had betrayed her. They seem to know these things, women, God bless ’em. But she never reproached him, just looked at him with love and died.
I feel the tears pricking behind my eyelids and roughly wipe my eyes with my sleeve, then hold on tighter to Ramona and my unborn son. I wish that I could help him. He’s so sad now. Of course, there’s the guilt. Raised as a Catholic, I know all about that. He’s not a religious man, though, so he won’t be confessing and easing his soul, not even to me.
Ramona shifts in my arms, rolls onto her back and begins to snore. I gently roll her over onto her side and spoon up to her back. Thinking about Richard in the dark like this has made me hard and I close my hand around myself and bring myself off, breathing heavily and muffling my cry in the pillow, while Ramona sleeps on.
Sharpe
It is dawn already when I wake up, and I am quite amazed that I managed to sleep the whole night. I have Harper to thank for that, ‘him, the familiar feel of his hands and his bottle of brandy,’ I think while I rub my head to get rid of the throbbing there.
Pat is always there when I need him, watching my back. He’s a stubborn bastard, like I am, but he’s a great friend. Sometimes he’s a bit more than that, sometimes a man just needs to get his mind off the blood and killing, and that’s when he’s there too.
I still feel devastated about Teresa, but I know Patrick is right, and life goes on. My men are depending on me, and I can’t let them down. I sit up, and start pulling on my boots, when Patrick steps into the tent, cradling a mug of tea in his hand.
“Top of the morning to ye, Sir, how are you feeling today?”
“Good morning Harper,” I say, “somewhat better, thank you.”
I drink my tea, and we talk about today’s march. We don’t speak about Teresa or saying farewell to my daughter, but I know we both think about it, and that’s a consolation on its own. Just before we step outside I lay a hand on his arm.
“Thanks Pat,” I say and he just nods.
Outside the men look at me slightly apprehensive. Young Perkins has an expression on his face as if he expects me to beat him up, and I realize Harper was right, and I need to get back in control.
I chastise Harris for nothing special really, and tell him to shut up when he tries to speak and then things are almost back to normal. After eating a loaf of bread I order them to strike camp, and we take our leave.
The house where Antonia lives now is small, but it’s clean, and the woman obviously cares about her. She’s one of Teresa’s relatives and I know she’ll be good for my little girl. Of course she misses her mother, even though she was used to Teresa being gone every once in a while. Fortunately she’s just a toddler and will probably forget us both. I tell myself this is for the best when I hold her against me one last time. Still my heart feels like breaking, it’s hard to cut the only remaining tie between Teresa and me. Hard to leave my flesh and blood, but it needs to be done.
I hand her over to the woman, and in broken Spanish I thank her, asking her if she will be all right financially. She smiles at me, assuring me it’s all being taken care of, her hands stroking my daughter’s hair.
The men have kept a discreet distance and are carefully avoiding looking at me when I join them. Then we march, and some time later I hear the reassuring sound of Hagman singing. I still feel depressed, but being back to a normal day’s routine feels good. I learned to deal with loss at a very young age and I know that as much as I loved Teresa, I will live on. She’s special, probably the only woman I will ever love in such a way. But there’ll be other women, there always will be.
I love women, love the softness of their bodies, their smells, their giggles. I don’t mind them being whores, brought up in a brothel as I was. I even prefer them to be whores, just pay for them and be done with it; an easy and satisfying transaction with no strings.
And then there’s Patrick, the best sergeant you could wish for and a friend. Even now, when Ramona’s belly is swelling with their firstborn, his solid presence is always there. Sometimes there’s the need we share, and that’s great too. Mostly rough and tumbling, but now and then almost tender. Like the few times I let him fuck me. The only man I ever allowed to do that.
When we finally set up camp that night I am tired, and would prefer to go to bed immediately. It would only start me mourning again though, so I force myself to sit around the campfire with the men instead. It’s bitter cold, and I huddle close in my coat.
I look up when I hear the sound of horses approaching. They are being stopped by the men on sentry duty and I rise to see what’s happening. The small group of men on horseback approach and I welcome them when I recognize Manuel, one of Teresa’s men.
“Good evening Major Sharpe,” he says. “I’ve come to introduce you to our new leader, El Commandante Mortensen.”
The men dismount, and one of them steps forward to shake my hand.
“Mortensen,” I say, “that doesn’t sound Spanish.”
“It’s Danish,” he says in fluent English. “I was born in Denmark, but was raised here.”
He steps a little closer so I can see his face more clearly in the light of the campfire. He doesn’t look Spanish either.
I invite them to sit down with us and share a glass, and I am soon engaged in a conversation with the new leader. He seems quite a remarkable man. Somewhat later I look up and catch Harper looking sharply at us. His face is grim, and I shift uneasily. I know that look; Harper doesn’t seem to approve of this Mortensen at all!
Well, he will have to get used to it, they are our allies.
Harper
“Shift your body, you great ox. I need to get up.”
That’s my sweet Ramona waking me not so gently and accompanying her words with a sharp elbow in my ribs. I come to, yawning and scratching, but roll away, so that she can struggle out of our camp bed.
She’s a fine looking woman, to be sure and I aim a slap at her ample rump as it passes me by. She snorts at me and snatches her skirts about her, but I can tell she’s not mad at me. Ramona can be very fiery and packs a mean punch. It doesn’t do to get on the wrong side of her, though I’m finding it difficult just now to stay on her right side. Being with child has made her mood swings even more frequent and not so easy to predict as when I just had to look at the moon.
I know what she’s after wanting me to say, but I can’t just agree to marry her. It’s not that she wouldn’t make a good wife, because she would. I smile fondly, as I think that Ramona is a comfortable kind of woman. She’s the type that gives a man something to hold on to and warms his bed at night.
But as I lie and think about her arse, I can’t stop me thoughts from drifting to another fine arse. Richard! I love marching behind him, not only because he’s me Officer, but because of the fine view.
Feck! I need to relieve meself and I pull on boots and hurry out of the tent and into the trees.
By the time I get back, properly relieved, Ramona has stirred the campfire into life and has the kettle boiling for the first brew of the day. I sidle up behind her and kiss the back of her neck, putting my arms around her and resting my hands on her belly.
She turns her head and kisses me back, before turning back to the tea making.
“Here, make yourself useful and take this to Richard.”
I cup my hands round the mug, grateful for the warmth and cross the hard, frozen ground, scuffing the thin layer of snow. Looking up at the leaden sky, I predict that more will fall before the morning is out. The sooner we strike camp and get on the move, the better. I pull aside the flap and enter Sharpe’s tent,
“Top o’ the morning to ye, Sir, how are you feeling today?”
At least he seems to have slept a little and as I stand and watch him, his hair tousled from his pillow, I have the urge to bend and kiss him, which would not be right, nor welcome. It’s a fist in the mouth, I’d be getting, to be sure!
But he does reward me with a smile, as he tells me he’s a little better and accepts the tea. I sit with him while he drinks it, knowing that Ramona is expecting me back to take breakfast with her and we talk a little about the day’s march.
As we are leaving the tent, he puts his hand on my arm and thanks me. I simply nod, but I know he’s not just talking about the tea.
I watch him closely as we go about the business of packing up and moving out on the march and I see the conscious effort he is making to get back to normal for the men’s sake. They are nervous and apprehensive at first, but they relax, when he falls into the old ways. He’s not himself, though. Not really.
We all keep a respectful distance, while he says his farewells to his child and I feel as if my heart could break, when I see the tears he is fighting not to shed. The men avert their eyes as we set off again and he leaves behind his own flesh and blood and the last of Teresa. We march in silence for a time, then Dan Hagman starts up a song and the rest of us gratefully join in.
Just before nightfall, we camp again and soon have fires lit and eat. I see Ramona to bed and tell her I am just going to check on Richard and she nods sleepily.
He is sitting moodily on a log by the fire, a little away from the men, as if he wants to be alone, but have company at the same time. I am about to sit by him, when I hear the sound of horses and the piquets challenging the riders. We both reach for our rifles, then relax, as we recognise Manuel, one of Teresa’s trusted lieutenants.
I recognise most of the others too, but there’s another man - a stranger. Manuel introduces him as their new commander and he moves into the firelight and shakes hands with Richard.
He’s no Spaniard and my hackles rise immediately with an instinctive mistrust. His face is unusual, sharp and angular, with a distinctive cleft in his chin and a big moustache. When he takes his hat off, his hair beneath the red bandana, is a sandy colour. I don’t know where he is from or how, in the name of God, he came to command these Spanish partisans, but I don’t like him.
Soon, he has sat himself down right next to my Sharpe and is sharing a drink and deep into conversation. The nerve of the man! He is too familiar by half.
I lurk in the shadows. I’ll not be taking me eyes off this one! Sharpe looks up and catches my eye and I glower at him, making it clear how I feel!
Viggo
It was a terrible blow to lose Teresa, both strategically for our cause, because she was a fierce and indomitable fighter and hated the French, as I do and for more personal, family reasons.
Teresa was my first cousin on my Spanish mother’s side and because I was brought up in Spain on our family’s estates, we were childhood playmates and confidants. She was always a brave, bold girl, with intelligence and spirit, who could ride as well as the boys and found the constraints her poor mother tried to put upon her to make her a proper lady hard to accept.
Nevertheless, a Spanish lady she was to become and her love and regard for her parents led her to try and be the dutiful daughter they wanted.
In my teens, I left Spain and I travelled to live in Denmark for many years managing my father’s land, marrying and living quietly, only receiving news of her intermittently in letters from my mother.
By the time my wife died in childbirth, taking with her my only son, Teresa had completed her education and was at home, waiting for the proposals of marriage to arrive. Tragically, for her and for the rest of my family, the French arrived first and changed our lives for ever. My outrage at the death of my Aunt and Uncle at the hands of the French, not to mention the rape of Teresa and her sister, was turned to cold hatred at the news that my own parents had also been slaughtered our house looted and our lands laid waste.
With nothing to keep me in Denmark, I left the running of the estates to my two younger brothers and travelled back to Spain to help where I could. Teresa was no longer the laughing, carefree girl I had known and had encased herself in armour to avoid being hurt again. Her overriding reason for living, her only reason, she told me, was to kill as many of the French as she could and drive them out of her land. She was commanding a brigade of partisans and I went where she felt I could be most useful, in a different part of the region, so we did not see each other often.
We partisans allied ourselves with the British, our enemy’s enemy and I heard news that Teresa was enamoured of a certain British Officer, named Sharpe. I had never met this man, but I knew that Teresa would not have given her body and her heart to a man unworthy of either. She even bore him a child.
Now Teresa herself was dead, killed by a traitor, murderer and thief and I had been sent for to take over command of her brigade. Manuel was taking me to meet this very Sharpe, a most intriguing prospect.
What type of man could have penetrated Teresa’s armour and made her love him? I had been surprised to learn that he was not a high born officer, but raised from the ranks, an uneducated peasant, who had distinguished himself by saving Wellington’s life.
He was undoubtedly a brave soldier, but there surely must be more to him than that to have appealed to my beautiful, cultured cousin.
My thoughts are interrupted as Manuel indicates to me that we are nearing the British camp. He predicted that they would march this way, so that this Sharpe could say farewell to his daughter and satisfy himself that her needs were being taken care of.
Another mark in his favour, I think. I have a natural affinity with the man already, because I too know how it feels to hold the dead body of one’s wife and despair. For him, this grief is still raw, while for me, time has closed the wound, but left its scar and the dull throb where there was once a stabbing pain.
We slow the horses and approach cautiously until challenged by the piquets at the edge of the camp.
I get my first sight of the man as he stands to greet us, rifle in hand, accompanied by a huge sergeant, who glares at me mistrustfully, moving closer to his officer.
Sharpe is a good-looking man, with a strong face, aquiline nose and firm jaw. It is clear from his bearing that he is a proud, if stubborn man and a born soldier.
His handshake is firm and he greets us politely and hospitably, inviting us to sit by the fire and have a drink. He is curious about my clearly non-Spanish name and I explain about my Danish father.
I join him and soon we are deep in conversation. I give him my condolences on the death of his wife, but I don’t yet tell him of our family connection. I want to get to know him a little more first.
He tells me a little of his history and how he came to be an officer and I tell him something of my life in Denmark and my reasons for returning to Spain. Both of us are holding plenty back, sounding each other out, but already I can feel why my cousin was so drawn to this interesting man. I like him already and can’t help but notice that the firelight makes his green eyes sparkle.
He doesn’t smile often, but whenever he does, his face lights up. Of course, he is rough and ready and I imagine that under his clothes, his body is strong and muscular, undoubtedly scarred by the many wounds he will have picked up in the campaigns he has fought. I am very much looking forward to collaborating with this man in many ways.
We both look up, conscious that the eyes of the Irish sergeant are boring into us. His face is set, a granite rock face and he is regarding me with open hostility. That’s interesting! He is naturally protective of his officer, that is his job, but something tells me that this goes deeper and he is not going to like me one bit!
TBC
Part1/5
29 December 1812
Sharpe
We buried Teresa yesterday, the men and I, and today Hakeswill died. It doesn’t bring Teresa back, but it still felt good, seeing the bastard die. It gave me a reason to keep going, as long as he was alive and somewhere deep inside me there was a bit of fear. Suppose he was right, and he just couldn’t be killed like he stated? Suppose not even eleven bullets could bring him down, what was I to do then?
But it’s done, he’s dead and the men cheered like I did.
Now I am back in my tent and facing my future. Tomorrow we’ll march on, we can’t wait any longer. We will take the long road, so I can stop by the little house just outside this village and say goodbye to Antonia, my daughter. She’s in good hands with that woman. There’s nothing I can do for her, no way I can take her along with me. She’s better off without me, a father who has nothing to offer but army camps, bad food and blood.
She clung to life, Teresa, so she could speak to me one more time before closing her eyes. There was no accusation in her eyes, only love even though she must have known about Isabella, as the woman calls herself now.
I draw in a breath, when I think about the night I spent with the whore, so easily falling back into my usual behaviour. And yet I had loved Teresa. Loved and betrayed her all the same. Something inside of me has been killed and buried together with Teresa, and it’s only right.
I shiver, as I am chilled to the bone, but I can’t bring myself to lie down on the camp bed and pull the blanket over me. Thinking how Teresa and I shared that bed the last night I was here, before I went out on that mission and all turned bad. I just sit here on the ground with my face in my hands.
As soon as the tent opens and he steps in I know who it is.
“Go away Pat,” I say, “let me be.”
He sighs audibly, when he lowers himself to the ground next to me, ignoring my words.
“Have a drink Sir,” he says, pushing the bottle into my hand. “It will make you feel better.”
“I don’t want to feel better Pat,” I say. “I just want you to leave me alone.”
“Ah, that I can’t do Sir. We need you, me and the lads. You’re our officer, whether you like it or not. We are all in distress about Miss Teresa, we all loved her, but life goes on Sir. Now take a drink.”
Again he pushes the bottle of brandy into my hand, and this time I drink. Just a small sip, but still it makes me cough and Harper puts a big arm around me. Again I drink, and a small fire inside me starts to fight with the numbness of my body.
Harper stands up and starts pulling at me, getting me on my feet.
“Let’s get you on the bed, Sir, you’re cold all over.”
His big hands steer me to the bed, and I let him take off my boots and my coat, allow him to pull me down. He cups my neck to support me, and I drink again, the brandy tasting better and better with every sip, warming me and slowly reducing the pain.
I lie back and close my eyes, feeling a bit better for the first time today. I don’t want to think any more, don’t want Harper to leave me with Teresa’s ghost, don’t want to turn my face and smell her on the pillow.
“Don’t go, Pat,” I say, still keeping my eyes closed. “Stay with me for a while.”
“Oh, I will Sir,” he replies, his hands stroking me. “I’ll be here as long as you need me.”
I drink again, and I am getting slightly drunk. My head is reeling and the touch of his hand is starting to feel better and better. I open my eyes and look at him. “I loved her Pat.”
“I know, Sir,” his hand slowly descending down my body. “Let me help you to relax, so maybe you can sleep a little.”
I arch up when his hand reaches my groin, pressing on my erection. “Oh God, Patrick..”
“I know Sir,” he says, “let it go,” and his fingers start unbuttoning my breeches until a big hand grabs my cock, stroking it firmly until I cry out.
It takes a while before I manage to find back my voice.
“Thank you, Pat,” I whisper, and then just before I sink back into a merciful sleep I hear him whisper back to me,
“You’re welcome, Richard,” and then he’s gone.
Harper
It’s bitterly cold as I slip out of his tent and make my way back to the one I share with Ramona. Snowflakes are beginning to fall, but a biting wind is stopping them from blanketing the ground.
She’s awake and sewing by the light of the tallow lamp. I feel a pang of affection at the sight of her red, work worn hands. The mending, laundering, drawing water and cooking are never ending and she doesn’t complain, although her belly is heavy with my child.
I press a kiss to the top of her bowed head and she looks up and smiles at me.
“How is he?”
I sigh and shake my head.
“I think he’s sleeping. I got the best part of a bottle of brandy down him. He needs a good battle.”
Ramona shakes her head,
“He needs a good woman.”
“Oh,” I say sadly, “he had one, but he lost her. He went and lost her, so he did.”
Ramona slides her hand over mine,
“Or a good man.”
I jerk my head up and meet her eyes. This is something that always lies unspoken between us.
“Ramona, you do know that I love you with all my heart?”
“You’re a big man, Patrick. You have a big heart. There’s room for more than one.”
She puts my hand on her swollen belly.
“You’ll have room for our child, when she arrives.”
“That I will, when he does arrive.”
“And you’ve room for your friend. We must give comfort, where we can.”
“You’re a generous woman, Ramona.”
“And you’re a good man, Patrick. I know that you’ll always do the right thing.”
I shift uneasily, suddenly aware of where this conversation is going.
“For instance, I know that you will do the right thing by me and the child.”
I blow out the lamp and wrap my arms around her, kissing her hard to silence her.
“Let’s go to bed now.”
It’s too cold to undress, so I just ease off me boots and we roll into bed. I know I haven’t heard the last of it and I do love Ramona, I really do. It’s just that it’s…complicated.”
That’s the thing with me and him. I would do anything for him and I am proud to call him my friend. I suppose I do love him, but when I take him in my hand, or in my mouth or even, when the opportunity arises and we can get some time alone, fuck him, it’s not complicated at all.
I can’t get him pregnant and he doesn’t expect me to marry him and take him home to Ireland and me mother, God save her.
There’ll always be another woman he’ll fall for. He’s not a stupid man, but he’s as silly as a sheep, when there’s a petticoat about. They can lead him by the dick. It’s a good thing he has me to look after him now!
But Miss Teresa, she was different, so she was. He loved her dearly and she loved him right back and bore him a daughter. She was fierce and brave, clever too - a fine match for him.
Not that he was faithful to her. He never could resist a willing woman with a well-turned ankle and a twinkle in her eye, but they meant nothing. She was the one.
Teresa died protecting Isabella, even though she knew they had a past together and probably guessed he had betrayed her. They seem to know these things, women, God bless ’em. But she never reproached him, just looked at him with love and died.
I feel the tears pricking behind my eyelids and roughly wipe my eyes with my sleeve, then hold on tighter to Ramona and my unborn son. I wish that I could help him. He’s so sad now. Of course, there’s the guilt. Raised as a Catholic, I know all about that. He’s not a religious man, though, so he won’t be confessing and easing his soul, not even to me.
Ramona shifts in my arms, rolls onto her back and begins to snore. I gently roll her over onto her side and spoon up to her back. Thinking about Richard in the dark like this has made me hard and I close my hand around myself and bring myself off, breathing heavily and muffling my cry in the pillow, while Ramona sleeps on.
Sharpe
It is dawn already when I wake up, and I am quite amazed that I managed to sleep the whole night. I have Harper to thank for that, ‘him, the familiar feel of his hands and his bottle of brandy,’ I think while I rub my head to get rid of the throbbing there.
Pat is always there when I need him, watching my back. He’s a stubborn bastard, like I am, but he’s a great friend. Sometimes he’s a bit more than that, sometimes a man just needs to get his mind off the blood and killing, and that’s when he’s there too.
I still feel devastated about Teresa, but I know Patrick is right, and life goes on. My men are depending on me, and I can’t let them down. I sit up, and start pulling on my boots, when Patrick steps into the tent, cradling a mug of tea in his hand.
“Top of the morning to ye, Sir, how are you feeling today?”
“Good morning Harper,” I say, “somewhat better, thank you.”
I drink my tea, and we talk about today’s march. We don’t speak about Teresa or saying farewell to my daughter, but I know we both think about it, and that’s a consolation on its own. Just before we step outside I lay a hand on his arm.
“Thanks Pat,” I say and he just nods.
Outside the men look at me slightly apprehensive. Young Perkins has an expression on his face as if he expects me to beat him up, and I realize Harper was right, and I need to get back in control.
I chastise Harris for nothing special really, and tell him to shut up when he tries to speak and then things are almost back to normal. After eating a loaf of bread I order them to strike camp, and we take our leave.
The house where Antonia lives now is small, but it’s clean, and the woman obviously cares about her. She’s one of Teresa’s relatives and I know she’ll be good for my little girl. Of course she misses her mother, even though she was used to Teresa being gone every once in a while. Fortunately she’s just a toddler and will probably forget us both. I tell myself this is for the best when I hold her against me one last time. Still my heart feels like breaking, it’s hard to cut the only remaining tie between Teresa and me. Hard to leave my flesh and blood, but it needs to be done.
I hand her over to the woman, and in broken Spanish I thank her, asking her if she will be all right financially. She smiles at me, assuring me it’s all being taken care of, her hands stroking my daughter’s hair.
The men have kept a discreet distance and are carefully avoiding looking at me when I join them. Then we march, and some time later I hear the reassuring sound of Hagman singing. I still feel depressed, but being back to a normal day’s routine feels good. I learned to deal with loss at a very young age and I know that as much as I loved Teresa, I will live on. She’s special, probably the only woman I will ever love in such a way. But there’ll be other women, there always will be.
I love women, love the softness of their bodies, their smells, their giggles. I don’t mind them being whores, brought up in a brothel as I was. I even prefer them to be whores, just pay for them and be done with it; an easy and satisfying transaction with no strings.
And then there’s Patrick, the best sergeant you could wish for and a friend. Even now, when Ramona’s belly is swelling with their firstborn, his solid presence is always there. Sometimes there’s the need we share, and that’s great too. Mostly rough and tumbling, but now and then almost tender. Like the few times I let him fuck me. The only man I ever allowed to do that.
When we finally set up camp that night I am tired, and would prefer to go to bed immediately. It would only start me mourning again though, so I force myself to sit around the campfire with the men instead. It’s bitter cold, and I huddle close in my coat.
I look up when I hear the sound of horses approaching. They are being stopped by the men on sentry duty and I rise to see what’s happening. The small group of men on horseback approach and I welcome them when I recognize Manuel, one of Teresa’s men.
“Good evening Major Sharpe,” he says. “I’ve come to introduce you to our new leader, El Commandante Mortensen.”
The men dismount, and one of them steps forward to shake my hand.
“Mortensen,” I say, “that doesn’t sound Spanish.”
“It’s Danish,” he says in fluent English. “I was born in Denmark, but was raised here.”
He steps a little closer so I can see his face more clearly in the light of the campfire. He doesn’t look Spanish either.
I invite them to sit down with us and share a glass, and I am soon engaged in a conversation with the new leader. He seems quite a remarkable man. Somewhat later I look up and catch Harper looking sharply at us. His face is grim, and I shift uneasily. I know that look; Harper doesn’t seem to approve of this Mortensen at all!
Well, he will have to get used to it, they are our allies.
Harper
“Shift your body, you great ox. I need to get up.”
That’s my sweet Ramona waking me not so gently and accompanying her words with a sharp elbow in my ribs. I come to, yawning and scratching, but roll away, so that she can struggle out of our camp bed.
She’s a fine looking woman, to be sure and I aim a slap at her ample rump as it passes me by. She snorts at me and snatches her skirts about her, but I can tell she’s not mad at me. Ramona can be very fiery and packs a mean punch. It doesn’t do to get on the wrong side of her, though I’m finding it difficult just now to stay on her right side. Being with child has made her mood swings even more frequent and not so easy to predict as when I just had to look at the moon.
I know what she’s after wanting me to say, but I can’t just agree to marry her. It’s not that she wouldn’t make a good wife, because she would. I smile fondly, as I think that Ramona is a comfortable kind of woman. She’s the type that gives a man something to hold on to and warms his bed at night.
But as I lie and think about her arse, I can’t stop me thoughts from drifting to another fine arse. Richard! I love marching behind him, not only because he’s me Officer, but because of the fine view.
Feck! I need to relieve meself and I pull on boots and hurry out of the tent and into the trees.
By the time I get back, properly relieved, Ramona has stirred the campfire into life and has the kettle boiling for the first brew of the day. I sidle up behind her and kiss the back of her neck, putting my arms around her and resting my hands on her belly.
She turns her head and kisses me back, before turning back to the tea making.
“Here, make yourself useful and take this to Richard.”
I cup my hands round the mug, grateful for the warmth and cross the hard, frozen ground, scuffing the thin layer of snow. Looking up at the leaden sky, I predict that more will fall before the morning is out. The sooner we strike camp and get on the move, the better. I pull aside the flap and enter Sharpe’s tent,
“Top o’ the morning to ye, Sir, how are you feeling today?”
At least he seems to have slept a little and as I stand and watch him, his hair tousled from his pillow, I have the urge to bend and kiss him, which would not be right, nor welcome. It’s a fist in the mouth, I’d be getting, to be sure!
But he does reward me with a smile, as he tells me he’s a little better and accepts the tea. I sit with him while he drinks it, knowing that Ramona is expecting me back to take breakfast with her and we talk a little about the day’s march.
As we are leaving the tent, he puts his hand on my arm and thanks me. I simply nod, but I know he’s not just talking about the tea.
I watch him closely as we go about the business of packing up and moving out on the march and I see the conscious effort he is making to get back to normal for the men’s sake. They are nervous and apprehensive at first, but they relax, when he falls into the old ways. He’s not himself, though. Not really.
We all keep a respectful distance, while he says his farewells to his child and I feel as if my heart could break, when I see the tears he is fighting not to shed. The men avert their eyes as we set off again and he leaves behind his own flesh and blood and the last of Teresa. We march in silence for a time, then Dan Hagman starts up a song and the rest of us gratefully join in.
Just before nightfall, we camp again and soon have fires lit and eat. I see Ramona to bed and tell her I am just going to check on Richard and she nods sleepily.
He is sitting moodily on a log by the fire, a little away from the men, as if he wants to be alone, but have company at the same time. I am about to sit by him, when I hear the sound of horses and the piquets challenging the riders. We both reach for our rifles, then relax, as we recognise Manuel, one of Teresa’s trusted lieutenants.
I recognise most of the others too, but there’s another man - a stranger. Manuel introduces him as their new commander and he moves into the firelight and shakes hands with Richard.
He’s no Spaniard and my hackles rise immediately with an instinctive mistrust. His face is unusual, sharp and angular, with a distinctive cleft in his chin and a big moustache. When he takes his hat off, his hair beneath the red bandana, is a sandy colour. I don’t know where he is from or how, in the name of God, he came to command these Spanish partisans, but I don’t like him.
Soon, he has sat himself down right next to my Sharpe and is sharing a drink and deep into conversation. The nerve of the man! He is too familiar by half.
I lurk in the shadows. I’ll not be taking me eyes off this one! Sharpe looks up and catches my eye and I glower at him, making it clear how I feel!
Viggo
It was a terrible blow to lose Teresa, both strategically for our cause, because she was a fierce and indomitable fighter and hated the French, as I do and for more personal, family reasons.
Teresa was my first cousin on my Spanish mother’s side and because I was brought up in Spain on our family’s estates, we were childhood playmates and confidants. She was always a brave, bold girl, with intelligence and spirit, who could ride as well as the boys and found the constraints her poor mother tried to put upon her to make her a proper lady hard to accept.
Nevertheless, a Spanish lady she was to become and her love and regard for her parents led her to try and be the dutiful daughter they wanted.
In my teens, I left Spain and I travelled to live in Denmark for many years managing my father’s land, marrying and living quietly, only receiving news of her intermittently in letters from my mother.
By the time my wife died in childbirth, taking with her my only son, Teresa had completed her education and was at home, waiting for the proposals of marriage to arrive. Tragically, for her and for the rest of my family, the French arrived first and changed our lives for ever. My outrage at the death of my Aunt and Uncle at the hands of the French, not to mention the rape of Teresa and her sister, was turned to cold hatred at the news that my own parents had also been slaughtered our house looted and our lands laid waste.
With nothing to keep me in Denmark, I left the running of the estates to my two younger brothers and travelled back to Spain to help where I could. Teresa was no longer the laughing, carefree girl I had known and had encased herself in armour to avoid being hurt again. Her overriding reason for living, her only reason, she told me, was to kill as many of the French as she could and drive them out of her land. She was commanding a brigade of partisans and I went where she felt I could be most useful, in a different part of the region, so we did not see each other often.
We partisans allied ourselves with the British, our enemy’s enemy and I heard news that Teresa was enamoured of a certain British Officer, named Sharpe. I had never met this man, but I knew that Teresa would not have given her body and her heart to a man unworthy of either. She even bore him a child.
Now Teresa herself was dead, killed by a traitor, murderer and thief and I had been sent for to take over command of her brigade. Manuel was taking me to meet this very Sharpe, a most intriguing prospect.
What type of man could have penetrated Teresa’s armour and made her love him? I had been surprised to learn that he was not a high born officer, but raised from the ranks, an uneducated peasant, who had distinguished himself by saving Wellington’s life.
He was undoubtedly a brave soldier, but there surely must be more to him than that to have appealed to my beautiful, cultured cousin.
My thoughts are interrupted as Manuel indicates to me that we are nearing the British camp. He predicted that they would march this way, so that this Sharpe could say farewell to his daughter and satisfy himself that her needs were being taken care of.
Another mark in his favour, I think. I have a natural affinity with the man already, because I too know how it feels to hold the dead body of one’s wife and despair. For him, this grief is still raw, while for me, time has closed the wound, but left its scar and the dull throb where there was once a stabbing pain.
We slow the horses and approach cautiously until challenged by the piquets at the edge of the camp.
I get my first sight of the man as he stands to greet us, rifle in hand, accompanied by a huge sergeant, who glares at me mistrustfully, moving closer to his officer.
Sharpe is a good-looking man, with a strong face, aquiline nose and firm jaw. It is clear from his bearing that he is a proud, if stubborn man and a born soldier.
His handshake is firm and he greets us politely and hospitably, inviting us to sit by the fire and have a drink. He is curious about my clearly non-Spanish name and I explain about my Danish father.
I join him and soon we are deep in conversation. I give him my condolences on the death of his wife, but I don’t yet tell him of our family connection. I want to get to know him a little more first.
He tells me a little of his history and how he came to be an officer and I tell him something of my life in Denmark and my reasons for returning to Spain. Both of us are holding plenty back, sounding each other out, but already I can feel why my cousin was so drawn to this interesting man. I like him already and can’t help but notice that the firelight makes his green eyes sparkle.
He doesn’t smile often, but whenever he does, his face lights up. Of course, he is rough and ready and I imagine that under his clothes, his body is strong and muscular, undoubtedly scarred by the many wounds he will have picked up in the campaigns he has fought. I am very much looking forward to collaborating with this man in many ways.
We both look up, conscious that the eyes of the Irish sergeant are boring into us. His face is set, a granite rock face and he is regarding me with open hostility. That’s interesting! He is naturally protective of his officer, that is his job, but something tells me that this goes deeper and he is not going to like me one bit!
TBC
no subject
Date: 2008-03-05 03:35 pm (UTC)Great start! Looking forward to reading more.
no subject
Date: 2008-03-06 08:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-05 05:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-06 08:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-05 06:59 pm (UTC)You've carefully polished and laid out for us all the best parts of Sharpe and Harper's relationship.
Wonderful start to what's going to a fascinating story.
no subject
Date: 2008-03-06 08:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-05 07:15 pm (UTC)This is sounding very interesting and I 'm looking forward to reading
more.
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Date: 2008-03-06 08:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-05 10:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-06 08:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-06 11:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-07 09:00 am (UTC)"He was undoubtedly a brave soldier, but there surely must be more to him than that to have appealed to my beautiful, cultured cousin." Oh I'm sure the Commandante will find out . . .