The house in Caen. The following night........

Daventry had heard the rumble of wheels on the gravel, he wasn't surpsised when the kitchen door was pushed open, and Sharpe entered the cosy warmth. He didn't get up from where he was sitting next to the fire, but lay his book in his lap, removed the spectacles he now needed for reading, saying "You look cold".

Sharpe nodded, and quietly pushed the door to. He seemed at a loss as to know what to do next. He stood by the table looking awkward, his hands deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched. Daventry picked up the poker and leant forward to bed it deeply into the embers of the fire.

"It's late" said Frederick, "You should get some sleep, you look exhausted. Busy day?"

"Yeah" admitted Sharpe, he'd spent most of it trying to patch the barn roof in case rain threatened again. If nothing else he had to have somewhere dry for the horse. Daventry got up, half filled a china mug with wine and plunged the red hot poker into it. He handed the mug to Sharpe. "That'll warm you" he told him.

Sharpe sipped the wine, then looked to the table, a tiny box catching his eye.

Daventry noticed his glance, "It's for you" he told him, "I forgot to give it to you yesterday".

The mention of the previous day rested heavily with Sharpe. He'd behaved badly. He touched the little box with his fingertips before picking it up. The toddy was set down, the small lid eased off. Inside was a tiny knife, sharp as a scalpel, the handle made of smooth bone. He looked at his gift.

"It's a penknife, for cutting quills. You can scratch out your mistakes with the point, then burnish down the paper with the handle", Daventry explained.

Sharpe held the tiny blade in his hands, feeling it's keeness, the bone handle cold against his skin, the knife so small and so perfect. He gave Frederick an embarassed smile as he put it back into it's box. "Thanks". Daventry always managed to bring something with him, a spinning top for Patrick, a tortoiseshell comb for Lucille, an ivory teething ring for Dominique. Often small gifts, inexpensive, appreciated for their thoughtfulness.

"Well, it might come in useful...and there's no charge" Daventry paused, letting the words hit home as gently as possible. "Are you hungry?" he asked.

Sharpe shook his head.

"The fire is lit upstairs. Get yourself to bed. I'll see to the horse".

The house and horse settled for the night, Daventry made his way upstairs by candlelight. The bedroom was wonderfully warm, and he looked to find Sharpe sprawled on the bed, half undressed, asleep. Not just asleep, but dead to the world by the look of him.

Frederick set the candlestick down, and moved to the bed, sitting carefully on it's edge, trying not to disturb him. He sat for a while gazing at Sharpe, his thoughts, feelings, doubts, and deep affection for his friend all coursing through him. He'd known Richard would return to the house, he'd been certain of it. He noticed that Sharpe had managed to shave before turning up, it brought a small smile to Daventry's lips, at the effort made.

Daventry had intended, hoped, to join Sharpe in the ample bed, but seeing him he decided to leave him be. As best he could, Daventry pulled the covers over the sleeping form, and slipped the loosely clasped little box from Sharpe's hand, setting it down on the bedside mahogany table. He then busied himself with Richard's discarded clothes, then the small smouldering fire, finally the lamps, leaving the room in darkness and made his way silently to Sharpe's room, the one that overlooked the garden. He shivered as he entered it, and taking his candle, scrounged as many blankets and covers from the other rooms as he could find.

Crawling into the cold bed, he settled down for an uncomfortable night. Content to make the sacrifice, a feeling of hope that Richard's foolish pride would be put to one side and let himself be helped. Because without help, it was doubtful that he, or the farm, would survive the winter. Sharpe would become Daventry's crusade.

Frederick was aware of a sudden draught of cold air, then warm hands being slipped about his waist, as Sharpe wrapped himself around him, shivering as he did it. "S'cold in this room!" he complained.

"What are you doing sneaking into my bed?" demanded Daventry sleepily, it was a rather rude awakening and it had taken him an age to fall asleep in the first place.

"It's mornin'. Anyway this is my bed, not yours. So, what you doing in it?"

"Trying to sleep, you wretch". "You look like a vagrant with all them covers piled on you, and your best coat on top!" Sharpe was amused at the sight. "Let's go back to the other room, eh? It's nice and warm in there with the fire".

Daventry, turning to him, wrinkled his nose, "Tell me, have you been sleeping with the horse in that barn of yours at the farm?"

"Yeah, and the dog. It was warmer in the stall than in the house".

"Well, you can get out of this bed, you stink!" When Sharpe didn't move, Daventry started shouting "Come on!Out! Out!" The covers were thrown off, and Daventry was upright before Sharpe knew what was happening.

Sharpe stood stripped to the waist in the tiny kitchen, soaping himself to try to get rid of the smell, casting sullen looks at Frederick as he did so. More and more water was being heated and Sharpe didn't know why. A regiment would have needed less, thought Sharpe sourly, as another bucketful was put to one side. Daventry was in one of his bullying moods. From somewhere, probably the outbuilding, Frederick had found a deep zinc washing tub. He'd had trouble getting it through the kitchen door, but had finally managed to manoever it in. Now it stood in the middle of the floor, a chair next to it, sacking all around it.

"Right, get dry, then sit here" came the order, and Daventry stripped off his own jacket and rolled up his sleeves. Nosey sat in the corner, looking expectantly at Sharpe, too, waiting to see if he'd sit.

"What for?" growled Sharpe, he didn't know what Frederick was up to. Daventry just tapped the back of the chair, insisting Sharpe sit down. With no fuss. Sharpe lowered himself with great reluctance onto the chair, and Daventry leapt into action, pushing Sharpe's head far back, holding his hair and reaching for a jug of water at the same time. Before Sharpe had time to pull away, his hair was doused with water and Daventry kept his hold on him.

"Christ! What you doing? You stupid bugger!" Sharpe was gripping the sides of the chair, water streaming into his eyes, down his neck and back.

"Hold still!" demanded Daventry, juggling with the second jug, already lined up. That got poured over Sharpe's head, too, drenching him. Curses flowed as swiftly as the water. The chair was on the move, and in danger of tipping backwards as Sharpe fought and struggled against Frederick and his good intentions. The second jug emptied, Frederick, one hand still tight in Sharpe's hair, reached for the soap and rubbed hard.

"Christ Almighty! yelled Sharpe.

"Keep still!" Daventry yelled back. It was difficult to tell who was the more annoyed. But as the soap was rubbed in Sharpe relaxed a little, he didn't have much choice, he wasn't going anywhere, and Frederick used both his hands to work up a lather.

"That's better" he said soothingly, as he rubbed and scrubbed, scraping together all the long, loose strands of hair. He added a little more water, a little more soap, and the lather turned thick and foamy.

"Mind me eyes" complained Sharpe as he settled back, stretching his legs out and crossing them, knuckles still white as he held the seat of the chair.

"Shut up" Daventry told him, as he expertly used his fingertips to get right down to the scalp. "Right, one rinse, then I'll wash it again, make sure you're clean".

"Alright" said Sharpe contentedly, as a small tidal wave passed over his head and fell to the tub on the floor. The warm water felt wonderful as it flowed down through the over long hair, flattening it, darkening it's colour.

"You smell wonderful" murmured Daventry as he nuzzled against Sharpe, his arms tight around his waist.

"Cleaner than a two-guinea whore" Sharpe told him seductively. "Two-guineas? That's a lot of money. You'd better be worth it, or you can go back to sleeping with the horse".

Sharpe smiled and Daventry brushed his lips over Sharpe's hair, smelling the soap, almost tasting it, feeling the silky softness, now that it was dry, amazed at the difference in colour.

"You done that before? That washing business?" Sharpe struggled with the sleeves on Daventry's clean, silk shirt that he was wearing, they were too long and the cuffs needed turning back.

"Yes. Many times" murmured Daventry his lips still in Sharpe's hair. Sharpe hadn't expected that answer.

"Who for?" he breathed.

"Jasper".

Sharpe held his breath, disapppointed. He knew Frederick saw other men, he'd never heard them named before. "Jasper?"

Daventry glanced at Sharpe's stricken face in the mirror they were standing in front of, it made him smile.

"Yes. Jasper" he paused, deliberately letting the words strike, before explaining "My lurcher. On the estate."

Sharpe's face was a study as the realisation dawned, "Bastard" he said, a crooked smile appearing.

"Hungry bastard!" declared Daventry. "Hurry up with those clothes, we'll eat at the Inn, there's nothing in the house. Then it's back to that farm of yours and unblock the well".

Sharpe felt weary at the very thought, but he knew Frederick was right. He was always right.

The End.

Anon. Sept.1998.

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