FROM the wood's edge he could just see the roof of the farmhouse a mile away.

The Chateau Lassan, it was called, a castle, only it was not really a castle.

The farmyard's gate was still an old castellated tower, and at one time, inside the circling moat, there had been a small stronghold where the Vicomte of Seleglise had lorded it over a dozen villages, but the castle had crumbled and all that was left was a chapel, barn, dairy, stables, the watermill and the big farmhouse where Sharpe had found Lucille. Lucille and happiness, he thought, except that a man could not live among a people who dismissed him as an enemy. He did not want to leave Normandy, and he knew Lucille would hate to go from the land that had been in her family for 800 years, but if the village did not accept him, then Sharpe knew he would have to surrender. Go back to England, he thought, and make a life there. But what life? He could not afford any land in England, not unless Lucille sold the chateau, and that would break her heart. It would break his heart, Sharpe thought, for he was learning to love this patch of stubborn Norman earth.

A group of six or seven people appeared on the road above the farm and Sharpe frowned in puzzlement. There was little enough traffic on that road at any time, let alone on a cold winter's dawn. Then he wondered if they were hurrying to beat the snow and, glancing up at the heavy airy, he reckoned they might indeed be in for a blizzard. The small group vanished beneath the opposite crest and Sharpe waited for them to reappear where the road crossed the stream at the valley's end. A cockerel crowed, and Sharpe looked to the east to see that the sun was rimming the layers of grey cloud with livid red.

Like blood seeping through bandages, he thought, and that image made him close his eyes. He still woke in the nights, shuddering with memories of blood and battles, but he consoled himself that it was all behind him now. He had Lucille, he had a son and, given time, he might even find happiness in this land of his erstwhile enemies. A rabbit thumped in warning, Nosey growled softly and Sharpe opened his eyes, slid the gun forward and waited.

LUCILLE fed Patrick his breakfast. "Almost two years old! " She told the child, tickling under his chin. "Big for his age" their housekeeper Marie said. "He'll grow up to be a soldier like his father." "I hope not, " Lucille said, crossing herself "Where's papa?" Patrick wanted to know. "Shooting foxes, " Lucille said, spooning porridge into her son's mouth. «Bang,» Patrick said, spraying the porridge over the table. "Patrick Lassan! " Lucille said reprovingly.

"Lassan?" Marie asked. "Not Castineau? Not Sharpe?" «Lassan,» Lucille said firmly. Lucille's maiden name had been Lassan, then she had married a cavalry officer called Castineau who had died for France in the horrors of Russia, and now she lived with Sharpe, and the village, who rightly suspected that Lucille and her Enlishman were not married, never quite knew whether to call her Madame Lassan, Madame Castineau or Madame Sharpe. Lucille did not care what she was called, but she was determined that her family name would go on to the next generation and Patrick Lassan would see to that.

SHE JUMPED, startled, as the old bell clanged in the courtyard to announce that someone was at the main gate. "Who would call so early?" Lucille asked.

"The priest?" Marie suggested, taking a shawl from the hook behind the door.

"He might be wanting his firewood." She draped the shawl over her thin shoulders. "Early or not, Madame, he'll want a glass of brandy." She went out into the yard, letting in a gust of freezing air. «Bang,» Patrick said again, reckoning that the sight of splattering porridge was worth the risk of a cuff about the ear, but Lucille was too distracted to notice. It was unlike Father Defoy to be up so early, she thought, and an instinct made her cross to the hearth where she reached for the rifle, then she realised the weapon was gone.

She heard the gate squeal open, there was the mutter of a man's voice and suddenly Marie gave a shout of indignation that was abruptly cut short.

Lucille ran to the cupboard where Richard kept his other guns, but before she even had time to turn the key, the kitchen door banged wide open and a tall man with a face like old scratched leather was standing in the doorway where his breath misted in the cold air. He slowly raised a pistol so that it was pointing between Lucille's eyes, then, just as slowly, he thumbed the cock back. "Where is the Englishman?" he asked in a calm voice. Lucille said nothing. She could see there were a half-dozen other men in the yard. "Where is the Englishman?" The tall man asked again. "Papa" s shooting foxes! " Young Patrick explained helpfully. «Bang!» A small bespectacled man pushed past the man with the pistol. "Look after your child, Madame, " he ordered Lucille, then he stepped aside to let his six ragged followers into the kitchen. The small bespectacled man was the only one who did not carry a pistol, and the only one who did not have long pigtails framing his face. The last man through the door dragged Marie out of the cold and pushed her down on to a chair. "Who are you?" Lucille demanded of the small man, "Look after your child, Madame! " he insisted again. "I cannot abide small children." The tall man who had first appeared in the doorway shepherded Lucille away from the gun cupboard. He looked to be around 40 years old, and everything about him declared that he was a soldier from the wars. The pigtails had been the badge of Napoleon's dragoons, and they framed a face that had been scarred by blades and powder burns. His coat was an army coat with the bright buttons replaced by horn, while his cap was a forage hat which still had Napoleon's badge. He pushed Lucille into a chair, then turned to the small man. "We'll start the search now, Maitre?" «Indeed,» the small man said. "Who are you?" Lucille asked again, this time more fiercely. The small man took off his coat, revealing a shabby black suit. "Make sure she stays at the table, " he said to one of the men, "the rest of you, search! Sergeant, you start upstairs." "Search for what?" Lucille demanded as the intruders spread out through the house.

THE SMALL man turned back to her. "You possess a cart, Madame?" "A cart?"

Lucille asked, confused. "We shall find it, anyway, " the man said. He crossed to the window, rubbed mist off a pane and peered out. "When will your Englishman return?" "In his own time, " Lucile said defiantly. There was a shout from the old hall where one of the strangers had discovered the remnants of the Lassan silver. There had been a time when a lord of this chateau could seat 40 diners in front of silverware, but now there was just a thick ewer, some candlesticks and a dozen dented plates. The silver was brought into the kitchen, where the small man ordered that it be piled beside the door. "We are not rich! " Lucille protested. She was trying to hide her terror, for she feared that the farm had been invaded by one of the desperate bands of old soldiers who roamed and terrorised rural France. The newspapers had been full of their crimes, yet Lucille had somehow believed that the troubles would never reach Normandy. "That is all we have! " she said, pointing to the silver.

"You have more, Madame, " the small man said, "much more. And I would advise you not to try to leave the house, or else Corporal Lebecque will shoot you."

He nodded to her, then ducked under the staircase door to help the men who were ransacking the bedrooms. Lucille looked at the thin corporal who had been ordered to watch her. "We are not rich, " she said. "You're richer than we are, " the corporal answered. He had a ferret's face, Lucille thought, with ravaged teeth and sallow eyes. "Much richer, " he added. "You won't hurt us?"