"Sharpe's Heart" (part one) by Sylvene - Sharpe
Title: Sharpe's Heart
Author:
sylvene_fic
AOS Universe: Sharpe
Characters: Sharpe
Rating: G - Romantic
Length: Short - 3,000 words
Disclaimer: This is a work of fan-fiction created for entertainment. It is not the intention of the author to infringe on anyone’s copyright. i.e. There’s this phrase “Property of Bernard Cornwell” tattooed on Sharpe’s luscious rear. I’m just borrowing it.
Setting: Wall. England. This story is set in the world created by Neil Gaiman and Charles Vess in Stardust.
Challenge Prompt: Heart's Desire
Author’s Note: I wondered what Sharpe would find if he crossed the wall. Would he find his heart’s desire?
Now it came to be in the spring time that Captain Richard Sharpe of the 95th Rifles happened to spend a night in the village of Wall in ___shire. As he had no place to call home, he had gone where the roads and friendly carters had taken him while on furlough in England. After buying bread in the village of Wall and filling his canteen in the village well, he found himself with a trout he had tickled out of the stream roasting over a small fire, in the lea of a great stone wall north of the village.
The night was warm for spring although the breeze carried hints of Winter’s passing but it was rich in the scents of promises. Spring is when young men’s fancies turn to ladies and to love, and Sharpe was no different. Laying on his bedroll, he gazed at the stars twinkling above him and wondered if he’d ever find love and a woman to call wife.
He turned over and settled down, his greatcoat wrapped around him, his head pillowed on his jacket. A soft smile lit his face as he thought of his few days on the road. How different it was from the last time he was in England, before he took the King’s shilling. Respect. That was what he had now. The coals of his fire carefully banked, the meadow peaceful, he slept.
When he next opened his eyes, it was still dark, but something had woken him. His senses alert, he cast around him seeking that which had woken him. A soft sob. A woman’s distress. He stood and looked around. It was coming from the other side of the wall. He looked at the tall forbidding stone. Then remembered a breach in the wall. In a thrice, he had his bedroll rolled up and strapped on his knapsack. A kick and a stamp to make sure the coals of his fire were well out, he was dressed and kitted to move out.
In less than a minute of quick-time, he was at the breach. An old man with a long beard and moustache sat puffing on a pipe. He nodded the man but was surprised when he stood, pulling up a long staff with a bludgeoning head from the ground and stood blocking his path.
“Turn back, lad. No one passes.”
Sharpe looked at the man in surprise.
“Why not, old uncle?”
“This is the Wall. No one passes through. There’s danger on the other side. You go through, you never come back.”
“Hmmph.”
Sharpe moved to take a step forward, but the old man stood his ground. Even took a poke at him with the staff. He looked over the man’s shoulder through the breech in the wall. As he had glimpsed in the daylight earlier when he pulled himself up for a look, all he could see was a quiet meadow and a forest beyond, with a pathway wending through it.
“It looks like a well trodden path. Here.” He tugged at the string around his neck that his coin purse was on. “You’re the toll collector, aren’t you?”
‘That’s insulting you are, young man.”
The staff was brandished in his face, making him take a step back. Sharpe was beginning to get annoyed.
“Look, old uncle, I don’t want to hurt you, but I’m going through. I heard a woman in distress on the other side of the wall. She may be hurt.”
The old man gasped. “It’s a fairy lure. You stay here on this side, lad, where it is safe.”
“Fairies? You’re daft, old man. You don’t mean to tell me you believe in fairies? “
Sharpe made to push by and got the staff in his belly with surprising strength for his trouble, then he was seeing stars again when the staff was applied to his chin and he found himself stretched out once more on his back, although involuntarily this time.
“Hmmph!” the old man snorted and shook his staff threateningly, “take yourself up and be off with you. Daft, indeed.”
Sharpe shook his head to clear it and picked himself off the ground. He had misjudged his opponent it seems. Dusting himself off, he made as if to move off.
“I guess I will be moving off then…”
“Hmmph!” The old man snorted again, “see that you do.”
Sharpe turned to move the way he came and the old man, turned back to his chair. He moved then, like an old man did. Slow and not too steadily. With a grin, Sharpe broke into a sprint. The old man was just lowering himself down in his chair, using his staff like a cane. He looked up just as Sharpe reached the breach in the wall.
“Here now!” he shouted as Sharpe vaulted through with a shout of triumph. “Get back ‘ere you young scallywag!”
His heart racing, Sharpe continued running, slowing down to a quick-time march as he put distance between the breach back toward where he had camped, although on the other side of the wall.
~~~
He walked quietly, his senses alert. Ahh… there it was again. A quiet sobbing. A gleam of gold against the wall. He made a little noise, and when he saw that she was aware of his presence, called out, “Miss? Are you alright then?”
The girl whirled around and backed against the wall, her eyes large. The waning moon broke from behind the clouds then and illuminated the man. In his great coat, his knapsack on his back, Sharpe seemed impossibly large. She pressed back against the wall, pressing the back of a hand against her mouth to still her fright.
Sharpe approached slowly, carefully. “I’m not going to hurt you, lass. I heard you crying.”
She stared without replying.
“On the other side,” he continued. He knelt in front of her. Looking her over. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head, her hair falling about her face. She was blonde. Very blonde. With fair skin that held the pink tinge of the English Rose. Her eyes and nose was red from crying. Her dress was no more than a rag, although it probably was very fine once upon a time. It revealed her long slim legs that were encased in slippers that had also seen finer days.
“Are you in trouble then?” Sharpe asked quietly.
She nodded and tears spilled over again.
“Here now,” he soothed. “None of that. Let me help you. I’m Richard. Richard Sharpe.”
Sharpe raised the ends of his red sash. “I’m an officer. A Captain in the 95th rifles.”
“Sa-Saraphina.” She sniffed and rubbed her nose with her knuckles.
“That’s a pretty name,” He smiled and dug around in his pockets. He had a handkerchief in there somewhere. The way she was holding her hands gave him pause. Her hands… they were bound. He touched her then, and she started at the touch of his fingers. She was embarrassed at the state of her dress and distress but at the gentleness of his touch, a hope bloomed. She offered her wrists to him.
“Can you free me? Will you free me?”
Sharpe examined the light chain that circled her wrists, then extended into the darkness. Removing his knife from his boot, he cut it. It rejoined.
“What the he..?” He caught himself just before he uttered the swear word in front of her. Gripping the chain in both hands, he broke it.
“Ha!” He exclaimed, grinning in triumph. A grin that faded as the blasted thing grew back together. He glared at the gleaming silver chain. He tugged. It tugged back. He hauled on it with all his strength. It did not give but began to draw back inexorably. He dug his heels into the ground and still he moved.
Swearing under his breath, he looked helplessly at Saraphina as the chain drew them forward. They were moving towards the road through the woods in a tangent.
“They sell me tomorrow. Will you come?”
“What? Where?”
“Will you come?”
They were beginning to move impossibly fast. He released her for fear of hurting her, running to keep up. She cast a look of despairing hope over her shoulder at him.
“Will you come?”
Sharpe was panting, trying to keep up.
“Yes! Yes, I will. But where?”
“The market.”
Then she was gone. Sharpe blinked and slowed from the all out sprint he was running at, to a run and finally to the quick-time march that could cover miles before he tired. He took in his surroundings as he moved. The forest was alive in small creatures and birds, shushing or scurrying away as he passed. Normal. Not like some strange fairy land. The old man had got him going for a while there. As for that damned chain, there was an explanation for it. He took comfort in the mundane. His sword slapping against his thigh, his greatcoat flapping quietly in rhythm with his feet crunching along on the forest floor. He did not know how far he had to go before he reached the market but if the morn were market day, judging by the false dawn lighting the sky, he had but a few hours.
~~~
He had been gone from England too long, he thought. The markets had certainly grown more exotic. Almost like the markets of India and Portugal, except more exotic than that in the mixture of folk that thronged the place. He paused to refresh himself at the market well, exchanging pleasantries with the local folk. The catnap he had outside the gates had helped as well. Finding a horse trough with a running fountain, he took the chance to wash the dust off. No chance of a shave, but he always felt much better clean.
He could hear a bell ringing over the hub-bub and he followed the sound. He’d found the market square, he realized. There was a small raised stage and a yard-arm. He felt his hackles raise. There would be no execution today, but hanging from the yard-arm was a cage. A golden cage and in it, a woman sat slumped, her hands tied behind her, her golden hair covering her body. With a jolt, he realized that it was Saraphina. She had been stripped naked. Two open carriages were parked on each side of the stage. A well dressed man in one, a lady in the other. He had to shove his way to the front before he could hear the auctioneer, a wizened little dwarf of a man extolling Saraphina’s virtues.
He looked around, accessing the situation, listening with half an ear to the little man’s spiel. Fairy princess. Huh! He could not see how the cage opened. Saraphina was naked and bound. Apart from the auctioneer’s own staff, there were guards. City guards in strategic positions around the stage to control the crowd with pikes, spears and swords.
“Five hundred from the Countess! Five hundred gold.”
With a shock, he realized the bidding had opened. He swallowed. Five hundred guineas. It may as well be five thousand. A cheer from the crowd drew his attention back to the stage. The auctioneer was poking a cane at Saraphina. A low growl broke from Sharpe’s throat as she stood awkwardly, a teasing breeze shifting her hair so he and the crowd caught glimpses of her slim body, her fair thighs and the golden curls at their juncture. He swallowed again as his eyes traveled up her body. Her shoulders were hunched, her face and eyes cast down, then as he stared helplessly, she stirred as if she could feel his gaze and her eyes caught his. Her eyes widened and her lips parted. He could see the shape of his name of them as she moved them. She straightened slowly. The swoops and curls of her hair teased the curves of her body and parted. Sharpe gulped at the sight of her breasts with her tight pink nipples parting the sea of gold.
“One thousand! Thank you, my Lord. Do I hear a thousand five? Two? Two to the Countess.”
A ball of disappointment, of fury and frustration began working its way up Sharpe’s gullet. He cast around desperately. Seeking a way out. Looking for the smallest chance that he could somehow still rescue her. Black despair began to creep up when a hand touched his arm. He stared, almost unseeingly at the young man as the crowd’s excitement grew palpable.
“Offer what is dearest to you.”
“What?”
“Your symbol of rank.”
“My what?” Sharpe’s voice rose attracting the attention of those around him.
“I saw you look at her, sir, and she at you. The rules are such that you cannot lose.”
“What are you saying?”
“You love her, don’t you?”
Sharpe was confused but the murmurings had already begun.
“There is love?”
“Someone bids love?”
Sharpe touched the red sash of his rank that was tied around his waist.
“This has value?”
“Oh, aye!”
“This lad bids his love!” Someone shouted. The din grew louder.
“His heart?”
“He offers his heart?”
“There’s an offering of love!”
The attention of the crowd had turned, despite the angry screams of the auctioneer, “Only cold hard cash to be bid here!”
The crowd had turned on him. Hoots, jeers and catcalls were heaped on him.
“Not when there’s love to be had!”
Sharpe found himself shuffled to the front of the steps and pushed up the stage. A loud gasp arose from the crowd.
“From the other side.”
“An officer.”
“England.”
He stood uncertainly, his eyes moved to Saraphina, standing straight and still in the cage.
“Offer your heart, lad.” Someone called.
Sharpe turned his head, “How? And yet live? What use am I to her, dead?”
The crowd laughed. He turned back and stared at the auctioneer, his lips tight. Little dried up sod of a lecher. His hand strayed to his sword hilt and was immediately struck by a guard. He snatched it away shaking the pain away to keep it limber. The crowd was still shouting, and he tried to make out what they were saying.
“Not to ‘im, ya bludy fool!”
“Don’t you other-siders know anything?”
“To her, lad! To her!”
The auctioneer was beside himself in rage. Gibbering and cursing, he raised his cane to stab it at Saraphina. “You misbegotten slut! This is your gratitude? I let you go to the greenwood for one night and this is what you do?”
Faster than the guard could move, Sharpe was before the cage, his heavy cavalry saber slicing through the cane. The crowd howled its approval. The declaration had been made. The auctioneer screamed. “She is my property, you bastard, and you will not come between us. Guards! Guards!”
The Guards were wary. They could tell full well whom the masses favored, and it was this handsome, well-built man with the shock of dirty blonde hair, not the goblin auctioneer. They ranged around Sharpe in a semi-circle. The Corporal had gone for their Lieutenant and they hoped that reinforcements would arrive before the swelling crowd turned ugly.
Sharpe watched the guards warily. He would not prevail if they attacked, but he would not go down alone either. A trumpet sounded.
“All hail, the Market Master!” A herald’s voice rang out over their heads. The guards’ relief was palpable. A large contingent of guardsmen entered the square to push the crowd back, to their disgust.
“Bleeding just want to be up front is what.”
A tall, gaunt harassed looking man dressed in austere black, with a pair of pince-nez on his nose mounted the stage with a plump smiling lady in pink following. The auctioneer hustled forward, bowed obsequiously, almost groveling and began whining and complaining.
“Silence.”
The little man sputtered and protested, then shut his mouth as the Market Master raised a hand. The last time the Market Master silenced him, it had taken close to all his wealth to get his voice back.
Sharped sheathed his saber and bowed, according the man his rank. The hub-bub grew.
“I do not like disturbances on market day, young man.”
“My apologies, sir.”
The Market Master sighed as his wife tugged at his arm. She had insisted on accompanying him the moment she had heard that a heart was being bid in the auction today.
“My wife.”
“Charmed, ma’am.” Sharpe took her hand and bowed over it as he had learned to do.
The crowd sighed.
“I understand you defend the lady even though she is the property of another?”
Sharped stiffened, “It is my duty, sir. As an officer and a gentleman. I will not allow her to be abused.”
“I see. Your duty.”
“Yes sir.”
“And nothing else?”
“Sir?”
“I understood that a heart was offered today.”
Sharpe glanced at Saraphina. She stood, pressed against the bars of the cage. Their eyes met and he felt his heart clench. After an infinitesimal moment where the crowd held their collective breath, he turned back to face the Market Master.
“Yes sir.”
“Then you give up your dearest possession for return of your heart?”
Sharpe was confused again.
The crowed moaned. These other-siders. They knew nothing!
The Market Master’s wife touched his arm. He looked down and into her fathomless eyes. Your symbol of rank for your heart. Her voice spoke within him. He jerked. Then as understanding dawned, he swiftly undid his red officer’s sash and handed it to the Market Master.
“Yes sir.”
The Market Master took the thread-bare piece of red silk from Sharpe’s trembling hand. A cheer broke out from the crowd and Sharpe began to smile, the smile widening to a grin as the Market Master’s herald blew his trumpet again to signal for silence.
“A most significant auction has taken place today. By the rules of this land. A heart was offered today and accepted. By this same rule, a bid was made. By this young man. His dearest possession in return of his heart to him. This bid must be accepted and trumps all other bids.”
He raised the red sash high.
“A very dear bid, for we have here, this young man’s symbol of rank.”
The crowd roared its approval.
Folding the sash reverently, the Market Master handed it to the auctioneer who fumed for a moment before he snapped his fingers. The bars of the cage fell with a musical chime. Spinning around, Sharpe stripped off his great coat and wrapping it around his heart, picked her off the cage base.
“You came.”
“I said I would.”
The crowd was chanting, “Kiss her! Kiss her! Kiss her!”
“Oh, Richard.” Saraphina slid her freed arms around his neck.
His ears burning, his heart full to bursting, Sharpe bent his head to lay claim to his heart.
Author:
sylvene_fic
AOS Universe: Sharpe
Characters: Sharpe
Rating: G - Romantic
Length: Short - 3,000 words
Disclaimer: This is a work of fan-fiction created for entertainment. It is not the intention of the author to infringe on anyone’s copyright. i.e. There’s this phrase “Property of Bernard Cornwell” tattooed on Sharpe’s luscious rear. I’m just borrowing it.
Setting: Wall. England. This story is set in the world created by Neil Gaiman and Charles Vess in Stardust.
Challenge Prompt: Heart's Desire
Author’s Note: I wondered what Sharpe would find if he crossed the wall. Would he find his heart’s desire?
Now it came to be in the spring time that Captain Richard Sharpe of the 95th Rifles happened to spend a night in the village of Wall in ___shire. As he had no place to call home, he had gone where the roads and friendly carters had taken him while on furlough in England. After buying bread in the village of Wall and filling his canteen in the village well, he found himself with a trout he had tickled out of the stream roasting over a small fire, in the lea of a great stone wall north of the village.
The night was warm for spring although the breeze carried hints of Winter’s passing but it was rich in the scents of promises. Spring is when young men’s fancies turn to ladies and to love, and Sharpe was no different. Laying on his bedroll, he gazed at the stars twinkling above him and wondered if he’d ever find love and a woman to call wife.
He turned over and settled down, his greatcoat wrapped around him, his head pillowed on his jacket. A soft smile lit his face as he thought of his few days on the road. How different it was from the last time he was in England, before he took the King’s shilling. Respect. That was what he had now. The coals of his fire carefully banked, the meadow peaceful, he slept.
When he next opened his eyes, it was still dark, but something had woken him. His senses alert, he cast around him seeking that which had woken him. A soft sob. A woman’s distress. He stood and looked around. It was coming from the other side of the wall. He looked at the tall forbidding stone. Then remembered a breach in the wall. In a thrice, he had his bedroll rolled up and strapped on his knapsack. A kick and a stamp to make sure the coals of his fire were well out, he was dressed and kitted to move out.
In less than a minute of quick-time, he was at the breach. An old man with a long beard and moustache sat puffing on a pipe. He nodded the man but was surprised when he stood, pulling up a long staff with a bludgeoning head from the ground and stood blocking his path.
“Turn back, lad. No one passes.”
Sharpe looked at the man in surprise.
“Why not, old uncle?”
“This is the Wall. No one passes through. There’s danger on the other side. You go through, you never come back.”
“Hmmph.”
Sharpe moved to take a step forward, but the old man stood his ground. Even took a poke at him with the staff. He looked over the man’s shoulder through the breech in the wall. As he had glimpsed in the daylight earlier when he pulled himself up for a look, all he could see was a quiet meadow and a forest beyond, with a pathway wending through it.
“It looks like a well trodden path. Here.” He tugged at the string around his neck that his coin purse was on. “You’re the toll collector, aren’t you?”
‘That’s insulting you are, young man.”
The staff was brandished in his face, making him take a step back. Sharpe was beginning to get annoyed.
“Look, old uncle, I don’t want to hurt you, but I’m going through. I heard a woman in distress on the other side of the wall. She may be hurt.”
The old man gasped. “It’s a fairy lure. You stay here on this side, lad, where it is safe.”
“Fairies? You’re daft, old man. You don’t mean to tell me you believe in fairies? “
Sharpe made to push by and got the staff in his belly with surprising strength for his trouble, then he was seeing stars again when the staff was applied to his chin and he found himself stretched out once more on his back, although involuntarily this time.
“Hmmph!” the old man snorted and shook his staff threateningly, “take yourself up and be off with you. Daft, indeed.”
Sharpe shook his head to clear it and picked himself off the ground. He had misjudged his opponent it seems. Dusting himself off, he made as if to move off.
“I guess I will be moving off then…”
“Hmmph!” The old man snorted again, “see that you do.”
Sharpe turned to move the way he came and the old man, turned back to his chair. He moved then, like an old man did. Slow and not too steadily. With a grin, Sharpe broke into a sprint. The old man was just lowering himself down in his chair, using his staff like a cane. He looked up just as Sharpe reached the breach in the wall.
“Here now!” he shouted as Sharpe vaulted through with a shout of triumph. “Get back ‘ere you young scallywag!”
His heart racing, Sharpe continued running, slowing down to a quick-time march as he put distance between the breach back toward where he had camped, although on the other side of the wall.
~~~
He walked quietly, his senses alert. Ahh… there it was again. A quiet sobbing. A gleam of gold against the wall. He made a little noise, and when he saw that she was aware of his presence, called out, “Miss? Are you alright then?”
The girl whirled around and backed against the wall, her eyes large. The waning moon broke from behind the clouds then and illuminated the man. In his great coat, his knapsack on his back, Sharpe seemed impossibly large. She pressed back against the wall, pressing the back of a hand against her mouth to still her fright.
Sharpe approached slowly, carefully. “I’m not going to hurt you, lass. I heard you crying.”
She stared without replying.
“On the other side,” he continued. He knelt in front of her. Looking her over. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head, her hair falling about her face. She was blonde. Very blonde. With fair skin that held the pink tinge of the English Rose. Her eyes and nose was red from crying. Her dress was no more than a rag, although it probably was very fine once upon a time. It revealed her long slim legs that were encased in slippers that had also seen finer days.
“Are you in trouble then?” Sharpe asked quietly.
She nodded and tears spilled over again.
“Here now,” he soothed. “None of that. Let me help you. I’m Richard. Richard Sharpe.”
Sharpe raised the ends of his red sash. “I’m an officer. A Captain in the 95th rifles.”
“Sa-Saraphina.” She sniffed and rubbed her nose with her knuckles.
“That’s a pretty name,” He smiled and dug around in his pockets. He had a handkerchief in there somewhere. The way she was holding her hands gave him pause. Her hands… they were bound. He touched her then, and she started at the touch of his fingers. She was embarrassed at the state of her dress and distress but at the gentleness of his touch, a hope bloomed. She offered her wrists to him.
“Can you free me? Will you free me?”
Sharpe examined the light chain that circled her wrists, then extended into the darkness. Removing his knife from his boot, he cut it. It rejoined.
“What the he..?” He caught himself just before he uttered the swear word in front of her. Gripping the chain in both hands, he broke it.
“Ha!” He exclaimed, grinning in triumph. A grin that faded as the blasted thing grew back together. He glared at the gleaming silver chain. He tugged. It tugged back. He hauled on it with all his strength. It did not give but began to draw back inexorably. He dug his heels into the ground and still he moved.
Swearing under his breath, he looked helplessly at Saraphina as the chain drew them forward. They were moving towards the road through the woods in a tangent.
“They sell me tomorrow. Will you come?”
“What? Where?”
“Will you come?”
They were beginning to move impossibly fast. He released her for fear of hurting her, running to keep up. She cast a look of despairing hope over her shoulder at him.
“Will you come?”
Sharpe was panting, trying to keep up.
“Yes! Yes, I will. But where?”
“The market.”
Then she was gone. Sharpe blinked and slowed from the all out sprint he was running at, to a run and finally to the quick-time march that could cover miles before he tired. He took in his surroundings as he moved. The forest was alive in small creatures and birds, shushing or scurrying away as he passed. Normal. Not like some strange fairy land. The old man had got him going for a while there. As for that damned chain, there was an explanation for it. He took comfort in the mundane. His sword slapping against his thigh, his greatcoat flapping quietly in rhythm with his feet crunching along on the forest floor. He did not know how far he had to go before he reached the market but if the morn were market day, judging by the false dawn lighting the sky, he had but a few hours.
~~~
He had been gone from England too long, he thought. The markets had certainly grown more exotic. Almost like the markets of India and Portugal, except more exotic than that in the mixture of folk that thronged the place. He paused to refresh himself at the market well, exchanging pleasantries with the local folk. The catnap he had outside the gates had helped as well. Finding a horse trough with a running fountain, he took the chance to wash the dust off. No chance of a shave, but he always felt much better clean.
He could hear a bell ringing over the hub-bub and he followed the sound. He’d found the market square, he realized. There was a small raised stage and a yard-arm. He felt his hackles raise. There would be no execution today, but hanging from the yard-arm was a cage. A golden cage and in it, a woman sat slumped, her hands tied behind her, her golden hair covering her body. With a jolt, he realized that it was Saraphina. She had been stripped naked. Two open carriages were parked on each side of the stage. A well dressed man in one, a lady in the other. He had to shove his way to the front before he could hear the auctioneer, a wizened little dwarf of a man extolling Saraphina’s virtues.
He looked around, accessing the situation, listening with half an ear to the little man’s spiel. Fairy princess. Huh! He could not see how the cage opened. Saraphina was naked and bound. Apart from the auctioneer’s own staff, there were guards. City guards in strategic positions around the stage to control the crowd with pikes, spears and swords.
“Five hundred from the Countess! Five hundred gold.”
With a shock, he realized the bidding had opened. He swallowed. Five hundred guineas. It may as well be five thousand. A cheer from the crowd drew his attention back to the stage. The auctioneer was poking a cane at Saraphina. A low growl broke from Sharpe’s throat as she stood awkwardly, a teasing breeze shifting her hair so he and the crowd caught glimpses of her slim body, her fair thighs and the golden curls at their juncture. He swallowed again as his eyes traveled up her body. Her shoulders were hunched, her face and eyes cast down, then as he stared helplessly, she stirred as if she could feel his gaze and her eyes caught his. Her eyes widened and her lips parted. He could see the shape of his name of them as she moved them. She straightened slowly. The swoops and curls of her hair teased the curves of her body and parted. Sharpe gulped at the sight of her breasts with her tight pink nipples parting the sea of gold.
“One thousand! Thank you, my Lord. Do I hear a thousand five? Two? Two to the Countess.”
A ball of disappointment, of fury and frustration began working its way up Sharpe’s gullet. He cast around desperately. Seeking a way out. Looking for the smallest chance that he could somehow still rescue her. Black despair began to creep up when a hand touched his arm. He stared, almost unseeingly at the young man as the crowd’s excitement grew palpable.
“Offer what is dearest to you.”
“What?”
“Your symbol of rank.”
“My what?” Sharpe’s voice rose attracting the attention of those around him.
“I saw you look at her, sir, and she at you. The rules are such that you cannot lose.”
“What are you saying?”
“You love her, don’t you?”
Sharpe was confused but the murmurings had already begun.
“There is love?”
“Someone bids love?”
Sharpe touched the red sash of his rank that was tied around his waist.
“This has value?”
“Oh, aye!”
“This lad bids his love!” Someone shouted. The din grew louder.
“His heart?”
“He offers his heart?”
“There’s an offering of love!”
The attention of the crowd had turned, despite the angry screams of the auctioneer, “Only cold hard cash to be bid here!”
The crowd had turned on him. Hoots, jeers and catcalls were heaped on him.
“Not when there’s love to be had!”
Sharpe found himself shuffled to the front of the steps and pushed up the stage. A loud gasp arose from the crowd.
“From the other side.”
“An officer.”
“England.”
He stood uncertainly, his eyes moved to Saraphina, standing straight and still in the cage.
“Offer your heart, lad.” Someone called.
Sharpe turned his head, “How? And yet live? What use am I to her, dead?”
The crowd laughed. He turned back and stared at the auctioneer, his lips tight. Little dried up sod of a lecher. His hand strayed to his sword hilt and was immediately struck by a guard. He snatched it away shaking the pain away to keep it limber. The crowd was still shouting, and he tried to make out what they were saying.
“Not to ‘im, ya bludy fool!”
“Don’t you other-siders know anything?”
“To her, lad! To her!”
The auctioneer was beside himself in rage. Gibbering and cursing, he raised his cane to stab it at Saraphina. “You misbegotten slut! This is your gratitude? I let you go to the greenwood for one night and this is what you do?”
Faster than the guard could move, Sharpe was before the cage, his heavy cavalry saber slicing through the cane. The crowd howled its approval. The declaration had been made. The auctioneer screamed. “She is my property, you bastard, and you will not come between us. Guards! Guards!”
The Guards were wary. They could tell full well whom the masses favored, and it was this handsome, well-built man with the shock of dirty blonde hair, not the goblin auctioneer. They ranged around Sharpe in a semi-circle. The Corporal had gone for their Lieutenant and they hoped that reinforcements would arrive before the swelling crowd turned ugly.
Sharpe watched the guards warily. He would not prevail if they attacked, but he would not go down alone either. A trumpet sounded.
“All hail, the Market Master!” A herald’s voice rang out over their heads. The guards’ relief was palpable. A large contingent of guardsmen entered the square to push the crowd back, to their disgust.
“Bleeding just want to be up front is what.”
A tall, gaunt harassed looking man dressed in austere black, with a pair of pince-nez on his nose mounted the stage with a plump smiling lady in pink following. The auctioneer hustled forward, bowed obsequiously, almost groveling and began whining and complaining.
“Silence.”
The little man sputtered and protested, then shut his mouth as the Market Master raised a hand. The last time the Market Master silenced him, it had taken close to all his wealth to get his voice back.
Sharped sheathed his saber and bowed, according the man his rank. The hub-bub grew.
“I do not like disturbances on market day, young man.”
“My apologies, sir.”
The Market Master sighed as his wife tugged at his arm. She had insisted on accompanying him the moment she had heard that a heart was being bid in the auction today.
“My wife.”
“Charmed, ma’am.” Sharpe took her hand and bowed over it as he had learned to do.
The crowd sighed.
“I understand you defend the lady even though she is the property of another?”
Sharped stiffened, “It is my duty, sir. As an officer and a gentleman. I will not allow her to be abused.”
“I see. Your duty.”
“Yes sir.”
“And nothing else?”
“Sir?”
“I understood that a heart was offered today.”
Sharpe glanced at Saraphina. She stood, pressed against the bars of the cage. Their eyes met and he felt his heart clench. After an infinitesimal moment where the crowd held their collective breath, he turned back to face the Market Master.
“Yes sir.”
“Then you give up your dearest possession for return of your heart?”
Sharpe was confused again.
The crowed moaned. These other-siders. They knew nothing!
The Market Master’s wife touched his arm. He looked down and into her fathomless eyes. Your symbol of rank for your heart. Her voice spoke within him. He jerked. Then as understanding dawned, he swiftly undid his red officer’s sash and handed it to the Market Master.
“Yes sir.”
The Market Master took the thread-bare piece of red silk from Sharpe’s trembling hand. A cheer broke out from the crowd and Sharpe began to smile, the smile widening to a grin as the Market Master’s herald blew his trumpet again to signal for silence.
“A most significant auction has taken place today. By the rules of this land. A heart was offered today and accepted. By this same rule, a bid was made. By this young man. His dearest possession in return of his heart to him. This bid must be accepted and trumps all other bids.”
He raised the red sash high.
“A very dear bid, for we have here, this young man’s symbol of rank.”
The crowd roared its approval.
Folding the sash reverently, the Market Master handed it to the auctioneer who fumed for a moment before he snapped his fingers. The bars of the cage fell with a musical chime. Spinning around, Sharpe stripped off his great coat and wrapping it around his heart, picked her off the cage base.
“You came.”
“I said I would.”
The crowd was chanting, “Kiss her! Kiss her! Kiss her!”
“Oh, Richard.” Saraphina slid her freed arms around his neck.
His ears burning, his heart full to bursting, Sharpe bent his head to lay claim to his heart.