InsaneJournal

Sharpe's Soldier
Word count: 1400
Spoiler: Sharpe's Sword (book)
Note: I was asked to write something with Teresa, and this is what happened. It almost wrote itself; Teresa being a particular favourite of mine who doesn't get nearly enough screen- or page-time.
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Teresa Moreno had no idea how long it had taken Hogan's messenger to find her with the news that her husband was lying in hospital in Salamanca, seriously wounded, perhaps even dead. She barely spared time to throw a spare shirt and cloak into her saddlebag before she was off, riding south, the treasured rifle Sharpe had given her bouncing on her back.

Time was of the essence, yet the going, at first, was hard. The mountains of Northern Spain were not suited to riding fast, and more than once she had to dismount and lead her horse along the narrow, stony road. Everything in her cried out for speed, to gallop, yet she made herself dismount when there was any danger that her horse couldn't carry her, would slip. He was a pure-bred Andalusian, Spanish blood hot in his veins, and he felt his mistress' urgency. Yet there would be time and enough to gallop when they reached the plain.

It had been many years since Teresa was last in Salamanca, at the college, yet she carried a vivid picture in her head: the honey-coloured stone buildings, the quiet cloister of the Irish College that was now the army's hospital. And where Sharpe lay, grievously wounded.

They were both soldiers, Teresa Moreno and her English husband. She wore no uniform but a guerrillera's name, La Aguja, The Needle, given to her by Sharpe two years ago. He wore the green jacket of the English Riflemen and marched with the English Army that fought the French from Teresa's land. She fought the guerrilla, the little war of stealth and cunning and knives in the dark. He fought in lines of red against columns of blue, drums beating, colours flying, shot and shell and white smoke. And yet she had never expected him to be the first to fall.

She knew the scars he carried from long years in the army. Knew them and loved them, because they made him her Sharpe. The scars on his back from a flogging engineered by two men she had promised herself she would kill if they ever came here to Spain. The scar on his face from a man Sharpe had killed in far off India. She carried scars too, only inside, where nobody could see. But Sharpe had seen, and been gentle with her, and her scars had faded as his never would. Yet if she was too late, her soul would be scarred for life and nobody would be able to help it heal.

She paused besides a mountain stream and stooped to drink, allowing her horse to drink too. It had been in the hills where she had first met Sharpe. Would it be in the plains that she would lose him? She took some dried beef from her saddle bag and tried to eat, although her stomach was tied in knots, unbearably so. She knew if she did not eat, she would be too weak when she finally got there. Too weak to look after Sharpe as she should and too weak to face the news if he had died... She would not think that. If she allowed herself once to think he might be dead, he would be.

She took her rosary and ran it through her fingers, not praying, just hoping that Our Lady might hear her and take pity and spare her husband. She said a hasty Ave Maria to finish her silent prayer, and put the rosary carefully away again. “Come on, Rapido,” she said to her horse, pulling him away from the stream and setting his head once again towards Salamanca.

The sun was setting as she reached the lower foothills of the mountains, and Teresa found a farm where she managed to procure some forage for Rapido, and half a loaf of bread for herself. The farmer's wife wanted to give her a bed in the farmhouse, but Teresa declined. She wanted to go as soon as the sun started to appear over the horizon, and she couldn't afford any delays that the hospitable Estramaduran would force her to. She rolled herself in her cloak in the hayloft, and lay awake, hoping and praying.

Eventually, she felt it was time to leave. She shook the straw from her cloak, rolled it and went down to saddle Rapido, who looked at her resentfully. She stroked his nose and talked to him as she worked, quickly, aching to get to Salamanca to see Sharpe. “I'm worried, Rapido. He's badly hurt, but they wouldn't say how badly. Only that he's been shot.” She blinked back tears as she remembered her tall, strong Rifleman. The first time they had kissed, lying half in a stream as French Lancers had searched for them. Her, leading the French away from where the British were hiding. She had taken her dress off and run, naked, across the hillside, knowing that the tall, scarred yet still handsome Rifleman was watching her through his telescope.

She remembered his gift to her of his own rifle, the weapon she still carried. She never asked him where he'd got a replacement from, and he had never told her. The initials inscribed on the brass plate told her that this rifle had been very special to him, and by making a gift of it to her, she knew that he thought of her as special. Maybe he even thought of her as another one of his Riflemen, the tough men in the green jackets.

She had so much to say to him, so much she wanted to tell him. And now... Now she didn't have the time. He would never know how she thought of him, her scarred soldier, marching across Spain against her French enemy. She would never see him smile again, never hear his laugh, and the knowledge was bitter in her belly.

She pulled the last strap tight and led Rapido out, closing the stable door before swinging herself up into the saddle and urging him into a canter across the wide Salamancan plain. She rode till the sun was high in the sky, a small figure riding fast. She paused by the small village of Los Arapiles where she was given bread and wine and forage by the villagers who knew who she was and her desperate mission. She couldn't give them her thanks, her throat was tight as if she had swallowed a musket ball, and her heart was full of fear and doubt, but she managed a smile and a quick “Muchas gracias,” as she climbed again into the saddle. Salamanca wasn't far now and she gave Rapido his head, letting him gallop as only he could.

Straight and swift as an arrow, she came to Salamanca, where the sentries had been told to watch for her coming. She walked Rapido to the Irish College and asked for Don Patricio Cortes, the Irish Rector. He had waited for her arrival, and her heart sank as he told her that Sharpe was not there, was being looked after by La Marquesa de Casares el Grande y Melida Sadaba.

Hope rose in her. Not dead. Not here... he must be recovering... but at some fine house. That was just like her Sharpe, to find a woman to nurse him. She felt bitterness that he hadn't waited for her coming, but he was still alive. They still had time.

She turned Rapido without another word and rode him out of the city and along the river to where she knew La Marquesa's house was. La Marquesa had obviously been waiting for her because the door opened to her knock. A servant ran out to take Rapido round to the stables, and another servant came to lead her to the room where Sharpe lay.

He looked so pale and lost, lying in the white bed. He was looking at a couple of sheets of paper and smiling to himself.

“Richard.”

His head turned, black hair on the white pillow. A smile that lit up her heart. “Teresa.”

“Oh, Richard.” And she was on her knees by the bed. “I thought I had lost you, Richard.”

“Never, Teresa. You won't ever lose me.”

Fingers entwined in her hair. Tears damp on her cheek. “I came. As fast as I could.”

“I know.” An arm round her shoulders. “I know. My soldier. Sharpe's soldier.”