LITMIR.BIZ

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Frenchman was on his feet now. He knew that he was being played with, that his opponent was a master of this kind of fighting, that the cuts would go on and on till his body was seething with pain and drenched with blood. He attacked the Slaughterman, slicing left and right, stabbing, going into a frenzy of despair, and El Matarife, who, despite his bulk, was as fast on his feet as any man Sharpe had seen, seemed to dance away from each attack. He was laughing, holding his own knife out of the way and then, when the Frenchman’s frenzy had died, the knife seared forward.

      ‘Cinco!’

      There was a cheer from the crowd. The knife, with horrid accuracy, had speared into one of the prisoner’s eyes. The man screamed, twisted, but the knife took his other eye just the same.

      ‘Seis.’ El Matarife laughed.

      ‘Seis!’ the men shouted.

      The Spaniard beside Sharpe looked at the Rifleman. ‘Now the enjoyment begins, Englishman.’

      But Sharpe had pulled the rifle from the holster, brought it to his shoulder, and pulled the trigger.

      The bullet went between the blinded eyes, throwing the Frenchman back, dead onto the ground that was smeared with his blood.

      Then there was silence.

      Sharpe pushed the weapon back into the holster and urged Carbine forward. Angel was tense with fear. A dozen men about the fighting ground had cocked their muskets as the rifle smoke drifted over the dead body.

      Sharpe reined in above the bearded angry man. He bowed in his saddle. ‘Now I shall be able to boast that I fought against the French alongside the great Matarife.’

      El Matarife stared up at the Englishman who had spoiled his amusement. He knew why the Englishman had shot the man, because the Englishman was squeamish, but in doing it the Englishman had challenged El Matarife in front of his own men. Now, though, this Major Vaughn had offered a saving formula.

      El Matarife laughed. ‘You hear that?’ He had unlooped the chain and he gestured to his followers. ‘He says he has fought beside me, eh?’ His men laughed and El Matarife stared up at the Englishman. ‘So why are you here?’

      ‘To bring you greetings from the Generalisimo.’

      ‘He has heard of me?’ El Matarife had picked up a great poleaxe that he slung on his shoulder.

      ‘Who has not heard of El Matarife?’

      The tension had gone. Sharpe was aware that he had failed one test by refusing to watch a blinded man being tortured, but by killing the Frenchman he had proved himself worthy of some respect. Worthy, too, of drink. He was taken into the inn, wine was ordered, and the compliments were profuse and truthless that, of necessity, had to preface the business of the night.

      They drank for two hours, the main room of the inn becoming smokier as the evening wore on. A meal was provided; a hunk of goat meat in a greasy gravy that Sharpe ate hungrily. It was at the end of the meal that El Matarife, wrapped in a cloak of wolf’s fur, asked again why the Englishman had come.

      Sharpe spun a story, half based on truth, a story that told of the British army advancing on Burgos and pushing the French back on the Great Road. He had come, he said, because the Generalisimo wanted assurance that every Partisan would be on the road to harass the retreating French and help kill Frenchmen.

      ‘Every Partisan, Englishman?’

      ‘But especially El Matarife.’

      El Matarife nodded, and there was nothing in what Sharpe had said to cause suspicion. His men were excited at the thought of a battle happening on the Great Road, of the plunder that would be taken, of the stragglers who could be picked off from the French march. The Slaughterman picked at his teeth with a sliver of wood. ‘When will the British come?’

      ‘They come now. Their soldiers cover the plains like a flood. The French are running away. They run towards Vitoria.’ That was hardly true. Sharpe had only seen the French retreating to Burgos, and, if this year’s campaign was like the last, they would make their stand at the fortress town. Yet the lie convinced El Matarife.

      ‘You will tell your General that my forces will help him.’ El Matarife waved a magnanimous hand about the room.

      ‘He will be relieved.’ Sharpe politely pushed a wineskin over the table. ‘Yet he will be curious about one thing.’

      ‘Ask.’

      ‘There are no French in these mountains, yet you are here.’

      ‘I hide from them, I let them think I am gone, and when they celebrate that I am gone, I return!’ He laughed.

      Sharpe laughed with him. ‘You are a clever man.’

      ‘Tell your General that, Englishman.’

      ‘I will tell him that.’ Sharpe could feel his eyes stinging from the thick tobacco smoke. He looked at Angel. ‘We must leave.’

      ‘Already?’ El Matarife frowned. He was more than convinced that the Englishman had not come about the woman, and he was enjoying the flattery that impressed his men. ‘You go already?’

      ‘To sleep. Tomorrow I must ride to my General with this news. He is impatient to hear of you.’ Sharpe paused as he pushed his chair back, fished in his pocket and brought out a scrap of paper. It was an order from Colonel Leroy about mending camp-kettles, but no one in this room would know that. He read it, frowned, then looked up at the Slaughterman. ‘I almost forgot! You guard La Puta Dorada?’ He could feel the tension in the room, betrayed by the sudden silence that greeted his words. Sharpe shrugged. ‘It is not important, but my General asked me and I am asking you.’

      ‘What of her?’

      Sharpe screwed the piece of paper up and tossed it onto the fire. ‘We heard she had been brought here.’

      ‘You heard?’

      ‘Whatever El Matarife does is important to us.’ Sharpe smiled. ‘You see we would like to talk to her. She must know things about the French army that would help us. The Generalisimo is full of admiration that you should have captured so important a spy.’

      The compliments seemed to soothe the bearded, suspicious man. Slowly, very slowly, El Matarife nodded. ‘You want to talk with her, Englishman?’

      ‘For an hour.’

      ‘Just talk?’ There was appreciative laughter in the room.

      Sharpe smiled. ‘Just talk. One hour, no more. She is in the convent?’

      El Matarife was still convinced that Sharpe’s mission was to secure his help with the summer’s campaign. It was a nuisance that the English had heard of the woman’s presence in the mountains, but he believed the Englishman when he said he merely wanted to talk. Besides, how could one Englishman and a Spanish boy rescue her from among his men? El Matarife smiled, knowing that he must send this Major Vaughn away satisfied. To simply deny that the Marquesa was in these mountains was to risk that this Englishman would want to search for himself. He gestured to one of his men, who left the inn’s smoky room, and turned back to Sharpe. ‘You’ve met her before, Major Vaughn?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘You’ll like her.’ The Slaughterman laughed. ‘But she’s not in the convent.’

      ‘No?’

      More wine was put in front of Sharpe. The Slaughterman was smiling contentedly. ‘She is here.’

      ‘Here?’

      ‘I heard you were coming, Englishman, and I thought I would help your General by letting you talk with her. She has much to tell you about your enemies. I waited to see if you would ask, if you had not, then I would have surprised you!’

      Sharpe smiled. ‘I will tell my General of your help. He will want to reward you.’ He was struggling not to show his excitement, nor his consternation. The thought of

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