LITMIR.BIZ

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that he needed to lift with both hands, and he carried it to the door, measured his swing, and thumped it at the place where the two leaves met. He swung it again and again, seeing the right-hand leaf jar back a fraction with each blow, and the noise was huge again, echoing from the hallway within, and he wondered what Patrick Harper would think if he knew that his friend was breaking into a convent. Sharpe could almost hear the Ulster voice. ‘God save Ireland.’

      The rock swung and crashed, the door jerked back, and he saw an iron bar that was bent but still holding. He hammered it again, cursing with the effort, and despite the chill morning he could feel the sweat on his body and he drove the huge rock with all his strength at the weak spot and the door, at last, shattered back, the iron bar broken, and he could see into the convent.

      Miles to the west, at the edge of the great plain, the army marched. Battalion after Battalion of redcoats, battery after battery of guns, all marching eastwards with the cavalry in the van searching for the retreating French.

      The Marquess of Wellington, Grandee of Spain with the title of Duque de Ciudad Rodrigo, and Duque da Victoria in Portugal, looked at the northern rain clouds and scowled. ‘Are they coming south?’

      I think not, my Lord,’ an aide said.

      The General was on horseback. He had set the army in motion and he marched it eastwards. He prayed that rain would not soak the roads and slow him down. The French must not be given time to unite their armies in Spain against him. He looked at the man who rode to his left. ‘Well?’

      Major Hogan listed the news of the night, the messages that had come from enemy country. The news was good, so far as it went, though Hogan could not say with certainty whether the fortress at Burgos was prepared for a long siege.

      ‘Find out! Find out!’ Wellington said. ‘Is that all?’ His tone suggested that he hoped it was.

      ‘One other thing, my Lord.’ Hogan took a deep breath. ‘It seems that the Marquesa de Casares el Grande has been arrested by the ecclesiastical authorities. We hear she’s in a convent.’

      Wellington stared at Hogan as if wondering why he had bothered to tell him such a trivial piece of news. Their horses walked slowly. The General frowned. ‘Sharpe?’ He gave a snort that was half laughter and half scorn. ‘That’s stopped him, eh? The vixen’s gone to ground!’

      ‘Indeed, my Lord.’

      The General looked again at the clouds. The wind, such as it was, came from the east. He frowned again. ‘He wouldn’t be such a goddamned fool as to break into a convent, would he, Hogan?’

      Hogan was of the opinion that, for the sake of a woman, Sharpe would do just that, but this did not seem to be the time to say so. ‘I’m sure not, my Lord. That was not my worry.’

      ‘What is your worry?’ Wellington’s tone suggested that it had better be substantial to take up his time.

      ‘The arrest was supposed to be secret, my Lord, but inevitably rumours have spread. It seems that some French cavalry have gone north to look for her.’

      Wellington laughed. ‘Let them break into the convent.’

      ‘Indeed, my Lord.’

      ‘Rather they were there than facing us, eh? So Bonaparte’s declared war on nuns, has he?’

      ‘My concern, my Lord, was for Sharpe. If this General Verigny gets his hands on him.’ Hogan shrugged.

      ‘My God, he’d better not!’ Wellington’s voice was loud enough to startle some marching soldiers. ‘Sharpe’s got more sense than to be caught, hasn’t he? On the other hand, considering what a goddamned fool he is, maybe not. Still, there’s nothing we can do about it, Hogan.’

      ‘No, my Lord.’

      The General nodded to the Colonel of the Battalion they passed, throwing out a word of praise for his men, then looked again at Hogan. ‘Sharpe had better not break into that goddamned convent, Hogan. I’d rather the bloody frogs caught him!’

      ‘It seems he’s done for either way, my Lord.’

      Wellington scowled. ‘He’s done for anyway, man. You know that, so do I. We just strung him a little hope.’ The subject of Sharpe seemed to irritate Wellington. The General no longer believed that the death of the Marqués held a mystery that threatened him, the advance into Spain and the campaign that loomed ahead had dwarfed such a worry into insignificance. He nodded at the Irishman. ‘Keep me informed, Hogan, keep me informed.’

      ‘Indeed, my Lord.’

      Hogan let his horse fall behind. The Marquesa was immured in a convent, and his friend, by that fact, was doomed. A French cavalry regiment had gone hunting in the mountains, and Sharpe had only a boy to protect him. Sharpe was doomed.

      The outside of the Convent of the Heavens was grey and bare. The interior was rich and brilliant. The hallway floor was of chequered tiles, the walls of gold mosaic, the ceiling painted. There were pictures on the walls. Facing him, alone in the cavernous hallway, was a single woman dressed in white robes.

      ‘Go away.’

      It seemed a hopeful thing to say to a man who had just spent twenty minutes breaking down a door. Sharpe stepped over the rock that had fallen in the doorway and smiled at her. ‘Good morning, ma’am.’ He brushed his jacket down and politely took off his shako. ‘I wish to speak with La Marquesa de Casares…’

      ‘She is not here.’ The woman was tall, her face lined with age. She had a splendid dignity that made Sharpe feel shabby.

      He took one pace forward, his boots unnaturally loud in the cavernous hallway. ‘You may force me to bring my men and search the whole convent.’ That struck him as the right thing to say. The woman was frightened, and rightly, by the incursion of one man into this building where no man but a priest was ever supposed to tread. She would surely fear a whole company of soldiers.

      She looked at him, frowning. ‘Who are you?’

      The truth would not do. When the tale got about that an Englishman had broken into a convent there would be hell to pay. Sharpe smiled. ‘Major Vaughn.’

      ‘English?’

      He thought how often Wellington had insisted in his orders that the Roman church in Spain must be respected by the British. Nothing, the General believed, was more damaging to the alliance than insults to Spain’s religion. Sharpe smiled. ‘No, ma’am. American.’ He hoped Colonel Leroy would forgive the lie, and he was glad that he did not wear a red coat that was always thought to be the only uniform of Britain.

      She frowned. ‘American?’

      ‘I have come a long way to see La Marquesa.’

      ‘Why do you wish to see that woman?’

      ‘Matters of policy.’ He hoped his Spanish was correct.

      She tossed her head. ‘She will see no one.’

      ‘She will see me.’

      ‘She is a sinner.’

      ‘So are we all.’ Sharpe wondered why on earth he was swapping theological small talk with a Mother Superior. He supposed she was the Mother Superior.

      ‘She is doing penance.’

      ‘I wish only to talk with her.’

      ‘The Church has ordered that no one should see her.’

      ‘I have come from North America to see her.’ He liked the lie. Even in this remote convent the news must have arrived that the Americans had joined the war that burned about the world. ‘My President demands that I see her. He will send many coins to Rome if I can see her.’ Why the hell not, he thought? The Americans had declared war on Britain, so why should the Pope not declare war on America? He embroidered the lie. ‘Many, many gold coins.’

      ‘It is against God’s law to see her.’

      ‘God

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