LITMIR.BIZ

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‘But he won’t. That’s what our army’s protecting.’ She raised her wine glass. ‘All for us, dear. Loser takes all.’

      ‘Will you get your wagons back?’

      ‘I’ll get my wagons back.’ She said it grimly. ‘And I’ll write a letter that will get you your job back. What shall I write? That the Inquisitor killed Luis?’ She giggled. ‘Perhaps he did! Or his brother.’

      ‘His brother?’

      She turned her head to him. ‘El Matarife,’ she said it as if to a child.

      ‘They’re brothers!’

      ‘Yes. He came and looked at me in the carriage.’ She shuddered. ‘Bastard.’

      Sharpe supposed it made sense. Why else would the Partisan come to these far, inhospitable mountains except to do his brother a favour? But even so, he was astonished that the bearded, brutal man was brother to a priest. He looked at the beauty beside him. ‘For God’s sake write that your other letter wasn’t true.’

      ‘Of course I will. I shall say a nun threatened to rape me unless I wrote it.’ She smiled. ‘I am sorry about it, Richard. It was thoughtless of me.’

      ‘It doesn’t matter.’

      ‘It does really. It got you into trouble, didn’t it? I thought you’d survive though.’ She smiled happily. ‘And if it wasn’t for that letter we wouldn’t be here, would we?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘And you wouldn’t be able to put grease on my thighs, would you?’ She handed him the pot, and Sharpe, obedient as ever to this woman of gold, obeyed.

      He lay awake in the night, one arm trapped beneath her waist, and wondered if the letter she would write would be sufficient. Would it restore his rank or vindicate his honour?

      The glow of the fire was on the yellowed ceiling. Rain still tapped at the window and hissed in the chimney. Helene stirred on him, one leg across his, her head and one hand on his chest. She had murmured a name in her half sleep; Raoul. Sharpe had felt jealous again.

      He touched her spine, stroking it, and she muttered and pushed her head down on his chest. Her hair tickled his cheek. He thought how often in the last year he had dreamed of this, wanted this, and he ran his hand down her flank as though he could impress the sensation in his memory to last for ever.

      She had lied to him. He did not for one moment believe that the Church had murdered her husband, or made a plan to take her money. Something else was behind it all, but she would never tell him what it was. She would do what she could to save his career, and for that, he thought, he should be grateful. He looked at the tiny window and saw nothing but the dark reflection of the room, not a hint of a lightening sky. He told himself that he must wake in an hour, turned towards her warm softness, brushed his lips on her hair, and slept with her body tight in his arms.

      He came awake suddenly, the small window showing grey, knowing he had slept longer than he should have. He wondered why Angel had not thumped on the trapdoor.

      He rolled from the bed, making Helene grunt, and he saw that it had stopped raining. The fire was dead.

      Then he froze with a sudden gut wrench of fear within him, and knew that he had failed utterly. A noise had woken him, and now he could hear it again. It was the noise made by horses, by many horses, but not horses in motion. He could hear their breathing, their hooves stirring, the jingle of curb chains. He reached for the rifle, thumbed the cock back, and went to the small window.

      The grey-dawn street was filled with horsemen. El Matarife was there, and about him, the dew glistening on their shaggy cloaks, were his men. Next to El Matarife, on a superb horse, was a tall man in a silver cloak with a sabre at his hip. About the two men, crowding the narrow street, were at least two hundred horsemen.

      ‘Richard?’ Her voice was sleepy.

      ‘Get dressed.’

      ‘What is it?’

      ‘Just get dressed!’

      El Matarife spurred forward on an ugly roan horse. He looked up at the inn windows. ‘Vaughn!’

      ‘Jesus!’ La Marquesa sat up. ‘What is it, Richard?’

      ‘El Matarife.’

      ‘Jesus.’

      ‘Vaughn!’

      Sharpe pushed the window open. The air was cold on his naked skin. ‘Matarife?’ He saw the alcalde of the town behind the horsemen, and next to him was a priest. He knew suddenly what had happened.

      The Partisan leader rode close beneath the window. He stared up. His huge beard was beaded with moisture. Strapped on his back, next to a musket, was a great poleaxe, the weapon of a slaughterman. He grinned. ‘You see the man in the silver cloak, Major Vaughn?’

      ‘I see him.’

      ‘He is Pedro Pelera, my enemy. You know why today we are friends, Major Vaughn?’

      Sharpe could guess. He could hear La Marquesa dressing, swearing softly under her breath. ‘Tell me, Matarife.’

      ‘Because you offend our holy place, Major Vaughn. You fight the nuns, yes?’ El Matarife laughed. ‘You have ten minutes, Major Vaughn, to bring us La Puta Dorada.’

      ‘And if I don’t?’

      ‘You die anyway. If you come gently, Major, then I will kill you swiftly. If you do not? We shall come for you!’ He gestured towards his men. Sharpe knew he could not fight so many, not even by staying at the top of the ladder. They would merely blast the trapdoor with musketry. El Matarife drove the point home.

      ‘There’s no help coming, Major. Your boy fled. You have ten minutes!’

      Sharpe slammed the window. ‘Christ!’

      La Marquesa was wearing the dress she had fetched from the convent, a confection of blue silk and white lace. She was putting the jewels about her neck. ‘If I’m going to die I’ll die in bloody jewels.’

      ‘I’m sorry, Helene.’

      ‘Christ, Richard, don’t be so goddamned stupid!’ She said it with sudden, vivid anger.

      He went to the back wall and thumped it, as if it might be thin enough to break through, yet he knew that the Partisans would have the inn surrounded. He swore.

      ‘Are you going to die naked?’ Her voice was bitter. ‘How the hell did that bastard find me?’

      Sharpe cursed himself. He should have known! He should have guessed that by breaking into the convent he would stir the whole countryside against him, and instead he had been so eager to share this bed that he had not given the danger a single thought.

      He dressed swiftly, dressing as if for battle, yet he knew that it was over. This mad escapade in the hills would end in blood on a muddy street, with his death. He should have been hanged these four weeks ago, and instead he would die now. At least, he thought, it would be with a sword in his hand. ‘I’ll go and talk to them.’

      ‘For Christ’s sake, why?’

      ‘To get a promise for your safety.’

      She shook her head. ‘You are a fool. You really believe there’s decency in the world, don’t you?’

      ‘I can try.’ He pulled up the trapdoor. The room beneath was empty. He turned to look at her one more time and thought how splendid she was, how lovely even in anger. ‘Do you want my rifle?’

      ‘To shoot myself?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘The Holy Grail isn’t that bloody precious.’ She looked at his face and shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Richard, I keep forgetting that you think it is. What are you going to do?’

      ‘Fight them, of

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