The next evening Lord Spears came with her and they could not hide in the small shelter. They walked in the garden, chatting, and Sharpe had to pretend, though he guessed Spears knew otherwise, that he hardly knew La Marquesa, that she had plucked him from the hospital as an object of charity, and he said ‘Ma’am’ and ‘Milady’ and felt tongue-tied and clumsy, just as he had at their first meeting. At one moment in the evening, when the sun was a glorious crimson in the west, La Marquesa went to the low wall beside the river and threw bread scraps to the ducks. Sharpe was alone with Spears. The Rifleman remembered how the cavalryman had so desperately wanted to know the identity of El Mirador; how he had quizzed Sharpe in the Plaza Mayor on the morning after the first assault on the three fortresses. Sharpe grinned at Spears. “So you found out?”
“About you and Helena? You were hardly discreet, my dear Richard, coming here to her lair.”
Sharpe shook his head. “No. I meant about El Mirador.”
An extraordinary look of alarm crossed Spears’ face. It was followed by anger and a question that was almost hissed at Sharpe. “You know?”
Sharpe nodded. “Yes.”
“What the hell do you know?”
Sharpe tried to talk calmly, to quieten Spears’ anger. “I know that we’ve put a guard on El Mirador, and I presumed that you were doing that.“
“How did you know?”
“Hogan wrote to me.” It was not the whole truth. Hogan had written that El Mirador was guarded, but he had not named names. The rest had been Sharpe’s deduction and he had not expected this near violent reaction. He tried to calm Spears again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend.”
“No, no offence.” Spears pushed his hair back. “Christ! We’re told this is the biggest bloody secret since turning water into wine and then Hogan has to write to you! How many more people know?” Spears glanced towards La Marquesa, then back at Sharpe. “Yes I am, but for God’s sake don’t tell anyone.”
“I’m hardly likely to.”
“No, no I suppose not.”
Sharpe wished he had not mentioned it. He had traduced Hogan by suggesting that the Irish Major had written everything in his letter, but Spears’ anger had made Sharpe decide not to launch himself on a convoluted explanation.
La Marquesa came back and looked at Spears. “You’re looking positively flustered, Jack.”
Spears smiled at her. “A wasp, Helena, threatening my virtue.”
“Such a tiny thing to threaten.” She looked at Sharpe. “You’re happy here, Captain?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
She made polite conversation for Spears’ benefit. “The house is rather pretty. My husband’s great-uncle built it. He was a leper, so he was forced to live outside the city. The house was built here and he could rot away happily on his own. They say he looked perfectly dreadful which is why there are such high walls.”
Spears grinned. “I hope you scrubbed the place before you put Sharpe here.”
She looked at him, smiled, then touched his cheek with her fan. “Such a charming man you are, Jack. Tell my coachman to get ready, will you?”
Spears half bowed. “You’ll be safe with Sharpe?”
„I’ll risk it, Jack. Now begone.“
She watched Spears walk towards the house and then drew Sharpe into the shade of some bushes. A stone bench was set in a small clearing and she ^at on it. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought him.”
“I think you should.”
She seemed unmoved by that. “Why?”
“He is your guard. It’s his job.”
She watched Sharpe for a few seconds. “How do you deduce that, Richard?”
He felt confused. First Spears had reacted almost violently, and now La Marquesa was quizzing him as if he was rendering the accounts for her estates. Then he thought that she must be frightened. If Spears had told Sharpe, then Spears was not to be trusted. He smiled at her. “First, he’s here with you. Second, I asked him. He didn’t offer the information, in fact he was quite angry that I knew.”
She nodded. “Good. What did he say?”
“That he was the guard for El Mirador.” He smiled. “La Miradora.”
She smiled at that. “There’s no such word, I’ve told you. Miradors are masculine in Spanish, they cannot be feminine. He can be trusted?”
“He got quite angry.”
She sighed, then twitched her fan at a fly. “He’s a fool, Richard. He’s no money, he’s gambled it all away, but he is amusing sometimes. Are you jealous?”
“No.”
“Liar.” She smiled at him. “I won’t let him come again. He insisted tonight.” She laughed at him. “You remind me tonight of the first time we met. You bristled with dignity. You were so ready to take offence.”
“And you to give it.”
“And something else, Richard.”
“Yes.” He sat beside her. She could see the new colour in his face.
She sat silent for a moment, her head cocked as if listening for a faraway sound, then she relaxed. “No guns today.”
“No.” No battle, which meant that the French had outmarched Wellington again, that the armies were getting nearer to the city, and that perhaps the time when Sharpe would have to leave Salamanca was getting closer. He looked at her. “Come with us.”
“Perhaps you won’t go.”
“Perhaps.” But his instinct told him otherwise.
She leaned against him, her eyes closed, and then Spears’ voice shouted from the house that her carriage waited. She looked up at Sharpe. Til come early tomorrow.“
“Please.”
She kissed him. “You exercised today?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” He grinned.
She gave him a mock salute. “Don’t give up, Captain.”
“Never.”
He followed her to the house and watched as the carriage went through the high gates, Spears’ horse beside it, and then he turned back into the building. It was his last evening with Harper, till God knew when, for on the next day the Sergeant was going north, taking Isabella, going back to the South Essex. Harper was marching with a group of men recovered from their wounds and to mark their final evening the big Irishman and Isabella ate with Sharpe in the formal dining room instead of in the kitchen.
Sharpe spent the next days alone, exercising and walking, and the news from the north went from bad to worse. An officer, posting back to Ciudad Rodrigo, stopped at the house for water and he sat in the garden with Sharpe and spoke of the troops’ anger because they were not allowed to fight. Wellington seemed to be giving ground, to be always retreating from the French, and each new day brought reinforcements to Marmont’s army. The officer claimed that Wellington was being too cautious, that he was losing the campaign, and Sharpe did not understand it. The army had marched from Portugal with such high hopes and now those hopes were frittered away. The campaign was being lost without a battle and each day’s manoeuvring brought the armies nearer to the city, promised that soon Leroux would have the freedom to hunt again, and Sharpe wondered where the Frenchman was, what he was doing, and practised with the big sword in the slim hope that he might see Leroux again.
A month after Sharpe’s wounding the bad news was all confirmed. The day had brought clouds of dust to the east and by the evening Sharpe knew that the armies had reached the Tormes, east of the city, and he knew that Salamanca must change hands again. Another letter came from Hogan, hand delivered by an irritated cavalryman who had gone first to the Irish College, then to the Town Major, and finally had found Sharpe. The letter was brief, its message grim. “Tonight we cross the river and tomorrow we will march westwards. The French outmarch us each day so we must hurry. I fear it will be a race to the Portuguese frontier and I am not certain we can win. You must leave. Pack now! If you have no horse then try to find Headquarters. I will lend you my remount. Say your farewells and go, no later than dawn tomorrow.” The ‘no later’ was underlined. “Next year, perhaps, we can twist
Marmont’s tail, but not, alas, this. In haste, Michael Hogan.”
Sharpe had little to pack. He stood in the garden and stared over the river and saw the goats that lived on the far hills filing down to the low ground. It was a sure sign that heavy rain was coming, yet the sun still shone, but he looked overhead and sure enough there were clouds rolling in from the north. The river was silver, shot through with green.
He put his few things into his pack. Two spare shirts, two spare stockings, a mess tin, the telescope, his razor and he filled the oxhide pack to the top with food that he took from the kitchen. He wrapped two loaves, a cheese, and a big ham. The cook gave him wine bottles that he thrust into the pack and poured a third into his spare canteen. He had no rifle to carry, just the big sword on its short slings.
He went back into the garden again and the sky was darker, almost black, and he knew he would wait for the morning before leaving. He told himself that he had become lazy, that he was going soft because he wanted to spare himself a night in the open, but he knew that he waited for morning in the hope that La Marquesa would come this night. Perhaps their last night. He thought of walking to the city, of going to the Palacio Casares, but then he heard the sound of hooves, the opening of the gate, and he knew she was coming. He waited.
There was something curiously beautiful about the landscape. The sun still shone, slanting steeply beneath the clouds, and it gave the land a luminance that the sky had lost. Above was darkness, grey and black, beneath was a glowing scene of green hills, brilliant white buildings, and the river like oiled silk. The air was heavy. The clouds pressed down as if the weight of water was sinking them. He expected the rain to begin at any second, yet it held off; it was conserving its force. The goats, as ever, had been right. There would be a vast rainstorm this night. He walked to the pillared shelter, built, La Marquesa had told him, in imitation of a small Greek shrine, and he stood on the topmost step that led to the door, pulled himself up on the lintel and he could see over the high wall to the city. Perhaps it would be his last glimpse of Salamanca in the evening. The sun silhouetted the fine stone, edged the great Cathedral with red gold, and then he pushed the door open and waited for La Marquesa. The river was almost black, swirling, waiting for the hammering of the rain.
In the morning he would go. He would walk away from this city and the dust of the roads would have been driven and churned into mud. He had failed this summer. He had promised to take a man, and the man had almost killed him, yet Sharpe did not see that as his greatest regret. He had betrayed his wife, and that saddened him, but that was not his regret. He would miss La Marquesa. He would miss the golden hair, the mouth, the eyes, the laughter and the beauty, the magic world of a woman whom hehad glimpsed, wanted, and never thought he could possess. Tonight was the last night. She would stay, in danger, and he would go back to the army. He could recover his full strength in Ciudad Rodrigo and all the time he would wonder about her, remember her, and fear that his enemy had destroyed her.
The first heavy, plangent drop of rain smashed onto the marble ledge that faced the river. It left a mark the size of a penny. He had dreamed once before of a final night in Salamanca, and that hope had ended in the death room. Now fate had given him the night again, though tinged with defeat. He knew he had become obsessed with her, and he had to abandon her, and that was too often the way of women and soldiers. Yet there was this one night.
He heard the footsteps on the grass and he did not turn round. He was suddenly superstitious. To turn round was to tempt fate, but he smiled as he heard the feet on the steps and then he heard the heavy click of a flint being pulled back on a mainspring.
“Good evening, Captain.” The voice was a man’s voice, and the man held a rifle, and the rifle was pointing straight at Sharpe’s stomach as the Rifleman wrenched himself about to face the door.
The first thunder racketed over the sky.
CHAPTER 18
The Reverend Doctor Patrick Curtis, known as Don Patricio Cortes, Rector of the Irish College and Professor of Astronomy and Natural History at the University of Salamanca, held the rifle as though it were a poisonous snake that might, at any second, turn and bite him. Sharpe remembered how Leroux had run to this man’s room, how Spears had described Curtis volunteering to fight against the English, and now the tall priest faced Sharpe. The frizzen that covered the pan of the rifle was up and the elderly Irishman clicked it down into place. He smiled. “You see? It still works. It’s your rifle, Captain.”
The thunder echoed in the sky. It sounded like heavy siege shot being rolled on giant floor boards. The rain was hissing steadily on the river’s surface. Sharpe was five paces from the man. He thought of jumping at him, hoping that the priest would hesitate before pulling the trigger, but he knew that the wound would slow him down. He looked at Curtis’ right hand and raised his voice over the sound of the rain. “You have to have a finger on the trigger to make it work.”
The bushy eyebrows went up in surprise. “It’s not loaded, Captain. I’m merely returning it to you. Here.” He held it out. Sharpe did not move and the Irish priest just shrugged and propped the rifle against the wall.
Sharpe jerked his head towards the weapon. “It’s bad for them to stay cocked. It weakens the spring.”
“You learn something every day.” Curtis picked up the rifle, pulled the trigger, and flinched as the spark cracked on the empty pan. He put the weapon down again. “You don’t seem overjoyed to see me.”
“Should I be?”
“You could be grateful to me. I went out of my way to return your gun. I had to get your address from the Town Major and then smuggle it out under my cassock. It would be bad for my reputation if I were seen going fully armed about the streets.” Curtis gave a deprecating smile.
“You could have returned it earlier.” Sharpe kept his voice cold. He wanted this interfering priest gone. He wanted La Marquesa.
“I wish I could have returned it earlier. It was stolen by one of the College’s stonemasons. His wife told me and I retrieved it for you.” He pointed at the weapon. “And here it is, safely restored.” He waited for Sharpe to speak, but the Rifleman was morose. Curtis sighed, walked to the edge of the shelter and looked at the rain. “Dear oh dear. What weather!” The surface of the river was corruscated by the rain. The sun, perversely, still showed in the west beneath the great cloud bank. Curtis pulled up his cassock and sat down. He gave Sharpe a friendly smile. “Do you mind if I sit it out? There was a time when I rode in all weathers, but I’m seventy-two this year, Mr. Sharpe, and the good Lord may not look kindly on me getting a chill.”
Sharpe was not feeling polite. He wanted to be alone until La Marquesa came, he wanted to think of her, to wallow in the misery of the anticipation of their parting. This last night was precious to him, something to hold against the bad times, and now this damned priest was settling down for a cosy chat. Sharpe kept his voice harsh. “I’m expecting company.”
Curtis ignored him. He waved an expansive hand round the small, pretty shelter. “I know this place well. I used to be the Marques’s confessor and he was always kind to me. He let me use this for some of my observations.” He shifted himself so he was looking at Sharpe. “I watched last year’s comet from in here. Remarkable. Did you see it?”
“No.”
“You missed something, you really did. The Marques was of the opinion that the comet affected the grape harvest, that it was responsible for the good vintage. I don’t understand that, but undoubtedly last year’s wine was excellent. Excellent.”
A great explosion of thunder saved Sharpe the necessity of replying. It echoed across the sky, grew and faded, and the rain seemed to seethe down with more force. Curtis tut-tutted. “I presume you’re waiting for La Marquesa.”
“You can presume what you like.”
“True.” Curtis nodded. “It concerns me, Mr. Sharpe. Her husband is a man I would call a friend. I’m a priest. You are, I know, a married man. I think I’m speaking to your con
science, Mr. Sharpe.”
Sharpe laughed. “You came out here, in this weather, to give me a bloody sermon?” He sat down on the curved bench that ran round the inner wall of the shelter. He was trapped here, while the rain lasted, but he was damned if he was going to let a priest start meddling with his soul. “Forget it, Father. It’s none of your business.”
“It’s God’s, my son.” Curtis spoke mildly. “La Marquesa doesn’t confess to me. She uses the Jesuits. They have such a complicated view of sin. I’m sure it must be very confusing. I have a very simple view of sin and I know that adultery is wrong.”
Sharpe spoke quietly, his head tilted back against the wall. “I don’t want to be offensive, Father, but you’re annoying me.”
“So?”
Sharpe brought his head forward. “So I remember Leroux going to your room, I remember hearing that you fought against the English, and I know that the French have spies in this town, and it would take me about two minutes to tip you into that river and I wonder how many days it would be before they found you.”
Curtis stared at him. “You mean that, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“The simple solution, yes? The soldier’s way.” Curtis was mocking him now, his voice hard. “Whenever human beings don’t know what to do they call in the soldiers. Force ends everything, yes? That’s what they did with Christ, Mr. Sharpe, they called in the soldiers. They didn’t know what to do with him so they called on men like you and I don’t suppose they thought twice about what they were doing, they just banged in the nails. You’d have done that, wouldn’t you?”
Sharpe said nothing. He yawned. He looked at the quick ripples where the rain struck the river. The sky was black, the western horizon dark gold, and he wondered if La Marquesa would wait for the storm to end before her coach made its way to the house by the river.
Curtis looked behind him at the rugs and the cushions that La Marquesa had put into the river shelter. “What are you frightened of, Sharpe?”
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