‘Who killed the Marques?’

There was silence. Sharpe did not know what answer he expected, but the lack of any answer seemed to suggest that the question was not foolish. He pulled on the hair and let the blade rest on the skin of El Matarife’s neck. ‘Who killed the Marques?’

The Slaughterman suddenly wrenched forward and his hands reached for Sharpe’s wrist, but Sharpe hauled back and flicked the knife sideways to slash the reaching hands of his enemy. ‘Who killed him?’

‘I did!’ It came out as a scream. His hands were soaked in blood.

Sharpe almost let him go, so surprised was he by the answer. He had expected to be told that the Inquisitor had done it, but it made sense that this man, the brother of the clever, ruthless priest, would be the killer.

He put the knife back on the neck. He spoke lower now, so that only the Slaughterman could hear him. The Partisans were watching Sharpe, and Harper was watching the Partisans. Sharpe bent down. ‘You killed that girl to fool me, Malanfe.’

There was no answer.

Sharpe remembered the hanging, turning, bloodied body. He remembered the prisoner blinded. He paused, then struck.

The knife was as sharp as a razor, honed to a wicked, feather-bladed edge, and, tough as a man’s throat is, with its gristle and tubes and muscle and skin, the knife cut the throat as easily as silk. There was a gasp as the blood gushed out, as it splashed once, twice, and then the heart had nothing left to pump, and Sharpe let go of the black hair.

The Slaughterman fell forward and his bearded, brutal face fell into the mess of blood, mud and silver.

There was silence from all who watched.

Sharpe turned and walked towards La Marquesa. His eyes were on the man who held her, and in his eyes was a message of death. Slowly, his head shaking, the man let go of her.

Sharpe dropped the knife. She ran towards him, stumbling in the mud and silver coins, and his left arm was about her and she pressed herself against his mud smeared chest. ‘I thought you were dead.’

The first stars were visible above the plunder of an empire.

He held the woman for whom he had ridden across Spain, for whom he had ridden the field of jewels and gold, of silk and diamonds.

She could never be his, he knew that. He had known that even when she had said diat she loved him, yet he would ride the fields of silver and pearls again for her; he would cross hell for her.

He turned from El Matarife’s men and Harper threw down his sword and haversack. Sharpe wondered why the bag was so heavy. He buckled, the sword and knew he would have to go into the city and find the Inquisitor. There were questions to be put to that Inquisitor, and Sharpe would be as delicate as the Inquisition in his search for the answers.

He would go into Vitoria, and he would take the answers to the mystery that Hogan had asked him to solve, but that, he knew, was not the reason that he had come to this place. Not for victory, and not for gold, but for the woman who would cheat him, lie to him, never love him, but who was the whore of gold and, for this one night at least, Sharpe’s woman.

EPILOGUE

The army had gone, following the French towards the Pyrenees, and Vitoria was left to the Spanish Battalions. Of the British only a few staff officers and the South Essex were left; the South Essex to guard the French prisoners who would soon start their journey to Dartmoor or the prison hulks.

On a warm night brilliant with starlight, Sharpe was in the hotel where so many British officers, on the night of the battle, had enjoyed a free meal. He was in a vast room with windows that looked towards the cathedral on its hill.

‘What is it?’

‘Open it.’ Helene smiled at him. She was dressed in cream silk that was cut so low that one deep breath, he was sure, would tip her breasts over the lace-trimmed collar.

She had given him a box. It was made from rosewood, polished to a deep shine, and it was locked with two golden clasps that he pushed aside.

‘Go on,’ she said, ‘open it.’

He lifted the lid.

The box was lined with red taffeta. Lying in a trough that ran the length of the box was a telescope. ‘God! It’s beautiful.’

‘Isn’t it?’ she said with satisfaction.

He lifted it. Its barrel was of ivory, its trimmings of gold, and it slid apart with extraordinary smoothness. There was a plate engraved and inset into the ivory. ‘What does it say?’

She smiled, took the glass from him, and tipped it to the candlelight. ‘ ‘To Joseph, King of Spain and the Indies, from his brother, Napoleon, Emperor of France’.’ She laughed. ‘A king’s telescope for you. I bought it off one of your cavalrymen.’

‘It’s wonderful.’ He took it from her, drew the tubes fully out, and stared with it at the sickle moon that hung over the northern hills. His last telescope, destroyed by Ducos, had been good, but it had been nothing compared with this instrument. ‘It’s wonderful,’ he said again.

‘Of course! It’s French.’ She smiled. ‘My thank you to you.’

‘For nothing.’ He put the telescope into its box, and she laughed at him.

‘For nothing, then. Just for my wagons, my life, little things like that. Nothing.’

He frowned, clasping the box shut. ‘You’ll take nothing from me?’

‘You are a fool, Richard Sharpe.’ She walked to the window, raised her bare arms to the curtains, and paused as she stared into the night. Then, abruptly, she pulled the curtains closed and turned to him. ‘You keep those diamonds. They have made you rich. And don’t give them away, not to me, not to anyone. Keep them.’

He smiled. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Because, Richard,’ and she touched his face with her finger, ‘this war will not last for ever, and when peace comes, you will need money.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ There was a thump on the door, a hearty, loud, hammering of a thump, and Sharpe raised his voice. ‘Who is it?’

‘Officer of the day, sir!’ It was Captain d’Alembord’s voice

‘What is it?’

‘I need you, sir.’

La Marquesa smiled. ‘Go on. I’ll wait.’

Sharpe unlocked the door. ‘I only just got here, Peter!’

The tall, elegant Captain, who was more than a little drunk, bowed lavishly to Sharpe. ‘Your presence is demanded, sir. You’ll forgive me, ma’am?’

They stopped at the stair’s head. Half the Battalion were in the dining room that was littered with broken plates and discarded cutlery. Sharpe doubted whether three-quarters of these men had ever eaten in such style. Someone had discovered, in a locked chest, a French tricolour that was being paraded noisily about the room. Most of the men were drunk. Some were asleep. Only at the head table was there a hint of decorum, and even there, not much.

Sergeant Patrick Harper presided. Next to him, resplendent in white, with a veil of lace that had been taken from the French baggage park, sat Isabella. About her throat was a necklace of diamonds. Sharpe doubted whether her husband would let her wear it again, at least not till they were safely away from the thieves of the British army.

Sharpe had never seen a man so frightened as Harper. He had shaken in the cathedral. Sharpe had given his Sergeant two big glasses of whisky, but even they had not stopped his fear. ‘It’s ridiculous, sir! Getting married.’

‘Women like it, Patrick.’

‘Why do they need us? Why don’t they just do it and tell us afterwards. Christ!’

‘Are you sure you want to go through with it?’

‘And let her down? Of course I’ll do it!’ He was indignant. ‘I just don’t have to enjoy doing it!’

He was enjoying himself now. He was drunk, better fed than a soldier had a right to be, and with a pretty, pregnant, dark-eyed girl beside him.

‘It’s astonishing,’ Captain d’Alembord observed, ‘how she keeps him in order.’