El Catolico pointed a finger up the stairs. 'The Polish Sergeant? Is that your prisoner?'

Sharpe nodded. The lies would be nailed. 'That's the one.'

'How very sad.' The hands came together with a graceful hint of prayerful regret. 'I cut his throat as I arrived. In a moment of anger."

The eyes were not smiling, whatever the mouth did, and Sharpe knew this was not the moment to accept, or even acknowledge, the delicate challenge. He shrugged, as if the death of the Sergeant meant nothing to him, and followed the tall Spaniard up the steps and into the hermitage that was noisy with newcomers who quietened as their leader appeared. Sharpe stood, in the thick, sweet smell, and watched the grey-cloaked man move easily among his followers: the figure of a leader who disbursed favour, reward, and consolation.

A soldier, Sharpe knew, was judged not merely by his actions but by the enemies he destroyed, and the Rifleman's fingers reached, unconsciously, for his big sword. Nothing had been admitted, nothing openly said, but in the gloom of the vault, in the wreckage of British hopes, Sharpe had found the enemy, and now, in the scent of death, he groped for the way to victory in this sudden, unwanted, and very private little war.

CHAPTER 10

The rapier moved invisibly, one moment on Sharpe's left, the next, as if by magic, past his guard and quivering at his chest. There was enough pressure to bend the blade, to feel the point draw a trace of blood; then El Catolico stepped backwards, flicked the slim blade into a salute, and took up his guard again.

'You are slow, Captain.'

Sharpe hefted his blade. 'Try changing weapons.'

El Catolico shrugged, reversed his blade, and held it to Sharpe. Taking the heavy cavalry sword in return, he held it level, turned his wrist, and lunged into empty air. 'A butcher's tool, Captain. En garde!'

The rapier was as delicate as a fine needle, yet even with its balance, its responsiveness, he could do nothing to pierce El Catolico's casual defence. The Partisan leader teased him, led him on, and with a final contemptuous flick he beat Sharpe's lunge aside and stopped his hand half an inch before he would have laid open Sharpe's throat.

'You are no swordsman, Captain.'

'I'm a soldier.'

El Catolico smiled, but the blade moved just enough to touch Sharpe's skin before the Spaniard dropped the sword on the ground and held out a hand for his own blade.

'Go back to your army, soldier. You might miss the boat.'

'The boat?' Sharpe bent down, pulled his heavy blade towards him.

'Didn't you know, Captain? The British are going. Sailing home, Captain, leaving the war to us.'

'Then look after it. We'll be back.'

Sharpe turned away, ignoring El Catolico's laugh, and walked towards the gate leading into the street. He was in the ruins of Moreno's courtyard, where Knowles had smashed the volleys into the lancers, and all that was left were bullet marks on the scorched walls. Cesar Moreno came through the gate and stopped. He smiled at Sharpe, raised a hand to El Catolico, and looked round as if frightened that someone might be listening.

'Your men, Captain?'

'Yes?'

'They're ready.'

He seemed a decent enough man, Sharpe thought, but whatever power and prowess he had once had seemed to have drained away under the twin blows of his wife's death and his daughter's love for the overpowering young El Catolico. Cesar Moreno was as grey as his future son-in-law's cloak: grey hair, grey moustache, and a personality that was a shadow of what he had once been. He gestured towards the street.

'I can come with you?'

'Please.'

It had taken a full day to clear up the village, to dig the graves, to wait while Private Rorden died, the agony unbearable, and now they walked to where he and the other dead of the Company would be buried, out in the fields. El Catolico walked with them, seemingly with inexhaustible politeness, but Sharpe sensed that Moreno was wary of his young colleague. The old man looked at the Rifleman.

'My children, Captain?'

Sharpe had been thanked a dozen times, more, but Moreno explained again.

'Ramon was ill. Nothing serious, but he could not travel. That was why Teresa was here, to look after him.'

'The French surprised you?'

El Catolico interrupted. 'They did. They were better than we thought. We knew they would search the hills, but in such strength? Massena is worried."

'Worried?'

The grey-cloaked man nodded. 'His supplies, Captain, all travel on roads to the south. Can you imagine what we will do to them? We ride again tomorrow, to ambush his ammunition, to try to save Almeida.' It was a shrewd thrust. El Catolico would risk his men and his life to save Almeida when the British had done nothing to rescue the Spanish garrison of Ciudad Rodrigo. He turned his most charming smile on Sharpe. 'Perhaps you will come? We could do with those rifles of yours.'

Sharpe smiled back. 'We must rejoin our army. Remember? We might miss the boat.'

El Catolico raised an eyebrow. 'And empty-handed. How sad.'

The guerrilla band watched them pass in silence. Sharpe had been impressed by them, by their weaponry, and by the discipline El Catolico imposed. Each man, and many of the women, had a musket and bayonet, and pistols were thrust into their belts alongside knives and the long Spanish swords. Sharpe admired the horses, the saddlery, and turned to El Catolico.

'It must be expensive.'

The Spaniard smiled. It was as easy as parrying one of Sharpe's clumsier lunges. 'They ride for hatred, Captain, of the French. Our people support us.'

And the British give you guns, Sharpe thought, but he said nothing. Moreno led them past the castillo, out into the field.

'I'm sorry, Captain, that we cannot bury your man in our graveyard.'

Sharpe shrugged. The British could fight for Spain, but their dead could not be put in a Spanish cemetery in case the Protestant soul would drag all the others down to hell. He stood in front of the Company, looked at Kearsey, who stood by the graves in his self-appointed role of chaplain, and nodded to Harper.

'Hats off!'

The words rang thin in the vastness of the valley. Kearsey was reading from his Bible, though he knew the words by heart, and El Catolico, his face full of compassion, nodded as he listened. 'Man that is born of a woman is of few days, and full of trouble. He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down.' And where's the gold? Sharpe wondered. Was it likely that the French, having killed the old and young, smashed the crucifix, smeared excreta on the walls of the hermitage, would carefully replace the stone lid of the family tomb? High over the valley an exaltation of larks tumbled in their song flight, and Sharpe looked at Harper. The Sergeant was looking up, at his beloved birds, but as Sharpe watched him the Irishman glanced at his Captain and away. His face had been impassive, unreadable, and Sharpe wondered what he had found. He had asked him to look round the village, explaining nothing but knowing that the Sergeant would understand.

'Amen!' The burial service was over and Kearsey glared at the Company. 'The salute, Captain!'

'Sergeant!'

'Company!' The words rang out confidently, discipline in chaos, the muskets rising together, the faces of the men anonymous in the ritual. 'Fire!'

The volley startled the larks, drifted white smoke over the graves, and the decencies had been done. Sharpe would have buried the men without ceremony, but Kearsey had insisted, and Sharpe acknowledged that the Major had been right. The drill, the old pattern of command and obey, had reassured the men, and Sharpe had heard them talking, quietly and contentedly, about marching back to the British lines. The trip across the two rivers, out into enemy country, was being called a 'wild-chicken chase', diverting and dangerous but not part of the real war. They were missing the Battalion, the regular rations, the security of a dozen other battalions on the march, and the thought of gold that had once excited them was now seen in perspective, as another soldier's dream, like finding an unlooted wine shop full of pliant women.