McGovern looked at Knowles, back to Sharpe. 'We've already done it, sir. The Lieutenant sent us down."

'Oh.' He looked at Knowles and growled an apology. 'No one interfered with you?'

Knowles shook his head. 'It's as you said, sir. They're guarding the ford, not the castle.'

'Any food?'

Knowles sighed. He had half hoped, against all experience, that Sharpe's morning temper would have been moderated by Teresa. 'Just hard tack, sir. And not much of that.'

Sharpe swore, flung the dregs of tea far out towards the oak trees that sheltered El Catolico's men.

'Right! All weapons cleaned!' He ignored the grumbles, turned and leaned against the rampart. Everyone was better for some sleep, a few hours between sentry duty, but there had not been time or opportunity in the night for the Company to check their weapons. The night had gone quietly. Some time after midnight the rain had stopped, though the wind still blew cold, and Harper had got a small fire going in the shelter of the broken tower, burning the thorn bushes that grew like weeds in the old courtyard. Teresa had been right. The fortress was approached by a single precipitous track, easy to defend, and El Catolico had left them in peace.

Scraps of wispy cloud cleared away from the rising sun, shadows stretched over the courtyard, and a touch of warmth came which soon would bake the earth dry and sap the Company of its small energy. Sharpe leaned over the rampart. The spate was well over, the water sinking, and the rocks ,that marked the ford had broken the surface and collected ragged bundles of twigs and debris that the sudden flood had scoured from the banks. He saw Kearsey leave the oak grove and head his borrowed horse towards the path which led to the castle.

Sharpe pulled on his clothes, still damp, and nodded towards the tower. 'Keep the girl inside, Robert.' Knowles nodded. Sharpe was pulling on a damp boot that refused to go over his heel bone. 'Damn!' It slipped on. 'I'll meet the Major outside. Inspect the weapons and get ready to move.'

'Already?' Knowles seemed surprised.

'Can't stay here forever.' Sharpe buttoned his jacket, picked up his sword. I'll go and give Major Kearsey the good news.'

Sharpe walked briskly down the slope and waved cheerfully at Kearsey. 'Morning, sir! A nice one!'

Kearsey reined his horse, stared down at Sharpe with unfriendly eyes. 'What have you done, Sharpe?'

Sharpe stared up at the small Major who was silhouetted by the sun. He had expected anger, but not at him: he had expected Kearsey to be disillusioned at the Partisans and instead the Major's opening words, spoken with a suppressed rage, were spat at Sharpe. He replied quietly.

'I've brought the gold, sir, nearly all of it, as I was ordered.'

Kearsey nodded impatiently, as if it were the answer he expected. 'You kidnapped the girl, locked up our allies; you have disobeyed my orders; you have turned men who fought for us into men who simply want to kill you.' He paused, taking breath, but Sharpe interrupted.

'And the men who killed Captain Hardy?'

Kearsey seemed to slump on his pommel. He stared at Sharpe.

'What?'

'El Catolico killed him. Stabbed him in the back. He's buried beneath a manure-heap in the village.' Teresa had told him the story during the night. 'He found El Catolico moving the gold. It seems he made a protest. So they killed him. You were saying, sir?'

Kearsey shook his head. 'How do you know?'

For an instant Sharpe was about to tell him, and then remembered that no one, outside the Company, knew that Teresa was no longer a prisoner. 'I was told, sir.'

Kearsey was not prepared to give up. He shook his head, as if trying to clear a bad dream. 'But you stole the gold!'

'I obeyed orders, sir.'

'Whose orders? I am the ranking officer!'

Sharpe suddenly felt sorry for the Major. Kearsey had found the gold, told Wellington, and had never been told of the General's plans. Sharpe felt in his pocket, found the square of paper, and hoped that the rain had not soaked through the folds. It had, but the writing was still legible. He handed it up to Kearsey.

'There, sir.'

Kearsey read it, his anger growing. 'It says nothing!'

'It orders all officers to assist me, sir. All.'

But Kearsey was not listening. He waved the scrap of damp paper towards Sharpe. 'It says nothing about the gold! Nothing! You could have kept this for months!'

Sharpe laughed. 'It hardly would mention gold, would it, sir? I mean, suppose the Spanish saw the orders; suppose they guessed what the General intended to do with the gold?'

Kearsey looked at him. 'You know?'

Sharpe nodded. 'It's not going to Cadiz, sir.' He said it as gently as he could.

Kearsey's reaction was extraordinary. For a few seconds he sat motionless, his eyes screwed tight, and then he tore the paper into shreds, violent gesture after violent gesture.

'God damn it, Sharpe!'

'What?' Sharpe had tried to save the paper, but too late.

Kearsey suddenly realized he had sworn. Remorse and anger fought on his face. Anger won. 'I have worked. God knows I have worked to help the Spanish and the British to work together. And I am rewarded by this!' He held the scraps of paper up and then, with a sudden jerk, scattered them into the wind. 'Are we to steal the gold, Sharpe?'

'Yes, sir. That's about the long and short of it.'

'We can't.' Kearsey was pleading.

'Whose side are you on?' Sharpe made the question brutal.

For an instant he thought that Kearsey's rage would come back, would explode into a blow aimed at the Rifleman, but Kearsey controlled it, and when he spoke his words were low and measured.

'We have honour, Sharpe. That is our private strength, our honour. We're soldiers, you and I. We cannot expect riches, or dignity, or continual victory. We will die, probably, in battle, or in a fever ward, and no one will remember us, so all that is left is honour. Do you understand?'

It was strange, standing in the growing warmth of the sun, and listening to the words that were wrenched from the centre of Kearsey's soul. He must have been disappointed, Sharpe thought, somewhere in his life. Perhaps he was lonely, spurned by the officers' mess, or perhaps once in his life the small man had been turned down by a woman he loved and now, growing old in his honour, he had found a job he loved. Kearsey loved Spain, and the Spanish, and the task of riding alone behind the enemy lines like a Christian who kept the faith in a world of heretics and persecution. Sharpe spoke gently.

'The General spoke to me, sir. He wants the gold. Without it the war is lost. If that's stealing, then we're stealing it. I assume that you will help us?'

Kearsey seemed not to hear. He was staring over Sharpe's head at the tower of the castillo and he muttered something so low that Sharpe could not hear the words.

'Pardon, sir?'

Kearsey's eyes flicked to the Rifleman. 'What shall it profit a man, Sharpe, if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul?'

Sharpe sighed. 'I doubt if we're losing our soul, sir. And anyway, do you think that El Catolico planned to give the gold to Cadiz?'

Kearsey slumped on his saddle as if he knew that Sharpe had spoken the truth. 'No.' The Major spoke softly. 'I suppose not. I suppose he wanted to keep it. But he would have used it to fight the French, Sharpe!'

'So will we, sir.'

'Yes. But it's Spanish gold, and we're not Spaniards.' He jerked himself upright and looked somewhat ruefully at the scraps of Sharpe's torn orders. 'We will take the gold to Wellington, Captain. But under my orders. You must release the girl, do you understand? I will not be a party to these threats, to this underhand procedure."

'No, sir.'

Kearsey looked at him, uncertain whether Sharpe was agreeing with him. 'You do understand, Sharpe?'