'If Sharpe is alive, Hogan, we'll assume he does what you say. Avoid Almeida.' He dismissed the problem, looked up at the Irishman. 'How does the work go?'

'Well, my lord, excellently. But…'

'I know. The money. Can it wait a week?'

'Ten days.'

Wellington's eyebrows went up in mock surprise. 'Some good news. Let's hope for more.'

He passed on to other business, to a General Order that limited field officers' leave in Lisbon to just twenty-four hours. If they couldn't find a woman in that time, the General claimed, they might as well not stay on and look. There would be only one exception. The blue eyes looked at Hogan.

'If that damned rogue gets back, give him a month.'

The damned rogue, with a hurting shoulder and a seething sense of frustration, was riding a horse into the intricate defences of Almeida. Lossow rode beside him.

'I'm sorry, Sharpe. We had no choice!'

'I know. I know.'

It was true, too, however grudgingly he admitted it. Every move was headed off by damned Frenchmen who seemed to be everywhere. They had been chased twice, lost a German trooper, and in the end, exhausted and hunted, they turned for the safety of the town. Sharpe had wanted to lay up in the country, travel in darkness, but the French were alerted and he knew that there was no sense in being chased ragged round the east bank of the Coa.

Straw torches, soaked in resin, flamed and smoked in the tunnelled gateway, casting lurid shadows on the Portuguese infantry who had dragged open the huge doors and now watched the tired men ride and walk into the town. The insides of Sharpe's legs were sore; he hated riding horses, but Lossow had insisted. The gold was all on horseback, carried by the Germans, and Sharpe looked at them, all alert, and then at Lossow.

'Why don't we ride straight through? Out the other side?'

Lossow laughed. 'They must be fed! The horses, I mean. One good dinner of corn and they'll go through the French like the pox through a regiment. We go in the morning, ja?'

'Dawn?'

'Yes, my friend. Dawn."

There was still hope. The French had not even surrounded Almeida; they had ridden the last few miles unmolested, and Sharpe guessed that the cavalry patrols were concentrated to the north. In the southern sky, beyond the bulk of the castle, he could see the glow of fires, and assumed that the French had chosen the easier countryside in which to build their artillery park. To the west, where the river was so tantalizingly close, he had seen no fires, except in the distance, and they were British. Success was so close.

Kearsey, on yet another borrowed horse, led the procession into the Plaza. The castle and cathedral were close to the northern gate where they had entered, and the big Plaza seemed to be the only inhabited place in the town. Sharpe looked for Knowles.

'Lieutenant?'

'Sir?'

'Go to the lower town. You'll find billets. Knock a house open.' There were dozens of empty houses. 'Meet me back here. Sergeant?"

Harper came alongside the horse and Sharpe gestured at Teresa. 'She'll need a room. I'll join the Company when I'm finished here.'

Harper grinned. 'Yes, sir.'

Cox's headquarters were dark inside and Kearsey, Sharpe, and Lossow waited in an echoing hallway while a sleepy orderly went upstairs. The German officer grinned.

'In bed! Lucky man!'

'Major!' Cox was at the top of the stairs, his hair ruffled, dressed in a long red gown belted at his waist. 'You're back! A moment! Go into the drawing-room. Candles!'

Sharpe pulled back a heavy velvet curtain and across the Plaza could see the dark shape of the squat cathedral. There was a bustle behind him as Portuguese servants brought in candles and tapers, wine and food, and he let the curtain drop and sat, exhausted, in a deep, comfortable chair. Down the road, he thought, in the morning. One last effort, one last surprise attack, and it was done. He helped himself to the wine, offered some to Lossow, ignored the disapproving look from Kearsey.

The door opened. 'You helped yourself. Good!' Cox had pulled on a shirt and trousers, brushed his hair, and he nodded amicably at Sharpe. 'Captain. Captain Lossow. What can I do for you?'

Sharpe sat up, surprised. Did Cox not know? He exchanged a glance with Lossow; they both looked at Kearsey, expecting him to speak, but the Major sat tight-lipped. Sharpe put down his wine.

'You know about the gold, sir?'

Cox nodded; a shadow on his face hid the expression, but Sharpe thought it was guarded. 'I know, Captain.'

'We have it, sir. We must take it to Celorico. We wanted to feed the horses, rest, and leave at dawn. With your permission, sir, we'd like the western gate opened an hour before first light.'

Cox nodded, leaned over and poured himself a small glass of wine. 'Whose gold is it?'

Sharpe felt an immense burden come back. 'I am under orders from Lord Wellington, sir. Orders that tell me to take the gold to him.'

Cox's eyebrows shot up. 'Good! Let me see the orders, then!'

Sharpe glanced at Kearsey, who reddened. The Major cleared his throat. 'The orders were accidentally destroyed, sir. No blame to Captain Sharpe.'

Cox's hope seemed to diminish. He peered at Kearsey over his wine. 'You saw them? What did they say?'

'That all officers should render assistance to Captain Sharpe.' Kearsey spoke in a neutral voice.

Cox nodded. 'And Sharpe is taking the gold to Lord Wellington, right?'

Sharpe nodded, but Kearsey interrupted. 'The orders did not say, sir.'

'For God's sake, sir!' Sharpe exploded, but Cox banged on the table.

'Did your orders specifically mention the gold?'

'No, sir.'

Sharpe damned Kearsey for his quibbling honesty. Without the Major's last remark the Light Company might be homeward-bound in a few hours. Cox's fingers drummed on the table.

'I have a problem, gentlemen.' He pulled papers towards him, muttered something about tidiness, and held out a thick piece of parchment, sealed with a heavy wax circle, and waved it in the candlelight. 'A request from the Spanish government, our allies, that the gold does not pass through British hands. Damned strange, really.'

Lossow coughed. 'Strange, sir?'

Cox nodded. 'Fellow arrives today, full fig, and tells me about the gold. It was the first I knew about it. He's got an escort for it. Spanish Colonel. He's called Jovellanos.'

Sharpe looked at Kearsey. He knew the answer. 'Jovellanos?'

'El Catolico.' Kearsey stretched for the piece of paper and held the seal up to the candle before reading the words. 'It's in order, sir. Genuine.'

'How the hell can it be in order?' Sharpe's right hand was gripped tight into a fist. 'He's a bloody bandit! A crook! He wrote the damned thing himself! We have orders, sir, from the General. From Lord Wellington. That gold goes to Celorico!'

Cox, who had been friendly, scowled at Sharpe. 'I see no need for anger, Captain Sharpe. Colonel Jovellanos is here, my guest.'

'But, sir' – Lossow broke in, glancing at Sharpe sympathetically – 'Captain Sharpe speaks the truth. We were told that the gold was important. It had to go to the lord Wellington.'

Cox took a deep breath, let it out, tapped his toe on the floor. 'God damn it, gentlemen, I am facing a siege which will begin any day now. The enemy's guns are in sight, the placements are being dug, and you bring me this?'

Sharpe repeated doggedly, 'We have orders, sir.'

'So you say.' Cox picked up the paper. 'Is there a junta for Castile?'

Kearsey nodded. 'Yes, sir.'

'And does Joaquim Jovellanos have authority from it?'

Kearsey nodded again.

'And the gold is theirs?'

The nod again.

The paper dropped on to the table. 'The General gave me no orders!'

Sharpe sighed. An English Brigadier in the Portuguese army faced with a Spanish Colonel, an English Captain, a German cavalryman, Spanish gold, and no orders. He had an idea.