'You should join up, Sergeant.'

Harper grinned, shook his head. 'I'll stay with him.'

'You could do worse.' Garrard looked at Sharpe. Trouble?'

'It's over.'

Garrard sheathed his sword. 'Anything I can do?'

'Open a gate for us. Tonight.'

Garrard looked at him shrewdly. 'How many of you?'

'Two hundred and fifty. Cavalry and us.'

'Christ, mate. That's impossible. I thought you meant just you seven only.' He stopped, grinned. 'You with this gold?'

'That's us. You know about it?'

'God Almighty! Bloody orders from everyone to stop the gold leaving. We didn't even know there was any gold here.' He shook his head. 'I'm sorry, Dick. Can't help.'

Sharpe grinned. 'Doesn't matter. We'll manage.'

'You will.' He grinned again. 'I heard about Talavera. That was bloody well done. It really was.'

Sharpe pointed at Harper. 'He was with me.'

Garrard nodded to the Irishman. 'Proud of you.' He looked at his men. 'We'll do it next time, won't we, lads?' The Portuguese smiled back, nodded shyly to Sharpe.

'We must go, Tom. Work to do.' The farewells were said, promises to look each other up, that might or might not ever be kept, and Sharpe accepted Garrard's offer for the Portuguese soldiers to clear the bodies off the street.

'Go easy, Dick!'

'And you.' Sharpe looked at Harper. 'Did you see El Catolico?'

The Sergeant shook his head. 'There were enough of them, sir. But not him. Perhaps he doesn't do his own dirty work?'

Then where? Sharpe looked up at the roofs. The rooftops. He turned to the Sergeant.

'Do we have sentries on the roof?'

'The roof?' Alarm showed on the big face. 'Sweet Jesus!'

'Come on!' They began running. Not again, thought Sharpe. Please, God, not again. He remembered Josefina lying in the blood-stained sheets; he ran faster, the sword in his hand. 'Open up!'

The sentries turned, startled, and pushed open the courtyard gate. There was the smell of horses, torchlight, and he leapt up the steps, banged open the kitchen door, and there was the Company, eating, the firelight, candles, and Teresa, unharmed, at the end of the table. He breathed a sigh of relief, shook his head, and Lossow came over the floor.

'Welcome back! What is it?'

Sharpe pointed to the ceiling. 'Upstairs!' He was trying to catch his breath. 'Upstairs. The bastard's waiting upstairs.'

CHAPTER 22

Lossow shook his head. 'He's not here.'

'He's close.'

The German shrugged. 'We've searched.' They had looked in every room, every cupboard, even up chimneys and on the thick-tiled roof, but there was no sign of El Catolico or his men.

Sharpe was not satisfied. 'The other houses?'

'Yes, my friend.' Lossow was patient. The Germans had opened up houses either side, to sleep in glorious space and comfort, and all had been searched. The cavalryman took Sharpe's elbow. 'Come and eat.'

The Company, those not on guard, were in the kitchen, where a pot bubbled on the flames. Parry Jenkins lifted it clear with a pot-hook. 'Real stew, sir.'

The gold was locked in a store-room with a barrel of wine, Sergeant McGovern in grim charge, and Sharpe glanced at the door as he spooned down the meat and vegetables. Behind the padlock and bolts was the dragon's hoard and Sharpe remembered the stories well. If a man stole buried gold, the dragon would take its vengeance; and there would be only one way to avoid that revenge: by killing the dragon. The attack in the street, only half pressed home, was not the end of the matter. Sharpe guessed that El Catolico had parties throughout the small town looking for the Riflemen, but the dragon would want to be there at the death, to see the agony.

Lossow watched Sharpe eat.

'You think he'll come tonight?'

Sharpe nodded. 'He offered to stay on tomorrow, to help the defence, but that's just insurance. He wants it over with; he wants to get out before the French seal this place tight.'

'Then he wants to leave tomorrow.'

Knowles shrugged. 'Perhaps he won't come, sir. He's getting the gold, isn't he?'

Sharpe grinned. 'He thinks so.' He glanced at Teresa. 'No, he'll come.' He grinned at the girl. 'Major Kearsey thinks you should go back.'

She raised her eyebrows, said nothing. Before Sharpe had left Cox's headquarters Kearsey had taken him aside, pleaded that Teresa should be returned to her father. Sharpe had nodded. 'Send her father at ten o'clock tomorrow, sir.' Now he watched her. 'What do you want to do?'

She looked at him, almost with a challenge. 'What will you do?'

Sharpe's men, and some of the Germans, were listening to the conversation. Sharpe jerked his head at the door. 'Come into the small room. We'll talk.'

Harper took a jug of wine, Lossow and Knowles their curiosity. The girl followed them. She paused outside the small sitting-room door and put cool fingers on his hand. 'Are you going to win, Richard?'

He smiled. 'Yes.' If he did not, then she was dead. El Catolico would want revenge on her.

Inside the small room they pulled off dust-covers and sat in comfortable chairs. Sharpe was tired, bone-tired, and his shoulder was aching with a deep, throbbing pain. He trimmed a candle wick, waited for the flame to grow, and talked softly.

'You all know what's happening. We're ordered to surrender the gold tomorrow. Captain Lossow is ordered to leave; we are ordered to stay.'

He had already told them as they searched the houses, but he wanted to go over it, to look for the flaws, because he still hoped that the decision would prove unnecessary.

Lossow stirred in his chair. 'So it's all over?' He frowned, not believing his own question.

'No. Whether Cox likes it or not, we go.'

'And the gold?' Teresa's voice was steady.

'Goes with us.'

By some strange instinct they all relaxed, as if the statement were enough. 'The question is,' Sharpe went on, 'how?'

There was silence in the room. Harper looked asleep, his eyes closed, but Sharpe guessed that the Irishman was way ahead of the others. Knowles pummelled his chair-arm in frustration. 'If only we could get a message to the General!"

'We're too late. Time's run out.'

Sharpe did not expect them to provide an answer, but he wanted them to think through the steps, to know the argument, so that when he provided the solution, they would agree.

Lossow leaned forward into the candlelight. 'Cox won't let you go. He thinks we're stealing the gold.'

'He's right.' Teresa shrugged.

Knowles was frowning. 'Do we break out, sir? Make a run for it?'

Sharpe thought of the granite-faced ditches, the rows of cannon, the bent tunnels in the gateways with their portcullises and grim-faced sentries.

'No, Robert.'

Lossow grinned. 'I know. Murder Brigadier Cox.'

Sharpe did not smile. 'His second in command would back up his orders.'

'Good God! I was joking!' Lossow stared at Sharpe, suddenly convinced of the Rifleman's seriousness.

Somewhere a dog barked, perhaps in the French camp, and Sharpe knew that if the British survived this campaign, if he did his duty this night, then it would all have to be done again. Portugal reconquered, the border fortresses retaken, the French beaten not just from Spain but from all Europe. Lossow must have mistaken his expression for despair.

The German spoke softly. 'Have you thought of abandoning the gold?'

'No.' It was not true. He took a deep breath. 'I can't tell you why, I don't know how, but the difference between victory and failure depends on that gold. We have to take it out.' He nodded at Teresa. 'She's right. We are stealing the gold, on Wellington's instructions, and that's why there are no explicit orders. The Spanish' – he shrugged apologetically at the girl – 'God knows they're difficult allies. Think how much worse if they had written proof of this?' He leaned back. 'I can only tell you what I was told. The gold is more important than men, horses, regiments, or guns. If we lose it the war is over; we'll all go home, or more likely end up as French prisoners.'