It was empty, mocking him, white stonework in the moonlight, and the ladder had presumably been put there for some repairs and later taken down, though who would repair anything just before the French began their bombardment was a mystery. He padded into the space, a large, square area, and still was hidden from the house by the loom of the transept roof, and now he could hear voices, across the street, calling him. He could hear Harper, alarmed, and Lossow shouting at sentries, and he was about to call back when he heard the creak, and jumped to one side.

The trapdoor opened, an inch or two at first, sending out a plume of cigar smoke. Then it was pushed back until held by a chain and a man appeared, dark-cloaked, who climbed on to the roof and did not see Sharpe in the shadow by the tower, because he did not expect to see anything. The man, heavily moustached, crossed to the transept roof, leaned past it till he could see the street, then softly called back in Spanish. The Partisan must have heard the commotion, Sharpe thought, and sent a sentry to look. The man puffed on his cigar, listened to the shouts, and crouched to stub it out. No one else had appeared; the church interior was in darkness; Sharpe hardly breathed as he pushed himself close to the stonework.

An urgent whisper came from the ladder beneath the trapdoor. The man with the cigar nodded. 'Si, si.' He sounded weary, yawned, and came back to the ladder. At first he was not sure what he saw, just a shadow, and he peered at the shape.

The shape moved, turned into a man with a sword, and the tired sentry jumped back, opened his mouth, but Sharpe was ramming the blade forward, aiming at the throat, and he missed. It grated on a rib, slid, and then went home, but the man had shouted and there were feet on the ladder. The damned sword was stuck. Sharpe let the blade go down with its victim, put his foot on the man's chest, turned, and felt the suction give way and the blade free itself. There was a second man half out the trapdoor, a pistol in his hand, and Sharpe ducked, threw the sword out as the gun exploded and the ball hammered into the roof tiles. Sharpe shouted an inarticulate challenge, flailed the blade down on the man, and heard him fall from the ladder. He grabbed the trapdoor, was about to shut it.

'No!' The voice was from below; the church suddenly lit up. 'Wait!' It was El Catolico's voice, deep and silken. 'Who is that?'

'Sharpe.' He was standing behind the trapdoor, invisible from below, unassailable.

El Catolico chuckled. 'May I come up?'

'Why?'

'You can't come down. There are too many of us. So I have to come up. Will you let me up?'

There were shouts across the street. 'Captain! Captain!'

He ignored them. 'Just you?'

'Just me.' The voice was amused, tolerant. Sharpe heard the footsteps on the ladder, saw the light coming, and then a hand put an unmasked lantern on the roof and there was El Catolico's dark head, turning, smiling, and the other hand brought up his rapier, which he tossed, ringing, on to the far side of the roof. 'There. Now you can kill me. You won't, though, because you are a man of honour.'

'Am I?'

El Catolico smiled again, still halfway through the trapdoor. 'Kearsey doesn't think so, but Kearsey equates honour with God. You don't. May I come up? I'm alone.'

Sharpe nodded. He waited till the tall Spaniard was on the roof and then kicked the trapdoor shut. It was heavy, thick enough to stop a bullet, but for added safety Sharpe pulled the iron ladder on top.

El Catolico watched. 'You are nervous. They won't come up.' He cocked a friendly eye at Sharpe. 'Why are you here?'

'The ladder was missing.'

The tall Spaniard looked puzzled. The hands spread apart in an uncertain gesture. 'Missing?'

Sharpe kicked it. 'It was up the tower this morning. This evening it was gone.'

'Ah!' He laughed. 'We used it to climb the church wall.' He looked at Sharpe's dishevelled uniform. 'I see you had other methods.' In one of his graceful gestures he opened his cloak. 'You see? No pistol. I have only the sword.' He made no attempt to pick it up.

Above the church roof Sharpe could see the sudden flare of torches. Search parties were starting out. There was sweat on the palm of his sword hand, but he would not give the Spaniard the satisfaction of seeing him wipe it off.

'Why are you here?'

'To pray with you.' El Catolico laughed, jerked his head at the street. 'They're making so much noise they won't hear us. No, Captain, I'm here to kill you.'

Sharpe smiled. 'Why? You've got the gold.'

El Catolico nodded. 'I don't trust you, Sharpe. As long as you're alive I don't think the gold will be easy to collect, though Brigadier Cox presents you with a problem.' Sharpe acknowledged it with a nod and El Catolico looked at him shrewdly. 'How were you going to solve it?'

'The same way that I intend to solve it tomorrow.' He wished he were as confident as he sounded. He had seen El Catolico in action, measured swords with him, and he was thinking desperately how he could win the fight that must start soon. The tall Spaniard smiled, gestured at his rapier.

'Do you mind? You can kill me, of course, before I reach it, but I don't think you will.' He had talked as he moved and then he stopped, picked it up, and turned round. 'I was right. You see? You are a man of honour!'

Sharpe could feel the new blood wet on his chest and he rested his sword as the Spaniard, with a studied ease, dropped his cloak and flexed the blade. El Catolico took the tip of the rapier in his left hand and bent it, almost double.

'A fine blade, Captain. From Toledo. But then, I forgot, we have already tried each other.' He moved into the swordsman's crouch, right leg bent, left leg extended behind. 'En garde!''

The rapier flickered towards Sharpe, but the Rifleman did not move. El Catolico straightened. 'Captain, do you not want to fight? I assure you it is a better death than the one I had planned.'

'What was that?' Sharpe thought of the ladder, the sudden rush in the dark.

The Spaniard smiled. 'A distraction down the street, a fire, lots of shouts, and you would have come to your balcony. The ever ready Captain, prepared for battle, and then a volley of shots would have stopped you forever.'

Sharpe smiled. It was far simpler than his extraordinary imaginings, and it would have worked. 'And the girl?'

'Teresa?' El Catolico's pose slipped a little. He shrugged. 'What could she have done with you dead? She would have been forced back.'

'You would have enjoyed that.'

The Spaniard shrugged. 'En garde, Captain.'

Sharpe had so little time. He had to unsettle the Spaniard's elegant posture. El Catolico knew he would win, could afford to be magnanimous, was anticipating the inevitable display of his superior swordsmanship. Sharpe still kept his blade low and the rapier went down.

'Captain! Are you frightened?' El Catolico smiled gently. 'You're afraid I'm the better man.'

'Teresa says not.'

It was not much, but enough. Sharpe saw the fury in El Catolico's face, the sudden loss of control, and he brought up the huge blade, rammed it forward, and knew that El Catolico would not parry but simply kill him for the insult. The rapier flickered, lightning-fast, but Sharpe turned his body, saw the blade go past, and brought his elbow hard into El Catolico's ribs, turned back and hammered down with the brass-guarded hilt of the sword on to the Spaniard's head. El Catolico was fast. He twisted away, the blow glanced off his skull, but Sharpe heard the grunt and he followed it with a sweeping killer of a blow, a stroke that would have disembowelled an ox, and the Spaniard leapt backwards, and again, and Sharpe had failed, and he knew, with a fighter's instinct, that El Catolico had recovered, survived the devastating attack, and would now fall back on his skill.