But if Vivar attacked now, while Soult was still twelve leagues to the north, and while the precious fodder was still stored in the city, then a double blow could be struck: the supplies could be destroyed, and the gonfalon unfurled.

Vivar thanked the horsemen, then went to the fortress chapel where, for an hour, he prayed alone.

When he emerged, he found Sharpe. “We march tomorrow.”

“Not today?” If haste was so desperately needed, why wait the extra twenty-four hours?

But Vivar was adamant. “Tomorrow. We march tomorrow morning.”

The next dawn, before he had shaved, and before he had even swallowed a mug of the hot bitter tea which the Riflemen loved so much, Sharpe discovered why Vivar had waited that extra day. The Spaniard was trying to deceive the French with another false trail, to which end, the previous night, he had sent Louisa from the fortress. Her room was empty, her bed lay cold, and she was gone.

CHAPTER 13

“Why?” Sharpe’s question was both a challenge and a protest.

“She wanted to help,” Vivar said blithely. “She was eager to help, and I saw no reason why she should not. Besides, Miss Parker has eaten my food and drunk my wine for days, so why should she not repay that hospitality?”

“I told her it was a nonsense! The French will see through her story in minutes!”

“You believe so?” Vivar was sitting close to a water-butt just inside the fort’s inner gateway, where he was smearing footcloths with the pork fat that was issued to every soldier as a specific against blisters. He broke off the distasteful task to stare indignantly at Sharpe. “Why should the French think it strange that a young girl wishes to rejoin her family? I don’t find such a thing strange. Nor, Lieutenant, would I have thought it necessary for me to have either your approval or your opinion.”

Sharpe ignored the reproof. “You just sent her off into the night?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Two of my men are escorting Miss Parker as far as is possible, after which she may walk the remaining distance to the city.” Vivar wrapped one of the greasy cloths about his right foot, then turned with feigned astonishment as though he had just understood the true cause of Sharpe’s displeasure. “You are in love with her!”

“No!” Sharpe protested.

“Then I cannot think why you should be perturbed. Indeed, you should be delighted. Miss Parker will reluctantly inform the French that our attack had been abandoned.” Vivar pulled on his right boot.

Sharpe gaped. “You told her the attack was cancelled?”

Vivar began wrapping his left foot. “I also told her that we will capture the town of Padron at dawn tomorrow. The town lies some fifteen miles or so south of Santiago de Compostela.”

“They’ll never believe that!”

“On the contrary, Lieutenant, they will find it a most likely tale, far more likely than a hare-brained attack on Santiago de Compostela! Indeed, they will be amused that I ever contemplated such an attack, but my brother will entirely understand why I have chosen the lesser town of Padron. It is where Santiago’s funeral boat landed on the coast of Spain, and is thus accounted as a holy place. Not, I agree, as sanctified as Santiago’s burial site, but Louisa’s other indiscretions will explain why Padron will suffice.”

“What other indiscretions?”

“She will tell them that the gonfalon is so far destroyed by time and corruption that it cannot be unfurled. So, instead my plan is to crumble its tattered shreds into a dust that I shall scatter on the sea. That way, though I cannot perform the miracle I wish, I can at least ensure that the gonfalon will never pass into the hands of Spain’s enemies. In brief, Lieutenant, Miss Parker will tell Colonel de I’Eclin that I am abandoning the attack because I fear the strength of their defences. You should appreciate the force of that argument, should you not? You keep telling me how fearsome our enemy is.” Vivar pulled on his left boot and stood. “My hope is that Colonel de I’Eclin will leave the city tonight to ambush our approach march on Padron.”

At least Vivar’s false trail had a plausibility that Louisa’s enthusiastic ideas had lacked, but even so Sharpe was astonished that the Spaniard would risk the girl’s life. He broke the skim of ice on the water-butt and took out his razor which he laid on the butt’s rim. “The French have more sense than to leave the city at night.”

“If they think they have a chance of ambushing our march, and of capturing the gonfalon? I think they might. Louisa will also inform them that you and I have quarrelled, and that you have taken your Riflemen south towards Lisbon.

She will say it was your ungentlemanly attentions which drove her to seek her family’s protection. Thus de l’Eclin will not fear your Riflemen, and I think he might be enticed out of his lair. And if they do not march? What have we lost?“

“We may have lost Louisa!” Sharpe said a little too forcefully. “She could be killed!”

“True, but many women are dying for Spain, so why should Miss Parker not die for Britain?” Vivar took off his shirt and brought out his razor and mirror-fragment. “I think you are fond of her,” he said accusingly.

“Not especially,” Sharpe tried to sound offhand, “but I feel responsible.”

“That is a most dangerous thing to feel for a young woman; responsibility can lead to affection, and affection thus born, I think, is not so lasting as…“ Vivar’s voice faded away. Sharpe had pulled his ragged and torn shirt over his head, and the Spaniard stared with horror at his naked back. ”Lieutenant?“

“I was flogged.” Sharpe, so used to the terrible scars, was always surprised when other people found them remarkable. “It was in India.”

“What had you done?”

“Nothing. A Sergeant didn’t like me, that’s all. The bastard lied.” Sharpe plunged his head under the frigid water, then came up gasping and dripping. He unfolded his razor and began scraping at his chin’s dark stubble. “It was a very long time ago.”

Vivar shuddered, then, sensing that Sharpe would not talk further about it, dipped his own razor in the water. “Myself, I do not think the French will kill Louisa.”

Sharpe grunted, as if to intimate that he did not really care one way or the other.

“The French, I think,” Vivar went on, “do not hate the English as much as they hate the Spanish. Besides, Louisa is a girl of great beauty, and such girls provoke men’s feelings of responsibility.” Vivar waved his razor towards Sharpe as proof of the assertion. “She also has an air of innocence which, I think, will both protect her and make de l’Eclin believe her.” He paused to scrape at the angle of his jaw. “I told her she should weep. Men always believe weeping women.”

“That could make him take her damned head off,” Sharpe said harshly.

“I would be most sorry if they did,” Vivar said slowly. “Most sorry.”

“Would you?” Sharpe, for the first time, heard the betrayal of genuine emotion in the Spaniard’s voice. He stared at Vivar, and repeated the question accusingly, “Would you?”

“Why ever should I not? Of course, I hardly know her, but she seems a most admirable young lady.” Vivar paused, evidently contemplating Louisa’s virtues, then shrugged. “It’s a pity she’s a heretic, but better to be a Methodist than an unbeliever like yourself. At least she’s halfway to heaven.”

Sharpe felt a pang of jealousy. It was evident that Bias Vivar had taken more of an interest in Louisa than he had either detected or believed possible.

“Not that it matters,” Vivar said casually. “I hope she lives. But if she dies? Then I shall pray for her soul.”

Sharpe shuddered in the cold, wondering how many souls would need prayers spoken before the next two days were done.

Vivar’s expedition trudged through a thin cold rain which pecked at the day’s dying.