The diners stopped, forks halfway to their mouths, Josefina's fork an inch from Sharpe's lips, and there in the doorway stood Patrick Harper, grinning, and beside him, much smaller, her eyes dark, her hair black inside her hood, was Teresa. Sharpe's wife.

'Hello, husband.

CHAPTER 17

She would not enter the inn, not Teresa, not while French officers were there. She hated the French with all the passion of her passionate soul. They had raped and killed her mother, she repaid them by killing as many as she could find and ambush in the border hills. Sharpe walked with her down the village street, towards the Convent, and she looked up at him. 'Forgotten how to eat, Richard?

'She was only being playful.

'Playful! She laughed at him. The light of the straw torches showed her thin, strong face. There was none of Josefina's softness here, this woman had the face of a hawk; a beautiful hawk, but still a killer, a hunter, a creature of supple strength and small pity. The face was proud, the face of old Spain, mellowed only by lustrous, large eyes. The mother of his child. 'That's the whore-bitch Josefina, yes?

'Yes.

'And you still wear her ring, yes?

Sharpe stopped, surprised. He had forgotten it, and Josefina had not mentioned it, but he did still wear the silver ring engraved with an Eagle that Josefina had bought for him before the battle of Talavera and before he had taken the eagle standard from the French. He looked at the ring, then up to Teresa's eyes. 'Jealous?

'Richard. She smiled. 'You wear the ring for the eagle, not her, I know that. Still, I suspect you think she is very beautiful, yes?

'Too fat.

'Too fat! You think anyone's too fat who's wider than a ramrod. She was facing him and she punched him lightly on the arm. 'One day I'm going to become fat, very fat, and I will see if you truly love me.

'I love you.

'And you think that forgives all. She smiled at him, stood on tiptoe, and he kissed her, aware of the interested gaze of a dozen French sentries as well as Harper's looming figure twenty yards away. She frowned. 'Is that how you love me?

He kissed her again, holding her this time, and she slid her face against his cheek and whispered in his ear, and then she pulled away to see the expression on his face.

'Truly? He asked.

'Yes. This way. She took him by the hand and walked with him beyond the light of the torches, out into the open field. The mist was still thin, the stars still showing hazed overhead, but the clouds had spread further south and promised foul weather. She stopped him when they were well beyond the earshot of any Frenchman in the village.

'Six Battalions, Richard. They're in a village three miles down the road. She gestured eastwards. 'And that's not all.

'Goon.

'Five miles beyond them there's more. Far more. We saw five batteries of guns, maybe six. More cavalry, more infantry, and big carts. Supply carts.

'Jesus. He felt himself sobering fast in the cold air, under the impact of Teresa's news.

The Partisans were moving, spurred by Nairn's request, and Teresa had ridden with a dozen men north and east. With instinctive wariness she had circled towards her destination, coming at Adrados from the east, and in the Christmas dusk she had seen the French troops that were hidden in the valley and aimed like a lance towards Portugal. She guessed ten French Battalions, at least, maybe more, and Sharpe knew that those troops had not been marched into the winter hills just to subdue Pot-au-Feu.

For what, then? To conquer north Portugal, as Nairn had suggested? That seemed a paltry ambition, a feather to lay in the scale against the leaden weight of the French defeat in Russia, but what then? Why was a French corps this far north, when the real prizes would be to recapture the border fortresses of Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz? If the Peer lost those towns then the campaign of 1813 would be set back by weeks, even months.

Teresa clung to his arm. 'Why do they say they're here?

'The same reason as us. To destroy Pot-au-Feu.

'Bastard liars.

Sharpe shivered in the cold. He could see the fires at the watchtower and he thought of Frederickson preparing a defence, but a defence that had never been designed to beat off batteries of artillery and massed infantry.

Teresa's face was pale in the darkness. 'So what will you do?

'It's not up to me. I'm not in command.

'Major?

'Yes?

She laughed. 'A Major! Are you pleased?

He laughed. 'Yes.

'Patrick's pleased. He says you deserve it. I hope you're not going to run away from them.

'Not if I can help it. He turned and looked at the village. 'No. We won't run away, but we'll need help.

She nodded, turning with him. 'My men are riding for help in the morning. She named a half-dozen Partisan leaders who were within a day's ride.

'And you?

She pulled her cloak tight about her. 'What do you want me to do?

'Go west. Take a message to our lines. So far they don't even know there are any French in the valley.

She nodded. 'And the message?

'That we're holding the Gateway of God.

She liked that, smiling in the darkness, her teeth white and even. She looked north. 'I'll go soon, tonight, before the snow.

He wished she would wait till morning, but she was right, and Sharpe despised himself for needing her protection against his assignation at half past three. There would be no assignation, not this night, because he had a defence to prepare and a battle to fight in the dawn. Teresa seemed to sense his thoughts for she smiled at him, and her voice was teasing. 'I think the whore-bitch will be safe from you tonight.’I think so.

They walked slowly towards the lights in the village street and Teresa brought out a wrapped package from beneath her cloak and handed it to him. 'Open it.

Sharpe pulled the string open, undid the cloth wrapping, and there was a doll inside the parcel. He moved closer to the light, and smiled. The doll was a Rifleman. Teresa seemed worried. 'You like it?

‘It's beautiful.

'I made it for Antonia. She wanted Sharpe to like it. He held it into the light and he saw the care and trouble that had gone into the tiny uniform. The doll was just six inches high, yet the green jacket showed every piece of black piping, small loops intricate at the facings crossed by a thin, black crossbelt. The face was carved from wood. He lifted off the tiny black-peaked shako and saw black hair beneath.

'Wool. She smiled. 'I was going to give it to her for Christmas. Today. It will wait.’

’How is she?

'Lovely. Teresa took the doll back and began to wrap it with delicate care. 'Lucia looks after her. Lucia was Teresa's sister-in-law. 'She's very good with her. I suppose she has to be, we're not the best parents in the world. She shrugged.

'Tell her the doll's from me, too. He had nothing to give his daughter. She nodded. 'It's supposed to be you. She smiled. 'She can have a doll and call it Father. I'll tell her it's from you as well.

Sharpe thought of his words to Frederickson. Leave her to life. He did not want that. Antonia was his only flesh and blood, but she did not know him, nor he her, and he looked up into the mist at a blurred star and thought how selfish he was. He preferred to live on the blade-edge of danger and glory rather than raise a family in peace and security. Antonia was a child of war, and war, as Ducos had said, brought death more often than life. 'Does she speak yet?

'A few words. Teresa's voice was subdued. 'Mamma. She calls Ramon ‘Gogga’, I don't know why. She laughed, but there was little pleasure in her voice.

Antonia would speak Spanish. She had no one to call Father except her uncle, Ramon, and she was lucky in him. More fortunate in her uncle than in her father.