Above all Helena spoke of Leroux, of his famed savagery, and of the fear she had that he would escape. Sharpe smiled. “He can’t escape.”

“Why not?”

He had gestured at the wasteland. “It’s ringed, totally. No one can get through, not even a rat!”

That was his one certainty, that the Light troops which surrounded the beleaguered forts were too vigilant, too thick on the ground, for Leroux to slip past. Leroux, as Hogan had said, would try to escape in the chaos of the successful assault. Sharpe’s problem would be to make sense of that chaos and to recognise the tall Frenchman.

Helena had shrugged. “He’ll disguise himself.”

“I know. But he can’t hide his height, and he has a weakness.”

“A weakness?” She had been surprised.

“The sword.” Sharpe smiled, knowing he was right. “He won’t lose that sword, it’s part of him. If I see a tall man with that sword then I won’t care if he’s dressed as a British General of Division. That’s him.”

“You sound very sure.”

“I am.” He sipped at the cool, white wine and thought of the joy of owning that sword. The Kligenthal would be his, within a week, but with it would come the loss of this woman.

The loss would be secret, as it had to be, yet there were times when he wanted to shout his present joy from the rooftops, and times when it was hard to disguise. He walked towards the Company billets one dawn, crossing the great Plaza, and there was a shout from one of the upper balconies. “Sharpe! You rogue! Stay there!”

Lord Spears waved at him, turned into the building and reappeared a moment later in one of the doorways of the arcade. He walked, yawning, into the dawn light and then stopped. “By God, Richard! You look almost human! What have you done to yourself?”

“Just cleaned the uniform.”

“Just cleaned the uniform!” Lord Spears mimicked him, then prowled round the Rifleman, peering at him. “You’ve been putting your boots under someone’s bed, haven’t you? Sweet Christ, Richard, you think I can’t spot a sin at a thousand paces? Who is she?”

“No one.” Sharpe grinned in embarrassment.

“And you’re damned cheerful for the early morning. Who is it?”

“I told you, no one. You’re up early.”

“Up early? I haven’t been to bloody bed. I’ve been at the bloody cards again. I’ve just lost the Irish lands to some boring man.”

“Truly?”

Spears laughed. “Truly. It’s not bloody funny, I know, but Christ!” He shrugged. “Mother’s going to be upset. Sorry, Mother.”

“Have you got anything left?”

“The dower house. Few acres in Hertfordshire. A horse. Sabre. The family name.” He laughed again, then linked his good arm into Sharpe’s and led him across the Plaza. His voice was serious, pleading. “Who have you been with? Someone. You weren’t home last night and that frighten-ingly enormous Sergeant of yours didn’t know where you were. Where were you?”

“Just out.”

“You think we Spears are foolish? That we don’t know? That we can’t be sympathetic to a fellow sinner?” He stop-ped, pulled his arm free, and clicked his fingers. “Helena! You bastard! You’ve been with Helena!”

“Don’t be so ridiculous!”

“Ridiculous? Nonsense. She never appeared at that party of hers, she was said to be ill, and she hasn’t been seen since. Nor have you. Good God! You lucky bastard! Admit it!”

“It is not true.” Even to Sharpe it sounded lame.

“It is true.” Spears was grinning with delight. “All right, if it ain’t true, who were you with?”

“I’ve told you, no one.”

Spears took a deep breath and bellowed at the shuttered windows of the Plaza. “Good morning Salamanca! I have an announcement to make!” He grinned at Sharpe. „I’ll tell them, Richard, unless you admit the truth to me.“ He took another deep breath.

Sharpe interrupted him. “Dolores.”

“Dolores?” Spears’ grin grew wider.

“She’s a cobbler’s daughter. She likes Riflemen.”

Spears laughed. “You don’t say! Dolores, the cobbler’s daughter? Are you going to introduce me?”

“She’s shy.”

“Oh! Shy. How the hell did you meet her, then?”

“I helped her in the street.”

“Of course!” Spears pretended total belief. “You were on your way to feed the stray dogs or help the orphans, right? And you just helped her. Dropped her cobbles, had she?”

“Don’t mock. She’s only got one leg. Some bastard sawed off the bottom two inches of her peg.”

“A one-legged cobbler’s daughter? Saves her father a decent bit of money, no doubt. You’re a liar, Richard Sharpe.”

“I swear it.”

Spears took a huge breath and bellowed again. “Richard Sharpe has rogered Dolores! The cobbler’s hopping daughter!” He roared with laughter at his own joke and bowed to some astonished labourers who were dismantling the barri-cades that had been used for the previous day’s bullfight. He linked his arm with Sharpe again and dropped his voice. “How is La Marquesa?”

“How would I know? I haven’t seen her since we were at San Christobal.”

“Richard! Richard! You’re too clever for me. I wish you’d admit it, even if it isn’t true, it would be a perfectly delicious scandal.”

“I can’t see that stopping you spreading it.”

“True, but no one believes me!” Spears sighed, then suddenly became serious. “Let me ask you one more question.”

“Go on.”

“Have you heard of ”El Mirador“?”

“El Mirador?” In his surprise, Sharpe checked.

Spears stopped as well. “You have, haven’t you?”

“Only as a name.” Sharpe wished he had not betrayed his surprise.

“A name? What connection?”

Sharpe paused to think of an answer. It crossed his mind that this could be some kind of a test, arranged by La Marquesa, to see if he was really trustworthy. It brought home to him, as if he had forgotten, the total secrecy that had to surround her. He shrugged. “No connection. Is he one of the Guerilla leaders?”

“Like El Empecinado?” Spears shook his head. “No, he’s not a Partisan, he’s a spy here in Salamanca.”

“Ours or theirs?”

“Ours.” Spears bit his lip, then turned fiercely on Sharpe. “Think! Try to remember! Where did you hear it?”

Sharpe was taken aback by the sudden passion, then had an inspiration. “You remember Major Kearsey? I think he mentioned it, but I can’t remember why. It was two years ago.”

Spears swore. Kearsey had been, like Lord Spears, an Exploring Officer, but he was dead, swept off the ramparts of Almeida when Sharpe blew up the magazine.

“How do you know about him?” Sharpe asked.

Spears shrugged. “You hear rumours as an Exploring Officer.”

“Why is it so important now?”

“It’s not, but I’d like to know.” He jerked the arm in its sling. “When this is healed I’ll be back to work and I’ll need friends everywhere.”

Sharpe began walking again. “Hardly in Salamanca. The French have gone.”

Spears matched Sharpe’s stride. “Only for the moment, Richard. We have to defeat Marmont first, otherwise we’ll be scuttling back to Portugal with our tails between our legs.” He looked at Sharpe. “If you hear anything, will you tell me?”

“About El Mirador?”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you ask Hogan?”

Spears yawned. “Maybe I will, maybe I will.”

At midday Sharpe went to the main battery and watched the gunners heating the solid shot in their portable furnaces. The assault, he knew, had to be close, even the next day, and it would mark the end of his visits to the Palacio Casares. He wished the gunners were not so industrious. He watched them slaving at the bellows fixed to one end of the forge while other men shovelled the coal from the bunker at the far end. In the centre was the cast iron furnace, roaring in the noon heat, the flames escaping at the bottom of the casing, and he marvelled that men could work with that heat, under the sun. It took fifteen minutes to heat each eighteen pounder shot until the red glow had gone deep into the iron and the ball could be dragged from the crucible with long tongs and rolled carefully onto the metal cradle, carried by two men, that took the shot to the gun. The barrel was loaded with powder, then with a thick wad of soaking cloth that stopped the heated shot from igniting the charge. It was rammed home swiftly, the men eager to preserve the red-heat, and then the gun bellowed and the shot left the smallest, finest trace of smoke in its flat trajectory into the demolished French defences. Hardly an enemy gun replied now. The next assault, Sharpe knew, would meet small resistance. He wondered if Leroux was already dead, the body laid out with the others killed in the siege, and that thus these gunners would already have done Sharpe’s work.