CHAPTER 18

The Reverend Doctor Patrick Curtis, known as Don Patricio Cortes, Rector of the Irish College and Professor of Astronomy and Natural History at the University of Salamanca, held the rifle as though it were a poisonous snake that might, at any second, turn and bite him. Sharpe remembered how Leroux had run to this man’s room, how Spears had described Curtis volunteering to fight against the English, and now the tall priest faced Sharpe. The frizzen that covered the pan of the rifle was up and the elderly Irishman clicked it down into place. He smiled. “You see? It still works. It’s your rifle, Captain.”

The thunder echoed in the sky. It sounded like heavy siege shot being rolled on giant floor boards. The rain was hissing steadily on the river’s surface. Sharpe was five paces from the man. He thought of jumping at him, hoping that the priest would hesitate before pulling the trigger, but he knew that the wound would slow him down. He looked at Curtis’ right hand and raised his voice over the sound of the rain. “You have to have a finger on the trigger to make it work.”

The bushy eyebrows went up in surprise. “It’s not loaded, Captain. I’m merely returning it to you. Here.” He held it out. Sharpe did not move and the Irish priest just shrugged and propped the rifle against the wall.

Sharpe jerked his head towards the weapon. “It’s bad for them to stay cocked. It weakens the spring.”

“You learn something every day.” Curtis picked up the rifle, pulled the trigger, and flinched as the spark cracked on the empty pan. He put the weapon down again. “You don’t seem overjoyed to see me.”

“Should I be?”

“You could be grateful to me. I went out of my way to return your gun. I had to get your address from the Town Major and then smuggle it out under my cassock. It would be bad for my reputation if I were seen going fully armed about the streets.” Curtis gave a deprecating smile.

“You could have returned it earlier.” Sharpe kept his voice cold. He wanted this interfering priest gone. He wanted La Marquesa.

“I wish I could have returned it earlier. It was stolen by one of the College’s stonemasons. His wife told me and I retrieved it for you.” He pointed at the weapon. “And here it is, safely restored.” He waited for Sharpe to speak, but the Rifleman was morose. Curtis sighed, walked to the edge of the shelter and looked at the rain. “Dear oh dear. What weather!” The surface of the river was corruscated by the rain. The sun, perversely, still showed in the west beneath the great cloud bank. Curtis pulled up his cassock and sat down. He gave Sharpe a friendly smile. “Do you mind if I sit it out? There was a time when I rode in all weathers, but I’m seventy-two this year, Mr. Sharpe, and the good Lord may not look kindly on me getting a chill.”

Sharpe was not feeling polite. He wanted to be alone until La Marquesa came, he wanted to think of her, to wallow in the misery of the anticipation of their parting. This last night was precious to him, something to hold against the bad times, and now this damned priest was settling down for a cosy chat. Sharpe kept his voice harsh. “I’m expecting company.”

Curtis ignored him. He waved an expansive hand round the small, pretty shelter. “I know this place well. I used to be the Marques’s confessor and he was always kind to me. He let me use this for some of my observations.” He shifted himself so he was looking at Sharpe. “I watched last year’s comet from in here. Remarkable. Did you see it?”

“No.”

“You missed something, you really did. The Marques was of the opinion that the comet affected the grape harvest, that it was responsible for the good vintage. I don’t understand that, but undoubtedly last year’s wine was excellent. Excellent.”

A great explosion of thunder saved Sharpe the necessity of replying. It echoed across the sky, grew and faded, and the rain seemed to seethe down with more force. Curtis tut-tutted. “I presume you’re waiting for La Marquesa.”

“You can presume what you like.”

“True.” Curtis nodded. “It concerns me, Mr. Sharpe. Her husband is a man I would call a friend. I’m a priest. You are, I know, a married man. I think I’m speaking to your conscience, Mr. Sharpe.”

Sharpe laughed. “You came out here, in this weather, to give me a bloody sermon?” He sat down on the curved bench that ran round the inner wall of the shelter. He was trapped here, while the rain lasted, but he was damned if he was going to let a priest start meddling with his soul. “Forget it, Father. It’s none of your business.”

“It’s God’s, my son.” Curtis spoke mildly. “La Marquesa doesn’t confess to me. She uses the Jesuits. They have such a complicated view of sin. I’m sure it must be very confusing. I have a very simple view of sin and I know that adultery is wrong.”

Sharpe spoke quietly, his head tilted back against the wall. “I don’t want to be offensive, Father, but you’re annoying me.”

“So?”

Sharpe brought his head forward. “So I remember Leroux going to your room, I remember hearing that you fought against the English, and I know that the French have spies in this town, and it would take me about two minutes to tip you into that river and I wonder how many days it would be before they found you.”

Curtis stared at him. “You mean that, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“The simple solution, yes? The soldier’s way.” Curtis was mocking him now, his voice hard. “Whenever human beings don’t know what to do they call in the soldiers. Force ends everything, yes? That’s what they did with Christ, Mr. Sharpe, they called in the soldiers. They didn’t know what to do with him so they called on men like you and I don’t suppose they thought twice about what they were doing, they just banged in the nails. You’d have done that, wouldn’t you?”

Sharpe said nothing. He yawned. He looked at the quick ripples where the rain struck the river. The sky was black, the western horizon dark gold, and he wondered if La Marquesa would wait for the storm to end before her coach made its way to the house by the river.

Curtis looked behind him at the rugs and the cushions that La Marquesa had put into the river shelter. “What are you frightened of, Sharpe?”

“Moths.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. I hate moths.”

“Hell?”

Sharpe sighed. “Father, I do not wish to be offensive, I don’t really want to push you into the bloody river, but I do not want to sit here and be lectured about my soul. Understand?”

A thunderclap smashed the sky overhead, so sudden that Curtis jumped, and its lightning seared over the river, the smell of ozone sharp in the air, and the sound of the thunder seemed to roll westwards towards the city, bounce back, and then there was just the rain crashing on the water. Curtis looked at the river. “There’ll be a battle tomorrow.” Sharpe said nothing. Curtis spoke louder. “There’ll be a battle tomorrow, and you will win.”

“Tomorrow we’re running away from the French.” Sharpe’s voice was bored.

Curtis stood up. His cassock was black against the gloom outside. He stood as close to the river as he could without letting the rain fall on him. He still spoke towards the water, his back turned on Sharpe. “You English have an ancient belief that your great victories come on the day after a night of thunder.” The priest’s hair was white against the black clouds. “Tomorrow you will have your battle, your soldier’s solution, and you will win.” Thunder growled half-heartedly and the priest, to Sharpe, looked like some ancient magician who had conjured this storm from the deep. When the thunder sound had died Curtis looked at Sharpe. “The dead will be legion.”

Sharpe wondered if he heard the jangling of traces beyond the house. He cocked his head, listened, but he could hear only the rain in the garden, the wind in the trees. He looked at Curtis who had sat down again. “And when does the world end?”