The rapier moved invisibly, one moment on Sharpe’s left, the next, as if by magic, past his guard and quivering at his chest. There was enough pressure to bend the blade, to feel the point draw a trace of blood; then El Católico stepped backwards, flicked the slim blade into a salute, and took up his guard again.

‘You are slow, Captain.’

Sharpe hefted his blade. ‘Try changing weapons.’

El Católico shrugged, reversed his blade, and held it to Sharpe. Taking the heavy cavalry sword in return, he held it level, turned his wrist, and lunged into empty air. ‘A butcher’s tool, Captain. En garde!’

The rapier was as delicate as a fine needle, yet even with its balance, its responsiveness, he could do nothing to pierce El Católico’s casual defence. The Partisan leader teased him, led him on, and with a final contemptuous flick he beat Sharpe’s lunge aside and stopped his hand half an inch before he would have laid open Sharpe’s throat.

‘You are no swordsman, Captain.’

‘I’m a soldier.’

El Católico smiled, but the blade moved just enough to touch Sharpe’s skin before the Spaniard dropped the sword on the ground and held out a hand for his own blade.

‘Go back to your army, soldier. You might miss the boat.’

‘The boat?’ Sharpe bent down, pulled his heavy blade towards him.

‘Didn’t you know, Captain? The British are going. Sailing home, Captain, leaving the war to us.’

‘then look after it. We’ll be back.’

Sharpe turned away, ignoring El Católico’s laugh, and walked towards the gate leading into the street. He was in the ruins of Moreno’s courtyard, where Knowles had smashed the volleys into the lancers, and all that was left were bullet marks on the scorched walls. Cesar Moreno came through the gate and stopped. He smiled at Sharpe, raised a hand to El Católico, and looked round as if frightened that someone might be listening.

‘Your men, Captain?’

‘Yes?’

‘They’re ready.’

He seemed a decent enough man, Sharpe thought, but whatever power and prowess he had once had seemed to have drained away under the twin blows of his wife’s death and his daughter’s love for the overpowering young El Católico. Cesar Moreno was as grey as his future son-in-law’s cloak: grey hair, grey moustache, and a personality that was a shadow of what he had once been. He gestured towards the street.

‘I can come with you?’

‘Please.’

It had taken a full day to clear up the village, to dig the graves, to wait while Private Rorden died, the agony unbearable, and now they walked to where he and the other dead of the Company would be buried, out in the fields. El Católico walked with them, seemingly with inexhaustible politeness, but Sharpe sensed that Moreno was wary of his young colleague. The old man looked at the Rifleman.

‘My children, Captain?’

Sharpe had been thanked a dozen times, more, but Moreno explained again.

‘Ramon was ill. Nothing serious, but he could not travel. That was why Teresa was here, to look after him.’

‘The French surprised you?’

El Católico interrupted. ‘They did. They were better than we thought. We knew they would search the hills, but in such strength? Masséna is worried.’

‘Worried?’

The grey-cloaked man nodded. ‘His supplies, Captain, all travel on roads to the south. Can you imagine what we will do to them? We ride again tomorrow, to ambush his ammunition, to try to save Almeida.’ It was a shrewd thrust. El Católico would risk his men and his life to save Almeida when the British had done nothing to rescue the Spanish garrison of Ciudad Rodrigo. He turned his most charming smile on Sharpe. ‘Perhaps you will come? We could do with those rifles of yours.’

Sharpe smiled back. ‘We must rejoin our army. Remember? We might miss the boat.’

El Católico raised an eyebrow. ‘And empty-handed. How sad.’

The guerrilla band watched them pass in silence. Sharpe had been impressed by them, by their weaponry, and by the discipline El Católico imposed. Each man, and many of the women, had a musket and bayonet, and pistols were thrust into their belts alongside knives and the long Spanish swords. Sharpe admired the horses, the saddlery, and turned to El Católico.

‘It must be expensive.’

The Spaniard smiled. It was as easy as parrying one of Sharpe’s clumsier lunges. ‘They ride for hatred, Captain, of the French. Our people support us.’

And the British give you guns, Sharpe thought, but he said nothing. Moreno led them past the castillo, out into the field.

‘I’m sorry, Captain, that we cannot bury your man in our graveyard.’

Sharpe shrugged. The British could fight for Spain, but their dead could not be put in a Spanish cemetery in case the Protestant soul would drag all the others down to hell. He stood in front of the Company, looked at Kearsey, who stood by the graves in his self-appointed role of chaplain, and nodded to Harper.

‘Hats off!’

The words rang thin in the vastness of the valley. Kearsey was reading from his Bible, though he knew the words by heart, and El Católico, his face full of compassion, nodded as he listened. ‘Man that is born of a woman is of few days, and full of trouble. He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down.’ And where’s the gold? Sharpe wondered. Was it likely that the French, having killed the old and young, smashed the crucifix, smeared excreta on the walls of the hermitage, would carefully replace the stone lid of the family tomb? High over the valley an exaltation of larks tumbled in their song flight, and Sharpe looked at Harper. The Sergeant was looking up, at his beloved birds, but as Sharpe watched him the Irishman glanced at his Captain and away. His face had been impassive, unreadable, and Sharpe wondered what he had found. He had asked him to look round the village, explaining nothing but knowing that the Sergeant would understand.

‘Amen!’ The burial service was over and Kearsey glared at the Company. ‘The salute, Captain!’

‘Sergeant!’

‘Company!’ The words rang out confidently, discipline in chaos, the muskets rising together, the faces of the men anonymous in the ritual. ‘Fire!’

The volley startled the larks, drifted white smoke over the graves, and the decencies had been done. Sharpe would have buried the men without ceremony, but Kearsey had insisted, and Sharpe acknowledged that the Major had been right. The drill, the old pattern of command and obey, had reassured the men, and Sharpe had heard them talking, quietly and contentedly, about marching back to the British lines. The trip across the two rivers, out into enemy country, was being called a ‘wild-chicken chase’, diverting and dangerous but not part of the real war. They were missing the Battalion, the regular rations, the security of a dozen other battalions on the march, and the thought of gold that had once excited them was now seen in perspective, as another soldier’s dream, like finding an unlooted wine shop full of pliant women.

Kearsey marched across to stand beside Sharpe. He faced the Company, the Bible still clasped in his hand. ‘You’ve done well. Very well. Difficult countryside and a long way from home. Well done.’ They stared back at him with the blank look soldiers keep for encouraging talks from unpopular officers. ‘I’m sorry that you must go back empty-handed, but your efforts have not been in vain. We have shown, together, that we do care about the Spanish people, about their future, and your enthusiasm, your struggle, will not be forgotten.’

El Católico clapped, beamed at the Company, smiled at Kearsey. Sharpe’s Company stared at the two men as if wondering what new indignity would be heaped on them, and Sharpe suppressed a smile at the thought of the Spanish people remembering the enthusiasm and struggle of Private Batten.

Kearsey flicked at his moustache. ‘You will march tomorrow, back to Portugal, and El Católico, here, will provide an escort.’

Sharpe kept his face straight, hiding his fury. Kearsey had told him none of this.

The Major went on. ‘I’m staying, to continue the fight, and I hope we will meet again.’ If he had expected a cheer he was disappointed.

Then, as El Católico had visited the burial of the British dead, it was the officers’ turn to stand in the walled graveyard as the dead villagers were put into a common grave. El Católico had a tame priest, a moth-eaten little man, who rushed through the service as Sharpe, Knowles, and Harper stood awkwardly by the high wall. The French had been here, too, as disturbed graves and burst-open sepulchres showed. The dead had been reburied, the damage patched up, but Sharpe wondered yet again at the savagery of such a war.

He looked at Teresa, dressed in black, and she gave him one of her unconcerned stares, as if she had never seen him before, and he told himself that there was already enough trouble looming on the horizon without planning to pursue El Católico’s woman. The Spanish officer, his sword still tucked under his arm, caught the glance Teresa gave Sharpe and he smiled slightly, or at least twitched the corners of his mouth, as if he recognized Sharpe’s desire and pitied him for wanting something as unattainable as Teresa. Sharpe remembered the golden body running up the rocks, the shadows on the skin, and he knew he would as soon give up his search for the gold as give up his desire for the girl.

Harper crossed himself, the hats went on, and people stirred in the graveyard. Ramon limped over to Sharpe and smiled.

‘You go tomorrow?’

‘Yes.’

‘I am sad.’ He was genuine, the one friendly face in Casatejada. He pointed to Sharpe’s rifle. ‘I like it.’

Sharpe grinned, gave him the rifle to handle. ‘Come with us; you could become a Rifleman.’ There was a laugh and El Católico stood there, Kearsey loyally shadowing the tall man, and he watched as Ramon felt with his little finger, poking from the bandage, the seven rifled grooves that spun the ball and made the weapon so accurate.

El Católico cleared his throat. ‘A sad day, Captain.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Surely he had not come to tell Sharpe it had been a sad day.

El Católico looked round the graveyard with an imperious eye. ‘Too many dead. Too many graves. Too many new graves.’

Sharpe followed his eyes round the small graveyard. There was something strange here, something out of place, but it could have been his reaction to the burials, to the French damage in the graveyard. One wall, beside the hermitage, was made of niches, each sized to receive a coffin, and the French had torn off the sealed doors and spilt the rotting contents to the ground. Had the French heard of the gold, Sharpe wondered, or did they treat all cemeteries this way? To defile the dead was a taunt almost as callous as man could devise, but Sharpe guessed it was commonplace in the war between Partisans and French.

Sergeant Harper, unexpectedly, took a pace forward. ‘They didn’t open all the graves, sir.’ He stated it consolingly, with his surprising compassion.

El Católico smiled at him, saw that Harper was pointing at a fresh grave, neatly piled with earth and waiting for its headstone. The tall man nodded. ‘Not all. Perhaps there was not time. I buried him six days ago. A servant, a good man.’

There was a snap and they all looked at Ramon, who was still fumbling with the Baker rifle. He had the small trap open, in the butt, and seemed impressed by the cleaning tools hidden inside. He handed the rifle back to Sharpe. ‘One day I have one, yes?’

‘One day I’ll give you one. When we’re back.’

Ramon lifted his eyebrows. ‘You come back?’

Sharpe laughed. ‘We’ll be back. We’ll chase the French all the way to Paris.’

He slung the rifle and walked away from El Católico, across the cemetery and through a wrought-iron side gate that opened on to the wide fields. If he had hoped for fresh air, untainted with death, he was unlucky. Beside the gate, half hidden by dark-green bushes, was a vast manure heap, stinking and warm, and Sharpe turned back to see that El Católico had followed him.

‘You think the war is not lost, Captain?’

Sharpe wondered if he detected a trace of worry in the Spaniard. He shrugged. ‘It’s not lost.’

‘You’re wrong.’ If the Spaniard had been worried, it was gone now. He spoke loudly, almost sneeringly. ‘You’ve lost, Captain. Only a miracle can save the British now.’

Sharpe copied the sneering tone. ‘We’re all bloody Christians, aren’t we? We believe in miracles.’

Kearsey’s protest was stopped by a peal of laughter. It checked them all, swung them round, to see Teresa, her arm through her father’s, standing at the hermitage door. The laugh stopped, the face became stern again, but for the first time, Sharpe thought, he had seen that she was not completely bound to the tall, grey-cloaked Spaniard. She even nodded to the Rifleman, in agreement, before turning away. Miracles, Sharpe decided, were beginning to happen.