“It’s only for a night or so,” Sharpe said.
“Depends on the wind, doesn’t it? So long as it blows northwest you aren’t going anywhere near Lisbon. Here we are. You can share a house with Major Duncan. He’s an artilleryman, so he’s not particular. He’s not there now. He’s off hunting with Sir Thomas.”
“Sir Thomas?”
“Sir Thomas Graham. Commands here. Mad about cricket. Cricket and hunting. Of course there aren’t any bloody foxes so they chase after stray dogs instead. They do it between the lines and the French are good enough not to interfere. You’ll want space for your servant, I assume?”
Sharpe had never had a servant, but decided this was the moment to indulge himself. “Harris!”
“Sir?”
“You’re my servant now.”
“What joy, sir.”
“San Fernando’s a decent little place in winter,” the major said. “Too many bloody mosquitoes in the summer, but nice enough at this time of year. Plenty of taverns, a couple with good bordellos. There are worse places to spend the war.”
The wind did not change that night, nor the next. Sharpe gave his and Sergeant Noolan’s men a make- and-mend day. They cleaned and repaired uniforms and weapons, and for every moment of the day Sharpe prayed that the wind would go south or east. He found a regimental surgeon who reckoned that inspecting Sharpe’s wound would do more harm than good. “If that naval fellow fished the bone back into place,” the man said, “then he did all that modern medicine can possibly do. Keep the bandage tight, Captain, keep it wet, say your prayers, and take rum for the pain.”
Major Duncan, whose quarters Sharpe now shared, proved to be an affable Scot. He said there were at least a half dozen ships waiting to make passage to Lisbon. “So you’ll be home in four or five days,” he went on, “just as soon as the wind goes round.” Duncan had invited Sharpe to the nearest tavern, insisting the food was adequate and ignoring Sharpe’s plea that he had no cash. “The dons eat damn late,” Duncan said, “so we’re forced to drink until the cook wakes up. It’s a hard life.” He ordered a jug of red wine, and no sooner had it appeared than a slender young officer in cavalry uniform appeared at the tavern door.
“Willie!” Duncan greeted the cavalryman with evident pleasure. “Are you drinking with us?”
“I am searching for Captain Richard Sharpe, and I assume that you, sir, are he?” He smiled at Sharpe and held out a hand. “Willie Russell, aide to Sir Thomas.”
“Lord William Russell,” Duncan said.
“But Willie suffices,” Lord William put in hastily. “You are Captain Sharpe? In which case, sir, you are summoned. I have a horse for you and we must ride like the very wind.”
“Summoned?”
“To the embassy, Captain! To meet His Majesty’s Minister Plenipotentiary and Envoy Extraordinary to the Court of Spain. Good lord, that is rotgut!” He had tried some of Duncan’s wine. “Did someone piss in it? Are you ready, Sharpe?”
“I’m wanted at the embassy?” Sharpe asked, confused.
“You are, and you’re late. This is the third tavern I’ve tried and I had to have a drink in each one, didn’t I? Noblesse oblige and all that.” He drew Sharpe out of the tavern. “I must say I’m honored to meet you!” Lord William spoke generously, then saw Sharpe’s disbelief. “No, truly. I was at Talavera. I got cut up there, but you took an eagle! That was one in the eye for Boney, wasn’t it? Here we are, your horse.”
“Do I really have to go?” Sharpe asked.
Lord William Russell looked thoughtful for a second. “I think you do,” he said seriously, “because it’s not every day that envoys extraordinary and ministers plenipotentiary send a summons for a captain. And he’s not a bad fellow for an ambassador. You can ride?”
“Badly.”
“How’s your skull?”
“Hurts.”
“It would, wouldn’t it? I fell off a horse once and bashed my head against a tree stump and I couldn’t think for a month! Not sure I’m cured yet, to be honest. Up you get.”
Sharpe settled himself in the saddle and followed Lord William Russell out of the town and onto the sandy isthmus. “How far is it?” he asked.
“Just over six miles. It’s a nice ride! At low tide we use the beach, but tonight we’ll have to jog along the road instead. You’ll meet Sir Thomas at the embassy. He’s a splendid fellow. You’ll like him. Everyone does.”
“And Moon?”
“I’m afraid he’s there too. Man’s a brute, isn’t he? Mind you, he’s been very civil to me, probably because my father’s a duke.”
“A duke?”
“Of Bedford,” Lord William said, grinning. “But don’t worry, I’m not the heir, not even the one after the heir. I’m the one who has to die for king and country. Moon doesn’t like you, does he?”
“So I hear.”
“He’s been blaming you for all his ills. Says you lost his saber. One of Bennetts’s eh?”
“Never heard of Bennetts,” Sharpe said.
“Cutler in St. James’s, fearfully good, and awfully pricy. They say you can shave yourself on one of Bennetts’s sabers, not that I’ve tried.”
“Is that why they sent for me? To complain?”
“Good Lord, no! It was the ambassador who sent for you. He wants to get you drunk, I expect.”
The isthmus narrowed. Off to Sharpe’s left was the wide Atlantic, while to the right lay the Bay of Cadiz. The edge of the bay looked white in the dusk, and the whiteness was interrupted by hundreds of shining pyramids. “Salt,” Lord William explained. “Big industry here, lots of salt.”
Sharpe suddenly felt ashamed of his ragged uniform. “I thought British soldiers weren’t allowed in the city?”
“Officers are, but only officers. The Spaniards are terrified that if we put a garrison into the city we’d never leave. They think we’d turn the place into another Gibraltar. Oh, there is one rather important thing you ought to know, Sharpe.”
“What’s that, my lord?”
“Call me Willie, for God’s sake, everyone else does. And the one absolutely important thing, the one never- to-be-forgotten thing, and do not break this rule even if you’re drunk to the roof beams, is never ever mention the ambassador’s wife.”
Sharpe looked at the ebullient Lord William with bemusement. “Why would I?” he asked.
“You mustn’t,” Lord William said energetically, “because it would be in the most frightfully bad taste. She’s called Charlotte and she ran away. Charlotte the Harlot. She scampered off with Harry Paget. It was awful really. A horrible scandal. If you spend any time in the city you’re going to see a few of these”—he fished in a pocket and brought out a brooch. “There,” Lord William said, tossing the object to Sharpe.
The brooch was a cheap little thing made of bone. It showed a pair of horns. Sharpe looked at it and shrugged. “Cow horns?”
“The horns of the cuckold, Sharpe. That’s what they call the ambassador, el Cornudo. Our political enemies wear that badge to mock him, poor man. He takes it well, but I’m sure it hurts. So, for God’s sake, don’t ask about Charlotte the Harlot, there’s a good fellow.”
“I’m not likely to, am I?” Sharpe asked. “I don’t even know the man.”
“But of course you do!” Lord William said cheerfully. “He knows you.”
“Me? How?”
“You really don’t know who His Brittanic Majesty’s Envoy Extraordinary to Spain is?”
“Of course I don’t know!”
“Youngest brother to the foreign secretary?” Lord William said, and saw that Sharpe still did not know who he meant. “He’s also Arthur Wellesley’s little brother.”
“Arthur Wellesley’s…you mean Lord Wellington?”
“Lord Wellington’s brother indeed,” Lord William said, “and it gets worse. Charlotte ran off with the ghastly
