and Pumphrey twisted to look at the customers who argued in the pall of cigar smoke. “Mostly lawyers,” he said.
“Lawyers?”
“A large proportion of the deputies are lawyers,” Pumphrey said, rubbing his thin face with both hands. “Slaves, liberals, and lawyers.”
“Slaves?”
Lord Pumphrey gave an exaggerated shiver and drew his coat tighter about his thin shoulders. “There are, very crudely, two factions in the Cortes. One side are the traditionalists. They’re comprised of the monarchists, the pious, and the old-fashioned. They’re called the serviles. It’s an insulting nickname, like calling a man a Tory. Serviles means the slaves, and they wish to see the king restored and the church triumphant. They are the faction of landlords, privilege, and aristocracy.” He shivered again. “The serviles are opposed by the liberales,” he went on, “who are so called because they are forever talking about liberty. The liberales want to see a Spain in which the people’s wishes are more influential than the decrees of a tyrannical church or the whims of a despotic king. His Brittanic Majesty’s government has no official view in these discussions. We merely wish to see a Spanish government willing to pursue the war against Napoleon.”
Sharpe looked scornful. “You’re on the side of the serviles. Of course you are.”
“Oddly enough, no. If anything we support the liberales, so long, of course, as their wilder ideas are not exported to Britain, God forbid that. But either faction will suffice if they continue to fight Bonaparte.”
“So where’s the confusion?”
“The confusion, Sharpe, is that men on both sides dislike us. There are serviles and liberales who earnestly believe that Spain’s most dangerous enemy is not France, but Britain. The leader of that faction, of course, is Admiral Cardenas. He’s a servile, naturally, but if he can scare enough liberales into believing that we’ll annex Cadiz, then he should get his way. He wants Spain under a Catholic king and with himself as the king’s chief adviser, and to achieve that he has to make peace with France and then where will we all be?” Lord Pumphrey shrugged. “Tell me, why did the redoubtable Sir Thomas Graham send me a gift of artillery shells? Not that I’m ungrateful, of course I’m not, but curious, yes? Good God! What are you doing?”
The question was prompted by the sudden appearance of a pistol, which Sharpe laid on the table. Pumphrey was about to protest, then saw Sharpe was looking past him. He twisted to see a tall black-cloaked man coming toward them. The man had a long face with a lantern jaw that somehow seemed familiar to Sharpe.
The man took a chair from another table, swung it around, and sat between Sharpe and Pumphrey. He glanced at the pistol, shrugged, and waved at the serving girl. “Vino tinto, por favor,” he said brusquely. “I’m not here to fight,” he said, speaking English now, “so you can put the gun away.”
Sharpe turned it so the muzzle pointed directly at the man, who took off his damp cloak, revealing that he was a priest. “My name,” he spoke to Lord Pumphrey now, “is Father Salvador Montseny. Certain persons have asked me to negotiate on their behalf.”
“Certain persons?” Lord Pumphrey asked.
“You cannot expect me to reveal their identity, my lord.” The priest glanced at Sharpe’s pistol and it was then that Sharpe recognized him. This was the priest who had been at Nunez’s house, the one who had ordered him out of the alleyway. “I have no personal interest in this matter,” Father Montseny went on, “but those who asked me to speak for them believed you would take confidence that they chose a priest.”
“Do hide that gun, Sharpe,” Lord Pumphrey said. “You’re frightening the lawyers. They think you might be one of their clients.” He waited as Sharpe lowered the flint and put the pistol under his cloak. “You speak excellent English, Father.”
“I have a talent for languages,” Montseny said modestly. “I grew up speaking French and Catalan. Then I learned Spanish and English.”
“French and Catalan? You’re from the border?”
“I am Catalonian.” Father Montseny paused as coffee and a flask of red wine were placed on the table. He poured himself wine. “The price, I am instructed to tell you, is three thousand guineas in gold.”
“Are you authorized to negotiate?” Lord Pumphrey asked.
Montseny said nothing. Instead of answering, he took a scrap of sugar from a bowl and dropped it into his wine.
“Three thousand guineas is risible,” Pumphrey said, “quite exorbitant. But to end what is an embarrassment His Majesty’s government is prepared to pay six hundred.”
Father Montseny gave a slight shake of the head as if to suggest the counteroffer was absurd, then took an empty glass from the next table and poured Sharpe a glass of wine. “And who are you?” he asked.
“I look after him,” Sharpe said, jerking his head at Lord Pumphrey and wishing he had not because pain whipped through his skull.
Montseny looked at the bandage on Sharpe’s head. He seemed amused. “They gave you a wounded man?” he asked Lord Pumphrey.
“They gave me the best they had,” Pumphrey said apologetically.
“You hardly need protecting, my lord,” Montseny said.
“You forget,” Lord Pumphrey said, “that the last man to negotiate for the letters was murdered.”
“That is regrettable,” the priest said sternly, “but I am assured it was the fault of the man himself. He attempted to seize the letters by force. I am authorized to accept two thousand guineas.”
“One thousand,” Pumphrey said, “with an undertaking that no more will be published in El Correo.”
Montseny poured himself more wine. “My principals,” he said, “are willing to use their influence on the newspaper, but it will cost you two thousand guineas.”
“Alas,” Pumphrey said, “we only have fifteen hundred left in the embassy’s strongbox.”
“Fifteen hundred,” Father Montseny said, as if he was thinking about it.
“For which sum, Father, your principals must give us all the letters and an undertaking to publish no more.”
“I think that will be acceptable,” Father Montseny said. He gave a small smile, as if satisfied with the outcome of the negotiations, then leaned back. “I could offer you some advice that would save you the money, if you wish?”
“I should be most grateful,” Pumphrey said with exaggerated politeness.
“Any day now your army will sail, yes? You will land your troops somewhere to the south and come north to face Marshal Victor. You think he doesn’t know? What do you think will happen?”
“We’ll win,” Sharpe growled.
The priest ignored him. “Lapena will have, what? Eight thousand men? Nine? And your General Graham will take three or four thousand? So Lapena will have command, and he’s an old woman. Marshal Victor will have just as many, probably more, and Lapena will take fright. He’ll panic, and Marshal Victor will crush him. Then you will have very few soldiers left to protect the city, and the French will storm the walls. It will take many deaths, but by summer Cadiz will be French. The letters won’t matter then, will they?”
“In that case,” Lord Pumphrey said, “why not just give them to us?”
“Fifteen hundred guineas, my lord. I am instructed to tell you that you must bring the money yourself. You may have two companions, no more, and a note will be sent to the embassy telling you where the exchange will be made. You may expect the note after today’s oraciones.” Montseny drained his glass, stood, and dropped a dollar on the table. “There, I have discharged my function,” he said, nodded abruptly, and left.
Sharpe spun the dollar coin on the table. “At least he paid for his wine.”
“We can expect a note after the evening prayers,” Lord Pumphrey said, frowning. “Does that mean he wants the money tonight?”
“Of course. You can trust the bugger on that,” Sharpe said, “but on nothing else.”
“Nothing else?”
“I saw him at the newspaper. He’s up to his bloody eyes in it. He’s not going to give you the letters. He’ll take the money and run.”
Pumphrey stirred his coffee. “I think you’re wrong. The letters are a depreciating asset.”
“Whatever the hell that means.”
“It means, Sharpe, that he’s right. Lapena will have command of the army. You know what the Spanish call Lapena? Dona Manolito. The lady Manolito. He’s a nervous old woman and Victor will thrash him.”
