collect, though Brigadier Cox presents you with a problem. Sharpe acknowledged it with a nod and El Catolico looked at him shrewdly. 'How were you going to solve it?
'The same way that I intend to solve it tomorrow. He wished he were as confident as he sounded. He had seen El Catolico in action, measured swords with him, and he was thinking desperately how he could win the fight that must start soon. The tall Spaniard smiled, gestured at his rapier.
'Do you mind? You can kill me, of course, before I reach it, but I don't think you will. He had talked as he moved and then he stopped, picked it up, and turned round. 'I was right. You see? You are a man of honour!
Sharpe could feel the new blood wet on his chest and he rested his sword as the Spaniard, with a studied ease, dropped his cloak and flexed the blade. El Catolico took the tip of the rapier in his left hand and bent it, almost double.
'A fine blade, Captain. From Toledo. But then, I forgot, we have already tried each other. He moved into the swordsman's crouch, right leg bent, left leg extended behind. 'En garde!
The rapier flickered towards Sharpe, but the Rifleman did not move. El Catolico straightened. 'Captain, do you not want to fight? I assure you it is a better death than the one I had planned.
'What was that? Sharpe thought of the ladder, the sudden rush in the dark.
The Spaniard smiled. 'A distraction down the street, a fire, lots of shouts, and you would have come to your balcony. The ever ready Captain, prepared for battle, and then a volley of shots would have stopped you forever.
Sharpe smiled. It was far simpler than his extraordinary imaginings, and it would have worked. 'And the girl?
'Teresa? El Catolico's pose slipped a little. He shrugged. 'What could she have done with you dead? She would have been forced back.
'You would have enjoyed that.
The Spaniard shrugged. 'En garde, Captain.
Sharpe had so little time. He had to unsettle the Spaniard's elegant posture. El Catolico knew he would win, could afford to be magnanimous, was anticipating the inevitable display of his superior swordsmanship. Sharpe still kept his blade low and the rapier went down.
'Captain! Are you frightened? El Catolico smiled gently. 'You're afraid I'm the better man.
'Teresa says not.
It was not much, but enough. Sharpe saw the fury in El Catolico's face, the sudden loss of control, and he brought up the huge blade, rammed it forward, and knew that El Catolico would not parry but simply kill him for the insult. The rapier flickered, lightning-fast, but Sharpe turned his body, saw the blade go past, and brought his elbow hard into El Catolico's ribs, turned back and hammered down with the brass-guarded hilt of the sword on to the Spaniard's head. El Catolico was fast. He twisted away, the blow glanced off his skull, but Sharpe heard the grunt and he followed it with a sweeping killer of a blow, a stroke that would have disembowelled an ox, and the Spaniard leapt backwards, and again, and Sharpe had failed, and he knew, with a fighter's instinct, that El Catolico had recovered, survived the devastating attack, and would now fall back on his skill.
There was a hammering from downstairs, the blast of a musket, and El Catolico smiled. 'Time to die, Sharpe. Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine. He came forward like quicksilver, past Sharpe's clumsy parry, and the blade drew blood at Sharpe's waist. 'Et lux perpetua luceat eis. The voice was like silk, beautiful and hypnotic, and the blade went to the other side of Sharpe's waist, razored his skin, and was gone. Sharpe knew he was being toyed with, a plaything, while the prayer lasted, and he could do nothing. He remembered Helmut's techniques and went for El Catolico's eyes, stabbing the empty air, and the Spaniard laughed. 'Go slow, Sharpe! Te decet hymnus, Deus, in Sion.
Sharpe lunged desperately for the eyes; Helmut had made it look easy, but El Catolico just swayed to one side and the rapier came low at the Rifleman, aiming at the thigh for another flesh wound, and Sharpe had only one, desperate, insane idea left. He let the rapier come, kicked his right thigh forward, and pushed the blade painfully into his flesh so that El Catolico could not use it. The Spaniard tried to drag it free; Sharpe felt the tearing in his leg, but he had the initiative, was still driving forward, and he hit the Spaniard with the heavy guard of the sword, scraping it up the face, and El Catolico abandoned the rapier and went backwards. Sharpe followed, the rapier stuck clean through his thigh, and El Catolico grabbed at it, missed, and Sharpe swept his blade down, caught El Catolico's forearm; the Spaniard cried out and Sharpe back-swung him with the flat of his blade, a scything crack across the skull, and the Partisan fell.
Sharpe stopped. There were shouts below. 'Captain!
'Up here! On the church roof!
He could hear footsteps below, pounding in the alleyway, and he suspected the Partisans were abandoning the unequal conflict. He stopped and took hold of El Catolico's rapier. The wound hurt, but Sharpe knew he had been lucky; the blade had gone through the outer muscles and the blood and pain were worse than the damage. He pulled at the sword, clenching his teeth, and it slid free. He held the rapier in his hands, felt its fine balance, and knew he could never have defeated it except for the madness of driving his body on to the inlaid blade and denying El Catolico his skill.
The Spaniard moaned, still unconscious, and Sharpe crossed to him, bleeding and limping, and looked down at his enemy. His eyes were closed, the lids flickering slightly, and Sharpe took his own sword, put it at El Catolico's throat. 'A butcher's blade, eh? He stabbed down till the point hit the roof, twisted it, then kicked the neck free of the blade. 'That was for Claud Hardy. There would be no fiefdom in the mountains, no private kingdom, for El Catolico.
There was a thumping on the trapdoor. 'Who's that?
'Sergeant Harper!
'Wait!
He pushed the ladder to one side and the trapdoor was pushed up and Harper appeared, a smoking torch in one hand. The Irishman looked first at Sharpe, then at the body. 'God save Ireland. What were you doing, sir? A competition to see who could bleed the most?
'He wanted to kill me.
The eyebrows went up. 'Really? Harper looked at the dead man. 'He was a fine swordsman, sir. How did you do it?
Sharpe told him. How he had gone for the eyes, failed, so had impaled himself on the sword. Harper listened, shook his head.
'You're a bloody fool, sir. Let's see the leg.
Teresa came up, followed by Lossow and Knowles, and the story had to be told again, and Sharpe felt the tension flow out of him. He watched Teresa kneel by the body.
'Does it upset you?
She shook her head, busy at something, and Sharpe watched as she searched beneath the blood-stained clothes and found, round the dead man's waist, a money-belt thick with coins. She opened one of the pockets.
'Gold.
'Keep it.
Sharpe was feeling his leg, tracing the wound, and he knew he had been lucky and that the blade had torn a smaller wound than his stupidity deserved. He looked up at Harper. 'I'll need the maggots.
Harper grinned. In a tin box he kept fat white maggots that lived only on dead flesh, spurning healthy tissue, and nothing cleaned a simple wound better than a handful dropped into the cut and bound in with a bandage. The Irishman took Sharpe's sash as a temporary dressing, bound it tight. 'It'll mend, sir.
Lossow looked at the body. 'What now?
'Now? Sharpe wanted a glass of wine, another plate of that stew. 'Nothing. They have another leader. We still have to hand the gold over.
Teresa spoke in Spanish, angry and vehement, and Sharpe smiled.
'What was that, sir? Knowles was stunned by the blood on the roof.
'I don't think she likes the new leaders. Sharpe flexed his left arm. 'If El Catolico's Lieutenants don't produce the gold, then they may not be leaders much longer. Is that right?
She nodded.
