Sharpe laughed. ‘You’re slow, Matanfe.’
‘God damn you, Englishman.’ El Matanfe leapt at Sharpe, knife going to the Englishman’s groin, but his knee crumpled an him, he stumbled forward, and Sharpe stepped back.
Patrick Harper laughed.
El Matanfe tried to stand. Sharpe jerked back, pulling him forward. The Spaniard tried again, and again the chain jangled as Sharpe tugged it, and again the Slaughterman was pulled forward into the mud and coins.
El Matanfe tried again, and again the Rifleman wrenched him down, and this time Sharpe jumped forward and his foot was on the Slaughterman’s right wrist, pinning the knife into the mud. The Slaughterman looked up at his enemy, seeing death.
Sharpe stared at the man. ‘You let me live a moment ago, Matanfe. I return you the favour.’
He stepped away. He let the Spaniard stand, then pulled again, pulling all the huge man’s weight onto the knee so that the bestial face screwed in pain and the great, leather-clad body fell once more to the mud. The crowd was silent. The Slaughterman was on his hands and knees, staring up at Sharpe, and, as the Rifleman came close, the Partisan lunged again with his knife at Sharpe’s groin, but Sharpe had moved faster.
The loose end of the chain whipped and curled about the Slaughterman’s hand, was jerked back, and El Matanfe cried out as the chain crushed his fingers and snatched the knife from his grip. Sharpe kicked it under the half-plundered wagon.
The Rifleman went behind his enemy. He gripped the Slaughterman’s hair and jerked his head up.
The crowd watched in silence. Sharpe raised his voice. ‘You hear me, Matanfe?
‘I hear you.’
Sharpe spoke even louder. ‘You and your brother work for the French!’
‘No!’
But the blade was at the side of El Matarife’s neck. ‘You work for the French, Slaughterman. You whore for the French.’
‘No!’ And the big, bearded man tried to seize Sharpe’s wrist, but the blade moved away and Sharpe’s hand jerked back on the thick, greasy hair and his knee ground into the Slaughterman’s spine so that the huge beard jutted out above his throat.
‘Who killed the Marques?’
There was silence. Sharpe did not know what answer he expected, but the lack of any answer seemed to suggest that the question was not foolish. He pulled on the hair and let the blade rest on the skin of El Matarife’s neck. ‘Who killed the Marques?’
The Slaughterman suddenly wrenched forward and his hands reached for Sharpe’s wrist, but Sharpe hauled back and flicked the knife sideways to slash the reaching hands of his enemy. ‘Who killed him?’
‘I did!’ It came out as a scream. His hands were soaked in blood.
Sharpe almost let him go, so surprised was he by the answer. He had expected to be told that the Inquisitor had done it, but it made sense that this man, the brother of the clever, ruthless priest, would be the killer.
He put the knife back on the neck. He spoke lower now, so that only the Slaughterman could hear him. The Partisans were watching Sharpe, and Harper was watching the Partisans. Sharpe bent down. ‘You killed that girl to fool me, Malanfe.’
There was no answer.
Sharpe remembered the hanging, turning, bloodied body. He remembered the prisoner blinded. He paused, then struck.
The knife was as sharp as a razor, honed to a wicked, feather-bladed edge, and, tough as a man’s throat is, with its gristle and tubes and muscle and skin, the knife cut the throat as easily as silk. There was a gasp as the blood gushed out, as it splashed once, twice, and then the heart had nothing left to pump, and Sharpe let go of the black hair.
The Slaughterman fell forward and his bearded, brutal face fell into the mess of blood, mud and silver.
There was silence from all who watched.
Sharpe turned and walked towards La Marquesa. His eyes were on the man who held her, and in his eyes was a message of death. Slowly, his head shaking, the man let go of her.
Sharpe dropped the knife. She ran towards him, stumbling in the mud and silver coins, and his left arm was about her and she pressed herself against his mud smeared chest. ‘I thought you were dead.’
The first stars were visible above the plunder of an empire.
He held the woman for whom he had ridden across Spain, for whom he had ridden the field of jewels and gold, of silk and diamonds.
She could never be his, he knew that. He had known that even when she had said diat she loved him, yet he would ride the fields of silver and pearls again for her; he would cross hell for her.
He turned from El Matarife’s men and Harper threw down his sword and haversack. Sharpe wondered why the bag was so heavy. He buckled, the sword and knew he would have to go into the city and find the Inquisitor. There were questions to be put to that Inquisitor, and Sharpe would be as delicate as the Inquisition in his search for the answers.
He would go into Vitoria, and he would take the answers to the mystery that Hogan had asked him to solve, but that, he knew, was not the reason that he had come to this place. Not for victory, and not for gold, but for the woman who would cheat him, lie to him, never love him, but who was the whore of gold and, for this one night at least, Sharpe’s woman.
EPILOGUE
The army had gone, following the French towards the Pyrenees, and Vitoria was left to the Spanish Battalions. Of the British only a few staff officers and the South Essex were left; the South Essex to guard the French prisoners who would soon start their journey to Dartmoor or the prison hulks.
On a warm night brilliant with starlight, Sharpe was in the hotel where so many British officers, on the night of the battle, had enjoyed a free meal. He was in a vast room with windows that looked towards the cathedral on its hill.
‘What is it?’
‘Open it.’ Helene smiled at him. She was dressed in cream silk that was cut so low that one deep breath, he was sure, would tip her breasts over the lace-trimmed collar.
She had given him a box. It was made from rosewood, polished to a deep shine, and it was locked with two golden clasps that he pushed aside.
‘Go on,’ she said, ‘open it.’
He lifted the lid.
The box was lined with red taffeta. Lying in a trough that ran the length of the box was a telescope. ‘God! It’s beautiful.’
‘Isn’t it?’ she said with satisfaction.
He lifted it. Its barrel was of ivory, its trimmings of gold, and it slid apart with extraordinary smoothness. There was a plate engraved and inset into the ivory. ‘What does it say?’
She smiled, took the glass from him, and tipped it to the candlelight. ‘ ‘To Joseph, King of Spain and the Indies, from his brother, Napoleon, Emperor of France’.’ She laughed. ‘A king’s telescope for you. I bought it off one of your cavalrymen.’
‘It’s wonderful.’ He took it from her, drew the tubes fully out, and stared with it at the sickle moon that hung over the northern hills. His last telescope, destroyed by Ducos, had been good, but it had been nothing compared with this instrument. ‘It’s wonderful,’ he said again.
‘Of course! It’s French.’ She smiled. ‘My thank you to you.’
‘For nothing.’ He put the telescope into its box, and she laughed at him.
‘For nothing, then. Just for my wagons, my life, little things like that. Nothing.’
He frowned, clasping the box shut. ‘You’ll take nothing from me?’
‘You are a fool, Richard Sharpe.’ She walked to the window, raised her bare arms to the curtains, and paused as she stared into the night. Then, abruptly, she pulled the curtains closed and turned to him. ‘You keep those diamonds. They have made you rich. And don’t give them away, not to me, not to anyone. Keep them.’
