“Aye. The priest on my list knew, and now, God rest his soul, he’s dead. Most of the messengers don’t know the real name, they just know the codename. El Mirador.”
“El Mirador.” Sharpe repeated the words.
“Right. El Mirador, the best damned spy in Britain’s service, and our job is to stop Leroux finding El Mirador. And the easiest way to do that, Richard, is for you to stop Leroux. He’ll try and escape, I know that, and I can guess when he’ll do it.”
“When?”
“During our attack on the forts. He can’t do it at any other time. We’ve got those forts surrounded, but in the turmoil of a fight, Richard, he’ll have his plans ready. Stop him!”
That’s all? Stop him? Capture him?“
“That’s all, but don’t underestimate him. Capture him and give him to me and I promise you Colonel Leroux will not see daylight again till this war’s over. We’ll lock him up so tight he’ll wish he hadn’t been born.”
Sharpe thought about it. It would not be so difficult. The Sixth Division had sealed off the forts, and even in an attack the cordon of men would still ring the wasteland. All that would be left was for Sharpe, or one of his Company, to recognise Leroux among the prisoners. He grinned at Hogan, wanting to cheer him up. “Consider it done.”
“If you’re doing it, Richard, I will.” It was a nice compliment.
They had ridden close to the hill on which the spectators had gathered and Sharpe looked to his right to see a grinning figure coming towards them on a fiery, well-ridden horse. Even one-handed Lord Spears was a finer horseman than Sharpe could hope to be. His Lordship was in high spirits.
“Michael Hogan! By the Good Lord! You’re looking dull as a parson, sir! Where are your Irish spirits? Your carefree, devil-may-care attitude to life’s daily toil?”
Hogan looked with some fondness at the cavalryman. “Jack! How’s the arm?”
“Totally mended, sir. As good as the day it was born. I’m keeping it in a sling so you won’t send me back to work. Richard Sharpe! I watched your Company at work. They were hungry!”
“They’re good.”
“And you’re both invited to a pique-nique. Now.” He grinned at them.
“A what?” Hogan frowned.
“A pique-nique. It’s a French word, but I suppose we’ll all be using it soon. For you peasants who don’t speak French it means a simple, light repast taken in the open air. We’ve got chicken, ham, spiced sausages, some delicious cake, and best of all some wine. We, of course, are myself and La Marquesa de Casares el Grande y Melida Sadaba. You’re both specifically invited.”
Hogan smiled. It seemed that Sharpe accepting the responsibility for Leroux had lifted a weight from his shoulders. “La Marquesa! It’s time I rubbed shoulders with the aristocracy!”
“What about me?” Spears looked aggrieved. “Am I not noble enough for you? Good Lord! When my ancestors ate the forbidden fruit in Eden they insisted on having it served on a silver platter. You’re coming?” This last he addressed to Sharpe.
Sharpe shrugged. Hogan was insisting on going, so Sharpe was forced to follow, and though part of him yearned to see La Marquesa again, another, greater part of him was scared of the encounter. He hated being tempted by things he could not have, and he could feel his mood becoming surly as he climbed the hill behind Hogan and Spears.
La Marquesa watched them come. She raised a languid hand in greeting. “Captain Sharpe! You’ve at last accepted one of my invitations!”
“I’m with Major Hogan, Ma’am.” The instant he said it, he regretted it. He had been trying to say that he had not come willingly, that he was not her slave, but his words made it sound as though he had need to be forced into her company. She smiled.
“I owe Major Hogan my thanks.” She turned her lavish beauty onto the Irishman. “We’ve met, Major.”
“Indeed we have, Ma’am. At Ciudad Rodrigo, I remember.”
“So do I, you were most charming.”
“The Irish usually are, Ma’am.”
“Such a pity the English haven’t learned from their neighbours.” She looked at Sharpe who sat, miserable, on his uncomfortable horse. She smiled again at Hogan. “You’re well?”
“Indeed, Ma’am, and thank you, Ma’am. Yourself? Your husband?”
“My husband, ah!” She fanned her face. “Poor Luis is in South America, suppressing one of our Colonial rebellions. It seems so silly. You’re here to liberate our country while Luis is busy doing the opposite somewhere else.” She laughed, then looked again at Sharpe. “My husband, Captain Sharpe, is a soldier, like you.”
“Indeed, Ma’am?”
“Well not quite like you. He’s much older, much fatter, and he dresses much better. He’s also a General, so perhaps he’s not quite like you.” She patted the leather seat of the barouche between herself and her perspiring chaperone. “I have some wine, Captain, won’t you join me?”
“I’m quite comfortable, Ma’am.”
“You don’t look it, but if you insist.” She smiled. She was, as he remembered, dazzlingly beautiful. She was a dream, something of exquisite fineness, someone of whom Sharpe was resentful for he found her beauty overwhelming. She still smiled at him. “Jack tells me you’re a true hero, Captain Sharpe.”
“Not at all, Ma’am.” He was wondering if he should go and fetch his Company, and make his excuses to Major Forrest who would be hugely unhappy at losing his Light troops.
Lord Spears guffawed with laughter. “Not a hero! Listen to him! I love it!”
Sharpe frowned, embarrassed, and looked to Hogan for help. The Irishman grinned at him. “You took an Eagle, Richard.”
“With Harper, sir.”
“Oh God! The modest hero!” Lord Spears was enjoying himself. He imitated Sharpe’s reluctant voice. “It was all an accident. Eagle just dropped off its staff, straight into my hands. I was picking wild flowers at the time. Then I lost my way at Badajoz. Thought I was going to church parade and just happened to climb this breach. Very awkward.” Spears laughed. “God damn it, Richard! You even saved the Peer’s life!”
“Arthur’s life?” La Marquesa asked. She looked with interest at Sharpe. “When? How?”
“The Battle of Assaye, Ma’am.”
“Battle of Assaye! What’s that? Where was it?”
“India, Ma’am.”
“So what happened?”
“His horse was piked, Ma’am. I happened to be there.”
“Oh, God help us!” Spears’ smile was friendly. “He only fought off thousands of bloody heathens and says he happened to be there.”
Sharpe’s embarrassment was acute. He looked at Hogan. “Should I fetch my Company, sir?”
“No, Richard, you should not. It can wait. I’m thirsty, you’re thirsty, and her Ladyship is kindly offering wine.” He bowed to La Marquesa. “With your permission, Ma’am?” He held his hand out for the bottle that the chaperone held.
“No, Major! Jack will do it. He has the manners of a servant, don’t you Jack?”
“I’m a slave to you, Helena.” Spears took the bottle happily, while Hogan brought Sharpe a glass. Sharpe’s horse had moved some feet away from the carriage in search of greener grass and Sharpe was glad to be out of La Marquesa’s earshot. He drank the wine quickly, finding himself to be parched, and discovered Hogan at his elbow. The Irishman smiled sympathetically.
“She’s got you in full retreat, Richard. What’s the matter?”
“It’s not my place, sir, is it? That’s my place.” He nodded down the hill to where the South Essex relaxed on their knoll. The French were not moving.
“She’s just a woman, trying to be friendly.”
“Yes.” Sharpe thought of his wife, the dark haired beauty who would despise this aristocratic luxury. He glanced at La Marquesa. “Why does she speak such good English?”
“Helena?” Even Hogan, Sharpe noted, seemed to know her well enough to use her Christian name. “She’s half English. Spanish father, English mother, and raised in France.” Hogan drank his own wine. “Her parents were
