clouds pressed down as if the weight of water was sinking them. He expected the rain to begin at any second, yet it held off; it was conserving its force. The goats, as ever, had been right. There would be a vast rainstorm this night. He walked to the pillared shelter, built, La Marquesa had told him, in imitation of a small Greek shrine, and he stood on the topmost step that led to the door, pulled himself up on the lintel and he could see over the high wall to the city. Perhaps it would be his last glimpse of Salamanca in the evening. The sun silhouetted the fine stone, edged the great Cathedral with red gold, and then he pushed the door open and waited for La Marquesa. The river was almost black, swirling, waiting for the hammering of the rain.
In the morning he would go. He would walk away from this city and the dust of the roads would have been driven and churned into mud. He had failed this summer. He had promised to take a man, and the man had almost killed him, yet Sharpe did not see that as his greatest regret. He had betrayed his wife, and that saddened him, but that was not his regret. He would miss La Marquesa. He would miss the golden hair, the mouth, the eyes, the laughter and the beauty, the magic world of a woman whom hehad glimpsed, wanted, and never thought he could possess. Tonight was the last night. She would stay, in danger, and he would go back to the army. He could recover his full strength in Ciudad Rodrigo and all the time he would wonder about her, remember her, and fear that his enemy had destroyed her.
The first heavy, plangent drop of rain smashed onto the marble ledge that faced the river. It left a mark the size of a penny. He had dreamed once before of a final night in Salamanca, and that hope had ended in the death room. Now fate had given him the night again, though tinged with defeat. He knew he had become obsessed with her, and he had to abandon her, and that was too often the way of women and soldiers. Yet there was this one night.
He heard the footsteps on the grass and he did not turn round. He was suddenly superstitious. To turn round was to tempt fate, but he smiled as he heard the feet on the steps and then he heard the heavy click of a flint being pulled back on a mainspring.
“Good evening, Captain.” The voice was a man’s voice, and the man held a rifle, and the rifle was pointing straight at Sharpe’s stomach as the Rifleman wrenched himself about to face the door.
The first thunder racketed over the sky.
CHAPTER 18
The Reverend Doctor Patrick Curtis, known as Don Patricio Cortes, Rector of the Irish College and Professor of Astronomy and Natural History at the University of Salamanca, held the rifle as though it were a poisonous snake that might, at any second, turn and bite him. Sharpe remembered how Leroux had run to this man’s room, how Spears had described Curtis volunteering to fight against the English, and now the tall priest faced Sharpe. The frizzen that covered the pan of the rifle was up and the elderly Irishman clicked it down into place. He smiled. “You see? It still works. It’s your rifle, Captain.”
The thunder echoed in the sky. It sounded like heavy siege shot being rolled on giant floor boards. The rain was hissing steadily on the river’s surface. Sharpe was five paces from the man. He thought of jumping at him, hoping that the priest would hesitate before pulling the trigger, but he knew that the wound would slow him down. He looked at Curtis’ right hand and raised his voice over the sound of the rain. “You have to have a finger on the trigger to make it work.”
The bushy eyebrows went up in surprise. “It’s not loaded, Captain. I’m merely returning it to you. Here.” He held it out. Sharpe did not move and the Irish priest just shrugged and propped the rifle against the wall.
Sharpe jerked his head towards the weapon. “It’s bad for them to stay cocked. It weakens the spring.”
“You learn something every day.” Curtis picked up the rifle, pulled the trigger, and flinched as the spark cracked on the empty pan. He put the weapon down again. “You don’t seem overjoyed to see me.”
“Should I be?”
“You could be grateful to me. I went out of my way to return your gun. I had to get your address from the Town Major and then smuggle it out under my cassock. It would be bad for my reputation if I were seen going fully armed about the streets.” Curtis gave a deprecating smile.
“You could have returned it earlier.” Sharpe kept his voice cold. He wanted this interfering priest gone. He wanted La Marquesa.
“I wish I could have returned it earlier. It was stolen by one of the College’s stonemasons. His wife told me and I retrieved it for you.” He pointed at the weapon. “And here it is, safely restored.” He waited for Sharpe to speak, but the Rifleman was morose. Curtis sighed, walked to the edge of the shelter and looked at the rain. “Dear oh dear. What weather!” The surface of the river was corruscated by the rain. The sun, perversely, still showed in the west beneath the great cloud bank. Curtis pulled up his cassock and sat down. He gave Sharpe a friendly smile. “Do you mind if I sit it out? There was a time when I rode in all weathers, but I’m seventy-two this year, Mr. Sharpe, and the good Lord may not look kindly on me getting a chill.”
Sharpe was not feeling polite. He wanted to be alone until La Marquesa came, he wanted to think of her, to wallow in the misery of the anticipation of their parting. This last night was precious to him, something to hold against the bad times, and now this damned priest was settling down for a cosy chat. Sharpe kept his voice harsh. “I’m expecting company.”
Curtis ignored him. He waved an expansive hand round the small, pretty shelter. “I know this place well. I used to be the Marques’s confessor and he was always kind to me. He let me use this for some of my observations.” He shifted himself so he was looking at Sharpe. “I watched last year’s comet from in here. Remarkable. Did you see it?”
“No.”
“You missed something, you really did. The Marques was of the opinion that the comet affected the grape harvest, that it was responsible for the good vintage. I don’t understand that, but undoubtedly last year’s wine was excellent. Excellent.”
A great explosion of thunder saved Sharpe the necessity of replying. It echoed across the sky, grew and faded, and the rain seemed to seethe down with more force. Curtis tut-tutted. “I presume you’re waiting for La Marquesa.”
“You can presume what you like.”
“True.” Curtis nodded. “It concerns me, Mr. Sharpe. Her husband is a man I would call a friend. I’m a priest. You are, I know, a married man. I think I’m speaking to your conscience, Mr. Sharpe.”
Sharpe laughed. “You came out here, in this weather, to give me a bloody sermon?” He sat down on the curved bench that ran round the inner wall of the shelter. He was trapped here, while the rain lasted, but he was damned if he was going to let a priest start meddling with his soul. “Forget it, Father. It’s none of your business.”
“It’s God’s, my son.” Curtis spoke mildly. “La Marquesa doesn’t confess to me. She uses the Jesuits. They have such a complicated view of sin. I’m sure it must be very confusing. I have a very simple view of sin and I know that adultery is wrong.”
Sharpe spoke quietly, his head tilted back against the wall. “I don’t want to be offensive, Father, but you’re annoying me.”
“So?”
Sharpe brought his head forward. “So I remember Leroux going to your room, I remember hearing that you fought against the English, and I know that the French have spies in this town, and it would take me about two minutes to tip you into that river and I wonder how many days it would be before they found you.”
Curtis stared at him. “You mean that, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“The simple solution, yes? The soldier’s way.” Curtis was mocking him now, his voice hard. “Whenever human beings don’t know what to do they call in the soldiers. Force ends everything, yes? That’s what they did with Christ, Mr. Sharpe, they called in the soldiers. They didn’t know what to do with him so they called on men like you and I don’t suppose they thought twice about what they were doing, they just banged in the nails. You’d have done that, wouldn’t you?”
Sharpe said nothing. He yawned. He looked at the quick ripples where the rain struck the river. The sky
