That night, too, Sharpe felt himself drawn ever more deeply into a world of mystery and weirdness; a world where the estadea drifted like flames in the night and sprites inhabited streams; Bias Vivar’s world.
Sharpe, Louisa, Vivar and Lieutenant Davila dined in a room punctuated by thick pillars which supported a barrel-vaulted ceiling. They were joined by the two priests. A fire was lit, blankets were spread on the floor, and dishes of millet, beans, fish, and mutton were served. One of the priests, Father Borellas, was a short, plump man who spoke passable English and seemed to enjoy practising it on Sharpe and Louisa. Borellas told them that he had a parish in Santiago de Compostela; a small, very poor parish. Pouring Sharpe wine and ever eager that the Rifleman’s plate did not empty, he seemed at pains to exaggerate his humble status. The other priest, he explained, was a rising man, a true hidalgo, and a future prince of the church.
That other priest was the sacrist of Santiago’s cathedral, a canon and a man who, from the very first, made it plain that he disliked and distrusted Lieutenant Richard Sharpe. If Father Alzaga spoke English then he did not betray that skill to Sharpe. Indeed, Alzaga barely acknowledged his presence, confining his conversation to Bias Vivar whom he perhaps perceived as his social equal. His hostility was so blatant, and so jarring, that Borellas felt constrained to explain it. “He does not love the English.”
“Many Spaniards don’t,” Louisa, who seemed unnaturally subdued by the evident hostility in the room, commented drily.
“You’re heretics, you see. And your army has run away.” The priest spoke in soft apology. “Politics, politics. I do not understand the politics. I am just a humble priest, Lieutenant.”
But Borellas was a humble priest whose knowledge of Santiago de Compostela’s alleyways and courtyards had saved the sacrist from the French. He told Sharpe how they had hidden in a plasterer’s yard while the French cavalrymen searched the houses. “They shot many people.” He crossed himself. “If a man had a fowling gun, they said he was an enemy. Bang. If someone protested at the killing, bang.” Borellas crumbled a piece of hard bread. “I did not think I would live to see an enemy army on Spanish soil. This is the nineteenth century, not the twelfth!”
Sharpe looked at the haughty-faced Alzaga who clearly had not expected, nor liked, to see protestant English soldiers on Spanish soil. “What is a sacrist?”
“He is the cathedral’s treasurer. Not a clerk, you understand,” Borellas was eager that Sharpe should not underesti-mate the tall priest, “but the man responsible for the cathedral’s treasures. That is not why he is here, but because he is a most important churchman. Don Bias would have liked the Bishop to come, but the Bishop would not talk to me, and the most important man I could find was Father Alzaga. He hates the French, you see.” He flinched as the sacrist’s voice was raised in anger and, as if to cover his embarrassment, offered Sharpe more dried fish and began a long explanation of the kinds offish caught on the Galician coast.
Yet no discussion offish could hide the fact that Vivar and Alzaga were involved in a bitter altercation; each man deeply entrenched in opposing views which, equally plainly, involved Sharpe himself. Vivar, making some point, would gesture at the Rifleman. Alzaga, refuting it, seemed to sneer in his direction. Lieutenant Davila concentrated on his food, evidently wanting no part in the fierce argument while Father Borellas, abandoning his attempts to distract Sharpe’s attention, reluctantly agreed to explain what was being said. “Father Alzaga wants Don Bias to use Spanish troops.” He spoke too softly for the other to overhear.
“Spanish troops for what?”
“That is for Don Bias to explain.” Borellas listened for another moment. “Don Bias is saying that to find Spanish infantry would mean persuading a Captain-General, and all the Captain-Generals are in hiding; and anyway a Captain-General would hesitate, or he would say he must have the permission of the Galician Junta, and the Junta has fled Corunna, so he might apply to the Central Junta in Seville instead, and in one or two months’ time the Captain-General might say that perhaps there were men, but then he would insist that one of his own favourite officers be placed in charge of the expedition, and anyway by that time Don Bias says it would be too late.” Father Borellas shrugged. “I think Don Bias is right.”