Hakeswill calmed them with long arms. ‘Who’s next?’ Names were shouted, women pushed forward by their men. Hakeswill drank from a bottle, his face twitched on its long neck, and the small girl still clung solemnly to him. A group of men began chanting. ‘A prisoner! A prisoner!’ The chant was taken up, shortened. ‘Prisoner! Prisoner! Prisoner!’
‘Now, lads, now! You know what the Marshal says!’Prisoner! Prisoner! Prisoner!’ The women were screaming with the men, spitting the words like bile from their mouths. ‘Prisoner! Prisoner! Prisoner!’
Hakeswill let them chant, his eyes knowing on them. He raised a hand. ‘You know what the Marshal says! They’re our precious little ones, the prisoners! We can’t touch them, oh no! That’s the Marshal’s orders. Now! If the bastards come! Ah. Then you can have them, I promise.’ The crowd roared at him, protesting, and he let them roar before he held up the hand again. The thin girl clung to him, her left hand tight on the embroidered vestment. ‘But!’ the crowd silenced slowly. ‘But! As it’s Christmas we might have a look at one. Yes? Just one? Not to touch! No, no! Just to check she’s all there? Yes.’
They roared their approval and the yellow face with its lank, grey hair twitched at them while the toothless mouth gaped in silent laughter. People drifted in from the courtyard, attracted by the new noise. Sharpe turned and saw the faces of his men pale in the cloister, anxious, and he wondered how long they had been. It must be near the quarter hour.
Hakeswill’s left hand was twined in the long black hair of the girl. He twisted it and pointed at a man. ‘Go and tell Johnny to fetch one.’ The man started towards the staircase that led from the dais, but Hakeswill stopped him as he was climbing onto the platform. He turned to his audience, his face grinning. ‘Which one do you want?’
The crowd erupted again, but Sharpe had seen enough. The hostages were behind one of the two doorways that led from the gallery. He turned to his men and his voice was urgent, drowned to all but them by the cacophony in the hall. ‘We go to the gallery. We walk as far as the windows. Drop your coats here.’ His own greatcoat was unbuttoned. ‘Even numbers go into the right doorway, odd numbers go into the left. Sergeant Rossner?’
‘Sir?’
‘Take two men and keep the bastards from the stairs. First man to find the hostages, shout! Now enjoy this, lads.’
Sharpe walked down the northern side of the cloister, sure that he must be visible because the windows into the hall made it seem as if the pavement was suspended in mid-air. He put one hand on Harper’s sleeve. ‘Fire as we go in, Patrick. Straight into the bloody hall.’
‘Sir.’
Their boots were loud. Their uniforms, divested of coats, green in the firelight. The voices screamed and chanted below drowning the sound of the Riflemens’ boots. Nemesis was coming to Adrados.
One window, two windows, three windows, and Hakeswill’s voice, sounding close, shouted above the din. ‘You can’t have the Portuguesy! D’you want the English bitch? The one married to the Froggy? D’you want her?’
They screamed assent, the voices bellowing in excitement, and Sharpe saw two armed men walk from the right hand doorway and cross to the gallery’s balustrade. One glanced at the men on the cloister, thought nothing of what he saw and leaned beside his companion to grin down at the bedlam below. The man who had been sent to fetch one of the hostages began climbing the stairs.
Sharpe touched Harper’s arm again. ‘Take the two on the gallery.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The Riflemen were bunched now. Sharpe looked at them. ‘Draw swords.’ Some would fight with the sword-bayonets fixed on their rifles, some would prefer to use them as short stabbing weapons. He nodded at Harper. ‘Fire.’
Harper filled the window space, the gun squat in his hands, his face broad and hard, and then he touched the trigger and the explosion of the seven barrels echoed in the hall and the two armed men were thrown sideways, ragged and twitching, while Harper was thrown back by the massive kick. Sharpe’s sword was in his hand, he went through the smoke in the window space, and the long blade was red steel in the firelight.
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