`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.