Sharpe wanted to laugh. `Your General is who?’ Major Mendora tossed his head. `The Marques de Gasares el Grande y Melida Sadaba.’
And suddenly the memory of that flawless beauty that masked the flawed woman flooded into him so that the excitement came searing back. Helene! It was with Helene that he had betrayed Teresa, and he knew that the revenge for that betrayal had come to this field. He wanted to laugh aloud. Helene! Helene of the hair of gold, of the white skin on her black sheets, the woman who had used him in the service of death, but who, he thought, had perhaps loved him a little.
He stared past Mendora at the General. He had thought, from Helene’s description, that her husband would be a short, fat man. Fat he was, but it was a burly, muscular fatness. He looked tall. The excitement was still on Sharpe. The Marquesa was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, a woman he had loved for a season, then lost. He had thought her gone forever, but now here was her husband back from the Spanish colonies with the horns on his head. Sharpe smiled at Mendora. `How have I offended your master?’
`You know how, senor.’
Sharpe laughed. `You call me senor? You’ve found your manners?’
`Your answer, Major?’
So the Marques knew he had been cuckolded? But why in God’s name pick on Sharpe? There must be a half-Battalion of men he would have to fight to retrieve his honour that had been held so lightly by Helene. Sharpe smiled. `You will get no letter from me, Major, nor my resignation.’
Mendora had expected the answer. `You will name me your second, senor?’
`I don’t have a second.’ Sharpe knew that Wellington had forbidden all duels. If he took the risk, that was his foolishness, but he would not risk another man’s career. He looked at the Marques, judging that such a heavy-set man would be slow on his feet. `I choose swords.’
Mendora smiled. `My master is a fine swordsman, Major. You will stand more chance with a pistol.’
The soldiers were gawping up at the two mounted officers. They sensed, even though they could not hear the words, that something dramatic took place.
Sharpe smiled. `If I need advice how to fight, Major, I will seek it from a man.’
Mendora’s proud face looked with hatred at the Englishman, but he held his temper. `There is a cemetery on the southern road, you know it?’
`I can find it.’
`My master will be there at seven this evening. He will not wait long. I hope your courage will be sufficient for death, Major.’ He turned his horse, looking back at Sharpe. `You agree?’
`I agree.’ Sharpe let him turn away. `Major!’
`You have a priest with you?’
The Spaniard nodded. `You’re very observant for an Englishman.’
Sharpe deliberately switched back into English. `Make sure he knows the prayer for the dead, Spaniard.’
A shout came from the watching men. `Kill the bugger, Sharpie!’
The shout was taken up, grew louder, and some wit began shouting `a ring! a ring!’, the usual cry when a fight broke out in Battalion lines. Sharpe saw the look of fury cross Mendora’s face, then the Spaniard put his spurs to his horse and galloped it at a knot of men who scattered from his path and jeered at his retreating back. The Marques de Casares el Grande y Melida Sadaba and his attendant priest galloped after him.
Sharpe ignored the shouts of the men about him. He watched the three Spaniards go and he knew, on pain of losing all that he had gained in this army, that he should not go to the cemetery and fight the duel. He would be cashiered; he would be lucky, if he won, not to be accused of murder.
On the other hand, there was a memory of La Marquesa, of her skin against the sheets, her hair on the pillow, her laughter in the shadowed bedroom. There was the thought that the Spanish Major had tried to strike him. There was his boredom, and his inability to refuse a challenge. And, above all, there was the sense of unfinished business, of a guilt that demanded its price, of a guilt that ordered him to pay that price. He shouted at the men for silence and looked through the ragged crowd of soldiers to find the man he wanted. `Harps!’