The Inquisitor’s family had been impoverished by the war, and now, with this fortune, it would rank with the greatest in Spain which was only fitting for a man who intended to be the leader behind Spain’s weak King. With the fortune of Casares el Grande y Melida Sadaba behind him, the Inquisitor knew, he would rise to be a bishop, then an archbishop, and finally a cardinal. He would stand behind the throne and before the high altar. He would be powerful and Spain would be great. His ambitions, not set for himself, but for the Church and for the Inquisition, would be realised, and all for the price of one death.
And now that the Marques was dead the Inquisitor would give to Major Ducos the assurances of support that would convince Ferdinand VII to sign his name to the secret treaty. The British would go from Spain, the French would leave peaceably, and Spain would be strong again. Its empire would be restored, its King would be glorious on a throne, and the Church would take back its power. All that for one small death. One death to give his family the money that meant power, power that would be used for God’s glory. The Inquisitor forgave himself the death; it had been for God.
A murmur came from the throng of soldiers who packed the plaza. It rose, became an excited shout, and the noise coincided with the door opening into the large room where the Spanish officers gathered. Lord Wellington, grim-faced, came into the room. He frowned at the assembled men, nodded coldly, then looked through one of the windows. His aides crowded close to him. Mendora could see the General’s hands were clasped behind his back, the fingers fidgeting. The Spanish officers fell silent, embarrassed by the cold face of their commanding officer.
The prisoner, bare-headed so that the wind stirred his long, black hair, was being marched through the narrow corridor that had been made through the crowd. He was pushed up the makeshift steps to the wagon bed. He was taller than his red-jacketed guards.
He wore a grubby white shirt and the baggy white trousers of the English infantry so that, to the Spaniards watching from the headquarters, he seemed to be dressed as a penitent. The Inquisitor was saying a prayer, his deep voice harsh in the room. Wellington looked in irritation at the priest, but said nothing. Some of the Spanish officers knew that Richard Sharpe had once saved the General’s life, rescued him from the bayonets of Indian troops years ago, and now the General was watching the man hanged. Yet Wellington’s face, with its hooked, eagle’s nose, showed no trace of emotion.
The prisoner’s hands were tied. He seemed to look with disinterest at the great crowd. He was too far away for the Spanish officers to see his face clearly, yet it seemed as if he grinned at them in defiance. The watching soldiers were silent.
A second, shorter ladder had been placed against the white-washed wall and the guards pushed the prisoner towards it. He found it difficult to climb the rungs with his hands tied, but the soldiers helped him up. The Provost Sergeant climbed the longer ladder, reached out for the noose, and pushed it over the prisoner’s black hair. He tightened the knot, then went back down to the wagon.
Some of the Spanish officers watched the alleyways that led into the plaza. They were thinking of the rumour that Sharpe’s men might try to rescue their officer, but there were no angry men beyond the sentries. No dogs barked, there was no tramp of feet, just the sunlight on the thick, red tiles and the wisps of smoke from kitchen fires silting the air above the town.
The condemned man was standing precariously on the ladder, the rope about his neck looping downwards. The Provost Sergeant looked at his officer.
The Lieutenant of the Provosts disliked this task, but orders were orders. Major Sharpe was to be hanged in full view of the Spanish troops. He looked up at the man standing on the ladder, his body leaning on the wall, and he caught the dark eyes in a final glance, wondered at a man who could grin at him at this moment, then the Lieutenant gave the order.