The news of the Englishman was brought to him by three of his men. El Matarife occupied an inn, or what passed in this miserable place for an inn, and he scowled at the three men as though they were responsible for the Englishman’s coming. `He said he wanted to speak with me?’
`Yes.’
`He did not say why?’
`Only that his General had sent him.’
El Matarife grunted. `Not before time, eh?’ His lieutenants nodded. Wellington had sent messengers to other Partisan leaders, requesting their co-operation, and the Slaughterman presumed that his turn had come.
But he could not be sure of it. In the convent, thousands of feet above the valley, was La Puta Dorado. She had been brought by his brother who had warned El Matarife that the French might search for her, but the Inquisitor had said nothing about any Englishman. El Matarife could understand a man searching for the woman. He had seen her in the carriage and, even dishevelled and tearful, she had been beautiful. `Why give her to the nuns?’ he had asked.
His brother had snapped at him. `She has to take the vows, don’t you understand? It must be legal! She must become a nun! She must take her vows, nothing else matters!’
The Inquisitor had left his brother with instructions that no one was to be allowed close to the convent, and that, if anyone asked about the Marquesa, her presence was to be denied. She was to be buried and forgotten and left to Christ.
Now El Matarife wondered whether the Englishman had come looking for the whore of gold. `What is he called?’
`Vaughn. Major Vaughn.’
`He’s alone?’
`He has a boy with him.’
One of his lieutenants saw the concern on El Matarife’s face and shrugged. `Just kill him. Who’ll know?’
`You’re a fool. Your mother sucked an ass.’ El Matarife jabbed at the fire with a sword point. It was cold in these deep valleys, and the fire in the inn’s main room did little to help. He looked back to the men who had spoken with the Englishman the night before. `He said nothing of any woman?’
`No.’
`You’re sure he’s English? Not a Frenchman?’
The men shrugged.
El Matarife peered through the window, stooping so he could see to the very top of the huge, grey slab of cliff where the Convent of the Heavens was perched. The presence of La Marquesa in that cold building was supposed to be a secret, though El Matarife knew better than most that there were few secrets in Spain’s countryside. Someone would have talked.
He could kill the Englishman, but that was a last resort. The English were the source of gold, guns and ammunition, landing them on the hidden beaches of the northern coast at night. If an Englishman was to be killed, then El Matarife had a suspicion that a reckoning might be made; that his men would be hunted and punished by other Partisans, yet, if he had to kill the Englishman, he would, though he would rather send the man away satisfied, suspicion allayed, so he could continue this wearisome watch uninterruptedly.
`Where is this Major Vaughn?’
`At the two bridges.’
`Bring him tonight.’ The Slaughterman looked at one of his lieutenants. `Bring the prisoners. We shall entertain our Englishman:`
`The woman too?’
`Especially her.’ El Matarife smiled. `If he has come for a woman then he can have her!’ He laughed. He had fooled the French for four years and now he would fool an Englishman. He shouted for wine and waited for the night.
Night fell swiftly in the depths of the valley beneath the
Convent of the Heavens. When the peaks were still touched red by the last daylight it was already dark at the inn that El Matarife called his headquarters. In front of the inn, and lit by smoking torches, was an area of beaten earth. Sharpe and Angel, brought to the place by silent guides, were led to the lit space.
A chain was thrown onto the patch of earth. It lay there, ten feet of rusting links, and at its far end, nervous and dressed only in ragged trousers, stood a prisoner.