`They come now. Their soldiers cover the plains like a flood. The French are running away. They run towards Vitoria.’ That was hardly true. Sharpe had only seen the French retreating to Burgos, and, if this year’s campaign was like the last, they would make their stand at the fortress town. Yet the lie convinced El Matarife.
`You will tell your General that my forces will help him.’ El Matarife waved a magnanimous hand about the room.
`He will be relieved.’ Sharpe politely pushed a wineskin over the table. `Yet he will be curious about one thing.’
`Ask.’
`There are no French in these mountains, yet you are here.’
`I hide from them, I let them think I am gone, and when they celebrate that I am gone, I return!’ He laughed.
Sharpe laughed with him. `You are a clever man.’
`Tell your General that, Englishman.’
`I will tell him that.’ Sharpe could feel his eyes stinging from the thick tobacco smoke. He looked at Angel. `We must leave.’
`Already?’ El Matarife frowned. He was more than convinced that the Englishman had not come about the woman, and he was enjoying the flattery that impressed his men. `You go already?’
`To sleep. Tomorrow I must ride to my General with this news. He is impatient to hear of you.’ Sharpe paused as he pushed his chair back, fished in his pocket and brought out a scrap of paper. It was an order from Colonel Leroy about mending camp-kettles, but no one in this room would know that. He read it, frowned, then looked up at the Slaughterman. `I almost forgot! You guard La Puta Dorado?’ He could feel the tension in the room, betrayed by the sudden silence that greeted his words. Sharpe shrugged. `It is not important, but my General asked me and I am asking you.’
`What of her?’
Sharpe screwed the piece of paper up and tossed it onto the fire. `We heard she had been brought here.’
`You heard?’
`Whatever El Matarife does is important to us.’ Sharpe smiled. `You see we would like to talk to her. She must know things about the French army that would help us. The Generalissimo is full of admiration that you should have captured so important a spy.’
The compliments seemed to soothe the bearded, suspicious man. Slowly, very slowly, El Matarife nodded. `You want to talk with her, Englishman?’
`For an hour.’
`Just talk?’ There was appreciative laughter in the room.
Sharpe smiled. `Just talk. One hour, no more. She is in the convent?’
El Matarife was still convinced that Sharpe’s mission was to secure his help with the summer’s campaign. It was a nuisance that the English had heard of the woman’s presence in the mountains, but he believed the Englishman when he said he merely wanted to talk. Besides, how could one Englishman and a Spanish boy rescue her from among his men? El Matarife smiled, knowing that he must send this Major Vaughn away satisfied. To simply deny that the Marquesa was in these mountains was to risk that this Englishman would want to search for himself. He gestured to one of his men, who left the inn’s smoky room, and turned back to Sharpe. `You’ve met her before, Major Vaughn?’
`No.’
`You’ll like her.’ The Slaughterman laughed. `But she’s not in the convent.’
`No?’
More wine was put in front of Sharpe. The Slaughterman was smiling contentedly. `She is here.’
`Here?’
`I heard you were coming, Englishman, and I thought I would help your General by letting you talk with her. She has much to tell you about your enemies. I waited to see if you would ask, if you had not, then I would have surprised you!’
Sharpe smiled. `I will tell my General of your help. He will want to reward you.’ He was struggling not to show his excitement, nor his consternation. The thought of Helene in the power of this beast was foul, the thought of how he was to take her away from here was daunting, yet he dared not show it. Present too in his head was the recurring fear that she would know nothing, that she would find the death of her husband as great a mystery as Sharpe, yet if he had any hopes of regaining his rank and his career, he had to ask her his questions. `You are bringing her to this room?’