`I will give you a room to talk with her, Englishman.’
`I am grateful to you, Matarife.’
`A private room, Major!’ El Matarife laughed and made an obscene gesture. `Perhaps when you see her you will want to do more than talk, yes?’
El Matarife’s gust of laughter was interrupted by a shout from outside the inn and the sound of feet running. The back door was thrown open and a voice shouted that El Matarife should come and come quickly.
The Slaughterman pushed towards the door, Sharpe beside him, and the room was full of men shouting for lanterns, and then Sharpe ducked under the lintel and saw a light coming from a broken down shed that was being used as a stable. Men ran towards the shed, lanterns bright, and Sharpe went with them. He pushed through them and stopped at the doorway. He wanted to vomit, so sudden was the shock, and his next urge was to draw the big sword and scythe these beasts who pressed in the small yard around him.
A girl hung in the shed. She was naked. Her body was a tracery of gleaming rivulets of blood, blood new enough to shine, yet not so new that it still flowed.
She turned on the rope that was about her neck.
El Matarife swore. He cuffed at a man who claimed that the girl had committed suicide.
The body turned, slim and white. The thighs and stomach showed dark bruises beneath the blood that had reached her ankles. Her hands were slim and pale, the nails broken, but still with flecks of red where they had once been painted. There was straw in her hair.
A dozen men shouted. They had locked the girl in here and she must have found the rope. El Matarife’s voice drowned them all, cursing them for this stupidity, their carelessness. He looked up at the tall Englishman. They are fools, sehor. I will punish them.’
Sharpe noticed how, for the first time, the Slaughterman called him sehor. He stared up at the face that had once been lovely. `Punish them well.’
`I will! I will!’
Sharpe turned away. `And give her Christian burial!’
`Yes, sehor.’ The Slaughterman watched the Englishman closely. `She was beautiful, yes?’
`She was beautiful.’
`The Golden Whore.’ El Matarife said the words slowly, as though he pronounced an epitaph. `You can’t talk to her now, sehor.’
Sharpe looked at the hanging body. There were scratches on the breasts. He nodded and forced calmness into his voice. `I shall ride south this night.’ He turned away. He knew El Matarife’s men watched him, but he would show nothing. He shouted for Angel to bring the horses.
He stopped a mile from the small village. The memory of the hanging, turning body was foul in him. He thought of his wife dead, of the blood on her throat. He thought of the torture that the dead woman in the stable had endured, of the horrid last moments of a life. He closed his eyes and shuddered.
`We go back now, sehor?’ Sharpe heard the sadness in Angel’s voice that their mission had been wasted.
`No.’
`No?’
`We go to the convent.’ They had seen it before the dusk, a building clinging impossibly to a plateau’s edge. `We climb there tonight.’ He opened his eyes, twisted in the saddle, and stared behind him. No one had followed them from the inn.
`We go to the convent? But she’s dead!’
`She’s called the whore of gold.’ Sharpe’s voice was savage. `Gold because of her hair, Angel, not her money. Whoever that girl was, she wasn’t La Marquesa.’
But whoever the black-haired girl was whose body hung bloody and slim in the stable, she was dead, and newly dead at that, and Sharpe knew the girl had died because he had asked about La Marquesa. She had died so that Sharpe would leave this valley quietly, convinced that La Marquesa was dead. He pushed back with his heels, turning Carbine, and rode towards the dark mountain. He felt a thickness in his throat because the unknown girl was dead, and he promised her spirit, wherever it was, that he would avenge her. He rode with anger, he climbed to the Convent of the Heavens, and he planned a rescue and a battle.