He pulled on the reins.
His attack had been so sudden and so savage, as an attack should be, that the enemy was gone, all but their dead. Sharpe leaned left, snatched the reins of another horse, and turned back up the hill. Now was the time for speed.
`Angel!’
`Senor?’
Sharpe was galloping the horses uphill. `You’re a marvel! A bloody, bloody marvel!’ He had shouted it in English. He tried an approximation in Spanish and was rewarded by seeing the boy’s broad grin as he squeezed out of the rocks. Sharpe was laughing. `You’re as good as any Rifleman!’
`Better!’
`You’re better!’ They both laughed. `Get the horses!’
Angel threw Sharpe’s rifle to him and he slung it on his shoulder. `Helene!’
She came siowly out of the crack in the rocks. She stared at the men who lay crumpled on the road, their blood already diluted by the rain and trickling down the ruts of the track. Her eyes came up to Sharpe. She was smiling. `I’ve never seen you fight!’
`You’ll see more if you don’t hurry.’
`You’re wonderful!’
`Helene! For God’s sake! Hurry! What are you doing?’
She was running past him. `I want one of those cloaks! I’m god-damned cold!’
She dragged a fur cloak from one of the dead men, grunting at the weight of the corpse. Sharpe leaned from his saddle to help her. He laughed when she draped it about her shoulders because it seemed so odd to see such delicate beauty swathed in such a brutal great fur.
El Malarife had not been among the seven men, so presumably the Partisan leader was at the foot of the mountain. He would have heard the shots, but it would be several minutes, maybe a half hour, before he knew what had happened. Then, though, he would realise what Sharpe was doing and guess that his enemy was escaping him. Sharpe chivvied Helene into Carbine’s saddle, knowing that every moment was precious.
Sharpe had four horses now and he led them upwards, away from the dead men, up to the plateau. `Where are we going, Richard?’
`Down the other side. There’s a small path, a goat track.’ He had ridden round the plateau before going to the convent, sure there must be another path, fearful that he would not find it.
`Then what?’
`We ride as far as we can! We’ve stolen half a day’s lead on the bastards, but they’ll follow us!’ He did not tell her that no one moved faster across country than Partisans. Their pursuit would be grim, their revenge terrible unless he hurried.
She watched as he clumsily wiped the blood from his sword on the saddle-cloth of his captured horse. `Thank you, Richard!’
Thank Angel! He got three of them.’
Angel blushed. He was staring at La Marquesa with dog-like devotion. Sharpe laughed, then led them back up the mountain and south towards the far valleys.
He felt an extraordinary surge of life in him. He had done it! He had crossed Spain and snatched this woman from the Convent of the Heavens, he had fought her enemies, and he would take her to safety. He would find his answers, he would wrench his life back where it belonged, but first, first before all things, because at this moment it seemed the most important of all things, he would find out if she had changed. He looked at her, thinking that her beauty dimmed this land, and that when she smiled it was as if she held all his happiness in her hand. For the first time in months, because of this woman, he was content.
CHAPTER 13
La Marquesa moaned, her eyes shut. She turned her head on the pillow, her lips open just enough for Sharpe to see her white teeth. The fire smoked into the room. Rain rattled a crisp tattoo on the tiny window through which, dim through the rain-smeared grime, Sharpe could see a candle burning in a cottage across the street.
`Oh God, oh God, oh God.’ She paused, her head turning in its gold hair on the pillow again. `Oh God!’
He laughed. He poured wine for her and put it beside the bed. A tallow wick, held in an iron bracket, smoked above its dim flame. `Wine for you.’