`Oh God.’
They had ridden till one horse had had to be abandoned, until even the two good British horses were heaving with tiredness, and until La Marquesa’s thighs, unused to the saddle, were rubbed raw like fresh meat. She opened her eyes slowly. `Aren’t you sore?’
`A bit.’
`I never want to see a bloody horse again. Oh Christ!’ She scratched her waist. `Bloody place. Bloody Spain. Bloody weather. What’s that?’
Sharpe had put a metal pot on the rough table. `Grease.’
`For God’s sake why?’
`For the sores. Rub it on.’
She wrinkled her nose, then scratched again. She was lying on the bed, too tired to move, too tired to take any notice as Sharpe had ordered the fire lit, food prepared and wine brought.
They had come to this town, a tiny place huddled in the mountains where there was a church, a marketplace, an inn, and a mayor who had been impressed that a British officer should come to this place. Sharpe, fearing El Matarife, would have preferred to have ridden on, to have found a place in the deep country where they could have hidden for the night, but he knew that La Marquesa could take no more. He would risk the town’s inn and hope that El Matarife, if he reached this far, would be inhibited by the townsfolk from trying to seize back La Marquesa. This was not the time, Sharpe thought, to tell her that he planned an early start in the morning.
She pushed herself up on her elbows and frowned about the room. `I don’t think I’ve ever, ever, stayed in a place so awful.’
`It seems comfortable enough to me.’
`You never did have elevated tastes, Richard. Except in women.’ She flopped back. `I suppose that hoping for a bath here is futile?’
`It’s coming.’
`It is?’ She turned her head to look at him. `God, you’re wonderful.’ She frowned again as she scratched. `This bloody shift! I hate wearing wool.’
Sharpe had hung the dress she had rescued from the convent by the fire. Her jewels were on the table. She looked at the dress. `Not very suitable for a wild flight, is it?’ She laughed and watched Sharpe peel off his wet jacket. `Is that the shirt I gave you?’
`Yes.’
`Don’t you have a laundry in the British army?’
`It couldn’t come with me.’
`Poor Richard.’ She tasted the wine and grimaced. `One day, Richard, I’m going to have a house on the River Loire. I shall have an island in the river and young men will row me to my island where we will eat lark pate and honey and drink cold, cold wine on hot, hot days.’
He smiled. `Which is why you want your wagons?’
`Which is why I want my wagons.’
`And that’s why the Church arrested you?’
She nodded. She closed her eyes again. `They arranged it all. Luis had no one to leave his money to but me, and they found the bloody will and the clause which said they’d get it all if I became a nun. Simple.’ She gave a wan smile. `It’s rather clever of them.’
`So why did you write the letter?’
She waved a hand airily. `Oh, Richard!’ She looked at him and sighed impatiently. `They had to have Luis dead, didn’t they? They told me they wanted him punished, I don’t know why. I didn’t know what was happening, and I didn’t think you’d mind killing him. He never was much use to anyone.’ She smiled at him. `I never thought it would get you into trouble darling. Truly! I’ll write you a letter for Arthur, telling him you’re innocent. What a lot of trouble you went to!’ She frowned again, scratching at the grey shift.
`Helene.’
She looked at him, struck by the seriousness in his voice. She hoped that he was not going to question her lies, she was too tired. `Richard?’
`It isn’t the wool.’
`What isn’t the wool?’
`Your scratching.’
`What on earth are you talking about?’
He gestured at the discarded fur cloak she had taken from the dead Partisan. `You’ve got guests.’
She stared at him suspiciously. `Guests?’