`How much?’
She thought about it. `Five million?’
`Francs?’
`Pounds, darling. English pounds.’ She laughed at his expression. `At least.’
`It can’t be.’
`It can.’ She threw the cigar into the fire. `I’ve seen it!’ She smiled at him. `Your dear Arthur would like to get his fingers on that, wouldn’t he?’ Undoubtedly, Sharpe thought, Wellington would dearly like to capture the French baggage train. She laughed. `But he won’t. That’s what our army’s protecting.’ She raised her wine glass. `All for us, dear. Loser takes all.’
`Will you get your wagons back?’
`I’ll get my wagons back.’ She said it grimly. `And I’ll write a letter that will get you your job back. What shall I write? That the Inquisitor killed Luis?’ She giggled. `Perhaps he did! Or his brother.’
`His brother?’
She turned her head to him. `El Matarife,’ she said it as if to a child.
‘They’re brothers!’
`Yes. He came and looked at me in the carriage.’ She shuddered. `Bastard.’
Sharpe supposed it made sense. Why else would the Partisan come to these far, inhospitable mountains except to do his brother a favour? But even so, he was astonished that the bearded, brutal man was brother to a priest. He looked at the beauty beside him. `For God’s sake write that your other letter wasn’t true.’
`Of course I will. I shall say a nun threatened to rape me unless I wrote it.’ She smiled. `I am sorry about it, Richard. It was thoughtless of me.’
`It doesn’t matter.’
`It does really. It got you into trouble, didn’t it? I thought you’d survive though.’ She smiled happily. `And if it wasn’t for that letter we wouldn’t be here, would we?’
`No.’
`And you wouldn’t be able to put grease on my thighs, would you?’ She handed him the pot, and Sharpe, obedient as ever to this woman of gold, obeyed.
He lay awake in the night, one arm trapped beneath her waist, and wondered if the letter she would write would be sufficient. Would it restore his rank or vindicate his honour?
The glow of the fire was on the yellowed ceiling. Rain still tapped at the window and hissed in the chimney. Helene stirred on him, one leg across his, her head and one hand on his chest. She had murmured a name in her half sleep; Raoul. Sharpe had felt jealous again.
He touched her spine, stroking it, and she muttered and pushed her head down on his chest. Her hair tickled his cheek. He thought how often in the last year he had dreamed of this, wanted this, and he ran his hand down her flank as though he could impress the sensation in his memory to last forever.
She had lied to him. He did not for one moment believe that the Church had murdered her husband, or made a plan to take her money. Something else was behind it all, but she would never tell him what it was. She would do what she could to save his career, and for that, he thought, he should be grateful. He looked at the tiny window and saw nothing but the dark reflection of the room, not a hint of a lightening sky. He told himself that he must wake in an hour, turned towards her warm softness, brushed his lips on her hair, and slept with her body tight in his arms.
He came awake suddenly, the small window showing grey, knowing he had slept longer than he should have. He wondered why Angel had not thumped on the trapdoor.
He rolled from the bed, making Helene grunt, and he saw that it had stopped raining. The fire was dead.
Then he froze with a sudden gut wrench of fear within him, and knew that he had failed utterly. A noise had woken him, and now he could hear it again. It was the noise made by horses, by many horses, but not horses in motion. He could hear their breathing, their hooves stirring, the jingle of curb chains. He reached for the rifle, thumbed the cock back, and went to the small window.
The grey-dawn street was filled with horsemen. El Matarife was there, and about him, the dew glistening on their shaggy cloaks, were his men. Next to El Matarife, on a superb horse, was a tall man in a silver cloak with a sabre at his hip. About the two men, crowding the narrow street, were at least two hundred horsemen.