He went down the ladder, drew the great sword, and opened the door to the street where his enemies had gathered for his death.
CHAPTER 14
Angel had woken before dawn. He had slept in the stable, wrapped by warm straw and his thick cloak. He had shivered as he yawned, wriggled from his bed, and went into the yard. He splashed water on his face and looked up at the dark roof beneath which Sharpe slept with the golden woman.
Angel had polished the saddles the night before. He had brushed the horses and made everything ready for this morning. Not just ready, but gleamingly ready. He had done it for a woman more beautiful than his dreams had dared imagine, and now, in yet more homage to her, he saddled Carbine and folded a blanket over the saddle in an effort to give La Marquesa a more comfortable seat. He knew she was French, and he hated the French, but no woman so lovely as she could be evil in Angel’s worshipping eyes.
He tried out his makeshift attempt at her comfort, riding out of the inn yard, and turning Carbine towards the south. The wind was at his back, bringing a chill to his thin body. The shapes of the townspeople were dark where they moved in alleys and courtyards. He put a hand on the butt of his rifle that he had pushed into the saddle’s holster.
The eastern mountains were edged with light. Angel put his heels back, letting Carbine go into a trot. He revelled in the feel of the big, black horse that lifted its hooves high and tossed its mane with impatience. Angel straightened his back, imagining that he was El Arcangel, the most feared Partisan in Spain, riding to battle. A woman of great beauty, with golden hair and grey eyes, waited for his return, though she did not believe that any man would return from so suicidal a mission.
He pulled the. rifle from its holster, then twitched the reins to take Carbine down to the stream where the women of the town washed their clothes. He would let the horse drink there, and let his daydream run on to the delicious moment when he returned from battle, not too severely wounded, and the golden haired woman would run from the house, her arms wide; then Angel saw the horsemen over the stream.
He was in the darkness beneath chestnut trees. He checked Carbine and saw the grey shapes in the grey light and he thumbed back the cock of the rifle, thinking that he should fire a warning shot for Sharpe, then thought that the sound of the rifle would bring the men galloping over the stream for his blood.
He pulled the reins, knowing he must ride back to the town and warn Sharpe, but as Carbine moved, so the men over the shallow stream saw the movement, one shouted, and Angel saw the water splash white as they drove their horses towards him.
They were ahead of him, cutting him off from the town, and the boy, now no longer the feared Arcangel, but merely Angel riding for his life, let the black horse have its head.
Carbine easily outstripped El Matarife’s men, carrying Angel south in the valley, away from the town. Angel discarded the folded blanket, pulled the reins left, and hid himself among pines that grew on a small knoll. He watched from their cover, wondering what he could do to help, and then he saw more horsemen coming from the south and he knew there was nothing he could do except to wait, watch, and hope. He remembered Major Hogan’s urgent warning that his job was to protect Sharpe, and he felt failure with all the passion of his sixteen years. He patted Carbine’s neck, sheathed the unfired rifle, and shivered.
A murmur greeted Sharpe, a murmur that rose to a chorus of hate. The horses in their semi-circle about the inn’s facade came forward and El Matarife raised his hand and bellowed for silence and stillness.
El Matarife looked down on Sharpe. `Well, Major Vaughn?’
`What happens to the woman?’
The Partisan laughed. `That’s no worry of yours.’