‘Moreno’s house, Sharpe.’
‘He’s rich?’
Kearsey shrugged. ‘Used to be. The family own the whole valley and a lot of other land. But who’s rich with the French here?’ Kearsey’s eyes flicked left, down the street. ‘The castillo. Ruins now, but they used to take refuge there from the raids over the hills.’
There were no animals in sight, no humans, just the wind stirring the barley that should have been harvested. The single village street was empty and Sharpe let his eyes travel beyond the church, across a flat pasture to some stunted fruit trees, and there, half hidden by the orchard, was another church and a bell-tower.
‘What’s the far church?’
‘Hermitage.’
‘Hermitage?’
Kearsey grunted. ‘Some holy man lived there, long ago, and they built the shrine. It’s not used now, except that the graveyard’s there.’ Sharpe could see the walled cemetery through the trees. Kearsey nodded at the hermitage. ‘That’s where the gold is.’
‘Where’s it hidden?’
‘In the Moreno vault, inside the hermitage.”
The village street ran left and right across Sharpe’s vision. To the right, to the south, the street became a road that disappeared in the purple shadows at the far end of the valley, miles away, but to the left the road came nearer to the hills before disappearing into the slopes. He pointed.
‘Where does it go?’
‘Ford at San Anton.’ Kearsey was chewing his grey moustache, glancing up at the white stone on the hilltop, back to the village. ‘They must be there.’
‘Who?’
‘The French.’
Nothing moved, except the wind on the heavy bar ley. Kearsey’s eyes flicked up and down the valley. ‘An ambush.’
‘What do you mean, sir?’ Sharpe was beginning to understand that in this kind of warfare he knew nothing.
Kearsey spoke quietly. ‘The weathervane on the church. It’s moving. When the Partisans are in the village they jam it with a metal rod so you know they’re there. There are no animals. The French have butchered them for food. They’re waiting, Sharpe, in the village, and they want the Partisans to think they’ve gone.’
‘Will they?’
Kearsey gave his asthmatic bark. ‘No. They’re too clever. The French can wait all day.’
‘And us, sir?’
Kearsey flashed one of his fierce glances on Sharpe. ‘We wait, too.’
The men had piled their arms on the floor of the bowl, and as the sun rose they used the weapons to support spread greatcoats to give themselves shade. The water in the canteens was brackish but drinkable, and the Company grumbled because, before leaving Almeida, Sharpe, Harper and Knowles had virtually stripped each man and taken away twelve bottles of wine and two of rum. Even so, Sharpe knew, someone would have drink, but not enough to do any harm. The sun’s heat increased, baking the rocks, while most of the Company slept, heads pillowed on haversacks, and single sentries watched the empty landscape around the hidden gully. Sharpe was frustrated. He could climb the gully’s rim, see where the gold was stored, see where the survival of the army was hidden in a seemingly uninhabited valley, yet he could do nothing. As midday approached he slept.
‘Sir!’ Harper was shaking him. ‘We’ve got action.’
He had slept no more than fifteen minutes. ‘Action?’
‘In the valley, sir.’
The Company were stirring, looking eagerly at Sharpe, but he waved them down. They must stifle their curiosity and watch, instead, as Sharpe and Harper climbed up beside Kearsey and Knowles on the rock rim. Kearsey was grinning.
‘Watch this.’
From the north, from a track that led down from high pastures, five horsemen trotted slowly towards the village. Kearsey had his telescope extended and Sharpe found his own. ‘Partisans, sir?’
Kearsey nodded. ‘Three of them.’
Sharpe pulled out his glass, his fingers feeling the inset brass plate, and found the small group of horsemen. The Spaniards rode, straight-backed and easy, looking relaxed and comfortable, but their two companions were quite different. Naked men, tied to the saddles, and through the glass Sharpe could see their heads jerking with fear as they wondered what was to happen to them.
‘Prisoners.’ Kearsey said the word fiercely.
‘What’s going to happen?’ Knowles was fidgeting.