He waited through the long afternoon, listening to the bells of Sunday, the last peaceful day Almeida would know in a long time, and still Cox did not come. Once, he heard a Portuguese battery open fire, but there was no reply, and the town slumbered again, waiting for its moment. The door opened and Sharpe, half asleep in the big chair, started to his feet. Teresa’s father stood there with half a smile. He closed the door silently.
‘She was never harmed?’
‘No.’
The man laughed. ‘You are clever.’
‘She was clever.’
Cesar Moreno nodded. ‘She is. Like her mother.’ He sounded sad, and Sharpe felt sorrow for him. The man looked up. ‘Why did she side with you?’
Sharpe shook his head. ‘She didn’t. She’s against the French.’
‘Ah, the passion of youth.’ He came nearer, walking slowly. ‘I hear your men won’t release the gold?’ Sharpe shrugged and the Spaniard followed the gesture with a smile. ‘Do you despise me?’
‘No.’
‘I’m an old man, given sudden power. I’m not like Sanchez.’ He stopped, thinking about the great Partisan of Castile. ‘He’s young; he loves it all. I just want peace.’ He smiled as if embarrassed by the words.
‘Can you buy it?’
‘What a foolish question. Of course! We haven’t given up, you know.’
‘We?’
‘El Catolico and I.’ He shrugged, traced a finger through the dust on the table.
It occurred to Sharpe that El Catolico may not have given up, but Cesar Moreno, the widower and father, was making sure he had supporters on both sides.
The old man looked at him. ‘Did you sleep with her?’
‘Yes.’
He smiled again, a little ruefully, and wiped the dust off his hand. ‘Many men would envy you.’ Sharpe made no reply and Moreno looked at him fiercely. ‘She’ll not come to any harm, will she.’ It was not a question; he knew.
‘Not from me.’
‘Ah. Walk carefully, Captain Sharpe. He’s better with the sword than you.’
‘I will walk carefully.’
The Spaniard turned, looked at the varnished pictures on the wall that told of happier times, plumper days, and said quietly, ‘He won’t let you take the gold. You know that?’
‘He?’
‘Brigadier Cox.’
‘I didn’t know.’
Moreno turned back. ‘It is a pleasure to watch you, Captain. We all knew Kearsey was a fool, a pleasant fool, but not what do you say – movement? In the head?’
‘I know what you mean.’
‘Then you came and we thought the English had sent a strong fool after an intelligent fool. You fooled us!’ He laughed. It was difficult to make jokes in a strange language. ‘No, he won’t let you. Cox is an honourable man, like Kearsey, and they know the gold is ours. How will you beat that, friend?’
‘Watch me.’ Sharpe smiled.
‘I will. And my daughter?’
‘She’ll come back to you. Very soon.’
‘And that makes you sad?’
Sharpe nodded and Moreno gave Sharpe a shrewd look that reminded the Rifleman that once this man had been powerful. Could be again.
Moreno’s voice was gentle. ‘Perhaps one day?’
‘But you hope not.’
Teresa’s father nodded and smiled. ‘I hope not, but she is headstrong. I watched her, from the day I betrothed her to El Catolico, and knew one day she would spit in my face, and his. She waited her moment, like you.’
‘And now he waits his?’
‘Yes. Go carefully.’ He went to the door, waved a hand. ‘We will meet again.’
Sharpe sat down, poured a glass of wine, and shook his head. He was tired, to the bone, and his shoulder ached and he wondered if his left arm would ever move free again, and the shadows lengthened on the carpet till he slept, not hearing the evening gun, or the door opening.
‘Sharpe!’
God Almighty! He jerked upright. ‘Sir?’
Cox strode over the floor, trailing staff officers and paper. ‘What the devil’s happening, Sharpe?’
‘Happening, sir?’
‘Your men won’t release the gold!’
Kearsey came through the door and with him, magnificently uniformed, a Spanish Colonel. It took Sharpe a few seconds, seconds of focusing on the gold lace, the looping silver, to realize it was El Catolico. The face had not changed. The powerful eyes, the slight glint of humour, the face of an enemy.