Sharpe grinned. ‘Doesn’t matter. We’ll manage.’
‘You will.’ He grinned again. ‘I heard about Talavera. That was bloody well done. It really was.’
Sharpe pointed at Harper. ‘He was with me.’
Garrard nodded to the Irishman. ‘Proud of you.’ He looked at his men. ‘We’ll do it next time, won’t we, lads?’ The Portuguese smiled back, nodded shyly to Sharpe.
‘We must go, Tom. Work to do.’ The farewells were said, promises to look each other up, that might or might not ever be kept, and Sharpe accepted Garrard’s offer for the Portuguese soldiers to clear the bodies off the street.
‘Go easy, Dick!’
‘And you.’ Sharpe looked at Harper. ‘Did you see El Catolico?’
The Sergeant shook his head. ‘There were enough of them, sir. But not him. Perhaps he doesn’t do his own dirty work?’
Then where? Sharpe looked up at the roofs. The rooftops. He turned to the Sergeant.
‘Do we have sentries on the roof?’
‘The roof?’ Alarm showed on the big face. ‘Sweet Jesus!’
‘Come on!’ They began running. Not again, thought Sharpe. Please, God, not again. He remembered Josefina lying in the blood-stained sheets; he ran faster, the sword in his hand. ‘Open up!’
The sentries turned, startled, and pushed open the courtyard gate. There was the smell of horses, torchlight, and he leapt up the steps, banged open the kitchen door, and there was the Company, eating, the firelight, candles, and Teresa, unharmed, at the end of the table. He breathed a sigh of relief, shook his head, and Lossow came over the floor.
‘Welcome back! What is it?’
Sharpe pointed to the ceiling. ‘Upstairs!’ He was trying to catch his breath. ‘Upstairs. The bastard’s waiting upstairs.’
CHAPTER 22
Lossow shook his head. ‘He’s not here.’
‘He’s close.’
The German shrugged. ‘We’ve searched.’ They had looked in every room, every cupboard, even up chimneys and on the thick-tiled roof, but there was no sign of El Catolico or his men.
Sharpe was not satisfied. ‘The other houses?’
‘Yes, my friend.’ Lossow was patient. The Germans had opened up houses either side, to sleep in glorious space and comfort, and all had been searched. The cavalryman took Sharpe’s elbow. ‘Come and eat.’
The Company, those not on guard, were in the kitchen, where a pot bubbled on the flames. Parry Jenkins lifted it clear with a pot-hook. ‘Real stew, sir.’
The gold was locked in a store-room with a barrel of wine, Sergeant McGovern in grim charge, and Sharpe glanced at the door as he spooned down the meat and vegetables. Behind the padlock and bolts was the dragon’s hoard and Sharpe remembered the stories well. If a man stole buried gold, the dragon would take its vengeance; and there would be only one way to avoid that revenge: by killing the dragon. The attack in the street, only half pressed home, was not the end of the matter. Sharpe guessed that El Catolico had parties throughout the small town looking for the Riflemen, but the dragon would want to be there at the death, to see the agony.
Lossow watched Sharpe eat.
‘You think he’ll come tonight?’
Sharpe nodded. ‘He offered to stay on tomorrow, to help the defence, but that’s just insurance. He wants it over with; he wants to get out before the French seal this place tight.’
‘Then he wants to leave tomorrow.’
Knowles shrugged. ‘Perhaps he won’t come, sir. He’s getting the gold, isn’t he?’
Sharpe grinned. ‘He thinks so.’ He glanced at Teresa. ‘No, he’ll come.’ He grinned at the girl. ‘Major Kearsey thinks you should go back.’
She raised her eyebrows, said nothing. Before Sharpe had left Cox’s headquarters Kearsey had taken him aside, pleaded that Teresa should be returned to her father. Sharpe had nodded. ‘Send her father at ten o’clock tomorrow, sir.’ Now he watched her. ‘What do you want to do?’
She looked at him, almost with a challenge. ‘What will you do?’
Sharpe’s men, and some of the Germans, were listening to the conversation. Sharpe jerked his head at the door. ‘Come into the small room. We’ll talk.’
Harper took a jug of wine, Lossow and Knowles their curiosity. The girl followed them. She paused outside the small sitting-room door and put cool fingers on his hand. ‘Are you going to win, Richard?’