An urgent whisper came from the ladder beneath the trapdoor. The man with the cigar nodded. ‘Si, si.’ He sounded weary, yawned, and came back to the ladder. At first he was not sure what he saw, just a shadow, and he peered at the shape.
The shape moved, turned into a man with a sword, and the tired sentry jumped back, opened his mouth, but Sharpe was ramming the blade forward, aiming at the throat, and he missed. It grated on a rib, slid, and then went home, but the man had shouted and there were feet on the ladder. The damned sword was stuck. Sharpe let the blade go down with its victim, put his foot on the man’s chest, turned, and felt the suction give way and the blade free itself. There was a second man half out the trapdoor, a pistol in his hand, and Sharpe ducked, threw the sword out as the gun exploded and the ball hammered into the roof tiles. Sharpe shouted an inarticulate challenge, flailed the blade down on the man, and heard him fall from the ladder. He grabbed the trapdoor, was about to shut it.
‘No!’ The voice was from below; the church suddenly lit up. ‘Wait!’ It was El Catolico’s voice, deep and silken. ‘Who is that?’
‘Sharpe.’ He was standing behind the trapdoor, invisible from below, unassailable.
El Catolico chuckled. ‘May I come up?’
‘Why?’
‘You can’t come down. There are too many of us. So I have to come up. Will you let me up?’
There were shouts across the street. ‘Captain! Captain!’
He ignored them. ‘Just you?’
‘Just me.’ The voice was amused, tolerant. Sharpe heard the footsteps on the ladder, saw the light coming, and then a hand put an unmasked lantern on the roof and there was El Catolico’s dark head, turning, smiling, and the other hand brought up his rapier, which he tossed, ringing, on to the far side of the roof. ‘There. Now you can kill me. You won’t, though, because you are a man of honour.’
‘Am I?’
El Catolico smiled again, still halfway through the trapdoor. ‘Kearsey doesn’t think so, but Kearsey equates honour with God. You don’t. May I come up? I’m alone.’
Sharpe nodded. He waited till the tall Spaniard was on the roof and then kicked the trapdoor shut. It was heavy, thick enough to stop a bullet, but for added safety Sharpe pulled the iron ladder on top.
El Catolico watched. ‘You are nervous. They won’t come up.’ He cocked a friendly eye at Sharpe. ‘Why are you here?’
‘The ladder was missing.’
The tall Spaniard looked puzzled. The hands spread apart in an uncertain gesture. ‘Missing?’
Sharpe kicked it. ‘It was up the tower this morning. This evening it was gone.’
‘Ah!’ He laughed. ‘We used it to climb the church wall.’ He looked at Sharpe’s dishevelled uniform. ‘I see you had other methods.’ In one of his graceful gestures he opened his cloak. ‘You see? No pistol. I have only the sword.’ He made no attempt to pick it up.
Above the church roof Sharpe could see the sudden flare of torches. Search parties were starting out. There was sweat on the palm of his sword hand, but he would not give the Spaniard the satisfaction of seeing him wipe it off.
‘Why are you here?’
‘To pray with you.’ El Catolico laughed, jerked his head at the street. ‘They’re making so much noise they won’t hear us. No, Captain, I’m here to kill you.’
Sharpe smiled. ‘Why? You’ve got the gold.’
El Catolico nodded. ‘I don’t trust you, Sharpe. As long as you’re alive I don’t think the gold will be easy to collect, though Brigadier Cox presents you with a problem.’ Sharpe acknowledged it with a nod and El Catolico looked at him shrewdly. ‘How were you going to solve it?’
‘The same way that I intend to solve it tomorrow.’ He wished he were as confident as he sounded. He had seen El Catolico in action, measured swords with him, and he was thinking desperately how he could win the fight that must start soon. The tall Spaniard smiled, gestured at his rapier.