‘Do you mind? You can kill me, of course, before I reach it, but I don’t think you will.’ He had talked as he moved and then he stopped, picked it up, and turned round. ‘I was right. You see? You are a man of honour!’
Sharpe could feel the new blood wet on his chest and he rested his sword as the Spaniard, with a studied ease, dropped his cloak and flexed the blade. El Catolico took the tip of the rapier in his left hand and bent it, almost double.
‘A fine blade, Captain. From Toledo. But then, I forgot, we have already tried each other.’ He moved into the swordsman’s crouch, right leg bent, left leg extended behind. ‘En garde!”
The rapier flickered towards Sharpe, but the Rifleman did not move. El Catolico straightened. ‘Captain, do you not want to fight? I assure you it is a better death than the one I had planned.’
‘What was that?’ Sharpe thought of the ladder, the sudden rush in the dark.
The Spaniard smiled. ‘A distraction down the street, a fire, lots of shouts, and you would have come to your balcony. The ever ready Captain, prepared for battle, and then a volley of shots would have stopped you forever.’
Sharpe smiled. It was far simpler than his extraordinary imaginings, and it would have worked. ‘And the girl?’
‘Teresa?’ El Catolico’s pose slipped a little. He shrugged. ‘What could she have done with you dead? She would have been forced back.’
‘You would have enjoyed that.’
The Spaniard shrugged. ‘En garde, Captain.’
Sharpe had so little time. He had to unsettle the Spaniard’s elegant posture. El Catolico knew he would win, could afford to be magnanimous, was anticipating the inevitable display of his superior swordsmanship. Sharpe still kept his blade low and the rapier went down.
‘Captain! Are you frightened?’ El Catolico smiled gently. ‘You’re afraid I’m the better man.’
‘Teresa says not.’
It was not much, but enough. Sharpe saw the fury in El Catolico’s face, the sudden loss of control, and he brought up the huge blade, rammed it forward, and knew that El Catolico would not parry but simply kill him for the insult. The rapier flickered, lightning-fast, but Sharpe turned his body, saw the blade go past, and brought his elbow hard into El Catolico’s ribs, turned back and hammered down with the brass-guarded hilt of the sword on to the Spaniard’s head. El Catolico was fast. He twisted away, the blow glanced off his skull, but Sharpe heard the grunt and he followed it with a sweeping killer of a blow, a stroke that would have disembowelled an ox, and the Spaniard leapt backwards, and again, and Sharpe had failed, and he knew, with a fighter’s instinct, that El Catolico had recovered, survived the devastating attack, and would now fall back on his skill.
There was a hammering from downstairs, the blast of a musket, and El Catolico smiled. ‘Time to die, Sharpe. Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine.’ He came forward like quicksilver, past Sharpe’s clumsy parry, and the blade drew blood at Sharpe’s waist. ‘Et lux perpetua luceat eis.’ The voice was like silk, beautiful and hypnotic, and the blade went to the other side of Sharpe’s waist, razored his skin, and was gone. Sharpe knew he was being toyed with, a plaything, while the prayer lasted, and he could do nothing. He remembered Helmut’s techniques and went for El Catolico’s eyes, stabbing the empty air, and the Spaniard laughed. ‘Go slow, Sharpe! Te decet hymnus, Deus, in Sion.’
Sharpe lunged desperately for the eyes; Helmut had made it look easy, but El Catolico just swayed to one side and the rapier came low at the Rifleman, aiming at the thigh for another flesh wound, and Sharpe had only one, desperate, insane idea left. He let the rapier come, kicked his right thigh forward, and pushed the blade painfully into his flesh so that El Catolico could not use it. The Spaniard tried to drag it free; Sharpe felt the tearing in his leg, but he had the initiative, was still driving forward, and he hit the Spaniard with the heavy guard of the sword, scraping it up the face, and El Catolico abandoned the rapier and went backwards. Sharpe followed, the rapier stuck clean through his thigh, and El Catolico grabbed at it, missed, and Sharpe swept his blade down, caught El Catolico’s forearm; the Spaniard cried out and Sharpe back-swung him with the flat of his blade, a scything crack across the skull, and the Partisan fell.