‘Not yet.’ He had been flogged, years before, when he was a Private.
‘What were their names?’
‘Captain Morris and Sergeant Hakeswill. ‘ He said the names tonelessly. They were deep in his mind, waiting vengeance.
‘You’ll find them.’
‘Yes.’
She smiled. ‘You’ll hurt them?’
‘Very much.’
‘Good.’
Sharpe grinned. ‘I thought Christians were supposed to forgive their enemies.’
She shook her head, the hair tickling him. ‘Only when they’re dead. Anyway.’ She plucked a hair from his chest. ‘You’re not a Christian.’
‘You are.’
She shrugged. ‘The priests don’t like me. I have been learning English from a priest, Father Pedro. He’s nice, but the others… ‘ She spat at the fire. ‘They do not let me take the Mass. Because I am bad.’ She said something in quick, guttural Spanish, something that would have confirmed the opinion of the priests. She sat up and looked round the room. ‘Those pigs must have left some wine.’
‘I didn’t see any.’
“You didn’t look. You only wanted me under the blankets.’ She stood up and searched the room. Sharpe watched her, loving the straightness of her body, the strength in her slimness. She opened cupboards and pulled their contents violently on to the floor. ‘Here.’ She tossed him a wooden shelf, loose from a cabinet. ‘Put it on the fire.’
Sharpe sprinkled it with powder, to help it light, and when he turned back she had found wine and brandished it to him. ‘You see? The pigs always have wine.’ She saw him looking at her and her face became serious. ‘Am I different?’
‘No.’
‘You’re sure?’ She stood facing him, naked, her face worried.
‘I’m sure. You’re beautiful. ‘ He was puzzled. ‘Should there be something different?’
She shrugged, crossed the room and sat beside him. The cork was half out of the bottle and she pulled it free and smelt the wine. ‘Awful.’ She drank some and handed the bottle to Sharpe.
‘What’s the matter?’
He knew the moment had come when she would talk.
She was silent for a few seconds, staring into the fire, then she turned abruptly to him, her expression fierce. ‘You are going to Badajoz?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re sure?’ She seemed desperate for his certainty.
Sharpe shrugged. ‘I can’t be sure. The army will go there, but we may be sent to Lisbon, or maybe stay here. I don’t know. Why?’
‘Because I want you to be there.’
Sharpe waited for her to continue, but she stopped talking and stared, instead, into the fire. The wine was sour, but he drank some, and then pulled the stiff blanket up round her shoulders. She looked sad. ‘Why do you want me to be there?’ he asked gently.
‘Because I will be there.’
‘You’ll be there.’ He spoke the words as if they described the most normal thing on earth, but inside he was grasping for a reason, any reason, that would take Teresa into the largest French fortress in Spain.
She nodded. ‘Inside. I’ve been there, Richard, since April.’
‘In Badajoz? Fighting?’
‘No. They don’t know me as “La Aguja”. They think I am Teresa Moreno, niece of Rafael Moreno. That’s my father’s brother.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘The French even let me carry a rifle outside the city, can you imagine that? To protect myself against the horrid Guerilleros.’ She laughed. ‘We live there, my aunt, uncle, myself, and we trade in furs, leather, and we want peace so the profits can be high.’ She made a face.
‘I don’t understand.’
She leaned away from him, poked at the fire with the bayonet, and then drank more wine. ‘Will there be trouble there?’
‘Trouble?’
‘Like tonight? Killings? Thieving? Rape?’
‘If the French fight, yes.’
‘They will fight. ‘ She looked at him. ‘You must find me in the city, you understand?’
He nodded, puzzled. ‘I understand.’ A dog howled outside at the soft, falling snow. ‘But why in Badajoz?’
‘You’ll be angry.’
‘I won’t be angry. Why Badajoz?’
Again she was silent, biting her lip and searching his face, and then she took his hand and placed it, beneath the blanket, on her bare stomach. ‘Is it different?’
‘No.’ He stroked her skin, not understanding. She breathed deep.