the window, clutching her arms about her knees, and heard an English voice. The door had been hammered open and a tall man with a scarred face, a black eye, a green coat and a long sword was staring at her. ‘Your servant, ma’am,’ he had said, and Sarah was safe.
Major Ferreira, having arranged to sell the food to the French, wanted to reassure himself that the quantities he had promised to the enemy truly existed. They did. There was food enough in Ferragus’s big warehouse to feed Masséna’s army for weeks. Major Ferreira followed his brother down the dark alleys between the stacks of boxes and barrels, and again marvelled that his brother had managed to amass so much. ‘They have agreed to pay for it,’ Ferreira said.
‘Good,’ Ferragus said.
‘The Marshal himself assured me.’
‘Good.’
‘And protection will be given when the French arrive.’
‘Good.’
‘The arrangement,’ Ferreira said, stepping over a cat, ‘is that we are to meet Colonel Barreto at the shrine of Saint Vincent south of Mealhada.’ That was less than an hour’s ride north of Coimbra. ‘And he will bring dragoons straight to the warehouse.’
‘When?’
Ferreira thought for a few seconds. ‘Today,’ he said, ‘is Saturday. The British could leave tomorrow and the French arrive on Monday. Possibly not until Tuesday? But they could come Monday, so we should be at Mealhada by tomorrow night.’
Ferragus nodded. His brother, he thought, had done well, and so long as the rendezvous with the French went smoothly then Ferragus’s future was safe. The British would flee back home, the French would capture Lisbon, and Ferragus would have established himself as a man with whom the invaders could do business. ‘So tomorrow,’ he said, ‘you and I ride to Mealhada. What about today?’
‘I must report to the army,’ Ferreira said, ‘but tomorrow I shall find an excuse.’
‘Then I will guard the house,’ Ferragus said, thinking of the pale pleasures waiting on the top floor.
Ferreira examined a pair of wagons parked at the side of the warehouse. They were piled with useful goods, linen and horseshoes, lamp oil and nails, all things the French would value. Then, going further back in the huge building, he grimaced. ‘That smell,’ he said, remembering a man whose death he had witnessed in the warehouse, ‘the body?’
‘Two bodies now,’ Ferragus said proudly, then turned because a wash of light flooded into the warehouse as the outer door was dragged open. A man called his name and he recognized Miguel’s voice. ‘I’m here!’ he shouted. ‘At the back!’
Miguel hurried to the back where he bobbed his head respectfully. ‘The Englishman,’ he said.
‘What Englishman?’
‘The one on the hilltop, senhor. The one you attacked at the monastery.’
Ferragus’s good mood evaporated like the mist from the river. ‘What of him?’
‘He is at the Major’s house.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ Ferragus’s hand instinctively went to his pistol.
‘No!’ Ferreira said, earning a malevolent look from his brother. The Major looked at Miguel. ‘Is he alone?’
‘No, senhor.’
‘How many?’
‘Three of them, senhor, and one is a Portuguese officer. They say others are coming because a colonel will use the house.’
‘Billeting,’ Ferreira explained. ‘There will be a dozen men in the house when you get back, and you can’t start a war with the English. Not here, not now.’
It was good advice, and Ferragus knew it, then he thought of Sarah. ‘Did they find the girl?’
‘Yes, senhor.’
‘What girl?’ Ferreira asked.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Ferragus said curtly, and that was true. Sarah Fry was not important. She would have been an amusement, but finishing Captain Sharpe would be a good deal more amusing. He thought for a few seconds. ‘The English,’ he said to his brother, ‘why are they staying here? Why do they not march straight to their ships?’
‘Because they will probably offer battle again north of Lisbon,’ Ferreira said.
‘But why wait here?’ Ferragus insisted. ‘Why do they billet men here? Will they fight for Coimbra?’ It seemed an unlikely prospect, for the city’s walls had mostly been pulled down. It was a place for learning and trading, not for fighting.
‘They’re staying here,’ Ferreira said, ‘just long enough to destroy the supplies on the quays.’
An idea occurred to Ferragus then, a risky idea, but one that might yield the amusement he craved. ‘What if they knew these supplies were here?’ He gestured at the stacks in the warehouse.
‘They would destroy them, of course,’ Ferreira said.
Ferragus thought again, trying to put himself into the Englishman’s place. How would Captain Sharpe react? What would he do? There was a risk, Ferragus thought, a real risk, but Sharpe had declared war on Ferragus, that much was obvious. Why else would the Englishman have gone to his brother’s house? And Ferragus was not a man to back down from a challenge, so the risk must be taken. ‘You say there was a Portuguese officer with them?’
‘Yes, senhor. I think I recognized him. Professor Vicente’s son.’
‘That piece of shit,’ Ferragus snarled, then thought again and saw the way clear to finishing the feud. ‘This,’ he said to Miguel, ‘is what we will do.’
And laid his trap.
‘This is splendid, Sharpe, quite splendid.’ Colonel Lawford paced through his new quarters, opening doors and inspecting rooms. ‘The taste in furniture is a little florid, wouldn’t you say? A hint of vulgarity, perhaps? But very splendid, Sharpe. Thank you.’ He stooped to look in a gilt-framed mirror and smoothed down his hair. ‘Is there a cook on the premises?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And stabling, you say?’
‘Out the back, sir.’
‘I shall inspect it,’ Lawford said grandly. ‘Lead on.’ It was evident from his loftily genial manner that he had received no new complaint from Slingsby about Sharpe’s rudeness. ‘I must say, Sharpe, you make a very good quartermaster when you put your mind to it. Maybe we should confirm you in the post. Mister Kiley is not improving, the doctor tells me.’
‘I wouldn’t do that, sir,’ Sharpe said as he led Lawford down through the kitchens, ‘on account that
