escape from death, seemed trivial compared to that future.
The Inquisitor smiled. ‘You did us all a service today, my Lord.’
‘A service?’
Father Hacha stood. ‘The Englishman backed down from you. You are a hero to the army, you beat the Englishman in their sight. Where you lead, my Lord, others will now follow.’
The Marqués saw himself leading the army away from the British alliance. He saw himself welcoming King Ferdinand VII at the gates of Spain, he saw glory.
He bowed his head for the blessing of the Inquisitor who had been offered, and who had accepted, the bedroom next door. The hands of the priest were firm on the Marqués’s head.
The Inquisitor, who had told lies all night, pronounced the blessing. He meant the words he spoke. He wished God to bless this man who had married so disastrously, and who was now a pawn in the struggle to defend the Inquisition. He blessed the Marqués in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, and he hoped that his Lordship would sleep well.
‘Thank you, father.’
‘I bid you a good night, my Lord.’
In his own room the Inquisitor knelt and prayed God’s forgiveness for the lies he had told and the deception he had practised. God would understand. What Father Hacha did this night he did to preserve God’s church. There was no more noble purpose. He rose from his knees, opened his missal, and settled down to wait for the witching hour when his brother, who was thought to be the Inquisitor’s servant, would play his part to restore the glory of God’s kingdom of Spain.
The Marqués’s private chaplain was forced to be up every morning at half past four to waken his master at five o’clock. Then, until half past six, the two men would share private devotions. After that the Marqués would take breakfast, then go to his first Mass of the day. The chaplain’s dream of heaven was a place where no one stirred from their bed until midday. He yawned.
He kissed his scapular, then draped it about his neck. He wondered if the Inquisitor would join them this morning, and hoped not. Father Tomas Hacha rather frightened the Marqués’s private chaplain; there was too much force in the man. Besides, the Inquisition was frightening anyway, its power secret and pervasive, its judgments harsh. The chaplain preferred a milder religion.
The servants who slept outside their master’s room jerked awake as the chaplain’s footsteps sounded on the stairs. One of them sat up, rubbing his cheek. ‘Morning, father.’
‘Good morning, my son.’ The chaplain opened one of the shutters on the landing and saw the grey dawn spreading up from the dark hills. ‘It’s going to be a fine day!’
Dogs barked in the town. Somewhere a cockerel crowed. The chaplain could see, dim in the shadows of the street, the shapes of the British guns. The Spanish and British armies collected here, waiting to plunge into French-held Spain. He was glad that it was none of his business. Fighting the rebels in the Banda Oriental north of the River Plate had been bad enough, but the thought of those great guns bellowing at each other was terrifying. He turned to the Marqués’s room and knocked softly on the door. He smiled at the servants. ‘A quiet night?’
‘Very quiet, father.’
He knocked again. One of the servants unbuttoned himself above the chamberpot on the landing’s corner. ‘He was up late, father. He’s probably still asleep.’
‘Late?’
‘Father Hacha was with him.’ The servant yawned as he pissed. ‘Say a prayer for me, father.’
The chaplain smiled, then pushed the door open. It was dark in the room, all light blocked out by the great velvet hangings over the windows. ‘My Lord?’
There was no answer from behind the curtained bed. The chaplain closed the door quietly behind him then groped uncertainly through the strange, heavy furniture until he reached the window. He reflected how wealthy these provincial merchants were who could afford such furnishings, then pulled the curtain back, flooding the room with a sickly grey light.
‘My Lord? It’s I, Father Pello.’
Still no sound. The Marqués’s uniform was carefully hung on a cupboard door, his boots, stretchers inside, parked carefully beneath. The chaplain pulled back the curtains of the bed. ‘My Lord?’
His first thought was that the Marqués was sleeping on a pillow of red velvet. His second thought was relief. There would be no prayers this morning. He could go to the kitchen and have a leisurely breakfast.
Then he vomited.
The Marqués was dead. His throat had been cut so that the blood had soaked the linen pillowcase and sheets. His head was tilted back, his eyes staring sightless at the headboard. One hand hung over the side of the bed.
The chaplain tried to call out, but no sound came. He tried to move, but his feet seemed stuck to the carpeted floor.
The vomit stained his scapular. Some of it dribbled down the dead man’s plump hand. The Marqués seemed to have two mouths, one wide and red, the other prim and pale.
The chaplain called out again, and this time his voice, thickened by the vomit in his throat, came out as a terrible strangled cry. ‘Guards!’
The servants came in, but to no avail. The body was cold, the blood on the linen caked hard. Major Mendora, the General’s aide, came in with drawn sword, followed by the Inquisitor in his night-robe. Even the Inquisitor’s strong face paled at the carnage on the bed. The Marqués of Casares el Grande y Melida Sadaba had been killed in his sleep, his throat opened, and his soul sent to the judgment of heaven where, the Inquisitor prayed aloud in his dreadful, deep voice, the soul of his murderer would soon follow for awful and condign punishment.
They came for Major Richard Sharpe at eight on the same morning. The Battalion was paraded, the companies already marching off to their tasks.
Richard Sharpe, as so often in the early morning, was in a bad mood. His mouth had the thick sourness of too much wine the night before. He was looking forward to a second breakfast and feeling only mildly guilty that his new rank gave him the freedom for such luxuries. He had scrounged some eggs from Isabella, there was a flitch of bacon that belonged to the Mess, and Sharpe could almost taste the meal already.
For once, this morning, he would not have three men’s work to do. Colonel Leroy was taking half of the companies on a long march, the others were detailed to help drag the great pontoon bridges up to the high road, ready for the march into French territory. He could, he thought sourly, catch up on his paperwork. He remembered that he must try to sell one of the new mules to the sutler, though whether that sly, wealthy man would want to buy one of the tubed, half-winded animals that had turned up from Brigade was another matter. Perhaps the sutler would buy it for its deadweight. Sharpe turned to shout for the Battalion clerk, but the shout never sounded. Instead he saw the Provosts.
The Provosts were led, strangely, by Major Michael Hogan. He was no policeman. He was Wellington’s chief of intelligence and Sharpe’s good friend. He was a middle-aged Irishman whose face was normally humorous and shrewd, but who this morning looked grim as the plague.
He reined in by Sharpe. Hogan led a spare horse. His voice was bleak, unnatural, forced. ‘I must ask for your sword, Richard.’
Sharpe’s
