on El Matarife’s face and shrugged. ‘Just kill him. Who’ll know?’
‘You’re a fool. Your mother sucked an ass.’ El Matarife jabbed at the fire with a sword point. It was cold in these deep valleys, and the fire in the inn’s main room did little to help. He looked back to the men who had spoken with the Englishman the night before. ‘He said nothing of any woman?’
‘No.’
‘You’re sure he’s English? Not a Frenchman?’
The men shrugged.
El Matarife peered through the window, stooping so he could see to the very top of the huge, grey slab of cliff where the Convent of the Heavens was perched. The presence of La Marquesa in that cold building was supposed to be a secret, though El Matarife knew better than most that there were few secrets in Spain’s countryside. Someone would have talked.
He could kill the Englishman, but that was a last resort. The English were the source of gold, guns and ammunition, landing them on the hidden beaches of the northern coast at night. If an Englishman was to be killed, then El Matarife had a suspicion that a reckoning might be made; that his men would be hunted and punished by other Partisans, yet, if he had to kill the Englishman, he would, though he would rather send the man away satisfied, suspicion allayed, so he could continue this wearisome watch uninterruptedly.
‘Where is this Major Vaughn?’
‘At the two bridges.’
‘Bring him tonight.’ The Slaughterman looked at one of his lieutenants. ‘Bring the prisoners. We shall entertain our Englishman.’
‘The woman too?’
‘Especially her.’ El Matarife smiled. ‘If he has come for a woman then he can have her!’ He laughed. He had fooled the French for four years and now he would fool an Englishman. He shouted for wine and waited for the night.
Night fell swiftly in the depths of the valley beneath the Convent of the Heavens. When the peaks were still touched red by the last daylight it was already dark at the inn that El Matarife called his headquarters. In front of the inn, and lit by smoking torches, was an area of beaten earth. Sharpe and Angel, brought to the place by silent guides, were led to the lit space.
A chain was thrown onto the patch of earth. It lay there, ten feet of rusting links, and at its far end, nervous and dressed only in ragged trousers, stood a prisoner.
A Partisan picked up the chain and looped one end about the man’s left wrist. He tied it clumsily, jerked on it to make sure it was secure, then stepped back. He took from his belt a long knife and tossed it at the man’s feet.
One of the men who had guided Sharpe to this place grinned at the Rifleman. ‘A Frenchman. You watch his death, Englishman.’
A second man stepped forward, a hulking man who shrugged off a cloak and whose appearance provoked applause from the watching Partisans. The man turned towards Sharpe and the Rifleman saw a face which, at first, seemed unnatural, as though it belonged to a creature that was half-beast and half-man. Sharpe had heard his men tell stories about the strange things that were men by day and beasts by night, and this man could have been such a thing. His beard sprouted from his cheeks, growing as high as the cheekbones, leaving only a small gap beneath his hair, a gap from which two small, cunning eyes looked at Sharpe. The man smiled. ‘Welcome, Englishman.’
‘El Matarife?’
‘Of course. Our business will wait?’
Sharpe shrugged. The Partisans watched him, grinning. He sensed that this display was being given for his benefit.
El Matarife stooped, took the loose end of the chain, and wrapped it about his upper left arm. He took from his belt a long knife like that carried by the Frenchman. ‘I shall count the ways of your death, pig.’
The Frenchman did not understand the words. He understood that he must fight, and he licked his lips, hefted the knife, and waited as El Matarife stepped backwards, lifting the chain from the ground until it was taut between them. El Matarife went on pulling, forcing the Frenchman to step forward. The prisoner tugged back and the Partisans laughed.
Sharpe saw that many of the Partisans, instead of watching the strange fight, watched him. They were testing him. They knew that the English treated prisoners with decency; they wanted to see what kind of a man Sharpe was. Would he flinch at the display? If he did, then he would lose face.
El Matarife looked at Sharpe, then suddenly jerked on the chain, making the prisoner stumble. The Partisan went forward, knife low, and the Frenchman desperately slashed with his own blade and it seemed to Sharpe that the Frenchman must have drawn blood, but when El Matarife stepped back he was untouched. The prisoner had a slashed left arm. The blood dripped from the chain.
‘Uno,’ El Matarife said.
‘Uno,’ his men echoed.
Sharpe watched. The Partisan leader was fast. He was skilled at this kind of fighting. Sharpe doubted whether he had ever seen a man so quick with a blade. The bearded face was smiling.
The Frenchman suddenly lunged forward, looping the chain up in an attempt to wrap it about his opponent’s neck.
El Matarife laughed, stepped back, and the knife was a flicker of brightness in the flamelight.
‘Dos!’
The Frenchman was shaking his head. There was blood on his forehead.
The chain swung between them. Once more El Matarife stepped back. The links made a small noise as they tightened and this time El Matarife went on pulling steadily, hauling the Frenchman inexorably forward. The prisoner was licking his lips. He held his knife low, but there was a puzzled look on his face. He was trying to plan this fight and El Matarife was content to let him plan. At this kind of fighting the Slaughterman was an expert. He feared no Frenchman, no man who was not trained to the tied knife fight.
The Frenchman suddenly jerked backwards, jerked with all his weight and El Matarife, laughing, went fast forward so that the Frenchman, taken by surprise, fell backwards.
The Slaughterman hauled on the chain, towing the man on the ground, tugging and pulling, laughing as his prisoner thrashed like a hooked and landed fish, then El Matarife stepped forward, lashed out with his black-booted right foot to kick the Frenchman’s left forearm.
Sharpe heard the crack of the bone and the stifled cry of the prisoner.
‘Tres,’ El Matarife said. He stepped away to let the Frenchman get up. The prisoner looked dizzy. He was in pain. His arm was broken and every pull on the chain would now be agony. The man looked up at his tormentor and suddenly lunged with the knife, throwing himself forward from his knees, but El Matarife simply laughed and moved his knife hand faster than the eye could follow.
‘Cuatro.’
There was blood on the back of the Frenchman’s hand.
Sharpe looked at the guide beside him. ‘How long does it go on?’
‘At least thirty cuts, Englishman. Sometimes a hundred. You don’t like it, eh?’ The man laughed.
Sharpe did not reply. Slowly,
