Sharpe’s Honour: The Vitoria Campaign, February to June 1813. Bernard Cornwell

unimpressed by Sharpe’s contriteness. ‘Christ! If the Peer learned about this he’d tear you into pieces. You goddamn deserve it. You’re a fool.’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘Now go and get drunk. Sergeant Harper says his woman’s cooked you a meal. I don’t want to see your ugly face till tomorrow.’

      ‘No, sir.’

      Chastened, embarrassed, humiliated by the jeers of his enemies, but his career safe, Sharpe watched Leroy ride away. The Provosts, not needed, followed the Colonel.

      D’Alembord stayed with Sharpe. ‘It seems our Colonel has a knack of turning up at the right time.’

      Sharpe, humiliated by the tongue-lashing, nodded.

      D’Alembord smiled. ‘You were right.’

      ‘Right?’

      ‘You were about to hack the bugger into bits.’

      Sharpe smiled bitterly. ‘The next time I will.’

      D’Alembord sighed. ‘With the greatest respect, sir, don’t be a goddamned idiot. You’ve survived a duel with your career intact. Be content.’

      ‘I’m dishonoured.’

      D’Alembord mocked him with laughter. ‘Honour!’ He led Sharpe off the road, up towards the ash trees on the hill. ‘Honour, my dear Sharpe, is just a word behind which we hide our sins. It disappears, I find, whenever a lady’s bedroom door opens.’ He smiled at his Major, remembering the awesome moment when he had seen Sharpe stop trying to fence and begin to fight. He had understood then, even better than at the bridge where they had waited without ammunition, why this man was a soldier’s soldier. ‘Do you think if I bring some wine I might share your dinner?’

      ‘I’m sure Harps will be pleased.’

      ‘He’d better be, it’s good wine. We can drink to your restored career in it.’

      Sharpe followed him. The anger had gone, he felt foolish. Leroy was right; his job was to make the South Essex into the best it could be, and never had the time been more propitious. The Battalion had a good Colonel, and the new officers, like d’Alembord, promised well. He felt suddenly as though a hanging judge had reprieved him. He had escaped his own foolishness and he rode towards a campaign, a summer, and a future. The madness was gone, the doom lifted, and he was alive.

      CHAPTER FIVE

      That night, behind thick curtains, in a dark-panelled room lit by heavy candles that threw their flickering light on a crucifix of gold, the Marqués de Casares el Grande y Melida Sadaba prayed.

      He had wondered why the Inquisitor had come to him bringing his wife’s letter, curious why the letter should have so eminent a carrier, but now he understood. The Marqués’s lips moved, his fingers shuffled the beads on their string, his eyes stared at the crucifix until the small, gold image seemed to shift and swim before him. He shook his head to clear his vision. ‘What will happen to the Englishman?’

      ‘Wellington will send him home.’ The Inquisitor had a voice deep as the pit. ‘Wellington needs the Spanish alliance.’

      The Marqués groaned as he stood up from his knees. ‘I should have killed him.’

      ‘Your honour is intact. It was he who fled, not you.’

      The Marqués turned to look at Father Hacha. The Inquisitor was all that a priest should be in the Marqués’s estimation; he was a tall, strong man, fierce-faced and grim, a warrior of God who knew that pity was a luxury in the fight against evil. The Marqués, who yearned to have the toughness he saw in the Inquisitor, frowned. ‘I don’t understand what made the man do it! To insult her!’

      ‘He’s English, he’s from the gutter, he’s heathen.’

      ‘I should have killed him.’

      ‘God will do it.’

      The Marqués sat opposite the Inquisitor. They were in the Marqués’s bedroom, taken for the night from the mayor of this small town. The candlelight shuddered on the red hangings of the bed, on the picture of the crucified Lord, and on the grim, axe-faced man of the Spanish Inquisition. The Marqués stared at the dark eyes. ‘Helena will come to me?’ He used the Spanish form of his wife’s name.

      The Inquisitor nodded. ‘She must do penance, of course.’

      ‘Of course.’ The Marqués felt the stirring within him. On the table beside the bed there stood her portrait, the portrait that had travelled with him to the Banda Oriental and showed her pure skin, wide eyes, and delicate face. She had spied for the French, and that fact could not be hidden from the Marqués, but the Inquisitor had assured him that her spying was merely a woman’s weakness.

      ‘She missed you, my Lord, she was tempted by loneliness and unhappiness. She must do public penance.’

      ‘And she will do it?’

      ‘She is eager to be in your good graces, my Lord.’

      The Marqués nodded. He had had a frank, embarrassingly frank, discussion with his grim Inquisitor. Yes, the priest had said, there were rumours about the Marquesa, but what woman did not attract rumours? And was there truth in the rumours? The priest had shaken his head. There was none.

      Perhaps because Father Hacha had freely admitted that his wife had spied for the country of her birth, the Marqués believed the lie about her faithfulness. He wanted to believe it. He knew, guiltily and secretly, that it had been a fault to marry her, but what man would not have wanted to marry the frail, lovely girl? He knew he had married out of lust, out of sinfulness, and he had confessed the sin a hundred hundred times. Now, it seemed, his prayers were answered and she wanted his forgiveness and his love. He would give both to her.

      He would give them because the priest had laid before him this night a glittering image of Spain’s future, and a future, the Inquisitor had said, in which the Marqués would play an eminent, a vital part. ‘You were always close to the old King, my Lord.’

      ‘True.’

      ‘His son needs you.’

      Spain, the Marqués had heard, needed him. This war against the French, the Inquisitor had said, was a mistake. True, it had been started by the French, but they now saw that their best interests lay in peace. They wanted to take their embattled armies from Spain, and only one obstacle lay before them; the British alliance.

      The Inquisitor had spoken of the secret treaty. He had done it because he wanted this man’s trust. The Marqués had listened. At first he had felt offence at the secret manoeuvring that would end with a broken promise to Britain, but as he listened more he felt the glory and excitement grow in him.

      Spain, the Inquisitor had said, had been given its empire by God. That empire was the reward for defeating the Muslims in Europe. Now, because of the war against France, the empire was slipping away. The Spanish, the priest said, had a duty to their God to keep the empire. If there was peace with France then the army could go abroad as God’s warriors. The secret treaty that was being forged at Valençay would give Spain peace at home and glory abroad.

      That appealed to the Marqués. He had no love for the government that ruled that part of Spain not held by the French. It was, in his view, a liberal, dangerous government that would try to introduce a parliament and limit the royal power. Spain should be ruled by the King and the Church in consort, not by a shouting rabble of upstart ambition.

      There was more. As he sat and listened to the Inquisitor, the Marqués heard what the Junta in Cadiz now proposed. The liberals, who ruled the country in King Ferdinand VII’s absence, were trying to dismantle the power of the Church in Spain.

      ‘Surely not!’

      In