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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 answer the Inquisitor had taken from his pocket and handed to the Marqués a copy of a new law, a law that had, within the last two months, declared that the Spanish Inquisition was abolished.
It still existed in French-held Spain, that body from the protestant nightmares of the sixteenth century; the Inquisition that preached God’s love with the fires of agony and the blades of torture. Now, bereft of their racks and burning irons, they were a moral police force to the Spanish people, granting licences of marriage to those who could prove they were of pure, Christian blood; watching always those who were suspected of being Moors or Jews. They were the spies of God, the secret police of heaven, and their power was threatened. The Junta had dissolved them.
King Ferdinand VII, whose love of women was matched by his fear of God, did not agree that the Inquisition should be abolished. They might spy for God, but their reports came to the King of Spain, and no kingdom on earth had a more efficient body of informers than did the Spanish king with his loyal Inquisitors.
‘If we restore His Majesty,’ the Inquisitor had said, ‘then we preserve our Church. Peace with France, my Lord, is Spain’s only hope.’
With which sentiments the Marqués de Casares el Grande y Melida Sadaba agreed wholeheartedly. ‘So what do you want of me?’
The Inquisitor told his lie smoothly. ‘I want you to gain support among your friends, among the officers of the army, among your admirers, my Lord.’ He shrugged. ‘When the time comes, my Lord, the peasants will not be overjoyed.’
‘They hate the French.’
‘But they love their King. They need firm leadership, strong example, from Church and nobles. From you and I, my Lord.’
The Marqués nodded. The future was suddenly golden. His wife, whom he had married for lust, was willing to do penance. She would come back to him chastened and humbled, loving and loyal, to be the helpmate of a man who would assist his King in steering Spain into a brilliant, holy future. And to help the Marqués, to steer him, comfort him, support him, there would be this grim, tough Inquisitor with his subtle mind and sharp purpose. Suddenly the events of the day, the abortive duel and the Marqués’s 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 dead-weight. 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 smile, which had greeted his friend, changed to puzzlement. ‘My sword?’
Hogan sighed. He had volunteered for this, not because he wanted to do it, but because it was a friend’s duty. It was a duty, he knew, that would become grimmer as this bad day went on. ‘Your sword, Major Sharpe. You are under close arrest.’
Sharpe wanted to laugh. The words were not sinking in. ‘I’m what?’
‘You’re under arrest, Richard. As much as anything else for your own safety.’
‘My safety?’
‘The whole Spanish army is after your blood.’ Hogan held out his hand. ‘Your sword, Major, if you please.’ Behind Hogan the Provosts stirred on their horses.
‘What am I charged with?’ Suddenly Sharpe’s voice was bleak, though he was already obediently unbuckling his sword belt.
Hogan’s voice was equally bleak. ‘You are charged with murder.’
Sharpe stopped unbuckling the belt. He stared up at the small Major. ‘Murder?’
‘Your sword.’
Slowly, as if it was a dream, Sharpe took the sword from his waist. ‘Murder? Who?’
Hogan leaned down and took Sharpe’s sword. He wrapped the slings and belt about the metal scabbard. ‘The Marqués de Casares el Grande y Melida Sadaba.’ He watched Sharpe’s face, reading his friend’s innocence, but knowing just how hopeless things were. ‘There are witnesses.’
‘They’re lying!’
‘Mount up, Richard.’ He gestured at the spare horse. The Provosts, blank-faced men in red jackets and black hats, stared with hostility at the Rifleman. They carried short carbines in their saddle holsters. Hogan turned his horse. ‘The Spanish say you did it. They’re out for your blood. If I don’t get you under lock and key they’ll be dragging you to the nearest tree. Where’s your kit?’
‘In my billet.’
‘Which house?’
Sharpe told him, and Hogan detailed two of the Provosts to fetch the Rifleman’s belongings. ‘Catch us up!’
Hogan led him away, surrounded by Provosts, and Sharpe rode towards more trouble than he would have dreamed possible. He was accused of murder, and he was led, in the bright sunlight of a new morning, towards a prison cell, a trial and whatever then might follow.
CHAPTER SIX
They rode for an hour, threading the valleys towards the army’s headquarters. Major Hogan, out of embarrassment and awkwardness, kept Provosts between himself and Sharpe.
At the town, which they entered by back streets, Sharpe was taken to the house where Wellington himself was quartered. He dismounted, was led to the stable yard, and locked into a small, bare room without windows. It had a stone-flagged floor that, like the wall above, was stained with blood. Above the bloodstains on the limewashed wall were large rusty nails. Sharpe presumed that shot hares or rabbits had been hung there, but the conjunction of rusty nails and blood somehow took on a more sinister aspect. The only light came from above and below the ill-fitting door. There was a table, two chairs, and an insidious smell of horse urine.
Beyond the locked door Sharpe could hear the boots of his guard in the stable yard. He could hear, too, the homely sounds of pails clanking, water washing down stone, and horses moving in their stalls. He sat, put his heels on the table, and waited.
Hogan had ridden fast. Once at this house he had made a brief farewell, offered no words of hope, then left Sharpe alone. Murder. Sharpe knew the penalty for that well enough, but it seemed unreal. The Marqués dead? Nothing made sense. If he had been arrested for attempting to fight a duel, he could have understood it. He could have endured one of Wellington’s cold tongue lashings, but this predicament made no sense. He waited.
The sunlight that came beneath the lintel moved about the floor as the morning wore on. He smelt the burning tobacco of his sentry’s pipe. He heard men laugh in the stables. The bell of the village church struck eleven and then there came the scrape of the bolt in the door and Sharpe took his heels from the table and stood upright.
A lieutenant in the blue jacket of a cavalry regiment came into the room. He blinked as his eyes went from the bright sunshine into the makeshift cell’s shadow, and then he smiled nervously as he put a bundle of papers onto the table. ‘Major Sharpe?’
‘Yes.’ Somehow the young man looked familiar.
‘It’s Trumper-Jones, sir, Lieutenant Michael Trumper-Jones?’
The boy expected Sharpe to recognise him. Sharpe remembered there had been a cavalry Colonel called Trumper-Jones who had lost an arm and an eye at Rolica. ‘Did I meet your father?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’ Trumper-Jones took off his hat and smiled. ‘We met last week.’
‘Last week?’
‘At the battle, sir?’
‘Battle? Oh.’ Sharpe remembered. ‘You’re an aide-de-camp to General Preston?’
