Her eyes were curious, huge and curious. "What do you fight for?"
He shook his head, not knowing what to tell her. If he said ‘England’ it would sound pompous, and Sharpe had a suspicion that if he had been born French then he would have fought for France with as much skill and ferocity as he served England. The Colours? Perhaps, because they were a soldier’s pride, and pride is valuable to a soldier, but he supposed the real answer was that he fought for himself to stop himself sliding back into the nothingness where he began. He met her eyes. "My friends." It was as good an answer as he could think of.
"Friends?"
"They’re more important on a battlefield."
She nodded, then stood up and walked down the balcony trailing smoke behind her. "What do you say to the charge that Wellington can’t fight an attacking battle? Only a defensive battle?"
"Assaye."
She turned. "Where he crossed a river in the face of the enemy?"
"Yesterday you knew nothing about Assaye."
"Yesterday I was in public." The cigar glowed again.
"He can attack." Sharpe was impressed by her intelligence, by her knowledge, but he was also mystified. There was something catlike about La Marquesa. She was quiet in her movements, beautiful, but she had claws, he knew, and now he knew she had the intelligence to use them skilfully. "Believe me, Ma’am, he can attack."
She nodded. "I believe you. Thank you, Captain Sharpe, that’s all I wanted to know."
"All?"
She turned to the lattice and opened a window in it. "I want to know if the French are coming back to Salamanca. I want to know if Wellington will fight to stop that happening.
You’ve told me he will. You weren’t boasting, you weren’t trying to impress me, you gave me what I wanted; a professional opinion. Thank you."
Sharpe stood up, not sure if the visit was done and he was being dismissed. He walked towards her. "Why did you want to know?"
"Does it matter?" She still stared at the fortresses.
"I’m curious." He stopped behind her. "Why?"
She looked back at the table. "You forgot your musket."
"Rifle. Why?"
She turned round to face him and gave him another of her hostile stares. "How many men have you killed?"
"I don’t know."
"Truly?"
"Truly. I’ve been a soldier for nineteen years."
"Do you get frightened?"
He smiled. "Of course. All the time. It gets worse, not better."
"Why’s that?"
"I don’t know. I sometimes think because the older you get, the more you have to live for."
She laughed at that. "Any woman will tell you otherwise."
"No, not any woman. Some, maybe. Some men, too." He gestured at the faraway sound of the party. "Cavalry officers don’t like getting old."
"You’re suddenly very wise for a humble soldier." She was mocking him. She put the cigar to her mouth and smoke drifted between them.
She had still not answered his question and he still did not understand why he had been brought to this balcony where the leaves stirred in the night breeze. "You could have asked a thousand people in this town the questions you’ve asked me, and got the same answers. Why me?"
"I told you." She pointed with the cigar to his rifle. "Now why don’t you pick up the rifle and go?"
Sharpe said nothing. He did not move. Somewhere in the town there were raised voices, drunken soldiers fighting in all probability, and a dog howled at the moon from another street, and he saw her eyes look at his cheek. "What are those black stains?"
Sharpe was becoming used to her sudden questions that had no relevance to the previous conversation. She seemed to like to tease him, bring him almost to the point of anger, and then deflect him with some irrelevance. He brushed his right cheek. "Powder stains, Ma’am. The gunpowder explodes in the rifle pan and throws them up."
"Did you kill someone tonight?"
"No, not tonight."
They were standing just two feet apart and Sharpe knew that either could have moved away. Yet they stayed still, challenging each other and he knew that she was challenging him to touch her and he was tempted suddenly, to break the rules. He was tempted to walk away, as Marmont had simply walked away from Wellington’s army, but he could not do it. The full mouth, the eyes, the cheekbones, the curve of her neck, the shadows above the white lace-frilled dress had caught him. She frowned at him. "What does it feel like? To kill a man?"
"Sometimes good, sometimes nothing, sometimes bad."
"When is it bad?"
He shrugged. "When it’s unnecessary." He shook his head, remembering the bad dreams. "There was a man at Badajoz, a French artillery officer."
She had expected more. She tipped her face to one side. "Go on."
"The fight was over. We’d won. I think he wanted to surrender."
"And you killed him?"
"Yes."
"How?"
He gestured at the big sword. "With this." It had not been that simple. He had hacked at the man, gouged him, disembowelled the corpse in his great rage until Harper had stopped him.
She half turned away from him and stared at the scarcely touched food on the table. "Do you enjoy killing? I think you do."
He could feel his heart beating in his chest as if it had expanded. It was thumping hollowly, sounding in his eardrums, and he knew it as a compound of fear and excitement. He looked at her face, profiled against the broken moonlight, and the beauty was overpowering, unfair that one person could be so lovely and his hand, almost of its own volition, came slowly up, slowly, until his finger was under her chin and he turned the face towards him.
She gave him a calm, wide-eyed expression, then stepped away from him so his arm was left suspended in mid-air. He felt foolish. Her face was unfriendly. "Do you enjoy killing?"
He had been made to touch her, so she could back away and make him feel foolish. She had brought him here for her small victory, and he knew defeat. He turned away from her, walked to his rifle, slung it on his shoulder, and started back down the balcony without a word. He did not look at her. He walked past her, smelling the tobacco smoke from her cigar.
"Colonel Leroux enjoys killing, Captain."
For a second he almost kept on walking, but the name of his enemy stopped him. He turned.
"What do you know of Leroux?"
She shrugged. "I live in Salamanca. The French were in this house. Your job is to kill him, yes?"
Her voice was challenging again, impressing him with her knowledge, and again he had the feeling that he was involved in a game of which she only knew the rules. He thought of Leroux in the forts, of the cordon of men about the wasteland, of his own Company in their billets. He had a simple job and he was making it complicated.
"Good night, Ma’am. Thank you for the meal."
"Captain?"
He kept walking. He went round the corner, past the lights of the spyholes, and he felt a freedom come on him. He would be true to Teresa, who loved him, and he quickened his pace towards the secret staircase.
"Captain!" She was running now, her bare feet slapping the rush mats. "Captain!" Her hand pulled at his elbow. "Why are you going?"
She had teased him earlier, mocked him for not kissing her, withdrawn when he had touched her. Now she held his arm, was pleading with him, her eyes searching his face for some reassurance. He hated her games.
"God damn you to hell, Ma’am." He put his left arm about her back, half lifted her, and kissed her on the mouth. He crushed her, kissing her to hurt, and when he saw her eyes close, he dropped her. "For God’s sake! Do I enjoy killing? What am I? A bloody trophy for your rotten wall? I’m going to get drunk, Ma’am, in some flea-bitten hovel in this bloody town and I might take a whore with me. She won’t ask me bloody questions. Good night!"
"No!" She held him again.
"What do you want? To save me money?" He was harsh, feeling his hurt. She was more beautiful than
he could have imagined a woman to be.
"No." She shook her head. "I want you, Captain, to save me from Colonel Leroux." She said it almost bitterly and then, as if ashamed of the kiss, she turned and walked away from him.
"You what?"
She went on walking, back to the corner and onto the lighted side of the balcony. Once again she had surprised him, but this time he felt there was no game. He followed.
She was standing by the telescope, staring through the lattice, and Sharpe propped his rifle against the wall and went close behind her. "Tell me why?"
"I’m frightened of him." She stared away from him.
"Why?"
"He’ll kill me."
There was a silence and it seemed to Sharpe to be like a great abyss over which he was suspended on a single, fine blade-edge. One false move and the moment would be lost, finished, and it was as if he and she were alone high above the dark night and he saw the shadow between her shoulder blades, a dark shadow running down into the intricate lace of her dress, and it seemed to him that there was nothing on this dark earth so mysterious, so frightening, or as fragile as a beautiful woman. "He’ll kill you?"
"Yes."
He put his right hand up, slowly, and put his long finger against her shoulder blade, a touch so gentle that it could have been a strand of her golden hair. He slid the finger down her warm, dry skin and she did not move.
"Why will he kill you?"
His fingertip explored the ridges of her spine. Still she did not move and he let his other fingers down, then pushed them slowly up towards her neck. She was very still.
"You’ve stopped calling me "Ma’am"."
"Why will he kill you, Ma’am?"
His fingers were on the nape of her neck where they could feel the wisps of hair that had escaped from the silver combs. He moved his hand right, very slowly, letting his fingers trace and stroke the curve of her long neck. She began to turn and his hand, as if frightened of breaking something very fragile, leaped an inch from her skin. She stopped, waited till she was touched again, and turned to face him.
"Do your friends call you Dick?"
He smiled. "Not for many years." His arm was tense from the effort of holding it still, hovering on her skin, and he waited for her to speak again, knowing that she had suddenly asked an irrelevant question because she was thinking. She seemed oblivious of his hand, but he knew she was not, and his heart still thumped inside him, and the moment was still there. Her eyes flicked between his.
"I’m frightened of Leroux." She said it flatly.
He let the palm of his hand drop onto the curve of her neck. Still she seemed to take no notice. His fingers curled onto her back. "Why?"
She gestured at the balcony. "You know what this is?"
He shrugged. "A balcony."
For a few seconds she said nothing. His hand was feather-light on her neck and he could see the shadows move on her skin as she breathed. He could hear the beat of his heart. She licked her lips. "A balcony, but a special kind of balcony. You can see a long way from here, and it’s built so you can do that." Her eyes, trusting and serious, were on his. She was speaking simply, as if to a child, so that he would understand her. It was, Sharpe thought, with his hand still on her neck, yet another face of this remarkable woman who changed like lake water, but something in her tone told him that now she was not playing. If there was a true Marquesa, this was she. "You can see the roads over the river, and that’s why it was built. My husband’s great-great-grandfather didn’t want to spy only indoors. He liked to watch his wife when she rode out of the palace, so he built this balcony like a watch-tower. They’re not unusual in Spain, and they have this lattice for a special reason. No one can see in, Mr. Sharpe, but we can see out. It’s a special kind of balcony. In Spanish a balcony is "balcon", but this isn’t a "balcon". Do you know what it is?"
Sharpe’s hand was utterly still. He did not know the answer, but he could guess. The word almost stumbled as he spoke it, but he said it aloud. "Mirador?"
She nodded. "El Mirador. The watch-place." She looked at his face. She could see a pulse throbbing in his cheek beside the sword scar. His eyes were dark. She raised an eyebrow as if in question. "You know, don’t you?"
He hardly dared speak, he hardly dared breathe. He moved his hand, sliding it gently onto her back so that his fingertips touched the skin of her spine. The wind stirred the leaves above them.
She frowned slightly. "Do you know?"
"Yes, I know."
She closed her eyes, seemed to sigh, and he pulled with his hand and she came, so easily, into his chest. Her hair was below his chin, her face cradled in his rough uniform, and her voice was small and pleading.
"No one must know, Richard, no one. Don’t tell anyone that you know, not even the General! No one must know. Promise me?"
"I promise." He held her close, the wonder of it in his head.
"I’m frightened."
"Is that why you wanted me here?"
"Yes. But I didn’t know if I could trust you."
"You can trust me."
She tipped her head up to his and he could see that her eyes were gleaming. "I’m frightened of him, Richard. He does terrible things to people. I didn’t know! I never knew it would be like this."
"I know." He leaned down and her face did not move. He kissed her and suddenly her arms were round him and she clung to him fiercely and kissed him fiercely as if she wanted to suck the strength from him into her own self. Sharpe held her, his arms round the slim body, and he thought of what his enemy would do to this perfect, lovely, golden woman, and he despised himself for distrusting her because he knew, now, that she was braver than he, that she had led her lonely life in the great Palacio, surrounded by enemies, and in danger, always, of a terrible death. El Mirador!
His hand pressed on her back and, through the lace, hanging in fringes, he felt the hooks of her dress, and he slipped his hand between the hooks, felt her skin, and then pressed the bottom hook between finger and thumb, the finger and thumb that were more used to the pressure of flint on mainspring, and the hook slid out of the loop, and he moved his hand up to the second, pressed again, it opened, and she dropped her face onto his chest, still clinging to him. He could not believe this was happening, that he, Richard Sharpe, was on this mirador, this night, with this woman, and he moved his hand to the last hook, pressed it back through the loop and he could feel the metal scraping as it moved, and she seemed to stiffen in his arms. He froze.
She looked up at him and her eyes searched his face as though she needed some reassurance that this man could truly keep her from Leroux’s long Kligenthal. She gave a small smile. "Call me Helena."
"Helena?" The hook snapped free, he moved his hand, and he sensed the wings of the dress fall away and he put his hand back, stroked, and it was pressed into the rich curve at the small of her back. Her skin was like silk.
Her smile went, all the harshness came back. "Let go of me!" It was snapped like an order, her voice loud. "Let go of me!"
He had been a fool! She had wanted protection, not this, and now he had offended her by imagining what was not to be, and he let go of her, bringing his hand back, and she stepped away from him. Her face changed again. She laughed at him, laughed at his confusion, and she had ordered him away so that she could stand free and let the dress, light as thistledown, rustle to the floor. She was naked beneath the dress and she stepped back to him over its folds. "I’m sorry, Richard."
He put his arms round her, her skin was pressed against his uniform, his sword belt, his ammunition pouch, and she clung to him and he stared at the dark bulk of the San Vincente and he swore that the enemy would never reach her, never, not while there was breath in his body or while his arm could lift the heavy sword whose hilt was cold on her flank. She hooked a leg round his, lifted herself up, and kissed him again and he forgot everything. The Company, the forts, Teresa; all were scoured away, whirled far off by this moment, by this promise, by this woman who
fought her own lonely war against his enemies.
She lowered herself to the floor, took his hand, and her face was grave and innocent. "Come."
He followed, obedient, in the dark Salamantine night.
PART TWO
Wednesday, June 24th
to
Wednesday, July 8th, 1812
Chapter 10
Sharpe found himself resenting the progress of the trench that was being dug in the ravine. He knew that once the excavation reached the midpoint between the San Vincente and San Cayetano forts then the second assault was imminent. The second assault could hardly fail. The ammunition supply to the heavy guns had been restored, cart after cart came across the San Marta ford and screeched into the city and each cart was loaded with the huge roundshot. The guns fired incessantly, grinding at the defences, and to make it worse for the French the gunners heated the shot to a red heat so that the balls lodged in the old timbers of the convents and started fires that the French tried desperately to control.
For four nights Sharpe watched the bombardment, each night from the mirador, and the red-hot shot seared in the darkness and crashed into the crumbling forts. The fires blazed, were damped down, then blazed again and only the small hours of the morning brought a respite for the defenders. Some nights it seemed to Sharpe as if no one could live through the battering of the forts. The shot streaked over the wasteland while, high overhead, the fuses of the howitzer shells spun and smoked then plunged down to explode in flowering dark flame and thunder. The crackle of the flames rivalled the cracks of the Riflemen, creeping nearer, and each morning showed more damage; more embrasures opened wide, their guns unseated, smashed, useless. Wellington was in a hurry. He wanted the forts taken so that he could march north in pursuit of Marmont.
When the forts fell Sharpe knew he would go north. The Light Company would rejoin the regiment and he would leave Salamanca, leave La Marquesa, leave El Mirador, and each moment, marked by the slow extension of the attacker’s trench, was precious to him. He left the Palacio each morning, going out by the secret staircase that led into an alleyway beside the stables, and he went back each afternoon when the only disturbance of Salamanca’s siesta was the sound of the gunners crumbling at the forts.