She stepped over the rock that still blocked the opening. ‘Christ! It’s raining! My hair will be ruined!’
‘You said it needed a wash.’ He remembered to retrieve his shako from the hall table.
She laughed. ‘Are those our horses?’
‘Yes.’
‘I haven’t ridden a horse in years.’ She walked outside and put her face back as if to let the rain drench away the smell of the convent. She laughed with pure delight. ‘Where are we going?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Then let’s go there!’ She chose Carbine for herself, unerringly picking the better horse. She mounted, her bundle given to Sharpe, and she waited for him to mount Angel’s horse. Then she turned Carbine towards the open grass of the rain-swept plateau, pushed her heels back, and urged the big, black horse into a gallop.
Sharpe caught up with her. Her face was bright with the rain and with the sudden joy of freedom. This was not the time, he thought, to talk of El Matarife. She looked at him, laughed, then fumbled at her neck. She untied the hank of grey, drab rag, tossed it away, and released the great golden mane of her hair. She was free, she was beautiful, and Richard Sharpe followed her into his uncertain future.
He checked La Marquesa at the top of the path. She was cold now. The rain had soaked the woollen shift so that it clung to her body. Sharpe pulled out his cloak that was strapped behind her saddle and draped it about her shoulders, then took his telescope and trained it down the hill. He could see the hairpin bend in the road where Angel was hidden. He could see more. There were two pine branches beside the road. They lay parallel to the track and they told him that at least six men, but less than nine, had climbed past Angel’s hiding place. If they had been at right angles the message would be that the men were waiting in ambush higher on the road, but instead Angel had seen them reach the summit of the hill.
Sharpe closed the telescope. He twisted in the saddle and stared behind him. The convent was out of sight. This northern side of the plateau was broken country, the small trees lashed by the rain, and somewhere in the damp wasteland of rocks, grass and bushes was hidden the enemy. He grinned at La Marquesa. Her hair was flattened now by rain. ‘We’ve got company.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Enemies.’
She used a word that Sharpe would not have expected a lady to know, even one like the Marquesa who spoke perfect English, just as she spoke a half dozen other languages to perfection. ‘So what do we do?’
‘Ride down.’ El Matarife was doing what Sharpe would have done. He was planning to trap Sharpe on the steep, twisting roadway. There would be men blocking off the track at the foot of the hill, and once Sharpe was committed to the road, the men who had reached the top would follow him down.
She stared at him reproachfully. ‘Are we in trouble?’
‘I’ll take you back to the convent, if you like.’
‘Christ, no! Who are these bastards?’
‘Partisans.’
She shook the reins and went forward. ‘You know what they’ll do to me?’
‘I know what they’d like to do.’
He followed her. The road zigzagged sharply down the hillside. It was rutted, showing that carts had used it, but it must have been a nightmare journey to bring a cart or carriage up the track with the steep drop always threatening to one side. She frowned at him. ‘Do you know what you’re doing?’
‘I spent all of last night planning this.’
She shivered. ‘I’m cold.’
He found it hard to take his eyes from her. Her hair, pale as the palest gold, was normally full and shining, but under the lash of rain it had fallen flat like a shining helmet on her head. It somehow gave her features more prominence and strength. She had a wide, generous mouth, big eyes, and high bones. Her skin was as white as paper. She caught him looking at her. ‘Forgotten me?’
‘No. I thought you might forget me.’
‘You were supposed to think that.’ She laughed.
He twisted and looked behind. The track was empty. ‘What were you doing there?’
‘Finding God. What do you think I was doing there?’
‘You were kidnapped by the Church?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘They want my money, God damn them.’
‘Why did you write that letter to your husband?’
She turned her grey eyes to him, wide and innocent. ‘Don’t be a bore, Richard.’
He laughed. He had ridden across half of Spain for this woman, beaten down the doors of a convent, and now risked disembowelling at the hands of the Slaughterman, all to be told not to be a bore. She smiled at his laughter. ‘Is that why you came?’
‘Partly.’
‘What was the other part?’
He felt clumsy and shy. ‘To see you.’
He was rewarded with a smile. ‘How very nice of you, Richard. Did you kill Luis?’
He supposed Luis was her husband. ‘No.’
‘So why did they say you were hanged?’
He shrugged, it seemed too complicated to explain. He turned again and, in the shifting curtains of the rain, he saw movement behind. She must have sensed something for she turned as well. ‘Is that them?’
‘Yes.’
‘Shouldn’t we gallop?’
‘They’ll have blocked the road off below.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ She was staring at him. ‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing?’
‘Yes.’ At least six men were behind him. Two would die for certain; he could be reasonably sure of a third, which would leave at least three to be tackled. He kept his voice confident. ‘You’ll have to move fast in a few minutes.’ She shrugged. He could see how cold she was. ‘And you’ve got a long cold day ahead of you.’
‘I suppose it’s better than eternity with those lavatories. They wanted me to clean them! Can you imagine that? It was bad enough being a kitchen skivvy! Let alone a bloody cleaner!’
He went into a trot. The men behind were two hundred yards away, not hurrying, safe in the knowledge that they were herding Sharpe down the zigzag road towards the waiting ambush. He turned a corner and, ahead of him, a hundred paces down the track, was the place where Angel was hidden. ‘You see that overhang of rock?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re going to dismount and you’re going under there. You’ll find a boy there; get behind him and keep quiet.’
She mockingly tugged her wet hair. ‘Yes, sir.’
Sharpe had walked up and down this stretch of road in the night, even waiting for the first light of dawn to see the tangle of rocks from the enemy’s point of view. Now, staring ahead, he could see no sign of Angel, but that was good.
He looked behind him. The enemy were out of sight, hidden by the twist in the road and by the overhanging junipers. He hurried the horses. ‘You know what to do?’
‘You just told