"Where is Sharpe?"

"He should be on his way to Vilar Formoso today, my Lord. He's an unhappy recruit to the Town Major's staff."

"So he'll be glad to be cumbered with Kiely instead then, won't he? And who do we appoint as liaison officer?"

"Any emollient fool will do for that post, my Lord."

"Very well, Hogan, I'll find the fool and you arrange the rest." The General touched his heels to his horse's flank. His aides, seeing the General ready to move, gathered their reins, then Wellington paused. "What does a man want with a common milking stool, Hogan?"

"It keeps his arse dry during wet nights of sentry duty, my Lord."

"Clever thought, Hogan. Can't think why I didn't come up with the idea myself. Well done." Wellington wheeled his horse and spurred west away from the battle's litter.

Hogan watched the General go, then grimaced. The French, he was sure, had wished trouble on him and now, with God's good help, he would wish some evil back on them. He would welcome the Real Companпa Irlandesa with honeyed words and extravagant promises, then give the bastards Richard Sharpe.

The girl clung to Rifleman Perkins. She was hurt inside, she was bleeding and limping, but she had insisted on coming out of the hovel to watch the two Frenchmen die. Indeed she taunted the two men, spitting and screaming at them, then laughed as one of the two captives dropped to his knees and lifted his bound hands towards Sharpe. "He says he wasn't raping the girl, sir," Harris translated.

"So why were the bastard's trousers round his ankles?" Sharpe asked, then looked at his eight-man firing squad. Usually it was hard to find men willing to serve on firing squads, but there had been no difficulty this time. "Present!" Sharpe called.

"Non, Monsieur, je vous prie! Monsieur!" the kneeling Frenchman called. Tears ran down his face.

Eight riflemen lined their sights on the two Frenchmen. The other captive spat his derision and kept his head high. He was a handsome man, though his face was bruised from Harris's ministrations. The first man, realizing that his begging was to go unanswered, dropped his head and sobbed uncontrollably. "Maman," he called pathetically, "Maman!" Brigadier General Loup, back in his fur-edged saddle, watched the executions from fifty yards away.

Sharpe knew he had no legal right to shoot prisoners. He knew he might even be endangering his career by this act, but then he thought of the small, blood-blackened bodies of the raped and murdered children. "Fire!" he called.

The eight rifles snapped. Smoke gusted to form an acrid, filthy-smelling cloud that obscured the skeins of blood splashing high on the hovel's stone wall as the two bodies were thrown hard back, then recoiled forward to flop onto the ground. One of the men twitched for a few seconds, then went still.

"You're a dead man, Sharpe!" Loup shouted.

Sharpe raised his two fingers to the Brigadier, but did not bother to turn round. "The bloody Frogs can bury those two," he said of the executed prisoners, "but we'll collapse the houses on the Spanish dead. They are Spanish, aren't they?" he asked Harris.

Harris nodded. "We're just inside Spain, sir. Maybe a mile or two. That's what the girl says."

Sharpe looked at the girl. She was no older than Perkins, maybe sixteen, and had dank, dirty, long black hair, but clean her up, he thought, and she would be a pretty enough thing, and immediately Sharpe felt guilty for the thought. The girl was in pain. She had watched her family slaughtered, then had been used by God knows how many men. Now, with her rag-like clothes held tight about her thin body, she was staring intently at the two dead soldiers. She spat at them, then buried her head in Perkins's shoulder. "She'll have to come with us, Perkins," Sharpe said. "If she stays here she'll be slaughtered by those bastards."

"Yes, sir."

"So look after her, lad. Do you know her name?"

"Miranda, sir."

"Look after Miranda then," Sharpe said, then he crossed to where Harper was organizing the men who would demolish the houses on top of the dead bodies. The smell of blood was as thick as the mass of flies buzzing inside the charnel houses. "The bastards will chase us," Sharpe said, nodding towards the lurking French.

"They will too, sir," the Sergeant agreed.

"So we'll keep to the hill tops," Sharpe said. Cavalry could not get to the tops of steep hills, at least not in good order, and certainly not before their leaders had been picked off by Sharpe's best marksmen.

Harper glanced at the two dead Frenchmen. "Were you supposed to do that, sir?"

"You mean, am I allowed to execute prisoners of war under the King's Regulations? No, of course I'm not. So don't tell anyone."

"Not a word, sir. Never saw a thing, sir, and I'll make sure the lads say the same."

"And one day," Sharpe said as he stared at the distant figure of Brigadier General Loup, "I'll put him against a wall and shoot him."

"Amen," Harper said, "amen." He turned and looked at the French horse that was still picketed in the settlement. "What do we do with the beast?"

"We can't take it with us," Sharpe said. The hills were too steep, and he planned to keep to the rocky heights where dragoon horses could not follow. "But I'll be damned before I give a serviceable cavalry horse back to the enemy." He cocked his rifle. "I hate to do it."

"You want me to do it, sir?"

"No," Sharpe said, though he meant yes for he really did not want to shoot the horse. He did it anyway. The shot echoed back from the hills, fading and crackling while the horse thrashed in its bloody death throes.

The riflemen covered the Spanish dead with stones and thatch, but left the two French soldiers for their own comrades to bury. Then they climbed high into the misty heights to work their way westwards. By nightfall, when they came down into the valley of the River Turones, there was no sign of any pursuit. There was no stink of saddle-sore horses, no glint of grey light from grey steel, indeed there had been no sign nor smell of any pursuit all afternoon except just once, just as the light faded and as the first small candle flames flickered yellow in the cottages beside the river, when suddenly a wolf had howled its melancholy cry in the darkening hills.

Its howl was long and desolate, and the echo lingered.

And Sharpe shivered.

The view from the castle in Ciudad Rodrigo looked across the River Agueda towards the hills where the British forces gathered, yet this night was so dark and wet that nothing was visible except the flicker of two torches burning deep inside an arched tunnel that burrowed through the city's enormous ramparts. The rain flickered silver-red past the flame light to make the cobbles slick. Every few moments a sentry would appear at the entrance of the tunnel and the fiery light would glint off the shining spike of his fixed bayonet, but otherwise there was no sign of life. The tricolour of France flew above the gate, but there was no light to show it flapping dispiritedly in the rain which was being gusted around the castle walls and sometimes even being driven into the deep embrasured window where a man leaned to watch the arch. The flickering torchlight was reflected in the thick pebbled lenses of his wire-bound spectacles.

"Maybe he's not coming," the woman said from the fireplace.

"If Loup says he will be here," the man answered without turning round, "then he will be here." The man had a remarkably deep voice that belied his appearance for he was slim, almost fragile-looking, with a thin scholarly face, myopic eyes and cheeks pocked with the scars of childhood smallpox. He wore a plain dark-blue uniform with no badges of rank, but Pierre Ducos needed no gaudy chains or stars, no tassels or epaulettes or aiguillettes to signify his authority. Major Ducos was Napoleon's man in Spain and everyone who mattered, from King Joseph downwards, knew it.