‘If they find me guilty?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Sharpe stared at the rusty nails on the wall. Of course this wasn’t happening. At any moment he would wake up and feel an extraordinary relief that it was only a dream. He would laugh at it, tell Sergeant Harper that he had dreamt of being court-martialled!

Except it was not a dream. He had been abandoned to this and he could understand why. Understanding did not lessen the bitterness. A Spanish General had been murdered, and Sharpe knew well enough the fragile bond between the British and tfye Spanish. Spanish pride was upset that they needed the British to drive the invader from their soil, and their gratitude was made prickly by that pride. Wellington, in the wake of this blow to the alliance, was moving swiftly to offer the Spaniards a sacrifice.

Yet someone else was moving swiftly, someone who wanted Sharpe dead, and he looked at the nervous Trumper-Jones and, in a voice that sounded drained and tired, he asked him to read out his copy of La Marquesa’s letter.

None of it was true, of course, but the letter existed as a damning piece of evidence. Sharpe looked at the nervous young man. ‘I want paper, ink and a pen.’

‘But, sir…’

‘Fetch them!’

He wrote for an hour, ignoring Lieutenant Trumper-Jones, writing to Major Hogan his own version of the night’s events, describing the lies in La Marquesa’s letter, warning his friend that there was a plot of some kind, he knew not what. Even if Sharpe was dead then Hogan could not say he had not been warned. Yet what was the plot? What purpose did Sharpe’s death serve? He could understand the murder of the Marques because such a murder would weaken a fragile alliance, but he saw no purpose in a plot that had his own death as its ending, nor did he believe that the Marquesa would seek his death.

He folded the letter. ‘That’s to go to Major Hogan.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Then came the boots in the yard, the scrape of the bolt, and the sudden wash of bright sunlight as the door was opened. A Sergeant, heading Sharpe’s escort, grinned at the Rifleman. ‘Good luck, sir.’

Sharpe smiled, but said nothing. Luck, he thought had deserted him. He had had none since that day in the Gateway of God when Teresa died, and he remembered how, on the night before that death, he had been cursed by Obadiah Hakeswill. He had been cursed, his name buried on a stone.

Sergeant Hakeswill, who had recruited Sharpe into the army, who had succeeded in having Sharpe flogged so that the scars still marred his back, and who had become Sharpe’s bitterest enemy, was dead, shot by Sharpe, and in his grave. Sharpe wondered how many hours would pass before he, too, was rolled into a shallow trench and had the dry soil of Spain shovelled onto his corpse. He followed the Sergeant to his fate,

A Major Vaughn, Welsh and suave, was the prosecuting officer. His tone, silky and musical, managed to imbue his words with a sincere regret that he had, as he said, this unfortunate duty to prosecute an officer so famed for his gallantry.

The British officers behind the table did not look at Sharpe. General Sir Edward Pakenham, the Adjutant General and Wellington’s brother-in-law, presided. Three Spanish officers, their faces like masks stared at the prisoner.

Major Vaughn, despite his regrets, offered the court a swift and damning version of the night’s events. Major Sharpe had been prevented from defending his honour in a duel. That failure rankled. He had gone, by night, and murdered the husband of a woman whom he had pursued vilely. He much regretted bringing in this evidence, but he had no choice, and he produced the letter written and sealed by the Marquesa.

Ned Pakenham lifted the letter as though it was plague-ridden and handed it back to Vaughn. The letter was read into the records of the Court-Martial.

Vaughn brought the letter to Sharpe. ‘You recognise the handwriting, Major? Do remember you are under oath.’

Sharpe looked up into the plump, clever face. ‘La Marquesa is a Frenchwoman, a spy, and…’

‘Thank you, Major, I only asked if you recognised the handwriting. Do you?’

He did, but he saw no sense in making things grimmer for himself than they already were. ‘I can’t tell.’

Vaughn walked back to his table. ‘Fortunately we have witnesses who can.’

Sharpe raised his voice. ‘I have another letter from…’

‘We are concerned with this letter, Major!’ Vaughn turned sharply, but Pakenham held up a hand. He looked into Sharpe’s eyes for the first time since the Rifleman had entered the room.

‘You have another letter from this lady?’ Sharpe nodded. He had not told Trumper-Jones of the letter because Sharpe had no faith in the young man’s ability. ‘She wrote to me, sir, after the death of my wife. She wanted to offer me her condolences. She regretted she would not convey them to me in person.’ He could not resist a small smile. Such a letter was hardly likely to have come from a yoman he had persecuted. He saw the flicker of hope on Lieutenant Trumper-Jones’ face. ‘I’d like that letter read into the record too, sir.’

The general officers behind the table smiled, sensing a victory for Sharpe. Pakenham leaned back. ‘You have the letter, Major Sharpe?’

‘It’s in my pack, sir.’

‘Major Vaughn?’ Pakenham turned to the Welshman. ‘You have no objection?’

‘No, sir, none. But I must tell the court that we have already impounded the prisoner’s belongings, searched them, and no such letter has been found.’

‘It’s in my pack!’ Sharpe said stubbornly. Vaughn sighed. ‘Major Michael Hogan conducted the search, sir. No letter was discovered.’

The officers behind the table stared again at the green cloth on which their papers lay. Sharpe’s sword, its scabbard and hilt battered by war, was at the table’s front.

The Marques’ chaplain, through an interpreter, testified that he had found the Marques’ servants asleep outside his master’s room. Perhaps, he wondered, they had been given a sleeping potion by the prisoner?

Captain Morillos, a bull of a man, gave his evidence. He had seen, in the light of a torch bracketed at the garden gate of the house, a Rifle Officer leave at three in the morning. No, he had not seen the man’s face, but he had seen the English uniform and the Heavy Cavalry sword.

It was hot in the courtroom. Sharpe could feel himself sweating beneath his shirt. He listened hopelessly as Lieutenant Trumper-Jones failed to budge Captain Morillos one inch. The Captain claimed to have an intimate knowledge of uniforms and swords and was certain of what he had seen.

Sharpe had no defence other than innocence. He had eaten with Harper, Isabella, and d’Alembord, but he had left before midnight. He had slept in his billet, but he could produce no witnesses who could swear that they had watched him all night.

Major Vaughn waved a fly from the air in front of his face. ‘Major Sharpe. You knew La Marquesa de Casares el Grande y Melida Sadaba?’

‘Yes.’

‘And that acquaintanceship,’ he stressed the word delicately, ‘gave rise to the challenge you accepted yesterday?’

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘I never threatened her.’

‘One is delighted to hear it.’ Vaughn smiled and took two thoughtful paces into the floor’s centre. ‘But you did know her?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well? You knew her well?’

‘Yes, but…’

‘Yes is enough. Major. Ysu were challenged by Major Mendora, aide to the General?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you accepted the challenge?’

‘Yes.’

‘Even though you knew that such an acceptance was counter to the General Orders of this army?’

Sharpe looked at the smug face. ‘I went into the breach at Badajoz without orders, too.’

Two of the officers behind the table smiled. Vaughn just raised an eyebrow. ‘Another impetuous act, Major?’

Sharpe said nothing. Vaughn sighed and walked back to his table. He straightened his papers as though he would not be needing them much longer. ‘You were prevented from finishing this duel?’