Sharpe saw that many of the Partisans, instead of watching the strange fight, watched him. They were testing him. They knew that the English treated prisoners with decency; they wanted to see what kind of a man Sharpe was. Would he flinch at the display? If he did, then he would lose face.

El Matarife looked at Sharpe, then suddenly jerked on the chain, making the prisoner stumble. The Partisan went forward, knife low, and the Frenchman desperately slashed with his own blade and it seemed to Sharpe that the Frenchman must have drawn blood, but when El Matarife stepped back he was untouched. The prisoner had a slashed left arm. The blood dripped from the chain. ‘Una,’ El Matarife said. ’Una,’ his men echoed.

Sharpe watched. The Partisan leader was fast. He was skilled at this kind of fighting. Sharpe doubted whether he had ever seen a man so quick with a blade. The bearded face was smiling.

The Frenchman suddenly lunged forward, looping the chain up in an attempt to wrap it about his opponent’s neck.

El Matarife laughed, stepped back, and the knife was a flicker of brightness in the flamelight. ‘Dos,’

The Frenchman was shaking his head. There was blood on his forehead.

The chain swung between them. Once more El Matarife stepped back. The links made a small noise as they tightened and this time El Matarife went on pulling steadily, hauling the Frenchman inexorably forward. The prisoner was licking his lips. He held his knife low, but there was a puzzled look on his face. He was trying to plan this fight and El Matarife was content to let him plan. At this kind of fighting the Slaughterman was an expert. He feared no Frenchman, no man who was not trained to the tied knife fight.

The Frenchman suddenly jerked backwards, jerked with all his weight and El Matarife, laughing, went fast forward so that the Frenchman, taken by surprise, fell backwards.

The Slaughterman hauled on the chain, towing the man on the ground, tugging and pulling, laughing as his prisoner thrashed like a hooked and landed fish, then El Matarife stepped forward, lashed out with his black-booted right foot to kick the Frenchman’s left forearm.

Sharpe heard the crack of the bone and the stifled cry of the prisoner.

‘Tres,’ El Matarife said. He stepped away to let the Frenchman get up. The prisoner looked dizzy. He was in pain. His arm was broken and every pull on the chain would now be agony. The man looked up at his tormentor and suddenly lunged with the knife, throwing himself forward from his knees, but El Matarife simply laughed and moved his knife hand faster than the eye could follow.

‘Cuatro.’

There was blood on the back of the Frenchman’s hand.

Sharpe looked at the guide beside him. ‘How long does it go on?’

‘At least thirty cuts, Englishman. Sometimes a hundred. You don’t like it, eh?’ The man laughed.

Sharpe did not reply. Slowly, very slowly, so that no one could see what he did, he leaned forward and found with his right hand the lock of his rifle that was pushed into a saddle holster. Quietly and slowly he eased the cock back until he felt it seated at the full.

The Frenchman was on his feet now. He knew that he was being played with, that his opponent was a master of this kind of fighting, that the cuts would go on and on till his body was seething with pain and drenched with blood. He attacked the Slaughterman, slicing left and right, stabbing, going into a frenzy of despair, and El Matarife, who, despite his bulk, was as fast on his feet as any man Sharpe had seen, seemed to dance away from each attack. He was laughing, holding his own knife out of the way and then, when the Frenchman’s frenzy had died, the knife seared forward.

There was a cheer from the crowd. The knife, with horrid accuracy, had speared into one of the prisoner’s eyes. The man screamed, twisted, but the knife took his other eye just the same.

‘Seis,’ El Matarife laughed.

‘Bis!’ the men shouted.

The Spaniard beside Sharpe looked at the Rifleman. ‘Now the enjoyment begins, Englishman.’

But Sharpe had pulled the rifle from the holster, brought it to his shoulder, and pulled the trigger.

The bullet went between the blinded eyes, throwing the Frenchman back, dead onto the ground that was smeared with his blood.

Then there was silence.

Sharpe pushed the weapon back into the holster and urged Carbine forward. Angel was tense with fear. A dozen men about the fighting ground had cocked their muskets as the rifle smoke drifted over the dead body.

Sharpe reined in above the bearded angry man. He bowed in his saddle. ‘Now I shall be able to boast that I fought against the French alongside the great Matarife.’

El Matarife stared up at the Englishman who had spoiled his amusement. He knew why the Englishman had shot the man, because the Englishman was squeamish, but in doing it the Englishman had challenged El Matarife in front of his own men. Now, though, this Major Vaughn had offered a saving formula

El Matarife laughed. ‘You hear that?’ He had unlooped the chain and he gestured to his followers. ‘He says he has fought beside me, eh?’ His men laughed and El Matarife stared up at the Englishman. ‘So why are you here?’

‘To bring you greetings from the Generalissimo.’

‘He has heard of me?’ El Matarife had picked up a great poleaxe that he slung on his shoulder.

‘Who has not heard of El Matarife?’

The tension had gone. Sharpe was aware that he had failed one test by refusing to watch a blinded man being tortured, but by killing the Frenchman he had proved himself worthy of some respect. Worthy, too, of drink. He was taken into the inn, wine was ordered, and the compliments were profuse and truthless that, of necessity, had to preface the business of the night.

They drank for two hours, the main room of the inn becoming smokier as the evening wore on. A meal was provided; a hunk of goat meat in a greasy gravy that Sharpe ate hungrily. It was at the end of the meal that El Matarife, wrapped in a cloak of wolf’s fur, asked again why the Englishman had come.

Sharpe spun a story, half based on truth, a story that told of the British army advancing on Burgos and pushing the French back on the Great Road. He had come, he said, because the Generalissimo wanted assurance that every Partisan would be on the road to harass the retreating French and help kill Frenchmen.

‘Every Partisan, Englishman?’

‘But especially El Matarife.’

El Matarife nodded, and there was nothing in what Sharpe had said to cause suspicion. His men were excited at the thought of a battle happening on the Great Road, of the plunder that would be taken, of the stragglers who could be picked off from the French march. The Slaughterman picked at his teeth with a sliver of wood. ‘When will the British come?’

‘They come now. Their soldiers cover the plains like a flood. The French are running away. They run towards Vitoria.’ That was hardly true. Sharpe had only seen the French retreating to Burgos, and, if this year’s campaign was like the last, they would make their stand at the fortress town. Yet the lie convinced El Matarife.

‘You will tell your General that my forces will help him.’ El Matarife waved a magnanimous hand about the room.

‘He will be relieved.’ Sharpe politely pushed a wineskin over the table. ‘Yet he will be curious about one thing.’

‘Ask.’

‘There are no French in these mountains, yet you are here.’

‘I hide from them, I let them think I am gone, and when they celebrate that I am gone, I return!’ He laughed.

Sharpe laughed with him. ‘You are a clever man.’

‘Tell your General that, Englishman.’

‘I will tell him that.’ Sharpe could feel his eyes stinging from the thick tobacco smoke. He looked at Angel. ‘We must leave.’

‘Already?’ El Matarife frowned. He was more than convinced that the Englishman had not come about the woman, and he was enjoying the flattery that impressed his men. ‘You go already?’