The English refused to surrender. They fought till the last man was choking in his own blood, and the last banner was trampled in the gore. For the English, then, this hill was a place of ill-luck, and the French knew it.

There was even more cause for the French to hope, for the war’s tide was at last turning in France’s favour again. The Empire had reeled from the defeat in Russia, had waited in trepidation for news that the Russians and the Prussians were marching into northern France, but just two days since had come the glorious news. The Emperor had won his campaign.

The bells had been rung in Vitoria, bells that carried the message to all the troops bivouacking on the plain. The news followed the clamour, news of two battles, at Bautzen and Lutzen, battles that had repelled both the northern enemies who had now signed a truce. Soon, the news promised, Bonaparte would come south. Only the British were left in the field and Bonaparte would come down and drive them in ragged defeat from Spain and the tricolour would rule again from the straits of Gibraltar to the edge of the steppes.

The waiting French were confident. The river here was rich in bridges, some going back to the Romans who had built their own city on this plain, yet none of the bridges had been destroyed. Let the British cross them, the French reasoned, and that way the gunners would know where to fire and the redcoats would walk into the killing ground, and the blasting, tearing canister would make each bridge into a blood-soaked arch of masonry to drip red into the Zadorra.

Yet, if the French Engineers had not blown the bridges, they had not been idle. They had worked for two days on a strange contraption on Vitoria’s western wall. It was built high on the ramparts so it looked over the suburbs and orchards towards the great plain where the army waited for battle. The Engineers had built tiers of seats so that the women who followed the French army could watch this French victory in comfort. To those seats the women came and there, too, came the sellers of lemonade, pastries and fruit.

The French were confident enough to order Vitoria’s largest, best hotel to prepare a victory feast for this evening. Even now, as the mist lifted and the British came towards the guns, the cooks were at work.

The French were confident enough to send troops away from the battlefield. Just that morning a whole division marched north on the Great Road, back towards France, and with the Division went a convoy of heavy wagons loaded with the treasures of the Escorial, Spain’s royal palace. What was left in Vitoria was worth far more, but the French needed to make a start and they were sure that they could beat off Wellington’s attack and escort the rest of the plunder safely to the border.

And, as if to make up for the paintings, tapestries and furniture that had gone north, a smaller convoy had come south bringing five million golden francs to give the army its arrears of pay. The wagons of coin were put into the baggage park. The coins would be paid after the battle.

A hundred and forty thousand men had come to one place for the purpose of battle. The sun burned the valley’s mist away and those British horsemen who had climbed the western hills saw, beneath them, the might of France drawn up in its battle-lines. They saw the guns. They saw the ranks of men waiting beneath their splendid banners and glinting eagles. As yet no cannon or musket smoke drifted to hide the glory that was an army in array. The river, beneath its bridges, sparked silver in the dawn. The fields, where they had not been trampled by the soldiers, were bright with poppies and cornflowers. A kingdom was at stake, and a battle to be fought.

The French headquarters, strangely empty now that the Generals were on the plain, were high on the hill that rose to Vitoria’s cathedral. On the topmost floor of the headquarters building, in a large, plain room that looked west towards the battlefield, a lone man worked at papers spread on a huge table.

Pierre Ducos had worked all night, yet the sleeplessness had not lessened his efficiency. He sorted papers, some going into a great leather travelling chest, others into a sack for burning. Though he had told no’one, Pierre Ducos planned for defeat.

He had considered going north with the convoy that had left before dawn, but there were rumours that the British had sent part of their army to cut the road and there would be more safety, Ducos decided, in staying with the army. Better, he thought, to face defeat with the main army than with the single division that had gone towards San Sebastian.

He was not certain why he was sure of defeat. It was, perhaps, that he admired Wellington. The English General had a mind of fine calculation that appealed to Ducos, who did not believe that the vainglorious Marshals of France had the measure of the Englishman. The Emperor, now, he was different. He would outcalculate and outfight any man, but the Emperor was not yet in Spain, nor was it certain that he would come.

The Emperor had won a great victory in the north, and his enemies had signed a truce, yet if Wellington won today then the victory could encourage the other enemies of France to fight again. And if, and Ducos loved the it’s of the future that he explored so ruthlessly, the northern war recommenced, then the treaty would be needed.

He had the treaty now. Last night a messenger from the Inquisitor had delivered letters to Ducos, letters that he now kept in a haversack attached to his belt. They were letters from eminent men of Spain, from soldiers and churchmen, politicians and aristocrats, lawyers and merchants, and the letters all spoke of the desirability of peace with France. For the good of trade, for the good of the Church, for the good of Spain’s empire, and above all, for the glory of Spain, the letters encouraged Ferdinand VII to accept a peace treaty. The Inquisitor, Ducos granted, had performed a wonderful piece of work. And now, Ducos knew, the Inquisitor was coming to ask a favour.

He heard the footsteps on his stairs, waited for the knock on his door, shouted in answer, and leaned back in his chair.

The skirts of the Inquisitor’s cassock bore two white smears of dust where he had knelt in his morning prayer. His dark face was heavy as though he, too, had spent a sleepless night. He glanced out of the window to where the army waited for battle, then sat opposite Ducos. ‘You received the letters?’

‘I received the letters.’

The Inquisitor waited, as though seeking approval for his work. When it did not come he gestured abruptly. ‘Your soldiers are confident.’

‘I imagine the British are too,’ Ducos said drily. In truth he had been astonished by the surge of morale in the French army. The news of the Emperor’s victories had filled them with a desire to do in Spain what Napoleon had done in the north.

‘Victory for you today,’ the Inquisitor said, ‘would make the treaty unnecessary.’

‘For the moment,’ Ducos said, ‘but I would not be so certain of our victory, father.’ He stood and walked towards the window. On a table beside it, in a small bowl, he kept breadcrumbs that he now put on the ledge for the birds. ‘It has been my misfortune to spend much of my life with soldiers. They are boastful creatures, noisy, crude, and unthinking. They believe in victory, father, because they cannot bear the thought of defeat.’ He turned from the window and stared at the priest. ‘I do not think your work will prove to be wasted.’

‘But unrewarded.’

‘Your reward,’ Ducos said as he walked back to his table, ‘is Spain’s glory and the survival of the Inquisition. I congratulate you. You also, I believe, have the Marquesa’s wagons safely locked in your courtyard.’ He said the last words with heavy mockery.

‘The money,’ Father Hacha spoke uncomfortably, ‘is not legally ours.’