‘True. But it is not my fault if you cannot keep a woman locked in a nunnery.’

The Inquisitor said nothing for a few seconds. From the window ledge came the small scratching sounds of beaks and claws. From much further away, made tiny by the distance, came the thin call of a trumpet. The Inquisitor brushed at the dust on his cassock. ‘If there is to be peace between our two countries, then there will also have to be diplomatic relations.’

‘True.’

‘I have hopes that, in those relations, I might be of further use to you.’

Ducos said nothing. He had expected the Inquisitor to offer him a threat that, unless the Marquesa was arrested, he would betray the proposed treaty’s existence to the enemy. Indeed, Ducos had been prepared for that threat, and would have met it with the death of this priest. Instead, though, the Inquisitor was offering a bargain of a different kind. ‘Go on,’ Ducos said.

‘There will be a new beginning in Spain.’ The Inquisitor seemed to be gaining in confidence as he spoke. ‘There will be a need for new men, new advisers, new leadership. With wealth behind me, Major, I can rise to that challenge. But not if the wealth is tainted. Not if a woman is challenging me in the courts, or spreading rumours in the chanceries of Europe. If you let me rise as I intend to rise, Major, then in the years to come you will find France has a friend in the Spanish court.’

Ducos liked the suggestion. He liked such an excursion into the far future, the promise that, in a new Europe, the Inquisitor would be his informant and ally. He shrugged. ‘I cannot have her arrested.’

‘I don’t ask you to.’ From far away came a sound like thorns burning. The Inquisitor looked out of the window, but Ducos dismissed the musketry.

‘They’re clearing their barrels, nothing more.’ He stroked his finger down a quill. ‘You want to kill her?’

‘No!’

The sharpness of the reply made Ducos look up. ‘No?’

‘She will have made her own will. If she dies then her inheritors become my enemy. No.’ The Inquisitor frowned. ‘She must go to a convent. She must learn the humility of religion.’

Ducos smiled thinly. ‘You failed once.’

‘Not again.’

‘Perhaps not.’ Ducos sounded dubious, but he reflected that Richard Sharpe was dead, and could not repeat his impudent rescue of the woman. Sharpe’s death had pleased Ducos. He had been given nightmares by his memory of the fight in Burgos Castle, of the battered, beaten, bleeding Rifleman suddenly roaring his challenge and turning the room into a shambles. Yet Sharpe had died in the explosion and that fact gave Ducos some small happiness. Ducos looked at the priest. ‘Yet it is not the duty of the Emperor’s forces to put women into convents.’

‘I don’t ask that.’

‘Then what do you ask?’

‘Just this.’ The Inquisitor leaned forward and put on the table a piece of paper. ‘That you sign a pass allowing those men into the city today.’

The paper was a list of names. It was headed by the name of the Slaughterman, El Matarife, and Ducos knew that the others would be members of his band. There were thirty names. ‘What do you expect of them?’

The Inquisitor shrugged. ‘Both victory and defeat will bring chaos to the city. Within chaos there is opportunity.

‘A slight hope, I would have thought?’

‘God is with us.’

‘Ah,’ Ducos smiled. ‘It was a pity he was not with your brother in the mountains.’ He took a clean piece of paper, uncapped his ink, and wrote swiftly. ‘Will you want these men to carry weapons in God’s service?’

‘Yes.’

Ducos wrote that the bearers of this paper were servants of the diocese of Vitoria and were to be allowed, with their weapons, into the city. When it was written he stamped it with the seal of King Joseph, then pushed it across the table. ‘I have your word that these men will not bear arms against our forces?’

‘You have my word, unless your forces defend her.’

‘And you will ask nothing more of me in this matter?’

‘Nothing more.’

‘Then I wish you well, father.’

Ducos watched the man go, and when he was alone again he walked to the window, stepping gently so as not to frighten the sparro>vs on the window ledge, and he could see, far on the plain, the waiting French army.

He frowned. It was not right, he thought, that the fate of nations and the affairs of a great empire should be left to the boastful, childish bravery of soldiers. Victory this day would mean the treaty might not be needed, and all this fine work wasted. Yet Ducos did not believe in a French victory today. He almost, and he acknowledged it only to himself, wished for a French defeat, for then, in the chaos of a shattered kingdom, he would produce the treaty as a diplomatic triumph and save France. He would show the soldiers, the foolish, vain, brave soldiers, that their power was as nothing to the subtle mind of a clever, calculating man.

He turned from the window. He had no more duties to do, nothing now to engage him except to wait for the lottery of the day. So, on this day of sunshine and battle, Ducos slept.

The Marquess of Wellington, Generalissimo of the Allied army in Spain, looked at his watch. It showed twelve minutes past eight. ‘We shall dine at the usual hour this night, gentlemen.’

His aides smiled, not sure if he was joking. They had come with him to the lower slopes of the western hills and could see, two miles to the east, the dark line of the French guns.

The General looked to his right where the Great Road came from a defile and he watched, on the river’s far bank, a column of infantry begin climbing the slopes of the Puebla Heights. The column was led by Spanish troops, who would, this day, have the honour of first engaging the enemy. He snapped the watch shut. ‘Gentlemen.’ His tone was distant, almost sour. ‘I wish you all joy of the day.’

The battle of Vitoria had begun.

The guns, the great French guns, the guns that were the Emperor’s love and the weapons most feared by France’s enemies, fired.

The sound died and the smoke drifted.

The French had shot at no target. They had merely warmed the barrels and watched the fall of the roundshot in the killing ground. As yet the battle had no pattern. Some Spanish troops clawed their way up the Puebla Heights and fought the French skirmishers on the steep slope, but no infantry and cavalry had appeared on the plain to become meat for the gunners who now had the range perfectly judged. The smoke from the cannons drifted southwards, dissipating in the small breeze. The ladies who sat on the tiers of seats built by the French Engineers on Vitoria’s wall felt faintly disappointed that the sound had stopped.

La Marquesa climbed to the topmost tier. She smiled at the wife of a cavalry Colonel, knowing that the woman eagerly spread gossip about her. ‘Your husband’s piles are better, dear Jeanette? Or is he riding to battle in a cart again?’ She did not wait for an answer, but climbed on upwards then waited as her maid spread cushions on the bench. She felt in her reticule for some coins and nodded towards one of the pastry sellers. ‘I want some of the lemon pastries.’

‘My Lady.’

She sat. She carried a small ivory spyglass. There was little to be seen on the plain. The killing ground was hidden from her beyond the Arinez Hill. On a lower ridge that was closer to the city she could see troops drawn up in close order. Over their heads floated the great purple and white banner that told her they were King Joseph’s household guards.

She wondered where General Verigny was. He had left her eagerly, exhilarated at the thought of battle. With victory this day, he assured her, Pierre Ducos would be defeated. Joseph would keep the Spanish throne and La Marquesa’s wagons could be taken from the Inquisitor. Helene had smiled at her lover. ‘And what if we lose today?’