‘Lose? We can’t lose!’

Just days before, she reflected, the French army had expected nothing but retreat and the abandonment of Spain. Suddenly, with a volatility brought by news of Napoleon’s victories, the army was replete with confidence. Today, they were sure, they would revenge themselves on Wellington.

It was all so unexpected. At Burgos she had tried to persuade Richard Sharpe to betray his honour in order to defeat Ducos’ scheming. She wondered whether Sharpe would have signed the parole, then dismissed the thought because he was dead and the question was irrelevant. Instead King Joseph was fighting for his throne and victory today would mean an end of bribing Spaniards for favours. France would crush Spain again. The world would watch an Empire rear back to greatness.

A Captain, in the green and pink uniform of General Verigny’s regiment, appeared at the bottom of the steps. He had one arm in a sling, and one eye’bandaged. He limped. He could not fight this day and he had been ordered to attend on La Marquesa instead. It was typical of General Verigny, La Marquesa thought, to make sure that her escort was of an unbelievable ugliness. She raised her fan, caught his eye, and smiled as he joined her. ‘You’re looking for me, Captain?’

‘Are not we all, my dear lady?’ He bowed over her hand, kissed the gloved fingers, and smiled. ‘Captain Saumier, at your obedient service.’

He really was extraordinarily ugly, with a face like a grumpy toad. ‘Do sit down, Captain. You must be desolated not to be fighting today?’

‘There’ll be other days, my Lady, but this one is yours, flow can a man regret such a thing?’

‘So prettily said. A lemon pastry?’

She sent the maid for more, and ordered wine to be brought from her coach. ‘How did you fetch your wounds, Captain?’

‘Falling from the balcony of a lady. Her husband objected.’

No doubt, La Marquesa thought, at his wife’s egregious taste. She waved her fan at the battlefield. ‘You must tell me what is happening, Captain.’

She could see the small clouds of musket smoke on the Puebla Heights. Captain Saumier borrowed her glass, stared through it for a few seconds, and delivered himself of the opinion that Wellington was attacking on the Heights because he dared not attack on the.plain.

‘But if they take the hills,’ she paused as her maid brought her the fresh pastries and wine, ‘won’t they have to come down to the plain?’

‘Oh indeed, my Lady. How very true!’

‘And what happens then?’

‘We beat them with the guns.’ Saumier grinned, showing long, yellow teeth.

‘As simple as that?’

Saumier smiled. ‘War is simple.’

‘No wonder men like it so much.’ She smiled. ‘Perhaps Wellington will do something you don’t expect?’

Captain Saumier shook his head. He subscribed to the view commonly held in the French army, a view he stated now with manly certainty to reassure this nervous, beautiful, wide-eyed woman. ‘Wellington can’t attack. He puts up a reasonable defence, my Lady, but he can’t attack.’

‘You were at Assaye?’

‘Assaye?’

She did not enlighten him. ‘Argaum?’

He shrugged.

She smiled. ‘Salamanca?’

Saumier smiled. ‘These are most excellent pastries, my Lady.’

‘I’m so glad you like them, and I’m so looking forward to your enlightenment today, Captain. It’s so rare to watch a battle with a guide beside one.’

Saumier had been told by his General that the Marquesa was intelligent and well informed. He rather feared that he would be enlightened this day. ‘You’re comfortable, my Lady?’

‘Eminently.’ She turned from him and trained the glass on the Puebla Heights. She could see nothing of interest. The battle was being fought below the skyline. She hoped, she hoped passionately, for a French victory this day, or else the wealth that she had accumulated so carefully and with such good planning would be lost. She remembered her lover’s certainty, and took heart that Captain Saumier was also so replete with assurance. It seemed that the French army were sure of their coming triumph. No one had ever beaten Wellington in battle, but neither had Wellington ever fought an army commanded by Marshal Jourdan. She ate her pastry, accepted a glass of wine, and hoped for victory.

Her hope that was devoutly shared this day by Don Jose, by the grace of God, King of Castile, of Aragon, of the Two Sicilies, of Jerusalem, of Navarre, of Granada, of Toledo, of Valencia, of Galicia, of Majorca, of Minorca, of Seville, of Sardinia, of Corsica, of Cordoba, of Murcia, of Santiago, of the Algarves, of Algeciras, of Gibraltar, of the Canary Islands, of the East and West Indies, of the Ocean Islands; Archduke of Austria; Duke of Burgundy, of Brabant and of Milan; Count of Hapsburg, Tyrol and Barcelona; Sire of Biscay and of Molina. The titles were ones he had given to himself. His younger brother, who was the Emperor of France, merely called him Joseph Bonaparte, King of Spain and the Indies.

If he lost today’s battle he would be king of nothing.

Which was why, as the sun rose higher and the guns waited, Joseph Bonaparte was troubled by the evident success that Wellington’s troops were having on the Puebla Heights. He expressed his concern to his military commander, Marshal Jourdan, who merely smiled. ‘Let the British have the Heights, sir.’

‘Let them?’ King Joseph, a kindly, anxious man, looked worriedly at his military commander.

Jourdan’s horse was restless. The Marshal calmed.it. ‘They want the Heights, sir, so they can march safely through the defile beneath. And that’s where I want them.’ If the British came from the defile where the river left the plain then they would be marching towards his great guns. He smiled at Joseph. ‘If they come from the west, sir, they’re beaten.’

Jourdan hoped to God he was right. He had planned on a British attack from the west and when the cannons had smeared the killing ground with British dead he would release the cavalry to become the first of France’s Marshals to defeat Wellington. He did not care about the Heights. No man there could influence the battle on the plain. The British could take every damned hill in Spain so long as they marched into his guns afterwards. He could almost taste the victory.

There was only one place that worried Marshal Jourdan, and that was the flat land north of the river. If Wellington did not attack from the west, but instead tried to outflank the plain by marching about the French right, then Jourdan would have to turn his battle-line and resite his guns.

He looked anxiously northwards, to the land across the river where the wind stirred the crops in long, pale, rippling waves. Two marsh harriers flew above the trout-rich Zadorra, gliding out of sight behind the hill that hid the river’s bend. He had not fortified that hill. He wondered if Napoleon would have put men there. No. No. He must not have doubts! He must behave as if he knew exactly what would happen, as if he was controlling the enemy as well as his own army.

He made himself smile. He made himself look confident. He complimented the King on his tailor and tried not to think of British troops coming from the north. Let them come from the west! Pray God, from the west!

‘Sir!’

‘Sir!’

A chorus of voices sounded. Fingers pointed west towards the defile that was still deep shadow.

‘Sir!’

‘I see it!’ Jourdan spurred forwards.

From the defile, marching towards the small village that lay before the Arinez Hill, marching onto the great killing ground dominated by the French guns, were British infantry.

Their Colours were flying. They marched like parade soldiers towards their deaths.

‘We’ve got him! We’ve got him, by God!’ Jourdan slapped his thigh.

So Wellington was not being clever. He was coming straight on and that was what Jourdan wanted. Straight on to death and glory to the Emperor! He spurred his horse forward, waving his plumed hat at the artillerymen. ‘Gunners! Wait!’