The line of the Christmas hymn kept going through his head, another unwelcome visitor to his thoughts. 'Goodwill to sinful men is shewn'. Not tonight.

He had meant to go at midnight, but it was too dark for Frederickson or any of the other owners of watches to see their timepieces and it was too damned cold to wait in the interminable darkness. The men were numbed with the cold, somnolent with it, cut to the bone by the western wind and Sharpe decided to go early.

And there was light. It was a glow, hazed in the air, made by fires in the valley. The glow had been invisible from the gully, but as Sharpe led his force south, stumbling on the rough broken ground, the crest of the valley's northern edge was limned by the flame-glow in the air. He could see the slight dip in that crest which he had marked as his target, and he sensed the path that led left and right and then on towards the flames of Adrados' valley.

They carried only their weapons and ammunition. Their packs, haversacks, blankets and canteens were left in the gully. That equipment could be fetched in the morning, but this night they would fight unladen. The Riflemen would discard their greatcoats before the attack, revealing their dark-green uniforms which would be their distinguishing mark this night. Goodwill to sinful men.

Sharpe stopped, hearing noise ahead, and for a fraction of a second he feared that the enemy had a picquet line at the valley's rim. He listened, relaxed. It was the sound of revelry, cheers and laughter, the roar of mens' voices. Christmas Eve.

A bloody night to be born, Sharpe thought. Midwinter, when food was scarce and wolves prowled close to the hill villages. Perhaps it was warmer in Palestine, and perhaps the shepherds who saw the angels did not have to worry about wolves, but winter was still winter everywhere. Sharpe had always thought Spain a hot country and so it was in the summer when the sun baked the plains into dust, but in winter it could still be freezing and he thought of being born in a stable where the wind sliced like a knife between the cracks of the timber. He led them on again towards the Gateway of God, a dark line of men bringing blades in the night.

He dropped flat at the valley's rim. Thorn trees were dark on the slope before him, the valley was lit by the fires in Castle, Convent, watchtower and village, and, glory to God in the highest, there was a path leading at an angle down through the thorns.

The sound of laughter came from the Convent. Sharpe could see other men silhouetted by the fires in the Castle's big yard. It was cold.

He turned his head round and hissed at his men. 'Count!’

'One. Harper.

'Two. A German Sergeant called Rossner.

'Three. Thomas Taylor.

Frederickson dropped beside Sharpe, but stayed silent as the men counted themselves off in the darkness. All were present. Sharpe pointed to the foot of the slope where the dark path between the thorns debouched onto a rough pasture land that was stippled red and black by the firelight. 'Wait at the tree-line.

'Yes, sir.

Frederickson's men would have only fifty yards to cover from the edge of the bushes to the door of the Convent. They would come when they heard the boom of the seven-barrelled gun, or if they heard a volley of musketry, but they would ignore a single musket shot. On a night like this, a night of drinking and celebration, the odd single shot would be nothing unusual. If Frederickson heard nothing while he counted off fifteen minutes, then he was to come anyway. Sharpe looked at the Captain whose black patch gave his face a spectral look in the darkness. He was beginning to like this man. 'Your men are all right?

'Anticipating the pleasure, sir. Goodwill to sinful men.

Sharpe took his own group forward. He looked once to his right. Far off, in Portugal, a speck of light throbbed like a red star. A fire in the border hills.

The path was steep. The drizzle had made it slick and treacherous, causing one of Sharpe's men to slip and crash into a tangle of thorn branches. Everyone froze. Spines of thorn snappedand tore as the man pulled himself free.

Sharpe could see the great arched door of the Convent, a single slit of light showing where the doors were slightly ajar. Shouts and laughter came from the building, and once a crash of glass and loud jeers. There were womens' voices among the mens. He went slowly, testing each foothold, feeling the excitement because he was so close to revenging himself for the insults of his last visit.

The door opened. He stopped, the men behind him stopped without orders, and two figures were silhouetted in the archway of the Convent. One man, with a musket on his shoulder, clapped the shoulder of the second man and pushed him out into the roadway. Clear over the sounds of revelry was the noise of the second man retching. Christmas was working its magic in the Convent. The first man, presumably the sentry, laughed from the archway. He stamped his feet, blew on his hands, and Sharpe heard him shout for the sick man to come inside. The door closed on them.

The slope was gentler now and Sharpe risked a glance behind and was shocked by how naked and visible his men appeared to be. Surely they must be seen! Yet no one had shouted an alarm from the valley, no shot had stabbed the night, and then he was at the edge of the bushes and he brought his men to a halt. 'Taylor and Bell?

'Sir?

'Good luck to you.

The two Riflemen, greatcoats hiding their uniforms, went forward towards the Convent. Sharpe would have liked to have done this piece of work, but there was a danger that the sentry might recognize him or Harper. He must wait.

He had chosen both men carefully, for to kill a man silently with a bare blade was no job for a keen beginner. Bell had learned his skills in the London streets, Taylor across the other side of the world, but both men were confident. Their job was simply to kill the sentry or sentries in the entrance-way.

They made no attempt to hide their approach. Their feet dragged on the roadway, their voices slurred as if with drink, and Sharpe heard foul oaths from Bell as the Rifleman stepped in the vomit at the foot of the steps. The door opened, and the sentry looked out. The door was pushed wider open and a second man stood there, musket slung. 'Come on! It's bloody cold! A brazier flamed behind them.

Taylor sat down on the bottom step and began singing. He held a bottle up that had been provided by Sharpe. 'Got a present for you. He sang the words over and over, laughing at the same time.

Bell bowed to them. 'A present!

'Christ! Come on!

Bell gestured at Taylor. 'He can't walk.

The bottle was still held up. The two sentries came down the steps good-naturedly and one reached for the bottle and never saw the right hand pull the honed blade from inside the greatcoat, swing, and the sentry's right hand was touching the bottle as Taylor's blade went in under the armpit, travelling slightly upwards, straight to the tangle of heart and arteries. Taylor still held the bottle, but now he supported the dead weight of the man as well.

Bell grinned at the second sentry just as alarm touched his face and the Londoner was still grinning as his blade cut any shout from the man's throat. Sharpe saw the body lurch, saw it held, saw the two Riflemen taking the corpses into the shadows. 'Come!

He took the rest of his men forward. Frederickson was at the foot of the slope now, beginning the slow count towards fifteen minutes or the sound of the shot that would signal vengeance for Adrados.

The Convent steps were messy with the blood of Bell's victim and Sharpe's boots made dark footprints in the entrance tunnel beside the brazier. He walked alone into the upper cloister, stepping into the shadows of the arched walkway, and the cloister seemed to be deserted. The shouts, the laughter, both came from the inner cloister, but as he waited, his eyes searching the courtyard, he heard moans and small voices from the'darkness. The tunnel ahead of him, the passage through which he and Dubreton had been escorted to see the woman branded with the word 'puta' was empty, the door and grille open. He held out his left hand and clicked his fingers and then led his men under the dark of the cloister's walkway, going slowly. Their boots seemed to be loud on the stones. The brazier touched light on the tiles about the raised pool.