The gun was there, abandoned by Pot-au-Feu's men, pointing at the gaping hole that had been prised out of the Convent's thick wall. The rammer leaned against the dirty barrel, next to it a powder scoop and a ripper or 'wormhead', the giant corkscrew used to pull out a damp charge. Sharpe could see roundshot, canister, both piled up against the curious white walls that opened up into the space where the gun had been put.

A priming tube was in the gun's vent, suggesting that the cannon was loaded, but Sharpe ignored it, went to the opening from which the blanket had been torn aside, and listened. Boots scrambling on the turf and rocks outside, the gasping and crying of women and children, the shouts of men. Those who had escaped from the Convent were going for the Castle. Torches flared on the battlement.

'Can we fire it? Frederickson was fingering the priming, tube, a quill filled with fine powder that flashed the fire down to the charge in its canvas bag. 'No, there are children out there.’

’God save Ireland! Harper had picked up one of the whitish rounded stones that had fallen behind the gun. He held it as if it would kill him, his face screwed in distaste. 'Would you look at this? Good God!

It was a skull. All the 'stones' were skulls. The man with the torch pressed closer until Frederickson barked him back because of the powder barrels, but in the smoky light Sharpe could see that the piled skulls walled in a great pile of other human bones. Thigh bones, ribs, pelvises, arms, small curled hands and long feet bones, all piled in this cellar. Frederickson, his face more ghastly than any skull, shook his head in wonderment. 'An ossuary.

'A what?

'Ossuary, sir, a bone house. The nuns. They bury them here.

'Jesus!’

'They strip the flesh off first, sir. God knows how. I've seen it before.

There were hundreds of the bones, perhaps thousands. To make a space for the trail of the gun Pot-au-Feu's men had broken into the neat pile and the skeletons had tumbled down onto the floor, the bones had been shovelled to one side, and Sharpe could see a fine white powder littered with shards where men had stepped on the human remains. 'Why do they do it?

Frederickson shrugged. 'So they're all together at the resurrection, I think.

Sharpe had a sudden image of the mass graves at Talavera and Salamanca heaving on the last day, the dead soldiers coming to life, their eye sockets rotten like Frederickson's, the earth shedding off the dead ranks coming from the grave. 'Good God! There was a pail of dirty water under the gun, ready for the sponge, and a rag beside it. He stooped and cleaned off his sword before pushing it home in the scabbard. 'We'll need six men here. No one's to fire the gun without my order.

'Yes, sir. Frederickson was cleaning the sabre, pulling the curved blade slowly through the wet rag.

Sharpe went back through the pathway of skulls, following Harper's broad back. He remembered walking across Salamanca's battlefield in the autumn, before the retreat to Portugal, and there had been so many dead that not all had been buried. He could remember the hollow sound as a horse's hooves had clipped a skull which had rolled like a misshapen football. That had been in November, not even four months after the battle, yet already the enemy dead had been flensed white.

He walked into the cloister, a place of the living, and the fire showed disconsolate prisoners hedged by sword-bayonets. A child cried for its mother, a Rifleman carried a tiny baby deserted by its parents, and the women screamed at Sharpe as he appeared. They wanted to leave, it was not their doing, they were not soldiers, but he bellowed at them to be quiet. He looked at Frederickson. 'How's your Spanish?

'Good enough.

'Find whatever women were captured up here. Give them decent quarters.

'Yes, sir.

'The hostages can stay where they are. They're comfortable enough, but make sure you've half a dozen reliable men to protect them.

'Yes, sir. They were walking across the courtyard, stepping over the small canals. 'What about this scum, sir?

Frederickson stopped beside the deserters who had been captured. No Hakeswill there, just three dozen sullen frightened men. Sharpe looked at them. Two-thirds were in British uniform. He raised his voice so that all the Riflemen in the courtyard and on the upper gallery could hear him. 'These bastards are a disgrace to their uniforms. All of them. Strip them!

A Rifle Sergeant grinned at Sharpe. 'Naked, sir?

'Naked.

Sharpe turned round and cupped his hands. 'Captain Cross! Captain Cross! Cross had been detailed to capture the outer cloister, the chapel, and the storerooms.

'He's coming, sir! A shout from above.

'Sir? Cross leaned over the balustrade.

'Wounded? Killed?

'None, sir!

'Give the signal for Lieutenant Price to come up! Make sure your picquets know.

'Yes, sir. The signal was a bugle call from Cross's bugler.

'And I want men on the roof! Two hour duty only.

‘Yes, sir.

'That's all, and thank you, Captain!

Cross's face smiled at the unexpected compliment. 'Thank you, sir!

Sharpe turned to Frederickson. 'I need your men on the roof, too. Say twenty?

Frederickson nodded. There were no windows m the Convent so any defence would have to be made over the parapet of the roof. 'Loopholes in the walls, sir?

'They're bloody thick. Try if you like.

A Lieutenant came up, grinning broadly, and handed Frederickson a slip of paper. The Rifleman twisted it towards the firelight and then looked at the Lieutenant. 'How bad?

'Not bad at all, sir. They'll live.

'Where are they? The missing teeth made Frederickson's voice sibilant.

'Store-room upstairs, sir.

'Make sure they're warm. Frederickson grinned at Sharpe. 'The butcher's bill, sir. Bloody light. Three wounded, no dead. The grin became wider. 'Well done, sir! By God, I didn't know if we could do it!

'Well done, yourself. I always knew we could. Sharpe laughed at the lie, then asked the question he had been wanting to ask ever since Frederickson had appeared in the Convent. 'Where's your patch?

'Here. Frederickson opened his leather pouch and took out the teeth and the eye-patch. He put them back in place, looking human again, and laughed at Sharpe. 'I always take them off for a fight, sir. Scares the other side witless, sir. My lads reckon my face is worth a dozen Riflemen.

'Sweet William at war, eh?

Frederickson laughed at the use of his nickname. 'We do our best, sir.

'Your best is bloody good. The compliment felt forced and awkward, but Fredrickson beamed at it, had needed Sharpe's praise, and Sharpe was glad he had said it. Sharpe turned away to look at the prisoners who were being forcibly stripped. Some were already naked. It would be hard to escape on a night like this without clothes. 'Find somewhere for them, Captain.

'Yes, sir. What about them? Frederickson nodded towards the women.

'Put them in the chapel. Whores and soldiers were an explosive mix. Sharpe grinned. 'Find some volunteers and they can have a storeroom apiece. That's the lads' reward.’

’Yes, sir. Frederickson would make sure some of the women volunteered. 'That all, sir?

My God, no! He had forgotten the most important thing! 'Your four best men, Captain. Find their liquor store. Any man who gets drunk tonight sees me in the morning.’

’Yes, sir.

Frederickson left and Sharpe stood close to the fire, enjoying its warmth, and wondered what else had to be done. The Convent could be defended from the roof, its door well guarded, and the prisoners had been taken care of. A dozen of the deserters were wounded, three would never recover, and he must find a place for them. The women were disposed of, the children too, and the upper cloister would be like a brothel all night, but that was only fair to his men. A Christmas present from Major Sharpe. The liquor would be locked up. He must find food for his men.