The hostages. He must reassure them, make certain of their comfort, and he stared up at the hall gallery and laughed out loud. Josefina! Good God alive! Lady Farthingdale.

The last time he had seen Josefina she was living in comfort in Lisbon, her house terraced above the Tagus and filled with sunlight reflected from the river and framed by orange trees. Josefina Lacosta! She had jilted Sharpe after Talavera and run off with a Cavalry Captain, Hardie, but he had died. Josefina had run for Hardie's money, abandoning Sharpe's poverty, and she had always wanted to be rich. She had succeeded, too, buying the house with its terrace and orange trees in the rich Lisbon suburb of Buenos Ayres. He shook his head, remembering her two winters ago, when her house had been a languorous place where rich officers congregated and the richest vied for Josefina. He had seen her at a party, a small orchestra sawing away at violins in the corner, Josefina gracious as a queen among the dazzling uniforms that fawned on her, wanted her, and would pay the highest price for one night of La Lacosta. She had put on weight since Talavera and the weight had only made her more beautiful, though less to Sharpe's taste, and she had been choosy; he remembered that. She had turned down a Guards Colonel who had offered her five hundred guineas for a single night, and had rubbed salt in that wound by accepting a handsome young Midshipman who only offered twenty. Sharpe laughed again, attracting a curious glance from a Rifleman who herded the deserters to their naked, cold prison. Five hundred guineas! The price Farthingdale had paid for her ransom! The most expensive whore in Spain or Portugal. And married to Sir Augustus Farthingdale? Who called her delicate! God in his heaven! Delicate! And with the highest connections? That was true, though not in the way Farthingdale had meant it, but then perhaps he was right. Josefina had been married and her husband, Duarte, had gone to South America at the beginning of the war. He had been of good family, Sharpe knew, and he had some sinecure with the Royal Portuguese family; Third Gentleman of the Chamberpot or some such nonsense. And how had Josefina snared Sir Augustus? Did he know of her past? He must. Sharpe laughed again out loud and turned towards the staircase they had discovered in the cloister's south-west corner. He would pay his respects to La Lacosta.

'Sir? It was Frederickson, emerging from a doorway. He held a hand up, motioning Sharpe to wait, while in his other he held his watch to the light of a torch.

'Captain.-’

Frederickson said nothing, just kept his hand up, stared at his watch, then, a moment later, he snapped the cover shut and smiled at Sharpe. 'A happy Christmas to you, sir.

'Midnight?

'The very hour.

'And to you, Captain. And your men. A tot of brandy all round.

Midnight. Thank God he had come early, or else Madame Dubreton would have been the butt of Hakeswill’s cruel game. Hakeswill. He had escaped, over to the Castle, and Sharpe wondered whether the deserters would still be there in the morning, or would they, knowing the game was up, flee in the dawn? Or perhaps they would try to retake the Convent while Sharpe's men were still unfamiliar with the battleground.

It was Christmas Day. He stared up into the total darkness beyond the sparks that were whirled upwards by the fire. Christmas. The celebration of a Virgin giving birth, yet it was more than that, much more. Long before Christ was born, long before there was a church militant on earth, there had been a feast at midwinter. It celebrated the winter solstice, December 21st, and it was the lowest point of the year when even nature seemed dead and so mankind, with glorious perversity, celebrated life. The feast promised spring, and with spring would come new crops, new life, new births, and the feast held out the hope of surviving the barrenness of winter. This was the time of year when the flame of life burned lowest, when the dark nights were longest, and on this night Sharpe might be attacked in the Convent by Pot-au-Feu's desperate men. At this time of the winter solstice the dawn could be a long, long time coming. He watched a Rifleman scramble onto the roof and, as he leaned down to take his gun from a colleague, the man laughed at some joke. Sharpe smiled. They would endure.

Christmas morning. In England people would be walking frost-bright roads to church. In the night Sharpe had heard a sentry softly singing to himself 'Hark the Herald Angels Sing'. It was the Methodist Wesley's hymn, but the Church of England had nevertheless printed it in their Prayer Book. The tune had made Sharpe think of England.

The dawn promised a fine day. Light flared in the east, seeped into the valley and showed a landscape mysterious with ground fog. The Castle and Convent stood like towers at the entrance to a harbour containing white, soft water that flowed gently over the lip of the pass and spilt slowly towards the great mist-filled valley to the west. The Gateway of God was white, weird, and silent.

There had been no attack from Pot-au-Feu. Twice the picquets had fired in the night, but both were false alarms and there had been no rush of feet in the darkness, no makeshift ladders against the convent walls. Frederickson, bored with the enemy's quiescence, had begged to be allowed to take a patrol across the valley and Sharpe had let them go. The Riflemen had sniped at the Castle and watch-tower, causing anger and panic in the defenders, and Frederickson had come back happy.

After the patrol's return Sharpe had slept for two hours, but now the whole garrison stood to its arms as the dawn turned from grey danger into proper light. Sharpe's breath misted before his face. It was cold, but the night was over, the hostages were rescued, and the Fusiliers would be climbing the long pass. Success was a sweet thing. On the ramparts of the Castle he could see Pot-au-Feu's sentries, still at their post, and he wondered why they had not fled against the wrath they knew must be coming. The sun touched the horizon, red-gold and glorious, smearing the white mist pink, daylight in Adrados. 'Stand down! Stand down!

The Sergeants repeated the call about the rooftop and Sharpe turned towards the ramp Cross had built and thought of breakfast and a shave.

'Sir! A Rifleman called to him from twenty paces away. 'Sir! He was pointing east, direct into the brilliance of the new sun. 'Horsemen, sir!

God damn it, but the sun made it impossible. Sharpe made a slit with his fingers and peered through and he thought he saw the shapes riding on the valley's side, but he could not be certain. 'How many?

One of Cross's Sergeants guessed three, another man four, but when Sharpe looked again the shapes had gone. They had been there, but not now. Pot-au-Feu's men? Scouting an eastward retreat? It was possible. Some of the prisoners had spoken of raiding Partisans, seeking vengeance for Adrados, and that was possible too.

Sharpe stayed on the roof because of the horsemen, but the dawn showed no more movement in the east. Behind him there were warning shouts as men carried bowls of hot water from the makeshift kitchens. The men not on guard started shaving, wishing each other a Happy Christmas, teasing the women who had elected to join their conquerors and who now mixed with the Riflemen as if they had always belonged. This morning was a fine morning for a soldier. Only the detail who had to climb the hill to fetch the packs from the gully were grumbling about work.

Sharpe turned to see them leave and was intrigued by a strange sight in the courtyard of the upper cloister. A group of Riflemen were tying strips of white cloth to the bare hornbeam that had broken through the tiles. They were in fine spirits, laughing and playful, and one man was hoisted piggy-back onto a comrade's shoulders so he could put an especially large ribbon on the topmost twig. Metal glinted on the bare twigs, buttons perhaps, cut from captured uniforms, and Sharpe did not understand it. He went down the narrow ramp and beckoned Cross to him. 'What are they doing?