'They're Germans, sir. Cross gave the explanation as if it answered all Sharpe's puzzlement.

'So? What are they doing?

Cross was no Frederickson. He was slower, less intelligent, and far more fearful of responsibility. Yet he was fiercely protective towards his men and now he seemed to think that Sharpe disapproved of the oddly decorated tree. 'It's a German custom, sir. It's harmless.

'I'm sure it's harmless! But what the devil are they doing?

Cross frowned. 'Well it's Christmas, sir! They always do it at Christmas.

'They tie white ribbons on trees every Christmas?

'Not just that, sir. Anything. They usually like an evergreen, sir, and they put it in their billet and decorate it. Small presents, carved angels, all kinds of things.

'Why? Sharpe still watched them, as did men of his own Company, who had not seen anything like it.

It seemed that Cross had never thought to ask why, but Frederickson had come into the upper cloister and heard Sharpe's question. 'Pagan, sir. It's because the old German Gods were all forest Gods. This is part of the winter solstice.

'You mean they're worshipping the old Gods?

Frederickson nodded. 'You never know who's in charge up there, do you? He grinned. 'The priests say that the tree represents the one on which Christ will be crucified, but that's bloody nonsense. This is just a good old-fashioned offering to the old Gods. They've been doing it since before the Romans.

Sharpe looked at the tree. 'I like it. It looks good. What happens next? Do we sacrifice a virgin?

He had spoken loud enough for the men to hear him, to laugh, and they were pathetically pleased because Major Sharpe had liked their tree and had made a joke. Frederickson watched Sharpe go into the inner cloister and the one-eyed Captain knew what Sharpe did not know; he knew why these men had fought last night instead of deserting to their comfortable, lascivious enemy. They were proud to fight for Sharpe. It made a man good to match up to high standards, and when those standards led to victory and approval then the men would follow always. God help the British army, Frederickson thought, if the officers ever despised the men.

Sharpe was tired, cold, and he had not shaved. He walked slowly around the upper cloister, down the stairs, and found the large, chill room where Frederickson had put the naked prisoners. Three Riflemen guarded them and Sharpe nodded to a Corporal. 'Any trouble?

'No, sir. The Corporal spat tobacco juice through the doorway. The door had gone and the three rifles looked over a crude barrier of charred timbers. 'One of'em got all upset, sir, 'bout an 'our ago.’

’Upset?

'Yessir. 'E was 'ollering an' shoutin', sir, makin' aggravation. Wanted clothes 'e said. Said they wasn't animals an' all that kind of rubbish, sir.’What happened?’Cap'n Frederickson shot 'im, sir. Sharpe looked at the Corporal curiously. 'Just like that?’

’Yessir. The man smiled happily. ‘E don't take no nonsense, the Cap'n, sir.

Sharpe smiled back. 'Nor should you. If anyone else gives you trouble, just do the same thing.’

’Yessir.

Frederickson had been busy, and evidently still was for a cheer came from his Company that manned the roof about the inner cloister. Sharpe climbed the stairs again, then the ramp that went from the upper gallery. There he saw why the men had cheered.

A flag had been raised. It was a makeshift flagpole, nailed together, and because there was not a breath of wind on this cold, Christmas morning, Frederickson had ordered a cross-piece hammered into the staff on which the flag had been hung. It was the signal which would tell the Fusiliers that the rescuers had succeeded, that they could climb the pass, and Sharpe had assumed that he would simply hang the flag over the edge of the building. The flagpole was a much better idea.

Frederickson had come to this part of the roof and looked up at the flag. 'Doesn't look the same, sir.

'The same?

'The Irish bit.

When the Act of Union had been passed, indissolubly joining Ireland to England as one nation, a diagonal red cross had been added to the Union flag. For some people, even after eleven years, it still looked strange. For others, like Patrick Harper, it was still offensive. Sharpe looked at the Captain. 'I hear you shot a prisoner.

'Was I wrong?

'No. You just saved a Court-Martial ordering the same thing.

'It seemed to pacify them, sir. Frederickson said it mildly, implying he had done the prisoners a service.

'Have you slept?

'No, sir.

'Get some. That's an order. We might need you later on.

Sharpe wondered why he had said that. If all went to plan the Fusiliers would relieve him within hours and the Rifles' job would be done. Yet an instinct needled him. Perhaps it was those strange horsemen in the dawn, or perhaps it was nothing more than the unaccustomed responsibility of leading nearly two hundred men. He yawned, rubbed the bristles on his chin, and hunched himself closer inside the greatcoat.

A cat walked on the tiles of the shallow-pitched roof, disdaining the Riflemen who crouched beneath the low stone parapet. It walked to the ridge of the tiles, sat, and began to wash its face with cuffing paws. Its shadow was long on the pink tiles.

Across the valley the shadow of the watchtower stretched towards the Castle. The two buildings were five hundred yards apart, the watchtower a good hundred and fifty feet higher, and between the two was a small, steep, thorn-covered valley. The mist was clearing from the smaller valley, showing the bare thorns touched with frost, revealing a small sparkling stream. Men still guarded the Castle and watchtower, and that was strange. Did Pot-au-Feu think that once the hostages were rescued his enemies would simply march away?

To the west the hills of Portugal were touched by the flame gold of the sun, their valleys black and grey, streaked with white mist, while the horizon was still smoky with night. The landscape looked crumpled, as if it needed to stretch and waken up. In the far valleys it would still be night.

Sharpe walked along the rooftop until he was at the northern parapet, lightly guarded, and he sat on the tiles and looked left towards the pass. No sign of the Fusiliers, but it was early yet.

'Sir? A German voice behind him. 'Sir? He turned. The man was offering him a cup of tea. The Germans had taken the habit from the British and, like them, carried the leaves loose in their pockets. One good rainstorm could ruin a week's supply. 'Yours?’

’I have more, sir.’

’Thank you.

Sharpe took it, cradled it in his gloved hands, and watched the German go back towards the flag. The cloth was beaded with moisture. The sun shone through the thin material. Something to fight for.

The mist still flowed soft down the pass, spilling like water, and Sharpe sipped the hot tea and was grateful to be alone. He wanted to stare at the great unfolding beauty of the dawn, the light spreading across Portugal beneath a sky that was vast and streaked with the cloud remnants of the night. More cloud threatened in the north, dark cloud, but this day would be fine.

He heard the footsteps on the roof and he did not turn round for he did not wish to be disturbed. He looked to his right, pointedly away from the footsteps, and watched the work-party coming down the steep path between the thorns with the packs tied to their rifles.

'Richard?

He turned back, scrambling to his feet. 'Josefina.

She smiled at him, a little nervous, and her face was swathed by the silver-fur of her dark green cloak hood. 'Can I join you?

'Yes, do. Aren't you cold?

'A bit. She smiled at him. 'Happy Christmas, Richard.

'And to you. He knew the Riflemen on the huge, wide roof would be looking at them. 'Why don't you sit.