Dubreton understood. 'They went south?

'Yes.

'How long ago? Sharpe told him and Dubreton's face was mischievous. 'We have cavalry.

'I'd noticed, sir.

'I think we could help.

Sir Augustus, seeing things run away from his careful control, pushed his horse forward. 'Are you suggesting the French chase our fugitives, Sharpe?

Sharpe turned an innocent face onto the Colonel. 'That seems to be why they're here, sir. I can't really see how we can stop them.

Dubreton cut in smoothly. 'I would suggest, Sir Augustus, that we fight together under a truce. We will not attempt to disturb your occupation of the Castle, the Convent or the watchtower. You, in turn, will allow us to bivouac in the village. In the meantime our cavalry will drive the fugitives back to this valley where the infantry can wait for them.

'His Majesty's Army is quite capable of managing its own affairs, Colonel. Farthingdale was appalled at the suggestion.

'Of course it is. Dubreton glanced once at the bodies, back to Sir Augustus. 'The truth is, Sir Augustus, that our Dragoons started their sweep an hour ago. He smiled deprecatingly. 'If you prefer that we should fight for the honour of capturing them then I assure you that the Emperor's army is also quite capable of managing its own affairs. That was a couple of fine aces to lay on the table. Sir Augustus took refuge in questions.

'You've begun? A truce, do you say? Dubreton smiled patiently.

’We have begun, Sir Augustus. Shall we say we anticipated your generous help? And why not a truce? It's Christmas Day, there always used to be a Truce of God on such a day, so why not for us? Can I suggest till midnight tonight? Perhaps we can discuss what happens after that at dinner tonight. You will do us the honour of being our guests?

'Till midnight? Sir Augustus made it another question, buying more time for his thoughts to probe every suspicion that he had of this proposal, but Dubreton pretended to mistake the inflection.

'Splendid! We are agreed! Till midnight, then, and you will be our guests?

Sharpe smiled at the deftness of Dubreton's handling of Sir Augustus. 'I'm sure we can accept with pleasure, sir, on one condition.

'A condition? For dinner?’

’That we supply the cook, sir.

Dubreton laughed. 'You supply the cook? You offer that to a Frenchman! You Riflemen are braver than I thought.

Sharpe enjoyed his next words. 'Pot-au-Feu, with our compliments.

'You have him?

'In our kitchens. If I'm eating with you tonight, then I'd rather he was in yours.

'Splendid, splendid! Dubreton looked at Sir Augustus. 'We are agreed then, Sir Augustus?

Farthingdale was still suspicious, far from happy, but he was being forced to take guidance from the one man who did understand the enemy and how to fight them. Sharpe. More important, Sharpe understood when not to fight. Sir Augustus inclined his handsome, thin head. 'We are agreed, Colonel.

'Do I have your permission to ride to the Convent?

Farthingdale nodded.

Dubreton spoke briefly to the cavalrymen, watched them spur towards the village, then walked his horse between Sharpe's and Sir Augustus' and once again the conversation dropped into French. It sounded polite, the small talk of enemies on a sunlit Christmas Day and Sharpe dropped back so that he was alongside Harper. He grinned at the big Irishman. 'We've got new allies, Patrick. The French.

'Yes, sir. Harper took pride in showing no surprise. 'Whatever you say, sir.

Christmas afternoon was as festive as any man could have wished. At first the Fusiliers were disbelieving, then delighted, then they had mixed happily with Dubreton's Battalion as they formed a rough cordon that waited for the fugitives to be chased from the hills. Within an hour no Frenchman was wearing a French shako, all wore British, and men exchanged uniform buttons, liquor, food, tobacco, and sought out translators so they could exchange memories of shared battles.

A half hour after that, the first fugitives appeared. It was mostly women and children who came first, those who had little to fear from capture, and the women sought out troops of their own side and begged them for protection. Behind them there was an occasional faraway sound of a Dragoon's carbine chivvying a laggard.

Sharpe missed it all. For the first forty-five minutes he was with Harper in the Convent. It was impossible to move the gun without the French seeing their efforts, so Sharpe abandoned his hopes of mounting it in the Convent gateway. Instead he explored the cellars, climbing into a dirty, damp space beneath the floors of the chapel and store-rooms, and then he left Harper and a work party busy with materials captured from Pot-au-Feu. Sharpe would prepare a surprise or two in case they were needed.

Then he cut over the field, between the fraternising troops, and guided the horse slowly along one of the twisting paths that climbed to the watchtower. The thorns were thick, good protection, but the hill was far from the support of any troops in the Castle. Frederickson waved to him from the tower's summit as Sharpe dismounted, gave the reins to a Rifleman, I then stood for a few seconds and looked at the position. It was good. The Spaniards had built earthern ramparts that faced the valley, and behind the ramparts were two of the four-pounder guns that dominated the steep slope of the hill to the north. To the west and to the east the slope was just as severe, just as thickly tangled with thorns, only to the south was the slope more gentle. Cursing Riflemen were hacking out another pit, readying it for one of the guns, and Sharpe saw with approval how Frederickson had ordered thorn bushes cut and placed on the southern slope as a barrier. One company of Fusiliers was still hacking at bushes, while the other formed a cordon to ward off Pot-au-Feu's returning men.

Sharpe climbed the steps inside the tower, emerged onto the turret, and greeted Frederickson. The Rifle Captain was cheerful. 'I hope the bastards make a fight of it, sir!

'You do?

'I could hold this place through Armageddon.

'You may have to. Sharpe grinned and rested his telescope on one of the crumbling ramparts. He stared long and hard at the village, seeing little, then panned it right where the valley wound about the hill before turning east again and disappearing. 'How many have you seen?

Frederickson fished a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it wordlessly to Sharpe. 'Lancers, 120. Dragoons, 150. Infantry, 450. Sharpe grunted and gave it back. 'Bit unbalanced, isn't it. He stared eastward, the view magnificent, and he remembered now how the guns had ceased firing from the watchtower during the battle. The men up here must have seen the approaching French and taken fright, and doubtless the keep's defenders had seen them, too, and spread panic amongst Pot-au-Feu's men. The victory this morning, ragged as it already was, was diminished because the arrival of the French had dispirited the enemy. He looked where the turn of the valley carried the road out of sight. 'I wonder what's round the corner.

'I wondered about that, too. I sent a patrol up there, but we were turned back. It was very polite, but it was very firm‘Vamos.

'So they must be hiding something. Frederickson scratched beneath the eye-patch. 'I don't trust the bastards one inch. He sounded cheerful.

'Nor me. Have you seen any supplies?

Frederickson shook his head. 'Not a thing.’There's more of them round the bloody corner. The French infantry had to eat, the horses of the cavalry would need forage, and so far Sharpe had seen no sign of the French supplies. To the south east, where the road turned away, he could see a group of Lancers trotting on the grass. 'Did they turn you away?