Sharpe spoke softly, each word clear and slow. 'I was thinking of skinning the bastard alive, sir. His eyes stayed on Hakeswill.

Farthingdale looked at Sharpe and the setting sun lit the left side of the scarred face, a face implacable and frightening, and Farthingdale felt the fear. He feared cold-blooded death, and he feared that one word from him might provoke it. His protest, when it came, sounded feeble even to his own ears. 'The man must be tried, Sharpe, by a Court-Martial. You can't kill him!

Sharpe smiled, still looking at Hakeswill. 'I said I'd skin him alive, not dead. Do you hear that, Obadiah? I can't kill you. He suddenly raised his voice. 'This is the man who can't be killed! You've all heard of him, well here he is! Obadiah Hakeswill. And soon you'll see a miracle. You'll see him dead! But not here, not now! In front of a firing squad.

The great blade stayed where it was. The French Dragoons, who had spent too many aching hours strengthening their sword arms by doing just what Sharpe was doing, appreciated the strength of a man who could hold a heavy cavalry sword at full stretch for so long, and keep it so still.

Hakeswill coughed. He sensed death retreating from him and he looked at Farthingdale. 'Permission to speak, sir? Farthingdale nodded and Hakeswill screwed his face into a smile. The red light of sun and fire was reflected onto his yellow skin by the sword. 'Welcome a Court-Martial, sir, welcome it. You gentlemen are fair, sir, I know that, sir. He was at his most obsequious.

Farthingdale was at his most patronizing. Here, at last, was a soldier who understood how to address his superiors. 'You shall have a fair trial, I promise you that.

'Thank you, sir. Thank you. Hakeswill would have knuckled his forehead except that the sword still terrified him.

'Mr Sharpe! Put him with the other prisoners! Farthingdale felt he had defused the situation, was in command again.

'I will, sir, I will. Sharpe still looked at Hakeswill, his eyes had not moved since the sword was drawn. 'What uniform is that, Private?

'Uniform, sir? Hakeswill pretended that he had never noticed the rank of his uniform. 'Oh this, sir! I found it, sir, found it.

'You're a Colonel, are you?

'No, sir. Course not, sir. Hakeswill looked at Sir Augustus and gave him the full benefit of his rotting grin. 'I was forced to wear it, sir, forced! After they forced me to join them, sir!

'You're a bleeding disgrace to that uniform, aren't you? The blue eyes came back to Sharpe. 'Yes, sir, if you say so, sir.

'I do, Obadiah, I do. Sharpe smiled again. 'Take it off. Dubreton smiled and tossed a translation over his shoulder. Bigeard and the Dragoons grinned, settled forward on the pommels of their saddles.

'Sir? Hakeswill appealed to Farthingdale, but the sword tip was pressed against his throat. 'Strip, you bastard!’Sharpe! That damned syllable. 'Strip! You poxed bastard! Strip!

The sword blade flickered, left and right, starting blood from the skin over Hakeswi'll's adam's apple, and the gross, lumpen man tore at the red officer's sash, pulled at his belts, at the empty scabbard, and then scrambled out of the red jacket and dropped it on the cobbles. 'Now trousers and boots, Private.

Farthingdale protested. 'Sharpe! Lady Farthingdale is watching! I insist this stops!

Hakeswill’s eyes looked towards the balcony and Sharpe knew that by standing at the very end of the platform Josefina could see into the courtyard. Sharpe kept the sword steady. 'If Lady Farthingdale doesn't like the view, sir, I suggest she goes inside. In the meantime, sir, this man has disgraced his uniform, his country, and his Regiment. For the moment I can only take one of those things away from him. Strip!

Hakeswill sat, pulled off the boots, then stood to remove the white trousers. He shivered slightly, dressed only in the long white shirt that was buttoned from neck to knees. The sun had dipped beneath the western ramparts. 'I said strip.’

’Sharpe!

Sharpe hated this yellow-skinned, lank-haired, twitching man who had tried to kill his daughter, to rape his wife, this man who had once flogged Sharpe so that the ribs showed through the torn flesh, this man who had murdered Robert Knowles. Sharpe wanted to kill him here and now, in this courtyard with this blade, but he had long ago sworn that justice would be seen to kill the man who could not be killed. A firing party would do that thing, and then Sharpe could write the letter he had long wanted to write to Knowles' parents and tell them their son's murderer had met his end.

Hakeswill looked up at Josefina, back to Sharpe, then stepped back two paces as if he could escape the sword. Bigeard lashed out with his foot, throwing him forward, and Hakeswill looked at Sir Augustus. 'Sir?

The sword arm moved at last. Up, down, across, and the shirt was torn, blood seeping from the shallow cuts. 'Strip!

The hands tore at the shirt, ripping it, bursting buttons free, and Hakeswill stood there, the tatters of pride at his feet, and on his face a hatred that was strong as life itself.

Sharpe hooked the shirt towards him, wiped the tip of the blade, then rammed it into the scabbard. He stepped back. 'Lieutenant Price!

'Sir?

'Four men to put Private Hakeswill into the dungeon! I want him tied up there!

'Yes, sir!

The courtyard seemed to relax. Only Hakeswill, misshapen and naked, was tense with anger and hate. Riflemen pulled him away, the same Riflemen he had stripped of their greenjackets before the assault on Badajoz.

Dubreton gathered his reins. 'I think, perhaps, you should have killed him.

'Perhaps, sir.

Dubreton smiled. 'On the other hand we have not killed Pot-au-Feu. He's hard at work preparing your dinner.

'I look forward to it, sir.

'You should! You should! French cooks, Major Sharpe, have secrets. You, I'm sure, have none. He glanced at the stables, smiled, then raised a hand to Sir Augustus before turning his horse. ‘Au revoir!’

The sparks were brighter as the French accelerated through the gateway of the Castle. Sharpe looked at the stables. Six men, all in artillery uniform, stood gaping in the doorway. He swore at them, had a Sergeant take their names, and hoped that Dubreton had drawn no conclusions other than that Sharpe was hiding some guns. Tomorrow would reveal all.

It was nightfall, Christmas Day, in the Castle of the Virgin.

German voices, singing carols, faded behind them as they rode horses slowly towards the village. Eight officers and Josefina were dining with the French.

The torches that illuminated the village street flamed inside soft haloes. There was a night mist. Sir Augustus was in a playful mood, a heavy playfulness, perhaps because Josefina was looking as sultry and beautiful as artifice could make her. He looked across her at Sharpe. 'Perhaps they'll serve you frog's legs, Sharpe!

'One can only hope, sir.

There would be a hard frost tonight. To the south and overhead the stars were visible through the fine mist, Christmas stars, but the northern sky was dark, spreading south, and Sharpe could smell bad weather in the air. Pray God it would not be snow. He did not relish struggling from the Gateway of God, guarding the British, Portuguese and Spanish prisoners who were crammed into the Castle's dungeon, struggling with them and Gilliland's carts down the snow covered pass. Then, he thought, they might not be leaving in the morning. It depended on the French and their plans.

Dubreton waited for them at the door of the inn. It was a large building, far too large for such a tiny village, yet once it had served as a house for travelling men who crossed the Sierra and wanted to avoid the tolls of the southern road. The war had dulled trade, but still the building looked inviting and warm. A tricolour hung from an upstairs window, lit by two straw and resin torches, while unarmed soldiers came forward to take the horses. Farthingdale left the introductions to Sharpe. Four Captains, including Brooker and Cross, and two Lieutenants including Harry Price.