That other priest was the sacrist of Santiago’s cathedral, a canon and a man who, from the very first, made it plain that he disliked and distrusted Lieutenant Richard Sharpe. If Father Alzaga spoke English then he did not betray that skill to Sharpe. Indeed, Alzaga barely acknowledged his presence, confining his conversation to Bias Vivar whom he perhaps perceived as his social equal. His hostility was so blatant, and so jarring, that Borellas felt constrained to explain it. “He does not love the English.”
“Many Spaniards don’t,” Louisa, who seemed unnaturally subdued by the evident hostility in the room, commented drily.
“You’re heretics, you see. And your army has run away.” The priest spoke in soft apology. “Politics, politics. I do not understand the politics. I am just a humble priest, Lieutenant.”
But Borellas was a humble priest whose knowledge of Santiago de Compostela’s alleyways and courtyards had saved the sacrist from the French. He told Sharpe how they had hidden in a plasterer’s yard while the French cavalrymen searched the houses. “They shot many people.” He crossed himself. “If a man had a fowling gun, they said he was an enemy. Bang. If someone protested at the killing, bang.” Borellas crumbled a piece of hard bread. “I did not think I would live to see an enemy army on Spanish soil. This is the nineteenth century, not the twelfth!”
Sharpe looked at the haughty-faced Alzaga who clearly had not expected, nor liked, to see protestant English soldiers on Spanish soil. “What is a sacrist?”
“He is the cathedral’s treasurer. Not a clerk, you understand,” Borellas was eager that Sharpe should not underesti-mate the tall priest, “but the man responsible for the cathedral’s treasures. That is not why he is here, but because he is a most important churchman. Don Bias would have liked the Bishop to come, but the Bishop would not talk to me, and the most important man I could find was Father Alzaga. He hates the French, you see.” He flinched as the sacrist’s voice was raised in anger and, as if to cover his embarrassment, offered Sharpe more dried fish and began a long explanation of the kinds offish caught on the Galician coast.
Yet no discussion offish could hide the fact that Vivar and Alzaga were involved in a bitter altercation; each man deeply entrenched in opposing views which, equally plainly, involved Sharpe himself. Vivar, making some point, would gesture at the Rifleman. Alzaga, refuting it, seemed to sneer in his direction. Lieutenant Davila concentrated on his food, evidently wanting no part in the fierce argument while Father Borellas, abandoning his attempts to distract Sharpe’s attention, reluctantly agreed to explain what was being said. “Father Alzaga wants Don Bias to use Spanish troops.” He spoke too softly for the other to overhear.
“Spanish troops for what?”
“That is for Don Bias to explain.” Borellas listened for another moment. “Don Bias is saying that to find Spanish infantry would mean persuading a Captain-General, and all the Captain-Generals are in hiding; and anyway a Captain-General would hesitate, or he would say he must have the permission of the Galician Junta, and the Junta has fled Corunna, so he might apply to the Central Junta in Seville instead, and in one or two months’ time the Captain-General might say that perhaps there were men, but then he would insist that one of his own favourite officers be placed in charge of the expedition, and anyway by that time Don Bias says it would be too late.” Father Borellas shrugged. “I think Don Bias is right.”
“Too late for what?”
“That is for Don Bias to explain.”
Vivar was speaking adamantly now, chopping his hand down in abrupt, fierce gestures that appeared to mute the priest’s opposition. When he finished, Alzaga seemed to yield reluctantly on some part of the argument, and the concession made Bias Vivar turn towards Sharpe. “Would you mind very much describing your career, Lieutenant?”
“My career?”
“Slowly? One of us will translate.”
Sharpe, embarrassed by the request, shrugged. “I was born…“
“Not that bit, I think,” Vivar said hastily. “Your fighting career, Lieutenant. Where was your first battle?”
“In Flanders.”
“Start there.”
For ten uncomfortable minutes Sharpe described his career in terms of the battles he had fought. He spoke first of Flanders, where he had been one of the Duke of York’s unfortunate ten thousand, then, with more confidence, of India. The pillared room, lit by its pinewood fire and cheap rushlights, seemed an odd place to be talking of Seringapa-tam, Assaye, Argaum, and Gawilghur. Yet the others listened avidly, and even Alzaga seemed intrigued by the translated tales of far-off battles on arid plains. Louisa, her eyes shining, followed the story closely.
When Sharpe had finished his description of the savage assault on the mud walls of Gawilghur, no one spoke for a few seconds. Resin flared in the fire. Alzaga, in his harsh voice, broke the silence and Vivar translated. “Father Alzaga says he heard that the Tippoo Sultan had a clockwork model of a tiger mauling an Englishman to death.”
Sharpe looked into the priest’s eyes. “A lifesize model, yes.”
Vivar translated again. “He would dearly like to have seen that model.”
“I believe it’s in London now,” Sharpe said.
The priest must have recognized the challenge in those words for he said something which Vivar did not interpret.
“What was that?” Sharpe asked.
“It was nothing,” Vivar said a little too carelessly. “Where did you fight after India, Lieutenant?”
“Father Alzaga said, ”Louisa astonished the room by raising her voice, and by her evident knowledge of Spanish which she had concealed till this moment, “that this night he will pray for the soul of the Tippoo Sultan, because the Tippoo Sultan slew many Englishmen.”
Till now Sharpe had been embarrassed in describing his career, but the priest’s scorn touched his soldier’s pride. “And I killed the Tippoo Sultan.”
“You did?” Father Borellas’s voice was sharp with disbelief.
“In the water gate’s tunnel at Seringapatam.“
“He had no bodyguard?” Vivar asked.
“Six men,” Sharpe said. “His picked warriors.” He looked from face to face, knowing he need say no more. Alzaga demanded a translation, and grunted when he heard it.
Vivar, who had been pleased with Sharpe’s performance, smiled at the Rifleman. “And where did you fight after India, Lieutenant? Were you in Portugal last year?”
Sharpe described the Portuguese battlefields of Rolica and Vimeiro where, before he was recalled to England, Sir Arthur Wellesley had trounced the French. “I was only a Quartermaster,” he said, “but I saw some fighting.”
Again there was silence and Sharpe, watching the hostile priest, sensed he had passed some kind of a test. Alzaga spoke grudgingly, and the words made Vivar smile again. “You have to understand, Lieutenant, that I need the blessing of the church for what I have to do, and, if you are to help me, then the Church must approve of you. The Church would prefer that I use Spanish troops, but that, alas, is not possible. With some reluctance, therefore, Father Alzaga accepts that your experience of battle will be of some small use.”
“But what…“
“Later.” Vivar held up a hand. “First, tell me what you know of Santiago de Composteta.”
“Only what you’ve told me.”
So Vivar described how, a thousand years before, shepherds had seen a myriad of stars shining in a mist above the hill on which the city was now built. The shepherds reported their vision to Theudemirus, Bishop of Iria Flavia, who recognized it as a sign from heaven. He ordered the hill to be excavated and, in its bowels, was found the long lost tomb of Santiago, St James. Ever since the city had been known as Santiago de Compostela; St James of the field of stars.