Sharpe’s Eagle: The Talavera Campaign, July 1809. Bernard Cornwell

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      Valdelacasa did not exist as a place where human beings lived, loved, or traded, it was simply a ruined building and a great stone bridge that had been built to span the river at a time when the Tagus was wider than the flow which now slid darkly between the three central arches of the Roman stonework. And from the bridge, with its attendant building, the land spread outwards in a vast, shallow bowl bisected by the river in one direction and the road which led to and from the bridge in the other. The Battalion had marched down the almost imperceptible incline as the shadows of dusk began to creep across the pale grasslands. There was no farming, no cattle, no sign of life; just the ancient ruin, the bridge, and the water slipping silently towards the far-off sea.

      ‘I don’t like it, sir.’ Harper’s face had been genuinely worried.

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘No birds, sir. Not even a vulture.’

      Sharpe had to admit it was true, there was not a bird to be seen or heard. It was like a place forgotten and as they marched towards the building the men in green jackets were unnaturally quiet as if infected by some ancient gloom.

      ‘There’s no sign of the French.’ Sharpe could see no movement in the darkening landscape.

      ‘It’s not the French that worry me.’ Harper was really concerned. ‘It’s this place, sir. It’s not good.’

      ‘You’re being Irish, Sergeant.’

      ‘That may be, sir. But tell me why there’s no village here. The soil is better than the stuff we’ve marched past, there’s a bridge, so why no village?’

      Why not? It seemed an obvious place for a village but on the other hand they had passed only one small hamlet in the last ten miles so it was possible that there were simply not enough people on the vast remoteness of the Estramaduran plain to inhabit every likely spot. Sharpe tried to ignore Harper’s concern but, coming as it did on top of his own gloomy presentiments, he had begun to feel that Valdelacasa really did have a sinister air about it. Hogan did not help.

      ‘That’s the Puente de los Malditos; the Bridge of the Accursed.’ Hogan walked his horse beside them and nodded at the building. ‘That must have been the convent. The Moors beheaded every single nun. The story goes that they were killed on the bridge, that their heads were thrown into the water but the bodies left to rot. They say no one lives here because the spirits walk the bridge at night looking for their heads.’

      The Riflemen heard him in silence. When Hogan had finished Sharpe was surprised to see his huge Sergeant surreptitiously cross himself and he guessed that they would spend a restless night. He was right. The darkness was total, there was no wood on the plain so the men could build no fires, and in the small hours a wind brought clouds that covered the moon. The Riflemen were guarding the southern end of the bridge, the bank on which the French were loose, and it was a nervous night as shadows played tricks and the chill sentries were not certain whether they imagined the noises that could either be headless nuns or patrolling Frenchmen. Just before dawn Sharpe heard the sound of a bird’s wings, followed by the call of an owl, and he wondered whether to tell Harper that there were birds after all. He decided not; he remembered that owls were supposed to be harbingers of death and the news might worry the Irishman even more.

      But the new day, even if it did not bring the Regimienta who were presumably still at the inn, brought a brilliant blue sky with only a scattering of high, passing clouds that followed the night’s belt of light rain. Harsh ringing blows came from the bridge where Hogan’s artificers hammered down the parapet at the spot chosen for the explosion and the apprehensions of the night seemed, for the moment, to be like a bad dream. The Riflemen were relieved by Lennox’s Light Company and, with nothing else to do, Harper stripped naked and waded into the river.

      ‘That’s better. I haven’t washed in a month.’ He looked up at Sharpe. ‘Is anything happening, sir?’

      ‘No sign of them.’ Sharpe must have stared at the horizon, a mile to the south, fifty times since dawn but there had been no sign of the French. He watched as Harper came dripping wet out of the river and shook himself like a wolfhound. ‘Perhaps they’re not here, sir.’

      Sharpe shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Sergeant. I’ve a feeling they’re not far away.’ He turned and looked across the river, at the road they had marched the day before. ‘Still no sight of the Spanish.’

      Harper was drying himself with his shirt. ‘Perhaps they’ll not turn up, sir.’

      It had occurred to Sharpe that possibly the whole job would be done before the Regimienta reached Valdelacasa and he wondered why he still felt the stirrings of concern about the mission. Simmerson had behaved with restraint, the artificers were hard at work, and there were no French in sight. What could go wrong? He walked to the entrance of the bridge and nodded to Lennox. ‘Anything?’

      The Scotsman shook his head. ‘All’s quiet. I reckon Sir Henry won’t get his battle today.’

      ‘He wanted one?’

      Lennox laughed. ‘Keen as mustard. I suspect he thinks Napoleon himself is coming.’

      Sharpe turned and stared down the road. Nothing moved. ‘They’re СКАЧАТЬ