El Matarife laughed. He looked from his brother to the Frenchman and he saw that neither smiled, that the sum was true, and his laughter died. He stared belligerently at Ducos. ‘You’re cheating us, Frenchman. Your country will never pay that much. Never!’

‘The money will not come from France,’ Ducos said. ‘Where then?

‘From a woman.’ Ducos spoke softly. ‘But first there has to be a death, then an imprisonment, and that, El Matarife, is your part of this.’

The Partisan leader looked at his brother for confirmation, received it, and looked back at the small Frenchman. ‘A death?’

‘One death. The woman’s husband.’

‘The imprisonment?’

‘The woman.’

‘When?’

Pierre Ducos saw the Partisan’s smile and felt the surge of hope. The secret would be safe and France saved. He would buy, with three hundred thousand Spanish dollars that were not his to spend, the future of Napoleon’s empire. ‘When?’ the Partisan asked again.

‘Spring,’ Ducos said. This spring. You will be ready?’

‘So long as your troops leave me alone.’ El Matarife laughed.

‘That I promise.’

‘Then I will be ready.’

The bond was sealed by a handshake. The secret would be safe, the Treaty that would defeat Britain made, and, in the course of it, Pierre Ducos would accomplish his revenge on the Englishman who had broken his spectacles. When the spring came, and when the armies prepared to fight a war that would, within a year, be made redundant by the secret treaty, a man called Richard Sharpe, a soldier, would die.

CHAPTER 1

Major Richard Sharpe, on a damp spring day when a cold wind whipped down a rocky valley, stood on an ancient stone bridge and stared at the road which led southwards to a low pass in the rocky crest. The hills were dark with rain.