Yet another posada in Lisbon

Cotton fought a temptation to ruffle the officer's hair. Doing that would really get him shot.

"All right, then, sir," he said. "Let me do them for you. It'll be easier." And quicker, but he didn't say that.

Padstowe managed to get his face in order enough to give Cotton a smile.

"Than' you, Cotton."

Whilst he let Cotton get on with his coat, he reached up and fumbled with his neckcloth, somehow successfully removing that.

Cotton undid the last button and stepped back. "You all right there, now, sir?"

He was loath to leave until he knew the Captain was going to be all right. Heaven only knew when he'd started to be all protective of him, but he felt almost as proprietorial over him now as he did over Captain Vickery, which was really strange.

Padstowe shrugged off his coat, letting it slide onto the floor with his cravat. He also wanted to take off his waistcoat, but rather than have to face all the buttons he undid the first three (Lord knew how) then pulled th garment off over his head - that too ending up on the floor.

Now that was over he lethimself fall back against the pillows. "Than' you, Cotton," he repeated.

"S'all right, sir," Cotton said, picking the garments up and looking around for somewhere to put them. There was a rickety chair in one corner and he put them over the back of it. "Just you lie down, now, nice and quiet like."

Padstowe twisted onto his side and curled up, settling into the dent where the old matress had taken the impression of his usual sleeping position. Cotton was talking sense, and all he did want to do was lie still and quiet for the rest of the day.

"Yourr' good man, Gabriel," he mumbled as he closed his eyes. "Good man..."

"I try, sir," Cotton said, and decided the Captain would be quite happy to sleep the rest of the day away. He picked up his own tea and slipped out, closing to door quietly behind him.

What a day it had turned out to be. And it wasn't finished yet.

Well, Cotton and the landlady had carried Padstowe up to his room and now here she was, descending the stairs and muttering darkly to herself. He caught something about 'Los soldatos Ingleses' as she passed him. She turned and looked at him. "Tea?" It seemed to be one of the few English words she knew and when he replied "Sim," she beckoned him to follow her into the kitchen, where she made him sit down at the table before thrusting a mug into his hands.

He wondered how long Cotton was going to be.

Cotton decided the captain was in much the best place and went downstairs to the kitchen, where he found Sharpe sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of tea. He made his report.

"Captain Padstowe's in bed, sir, sleeping like a baby." Well if he wasn't yet, he would be soon, Cotton would bet on it. "Don't know when he'll be up and about, though I reckon he'll have a head on him like a sore bear after all that drink and the sun." Though he'd been wrong often enough before, and maybe Captain Padstowe didn't suffer hangovers?

"If you don't need me for anythin' else, I'll be gettin' back to me own billet, sir." After he finished his tea, anyway.

It was not until sometime later that afternoon, around four o'clock, that Padstowe regained consciousness. He groaned loudly, the sound carrying down the narrow flight of stairs and rolled over onto his back.

His head hurt like the devil, and it seemed that he had slept in his clothes, which added the feeling of being decidedly unfresh to hungover. What had he been doing last night? This morning, he suddenly realised as his sluggish mind took it upon itself to start remembering things. The trial, the verdict, the posada, Sharpe, Williams, Hakeswill, Cotton... the fact that he had not been home the night before and had ended up sleeping at his desk...

He groaned again, rolling onto his front and pulled the pillow down over his head. This really, really had not been a good idea; though it had seemed very much like one at the time...

Cotton had returned to his own billet, leaving Sharpe alone in the kitchen with a very excitable Portuguese landlady who kept filling his mug up. After the winter's journey south, he thought he was fairly capable of making himself understood, but she insisted on topping his mug up every time it looked like he was going to empty it, despite him shaking his head. "No more, please. Nada mas." She clucked at him and refilled it yet again.

He must have been there for a couple of hours or more, watching her bustle around, putting the kettle back on to boil and start kneading bread, when he heard something that sounded like a groan.

Thankful for the distraction, he smiled at the old lady and got up to check it out. He went up the stairs and poked his head round the door of the first room he came to, to find Padstowe lying on the bed with a pillow over his head. There was a cup of tea sitting abandoned on the bedside table.

"Afternoon, Jon," he said, coming in to remove the cup. "How are you feelin' after your kip?"

"Like the bloody world's ended!" Padstowe moaned through the pillow. Though his hearing was muffled Sharpe sounded indecently cheerful, and he angrily threw the pillow aside to glare at him... though he immediately let out another groan and placed a hand over his eyes, as the afternoon light stung and seared across his vision.

"Your landlady's a nice old biddy but she's trying to drown me in tea," Sharpe said, crossing to the window and opening it to empty the cup of its contents, now grown cold. He turned around and leaned on the wall, letting the cup hang by its handle from a finger.

"We could always give you some more tea. Or you could try the hair of the dog, if you'd prefer."

Padstowe moaned again. He really, really did not care at the moment.

"I wish to God she had drowned you," he growled, slowly very slowly edging his hand away to try and get his eyes to stand the light. "Though if she could spare me some tea before she does so I'd be grateful."

"I'll go and get some," Sharpe said. He recognised the look on his fellow officer's face, and thought for a moment about closing the shutters before deciding a pitch-black room would be even worse. "Tea. Right."

He crossed to the door. "You want anything else while I'm arranging afternoon tea for you?"

"How about a pistol to put me out of my misery?" He would have loved a pack of ice, but he could go whistle for that. "Or failing that a basin of cold water and a flannel."

"Nope, no pistols. You'll only regret it later. I'll see what I can do about cold water though."

He slipped out of the door, closing it quietly behind him, and made his way back down to the kitchen. A cup of tea was easy enough to arrange, but it took five minutes to make her understand the idea of a cold compress.

Although when the senhora did finally understand she shook her head despairingly, arranged the bowl and flannel and took it up herself, bustling up the stairs like an old fat mother hen.

"Now what is this, then?" she scolded in Portuguese as she came into the room and put the bowl down on the bedside table. "You stay out all night and then come home in the middle of the day drunk as a lord! I thought you were a sensible boy, but oh no, it seems I have yet another halfwit English lord for a lodger!"

Padstowe turned a shade paler at the harsh grating sound her voice made. He eased himself up to sit on the side of the bed, his head pounding and his nerves jangling.

"I'm sorry, senhora," he said weakly, fumbling to remember his Portuguese. "I was working late with no time to come home this morning... I would have sent word, but..."

"But nothing!" she cut short, rolling up her sleeves and soaking the flannel. "Lie down and put this on your forhead. And God forgive you, though I doubt He will, you may feel better later."

Sharpe stood in the doorway, watching her fuss over Padstowe like a mother hen. "You've got a good'un there, Jon," he said. "And here's your tea." He came over, put the cup down on the bedside table and moved back over to the window. Maybe closing both shutters would be a bit much, but closing just one would make the room a bit cooler and cut out some of the light, making it a bit more bearable for Padstowe. He swung a shutter closed, wincing inwardly at the protest the unoiled hinges made.

"Sorry, Jon. Portuguese don't know how to oil things, by the look of it."

Padstowe flinched at the sound, but could not protest as the landlady pushed him back onto the bed, unlacing the collar of his shirt and slapping the cold compress over his eyes and forehead.

"You can have her!" he moaned in English. "Really, I'll do you a swap for Sergeant Harper. Please?"

"I don't think so." He came over. "Here, let me," he said to the woman, trying to take the cloth from her. "His head, it hurts, yes? You don't need to hit him with the damn cloth, you know."

She would not surrender the cloth to him, though he thought she was a little more gentle with it. Fearsome old battle-axe, she was, and all, Sharpe thought.

"Please, senhora," Padstowe begged. "Do not trouble yourself. Lieutenant Sharpe can look after me."

She looked at Sharpe doubtfully and sniffed.

"Didn't look like it when he brought you home."

Padstowe glanced up at Sharpe.

"Say you're sorry, Richard, and look meek," he hissed.

"What? Why?" he asked, and dutifully did so anyway. Arguing with a very hungover captain on Wellesley's staff probably wasn't a good idea, even if you were friends.

"Very sorry, senhora, won't happen again. Promise." Though quite what he was promising wouldn't happen again, he didn't know.

Padstowe turned back to his landlady.

"He is very sorry for it, senhora, and he promises he won't do it again," he said pleadingly. "He swears he'll take better care in future."

She looked at the captain doubtfully, then to the lieutenant with the innocent-looking expression. She narrowed her eyes. Children; both of them nothing but naughty schoolboys caught out doing something they ought. She sighed and threw the flannel back in the bowl.

"Fine! But do not come running to me again when you end up face down in a gutter with your pockets slit open."

And with that she left, slamming the door shut behind her.

Padstowe winced, moaning again as the slam echoed inside her head.

"Well that's got rid of her," he said, somewhat pained.

"Obrigado, senhora," he said to the door. "Now, Jon. Tea?" He wished Sergeant Harper was there; he'd know exactly how to cope in this situation. So would Cotton, but the younger Rifleman was altogether too cheerful and would probably only end up antagonising Padstowe.

"It's hot, strong and sweet. Least, I think it is. And much better for you than you'd think."

He wrung the cloth out and handed it to his friend. "And you know where you need that the most." He grinned. "She's probably a much better nurse than I am, you know."