Sharpe's Prey

  • ISBN: 0006513107
  • Author: Bernard Cornwell
  • Description:
    The 18th novel in this bestselling series takes Sharpe to battle in Copenhagen. An army is travelling to the Danish capital to enforce British policy, but unless Sharpe can complete the mission against enemies as subtle and clever as any he has ever faced, that army will meet disaster. About the Author Bernard Cornwell worked for BBC TV for seven years, mostly as producer on the Nationwide programme, before taking charge of the current Affairs department in Northern Ireland. In 1978 he became editor of Thames Television’s Thames at Six. Married to an American, he now lives in the United States. Excerpted from Sharpe's Prey by Bernard Cornwell. Copyright © 2002. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Captain Henry Willsen of His Majesty’s Dirty Half Hundred, moreformally the 50th Regiment of West Kent, parried his opponent’s sabre.He did it hurriedly. His right hand was low so that his sabre’s bladewas raised in the position known to the fencing masters as the quartebasse and the knowledgeable spectators thought the parry was feeble.A surprised murmur sounded, for Willsen was good. Very good. Hehad been attacking, but it was apparent he had been slow to see histaller opponent’s counter and now he was in disorganized retreat. Thetaller man pressed, swatting the quarte basse aside and lunging so thatWillsen skittered backwards, his slippers squeaking with a staccatojudder on the wooden floor which was liberally scattered with Frenchchalk. The very sound of the slippers on the chalked wood denotedpanic. The sabres clashed harshly again, the taller man stamped for-ward,his blade flickering, clanging, reaching, and Willsen was counter-ingin apparent desperation until, so fast that those watching couldscarce follow his blade’s quick movement, he stepped to one side andriposted at his opponent’s cheek. There seemed little power in theriposte, for its force all came from Willsen’s wrist rather than from hisfull arm, but the sabre’s edge still struck the taller man with such mightthat he lost his balance. He swayed, right arm flailing, and Willsengently touched his weapon’s point to his opponent’s chest so that hetoppled to the floor.‘Enough!’ the Master-at-Arms called.‘God’s teeth.’ The fallen man swept his blade at Willsen’s ankles ina fit of pique. The blow was easily blocked and Willsen just walkedaway.‘I said enough, my lord!’ the Master-at-Arms shouted angrily.‘How the devil did you do that, Willsen?’ Lord Marsden pulled offthe padded leather helmet with its wire visor that had protected hisface. ‘I had you on your damned arse!’Willsen, who had planned the whole passage of the fight from the moment he made a deliberately soft quarte basse, bowed. ‘Perhaps I wasjust fortunate, my lord?’‘Don’t patronize me, man,’ Lord Marsden snapped as he climbedto his feet. ‘What was it?’‘Your disengagement from the sixte was slow, my lord.’‘The devil it was,’ Lord Marsden growled. He was proud of hisability with foil or sabre, yet he knew Willsen had bested him easilyby feigning a squeaking retreat. His lordship scowled, then realized hewas being ungracious and so, tucking the sabre under his arm, heldout a hand. ‘You’re quick, Willsen, damned quick.’The handful of spectators applauded the show of sportsmanship.They were in Horace Jackson’s Hall of Arms, an establishment onLondon’s Jermyn Street where wealthy men could learn the arts ofpugilism, fencing and pistol shooting. The hall was a high bare roomlined with racks of swords and sabres, smelling of tobacco and liniment,and decorated with prints of prize fighters, mastiffs and racehorses.The only women in the place served drinks and food, or else workedin the small rooms above the hall where the beds were soft and theprices high.Willsen pulled off his helmet and ran a hand through his long fairhair. He bowed to his beaten opponent, then carried both sabres tothe weapon rack at the side of the hall where a tall, very thin andextraordinarily handsome captain in the red coat and blue facings ofthe 1st Regiment of Foot Guards was waiting. The guardsman, astranger to Willsen, tossed away a half-smoked cigar as Willsenapproached. ‘You fooled him,’ the Captain said cheerfully.Willsen frowned at the stranger’s impertinence, but he answeredpolitely enough. Willsen, after all, was an employee in Horace Jackson’sHall and the Guards Captain, judging by the elegant cut of his expen-siveuniform, was a patron. The sort of patron, moreover, who couldnot wait to prove himself against the celebrated Henry Willsen. ‘Ifooled him?’ Willsen asked. ‘How?’‘The quarte basse,’ the guardsman said, ‘you made it soft, am I right?’Willsen was impressed at the guardsman’s acuity, but did not betrayit. ‘Perhaps I was just fortunate?’ he suggested. He was being modest,for he had the reputation of being the finest swordsman in the DirtyHalf Hundred, probably in the whole army and maybe in the entirecountry, but he belittled his ability, just as he shrugged off those whoreckoned he was the best pistol shot in Kent. A soldier, Willsen likedto say, should be a master of his arms and so he practised assiduouslyand prayed that one day his skill would be useful in the service of hiscountry. Until that time came he earned his captain’s pay and, becausethat was not sufficient to support a wife, child and mess bill, he taughtfencing and pistol-shooting in Horace Jackson’s Hall of Arms. Jackson,an old pugilist with a mashed face, wanted Willsen to leave the armyand join the establishment full time, but Willsen liked being a soldier.It gave him a position in British society. It might not be a high place,but it was honourable.‘There’s no such thing as luck,’ the guardsman said, only now hespoke in Danish, ‘not when you’re fighting.’Willsen had been turning away, but the change of language madehim look back to the golden-haired Guards Captain. His first carelessimpression had been one of privileged youth, but he now saw that theguardsman was probably in his early thirties and had a cynical, knowingcast to his devil-may-care good looks. This was a man, Willsen thought,who would be at home in a palace or at a prizefight.
  • Pages: 304
  • Format: Paperback
  • Genre: Military
  • Rating: Not yet rated

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About this copy: Harper Collins 2002

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