‘Under guard, sir?’ Jefferson enquired.
‘Cowardice in the face of the enemy,’ Sharpe said, ‘that’s the charge. Lock him up and report the incident to General Halkett in the morning.’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘Take him away, Captain.’
Morris looked as if he was about to protest, but Sharpe stepped towards him, raising the sword’s bloody blade, and Morris just stumbled backwards. The battalion cheered. ‘Quiet!’ Sharpe roared. He looked at Lanier. ‘Sorry about that, Colonel.’
Lanier watched Jefferson escort Morris away. ‘You do not like this Charlie?’
‘I despise him.’
‘And humiliate him. You are cruel, Colonel Sharpe.’
‘And you’re not?’
‘When necessary,’ Lanier said.
‘And it’s necessary now,’ Sharpe said, and stepped towards the Frenchman, who slowly drew his sword again.
‘We fight with swords, yes?’ Lanier asked.
‘Swords,’ Sharpe agreed and noted that Lanier carried a long blade, equal in length to his own, but with a very slight curve, which suggested it was designed for slashing rather than stabbing. Lanier held it low, evidently content to let Sharpe begin the fight. ‘This is a Solingen blade,’ Lanier said.
‘And this is cheap Birmingham steel,’ Sharpe responded. He knew of the reputation of Solingen swords; they were forged in Prussia and reputed to be the best in Europe.
‘How old are you, Colonel?’ Lanier suddenly asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Sharpe said, ‘does it matter?’
‘Forty maybe?’
‘About that, I reckon.’
‘I like to know something of the men I kill,’ Lanier said, then took a half pace backwards as if he would rather continue the conversation than begin the fight. ‘You used a word to Charlie,’ he invested the name with scorn, ‘guttersnipe. What does that mean?’
‘It means I was born in the gutter, Lanier. Je suis un batard.’
‘I salute you, Colonel,’ Lanier said, and swept his long blade up in a salute. ‘I like bastards, they fight hard.’ He lowered the blade again. ‘How bad is your wound?’
‘I’ve had worse.’
‘Then we fight,’ Lanier said, ‘but if you yield you will live. You agree?’
‘Are you here to talk or fight?’
Lanier acknowledged the question with an inclination of his head, then raised the sword. ‘En garde, Colonel.’
Sharpe raised his own blade and touched Lanier’s sword. Behind him the fire roared, its glare illuminating the forecourt where the two battalions watched in silence. ‘I would regret killing you, Sharpe,’ Lanier said. He twitched his blade, presumably to test Sharpe’s reaction, but Sharpe stayed motionless. He was thinking that this was all wrong. It was supposed to be a fight to the death, yet Lanier was offering friendship, even sympathy, and Lanier was le Monstre, famous throughout France for his exploits, and Sharpe realised the man was deliberately soothing him to take away his anger.
And that anger had been Sharpe’s fuel since childhood. Anger at the people who had raised him, at the Sergeants who had tried to break him, at the men who had flogged him, and at the officers who despised him. Anger had driven him into breaches reeking of blood, across fields littered with the dead, and into the command of a battalion, and Lanier had seen that in him and so wanted to take away the anger. So damn Lanier, Sharpe thought, and the familiar anger surged into his blood and he twitched his sword as Lanier had done, and the Frenchman responded with a parry and stepped back.
‘Bastard,’ Sharpe spat at him and let the anger loose. He attacked, provoking an instant cheer from his men who watched as he savaged the heavy blade at Lanier. There was no subtlety in his assault, only massive cuts that he hammered hard at the Frenchman, who parried them all with an instinctive ease. The two blades rang together so hard that Sharpe feared his own cheaper sword would break, but the Birmingham steel held firm as he drove Lanier backwards with the sheer ferocity of his slashing assault.
And Sharpe realised within seconds that the crazed attack would not work. True, Lanier was being driven backwards and the slight alarm in his eyes showed his appreciation of Sharpe’s strength and speed, but he was parrying each blow skilfully, and after the fourth or fifth slashing attack he began to smile. That smile enraged Sharpe, knowing he was being mocked, but instead of changing his attack he redoubled the blows, trying to batter Lanier’s obstinate blade aside and slam the heavy cavalry sword into his head or neck. Sharpe’s men were cheering, Lanier’s troops looked downcast, though Lanier himself now appeared unworried and content to block each wild slash.
‘My mother,’ Lanier said, ‘first taught me to fight with a sword,’ he paused to parry a blow, ‘“and always remember, Philippe,” she told me, “that the point beats the edge.”’ He smiled, then looked startled as the next swing of Sharpe’s sword slid down his blade and struck the hilt’s crossguard hard and pushed his arm across his body. Sharpe lunged, driving the point of his sword towards Lanier’s belly, but the Frenchman moved aside fast and threw Sharpe’s blade off. ‘Your mother didn’t teach you to fence, Colonel?’ the Frenchman enquired.
‘I never knew her,’ Sharpe said. His back was a sheet of pain, the muscles protesting at the exertion needed to swing the heavy blade. He was breathing hard. Lanier had stepped back after eluding his lunge, and Sharpe did not press forward, but let his sword arm drop as he caught his breath.
‘So your mother will not mourn your death?’ Lanier asked.
‘From the grave, Colonel. She’s long dead.’
‘Time you met her then!’ Lanier raised his sword and made a half-hearted lunge towards Sharpe’s right-hand side. Sharpe parried, but the Frenchman’s blade seemed to dip under his stroke and flashed towards his left, striking him on the hip. He felt the sword’s tip pierce his skin and strike bone. Lanier recovered his blade to block Sharpe’s counter stroke, beat the sword hard to Sharpe’s right, and thrust again, this time his sword piercing Sharpe’s jacket just above the belt and again breaking skin. ‘Two,’ Lanier said.
The bastard is playing with me, Sharpe thought. He could have pushed the thrust harder and his damned sword would have been in my belly. His back was a streak of fire now, every movement of his sword arm a lance of pain. The blood was warm on his skin, but not as hot as the fierce fire that was spreading through the roof and bursting through the rafters to flame in the sky. ‘Are you ready to yield, Colonel?’ Lanier asked. He had lowered his sword so that the tip rested on the gravel.