Sharpe borrowed a shako from one of the troopers and used its flat round top as a writing desk. He did not write well because he had learned his letters late in life and, though Lucille had made him into a much better reader, he was still clumsy with a pen or pencil. Nevertheless, as clearly as he could, he wrote down what he had observed - that a large French force of infantry, cavalry and artillery was marching north out of Charleroi on the Brussels road. A prisoner had been taken who reported a possibility that the Emperor was with those forces, but the prisoner had not been certain of that fact. Sharpe knew it was important for Dornberg to know where the Emperor was, for where Napoleon rode, that was the main French attack.

He signed the despatch with his name and rank, then handed it to Blasendorf who promised it would be delivered as swiftly as his horses could cross country.

"And ask General Dornberg to tell the Prince's Chief of Staff that I'm watching the Charleroi road," Sharpe added.

Blasendorf nodded an acknowledgement as he turned his horse away, then, realizing what Sharpe had said, he looked anxiously back. "You're going back to the road, sir?"

"I'm going back."

Sharpe, his message in safe hands, was free to return and watch the French. In truth he did not want to go, for he was tired and saddle-sore, but this day the allies needed accurate news of the enemy so that their response could be certain, fast and lethal. Besides, the appearance of the French had spurred Sharpe's old excitement. He had thought that living in Normandy would make him ambivalent towards his old enemy, but he had spent too many years fighting the c.r.a.pauds suddenly to relinquish the need to see them beaten.

So out of habit as much as out of duty, he turned his captured horse and rode again towards the enemy. While to the north Brussels slept.

Major General Sir William Dornberg received the pencil-written despatch in the town hall at Mons which he had made into his headquarters, and where he had transformed the ancient council chamber into his map room. The panelled room, hung with dusty coats of arms, suited his self-esteem, for Dornberg was a very proud man who was convinced that Europe did not properly appreciate his military genius. He had once fought for the French, but they had not promoted him beyond the rank of colonel, so he had deserted to the British who had rewarded his defection with a knighthood and a generalship, but even so, he still felt slighted. He had been given command of a cavalry brigade, a mere twelve hundred sabres, while men he thought less talented than himself commanded whole divisions. Indeed, the Prince of Orange, a callow boy, commanded a corps!

"Who was this man?" he asked Captain Blasendorf.

"An Englishman, sir. A lieutenant-colonel."

"On a French horse, you say?"

"He says he captured the horse, sir."

Dornberg frowned at the message, so ill-written in clumsy pencilled capitals that it could have been scrawled by a child. "What unit was this Englishman, Sharpe? Is that his name? Sharpe?"

"If he's the Sharpe I think he is, sir, then he's quite a celebrated soldier. I remember in Spain - ,

"Spain! Spain! All I hear about is Spain!" Dornberg slapped the table with the palm of his hand, then glared with protruding eyes at the unfortunate Blasendorf. "To listen to some officers in this army one would think that no other war had ever been fought but in Spain! I asked you, Captain, what unit this Sharpe belonged to."

"Hard to say, sir." The KGL Captain frowned as he tried to remember Sharpe's uniform. "Green jacket, nondescript hat, and Cha.s.seur overalls. He said he was on the Prince of Orange's staff. In fact he asked that you tell the Prince's headquarters that he's gone back towards Charleroi."

Dornberg ignored the last sentences, seizing on something far more important. "Cha.s.seur overalls? You mean French overalls?"

Blasendorf paused, then nodded. "Looked like it, sir."

"You're an idiot! An idiot! What are you?"

Blasendorf paused, then, in the face of Dornberg's overwhelming scorn, sheepishly admitted he was an idiot.

"He was French, you idiot!" Dornberg shouted. "They seek to mislead us. Have you learned nothing of war? They want us to think they will advance through Charleroi, while all the time they will come towards us here! They will come to Mons! To Mons! To Mons!" He slammed a clenched fist onto the map with every reiteration of the name, then dismissively waved Sharpe's despatch in Captain Blasendorf's face. "You might as well have wiped your a.r.s.e with this. You're an idiot! G.o.d save me from idiots! Now go back to where you were ordered. Go! Go! Go!"

General Dornberg tore up the despatch. The Emperor had touched the net spread to contain him, but the British half of the trap was unaware of its catch, and so the French marched on.

South-west of Brussels, in the village of Braine-le-Comte, His Royal Highness the Prince William, Prince of Orange, heir to the throne of the Netherlands, and Duke, Earl, Lord, Stadtholder, Margrave and Count of more towns and provinces than even he could remember, leaned forward in his chair, fixed his gaze at the mirror which stood on the dressing-table and, with exquisite care, squeezed a blackhead on his chin. It popped most satisfyingly. He squeezed another, this time provoking a smali spurt of blood. "d.a.m.n. d.a.m.n, d.a.m.n, d.a.m.n." The b.l.o.o.d.y ones always left a livid mark on his sallow skin, and Slender Billy particularly wanted to look his best at the d.u.c.h.ess of Richmond's ball.

,Eau de citron," the girl on his bed said lazily.

"You're mumbling, Charlotte."

,Eau de citron. It dries the skin and shrivels away the spots." She spoke in French. "You should use it."

"s.h.i.t," the Prince said-as another blackhead burst bloodily. "s.h.i.t and d.a.m.n and b.u.g.g.e.r!"

He had been educated at Eton College so had an excellent command of English. After Eton he had gone to Oxford, then served on Wellington's staff in Spain. The appointment had been purely political, for Wellington had not wanted him, and the exiled Prince had consequently been kept well away from any fighting, though the experience had nevertheless convinced the young man that he had a fine talent for soldiering. His education had also left him with a love for all things English. Indeed, apart from his Chief of Staff and a handful of aides, all his closest friends were English. He wished the girl on the bed were English, but instead she was Belgian and he hated the Belgians; to the Prince they were a common, ox-like race of peasants. "I hate you, Charlotte." He spoke to the girl in English. Her name was Paulette, but the Prince called all such girls Charlotte, after the English Princess who had first agreed to marry him, then inexplicably broken off the engagement.

"What are you saying?" Paulette spoke no English.

"You stink like a sow," the Prince continued in English, "you've got thighs like a grenadier, your t.i.ts are greasy, and in short you are a typical Belgian and I hate you." He smiled fondly at the girl as he spoke, and Paulette, who in truth was very pretty, blew him a kiss before lying back on the pillows. She was a wh.o.r.e fetched from Brussels and paid ten English guineas a day to bed the Prince, and in her opinion she earned every ounce of the precious gold. Paulette thought the Prince disgustingly ugly: he was obnoxiously thin, with a bulbous round head on a ridiculously long neck. His skin was sallow and pitted, his eyes bulged, and his mouth was a s...o...b..ring frog-like slit. He was drunk as often as he was sober and in either condition held an inflated opinion of his abilities, both in bed and on the battlefield. He was now twenty-three years old and commander of the First Corps of the Duke of Wellington's army. Those who liked the Prince called him Slender Billy, while his detractors called him the Young Frog. His father, King William, was known as the Old Frog.

No one of any sense had wanted the Young Frog to be given a command in the Duke's army, but the Old Frog would not hear of the Netherlands joining the coalition unless his son held high command, and thus the politicians in London had forced the Duke of Wellington to concede. The Old Frog had further insisted that his son command British troops, on which point the Duke had also been forced to yield, though only on condition that reliable British officers were appointed to serve on the Young Frog's staff.

The Duke provided a list of suitable, sober and solid men, but the Young Frog had simply scrawled out their names and replaced them with friends he had made at Eton and, when some of those friends declined the honour, he found other congenial officers who knew how to leaven war's rigours with riotous enjoyment. The Prince also demanded a few officers who were experienced in battle and who would exemplify his own ideas of how wars should be fought. "Find me the most audacious of men!" he ordered his Chief of Staff who, a few weeks later, diffidently informed the Prince that the notorious Major Sharpe was on the half-pay list and evidently unemployed. The Young Frog had immediately demanded Sharpe and sweetened the demand with a promotion. He flattered himself that he would discover a twin soul in the famous Rifleman.

Yet somehow, and despite the Prince's easy nature, no such friendship had developed. The Prince found something subtly annoying about Sharpe's sardonic face, and he even suspected that the Englishman was deliberately trying to annoy him. He must have asked Sharpe a score of times to dress in Dutch uniform, yet still the Rifleman appeared in his ancient, tattered green coat. That was when Sharpe bothered to show himself at the Prince's headquarters at all; he evidently preferred to spend his days riding the French frontier which was a job that properly belonged to the pompous General Dornberg, which thought reminded the Prince that Dornberg's noon report should have arrived. That report had a special importance this day for, if any trouble threatened, the Prince knew he could not afford to go dancing in Brussels. He summoned his Chief of Staff.

The Baron Jean de Constant Rebecque informed His Highness that Dornberg's report had indeed arrived and contained nothing alarming. No French troops troubled the road to Mons; it seemed that the Belgian countryside slept under its summer heat.

The relieved Prince grunted an acknowledgement, then leaned forward to gaze critically in the mirror. He twisted his head left and right before looking anxiously at Rebecque. "Am I losing too much hair?"

Rebecque pretended to make a careful inspection, then shook his head rea.s.suringly. "I can't see that you're losing any, sir."

"I thought I'd wear British uniform tonight."

"A very apt choice, sir." Rebecque spoke in English because the Prince preferred that language.

The Prince glanced at a clock. It would take his coach at least two hours to reach Brussels, and he needed a good hour to change into the scarlet and gold finery of a British major-general. He would allow himself another three hours to enjoy a private supper before going to the d.u.c.h.ess's ball where, he knew, the food would be cold and inedible. "Has Sharpe returned yet?" he asked Rebecque.

"No, sir."

The Prince frowned. "d.a.m.n. If he gets back, tell him I expect his attendance at the ball."

Rebecque could not hide his astonishment. "Sharpe? At the d.u.c.h.ess's ball?" Sharpe had been promised that his duties to the Prince were not social, but only to provide advice during battle.

The Prince did not care what promises had been made to the Englishman; forcing Sharpe to dance would demonstrate to the Rifleman that the Prince commanded this headquarters. "He told me that he hates dancing! I shall nevertheless oblige him to dance for his own good. Everyone should enjoy dancing. I do!" The Prince laughingly trod some capering steps about the bedroom. "We shall make Colonel Sharpe enjoy dancing! Are you sure you don't want to dance tonight, Rebecque?"

"I shall be Your Highness's eyes and ears here."

"Quite right." The Prince, reminded that he had military responsibilities, suddenly looked grave, but he had an irrepressibly high-spirited nature and could not help laughing again. "I imagine Sharpe dances like a Belgian heifer! Thump, thump, thump, and all the time with that gloomy expression on his face. We shall cheer him up, Rebecque."

"I'm sure he'll be grateful for it, sir."

"And tell him he's to wear Dutch uniform tonight!"

"Indeed I will, sir."

The Prince left for Brussels an hour and a half later, his carriage escorted by an honour guard of Dutch Carabiniers who had learned their trade in the French Emperor's service. Paulette, relieved at the Prince's departure, lay cosily in his bed while Rebecque took a book to his own quarters. The clerks laboriously copied out the orders listing which battalions the Prince would visit in the coming week, and what manoeuvres each battalion should demonstrate for the Prince's approval.

Clouds heaped higher in the west, but the sun still shone on the village. A cat curled up by the boot-sc.r.a.per at the front door of the.Prince's headquarters where the sentry, a British redcoat, stooped to fondle the animal's warm fur. Wheat and rye and barley and oats ripened in the sun. It was a perfect summer's day, shimmering with heat and silence and all the beauty of peace.