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leather reinforcements wherever they might touch a saddle. The breeches were skin tight,

made so by the laces that ran up both flanks from the ankles to the waist. The Colonel’s new

jacket was of the same sky blue as the breeches, but decorated with lavish silver piping

that climbed to curl around the stiff, high red collar. Over his left shoulder was a pelisse, a

fake jacket trimmed with fur, while on a side table was a cavalry saber and a tall black hat

that bore a short silver cockade held in place by an enamelled badge.
    And the enamelled badge displayed the tricolor of France.
    “I said you would be surprised,” Christopher remarked to Luis who was, indeed, gaping at

his master.
    Luis found his voice. “You are … “ he faltered.
    “I am an English officer, Luis, as you very well know, but the uniform is that of a French

hussar. Ah! Chickpea soup, I do so like chickpea soup. Peasant food, but good.” He crossed to

the table and, grimacing because his breeches were so tightly laced, lowered himself

into the chair. “We shall be sitting a guest to dinner this afternoon.”
    “So I was told,” Luis said coldly.
    “You will serve, Luis, and you will not be deterred by the fact that my guest is a French

officer.”
    “French?” Luis sounded disgusted.
    “French,” Christopher confirmed, “and he will be coming here with an escort. Probably a

large escort, and it would not do, would it, if that escort were to return to their army and

say that their officer met with an Englishman? Which is why I wear this.” He gestured at the

French uniform, then smiled at Luis. “War is like chess,” Christopher went on, “there are two

sides and if the one wins then the other must lose.”
    “France must not win,” Luis said harshly.
    “There are black and white pieces,” Christopher continued, ignoring his servant’s

protest, “and both obey rules. But who makes those rules, Luis? That is where the power lies.

Not with the players, certainly not with the pieces, but with the man who makes the

rules.”
    “France must not win,” Luis said again. “I am a good Portuguese!”
    Christopher sighed at his servant’s stupidity and decided to make things simpler for

Luis to understand. “You want to rid Portugal of the French?”
    “You know I do!”
    “Then serve dinner this afternoon. Be courteous, hide your thoughts and have faith in

me.”
    Because Christopher had seen the light and now he would rewrite the rules.
    Sharpe stared ahead to where the dragoons had lifted four skiffs from the river and used

them to make a barricade across the road. There was no way around the barricade which

stretched between two houses, for beyond the right-hand house was the river and beyond the

left was the steep hill where the French infantry approached, and there were more French

infantry behind Sharpe, which meant the only way out of the trap was to go straight through

the barricade.
    “What do we do, sir?” Harper asked.
    Sharpe swore.
    “That bad, eh?” Harper unslung his rifle. “We could pick some of those boys off the

barricade there.”
    “We could,” Sharpe agreed, but it would only annoy the French, not defeat them. He could

defeat them, he was sure, because his riflemen were good and the enemy’s barricade was

low, but Sharpe was also sure he would lose half his men in the fight and the other half would

still have to escape the pursuit of vengeful horsemen. He could fight, he could win, but he

could not survive the victory.
    There really was only one thing to do, but Sharpe was reluctant to say it aloud. He had

never surrendered. The very thought was horrid.
    “Fix swords,” he shouted.
    His men looked surprised, but they obeyed. They took the long sword bayonets from their

scabbards and slotted them onto the rifle muzzles. Sharpe drew his own sword, a heavy

cavalry blade that was a yard of slaughtering steel. “All right, lads. Four