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said to Baynes, ‘for I must borrow your escort for a moment.’ The words were quietly said, and just as evidently a command. The Welshman turned to the German corporal. ‘Follow me.’ Then he was trotting forward.
    The corporal glanced at Baynes, and gave a crisp instruction in his own language before he and his men followed. Williams drew his sword, a light, well-balanced blade with a gentle curve. The hussars copied him, each carrying the heavy 1796-pattern sabre like the light dragoons.
    Hanley followed.
    ‘You don’t have to come,’ Williams said, and then grinned.
    Hanley gripped the handle of his own sword and pulled. The blade was unwilling to come. He yanked, tried to turn it back and forth, and with an effort it came free, and his arm swung out high and wide.
    ‘Scheiße!’ hissed one of the Germans as the tip of the blade swept within a few inches of his face.
    Williams laughed, then pointed. ‘On the left. We hit them there and cut our way through.’
    Hanley saw that the French were crowding around the British right, and it was only there that the light dragoons were outnumbered and looked to be giving way.
    Dear God, just six of us to sway the balance, he thought, but then Williams yelled and charged. Hanley’s horse lurched as its stride changed. He had his sword up now and stared at it. There were spots of rust dotted along the blade. The weapon felt clumsy and awkward in his hand. He had rarely held it and never used it before and wondered why he had come and not stayed with Baynes. Just in time he remembered to loop the rather grubby red sword-knot around his wrist.
    The last twenty yards vanished under them, the sound of their horses’ pounding feet adding to the other noise. One dragoon turned to face them. The man wore a tall bearskin cap instead of a helmet and had red epaulettes on his shoulders, so must be from the elite company. Like the grenadiers in an infantry battalion, such men were meant to be the tallest and best soldiers.
    Williams rode straight at him, the Frenchman kicking his heels to stir his own mount forward. The Welshman’s mare was much the same size and moving faster, and perhaps that was why the Frenchman’s horse flinched. Williams lunged, beating the man’s guard and striking just above the collar. Dark blood gushed on to the orange front of the man’s jacket as momentum carried the lieutenant on and he jerked his blade free. Williams closed with another man, coming from behind. The Frenchman turned, wheeled away, and his thrust changed into a slash that ripped through the dragoon’s sleeve and gashed his bridle arm. Williams kept going into the mass.
    The German hussars followed, striking with cold fury as they caught their opponents unaware – the corporal chopped another member of the elite company from the saddle, and then one of the privates sliced down hard to sever the wounded arm of the man Williams had struck. No longer feeling pressure on the reins, the Frenchman’s horse turned and bolted, coming straight at Hanley, who sawed at his own reins as he tried to get out of its way. Instinct made him flinch away and he leaned to the left,lost his right stirrup and was half falling as his own horse started running again into the crowd. A Frenchman on a bay ran into him on that side, helping him back up, but his grip on his sword loosened and he let go. He ducked as the dragoon launched a cross-bodied cut at him, felt the wind of the blade as he swayed away from it and it sliced through the air, thankful that he was on the man’s wrong side. The Frenchman had his cheeks gashed open so that the flesh flapped as he moved and his cries were horribly distorted.
    Hanley’s sword was heavy as it hung by the cord of the sword-knot and he fumbled for the grip and then swung his arm at the dragoon just as the Frenchman raised his blade for another cut. His own weapon slapped his horse on the neck and it bucked, kicking out behind and breaking the leg of another