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attack, and then the two men began to circle, a wide space having opened around them. There were still plenty of other fights raging, but it was almost as if they no longer mattered. Hanley stopped, guarded by the hussars, and watched.
    The French colonel was a slim, elegant man, he and his horse so well-practised that they seemed to move as one, stepping carefully, waiting for the moment. Unlike those of his men, the colonel’s sword had a gentle curve to the blade, and was polished to such a high sheen that it glinted even on this drab day. With no visible signal Hanley could see, the horse bounded forward, and the sword lunged at the light dragoon’s face. The corporal parried the blow with a careful flick of the wrist, using the heavy sabre as if it was as light as a feather. Sword and sabre clashed once, twice, and then the horses were apart again, stepping lightly as if in a riding school. The corporal lacked the colonel’s elegance, but matched his skill. Neither man spoke, and their eyes never left the other for a second.
    Hanley’s horse shifted beneath him, and he looked down to see a good part of an arm lying beside him, still partly covered by a green sleeve, the gloved hand holding on to its long sword. There were several light dragoons on the ground, even more wounded and making their way to the rear. He was not sure that there were so many French dead, but there were many more wounded and they were horribly mutilated. The British sabre was a clumsy, scything weapon that in well-trained and strong hands worked butchery on the enemy. The colonel and the corporal closed again, and their blades met, each probing the other’s defence. Not far away Williams had again wounded hisopponent, this time higher up near the shoulder, and the man’s arm was so weak that he could barely hold his sword up to defend. Beside them the hussar and dragoon defended more than they attacked. Hanley sensed that all of them were half watching the struggle going on near by.
    With a cry of victory the colonel lunged and the light dragoon only just had time to block the blow, then recovered faster than Hanley would have believed possible and raised his sabre. He cut down hard, the blow ringing against the Frenchman’s brass helmet like a cracked bell. The officer swayed, struggled to bring his own sword up to parry, but was not fast enough to stop a second cut which snapped the scaled chinstrap and sent the helmet spinning off. With a grunt of immense effort the broad-shouldered corporal sliced down a third time, the heavy blade passing through scalp and skull. The colonel slumped to the left, and his corpse dropped down, blood and grey matter spilling from the great gash in his head. Hanley saw the corporal nod, as if in approval of his victory, and then say something in what sounded like Gaelic. The officer was not sure whether to exult or vomit.
    The French were fleeing, the spirit gone with the death of their colonel, and the British were starting to follow, chasing after the dragoons and striking at their backs. Williams and the hussar with him took their opponents prisoner. The one Williams had wounded was a sergeant old in war, who knew when it was time to fight and when to quit. The other one was a young officer, nominally his leader, who seemed more confused than anything else. There were other prisoners guarded by a few lightly hurt men from the 13th, for the rest were haring off in pursuit.
    Baynes appeared, and Hanley wondered how far away the man had gone during the fighting. If he had been killed or taken then it would have been a serious loss – perhaps a critical one if he was taken and the French realised who he was.
    ‘You should not have come,’ he said to the smiling merchant, who did not appear appalled in any way by the sight of the carnage around him. Instead his expression was one of curiosity.
    ‘I fear it must be my insatiable spirit of adventure. Dear God, look at that man!’ Baynes had noticed the