The two men stepped away from Sharpe who spat blood, blinked, and staggered two paces backwards. His sword was out of reach, and even if he could have fetched it he doubted he would have the strength to use it. Ferragus smiled at his weakness, stepped towards him and Sharpe staggered again, this time half falling sideways, and he put his hand down to steady himself and there was a stone there, a big stone, the size of a ration biscuit, and he picked it up just as Ferragus threw a right fist intended to knock Sharpe down for ever. Sharpe, still half aware, reacted instinctively, blocking the fist with the stone, and Ferragus's knuckles cracked on the rock and the big man flinched and stepped back, astonished by the sudden pain. Sharpe tried to step towards him and use the stone again, but a left jab banged into his chest and threw him back down onto the path.

"Now you're a dead man," Ferragus said. He was massaging his broken knuckles, and was in such pain from them that he wanted to kick Sharpe to death. He began by aiming a massive boot at Sharpe's groin but the blow landed short, on the thigh, because Sharpe had managed to twist feebly to one side, and Ferragus kicked his leg away, drew his boot back again and suddenly there was a light on the path behind him and a voice calling.

"What's going on!" the voice shouted. "Hold still! Whoever you are, hold still!" The boots of two or three men sounded on the path. The approaching men must have heard the fight, but they could surely see nothing in the thickening mist and Ferragus did not wait for them. He shouted at his two men and they ran past Sharpe, down through the trees, and Sharpe curled up on the ground, trying to squeeze the pain from his ribs and belly. There were thick gobs of blood in his mouth and his nose was bleeding. The light came nearer, a lantern held by a redcoat. "Sir?" one of the three men asked. He was a sergeant and had the dark-blue facings of the provosts, the army's policemen.

"I'm all right," Sharpe grunted.

"What happened?"

"Thieves," Sharpe said. "God knows who they were. Just thieves. Jesus. Help me up."

Two of them lifted him while the Sergeant retrieved his sword and shako. "How many were there?" the Sergeant asked.

"Three. Bastards ran away."

"You want to see a surgeon, sir?" The Sergeant flinched as he saw Sharpe's face in the lantern light. "I think you should."

"Christ, no." He sheathed the sword, put his shako on his bruised skull and leaned against the shrine. "I'll be all right," he said.

"We can take you to the monastery, sir."

"No. I'll make my way up to the ridge." He thanked the three men, wished them a peaceful night, waited until he had recovered some strength, and then limped back uphill, through the wall and down the ridge to find his company.

Colonel Lawford had pitched a tent close to the new road that had been hacked along the ridge top. The tent flaps were open, revealing a candlelit table on which silver and crystal gleamed, and the Colonel heard a sentry challenge Sharpe, heard Sharpe's muffled response and shouted through the open flaps, "Sharpe! Is that you?"

Sharpe thought briefly about pretending not to have heard, but he was plainly within earshot so he turned towards the tent. "Yes, sir."

"Come and have some brandy." Lawford was entertaining Majors Forrest and Leroy, and with them was Lieutenant Slingsby. All had on greatcoats for, after the last few days of brutal heat, the night was suddenly winter cold.

Forrest made space on a bench made out of wooden ammunition crates, then stared up at Sharpe. "What happened to you?"

"Took a tumble, sir," Sharpe said. His voice was thick, and he leaned to one side and spat out a glutinous gobbet of blood. "Took a tumble."

"A tumble?" Lawford was gazing at Sharpe with an expression of horror. "Your nose is bleeding."

"Mostly stopped, sir," Sharpe said, sniffing blood. He remembered the handkerchief that had been used as a white flag at the telegraph station and fished it out. It seemed a pity to stain the fine linen with blood, but he put it over his nose, flinching at the pain. Then he noticed his right hand was cut, presumably by the makeshift clay dagger.

"A tumble?" Major Leroy echoed the Colonel's question.

"Treacherous path down there, sir."

"You've got a black eye too," Lawford said.

"If you're not up to scratch," Slingsby said, "then I'll happily command the company tomorrow, Sharpe." Slingsby was high-colored and sweating, as if he had drunk too much. He looked to Colonel Lawford and, because he was nervous, gave a snort of laughter. "Be honored to command, sir," he added quickly.

Sharpe gave the Lieutenant a look that would have killed. "I was hurt worse than this," he said icily, "when Sergeant Harper and I took that damned Eagle on your badge."

Slingsby stiffened, appalled at Sharpe's tone, and the other officers looked embarrassed.

"Have some brandy, Sharpe," Lawford said emolliently, pouring it from a decanter and pushing the glass across the trestle table. "How was Major Hogan?"

Sharpe was hurting. His ribs were like strips of fire and it took him a moment to comprehend the question and find an answer. "He's confident, sir."

"I should hope so," Lawford said. "Aren't we all? Did you see the Peer?"

"The Peer?" Slingsby asked. He stumbled slightly on the word, then tossed down the rest of his brandy and helped himself to more.

"Lord Wellington," Lawford explained. "So did you see him, Sharpe?"

"Yes, sir."

"I hope you remembered me to him?"

"Of course, sir." Sharpe told the required lie and forced himself to add another. "And he asked me to present his regards."

"Very civil of him," Lawford said, plainly pleased. "And does he think the French will come up and dance tomorrow?"

"He didn't say, sir."

"Perhaps this fog will deter them," Major Leroy said, peering out of the tent where the haze was perceptibly thickening.

"Or it will encourage them," Forrest said. "Our gunners can't aim into fog."

Leroy was watching Sharpe. "Do you need a doctor?"

"No, sir," Sharpe lied. His ribs hurt, his skull was throbbing and one of his upper teeth was loose. His belly was a mass of pain, his thigh hurt and he was angry. "Major Hogan," he forced himself to change the subject, "thinks the French will attack."

"Then we'd best keep a keen eye in the morning," Lawford said, hinting that the evening was over. The officers took the hint, standing and thanking the Colonel, who held out a hand to Sharpe. "Stay a moment, if you will, Sharpe."

Slingsby, who looked the worse for drink, drained his glass, banged it down and clicked his heels. "Thank you, William," he said to Lawford, presuming on their relationship to use the Colonel's Christian name.

"Good night, Cornelius," Lawford said, and waited until the three officers had gone from the tent and were lost in the mist. "He drank rather a lot. Still, I suppose on the eve of a man's first battle a little fortification isn't out of order. Sit, Sharpe, sit. Drink some brandy." He took a glass himself. "Was it really a tumble? You look as if you've been in the wars."

"Dark in the trees, sir," Sharpe said woodenly, "and I missed my footing on some steps."

"You must take more care, Sharpe," Lawford said, leaning forward to light a cigar from one of the candles. "It's gone damned cold, hasn't it?" He waited for a response, but Sharpe said nothing and the Colonel sighed. "I wanted to talk to you," he went on between puffs, "about your new fellows. Young Iliffe shaping up well, is he?"

"He's an ensign, sir. If he survives a year he might have a chance of growing up."

"We were all ensigns once," Lawford said, "and mighty oaks from tiny acorns grow, eh?"

"He's still a bloody small acorn," Sharpe said.