Sharpe's Exploits

(IC thread. See OOC for info and participation)

The war had reached the turningpoint. After years of toil and hardship the Allied armies had finally managed to push back the French under Marshal Soult to the northernmost parts of Spain. One final thrust and Wellington's armies would take the war to France itself.

The Emperor was beleagured on two fronts, in the Northern Theatre the combined armies of Austrian Empire, The Kingdom of Prussia, The Russian Empire and the Kingdom of Sweden stood poised to deal a crashing blow to the French legions. Simultaneously the British, Spanish and Portugese kept bleeding the armies of the south dry.

Apprehension lay heavy in the air in the year of our Lord 1814. On the frontiers of Spain the soldiers checked their equipment for the thousandth time, the generals peered over maps, moving the figures representing regiments and battalions. In the city of Oporto a young woman and her maid embarked on a dangerous journey to meet a man whom she hoped will love her, and in the French capital another young woman was sent on a mission that if it succeeded could turn the fortunes of war.

(OOC Thread )

For Sharpe and the South Essex the war exists on a much different plane. Here ther. largest concern is keeping the men fed and in ranks, rather than the esoteric tumble of diplomacy, finance and intruige that ruled the upper levels.

For all the talk of backpay, a shortage of coin would not interrupt the South Essex's progress so much as a shortage of Rum, Salt Pork or ammunition. Luckily the Army was sensible enough, these days, to provide plenty of these commodities.

The British armies were drawing their breath and fortifying themselves for the push across the mountains and into France. When the action came it would be hotly fought - France would defend her home to the utmost - so the Regiments ate as well as they could, drank as well as they could and whored as well as they could. Even the officers.

Responsible for an entire Regiment, and praying that the Army didn't decide to post in some Whitehall soldier for the tail end of the war, Sharpe was doing his best to keep the South Essex under the Army's radar, for now. His supply train was almost full - his men had as much ammunition as they could carry, and everybody had good boots. Even his riflemen were looking smarter these days, and Richard Sharpe felt an inordinate pride in how well his men had come through the hard marching to this point.

Spain's freedom lay ahead, and perhaps an end to the war in Europe - although he scarce dared contemplate Europe without it.

Justine de Villiers

"Move you blaggards!"

The fairhaired woman spurred the troop of dragoons on with a fierce tongue-lashing. Her haughty features a mask of concentration as she sat mounted by a small brooke. Her icy stare surveying the landscape ahead.

"Not ideal terrain for cavalry Ma Colonel."

Her second in command dared to offer his opinion on the rocky stretch of land that lay before them.

She turned and gave him a withering stare, La Colonel de Chasseurs Justine de Villiers had no time for questions nor weakness. She was a seasoned soldier and commander of the detachment of dragoons now heading south in order to scout the British operations and wreaking havoc on the unfortunate soldiers she'd come across. The unit had had their fair share of fighting, L'Empreur having employed their services on the Eastern Front where they had faced their baptism of fire fighting the cossack irregulars as well as the sundry units of the Russian army.

She had been given explicit orders for this assignment, and although she'd rather be on the Northern Front she was too loyal a subject and officer to defy the will of His Imperial Majesty. The time would come when she'd have her mission, assasinate the traitor Bernadotte who was now styling himself Crown Prince of Sweden, and as such commanding the Northern Armies against France. She smiled at the thought of finishing him off. Now however she had to stoop to much lower levels, her target being a mere major in the British army. A man called Sharpe.

Summoning her dragoons and giving them a stern glance. They knew better than trying to voice any hesitiation. Their 'Sister Justine' was as cold-blooded as she was beautiful and every single man under her command knew that she would not hesitate shooting them should they disobey her.

"Allez!"

Her order spoken harshly, like the crack of a whip, and one after the other the dragoons fell in behind her, heading for Spain and the British Army.

A youth spent serving one's country. Alfonso could hardly think of a better way to live a life, than protecting one's people, king and religion. And all the men serving beside him agreed on that, at least in most of those aspects. The honor of a country was upheld by its men, and the men's honor was backed by their country.

The green ranks gliding in the early morning air, riding on their horses, ready for battle... it was an awe-inspiring sight for Alfonso. Soon, the French would be finally expelled from Spain, and the King would return to his rightful place. Religion and pride would find their way back too, and the country would once again prosper, thanks to the efforts of the Spanish, British, and Portuguese soldiers, and those fighting more to the north.

Alfonso had been told he would be serving along an English gentleman, a superb soldier on command of a superb unit, and he felt curious. His first action in this war would be to support these foreigners, whose intervention was welcomed, if resented. But it served a greater good.

Napoleon would pay for the aggression to Spain's values, lands and people, and France itself would be ravaged the same way Alfonso's country had been. It was time to take the fight back to the ugly chap's door... and kick it down and onto his nose.

Kate Savage

The carriage was making good speed not having to share the roads with the endless columns of soldiers that had been as natural a sight during the past years as any village church or the flock of sheeps grazing the hills of Spain.

She fervently hoped the war would come to an end. Having witnessed firsthand the disastrous French attempts to defend the crossings on the river Douro as a hostage she knew the horrors that came with armed conflict.

Glancing at her maid Susannah, who was perched on the opposite seat, her nose in a book. It may have seen indulgent of Ms Savage to allow her maid such liberties, but truth to be told Kate didn't much care for convention. She enjoyed Susannah's company. The girl had a sharp intellect and the humour to go with it. She realised how much she had missed the company of her countrymen. Oh the Portugese were alright but the adherence to Catholisism grated her nerves. Besides even her Portugese friends referred to her as a heathen.

Still Portugal had been kind to the Savages, the winetrade the foundation of her family's wealth. She was running the business, seeing as her widowed mother had no interest in such things, and that gave her a freedom not commonly known to women of her class.

The trip did have nothing to do with the wine trade. Rather she had gone away on a whim, hoping she would again meet a man who had been preying on her mind. Richard Sharpe of the 95:th Rifles. She smiled at the thought of him. His dark hair, almost as dark as her own, and the scar that ran down his face giving him a mocking appearence. He had been kind to her, perhaps the only man who had not wanted more than she could give, and she cursed the fact that she hadn't acted when she had the opportunity.

Susannah Smythe

A warm breeze drifted through the window of the carriage, toying with loose locks of her hair. Every so often her eyes would lift from the pages before her to glance at the passing scenery or to give a smile to her mistress. Susannah knew she had been more than a little fortunate to find an employer like Miss Savage. Many would have had her sitting in prim silence, or working throughout the journey, more than likely making her travel outside with the driver whilst doing it.

Susannah placed her marker within the book as she shut it. Deciding to leave the next chapter of the thrilling, yet romantic, novel for another time. She knew where they were headed but the reasons for the trip were not entirely clear. Susannah had her suspicions but would have to wait and see if they were correct. While Miss Savage had spoken of visiting the allies to add her family's support to the cause, Susannah was certain that what drew her mistress towards the front was a man. A man Susannah had heard much of and was actually intrigued to meet. Sharpe.

Miss Savage had spoken of him often of her first meeting with him, she spoke with an affection that Susannah sensed signalled a deeper feeling towards him than mere thankfulness for saving her. Susannah knew this but it was not her place to question her mistress about the subject, or to say what her own thoughts on the matter were. Susannah thought it was romantic, the kind of thing she dreamt of and read of with much enthusiasm.
"Do you think we shall be on the road for much longer, Miss?" Susannah asked after a while had passed. "Shall I ask the driver to stop at the next village to allow you to stretch your legs?"

Kate Savage

"Have you ever been in love Susannah?"

Kate didn't look at her maid as she asked the question in response to the girl's offer to make the driver make a halt at the next village.
Truth to be told she didn't want to stop, every minute spent away from the Army plagued her. It was perhaps silly an idea, just showing up in the middle of the planned assault on the remaining French armies, yet she couldn't bear face to sit it out in Oporto.

She was 24 years old, by all accounts considered to be beautiful. Her slender figure and the expressionate eyes gave her a classic appearance. Yet she knew that her beauty had been the cause of her misfortunes. She had been tricked into what she believed was marriage with the dashing James Christopher, a man claiming to be a diplomat and gentleman but who turned out to be nothing more than a ruffian as well as a rapist and traitor.

She shruddered at the thought of how he had...touched her. James had enjoyed making her scream, not in pleasure but in pain. He had always carried a slender riding-crop and on more times than she cared to remember she'd been on the wrong end of it. Her tormentor had however come to an end at the hands of Mister Sharpe, and although she'd been crying then she fondly recalled how he had been disposed of.

"We ought to be with the army by nightfall Susannah?"

Not so much a question as a statement. She wanted to be there now. She needed to see Richard Sharpe again.

The soldiers were in good mood. They were confident, they were young and strong, and they were disciplined. Some of them, veterans of open war or guerrilla tactics, had become their sergeants and lieutenants. And, although Alfonso was confident in his own skills, he had to admit he felt a bit intimidated and overwhelmed by the circumstances.

But in battle, things would simplify. It had been like that in the exercises. Alfonso had a knack for attending to all his tasks in a reasonable amount of time, allowing a speed of reaction unparalleled in the María Luisa Hussars.

"¿Capitán?"

Alfonso rose his sight to see his aide, sergeant Fernandez, offering him some bread and cheese. Alfonso took it with a smile, and thanked him with a nod. "I'm guessing the British will want to have a conferencia with us when we get there?"

"No doubt." Sighing, Alfonso surveyed his men. They talked to each other cheerily, comparing their horses or exchanging tips about how to best dislodge a sword off a dead enemy. The smell of the horses and the snuck into his nose like a thief into a house, gently and without Alfonso noticing it at first. He had become accustomed to it. "Tell the Tenientes I expect them to keep an eye open on morale. Cheer up the men, instill some confidence..."

With a relaxed wave of his hand, Fernandez understood Alfonso wanted to rest, nodded, saluted, and left. Letting his head fall against the soft side of his own horse, an excellent brown steed of Andalusian origins called Achilles, Alfonso gazed up at the sky. In half an hour, they would resume their march up the road to meet with the British infantry. The Portuguese were already on their way, but would still take a day, more or less, to get to the rally point. And meanwhile, the French would be fortifying their positions...

No matter how much he tried to clear his mind of thoughts about war, they always came back, either bluntly, or without him even noticing. But, he guessed it was a matter of surroundings. Here he was, commanding a cavalry battalion that in less than two days would be charging right into the French lines. It was ominous, yet inspiring at the same time. There was grandeur to it. Glamour. But what would be the cost for that? How many of these men would die?

Alfonso became broody for the last minutes he had left before marching on...

Justine de Villiers

Justine gave a small laugh as she collapsed the spyglass and thrust it down her saddlebag. Turning to look at her Petité Freres nodding approval at the sight. They looked dashing in their uniforms. Black jackets with silver trimmings and dramatic red facings. Every man armed with a carbine, straight cavalry sabre and pistol. They would employ them shortly.

Spurring her horse forward a few paces taking in the landscape. The Spaniards had the audacity to send their troops to aid the British. How's that for insolence? Colonel de Villiers did not think too highly of her southern neighbours. A race of oppressed peasants, cowed by the Church and the Dons respectively. There had of course been mistakes made during the French occupation, putting Joséph Bonaparte on the throne of Spain for starters. It never seemed to amaze Justine how such a great man as Napoleon could have such halfwits for brothers.

Joséph had to be counted among the better, in comparison with Jérome and Lucien, although none of them amounted to anything much. The Emperor had been to lenient with the Spanish, he would have set the legions lose from day one. If the Spanish didn't want to be liberated from the old and dark ways, then let them die for their insolence.

She had spotted the young officer of the hussars, memorizing his features and vowing to depose of him in a very painful a way. Pity really for even from the long distance she had seen the fine features of his face and decided that he was most handsome. Yet it couldn't be helped. Besides she was at war, a total war, and as a participant in such she had to make sacrifices.

Calling a few trusted men out of the main group and giving hem the order to stalk the Spaniards, giving the signal to engage them when they least expected it. Watching as the men under her command checked their carbines a final time and setting of at a canter. She decided that she'd save a lock of the Spanish officer's hair as a trophy. Her hand finding the hilt of the slender dagger that hung from her belt. She was an expert putting it to good employ and the Spaniard would, if she got her hands on him, call to all the Saints for help.

Major Sharpe stared up the broad sweeping foothills that led away up into the mountains. Down here it was pleasant enough, but the misty grey of the air higher up and the speed of the streams crashing down the slopes were enough to clue an experienced campaigner in. It would be grey, cold, wet and miserable up there.

Sharpe imagined himself the commander of the French Redoubt. He imagined himself placing his defenders in roofed dugouts that would keep their muskets dry and their spirits up. He imagined some stone and wooden walls for cover and protection. He imagined heaped piles of provisions to put belly in his men, and he finally imagined distributing his moustachioed veterans amongst the rawer recruits to steady them.

He didn't think much of most French infantry, in the normal run of things, but French infantry could be dogged in defence, and these circumstance played straight into his hands. Sharpe would have liked to have taken the slope at a run, but he knew that half his command would be incapable of fighting after such exertion - his skirmishers could manage it, but couldn't do anything worthwhile when they got up there.

It looked like plodding soldiering. Form up in ranks and march slowly through the withering hail of fire, take the casualties and ball up your hate until it burned like a sun inside you. When you reached the dugouts, you stormed them, screaming your rage and fear at the enemy, and you just hoped that your balls were bigger than his.

He knew that both the Spanish and Portuguese were sending him some cavalry to help. Cavalry. On roads like this. Sharpe rolled his eyes and snorted as if imitating a cavalry horse himself. He'd swap the lot of them for a couple of howitzers to pound at those redoubts while he climbed.

Off to his right the huge voice of his friend and confidante, RSM Harper, bellowed at the men. Harper seemed to be in a grand mood this morning, although Sharpe knew that he would always try to appear thus in public. Sharpe himself hid his feelings less well, and he spat up at the mountain as if conveying his massive distate of the whole thing. Harper in a shouty mood. Rain and steep hills. Damn Crapauds to kill before lunch time. At least there wasn't a woman involved. He'd sent Jane, his wife, back to England a few days ago, and already he felt his preoccupation and worry about her easing.

Justine de Villiers

The Spanish were playing right into Justine's hands. The Spanish hussars had taken to stop at the outskirts of a small village. The temporary encampment being guarded on the west by the village itself. She judged that an attack from that angle would inevitably fail, whereas the southern approach was checked by plowed fields, a soft slope and a low stone wall.

Piquets were lining the wall, but she reasoned that a disciplined attack, with the right momentum would overcome them before they could summon the main force from their quarters.

Calling her second in command, the dour Major Benoit and summarising her intention to launch an attack, it would precipitate an encircling manouvre that would probably take twenty minutes to conclude before they could gallop against the Spanish. Still, give them time to relax, lull them into a sense of security.

Major Benoit nodded his assent, not that he'd voice his dissent. He owed his life to Justine, as did most of the men in her unit. They where outcasts, shunned by the regular soldiers of the Emperor's army and that made them stick even tighter together. Their devotion to the Emperor and their "Sister Justine" bordering on fantatism.

"My dear little brothers!" She spoke softly knowing there was no need for grand gestures or loud exclamations, "We will attack the insolent peasants. Some of you will fall in the attempt, but know that the Emperor is watching your efforts. The man who shows mercy or do not fight well enough will be shot by me!" She stared them down, willing anyone of them to show any sign of objection, yet no one did.

Spurring her charger into a trot, taking it through the forrest to the assembly point, two or three miles down the road. Her heart beating faster and the sensations of pleasure starting to build up inside her. She loved the rush of adrenalin before and during the attack. She would gladly unleash her dragoons in a reckless charge against the Spaniards, knowing that the sheer ferocity of their attack would startle even the most seasoned soldier, yet something made her hesitate. Pulling out her spyglass and scanning the terrain ahead. A plowed field, then a gentle slope crowned by a low stonewall.

The Spanish would surely have placed their piquets there, and in that instant she decided to cancel an all-out attack. Turning to Major Benoit she intoned her new directives.

"We'll charge the slope, engage the piquets and then pour as much lead into whatever Spanish hero who'll dare show his face." She smiled mirthlessly. "In and out like we did at the crossing of the Duna."

Glancing left and right as her dragoons lined up, pulling her sabre free of it's scabbard. Justine was the only one not using the straigh blade but preferred a slightly curved lighter one. She rested it against her right shoulder as the order to commence the attack was given.

"Vive L'Empreur! Vive L'Empreur!"

A voice rang out across the plains. It was nearly impossible to work out what that voice said. But, there was fierceness in it... and it had a French accent. Alfonso got up, fast like lightning, and unsheathed his cavalry sabre. That was followed by a few seconds of undecisiveness, as his brain worked out what he was supposed to.

His eyes, wide in surprise and no small measure of panic, stared dead ahead... before Alfonso sprung into action, and they displayed his focus and resolution. "¡A LAS ARMAS! ¡A LAS ARMAS!"

The men all around him stood up, or tripped, or buttoned up their jackets. Some extinguished the fires under the food, wary of the danger of setting the whole camp ablaze. Already the first firing could be heard from the camp's border, and some of them started loading their carbines. Alfonso ran among the horses and the bonefires, the men and the baggage, and his hand gripped the pistol hanging off his waist.

A man slumped backwards right in front of him, and the sound of bullets tearing the air apart all around him made him crouch, just as more of his men piled in, one by one, from behind him. Another hussar fell beside him, clutching his side, but Alfonso's eyes quickly shot up to the wave of blue that came at him. His face twisted in rage at the shamelessness of the attack. The French dared step again into Spain?

"FIRE AT WILL!"

They would receive a warm welcome. The carbines roared in approval, sending lead into the air and at the French. And Alfonso, held his sabre and pistol low, ready to defend himself. The arrogant cheese-eaters would pay dearly for their arrogance!

Justine de Villiers

Her dragoons, her trusted little brothers, had come halfway up the gentle slope before the Spanish hussars became aware of their attack. The piquets discharging their carbines at the amassed French, as they scaled the last few yards before the stonewall.

"Hold the line!" Major Benoit gave the order, keeping the dragoons in order before the final onslaught.

Justine heard a screaming as one of the dragoons was shot, the bullet hitting him squarely in the chest. Another one having his mount shot under him and failing to kick himself free was trapped under the beast. Two more fell in the wild charge, but now they would have their revenge.

"FIRE!"

She gave the order and the remaining dragoons emptied their carbines, then pouring pistol shots at the Spanish still standing and within range. The acrid gunsmoke lay heavy and obscured her view, as well as covering their retreat. Still she had seen the Spanish officer, the arrogant peasant! Giving the order to Benoit to pull back, seeing as one more of her dragoons was flung of his horse.

Her curved blade held out, pointing the point at his chest, a taunt, ridculing him. Then in an arrogant a gesture she brought the blade up in a salute before wheeling her horse round to join her squad.

It was almost too easy, she thought as she spurred her mount on. Then the scream as a Spanish bullet hit it, the hindquarters suddenly going limp. She reacted instinctively, kicking her feet free of the stirrups and rolling free of the horse as it toppled over.

"Merde!"

She cursed as she got to her feet, knowing the Spanish would be on her heels by now...

"AND AGAIN LADS" Harper shouted his voice stern , in truth he was impressed with the new men but he could never show that on parade.

"NOW ON MY COMMAND YOU WILL FORM INTO ...."his voice tailed off as he looked behind the men into the middle distance.

As Harper shouted "CAVALRY" the sound of small explosions reached the ears of the Regiment.

The call along the line was 'form square' Harpers voice loudest , more small explosions. Smoke filled the air and urgency sang from the NCO's.

Less than a minute later Harper shouted "STOP NO ONE MOVE"

There were smiles on some of the faces that had experienced this before the square was for the most part complete, first three rows weapons at the ready with a fourth inner row at the ready to enter the fray.

Harper walked out to the dozen men outside the square and informed each one that they were now dead.

Then his eyes turned to one man, a man holding the Regimental Standard, he was new and Harper had chosen him to hold the standard for one special reason , the man had an inflated opinion of himself.

"Well Private Hanson I see you at least made it into the square"

The man smiled at the praise "Yes Sar..."

"WHAT IN ALL THAT IS HOLY ARE YOU DOING IN THE FIRST ROW YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BE IN THE BLOODY MIDDLE WHERE THE OFFICERS ARE" Harper took a hold of the man and lead him into the middle.

Hanson looked pale as Harper opened his mouth again "There you are Private Hanson glad to see you found your place so I am"

"95th INTO LINE" Patrick Harper yelled, thinking, yes this lot will do nicely

A blonde mane fell out of Alfonso's view, under his own pistol's barrel. He smirked. His first shot in the war, and he had hit something. His first blood, his squadron's first kills... and his men's first contribution to free his people and king! The woman's arrogance, her pointing at his chest with her own blade...

"ROBERTO! FELIPE! Someone fetch the Tenientes! First troop follow me on foot, second cover our flanks! Third and fourth mount up and pursue their cavalry!"

Stealing glances around himself, he saw his men reload frantically and get together into a well rehearsed line of attack. Their smiles mirrored his own, their minds swept away into the sky by the exhilaration of war. The smell of gunpowder, the itching around one's eyes... Alfonso rubbed his eyes frantically, and dropped his pistol on top of the wall before jumping over it. One whole squad followed him as the rest of the men tried to organize their unit.

Perhaps prisoners could be taken. For such a small unit to attack the protected Spaniards... and led by a woman. Alfonso had aimed for the horse on purpose, for although it wouldn't be honourable to shoot a horse, it was worse to kill a woman he could capture. The few lusty thoughts the idea brought him were quickly replaced by the cold realization that such an arrogance meant a great training and skill. Alfonso almost felt intimidated, marching right into the smoke a bit less than fearlessly... but if that woman wanted a duel, she was going to have one!

"FIJAD BAYONETAS!"

Justine de Villiers

She was slightly dizzy from the fall, yet she moved purposefully as she pulled her telescope and one of the pistols from the saddle-holster. Picking up her sabre and turning to see the approaching Spanish soldiers, led by the young officer she had challenged earlier.

Justine's lips had been broken during her fall and she spat blood on the ground, wiping away the rest with the back of her hand. Keeping the blade lowered for now, awaiting the approaching Spaniards. Her stature one of absolute confidence, wearing black tasselled boots, skin-tight white cavalry breeches and the black jacket with the decorative silver piping and red facings. Pulling away her pelisse that hung from her left shoulder, knowing it'd be in the way in a close quarter fight.

She could discern the Spanish officer clearly now as he and his men approached. He looked confident, surely he didn't think much of her fighting abilities, and that played to her advantage.

Raising her pistol, having pulled the hammer to full cock before pushing it against the head of her mount who was still alive and in pain, ending the beast's misery. Tossing the gun to the ground and then turning to the officer, her icy stare boring into his.

"Quite the demonstration you have put on there Captain."

She spoke in French and nodding to the short bayonets affixed to the carbines.

"Perhaps you're scared that you may not be victorious?" With that she whipped her blade up, her left leg placed behind her, distributing her weight so that she would be able to check an attack both from her front and her left. Scanning the faces of the Spaniards, awaiting the first thrust.

Alfonso advanced straight towards the woman, and had no difficulty in understanding her words. French had been one of the few languages he had been taught to succeed his father, and it was coming... well, it was not exactly useful now. A simple hand gesture indicated his men to start spreading around to cover their flanks, and crouch in case the enemy came back for their commander.

All in all, Alfonso had to say the woman's arrogance surprised him. She was even worse than he'd heard French people were. Their fame of being daring was true, but little good it would do now.

"Scared? My good lady, you seem to be blind as well as stupid! You came in with what seems like an ill-conceived plan of attack... and you also fail to realize that more than a hundred hussars are preparing to surround this place. If you get out of this alive, I hope you can retake whatever religion you heretics rely on... because only a superior power will get you out of this."

Alfonso didn't waste any more time. If the woman didn't want to surrender, he would force her to. His light sabre came in hard and fast like lightning, from the ground and towards her chest. Weilding his weapon with his right hand, the attack was powerful and well directed. The weight of his body was behind it, with his left arm acting as counter-balance to it. Because he had left his officer hat behind, he didn't find himself impeded by it.

Justine de Villiers

Shifting her footing to the right and flicking her wrist she was able to deflect the Spanish officer's thrust, but it was a close run thing. He was experienced and had the strenght to put behind the skill.

Taking a step back and turning on her heels so that she faced him anew, she used the point of her sabre, aiming for his stomach.

"I don't need to put my fate in the hands of mere superstition Captain."

Once more lashing out, testing him for weaknesses in his ripostes. Justine was an excellent swords-woman, and she'd use all her agility and cunning if pressed. She'd yet to come across anyone who'd better her neither with blade nor gun, but this youngster proved a tough opponent.

She had moved further to her left, approaching him with her right arm extended, aiming to pierce his defences.

"Reason and logic Captain, that is what you people need."

She slashed left to right, using her wrist to wield the slender Klingenthal blade in level with his thighs, aiming to incapcitate him.

She was testing his defenses, that much he noticed. This woman was good. Not in her speed or her strength, which he expected to be held back for now until she found a good chance. It was her testing. She didn't put herself at risk easily, and tried to know Alfonso's pattern.

He did some testing of his own. Thrusting for her neck, he deliberately opened his guard... before stepping back and lowering his blade to parry her attack. He rose his left arm as if to punch her, and noticing her attempt to defend herself with her sword, he went in for the kill. But she again avoided his attack.

Slashing repeatedly to make her step back, Alfonso forced her to open some distance so he could take a breath. "Reason and logic, you say? Yes, that would be a good proposition. Perhaps I will ask those French soldiers that burst into a convent and raped the nuns inside to teach me about your liberté, egalité et fraternité, eh?"

Alfonso enjoyed himself, but a burning anger rose in his stomach. He really wanted to kill this woman, even if she was beautiful beyond words. These thoughts surprised him like a feint, and he dispelled them the best way he could think of. By launching himself into a series of low attacks, using the momentum of his legs to carry his aggression forwards.

Justine de Villiers

Justine was being forced back, not due to lacking skills but the simple mechanics of a stronger opponent. She parried his thrusts and riposted as best as she could, her face showing nothing but cold determination.

Stepping smartly to the left once more, avoiding his thrusts but not fast enough, and the tip of his blade ripped through her white breeches, cutting through the fabric and her skin beneath. She responded immediately, stepping forward and kicking his shin as she stabbed at his chest, forcing him back. The momentary respite allowed her time to pull her dagger from it's sheath, holding it expertly in her left hand.

Justine had been taught how to emply it by Rainier, one of her dragoons who had been an urchin on the streets of Marseille, an expert in slitting throats, and now she intended to employ this with the Spaniard.

"We didn't burn enough convents Spaniard!" she spat the words as she started circling to her right, inviting him to take a stab at her as she intentionally exposed herself. "You ought to show gratitude, we tried to get you out of the Dark Ages." She flicked her wrist again slicing at his arm.

Kate Savage

They had finally reached their destination. The seemingly enormous encampment of the Allied armies. Kate felt a wave of relief as the coach was stopped by the sentries, asking the mandatory questions although not paying overly much attention to the procedures.

She slid the window open, turning to the corporal in charge, adding what haughtyness she could muster as she glanced down at him.

"I'm here to see Mr Richard Sharpe of the 95:th Rifles. He's expecting me."

She turned her head, ostensibly to address Susannah, as the young man stammered a reply that it was not customary for ladies to just arrive at the army's head quarters at their leisure.

Giving him a withering stare and fixing him with a rather unkind glance before ordering him about

"Mr Sharpe expects me, and I do not like your tone young man, are you perhaps insinuating something, What's your name and regiment. I'll be sure to have words with Sir Arthur about this, he's a good friend you know."

That he wasn't but the NCO at the gate had no way of knowing that, thus he stammered a reply and sent one of the soliders to fetch Major Sharpe.

Kate slid the window shut and gave Susannah an impish stare, barely able to control the laughter that threatened to overwhelm her.

Harper drilled the men and Sharpe read the maps. His regimental staff officers were careful around him this morning, and the realisation of it irritated him still further.

Where were the blasted Spanish and the damned Portuguese? For all the use they'd be in the assault, Sharpe was sorely tempted to just storm the damn thing himself here and now and be done with it - however he recognised this terrible impatience for what it was, and curbed it back.

Perhaps someone else could do some of the dying - if he found a way to use the cavalry effectively...

A plan of attack was just surfacing through the mists when a young rider galloped up to meet him. The boy was English, so he wasn't from the units that Sharpe was expecting, but he might be bringing news and Sharpe waited politely for him to dismount and run over.

"Major Sharpe, sir? Of the South Essex? Only there's a lady at the gate asking for a Major Sharpe of the 95th Rifles and the QuarterMaster says that YOU'RE the only Major Sharpe that we have, sir, and...." the boy ran out of steam at Sharpe's withering expression.

"Shall I have her escorted here, sir? Or will you go out to meet her?"

Sharpe tried to imagine who it might be? Jane would simply have reentered using the pass that she had. What other women knew him and could possibly be interested in seeing him? He drew a complete blank.

"I'll go out, Lieutenant. Hold her where she is."

Selecting his bay gelding, Richard mounted, slinging his rifle awkwardly, and trotted for the gate, some five miles distance. The time would, at least, give him space to think - although the identity of his visitor preyed on him a little.

The coach, when he arrived, was no help - being plain and unornamented. Not Helena then. Sharpe felt a slight pang of regret that the gorgeously blonde Marquesa wouldn't be inside, but quickly reminded himself of the trouble that Helena ALWAYS brought with her. He rode to the coach door and rapped on the wood.

"Hello? Major Sharpe. Who is it?"

Kate Savage

"Hello? Major Sharpe. Who is it?"

Kate froze as she heard the voice, it seemed all her resolve just withered away and for a moment she couldn't bring herself to respond. It's a stupid, stupid idea. She chided herself but she'd be damned if she'd come this far without amounting even to speak to him.

Opening the door of the coach as Susannah unfolded the stepsm she got out and gazed at the handsome face of Richard Sharpe. Smiling sweetly as she gazed up at him, she'd realised that she'd never seen him on a horse before.

"Mister Sharpe, how very good of you to receive me."

Feeling a blush start to colour her cheeks, once again being the slip of a girl who had been left in the charge of the then lieutenant at 'House Beautiful' five years ago. She could still remember the kiss he had given her, the night before his intended departure, and the thought of once again feeling his strong arms around her body made her head spin.

"I'm sorry if I didn't send notice...Richard but I..."

Kate didn't manage to finish the sentence, the emotions washing through her too strong to handle, her mind going blank and for a moment she felt like she was going to die, then everything went dark...

Richard's eyebrows made a beeline for the top of his forehead. Now HERE was a piece he hadn't thought on for many years now. The stolen kiss from another man's wife had kept him warm through much of Portugal, but he'd left this love behind when he'd met Theresa and she was the dark haired beauty who haunted his dreams now.

She was as sweet as he remembered, her beauty still heartaching and he found himself smiling back at her as she greeted him. She tried to explain, but the words tripped over themselves and she slumped, sliding out of the carriage seat and towards the hard steps. Sharpe threw himself from the saddle and slid under her, managing to keep her from the mud and grass.

Turning his head to the servant girl, he said with some asperity.

"I see your mistress still ties herself in these ridiculous London fashions. I have no bloody idea how a woman walks across a bloody room without swooning."

Kate Savage

Opening her eyes and finding herself in the arms of Sharpe brought a faint smile to her lips. Her body responding in quite shameful a way to his touch as he helped her to her feet.

Wanting to explain yet not being able to find the words, not now when Susannah was watching,

Turning to her maid she asked her to remain in the coach, not opening the door should anyone but herself come calling. She had informed her that the average soldier was a coarse creature, and she had no intention of allowing them to have their way with her.

"I know it must be an inconvenience to you Richard, yet I needed to see you."

She kept her hand on his arm as she stood facing him, his face scarred and with a harshness she couldn't recall from their last meeting.

"I'm sorry about your wife."

She had spoken in a low tone, not daring to meet his gaze. She'd heard about him getting married to the Partisan Commendante Teresa Moreno, "The Needle" as she was called. A woman with the same ability to kill as he did, and one as dedicated to her trade as he. Kate had been devastated when she heard about his marriage, but in truth the news of her death had not brought her any happiness either. She knew about the Lady Grace, with whom Sharpe had had a liason back in England, and she knew that she had been taken from him.

Seeing his the pain momentarily wash over his face before he restrained himself prompted her to move closer and, standing tip-toe she kissed him.

"That evens the debt does it not Richard,.."