As an officer of a Light Company he should have carried the curved sabre of the British Light Cavalry, but Richard Sharpe preferred the sword of the Heavy Cavalry, straight-bladed and ill balanced. Even Sharpe's sword, his other badge of rank, was irregular. The officer's epaulettes had gone, leaving broken stitches, and the scarlet sash was stained and faded.

On his back, like most of his men, he carried a French pack, made of ox hide, and on his shoulder, though he was an officer, he slung a rifle. On his feet were tall leather boots that had originally been bought in Paris by a Colonel of Napoleon's Imperial Guard. The green jacket, faded and torn, was worn over French cavalry overalls. He was looking Sharpe up and down, letting his suspicions show. Sharpe's voice had a warning in it, but the provost seemed oblivious. Nicki turned slowly to face them as he writhed, and the song went into frenzied supplication, lurching and climbing and roaring along its melodic path. She shut the doors on her company, who as usual carried on without her, several men singing around the Virginal and others arguing heatedly over their dice. What have you brought me? Oh, I'm to be Amadeo tonight, splendid, she said. And he pulled me out of the way of the passersby, against a shopwindow, behind which a little crowd stood, enjoying the private warmth inside, looking towards the church.

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