'You! Who are you? It was a cavalry captain, standing in his stirrups and bellowing the angry challenge.

Sharpe ignored the man. 'Clear ranks! Clear ranks! He shouted the order at the militia ahead of him, using a voice which had been forged on parade grounds and practised on battlefields.

'Halt! A colonel was beside him now. 'Halt your men! I order it!

'Prince's orders! Out the way! Sharpe snarled it. He hefted the Eagle higher, and the colonel, thinking that the metal trophy was about to strike at him, sheered his horse to one side.

'Who the devil are you?

'King Joseph of Spain. Now bugger off! Sharpe's voice was vicious, his face a savage mask. The curse astonished the colonel, then Sharpe forced his horse into the widening gap that the splitting militia men were making for him. 'Close up, Sergeant! Close up!

The field was shouts and music, blank muskets peppering the air with smoke, and Sharpe shouted the order again, the commonest order of all on a battlefield when files have been flung down by cannon-fire and men shuffle towards the centre of the line and load their guns. 'Close up! Close up!

The colonel was spurring after him, but Sharpe was not looking at the man. He was watching the approaching infantry instead, judging how long it would take them to cover the one hundred yards that separated them from the front of his column. 'Left wheel! Smartly now! The colonel tried to grab Sharpe's rein, but the Eagle swung at the colonel's horse, striking it over the face so that the beast swerved, reared, and Sharpe was clear. 'Close ranks! Close ranks!

He had driven a path of destruction through the carefully reconstructed battle. Instead of the minutely rehearsed defeat, the «enemy» now seemed to be fighting back, bursting through the centre of the line to advance against the astonished victors.

'Stop! the colonel shouted. More marshals were spurring towards the small, ragged column that suddenly, to Sharpe's bellowed orders, wheeled left to march directly towards the Royal pavilion. 'March! Heads up! March! Sharpe put the Eagle, with the horse's reins, into his left hand and, with a surge of excitement because he could see his target now, the object of these days of marching and hiding, he drew his great sword. His horse, unused to such commotion, stepped in small, nervous steps, and Sharpe pressed his knees against its flanks to keep it going steadily towards the Prince Regent.

The Royal bodyguard stared in shock at the men who approached them. The right flank of the British advance, loud with cavalry calls, checked because their way was blocked, while the left flank, unobstructed, kept marching forward to throw the whole practised symmetry of the advance into skewed disorder. Four officers now screamed at Sharpe, one shouted at the South Essex to halt, but Harper's voice was louder than any of the marshals and, despite the nervous glances of their officers, the men marched on. Sharpe was ahead of them. He could see the Prince now, and a man beside him who could only be the Duke of York, and he half turned and shouted the next order at Harper. 'Deploy!

They formed line, facing and outflanking the bodyguard, and Sharpe could see the consternation in the Royal stand as men realised that this careful day had been driven into chaos by the dirty, unkempt troops who, with fixed bayonets, now faced the Regent of England, his brother, and the cream of society. The Prince, standing now, was twenty yards from Sharpe, staring at the mounted officer who held the French Eagle high in the air.

'Guards! An officer on the flank of the bodyguard who feared that a volley of musketry was about to soak the Royal stand in blood, shouted at his men to load their weapons.

Sharpe ignored the threat. He rested the sword on his saddle, took off his shako, and stared at the Prince who, recognition dawning, smiled with sudden delight. Sharpe looked down to Harper. 'RSM? Now!

This was the manoeuvre they had practised, the manoeuvre never before seen on a battlefield or parade ground, and Sharpe's men did it before the astonished eyes of the Foot Guards whose ramrods were still thrusting down the unnecessary bullets. The Royal stand, Lord Fenner, the whole bright array of the disordered parade watched as the strange, scruffy troops grounded muskets and, to the orders of a massive sergeant, removed their shakos.

Sixty white chickens had given the men a splendid meal and a fine flock of feathers. Each man had been issued with three white feathers, which now, like Sharpe, they pushed behind the badges of their shakos so that, after a few seconds, when the shakos were back on the mens' heads, each wore the badge of the Prince of Wales white against their black headgear.

The Prince was charmed by the feathers. The Duke of York stared in fury. Sergeant Harper shouted the command for the general salute.

Sharpe had no proof that this Battalion had been stolen, that its masters were criminals, so now he was trying to put these men under the protection of the Prince Regent, of the fat man who nodded with pleasure as Sharpe lowered the Eagle in submissive homage. Sharpe, who could prove nothing against Lord Fenner, would harness the immense patronage and influence of the Regent of Britain and, even though the Prince Regent had no formal power over the army or the War Office, Sharpe could not see how his enemies could prevail over the Prince's wishes. Sharpe was presenting these men to the Prince in the hope that the Prince would become their ally and protector, and the Prince was delighted. 'What Battalion is it, Rossendale?

Lord John Rossendale saw the yellow facings. He trained the Prince's spyglass on one of the shakos so that he could see the badge of the chained eagle. 'South Essex, sir. He said it with some astonishment, remembering that Lord Fenner had denied the Battalion's corporeal existence.

'Mine now, eh? Mine! Splendid! Sharpe, his sword held vertically in the salute, could not hear the Prince. Jane Gibbons, sharing the telescope with Charlie Weller, clapped as she saw the feathers on the shakos.

"Talion! Sergeant Harper's voice rode over the protests of the massing marshals. 'Three cheers for His Royal Highness! Hip, hip, hip!

They cheered. Some of the feathers drooped or fell, but it did not matter, the Prince was charmed. 'Major Sharpe!

Sharpe knew his victory was not complete. He must talk to the Prince. He saw the beckoning fat hand and tried to push his horse forward to lay the Eagle before his Prince, but other orders were being shouted, and mounted men were pressing about his horse. A colonel of the Blues snatched the Eagle from him and a major wrestled for his sword. Another hand seized his bridle and pulled him away from the Royal pavilion.

'Major Sharpe! The Prince called again, but the Rifleman was surrounded by marshals and officers, angry mounted men who jostled him away.

'Your Royal Highness? Lord Fenner had hurried along the tier of seats. 'Your Royal Highness?

'Fenner!

'I trust your Royal Highness liked our small display. Lord Fenner, seeing the Prince's happiness, was thinking fast.

'Monstrous good, Fenner! I like it! The men who took the Eagle, eh? Dressed as they were that day. I do like it, indeed, yes. Thank you, Fenner! I like it very much! Rossendale!

'Sir?

The Prince was trying to see Sharpe in the confusion, but there were too many mounted men. 'Tell Major Sharpe I expect him at our reception this night.

'Of course, sir.

The Duke of York, appalled at the shambles that had been made of his display, ignored his elder brother's delight. 'He's under arrest! Maxwell!

A full General of the Guards came close.

'Take him to the Horse Guards now! I'll have his damned head for this, by God I will! He turned to Fenner. 'What the devil's going on, Fenner?