Sharpes Prey (Sharpe, Book 5)

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Binding: Paperback Language: english. Author: Bernard Cornwell. Item Condition: Used; Good.

Sharpe’s Prey: The Expedition to Copenhagen, (The Sharpe Series, Book 5)

This date is supplied from the publishers data and can be inaccurate. Sharpes Prey.

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  • Fler böcker av Bernard Cornwell!

Title: Sharpes Prey. Authors: Cornwell, Bernard. Binding: Paperback. Condition: Used; Good. Weight: Gms. Pages: Book and dust jacket in very good condition. Binding : Mass Market Paperback. Length: Weight: Pages maybe folded due to previous owners use. Binding: Mass Market Paperback Language: english. The story is set in during the Napoleonic Wars. Second Lieutenant Richard Sharpe is sent to Copenhagen in with the job of protecting a nobleman on a secret mission.

Sharpe soon discovers that his task is complicated by traitors, spies and the bombardment of Copenhagen.

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The year is , and Richard Sharpe is back in England, where his army career is at an end. Without love, destitute, and relegated to the job of quartermaster, Sharpe is on the streets of London, trying to contemplate a new life away from the army.

  1. Sharpe's Prey by Cornwell, Bernard.
  2. Sharpe's Prey.
  3. Sharpe’s Prey: The Expedition to Copenhagen, (The Sharpe Series, Book 5).
  4. Then an old commanding officer quite unexpectedly invites him to undertake a secret mission to the Danish capital, Copenhagen. Denmark is officially neutral, but Napoleon is threatening an invasion in order to capture the powerful Danish fleet, which could replace the ships France lost in its defeat at Trafalgar. The British, fearing such enhancement of French power, threaten their own preemptive invasion. The very sound of the slippers on the chalked wood denoted panic.

    The sabers clashed harshly again, the taller man stamped forward, his blade flickering, clanging, reaching, and Willsen was countering in apparent desperation until, so fast that those watching could scarce follow his blade's quick movement, he stepped to one side and riposted at his opponent's cheek.

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    There seemed little power in the riposte, for its force all came from Willsen's wrist rather than from his full arm, but the saber's edge still struck the taller man with such might that he lost his balance. He swayed, right arm flailing, and Willsen gently touched his weapon's point to his opponent's chest so that he toppled to the floor. The blow was easily blocked and Willsen just walkedaway. I had you on your damned ass! Willsen, who had planned the whole passage of the fight from the moment he made a deliberately soft quarte basse, bowed.

    His lordship scowled, then realized he was being ungracious and so, tucking the saber under his arm, held out a hand.

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    The handful of spectators applauded the show of sportsmanship. They were in Horace Jackson's Hall of Arms, an establishment on London's Jermyn Street where wealthy men could learn the arts of pugilism, fencing and pistol shooting. The hall was a high bare room lined with racks of swords and sabers, smelling of tobacco and liniment, and decorated with prints of prize fighters, mastiffs and racehorses. The only women in the. Willsen pulled off his helmet and ran a hand through his long fair hair. He bowed to his beaten opponent, then carried both sabers to the weapon rack at the side of the hall where a tall, very thin and extraordinarily handsome captain in the red coat and blue facings of the 1st Regiment of Foot Guards was waiting.

    The guardsman, a stranger to Willsen, tossed away a half-smoked cigar as Willsen approached, "You fooled him," the Captain said cheerfully. Willsen frowned at the stranger's impertinence, but he answered politely enough. Willsen, after all, was an employee in Horace Jackson's Hall and the Guards Captain, judging by the elegant cut of his expensive uniform, was a patron.

    The sort of patron, moreover, who could not wait to prove himself against the celebrated Henry Willsen. Willsen was impressed at the guardsman's acuity, but did not betray it. He was being modest, for he had the reputation of being the finest swordsman in the Dirty Half Hundred, probably in the whole army and maybe in the entire country, but he belittled his ability, just as he shrugged off those who reckoned he was the best pistol shot in Kent. A soldier, Willsen liked to say, should be a master of his arms and so he practiced assiduously and prayed that one day his skill would be useful in the service of his country.

    Until that time came he earned his captain's pay and, because that was not sufficient to support a wife, child and mess bill, he taught fencing and pistol-shooting in Horace Jackson's Hall of Arms. Jackson, an old pugilist with a mashed face, wanted Willsen to leave the army and join the establishment fulltime, but Willsen liked being a soldier.

    It gave him a position in British society.

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    It might not be a high place, but it was honorable. Willsen had been turning away, but the change of language made him look back to the golden-haired Guards Captain. His first careless impression had been one of privileged youth, but he now saw that the guardsman was probably in his early thirties and had a cynical, knowing cast to his devil-may-care good looks.

    This was a man, Willsen thought, who would be at home in a palace or at a prizefight. A formidable man too, and one who was of peculiar importance to Willsen, who now offered the guardsman a half-bow.