Sharpe 3-Book Collection 6: Sharpe's Honour, Sharpe's Regiment, Sharpe's Siege by Bernard Cornwell

scorpion striking, he lashed with his right hand to strike Sharpe a stinging blow about the face.
    The blow did not land. Sharpe had fought in every gutter from London to Calcutta and he had seen the blow coming. He had seen it in Mendora’s eyes. He swayed back, letting the white-gloved hand go past. He saw the anger in the Spaniard, while inside himself he felt the icy calm that came to him in battle. He smiled. ‘I have known piglets with more manhood than you, Mendora.’
    Mendora ignored the insult. He had done what he was ordered to do and survived. Now he looked to his right to see the dismissed soldiers straggling towards him. They had seen him try to strike their officer, and their mood was at once excited and belligerent. Mendora looked back to Sharpe. ‘That was from my master.’
    ‘Who is?’
    Mendora ignored the question. ‘You will write a letter of apology to him, a letter that he will use as he sees fit. After that, as you are no gentleman, you will resign your commission.’
    Sharpe wanted to laugh. ‘Your General is who?’
    Major Mendora tossed his head. ‘The Marqués de Casares el Grande y Melida Sadaba.’
    And suddenly the memory of that flawless beauty that masked the flawed woman flooded into him so that the excitement came searing back. Helene! It was with Helene that he had betrayed Teresa, and he knew that the revenge for that betrayal had come to this field. He wanted to laugh aloud. Helene! Helene of the hair of gold, of the white skin on her black sheets, the woman who had used him in the service of death, but who, he thought, had perhaps loved him a little.
    He stared past Mendora at the General. He had thought, from Helene’s description, that her husband would be a short, fat man. Fat he was, but it was a burly, muscular fatness. He looked tall. The excitement was still on Sharpe. The Marquesa was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, a woman he had loved for a season, then lost. He had thought her gone forever, but now here was her husband back from the Spanish colonies with the horns on his head. Sharpe smiled at Mendora. ‘How have I offended your master?’
    ‘You know how, señor.’
    Sharpe laughed. ‘You call me señor? You’ve found your manners?’
    ‘Your answer, Major?’
    So the Marqués knew he had been cuckolded? But why in God’s name pick on Sharpe? There must be a half-Battalion of men he would have to fight to retrieve his honour that had been held so lightly by Helene. Sharpe smiled. ‘You will get no letter from me, Major, nor my resignation.’
    Mendora had expected the answer. ‘You will name me your second, señor?’
    ‘I don’t have a second.’ Sharpe knew that Wellington had forbidden all duels. If he took the risk, that was his foolishness, but he would not risk another man’s career. He looked at the Marqués, judging that such a heavy-set man would be slow on his feet. ‘I choose swords.’
    Mendora smiled. ‘My master is a fine swordsman, Major. You will stand more chance with a pistol.’
    The soldiers were gawping up at the two mounted officers. They sensed, even though they could not hear the words, that something dramatic took place.
    Sharpe smiled. ‘If I need advice how to fight, Major, I will seek it from a man.’
    Mendora’s proud face looked with hatred at the Englishman, but he held his temper. ‘There is a cemetery on the southern road, you know it?’
    ‘I can find it.’
    ‘My master will be there at seven this evening. He will not wait long. I hope your courage will be sufficient for death, Major.’ He turned his horse, looking back at Sharpe. ‘You agree?’
    ‘I agree.’ Sharpe let him turn away. ‘Major!’
    ‘Señor?’
    ‘You have a priest with you?’
    The Spaniard nodded. ‘You’re very observant for an Englishman.’
    Sharpe deliberately switched back into English. ‘Make sure he knows the prayer for the dead, Spaniard.’
    A shout came from the watching men. ‘Kill the bugger, Sharpie!’
    The