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By Bernard Cornwell

"The maximum author of historic adventures today."
Washington Post

Critically acclaimed, perennial New York Times bestselling writer Bernard Cornwell (Agincourt, The Fort, the Saxon stories) makes actual heritage come alive in his breathtaking historic fiction. Praised as "the direct inheritor to Patrick O'Brian" (Agincourt, The Fort), Cornwell has brilliantly captured the fury, chaos, and pleasure of conflict as few writers have ever done—perhaps such a lot vividly in his phenomenally well known novels following the illustrious army profession of British military officer Richard Sharpe through the overdue 18th and early nineteenth centuries. In Sharpe's Prey, Sharpe needs to end up his mettle once more after acting courageously on Wellesley's battlefields in India and the Iberian Peninsula, as he undertakes a mystery undertaking to Copenhagen, Denmark in 1807 to avoid a resurgent Napoleon from taking pictures the Danish fleet. might be the San Francisco Chronicle acknowledged it top: "If in simple terms all heritage classes may be as vibrant."

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A spinet or harpsichord, Sharpe used to be uncertain which. He took off his hat and stuck sight of himself in a gilt-framed having a look glass that hung above a spindly desk on which a china bowl held a pile of vacationing playing cards. He grimaced at his mirrored image, picked a few extra hay off his coat and attempted to soft his hair. The track had stopped and Sharpe, nonetheless gazing the replicate, observed the door in the back of him open. He became and for the 1st time given that Grace had died he felt his middle bounce. a woman dressed all in black stood taking a look at him with an expression of astonished pride. She used to be tall, very fair-haired and blue-eyed. Later, a lot later, Sharpe might observe she had a large brow, a beneficiant mouth, a protracted instantly nostril and a short snort, yet at that second he simply stared at her and he or she stared again and the welcoming glance of enjoyment on her face died to get replaced through a questioned disappointment. She acknowledged whatever in Danish. “I’m sorry,” Sharpe stated. “You are English? ” she requested, sounding stunned. “Yes, leave out. ” She stared at him oddly, then shook her head. “You glance so like an individual else”—she paused—“someone I knew. ” there have been tears in her eyes. “I am Skovgaard’s daughter,” she brought herself. “Astrid. ” “Richard Sharpe, miss,” he acknowledged. “You communicate solid English. ” “My mom was once English. ” She glanced down the hall. “You are right here to work out my father? ” “I wish so. ” “Then i'm sorry to have disturbed you,” she stated. “You have been taking part in? ” Sharpe requested. “I am no longer stable. ” She provided him a brief and embarrassed smile. “I need to perform. ” She gave him a final questioned glance, then went again into the room. She left the door ajar and, after a second, a number of solitary notes sounded back. males got here to fetch Sharpe. just like the servant who had responded the door, they have been either wearing brown, yet those males have been a lot more youthful. in addition they regarded healthy and difficult. One jerked his head and Sharpe obediently them down the quick passage. The door on the finish squeaked alarmingly yet opened into a chic room the place Aksel Bang used to be status beside a skinny guy who was once sitting at a table, his head bowed. Sharpe dropped his pack, coat and hat on a chair and waited. The door squealed close in the back of him, then the 2 younger males, obviously guards, stood no longer a ways in the back of him. The room was once a learn, yet sufficiently big to carry a small dance. Bookcases packed with forbidding leather-based volumes covered partitions, the 3rd had tall glass doorways beginning onto a backyard whereas the fourth was once paneled in a light wooden that surrounded a carved marble fireplace above which hung a portrait of a dismal guy wearing preacher’s black with Geneva bands. Then the fellow at the back of the table laid down his pen, unhooked a couple of spectacles from his ears and regarded up at Sharpe. He blinked with obvious astonishment while he observed his visitor’s face, yet concealed no matter what shocked him. “I am Ole Skovgaard,” he stated in a gravelly voice, “and Aksel has forgotten your identify. ” “Lieutenant Richard Sharpe, sir. ” “An Englishman,” Skovgaard stated disapprovingly. “An Englishman,” he acknowledged back, “yet you glance similar to my bad son-in-law, God relaxation his soul.

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