Chosen Men

by sadlady

A slice of history

I don't own these characters, that is the province of Mark One and Brian Clemens.

I make no money from this and write only for pleasure and to entertain.

THE CHOSEN MEN

"Chosen Men to me," shouted Major Richard Sharpe.

The South Essex Riflemen reacted with their usual lack of enthusiasm at being summoned so early in the morning. Sleepy, hung-over and hungry, the small band of men gathered round their leader.

He wasted no time at all with the niceties of conversation, but stood silent, tall and proud, watching them shuffle, yawn and come together to a raggedy attention.

He had made the most important decision of his career now. Get it wrong and you'll be back on bloody private's wage in no time he thought to himself.

He looked at the motley collection of men in front of him. Their skills as fighting men were second to none, with firearms or a sword. However, this mission required the very best of the very best, and it was down to him to make the choice.

The late night visit from Wellington was a surprise, given the change of pace since the war had ended with Napoleon's capitulation. He had spent some time with Sharpe and Patrick Harper, briefing them on this next mission. As he left the tent, his voice rang in Sharpe's head.

"Two men. The best of the best. It's your decision Richard. You know your men better than anyone. Make sure you choose wisely. My reputation depends on it. So yours will too! They are to return to London immediately. This war is over; it is just a matter of clearing up after Napoleon."

Sharpe and Harper, the huge Irishman whose friendship and judgement he valued above all others sat mentally reviewing each man under their command. By the time the first light of dawn touched the eastern sky, they had arrived at a decision. Just two names fitted the bill. Sharpe rubbed his gritty eyes and spoke to his friend.

"Well Pat, what do you think of 'em. Are they the right men?"

The softly spoken man stared into the distance.

"Doyle is good. A little too quick tempered, but fights like the devil. Shoots four rounds a minute. Almost unheard of . . . such speed." Harper stroked his chin.

"Bodie is a natural fighter, shows little remorse. I'm pleased we get on because I wouldn't want to meet him on my own if I crossed him. They work well together. Anyway, they're both good Catholic boys, they can read and write too, and there's Irish blood in both of 'em."

Sharpe's face creased into a broad grin as Harper slapped him on the shoulder.

"What's the story with this Richard? It's not like we'll even be in France for much longer. Why does Wellington want with these two?"

Sharpe shook his head.

"Dunno Pat. All he said was that he needed the best for a mission, to carry something of importance to London as quickly as possible. They should be men of courage and tenacity. They may find danger on the way and will need to act swiftly and without remorse if challenged. "

Now, in the cold light of day, with his men shuffling, coughing and muttering to themselves, he knew he'd made the right choice.

"Bodie! Doyle!" The two men looked up at their commanding officer. Doyle, unruly curls blowing in the breeze, green eyes narrowed, a scowl across his mouth, and Bodie, tall and broad with eyes so blue the Spanish and French women were queuing up to gaze into them. The men stepped forward.

"You two men have been chosen to undertake a special mission." Sharpe noted that neither man showed any interest in his words. He handed an oilskin package to Doyle.

"These are your orders; they are simple and to the point. Get to London as soon as you can, find Lord Harwood and hand him this package. You leave now!"

The two men looked at each other and moved away from their colleagues. They collected their meagre belongings and shook hands with their commander. Harper exchanged a few words with them, which made both men laugh.

They turned away and began their long trek towards London, and home.

"What do you reckon this is about?" asked Bodie.

They were walking briskly along a well worn track, trying to guess the contents of the package.

"Dunno. Don't care. I'm goin' 'ome and that's all that counts for me," replied Doyle. "What about you?"

Bodie thought carefully before answering.

"All I know is fighting. No family that cares whether I live or die. No woman keeping a bed warm for me, or not one that I care about leastways," said Bodie. "I'll see what happens when we get back to London." He stared at the dishevelled man beside him." We could stick together. We're a good team. Bound to be something we can do. What about regular army?"

Doyle considered the suggestion for a second before a scowl formed on his face.

"Er no! I've 'ad more than enough of this. Don't like takin' orders at the best of times. Got enough marks across me back to prove that. If it 'adn't been for Harper, I'd 'ave been dead by now. He stopped the last floggin' and dragged me over to Sharpe. He'd been watchin' me for a while. Saw my shootin' and decided the South Essex could use me. Been there ever since."

Bodie sniffed. "Yeah. Harper made me an offer I couldn't refuse. Get out of Lady Alice and her bed there and then or risk his Lordship finding us. Didn't even hear Harper come into her room. Man's a cat despite his size! He almost threw me out of the window. Jus' made it though. Good job the old man didn't look out of the window!. Too busy shouting at his missus. There was Harper holding my rifle and clothes, and me, arse on show to all, trying to get a foot in me boots!" Bodie smiled to himself. "They were the good days . . . "

The two men hurried on in companionable silence. The sun rose in the sky, promising another balmy day. It was early November, and France was still basking in unseasonable late autumn warmth. The soft breeze kept the heat at bay, and danced among the tall grass. Away from the camp and its unwritten regulations on dress, Doyle had already undone the heavy green jacket, prized among fighting men as an indication as 'the best of the best', and now divested himself of the garment entirely.

Bodie glanced at his half naked cohort. "Doyle, you're a prime target for anyone who wants to take a shot at us. You'll blend in wearing the green."

Doyle groaned but realised the sense of the comment. Bending down to rummage in his backpack for an undershirt, the bullet missed him by a hairs breadth.

Both men dived into the ditch that ran alongside the track. Bodie peered over the lip of the bank.

"He's up in those rocks. Watch for the muzzle flash. I'll draw him out."

He crawled away on his belly, keeping his head down. Doyle primed and loaded his rifle, and taking steady aim, waited for his partner to make his move. Bodie suddenly broke cover and sprinted back along the track to where Doyle was hiding. The sniper, seeing he was in the wrong position for a kill, loosed a shot, more in desperation than thought, which merely kicked up dust as it went into the ground. Doyle, in a fluid movement that was over in seconds stood, took aim and fired,. He heard a cry and saw a body tumble down the rock face and come to rest with a sickening thud. He neither knew nor cared if their assailant was still alive; he was beside himself with anger at Bodie's rash decision to run towards him.

"You fool," he shouted, "Running towards me, I could have killed you. What if I'd misjudged the shot?"

Bodie dusted himself off and grinned at the angry young man.

"Doyle . . . you never miss. Any way he had to show himself to get a shot off at me, so it was easier for you. Shall we go and see who doesn't like us?" Bodie made his way over towards the base of the rocks.

"What if there are others?" queried Doyle.

Bodie squinted up at the sniper's nest. "No, we'd be dead by now if there were. He's alone."

They rolled the body over. Doyle gave a low whistle. "He's one of ours! What's that about then?"

Bodie was busy going through the man's pockets. Carefully he pulled out a piece of paper, crumpled and now bloodstained. Unfolding it, he read through the paper. Silently he handed it to Doyle.

"Oh very nice! We fight for King and Country get picked for a special mission, and now someone doesn't want us to get 'ome. Don't even know what I got picked for anyway," he grumbled.

Bodie ruffled his partner's curly hair. "Never mind my son, at least we know where we're going, and now we know someone doesn't want us to get there."

Both men spent the rest of the day hurrying through the countryside. They remained alert and watchful, never letting their guard drop. They skirted round some villages, climbing up into the hills to avoid any watchful eyes. The blistering pace they set themselves began to take its toll but as nothing more had given them cause for alarm, by early evening they decided to find somewhere to camp. Coming to the top of a steep hill, they were greeted by the sight of a small village.

"Bound to be a barn somewhere. We could kip there overnight. Maybe steal a couple of eggs for breakfast," said Bodie.

Doyle merely smiled. "Oh I think we can do better than that – that's Longjumeau, and they don't like Napoleon any more than we do. A year or so ago, he butchered most of the men folk for aiding English Regulars. I'm pretty sure we'll find something better than a barn and some eggs."

Bodie arched a well formed brow.

"Grieving women huh! I can show comfort in many ways, Doyle, many ways!"

Ray Doyle laughed quietly at his friend's comment.

"Me too, mate," he agreed.

Silently they made their way towards the first building. It was a tiny cottage, and even from a distance the men caught the scent of cooking. Stealthily they approached, trying to see who lived there. Crouching underneath a window frame, Doyle slowly lifted the corner of a heavy sack curtain and looked in.

The scene of domesticity that greeted him could have been out of a well to do home. The inside of the room was spotless, a black soup kettle hung suspended over an open fire. On the table were loaves, still warm from the smell of them, fruit, cheese and bottles of beer. Around the fire, stirring the pot was a middle aged woman, handsome still, but obviously fallen on hard times. Her dress was neatly patched, and her shawl showed signs of darning.

A curtain dividing the room opened and a tall, dark haired girl entered, carrying some firewood. "Maman, I've finished the tasks for the day. That soup smells lovely. Here, sit down, and let me finish supper.

The woman straightened up and smiled at her daughter.

Cecile, you are a godsend. I don't know what I'd do without you. It's been horrible since your father and brother were killed. We've barely any money, and I fear for your future. If we could get to England it would help. My brother would take us in, I know."

Cecile put down her burdens and hugged her mother.

"Maybe next year Maman. We'll go next year." The women sat down at the table.

Doyle let the rough sacking fall. He nodded briefly at Bodie, who had also overheard the conversation. Together the men walked round to the front and knocked gently on the rickety door.

They heard heavy bolts being drawn back, and the door opened slightly. The mother peered out fearfully.

"What is it you want? Honest folk are locking up for the night." She glanced over their shoulders and into the dusk.

Doyle explained, in halting French who they were, and asked if she could spare some food and water. The woman, her suspicions allayed somewhat, opened the door wider. She took a look at their dusty uniforms and a smile touched her mouth.

"Chosen Men," she whispered. "I've heard of you. My husband told me of your bravery, and said we were to help any English in the green. Come in, and quickly. Not everyone in this village looks upon you as friends."

They slipped inside the room and the door was bolted firmly behind them. She busied herself putting extra plates on the table.

Bodie and Doyle sat down grateful for the opportunity to rest. She cut large chunks of bread and cheese and pushed it across to the men. They ate hungrily; she got up from the table and returned with two bowls of fragrant soup, heavy with vegetables and herbs. Cecile was nowhere to be seen. Bodie spoke to her.

"Madame, we know you have a daughter. We mean you no harm. Please call her so she may eat her meal too."

She looked at the two young men and beckoned silently to the curtain. Shyly the young woman came out. "My daughter, Cecile. I am Madame Fournier."

Bodie gallantly rose from the table and gestured for the ladies to join them. Doyle introduced himself and Bodie to them. The meal continued in silence, Cecile still rather wary of the two soldiers who her mother had welcomed into the home.

Once the meal was finished and the dishes cleared up Doyle asked if there was an outhouse they could use to rest. Madam Fournier looked askance at the two young men.

"You can sleep in here. The outhouse is in dire need of repair and if it rains, you will get soaked. Take our beds for the night. It's no matter."

Doyle shook his head.

"Madame. We don't know if we were seen entering your home. No need to give prying eyes any more information than necessary. We'll be fine in the outhouse. It won't rain tonight."

The older woman smiled gratefully at the soldier, and showed both of them to the outhouse. Her daughter followed, with blankets and a pitcher of water.

Both men settled themselves in the clean straw. Through the damaged roof the stars shone in a cloudless sky. It was so quiet. Bodie yawned noisily.

"We could have slept in a decent bed," he grumbled. "Might even have had some female company."

Doyle eyed his companion and sighed heavily.

"Do you ever think of anything other than fornicating? Those women gave us food and shelter, and all you can think about is getting your leg over."

Bodie grinned. "Perks of being tall, good looking and in uniform," he said saucily.

Doyle groaned, rolled over and tried to sleep.

The men were woken some hours later by shouting and screaming. They leapt to their feet, and grabbed their weapons. Peering round the door, they were met with a vision from hell.

The cottage was ablaze, flames shooting into the night sky. Three people were outside standing by the fence, while others stood further back. The atmosphere was tense. Madame Fournier stood at the gate, while a younger woman screamed in her face.

"How could you Anne! Helping the English! Haven't we lost enough already by such actions? We said no more and yet you carry on without a care for us. I watched soldiers murder my father and brothers for helping the English. We said no more Madame. Where are they? They will fetch good money. The Englishman will pay well for stopping them reaching England."

Her words were lost as the cottage fell in on itself. Shards of burning wood shot into the air, ruby red, hissing and spitting. Madam Fournier drew herself up and shouted back at the woman.

"I lost my husband and son too! But if we don't help we are as bad as those who murder women and children in the name of France. Shame on you Mireille, for dealing with the devil . . . I will not tell you where they are."

Any further conversation was cut short, by the approach of two men on horseback. They reined in the animals and spoke tersely to the group of villagers.

"The English soldiers! Where are they?" He pointed a finger at Madame Fournier."You gave them food madam. Did it not occur to you to report their presence to the village elders? They are wanted men, trying to reach England with information detrimental to France. Some of us within the English forces feel working with Napoleon is the right thing to do."

Hidden behind the outhouse door, Bodie and Doyle exchanged glances. At least they now knew the reason behind yesterday's incident. Their observation was disturbed by a rustling noise behind them. Wheeling round, muskets at the ready, they watched as a trapdoor, hidden by the straw on the floor, began to rise.

Slowly Cecile's frightened face appeared.

"How on earth . . . " began Bodie.

"There's a trapdoor in the cottage. It leads under the house to here. We used it for the soldiers," Cecile explained.

The two men helped her through the door, before they could speak, there was further commotion outside, and the sound of a shot rang out.

Swiftly Bodie ran to the door. He looked out to see the body of Madame Fournier on the ground, a small entry wound between her eyes. He looked up to see the English man holding a smoking flintlock pistol.

"Just so you all know. Your future lies with staying loyal to Napoleon. There are influential men in London who are not afraid to support him. Men who think Napoleon is destined for greater glories. and that our countries should be united.. Do not think the war is over. Madame was mistaken in her thinking, and she has paid for it." His horse began to dance, spooked by the noise of the fire. He reined it in and shouted again. "Where is the daughter? Bring her to me."

There crowd fell silent. Mireille stepped forward.

"There was no one else in the house. Madame was going to send her to England – I think she might have left."

The English man looked down at her with cold eyes.

"I hope so mademoiselle, for your sake. It wouldn't do for news of our involvement to get out." He called across to his companion.

"Mathers. Let's get a move on; they can't have got too far. They're on foot. We must stop them reaching England."

The men rode off into the early morning light, leaving the villagers standing around. Some were weeping, others tried to put out the fire, a few moved menacingly towards Mireille and her friends.

Bodie motioned to Doyle.

"We need to move, now. The one who's put a price on our heads is Jack Ryder – he's a soldier of fortune and will fight for whoever pays the most. I knew him once."

Doyle looked enquiringly at his partner. Despite being friends for several years, he only knew a fragment of Bodie's history. One look at the granite set of his jaw persuaded Doyle this was not the time to enquire further. He jabbed a finger towards Cecile, who was sobbing quietly.

"We can't leave her," he muttered." They'll do for her as soon as they realise she's alive."

Bodie nodded in agreement, but added quietly, "She will slow us down Doyle. Remember that before you offer to help."

Cecile spoke up.

"I have an uncle in London. My mother was English. We were going to leave Longjumeau next year and make our way there. My mother didn't want to stay here and be reminded of happier times. We used to own the manor house. Once the French found out we were helping English soldiers, they hounded us out, killed my father and brother along with twenty other men, and burnt the house."

Doyle looked at the young woman, trying to gauge her determination. He replied to her.

"We're trying to get to London ourselves. We know that there are men, soldiers of fortune, helping the French, who will try to stop us. Yesterday we killed one of them. Staying with us will be dangerous. That man outside, he will stop at nothing to kill us. If you come along with us, we cannot promise you won't end up dead or as his captive. It would be better if we got you to Paris and left you there. You should be able to find work."

Cecile's blue eyes flashed angrily.

"Leave me! To do what Mr Doyle? Earn my living on my back?" She tossed her head defiantly. "I'd rather stay here and take my chances with the likes of Mireille Sevigny. At least I know who my enemies are."

Doyle placed his hand on the woman's arm.

"I'm sorry mademoiselle, I meant no offence. I was trying to think of a way to keep you safe,"

Cecile shook her head.

"I have to go with you. Once I get to London I will be safe. Anyway my uncle needs to know what happened to his sister. I have his name and address – Lord Ramsay of Cadogan Square."

The two men exchanged glances.

"You move in rarefied circles mademoiselle," remarked Bodie. "Lord Ramsay has the ear of some of the most powerful people in the country."

Cecile shrugged her shoulders.

"It's of no matter. I hope he will look after me. He promised Maman when we got to England we could live with him."

The matter apparently settled, Bodie and Doyle checked the outhouse thoroughly for anything that could be useful. Gathering rope and a knife, they made their way to the window and, checking no one was around all three slipped quietly away to the nearby woods.

They walked quickly through the wood, the morning sunlight dappling the ground. It was strangely silent – no bird song or the rustling of small animals. Bodie and Doyle were on full alert, constantly sweeping the area for signs of Jack Ryder or any other unfriendly soul. Cecile kept her head down and didn't say a word.

They travelled all day, only stopping for a break to drink or rest a few minutes. Cecile was exhausted and began to fall behind. Each time she slowed, Bodie or Doyle appeared at her side, took her hand and encouraged her to walk on. "It's not far" . . ."just little longer" . . . "We'll rest soon".

Early evening, Doyle called across to his partner, some three yards behind.

"Bodie," he called softly, "we're being followed, and have been for the last half hour."

Bodie briefly nodded.

"Yeah. Two men, on horseback. I think it's Jack Ryder. We'll set up camp and let him come to us."

"What about Cecile? It was a mistake bringing her along. She's slowing us down."

Cecile raised her head at hearing her name.

"Mr Doyle, just tell me what to do. I'm not afraid and I have a vested interest in staying alive, as do you."

Doyle beckoned to her and put his arm around her shoulders. He whispered in her ear, as they hurried along the track. To anyone watching it looked like a brief lovers' tryst.

They walked on for a while longer, before coming to a small clearing. Bodie eased his back pack from his broad shoulders and hunkered down. Doyle followed him, while Cecile collapsed with apparent exhaustion.

Quickly Bodie fashioned a meagre fire, while Doyle pulled some bread from his bag. The three of them sat around silently and ate the makeshift meal. Without further ado, they each rolled out a blanket and settled for sleep,

On a hill Jack Ryder observed the scene through a spyglass.

He was certain they had not seen him and thought them an easy target.

He swept the spyglass slowly across the scene.

"They have the girl with them. They'll be so busy defending her honour, they won't stand a chance. Surprise is of the essence. In and out quickly. By all that's sacred . . ."

He held the glass firmly and stared through it for some while. He sat back in the saddle, relaxed and strangely happy.

"Well, well, well," he laughed softly. "It is Bodie, as I live and breathe. I thought Leclerc had made a mistake. I'll enjoy killing him . . .slowly."

Mathers looked at the Englishman. He had no doubt Bodie would suffer if Ryder got hold of him. He'd watched Ryder at work in the past, and had sometimes left when the man had become too inventive with his blade.

"Ryder, make sure we get the package first. LeClerc will pay much for this information, so let's get the job done before you take your pleasure."

Jack Ryder turned abruptly to face his companion. The look on his face was murderous.

"Don't ever tell me my job," he said. "Bodie is my perk of this job – you can take the package back to LeClerc. I'll be busy for a while, with Mr Bodie. The girl is yours if you want. The other man is mine."

Mathers held his tongue, judging it to be the sensible option.

Around the fire, Bodie, Doyle and Cecile huddled under their thin blankets trying to keep warm. Despite appearances none of them slept. Doyle, his senses stretched to breaking point, fought the desire to turn around and try to see what was happening. Bodie lay there quiet and watchful yet fully alert and waiting for Ryder's move. Cecile watched both men, coiled and ready, waiting for action.

It was swift and savage when it came. Ryder, assuming they had no idea of his presence, made little attempt to hide his presence. He rode into the makeshift camp, sword ready, with a view to disabling Bodie before taking his time to kill him. He was unprepared when Bodie leapt to his feet and grasped the bridle of Ryder's horse, forcing it to stumble and Ryder to lose balance and momentum. The two men rolled around on the ground locked in a titanic struggle for life. Doyle, pushing Cecile out of harm's way, went after Mathers.

With horses wheeling around and neighing, stamping the hard ground with their hooves, it was a difficult and close fought skirmish. Almost in as much danger has being stamped on by the frightened animals as they were from the flashing blades, all four men fought to stay alive.

Bodie, gaining the upper hand scrabbled around for his knife while keeping a choke hold on Ryder. For his part, Ryder thrashed around, pinned underneath the big man, but inflamed by his anger, began to gain momentum, and dislodge Bodie.

Doyle, drew his weapon on Mathers. Swords clanged and sparked as the two of them circled each other, lunging out, trying to inflict a fatal blow. Mathers was taller and managed to manoeuvre Doyle so he was caught between a large boulder and Mather's sword.

The situation began to look grim. Both the Chosen Men were tired, having walked all day and hardly slept. Bodie had lost his advantage over Ryder and once again the two men were pummelling each other viciously and without mercy.

Doyle, as mercurial as the wind, dropped to his knees and rolled forward, using his body weight to topple Mathers. As he went crashing down, his sword caught Doyle on the shoulder, slicing through the heavy green jacket. It was the last thing he did, as Doyle rolled back and thrust his sword deep into the man's torso.

The attack might have gone on longer had not Cecile, with great presence of mind found Bodie's flintlock and shot Ryder as he tried to choke the life out of Bodie, Ryder's broad back offering her a perfect target, He keeled over on top of the Chosen Man, who lay there exhausted, almost unable to push the heavy man away from him.

Slowly the threesome regained their breath and surveyed the aftermath. Both the English mercenaries lay dead, their blood soaking into the ground where they lay. Bodie sat there taking in great gulps of air and rubbing his bruised throat. Cecile threw his pistol at him and sank to her knees hardly able to contemplate what she had done. Doyle sat there, back against the boulder, eyes closed, and quiet.

After a few minutes, Bodie spoke, his voice low and raw.

"Think that's it now. We'll be safe; they were following us most of yesterday, so I don't suppose anyone will be looking for them yet."

Doyle nodded in agreement, eyes still tightly closed.

"Cecile, thank you for what you did," said Bodie.

The woman looked at him, her expression a mixture of self loathing and fear.

"I've never killed before. I feel dirty," she said.

Doyle opened his eyes and looked across at her.

"That's how it should be," he said simply. "That way you know it's a job for King and Country. You do it for the right reasons."

He yawned and winced slightly. Slipping off his green jacket, he pushed his fingers through the tear made by Mathers' sword.

"Could be worse I 'spose," he said. He pulled the jacket round his shoulders – the night had chilled, and the sweat from his earlier exertion had begun to dry, making him feel cold. He glanced at Bodie.

"Get some sleep shall we, what's left of the night?" The big man smiled tiredly.

"Might as well mate."

Bodie and Cecile slept late into the morning, only waking when the sun was high. It was another scorching day already. Doyle was nowhere to be seen. However, Ryder and Mather's horses stood peacefully under a tree, unsaddled and none the worse for their ordeal during the night.

Bodie rose, limbs stiff and bruised. He cursed himself quietly for waking so late. They wouldn't get far today. However he knew they couldn't keep up the relentless pace they had set themselves, and the trouble of the previous evening had taken its toll on them. He hated delay and inaction, but saw the sense in the enforced rest.

Cecile watched him uncurl and stretch, taking in the hard muscles working under the linen shirt. He looked down at her and smiled.

"I'm going to find Doyle. He won't be far away. Coming?"

He offered her a hand as she stood, smoothing down her grubby dress and brushing the dust from herself.

Together they began to walk towards a small copse of trees. As they neared, they found Doyle's jacket and breeches spread out on a rock, steam gently wafting off the garments.

"It's damp," she exclaimed. "Mr Doyle washes his own clothes?"

Bodie laughed at her.

"In our line of work, you keep as clean as possible; wounds heal better if you're not covering them with dirty clothes. It's a luxury we take when we can find it. I thought there might be a small stream or lake here, and it's a sensible thing to do. Please dispense with the formalities we're just Bodie and Doyle"

Together they made their way down to the bank. Bodie was right – it was small lake, the water crystal clear and sparkling in the sun.

He stood up and divested himself of his own clothes so quickly the young woman barely had time to register. Tall and proud he walked into the lake, dragging the dirty garments behind him. After a few minutes of dunking them in and out the water, he found a smooth boulder and began to knead away at the cloth, watching as rivulets of grimy water ran out of his jacket.

Cecile was completely overcome with embarrassment. She realised she was staring hard at the burly man, so covered her eyes with her hands. She sat there for a few minutes.

"No peepin'," came a voice from above her.

She turned and looked upwards, squinting into the sun. Doyle stood above her, naked as the day he was born and laughing at her discomfort.

"I do not peep, Mr Doyle, but neither am I used to seeing two naked men, apparently without shame, parading themselves in front of me."

Doyle who was as comfortable with his body whether it was clothed or not, jumped down to sit beside her. She screwed up her eyes as tightly as possible, in order to save her dignity.

"Doyle, please!"

He looked at the young woman, her hair dusty and dull, her skin grubby. Without further ado, he scooped her up and threw her into the lake, fully clothed, before diving in after her.

Cecile came to the surface gasping and choking.

"You, you imbecile!" she screamed. "Look what you've done!"

"Yes," agreed Doyle, "I seem to have found a very pretty girl under all that dirt. Who'd have thought it!"

Bodie, now finished with his own ablutions, stepped into the water again and swam over.

"Cecile, do you honestly think we would take advantage of you?" he asked kindly. "We could have had you last night if we wanted to. Look upon this as a chance to clean up." With that he swam off, luxuriating in the feel of the water on his aching body.

Cecile, glowing hotly with mortification, shouted after him

"Bodie, do I take it then you don't find me desirable? Or should I be thankful I wasn't 'had' by two of the Chosen Men."

Doyle laughed from across the lake.

"They don't call us Chosen Men for nothing," he said.

By early afternoon all three of them were clean and dry, and some degree of cordiality had been resumed. Doyle sat cleaning his musket wiping and greasing the weapon until he was satisfied it was free of grit and dirt. Bodie had tended to the horses and reset his pistol. Cecile had made a rabbit stew from two animals Doyle had trapped earlier in the day. She carried a bowl over to him and set it down. Doyle, dressed only in breeches had finished his gun cleaning, and was sitting against a rock, eyes closed, seemingly dozing in the sun.

She stood over him, taking in the dark hair covering his chest and belly, and the long slender limbs; He was narrow hipped, the clean breeches fitting like a glove. Without opening his eyes he spoke to her.

"Apologies if I was unduly rude earlier. I never meant to embarrass you mademoiselle." He leant forward and Cecile gasped as she caught sight of the lash marks on his back and the cut from Mather's' sword,. Doyle laughed without humour at her expression.

"I'm not a good soldier mademoiselle. I don't take kindly to orders, and I don't consider others are better than me just because of birth or rank. But I'm a bloody good shot and proud to be in the South Essex, wearin' the green jacket."

He reached out for the bowl of stew and began to eat.

Cecile walked away from him and crossed to where Bodie sat. She ladled out another bowl and passed it across.

"Bodie," she began, "the cut on Doyle's shoulder is weeping and has reddened. It needs attention."

Bodie pursed his lips.

"We've nothing in the way of medicines here. We didn't expect to encounter such setbacks.

Cecile said nothing, but walked off into the woodland.

"Time we were going mate," called Bodie. "We've spent too much time here today. We'll be lucky to make the outskirts of Paris tonight."

"We've got the horses, that'll help some," replied Doyle. "We'll need to find some other clothes though. Won't look good us wanderin' through Paris dressed like this." He pointed to the much prized green jacket.

Bodie nodded in agreement,

"Dare say we'll find something along the road," he replied. "Where's Cecile, We should move soon"

As if she'd been listening Cecile reappeared from the woodlands, carrying a bunch of lavender. Without speaking, she began to pound the flower heads into a paste. The scent rose sweetly into the air. Finally she stood up and tore a strip of material from her dress. She spread the scented oily paste onto the material, and without further ado, fashioned a makeshift dressing which she tied round Doyle's wounded shoulder.

"That should help with the healing," she said. "Maman taught me about the different herbs and flowers and how they could be used for healing."

Doyle sniffed at the dressing.

"Smell's funny," was the caustic response, "but thank you."

It was after three before the small group set off. The horses proved docile and friendly, nickering gently as they carried their burdens. Bodie and Cecile rode together, while Doyle followed up behind.

The countryside began to give way to the occasional small holding. Everywhere seemed to be deserted. Farms had been left to rack and ruin, animals run off or taken by the fleeing French forces desperate for food.

After three hours in the saddle, they stopped at a deserted hamlet. The half dozen or so houses were empty, mostly devoid of anything remotely human. Many of them were falling apart, all had dilapidated roofs and no doors. Wearily Bodie dismounted, still aching from the fight with Jack Ryder.

"I'm not used to sitting on a horse for ages," he muttered. "I'm bruised enough without being bumped around on such a beast." He gallantly helped Cecile down to the ground.

Doyle dismounted in one fluid movement, none the worse for his ride."

"Bodie, it beats walking mate. Anyway I used to work with horses. Lovely animals." He patted his steed lightly on its nose, and was rewarded with a gentle wicker into his curly hair.

They entered the first house. It was empty and dirty. The owners had taken everything when they left. It was the same story in the next couple of places they checked. Doyle kicked a stone along the dusty road.

It was Cecile who struck lucky. She staggered into the daylight carrying an assortment of clothing.

"Here, I found these. They will fit you, no?" She held up some cotton shirts, clean and mended, but still serviceable. She threw them across to the men. Bodie slipped one of the shirts over his head and wrinkled his nose – the bottom of the shirt hung mid way down his belly, and the sleeves strained to cover his muscular arms. Doyle pulled over his head, the first shirt he picked up – it looked as if it had been made for him.

They camped at the hamlet overnight, staying in the cottage where Cecile had found the clothes. The three of them sat round, comfortable with each other, talking quietly and watching the moon rise. For the first time in many weeks, the night air had a chill to it. Like many others, they had been lulled by the late summer warmth, and were ill prepared for the sharp wind which blew through the deserted village.

By three the following morning, the wind had risen, and a thin mist swirled around. Doyle woke up, stiff and chilled to the bone, his shoulder painful. The small fire had gone out, and he noted how damp it had become. He took his blanket and gently laid it across Cecile, so she at least would not feel the sat back down and tried to get back to sleep. He must have dozed off, because he was awakened by Bodie shaking him gently. Cecile was trying to relight the fire.

"C'mon mate, it's too bloody cold to play the gentleman. We need to keep ourselves warm." He half carried Doyle and dropped him unceremoniously on the ground next to Cecile. He poked around in a large trunk and found some ratty old cloaks. He covered his partner with them and motioned for Cecile to lie next to Doyle. Bodie then laid down the other side of the woman, and pulled the remaining blankets over them. Huddled together, they tried to sleep, leaching warmth from each other.

The following day they reached the outskirts of Paris. The aftermath of the war had left the population cold, hungry and miserable. No one gave a second glance to the two men, accompanying a heavily pregnant woman through the streets. They reached the far side of the city and joined the long line of people leaving for the coastal roads. Shuffling slowly to the head of the queue, they were greeted tersely, by a member of the city's unofficial police force.

"Where are you bound?" the pompous little man asked Bodie.

"I'm taking my sister and her husband to Calais. We have relations there and we want the child to grow up among family."

Cecile began to moan and hold her tummy. Doyle looked anxiously at her, and began to rub her back. She moaned again.

The official looked at the dishevelled group.

"Oh get along with you. There's barely enough food for us Parisians without extra mouths to feed." He waved them through.

They plodded slowly out of the city gates and on to the coastal road. After a few miles, when the city was behind them, and the open road empty, Cecile pulled out the bundle of sacking that she'd used to effect her 'pregnancy' and threw it to the ground.

"Now we can make haste," she said. "I can walk faster without that weight around me." She strode off into the approaching twilight.

Bodie caught Doyle by the sleeve.

"We'll be in Calais in a few days. We'll need a boat. Any ideas?"

Doyle shook his head.

"Not my strong point. Spent most of the crossing with my 'ead over the side."

Bodie laughed softly.

"We'll find a captain who'll turn a blind eye to some stowaways. Plenty will for a price."

Doyle stared disbelievingly at his friend.

"Oh well that's alright then," he said with a hint of sarcasm. "Bodie, we have no money. We haven't been paid for three months. We've nothing to sell. How do you suppose we'll get money to pay off a captain?"

Bodie stared at Doyle's Baker rifle – a much prized possession. Doyle just shook his head.

"No," he said quietly. "I've never owned much, but this is mine, and will stay so." He caressed the weapon, almost lovingly.

Cecile was some way ahead, and turned round to see the men in conversation.

"Come on. Just a few more miles tonight and then we can rest." She was almost dancing with excitement.

Sighing, the two men trotted after her.

The next few days passed with a monotonous routine. They'd walk as long as they could, sleep for a few hours and then walk again. Food was in short supply, although Doyle seemed quite content to eat berries and fruit he found on the way. Once or twice they were lucky enough to hitch a ride on a passing wagon.

Their nights were spent huddled together for warmth, as the heat wave had finally broken, causing a chill to fall once the sun set. Conversation faltered as they all dealt with their own thoughts.

Bodie, increasingly irritated at the vagueness of their mission, found the enforced inaction hard to deal with. He was a fighting man, and apart from his encounter with Jack Ryder, had done little else physically, and was wound tighter than a spring. He sometimes pondered on his return home, thinking only in terms of the number of women he could bed, and persuade to keep him. He hoped that he and Doyle would remain friends . . .

Doyle was also concerned with his return to England. He knew that without a purpose in his life, he would end up on the wrong side of the law. Family life was one thing he desired more than anything else, as there had been no stability in his own. A drunken father who regularly beat him and a mother too scared to stop it. A dreamer by nature, he occasionally watched Cecile through narrowed green eyes, just wondering . . .

Cecile was busy with thoughts of her own. Alone and penniless, she was under no illusion as to her future. If her uncle would take her in, she might be allowed to live as a governess to his children. Her prospects for a good marriage were practically nonexistent. However she did have one secret . . .

Ten days later they arrived back in London, thanks in part to Cecile. Once they reached Calais, finding a boat had been easy. Cecile produced a small, perfectly formed pearl which had paid their way across the English Channel. It was only when they were nearing the English coast line, that she confided to Bodie and Doyle that she had a number of pearls and small gemstones sewn into her dress.

"Maman said it was the safest way of carrying money," she explained. She smiled sadly, "there aren't many left now."

They had reached London in record time, thanks to a friendly wagon driver. He was a mail delivery man, and made the run from London to Dover twice a week. He had a small coach and a good team of horses. The journey had been bumpy but fast, and very welcome after the days spent walking.

That morning, they had taken Cecile to her uncle's house, where to her surprise, her appearance was warmly welcomed. The two men had then continued on their own, ever conscious of the strange mission entrusted to them.

Now they were sitting in the hallway of Lord Harwood's home. Every now and then, footmen scurried by scarcely bothering to hide their disgust at the scruffy men. Two maids walked by, staring haughtily at them as if they had no right to be given house room.

Bodie turned on a dazzling smile as another maid swept by, carrying a heavy tray. He stood up and called to her.

"Let me take that. It's far too heavy for such a delicate creature."

The girl stopped in her tracks.

"I don't need any help thank you, especially from such a grubby looking scoundrel as you." With that she tossed her head and carried on her way.

Bodie sat back down, muttering darkly to himself. Doyle gave a tired smile.

"Don't take it to heart mate. Have you seen what we look like? I'm surprised they didn't run us off the premises as soon as possible.

Bodie turned around and caught sight of himself in the large glittering mirror. He had to admit Doyle was right. He was normally well turned out considering the circumstances of his life, but the sight that he saw in the mirror was beyond belief.

A darkly bearded face stared back at him. Red rimmed eyes and grey skin, hair lank and in need of a good wash completed the picture. His green jacket was muddy, the silver buttons tarnished with grime. He didn't dare look at his breeches and boots.

Doyle could match him in kind. He was slouched in the chair, jacket crumpled and damp. As always half the buttons were undone, his white undershirt, grey with dust and sweat. His curly hair and full beard hid his features. Only the green eyes, tired and dull gave a hint of life.

Sitting there fatigued and uncomfortable, both men were suddenly shaken from their lethargy as a door opened and two men strode into the hall.

Lord Harwood regarded the solders with a critical eye. He took in their dreadful appearance, somewhat at odds with the air of assertiveness surrounding them, despite their obvious tiredness.

"So you're Wellington's Chosen Men are you?" he asked thoughtfully. "Worked with Major Sharpe too?"

Doyle answered for them both.,

"Sir. We are from the South Essex Regiment, commanded by Major Sharpe – within that regiment we are known as the Chosen Men."

"He chose well," replied his lordship. "The package you've delivered has given us some vital information that will help us following the surrender of Napoleon. I understand you aren't privy to its contents?"

Both men shook their heads.

Harwood seemed to come to a decision. Speaking quietly with his colleague, he reached for a rope and gave a sharp tug. Almost instantly two servants arrived, one being the haughty little maid from earlier.

"Martha. Run baths for these two gentlemen. Get those uniforms clean and pressed. Tell Alice to prepare some food for them too. Jonas, go into Savile Row and purchase new boots and breeches. They are attending the dinner here tonight, and will be staying as our guests. Look lively," he added as Martha stood there opened mouthed.

Bode and Doyle also stood there bewildered. They were unused to such kindness being shown towards them and weren't sure how to react.

Harwood sensed their puzzlement and smiled at them

"Gentlemen. Let's attend to your basic needs first, and then we will talk again. I'm sure you will be happier once you've eaten and rested. Jonas, show them to the guest room on the second floor. Make sure they have everything they need, and aren't disturbed." He looked at Bodie and Doyle again. "Dinner is at eight."

By seven that evening, the change in the two men was remarkable. Bodie, his beard gone, and looking debonair and handsome in the new clothes, was wrestling with the new boots..

"Bit of a tight fit," he grunted as he pulled them on.

"Yeah but yer old ones were falling apart at the seams," replied Doyle. He too was clean shaven, and dressed in the freshly laundered green jacket. As ever, the top button was undone, the dark chest hair just visible. He looked worried.

Bodie cocked an eye at him.

"What's eatin' you then?"

"Don't fancy sittin' with fancy folk. Makes me feel uncomfortable. Never been anywhere as fine as this. Don't want to make a fool of meself."

Bodie grimaced as his foot finally worked its way into the boot.

"Well mate, they've got a lot to thank us for so jus' remember that. Anyway, follow my lead – I've had some experience of good livin'."

"Oh yeah! When was that – we've been stuck in France for three years."

Bodie gave his most enigmatic smile.

"Oh Doyle, the odd day off here and there, I learnt a lot from those fine French ladies, as well as taught them a few things too." The wistful look on his face answered Doyle's many questions!

At eight there was a knock on the door. Doyle opened it to find a beautiful young woman standing there. She was wearing a dress of pale mauve silk, cut low across her bosom. Small diamond pins glittered in her hair.

"Cecile!"

She laughed happily at the look on his face.

"My uncle said I could come and get you both. Oh Doyle, he says I can stay with him. He was very close to Maman and showed me letters from her. I'm so very happy."

The three of them made their way downstairs. The house was alive with people, laughing and chatting. Servants carried trays of drinks through the throng. At the sight of the two soldiers, conversation died away to be replaced with a respectful silence. Lord Harwood addressed his guests.

"Ladies and gentlemen. May I introduce William Bodie and Raymond Doyle, Chosen Men from the South Essex Regiment? Thanks to these two gentlemen, we now know the ringleaders of the plot to murder the Prime Minister and King, in order to create a new alliance with Napoleon."

The room was filled with murmurs and low comment. Then a solitary clapping began, to be picked up and carried through the guests. Bodie bowed his head in acknowledgement, while Doyle stared ahead, a small smile lighting up his face.

The dinner was excellent and the atmosphere relaxed and friendly. Both men were introduced to Cecile's uncle. Lord Ramsay thanked them for bringing his niece to safety. Doyle gently remarked how brave his sister had been in the face of her accusers.

"Anne lived her life as she wanted. When she married Xavier Fournier, I'd never seen her happier. Once the war took hold, I tried to make Xavier see how dangerous it was for them, or at least allow me to take Cecile back to London. They lived a quiet life until the war, and then they got involved in helping the English. It is to their credit that the whole village backed them, until that fateful day when the French murdered many of the men folk. Anne lost her husband and son but still continued to help, even when some of the villagers turned against her. She lost her home, her status, but not her belief. Cecile is so like her mother, and through you and your friend she now has a chance to rebuild her life.".

The simple statement of fact from the kindly man left Doyle quiet and subdued.

Later that evening, Lord Harwood 'rescued' the two men from some over eager matrons, anxious to make the acquaintance of such brave men; men who were obviously destined for greater things, given the apparent patronage by Lord Harwood.

"Bodie, Doyle, please come with me. Ladies," he said noting their reproachful looks, "these men still have work to do before they are released into your tender mercies!"

They followed the man into his study, noting his shoulders shaking with laughter."

"I thought you might appreciate the break," he chortled. "Lady Garrow has two particularly unattractive daughters, and I think she sees you as potential husbands for them! Now, tomorrow I'd like you to meet a couple of people and discuss further this business of apprehending the ringleaders. After that you are free to rejoin your regiment, or to find other work. I will help as much as I can. I've friends who may have openings for men such as you."

Bodie cleared his throat.

"Thank you for your help and kindness. May I ask a question?"

Lord Harwood nodded.

"Why are you doing this for us? We are soldiers, pure and simple. Neither of us is high born, yet you welcome us into your home, treat us akin to long lost family. I've no wish to offend my lord, but what exactly do you want from us?"

Harwood scrutinised both men slowly.

"Bodie, I wish I could say more, but all I'll ask is that you wait until tomorrow."

Bodie looked enquiringly at Doyle, who nodded slightly.

"With your blessing, Bodie and I must discuss this lord," replied Doyle. "Please excuse us for a while. A walk in the park will clear our heads, and allow us to think about your offer."

With that, the soldiers left the study.

Bodie hurried after his companion.

"Have you gone mad? What's there to talk about? It sounds as if our future is secure. We'd be foolish to walk out on this. Even if the meeting tomorrow doesn't go our way, we can still pick up some work here. Why do we have to go out to talk about it?

Doyle sighed and looked at his partner.

"We have to go out because after all 'e's done for us, I'm not shagging his servants in his house! Martha was very accommodatin' during my bath! She's waitin' outside to finish what you interrupted when you thumped on the door earlier."

Bodie's face was a picture. Unsure whether to laugh or smack his partner he sat down heavily on the stair.

Doyle eyed his partner with a sly grin. "Oh, and she's bringin' a friend," said Doyle.

Next morning the partners made their way to the dining room. Doyle, more chipper than he had been for days, strode purposefully to the table and sat himself down, wincing slightly. Bodie followed him, eyeing the breakfast dishes hungrily.

They were plied with eggs, bacon and fresh rolls. Strong sweet tea followed, served by a clearly love struck Martha. Once she had left, Doyle let out a sigh.

"That wench, she has a mouth so sweet," he murmured, "and is also a most inventive young thing." He looked down at himself, "I'll be walking funny for days."

Bodie laughed at Doyle's lewd comments.

"And how was her friend then?" he asked solicitously.

Bodie stroked his chin as if contemplating a reply. Then his face spit into a huge boyish grin.

"She kept a poor soldier up all night," he laughed, "and he kept her full to the brim.

Both of them almost fell off their chairs at their own childish humour.

They finished off another pot of tea and carried on desultory conversation on all manner of topics. They were just discussing whether rejoining their unit was a good move, when the door opened and Lord Harwood entered with two other men. Bodie and Doyle leapt to their feet and stood tall. The nobleman waved them to sit. He called out for fresh tea and sat down at the top of the table.

He began without preamble:

"The package you delivered has named three men instrumental in plotting to kill the Prime Minster and the King. Additionally, in the turmoil that would naturally follow such momentous events, they also planned to form a coalition with Napoleon and thereby ensure the French could walk into England and take over while we were in such terrible disarray. Your safe delivery of this information means that won't happen. Eduard LeClerc was executed yesterday in Deauville. His colleague, Jack Ryder was found shot. That leaves the third man who we know to be Lord Hollingsworth. We will deal with him shortly.

Your ability to get this information to us quickly notwithstanding Ryder's intentions that you shouldn't, shows you are men of resource and bravery. Major Sharpe says as much in his letter, also contained in this package. His words are endorsed by Wellington himself. You come highly recommended gentlemen."

He took a sip of his tea and looked steadily at the other men at the table.

"Well George, what do you think?" he asked of a small sandy haired man.

The man put his cup down, and placed his finger tips together.

"I think that if these men are willing, they will make the perfect team to join us," he said in a lilting Scottish burr. "They have the intelligence, the drive and," he permitted himself a small smile, "the cojones, to become a part of the team."

Bodie and Doyle looked at each other nonplussed.

Harwood carried on.

"Major Cowley has been given the onerous task of forming and running an intelligence gathering force within the United Kingdom. It is a new venture; one we hope will become the foremost unit of its kind. One that will identify those who would do harm to our country, its citizens and its way of life."

Cowley raised a hand.

"Thank you James." He addressed Bodie and Doyle. "The unit is small . . . specialised. You'll report only to me. I expect total commitment and loyalty to me and the team. In return we will clothe you and house you . . . Provide weapons and train you. The remuneration is not great, but enough for you to live on if you are careful and is certainly more than you get now. I'm very choosy about whom I offer employment to, but you have both proved you are more than suited to this type of work. What do you say then? Can you offer the kind of commitment I ask for?

The two friends stared at the dapper major. The idea of serving their country in such circumstances, and with the guarantees offered seemed the answer their future.

It took only a few seconds for both men to nod their assent, linking their futures to that of the feisty Scottish major.

Doyle ventured a question.

"What's the name of this unit of yours sir?"

Cowley gave a rare smile that lit up his face.

"We're known as the 5th Regiment Criminal Intelligence Unit – CI5."