'It sounds human,' murmured Bowden.

'How human?' added Millon.

There followed several more cries from more than one individual, and as the last of the terrified chimeras vanished into the undergrowth I breathed a sigh of relief. A group of men appeared out of the brush to our right. They were all extremely short and wore the faded and tattered uniform of what appeared to be the French army. Some wore shabby cockaded hats, others had no jackets at all and some only a dirty white linen shirt. My relief was short-lived. They stood at the edge of the forest and regarded us suspiciously, heavy cudgels in their hands.

'Qu'est-ce que c'est?' said one, pointing at us.

'Anglais?' said another.

'Les rosbifs? Ici, en France?' said a third in a shocked tone.

'Non, ce n'est pas possible!'

It didn't take a genius to figure out who they were.

'A gang of Napoleons,' hissed Bowden. 'Looks like Goliath weren't just trying to eternalise the Bard. The military potential of cloning a Napoleon in his prime would be considerable.'

The Napoleons stared at us for a moment and then talked among themselves in low tones, had an argument, gesticulated wildly, raised their voices and generally disagreed with one another.

'Let's go,' I whispered to Bowden.

But as soon as the car clunked into gear the Napoleons leaped into action with cries of: 'Au secours! Les rosbifs's'échappent! N'oubliez pas Agincourt! Vite! Vite!' and then rushed the car. Stig got off a shot and managed to tranq a particularly vicious-looking Napoleon in the thigh. They smashed their cudgels against the car, broke the windows and sent a cascade of broken glass all over us. I thumped the central door-locking mechanism with my elbow as a Napoleon grappled with my door handle. I was just about to fire at point-blank range into the face of another Napoleon when there was a tremendous explosion thirty yards in front of us. The car was rocked by the blast and enveloped momentarily in a drifting cloud of smoke.

'Sacrebleu!' shrieked Napoleon, breaking off the attack. 'Le Grand Nez! Avancez, mes amis, mart aux ennemis de la République!'

'Go!' I shouted at Bowden, who, despite having been struck a glancing blow by Napoleon, was still just about conscious. The car juddered away and I grabbed the steering wheel to avoid a band of twenty or so Wellingtons of varying degrees of shabbiness who were streaming past the car in their haste to dispose of Napoleon.

'Up, guards, and at them!' I heard Wellington shout as we gathered speed down the road, past a smoking artillery piece and the abandoned cars we had seen on the way in. Within a few minutes we were clear of the wood and the battling factions, and Bowden slowed down.

'Everyone okay?'