Arthur shivered as he reached the shattered limbs of the elm tree on the ridge. He looked back across the battlefield one last time and then spurred Copenhagen into a trot as he made for the inn that served as his headquarters at Waterloo. Somerset had arrived shortly before him and could not hide his relief that his commander was unhurt. Supper had been prepared by the innkeeper and the headquarters servants had laid the table for Arthur and his staff officers with the best silverware and china. He sat down at the head of the table, and Somerset took the seat to his left.

‘Where are the others?’ Arthur asked. ‘My aides?’

‘They will be along directly,’ Somerset replied, then frowned. ‘At least, some will, I’m sure.’

Weariness had set into every bone in Arthur’s body and he managed to eat little of the cold meat and bread that was put in front of him. Servants came and went and a few officers arrived with messages, which Somerset took and read, only handing on the most important to Arthur. Midnight came, but no more of his staff officers returned to headquarters. Arthur turned to Somerset.

‘Thank God I do not know how it feels to lose a battle, but few things can be more painful than to win at the cost of so many fine officers, and friends.’

‘Yes, your grace.’ Somerset nodded. ‘It is a hard thing to take.’

‘I must sleep,’ Arthur said quietly. ‘Then I will write my report. England must know the result. Wake me at the third hour.’

Somerset nodded.

Arthur rose stiffly from his seat and winced. He stood for a moment, staring at the empty places along the table and feeling a terrible emptiness within him. ‘I pray that I have fought my last battle.’

Then he smiled bleakly at Somerset and crossed the room to one of the wooden pallets that had been covered with straw-filled mattresses to serve as beds. He was too tired to take off his boots and eased himself down, lying on his back. His eyes ached terribly, and he closed them for a moment, and was deeply asleep shortly afterwards, his snores filling the room.

‘Your grace, wake up.’

Arthur stirred, blinking his eyes open. Somerset was leaning over him.

‘What time is it?’

‘Just past midnight, your grace.’

Arthur sighed. ‘I was to be woken at three.’

‘Yes, but we have a visitor, your grace.’ Somerset turned and gestured to a figure standing just inside the door of the inn. By the light of the lantern hanging above the table Arthur saw that he was wearing the uniform of a French officer. Arthur swung his legs over the side of the makeshift bed and stared at the man. He was tall and thin, some years older than Arthur and dark-featured. A bloody rag was tied around his head.

‘Who the devil are you?’