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Heretics!’ Possessed by his fervour, he ran headlong into a group of three Irish dragoons spitting one on his sword and punching another full in the face with his gloved fist before slitting his throat.
    Steel looked at Slaughter and knew what was required. Both men ran to help Argyll who was now locked in a duel with the remaining dragoon and had not seen a fourth come round behind him. Steel fell upon the man and with a savage uppercut of his blade, sliced the back of his head. To his left four more dragoons appeared, intent apparently on saving their comrade engaged with Argyll. Steel could see now that the man was an officer and then recognized him as O’Brien himself. He had been a noted swordsman when they had fought under the same colours and Steel could see that he had not lost his touch. Every blow that Argyll aimed towards him, O’Brien met with an expert parry. As the dragoons hurried to rescue their commander, Steel and Slaughter turned to face them and he noticed that they had been joined by a half-dozen of the Grenadiers.
    Slaughter hissed at them. ‘You took your bloody time. Corporal Taylor, Mulligan, you others there, with me. The rest of you, with Captain Steel.’
    Steel squared up to one of the dragoons and feinting to the left with a blow of his sword dealt him a tremendous kick in the groin which felled him to the ground. As each Grenadier found a man in turn, Steel noticed that Argyll had been joined by more of his own men, including one of his sergeants, a huge, barrel-chested brute armed with what looked like a captured cavalry sabre. He and the duke were fighting O’Brien together now yet still it seemed as if the Irishman was more than capable of beating them off. Steel cut to the right to parry a thrust from a dragoon’s bayonet and on the return stroke pierced the man through the stomach. Slaughter had dispatched another of the enemy and for an instant the two men stood uncertain of who to take on next. At that moment a clatter of hooves on cobbles announced the arrival of a party of redcoated English dragoons.
    At their head rode a young cornet of horse wearing a broad grin. He was shouting like an excited schoolboy. ‘The field is ours. The field is ours. The French are retreating, the day is ours, my boys.’
    A single shot broke against the noise of steel on steel as Slaughter, who had unslung his fusil from his back, fired into the air. With the cornet’s words, it was enough. Grenadiers and Irishmen alike broke apart in their individual combats and stood at the en-garde , uncertain of what to do.
    O’Brien disengaged from Argyll who, along with the big redcoat sergeant slowly backed away. Taking care still not to quite drop his guard, the Irishman gently raised the tip of his sword until it was pointing skywards and as the general stood motionless, his own blade still held out before him, the young Jacobite reversed his hand so that the blade now pointed directly towards the ground. Argyll watched for a moment and then, as Steel looked on, gave a barely perceptible nod towards the sergeant who, with a great lunge of the sort one mightexecute in a fencing salle, sprang towards O’Brien and buried his blade deep in his heart. The Irishman’s soft, green eyes expressed his utter surprise, then as they glazed over, he dropped his sword, grasped at the blade in his chest and fell to the ground. Steel was lost for words. The sergeant straightened up, withdrew the long blade and turned to Argyll.
    â€˜Good work, McKellar. That’s a sovereign for you.’ He turned to address his regiment: ‘Each one of you men shall have a sovereign for every Papist officer slain today.’
    The sergeant saluted his commander with his bloody blade and walked away to discuss the good news with the men and tally their scores.
    Steel turned on Argyll: ‘You murdered him. Your Grace, Clare was surrendering. He was offering you his