In appearance Thomas is the spitting image of Sharpe, the hero of Bernard Cornwell's popular series of novels about the Napoleonic wars; and in Edward Ill's army the archers have an analogous role to that of the green-jacketed riflemen in Wellington's. But Harlequin is a cut or two above the other series: it's a really excellent historical novel, unencumbered - unlike Sharpe - with excessive plot: though there are ominous signs that the sinister Guy Vexille, the Holy Grail and the Cathar legacy will play a larger part in its successor. Cornwell's 14th century is far bloodier and murkier (and undoubtedly more historically correct) than it is in Conan Doyle's The White Company and Sir Nigel. This is one of the novel's strengths: the battle scenes are particularly impressive and rarely a page passes without the crunch of mace on pig-snouted helm or the hiss of arrow penetrating padded hacqueton. And, as a story of French brutality, treachery, and predilection for stabbing their allies in the back, it makes an interesting contribution to the Euro debate.