Some mumble-gosh years ago (1981?) I discovered my first Sharpe book in a second-hand bookstore, where it had been remaindered. Unbelievable now, but ’tis true. It was, by memory, “Sharpe’s Company’. And very fortuitous, too: because Sharpe and Harper have kept me company ever since. I have every book you’ve published, and every member of my family has read them all. “Buy your own, you bounders!” I cry. “Mr. Cornwell must eat, in order to have the strength to write more!” But they prefer that I should part with my hard-earned dollars, thereby ensuring we both starve. They are cruel and heartless beasts, with hearts of stone. Thanks for writing, Mr Cornwell. You spin a great yarn. I often wonder where you’re about to go with your next book, or series. Meeting Sharpe and Harper again is always a pleasure, Thomas of Hookton and I communed long into the night, Uhtred is an honoured guest, and always at my table is Arthur and Derfel, providing me with great satisfaction at the way that poltroon Lancelot was dealt to. Why is it that everyone else treats that swine as some sort of romantic gilded lily? I liked the brief meeting with the son of Sharpe in the Starbuck stories – and I know full well that the lad, or his progeny, will never sail to New Zealand. Why? because the British were outfought, out-thunk, and out-strategised by the Maori during our bitter 19th century wars. Once again, gentle sir; thanks. And what are you doing reading this pap when you could be writing? With great regards, and the very best of wishes… Allan.