Glenys shook her head and ice trickled down the back of her mackintosh collar, causing her to shrink even closer to Sam. ‘How could I possibly know where we are when I don’t know the country at all?’ she shouted. ‘Oh, Sam, this is horrible. Is that a house on our left, or just a thicket?’

Sam swung her round until they both faced the direction she had indicated. ‘It’s just a thicket,’ he said, speaking directly into her ear. ‘The fact is, Miss Trent, that I haven’t been here long enough to be sure of my way even in good weather. But if we keep walking along this track we’re bound to come to a labourer’s cottage or somewhere similar where we can seek shelter.’

‘But which way shall we go? Can’t we go back to Weathercock Farm? If we’re walking towards Ruthin surely we should have come across some sort of dwellings by now.’

Sam sighed. ‘I think you’re right. I wonder how long it is since we set out? We seem to have been walking for hours. I think we might try turning right here.’ They fought the blizzard to make the turn, which at least meant that the wind was coming at the back of them, but after ten minutes Sam pulled her to a halt. ‘We’ve gone wrong somewhere,’ he shouted. ‘Let’s go in the opposite direction and see how we get on.’

Glenys gave an exclamation. ‘I think I see a cottage a couple of hundred yards ahead on our left,’ she said. ‘Whoever lives in it is bound to offer us shelter on a night like this.’

Halfway to the cottage she began to wonder if they would ever arrive, for the wind was in their faces now and despite trying hard to be brave she couldn’t help a little moan escaping her lips. Sam stopped immediately. ‘Are you all right, queen?’ he asked anxiously. ‘If you can’t go on I’ll carry you over the last few yards.’

Glenys wiped the snow off her face and glared up at him, though she knew he could not see her, what with the dark and the snow. ‘You will do nothing of the sort!’ she shouted. ‘Don’t make me an excuse to linger; best foot forward, Seaman Trewin!’

She heard him give a muffled snort of laughter and then they were in the shelter of the cottage and making their way around to the porch, which they could just make out through the whirling flakes. There was no light coming from any of the windows, but Sam beat a tattoo on the wooden front door and did not seem particularly surprised when it gave under his onslaught. With a grunt of satisfaction he pushed it wide and bundled his companion into the darkness inside. Then he produced a small torch from his pocket and swung it round to illuminate their haven. ‘It’s abandoned; there are a good few cottages like this now that farming has almost ceased to pay dividends,’ he said. ‘It’s lucky for us it still has a roof and four walls to protect us from the weather.’ He pushed open a door on his right, then backed out hastily. ‘Sheep dung,’ he said succinctly. ‘Give that other door a push, would you? I reckon it’ll be the kitchen – or was, rather.’