Blackstone watched the mist’s veil rising from the trees down the valley. The breeze veered, the clouds forced to abandon their tenacious hold on the treetops.

The apparition of a man emerged from the ghostly forest, a branch fashioned into a staff giving him support along the stone-laden track. He was wet and looked as though he had walked far. He was several hundred yards away. He stumbled, perhaps weak from hunger, but recovered and continued to make his way towards the camp.

‘Jack?’ Blackstone called. Halfpenny looked to where he pointed. ‘An old man. A pilgrim. Looks as though he’s lost. Going the wrong way if he’s looking for Santiago. He’s not on any pilgrim’s route. Go and help him.’ He whistled to draw Will Longdon’s attention. ‘Have one of your lads stoke a fire and ready hot food.’

By the time the men had tightened saddle girths and readied themselves to leave, daylight was creeping wider across the mountains. The old man sat by the comfort of a fire. He had said nothing but grunted hungrily as he slurped the bowl of pottage. He wiped a sleeve across the snot running from his nose. His home-sewn clothes were thick with moisture from the forest and his gnarled hands told them he was a man who knew hard labour. Blackstone allowed the man to finish the hot food ladled from the blackened cooking pot. Will Longdon, Halfpenny and the other captains watched him, asking questions: where he had come from? Why he was lost? Where he was going? He remained silent until the last mouthful, ran a palm across his beard and stared at the gathered men.

‘I am grateful for your hospitality even though I am not on the Camino. My name is Gontrán.’

‘Were you trying to trap food in the forest?’ said Blackstone. ‘You look hungry enough to eat the bark off a tree.’

‘Hunt? No. I am a fisherman. Do I look like a hunter?’ he said with a hint of self-mockery at his wiry body and tattered clothes.

‘We saw the hawk rise up,’ said Blackstone. ‘Thought you might have tried to seize its breakfast. Raw rabbit or squirrel can keep a man going.’

Gontrán seemed an amiable fellow and gratefully accepted Meulon’s wine flask. He swallowed and sighed with pleasure. He waved a hand in front of his face as if brushing away a fly. ‘No, no, forests and wild animals: these are things a man must endure when he seeks redemption and pilgrimage, but I am no hunter, nor scavenger of carrion.’

‘But you’re a long way from the sea and the wrong direction from Santiago,’ Renfred said.

Gontrán pointed vaguely away. ‘I journey from the coast every year. You see those scallop shells they give to pilgrims? Eh? You know about them? I’m one of the fishermen who take them to the city every year.’

‘Then you’re from Corunna?’ said Will Longdon.