The angle and lack of movement of the boat should have been an indication, Hawkwood supposed, but in the mayhem that had followed his awakening it hadn’t occurred to him that the Snake’s progress might have slowed due to weather conditions rather than as a result of Stagg’s orders.

The muted light that had he’d seen filtering down the stairwell was not the pale glow of dawn. No sun could penetrate the bank of fog that surrounded them. Visibility was restricted to half a cable’s length on all sides. From the slight curve in the mainsail above him, Hawkwood could see that a small breeze was trying its level best to push them along, but it was a futile effort. They were barely moving.

He turned. “What’s our position, Walter?”

“He’s talking to you,” Lawrence said.

The helmsman dragged his eyes from the bloody corpse at the top of the ladder to the binnacle compass in front of him. He nodded nervously towards an unseen point off the starboard bow. “Remus reckoned we were comin’ up on the Two Sisters.”

Hawkwood had no idea what the Two Sisters were. Presumably a pair of rocks or islands, not that it mattered. It wasn’t as though they’d be landing on either of them. He moved to the compass and saw that they were on a north-easterly heading.

“How well do you know these waters?” he demanded.

Unsure as to what was expected of him, the crewman replied, “Well enough.”

“Good. You’ve just saved yourself a swim.”

The crewman glanced at the rail and then back. “You ain’t goin’ to kill me?” he asked, his voice breaking with relief.

Hawkwood shrugged. “Haven’t decided yet. The day is young. Put it this way: you getting us to the border won’t do your cause any harm. Do we understand each other?”

The helmsman nodded though there was doubt in his expression.

“Good. Maintain your course.”

“And that?” Lawrence indicated the body.

“We’ll put it over the side.”

“The others, too?”

“Soon as we can bring them up.”

“You and me?” Lawrence asked.

Hawkwood shook his head. “Me and Walter. You can take the helm.”

Lawrence looked sceptical.

“Just try not to hit anything or run aground,” Hawkwood said with a grin. He turned to crook a finger, only to discover that the helmsman’s attention was fixed on the area of fog lying off the Snake’s starboard transom.

Hawkwood followed the man’s gaze. At first, there was nothing and then his ears caught it; a pounding sound, vaguely muffled.

Thunder? There had been no suggestion of a storm brewing, and there was nothing in the benign motion of the wash beneath Snake’s keel to indicate anything amiss. Other than an inability to see more than a few yards in any direction, the weather conditions seemed unremarkable.