Of the remaining pair, one was a white man; the other was an Indian. Both were clad in loose-fitting, knee-length blue calico smocks and brown leggings. The white man also wore an open-fronted buckskin coat; the Indian had a russet-coloured cloak folded over his right shoulder. While they were dressed in a similar fashion, the main difference between them lay in their colouring and their facial hair. The white man’s hair was straggly and flecked with silver, accentuating his grizzled features. His chin was hidden behind a short beard. The Indian’s head was shaved, save for a thick tuft of hair atop his skull from which hung a single grey feather. A silver ring decorated his left nostril and matched the rings in each ear and the circular gorget around his neck. Most noticeable were his facial tattoos which took the form of two patterned lines. They ran, like rows of stitching, from his left brow to the base of his right jaw. One skirted the inside of his right eye, the other the outside, giving the unsettling impression that the flesh of his face had been separated into three parts and sewn back together by an unsteady hand.

Hawkwood’s eyes flicked to the Indian’s medallion. It was embossed with a design, hard to see in the lantern light, but with enough definition to make it recognizable as the crude outline of a bear.

His scrutiny of the room’s occupants complete, Hawkwood returned his gaze to Pike.

The colonel was a lot younger than Quade’s remarks back in Albany had implied, which only made it all the more strange that he would want to re-introduce pole-arms to frontline combat. He must have been in his cradle during the Revolution. Had he any first-hand experience of war?

“What can we do for you, Colonel?”

Pike blinked. Another moment of hesitation passed, at which point understanding seemed to dawn. “Ah, yes, I see. Major Quade did warn me of your propensity for impertinence.”

“It’s a curse,” Lawrence said drily. “But then the major does tend to have that effect.”

“Best be quick, Colonel,” Hawkwood said. “There’s none of us getting any younger.”

Pike’s chin rose. His expression hovered between confusion at being addressed so dismissively and doubt over how to frame a commanding reply.

Finding his voice, he said, “You were brought here because I wanted to meet you face to face; to see for myself what sort of men you were.”

A thin sheen of sweat shone along the colonel’s hairline. Hawkwood hadn’t noticed it at first and wondered why that should be. The stove’s door was propped open to allow heat from the burning logs to circulate, but it wasn’t oppressively warm in the hut, or at least it didn’t seem so to him.

“You flatter, us, Colonel.”

“Then you misread my intention. It means only that I can have you shot with a clear conscience.”