Lawrence thought about that. Falling silent, he rested his head back against the wall. When he glanced to his side, he saw that Hawkwood’s eyes had closed. Staring at the hard, scarred face, Lawrence smiled to himself. Finding sleep was like exploiting the presence of food and water. You took advantage of it whenever you could because you never knew when the chance to rest would come again. And at least they had shelter, unlike many of the poor devils outside. It was cold but both of them had known worse, having survived winters in the Spanish mountains when four wooden walls would have been considered a luxury.

Thinking about what he knew of Hawkwood’s past history, Lawrence pondered upon the chain of circumstances that had thrown them together. It was truly remarkable that their paths should have crossed again, and in America, of all places; the pair of them strangers in a strange land. And yet a question nagged. Hawkwood, after only one brief sighting and without any verbal reference, had known both the tribe and the clan of that nameless Indian warrior. How was that possible? There had to be a logical explanation. But what that might be, Lawrence had no idea.

Taking a leaf out of Hawkwood’s book, he closed his eyes. Conserve energy when you can, that was the soldier’s creed. It was only as his eyelids drooped that he realized just how weary he was. Despite the cold, sleep came quickly.

It was still dark when he opened his eyes. He didn’t know what time it was. He was about to consult his watch when he looked to his side and saw that Hawkwood’s head was turned and that his eyes were also open. The glow of a lantern wavered through the gap in the logs. Footsteps sounded. Then came the grate of the padlock being released.

They climbed to their feet as the door swung open.

“Hot food and a warming pan would be nice,” Lawrence murmured.

It wasn’t to be.

A gruff voice ordered them outside.

They emerged to discover four troopers armed with muskets. A horse-drawn wagon waited behind them.

Hawkwood studied the troopers. They were dressed against the cold in long grey coats, black shako caps and scarves. There was nothing odd about that, save for the scarf wrapped around each man’s face so that only his eyes and the bridge of his nose was visible, thus rendering him effectively anonymous. That was why the order to leave the hut had sounded so gruff, Hawkwood realized; because it had been muffled.

What? They think we wouldn’t know they’re the same quartet who transported us here?

And then it dawned on him that the troopers’ faces were concealed not because he and Lawrence might recognize them, but to hide them from anyone else who happened to observe their departure. At the back of his brain, a warning bell began to ring.