“We’ve just bested another four of their men. It’s the second time we’ve made Quade look bad. He’ll be spitting blood.” Hawkwood hoisted his gun over his shoulder. “Plus we know about their invasion plan. They won’t want us reaching the lines with that information.”

“Even though we don’t know when they’re planning to launch?” Lawrence said.

“That won’t hold them back. If they can stop us, they will.”

“They might bring the date forward, knowing that we know.”

“They might. Either way, we’d best get going. Can’t stand here nattering all bloody day. Quicker we move, the quicker we’ll warm up.”

“Why, Captain Hawkwood,” Lawrence grinned, shouldering his musket, “I never took you for an optimist. Who’d’ve thought?”

A mile north of the river they came upon a cabin. Lying in a hollow and half-hidden by thick vegetation, at some time in its life a falling tree had demolished part of a side wall and a corner of the roof. The old stone chimney had survived intact and it had been its squared outline set against the natural tangle of the surrounding woods that had caught Hawkwood’s eye. Wary of disturbing any forest predator that might have chosen the ruin as its den – though any animal would have heard them coming a long way off – they approached with caution before finally ducking through the open doorway.

“Home’s home, be it never so homely,” Lawrence quoted softly as they surveyed the Stygian interior.

Ignoring the smell of mould and abandonment, and anxious to warm themselves, it did not take long to get a fire going in the old hearth. Despite the damp and the fetid odours, there was no shortage of fuel. Pieces of broken furniture littered the dirt floor: an up-ended table, a worm-eaten dresser splattered with droppings and splinters of wood that might have come from the back and sides of a rocking chair. The fire glow revealed decaying roof beams festooned in cobwebs, along with corners and ledges ankle-deep in twigs and leaves and dried animal scat.

Also strewn among the debris were the remains of smaller household articles: some holed and rusted pots, a wooden pail and shards of crockery that had looked like slivers of bone in the gloom. Several large metal hooks were embedded in the chimney breast, from which cooking pots had once hung. They made use of these to suspend their wet clothes above the flames to dry, though not before Hawkwood had made a careful study of the rents in Lawrence’s jacket and shirt.