For Lawrence wasn’t the only one who was feeling the pain of the march. Hawkwood, too, was tiring. Just the effort of lifting one foot in front of the other had begun to tell. And if he was fighting to stay awake, then Lawrence had to be suffering tenfold with that wound in his side. To reassure himself that all was well, he looked back over his shoulder to find that Lawrence had come to a halt several paces away, his face as white as the snow. He was breathing hard and clutching his side. Hawkwood stepped forward quickly, just in time to catch him as he swayed and almost fell.

Lawrence swore, straightened, and then offered an apologetic smile. “Not as hale as I thought I was, damn it.”

“We’ll stop a while. Rest our legs.”

Lawrence did not demur. As Hawkwood reached beneath his arm to help him to a nearby boulder, Lawrence let go a rueful sigh. “I’m not sure that’ll make much difference.”

Hawkwood wasn’t listening.

One hundred paces away, within the trees, he’d seen movement.

“What?” Lawrence asked, suddenly alert.

It had been no more than a hint; a shapeless form, half-hidden, that had been there one second and gone the next.

“Matthew?” Lawrence said cautiously.

“I thought I saw something …” Hawkwood let go of Lawrence’s arm and slid the musket from his shoulder.

Lawrence squinted back the way they had come. With no sunlight filtering light down through the canopy, the woods were draped in shadow, differing shades of grey against the lighter-coloured snow. Even with so many trees devoid of foliage, trying to penetrate the forest’s interior was well-nigh impossible. It might as well have been twilight rather than close to midday.

They waited and watched. All was silent. No birdsong, Hawkwood noticed.

Lawrence fingered his musket apprehensively. “I don’t see anything.”

Hawkwood didn’t either. Seconds slid by. The tension began to ease. Fatigue, he suspected, was making him see things that weren’t there. Fear of pursuit, too. That was all it could be.

And then …

If a whisper could take form, that’s what Hawkwood saw, as whatever it was passed ghost-like through a gap in the trees, dark against the snow but with insufficient texture for identification to be made.

“I see it!” Lawrence hissed. He eased back the hammer on his musket. Hawkwood did the same.

They counted off the seconds. One … two …

There was a sudden blur of motion. Hawkwood’s heart leapt into his mouth as an antlered buck burst from the woods less than seventy paces away and bounded into an area of deeper brush, where it was immediately erased from view.

They stared after it.

“Sweet lord!” Lawrence breathed. He lowered his gun and shook his head in weary amusement at having been alarmed by nothing more threatening than a nervous whitetail.