They kept their eyes on the spot where the animal had vanished. It did not reappear.

“Would have looked nice in a pot,” Lawrence murmured wistfully.

Hawkwood used the heel of his hand to release the lock on his musket, conscious of just how hard his heart was hammering. A bloody deer. That’s all it had been.

But spooked by something, he thought uneasily.

A call rang out from the woods close by and to their right.

Blue jay, thought Hawkwood. There was no time for a warning. He spun, heeling the musket hammer to full cock.

Lawrence swore as a brown-clad figure burst from the forest on their left. Hawkwood fired. The figure was thrown back with a cry, a war club pitching from his hand. Another musket banged. Hawkwood felt a tug on his sleeve as the ball sliced through his coat, then Lawrence pushed him towards the shelter of the boulders.

It occurred to him that the first warrior might have sprung the attack in order to draw fire, because once a musket was discharged, it took too long to reload in close-quarter combat. He was about to warn Lawrence to save his shot when a second warrior sprinted from cover. With no time to aim, Lawrence turned and brought his musket up quickly. Instinctively bringing the gun against his belly to brace it, he pulled the trigger and the long gun spoke. The recoil slammed against Lawrence’s wound. He staggered and started to go down, his face twisting in agony and remorse at seeing his shot go wide.

The attacker celebrated Lawrence’s miss with a high-pitched bark. Tomahawk in hand, he sprinted forward. Hawkwood felt his innards contract as three more painted warriors ran from the trees. Two were armed with a short-barrelled carbine each; the third carried a sword and club.

Hawkwood pivoted towards the struggling Lawrence. “Up, dammit!”

Lawrence, teeth gritted, clambered to his feet just in time.

The lead warrior had covered the ground incredibly fast, heels kicking up the snow. Hawkwood had a split-second’s glimpse of a red-and-black painted face and bared teeth above a faded grey shirt and buckskin leggings, then the hatchet blade was whipping towards him.

Sweeping the musket across his body, he felt the impact as the tomahawk’s shaft struck the gun barrel. Parrying the blade aside, he drove the musket butt into the warrior’s throat. There was a crunch as the cartilage gave way, then his attacker hit the snow. By this time Hawkwood had already dropped the gun, scooped up the tomahawk and turned to face the next threat.