It occurred to Hawkwood that he was conversing in a tongue he’d not used for more than half his lifetime. And yet, retrieved from the same store of memory that by some miracle had granted him the skill to launch the tomahawk with such devastating force and accuracy, it seemed to come as naturally as breathing.

The Mohawk warrior considered the response, before nodding thoughtfully. “Ea, that is true.”

With Tewanias and Cageaga at his shoulder, Hawkwood crossed the aisle to Lawrence’s side. The major’s coat had also been removed. His complexion had regained some of its colour. His breathing was strong and even. Gently, Hawkwood lifted away the covers and raised Lawrence’s shirt. Had they been in a British Army medical tent, a regimental surgeon might well have recoiled at the sight of the poultices affixed to Lawrence’s skin. Composed from what appeared to be mashed vegetable root, moss and frog spit, they looked to be the last thing anyone would choose to draw infection from a gunshot wound. In the absence of a sawbones, however, they were the best treatment Lawrence was going to get and Hawkwood was prepared to place his trust in them. He replaced the covers and turned away. “He’s a brave man.”

“He will be cared for,” Tewanias said. “Do not worry.” He took Hawkwood’s arm. “Let us sit.”

They retired to the fireside. Seated on a mat, Hawkwood drew his legs up beneath him and held his hands out to the flames. His mind was in a whirl. When he looked up he found Tewanias was regarding him gravely.

“I did not think our paths would cross again, Mat-huwa.”

“Nor I,” Hawkwood said. “And yet you show no surprise. Why is that?”

Tewanias’s gaze dropped. He stared silently into the fire for several seconds before answering: “Your return was foretold.”

Despite the fire’s warmth, Hawkwood felt a chill run across his back and shoulders. “By whom?”

“One who is no longer with us.”

Hawkwood waited.

“Ayonhwathah,” Tewanias said.

Hawkwood searched his memory. A grainy image began to form. “I remember. He told us stories around the fires at night. I called him Tota.”

Grandfather.

Tewanias’s face softened. “As did we all.”

“My heart is made heavy by his passing. When did this occur?”

“It has been four days since his spirit crossed over to the sky world,” Tewanias said solemnly.

The day we left Whitehall, Hawkwood calculated.

He thought about the wake that would have been held for the old man and the rites that would have followed, the days during which the mourners would have lain face-down upon their sleeping mats, enveloped in their robes, without fires to warm them, eating their food cold and leaving the longhouse only at night and as secretly as possible.