Of the two locations, Lacolle was the closest. It lay, Tewanias informed them, on the bank of a tributary of the Richelieu River, a little over two leagues to the south-west of Île aux Noix. Hawkwood hadn’t heard “league” used as a measure of distance for some time. Two leagues was, as near as he could recall, about seven miles.

How many troops were billeted at Lacolle, Tewanias didn’t know. It didn’t matter; the number was immaterial. There were British soldiers manning the blockhouse and there had to be communication between the village and the main garrison. If they could make it to the former, they could then get word to the latter.

“So when do we leave?” Lawrence asked.

“You need rest,” Tewanias said, nodding towards Lawrence’s wounded side.

“Dawn it is, then,” Hawkwood said.

When he opened his eyes, it took a second or two to orient himself. Then he inhaled and it all came flooding back. There were certain odours that were an inevitable consequence of a significant number of people taking up occupancy in an enclosed space: stale air, woodsmoke, rendered animal fats, dirt and dogs and the sweet-sour miasma that arose whenever humans exercised their full range of bodily eructations. The longhouse reeked.

Neither was it silent. Someone broke wind with gusto and it was as if a signal had been passed. In no time, the walls were vibrating before an onslaught of snores, grunts, groans, coughs, belches, snuffles and farts. Morning had definitely arrived.

He had slept well, though and for that he was grateful. No headache, either.

Through the smoke opening in the roof he could just make out a patch of grey sky. Below the opening, the fire was smouldering. Blanket-covered humps littered the floor where those most vulnerable to the cold, the children and the elderly, had spent the night on mats close to the hearth.

Sensing movement to his left, Hawkwood turned and found he was not alone. A whiff of sweat and bear grease rose towards him; not too unpleasant when compared to the smell of the longhouse taken as a whole, but on the gamey side, nonetheless, especially when you weren’t used to it. As the sleeper’s arm moved, Hawkwood saw it was Cageaga, looking just as disgruntled with his eyes closed as he did when he was awake.

The desire to empty his bladder was suddenly overwhelming. It was warm beneath the furs but he knew he’d have to go sooner or later and, as he was awake, it was probably best to get it over with. Dropping his feet to the ground, he fumbled into his boots, reached for his coat, and picked his way carefully around the slumbering bodies towards the entrance.