Wood was added to the campfire embers and as coffee pots were replenished and ablutions performed the officers looked to their horses while the troops, under the watchful eyes of the corporals and the sergeants, attended to their weapons.

At the appointed hour, with the fog thickening, Quade gave the order to move out.

“Maybe we were wrong,” Lawrence suggested.

“Maybe,” Hawkwood said.

Hawkwood surveyed the road, which wasn’t that impressive, considering it was supposed to be the main highway linking Quebec Province to the United States. No more than a track through a wood, it certainly didn’t match the Dover post road or the road he’d travelled on from Boston to Albany. But then, given the time of year, traffic was bound to be light; so light in fact, as to be non-existent, to judge by the lack of imprints. There were a few animal tracks, but no vehicle marks and certainly nothing to suggest that upwards of four hundred men had passed by recently.

Hawkwood wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or disappointed.

After fording the river, he’d persuaded Tewanias and Cageaga to continue the trek eastwards. Travelling at night through a winter landscape, most of which was primeval forest, was not generally advisable, but while the moon was bright enough to see by, it had made sense to go as far as they were able. They’d managed another two miles before eventually calling a halt.

Confident they were safe from human threat, they’d constructed lean-tos out of branches, with a snow wall in front to shield and reflect the heat from the fires. After setting watches, the night had passed without event. Breakfast had consisted of pemmican washed down with water from their canteens. Moving off before the sun rose, another hour’s hike had seen them to the road.

“So?” Lawrence said. “Cut our losses, head for Lacolle?”

Hawkwood was about to reply in the affirmative when an owl hooted in the woods to their right. No one moved. Poised at Hawkwood’s shoulder, Tewanias said softly, “Someone comes.”

Hawkwood did not query the warning. He trusted Tewanias’s instincts implicitly, knowing the owl call had been voiced by one of the Mohawks who, with others, had been deployed to watch the road, both north and south of their position.

As he shifted his grip on his musket, a stocky, buckskin-coated warrior, war bow in hand – Hawkwood remembered his name as Chohajo – materialized at Tewanias’s side and spoke rapidly into the Mohawk chief’s ear. Tewanias nodded, then informed Hawkwood: “Two riders.”

“How far?”

“Close.”

“Friend or foe?” Lawrence murmured.

“Let’s find out,” Hawkwood said. Turning, he issued swift instructions to Tewanias. “And await my signal, rake’niha. There must be no noise.”

Hawkwood saw Cageaga’s mouth split into a vulpine smile.

“With me, Douglas,” Hawkwood said.

They stepped out on to the road.