Lawrence knew his strength was failing and that his mount had sensed that all was not well. Cold was creeping into every pore of his body, from his legs to his back and from there to his arms, hands and fingers. It was becoming harder to concentrate. Even the horse’s head was cast down, as if it had been made weary by the weight of the injured man on its back. Little by little, Lawrence could feel himself slipping away.

He’d tried compensating by adjusting his grip on the reins but each time he did that the horse had sensed his indecision. As a result, progress had slowed from a canter to a trot and finally to a plodding walk.

They were close to a standstill when he eventually relinquished his hold. He’d tried desperately to loop his arms around the horse’s neck in an attempt to hang on, but as the animal turned its head and looked at him with its big brown eyes as if to query what it should do next, his strength finally gave out and he slid sideways out of the saddle and on to the unyielding ground below.

He lay there, unmoving, the snow wet against his cheek, vaguely aware of the horse standing over him, as if it was waiting for him to remount. He tried to push himself up but fell back. It was probably easier, he decided, not to move. It was certainly less painful. Sleep, he thought, would be a blessing. All he had to do was close his eyes and drift away. Why fight it? He felt the horse’s warm muzzle on the back of his neck. In the same instant, there was a faint vibration in the ground beneath him.

Through half-closed eyes, Lawrence saw a shadow appear between the horse’s legs. There was movement on the road and the sound of hoofbeats. A second shadow appeared behind the first, then another. The horse whickered. A voice called out; an order or an exclamation of warning. He couldn’t tell which. The words were indistinct. A shaft of pain lanced down his back. He tried lifting his head, but the effort proved too much.

A pair of boots stepped into view, then a second set – black military-issue – along with the hem of a coat and the tip of a scabbard. Voices sounded, faint, the words no clearer than they had been the first time.

The boot-wearers made their way towards him, scuffing up snow. Someone bent down. Lawrence felt a hand on his shoulder. Pain flared. He tried to speak but all that came out of his mouth was a dry whisper.

Another voice spoke, close enough to him so that this time Lawrence heard every word. Words that pierced him like a knife.

“Qu’avons-nous ici?”

“C’est un cheval Américain!”

“Il est blessé! Récupérez le chef de bataillon! Vite!”