No! Lawrence thought as his exhausted brain absorbed what he was actually hearing. It wasn’t possible! It couldn’t be, not after all they’d been through. He tried to rise, to struggle, but strong hands held him down. A wave of despair swept over him at the thought that they had battled this far, overcoming obstacle after obstacle, to be so close to freedom.

Only to be taken by the Goddamned French.

Cageaga regarded the black paint smeared across Hawkwood’s face and smiled wolfishly. “Like old times, little brother.”

Cageaga’s features were broken up by three horizontal black bands, across his jawline, nose and the ridge above his eyes. Tewanias’s face was divided by two colours: red from chin to cheekbone, black from cheekbone to brow. The other warriors were similarly daubed. The reason for the paint was threefold; as notification that the men were on the war trail, to put fear into the enemy and to break up the shape of the face so that skin tones – most relevant in Hawkwood’s case – were not visible against the darkness of the forest.

There were bloodstains on Cageaga’s hands and wrists. Cageaga had led the assault on the van. The war club he carried across his shoulder was the same one that had killed Lieutenant Nevens and the Oneida warrior who’d been an inch away from removing Hawkwood’s scalp. The club head still bore traces of the Oneida’s and the lieutenant’s blood, darkly visible beneath the new stains caused by the blood and brain matter that had leaked from the skulls of the dead troopers.

Hawkwood was glad Lawrence had not been there to see Nevens’ death or the attack. The major might well have rescinded his new-found admiration for Tewanias and his warriors had he witnessed the savagery that had been employed. Clubs and edged weapons caused hideous damage and Hawkwood had told Cageaga to employ them to good effect; an instruction the Mohawk war captain had obeyed to the letter, even to the taking of scalps, four of which now hung from the warriors’ belts. If Quade wanted a war, Hawkwood intended to see to it that the bastard got one.

Cageaga touched Hawkwood’s arm. “They come,” he whispered softly.

Hawkwood looked behind him. It was unlikely the morning sun would break through to any great effect, but if it did, Hawkwood wanted it at their backs. Even low in the sky, its rays would be diffused and broken by the trees and, when reflected off the snow, would throw multiple shadows which, like the face paint, would help confuse what was surely an already unnerved enemy.