The grey-haired man did not reply immediately but stared at the papers and shook his head, as if trying to formulate thought. His forehead creased. Then, suddenly, he gave a sharp intake of breath and looked up. “Would his involvement have anything to do with that fellow I saw just now – the one who was leaving as I arrived. Tall, scarred face—”

“What? Ah, yes … why do you ask?”

To Sir George’s amazement, his visitor began rifling through the pages of the dispatch. “What’s his name?”

Sir George frowned. “Er, Hawkwood. He used to be a soldier; a captain in the Rifles. Tough devils; we could use them here.”

“Does he have a forename?”

Sir George looked nonplussed. “Forename? Why … yes. It’s Matthew, I believe.”

His visitor stared down at the dispatch in his hand. “It can’t be,” he breathed.

Sir George opened his mouth to speak, but was forestalled as his visitor shot to his feet. “My apologies – I must go. This … Hawkwood; did he say where he was bound?”

Sir George rose. “Bound? He sails for London on the morning tide.”

“Then, there’s time! Do you know where he stays tonight?”

“A local hostelry, I believe.” Sir George gave a helpless shrug. “But I’m afraid I don’t know which one. Good Lord, man, what ails you? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

His visitor shook his head as he made for the door. “No ghost, my friend. Though I thought he had become one.”

And before his host could react, the white-haired man had hurried from the room.

It had taken Hawkwood two wrong turnings to discover the correct set of stairs that led down to the chateau’s main lobby, where the clerk who’d directed him to Sir George’s office performed a swift interception.

“Would you like me to arrange a carriage, sir?”

Hawkwood thought about the next month and the claustrophobic accommodation he was about to endure on-board ship and shook his head. “I’ll walk.”

The clerk threw a dubious look through the window to the weather outside. “You’re sure, sir? It’s no trouble.”

“I’m sure. Just steer me on to the shortest path into town.”

The clerk duly obliged. Armed with directions, Hawkwood thanked him and set off across the courtyard. The sleet had eased off, but a sharp wind made itself felt as he exited the main gate. He knew he was on the right track when, a short time later, he saw, looming ahead of him, a large stone archway surmounted by a snow-topped wooden guardhouse.

A passage ran beneath the archway and into a street that looked as though it had been blasted out of the rock. Acknowledging the sentry and the soldiers manning the braziers and cannon either side of the gate, he continued on his way.