It was cold in the corridor, with no stove provided for the prisoner’s comfort. As the three men made their way past the empty cells their footsteps echoed off the walls. Halting beside the last door, Dunbar held up the lantern. “Here we are.”

Hawkwood peered through the bars. The cell’s stark, almost bare interior, just discernible in the gloom, made the main guardroom look positively opulent. A pallet bed and a slop bucket were the only furnishings. An empty set of shackles hung from one wall.

“As you can see, sir, all secure. Only a fool’d try to break in. Plus they’d have me to deal with,” the sergeant added darkly.

“Good God, keep the damned noise down, can’t you? It’s been a bugger of a day and a fellow needs his sleep!”

The request came out of the dark recesses of the cell. Hawkwood could just make out an indistinct shape stretched out upon the bed. As he watched, the shape stirred and materialized into the figure of a man who, after casting aside the single blanket, sat up and swung his feet to the floor.

“My apologies, Major,” Hawkwood said drily. “Didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“A bit late for that. The damage is done. Is this a social visit, by the way? If so, it’s a damned strange hour to come calling.”

The figure stood and approached the bars. As he did so, his features became visible.

The face wasn’t as florid as Hawkwood remembered, though that could have been due to the candlelight. He’d lost some weight, too; a change that hadn’t been immediately apparent during the few seconds that their eyes had locked at the ferry terminus. The red hair was now toned down by a sprinkling of grey; the subtle changes, lending him a more distinguished and grittier cast than there had been before. But while circumstance could alter an individual’s looks there was no doubt in Hawkwood’s mind as to the identity of the man that stood before him.

Major Douglas Lawrence, 1st Battalion of His Majesty’s 40th Regiment of Foot. The same officer who, on a misty morning in Hyde Park, close to the Serpentine, had stood by Hawkwood’s side and acted as his second in a duel against an arrogant son of the nobility, one John Rutherford Esquire.

“My apologies again, Major,” Hawkwood said. “I dare say the accommodation isn’t up to the standard you’re used to, either. I’m afraid Greenbush can’t compete with Knightsbridge.”

Which was close to where the pair of them had last parted company. Hawkwood prayed that neither Sergeant Dunbar nor Private McLeary would attach any significance to the exchange – and that the prisoner would.

It was time to find out. Stepping forward, he removed his hat, allowing his face to catch the light.