was no fear in his gaze but there was caution. A glass of brandy stood by his right arm. Every so often he would raise the glass to his lips and take a sip before laying his counters down. Despite his watchfulness, he gave the impression of a man at ease with himself, his insalubrious surroundings and with the company he was keeping.
Occasionally, his gaze would pass over a solitary male customer seated at a table at the top of the stairway leading down to the ground floor. The man sat with his back to the panelled wall. He was young, with a strong face and dark, intelligent eyes. Whenever he raised his drink to his lips, he performed the movement with such economy it suggested his partaking of the spirit was purely a means of keeping his hand and arm occupied rather than a desire to savour the contents of the glass. The moment a customer ascended from the pub's lower floor, he would place his drink carefully on the table before him, leaving his hands free. Sometimes, he caught the grey-haired man's glance, but mostly he kept his eye on the stairway. The young man's name was Micah.
A new round commenced. Counters were laid down in quick succession, interspersed with a rap of knuckles whenever a player was unable to follow on. Table stakes notwithstanding, the atmosphere was friendly and relaxed.
With one domino left in his hand and with a line of counters snaking unevenly across the table top, the pewter-haired man undertook his reconnaissance, scanning the departures and arrivals, faces unknown and familiar, assessing whether they were likely to be friend or foe.
His eyes moved to the table by the stairs and he stiffened imperceptibly. Micah was no longer alone. Standing next to his table was a small, bow-legged, bespectacled man dressed in a black coat and breeches and wearing a faded three-cornered hat. A powdered wig which had seen better days poked from beneath the hat's folded brim. The older man was talking. Micah was listening. Finally, Micah nodded, turned and looked towards the domino table.
The pewter-haired man laid down his final counter and collected his winnings. Pushing his chair back, he stood up and swept the pile of coins into his palm and then into his pocket.
'Thanks for the game, boys. Deal me out of the next one - business calls.' Ignoring the protests of the other players, he stepped away from the table and headed for the stairs.
Ezra Twigg watched him approach.
As the pewter-haired man reached his table, Micah rose to his feet.
'Well now, Mr Twigg -' Nathaniel Jago gazed down at the clerk and sighed heavily - 'your being here can only mean one thing. What's the daft beggar gone and done now?'
The four riders crested the rise and urged their mounts towards the edge of the wood. Moonlight dappled the men's features and the foliage that concealed their passing. Their attention was focused on the outline of a low- roofed cottage which lay some three hundred yards away, set back from the road. The rest of the village lay beyond it, perhaps a dozen houses in all. Another one hundred paces separated the cottage from its nearest neighbour.
'Looks quiet,' McTurk murmured. The observation made, the Irishman hawked up a gobbet of phlegm and spat the result into the bushes.
Lasseur wrinkled his nose in disgust.
'See anything?' McTurk whispered to the horseman on his left.
The horseman, whose name was Croker, shook his head and growled, 'Coast's clear, I reckon.'
McTurk turned to Hawkwood. 'You set?'
'We're wasting time,' Hawkwood said. 'Let's get on with it.'
They coaxed their horses out of the wood and back on to the path, riding two abreast, McTurk and Croker leading the way.
A soft breeze caressed Hawkwood's cheek. It brought with it the scent of the sea, which lay less than a mile distant. He thought he could hear waves lapping against shingle, but dismissed it as his imagination, though when he looked to his right, he could see the occasional shimmer of moon on water through gaps in the trees.
McTurk and Croker did not speak and Lasseur was silent beside him. Progress was marked by the steady perambulation of the horses and the faint gleam of candlelight from the houses ahead of them.
It had been a while since Hawkwood had ridden. The last time had been in Spain, when he'd fought alongside the
Lasseur looked perfectly at home, handling the reins as if he had been born to it, which he probably had, Hawkwood concluded. He recalled Lasseur telling him how his wife had died and Hawkwood suspected that the privateer, despite his chosen profession, was an accomplished rider and had probably accompanied his late wife on early morning gallops whenever he was home. He knew that Lasseur's unease was due to the morality of their task and not the fear of falling off and breaking his neck or being trampled to death by flying hooves.
A night bird called out from the darkness and the horses' ears pricked up. Hawkwood laid a calming hand on his mount's neck and felt the muscles relax beneath the smooth brown pelt. They were some two hundred yards from the house when Lasseur leaned over and whispered in French, 'I have no stomach for this, my friend.'
'And I told you that I'd take care of it,' Hawkwood said, in the same language.
Lasseur sat back in his saddle and fell silent, his face thoughtful.
Hawkwood didn't think the men ahead spoke French, but he watched them for any sign of reaction. There weren't any, though it could have been because they were good actors.
'I'm sending two of my best scouts with you,' Morgan had told Hawkwood. 'You say you want Captain Lasseur at your shoulder, but Pat and Jack know the paths and they'll identify Jilks. After that, it's down to you. If you do run into trouble, which I doubt you will, they're good men to have at your side in a skirmish.'
Hawkwood had been expecting one man to accompany them.
Morgan's announcement that there was to be a second was unwelcome news, as was Morgan's next proviso.
'It's possible Jilks may have a woman with him. I don't wage war on women. She's not to be harmed.'
'Wife?'
Morgan had shrugged. 'Housekeeper. Does it matter? She's not to be touched. I have your word on that?'
'I don't wage war on women either,' Hawkwood said, and thought about the murderess, Catherine de Varesne, and how he had put a bullet into her throat on a London quayside.
They halted. The cottage was less than one hundred paces away. Somewhere in the darkness a dog barked and Hawkwood soothed his mount once more. At McTurk's signal, they guided the horses off the path into the shelter of a spinney where they dismounted.
Hawkwood looked towards the cottage. There was no movement. A light was showing in one of the downstairs windows. He drew the pistol from his belt and turned to McTurk. 'We go together. Croker stays here with Captain Lasseur to guard the horses and keep watch.'
McTurk didn't look too happy at being on the receiving end of an order. His eyes narrowed as he considered his response. Finally, judging that Hawkwood's command made sense, he glanced towards Croker and nodded. He was an inch or two shorter than Hawkwood; sinewy but strong, with dark Celtic features. His own pistol sat in a holster secured to a bandolier across his chest. A stout wooden club was thrust in his belt. He looked, Hawkwood thought, agile and tenacious.
In contrast, Croker was stocky with large hands and a hard face that would not have looked out of place on the neck and body of a pugilist.
Hawkwood spoke to Lasseur in French. 'Keep an eye out and watch your back.'
'You, too,' Lasseur said, his face grim.
Hawkwood jerked his head at McTurk and switched to English. 'Let's go.'
Hawkwood took the lead. Using the spinney as cover, they moved in a line towards the trees at the back of the cottage. There was a small outbuilding, which Hawkwood assumed was a stable. He could smell wood smoke and for a second he was reminded of his first sighting of Jess Flynn's farm. A twig cracked behind him and he stopped and stood still. When he looked around he found that McTurk had drawn his pistol.
The light was coming from a side window. It guttered as Hawkwood and McTurk moved forward and
