paces away as the second picket staggered back clutching his shoulder. Lasseur tossed the weapon aside.
Twenty yards from the palisade, Hawkwood saw that he might have miscalculated. The wooden stopgap was more substantial than he had anticipated.
Hawkwood passed Lasseur the pistol he'd taken from Croker. 'Make it count. It's all we've got to hold them off.'
The advice sounded pitiful even to his own ears. But Lasseur merely nodded as he received the weapon and turned to face the oncoming threat.
Hawkwood ran to the pile of tools, looking desperately for something to prise the stakes of the palisade apart. There were some shovels, two picks, a selection of mallets and a crowbar. He reached for the crowbar, knowing in his heart that they had run themselves into a dead end.
We should have gone for the bloody horses,
And then he saw it, resting lengthways against the base of the wall, partially concealed by the lime and sand bags.
A ladder.
He ran towards it even as he heard Lasseur's urgent warning: 'They're closing!'
Hawkwood jammed the ladder up against the wall. As he did so, he heard a distant report - a musket shot - and ducked instinctively, though he guessed the shooter was still too far back. It was when they got to within a hundred yards that he would start worrying, though he knew that time could only be seconds away.
Holding the ladder in place, he yelled at Lasseur. 'Come on, damn it!' And saw that the first picket, who had stopped to snatch up his wounded companion's firearm, was coming in fast.
Lasseur turned and ran. The picket fired. An invisible finger plucked at the sleeve of Lasseur's jacket. Hawkwood heard the privateer grunt as he threw himself forward and began to climb. With a bellow of anger at having missed his target, the picket drew his cudgel and came on.
Lasseur turned on the ladder rung and levelled the pistol.
'Stand still!'
Lasseur's command rang out and stopped the picket in his tracks.
'I will shoot you dead if you move,' Lasseur said.
The picket stared at him.
'Don't make me kill you,' Lasseur said.
Hawkwood looked back to see that the rest of Morgan's crew were gaining considerable ground. They had skirted the ruin and were now a little over a hundred yards away. One of the men was kneeling. A musket cracked. The ball struck the rung by Hawkwood's right hand and he felt a splinter slice into his wrist.
Lasseur was astride the top of the wall. He was still pointing his gun at the picket, who was less than thirty yards away, holding his ground in the face of Lasseur's threat. He had seen Lasseur's first shot cut his companion down from a greater distance and had no wish to suffer the same fate.
'No!' Hawkwood yelled. 'Don't wait! Go!'
But Lasseur ignored him, stuck the pistol in his belt and stretched out his arm.
Seizing his opportunity, the picket sprinted towards them. Hawkwood grabbed Lasseur's hand, hauled himself up and threw himself across the top of the stonework. Another shot sounded as Hawkwood reached down for the ladder. He hunched his shoulders and felt the wind as the ball churred past his ear and thudded into the wall.
The picket was only feet away.
'No time!' Lasseur gasped when he saw what Hawkwood was trying to do.
But when Hawkwood bent down and hooked his hand around the ladder's top rung, Lasseur did the same.
The picket leapt forward, hand outstretched.
And was left clutching air as, together, Hawkwood and Lasseur hauled the ladder up and out of his reach and pitched it over the wall.
As the ladder toppled, more shots rang out. Chips flew from the stone as Hawkwood and Lasseur let go. There was no time to consider the consequences of a nine-foot drop. Hawkwood jumped, missed the falling ladder by inches, hit the ground and rolled. Then he was up and running and Lasseur was following him into the trees.
The woods closed in around them. There was no discernible path; only sporadic gaps in the undergrowth. They ran on; tree roots snapping at their heels; brambles tugging at their clothes. A small clearing appeared. They darted across it and a pathway opened up before them; a deep-sided gulley, overhung with branches. A deer track, Hawkwood supposed, judging from the slot marks; crisscrossed by even narrower funnels that suggested regular use by fox or badger.
They plunged into the gulley, moving as swiftly as the uneven surface would allow, careful not to lose their footing, finally emerging into an even denser patch of woodland at the bottom of the slope. They paused for breath, sucking air into their tortured lungs. Hawkwood tried to look back up the hill but his view was obscured by swathes of foliage.
When they had first entered the trees, a jabber of birdsong had announced their presence to the wood's more elusive inhabitants. Now, the wildlife around them had fallen silent, evaluating this new invasion of their territory.
They moved off again, knowing their sole purpose was to put as much distance as possible between themselves and their pursuers. Secure in the knowledge that Morgan, far from giving up the chase, would be marshalling his forces, it made sense to stay on the deer trail for as long as possible. Better that than try to blunder through less accessible tracts of woodland, thus allowing the hunters to catch up. Hawkwood estimated they had probably travelled a little over a mile since scaling the wall. It wasn't far enough. But as long as they had the advantage of cover and could move at speed they had a chance.
It was warm, even under the shade of the trees. Both of them were soaked in sweat when Hawkwood called another halt. Heart thumping, he remained still, and listened. Sunlight filtered down through the overhead canopy, creating shadows among the thickets. Bird calls were the only sounds that broke the stillness.
'I think I saw Masson and Leberte,' Lasseur gasped, chest heaving.
Hawkwood frowned and found his breath. 'Where?'
'Back at the wall. They were among the men chasing us. Leberte was carrying a musket.'
'That's probably how come I wasn't hit. I never rated French marksmanship.' Hawkwood smiled.
'Perhaps he missed on purpose,' Lasseur said, still panting.
Hawkwood considered the possibility and wondered if Lasseur was grasping at straws.
'And perhaps we'll never know,' Hawkwood said.
It was then that he heard it. The noise came from somewhere up behind the trees, beyond the gulley, in the direction of the Haunt.
The baying of a hound.
He saw the colour leave Lasseur's face when a second dog took up the chorus.
Hawkwood had a sudden vision of Thor and Odin, fangs bared. His heart ran cold at the prospect. He looked at Lasseur. The privateer's shirt was soaked in sweat.
'We have to move,' Hawkwood said.
Lasseur nodded dully. He looked up, squinting through the canopy, then stuck out an arm and pointed. 'That way.'
'What's in that direction?'
'The river.'
'You're sure?'
'Yes.'
'Then we'd better run faster,' Hawkwood said.
The deer trail petered out a couple of hundred yards further on. The woodland was becoming less dense; the gaps between the trees more frequent. Through them, Hawkwood could see the beginnings of pastureland, smooth green meadows dotted with sheep. He could see hedges and a stile and a house in the distance.
And all the while he could hear the hounds. He could hear shouts, too. They sounded a lot closer than they had before. The hunters were still behind them, and they were gaining. It seemed to Hawkwood that there were more than two dogs chasing them, but he wasn't about to stop and check.
