“I don't know,” I say slowly. “What is it you want?”

“Guns,” she shrugs, glancing, eyes narrowed, at me. “Anything precious,” she says, to you, then uses the long gun's muzzle to peek under another rug across the carriage from where you sit, pale faced, wide eyed, staring at her. “Fuel?” she says, looking at me again.

“Fuel?” I say. It crosses my mind to ask if she means coal, or logs, but I leave the thought unsaid, intimidated by her manner and her gun. Another sobbing scream comes from the small huddle of men ahead of the truck.

“Fuel,” she repeats, “ammunition “ Then a shriek comes from the group of men clustered ahead of us (you wince again); our lieutenant glances in the direction of that awful wail, a tiny frown forming and disappearing on her face almost in the same instant as she says, “ medical supplies?” A look of calculation appears on her face.

I shrug. “We have some first aid material.” I nod towards the mares. “The horses eat grain; that's their fuel.”

“Hmm,” she says.

“Lucius,” someone says from ahead of us. Our servant mutters something in return. Two men walk from the small group gathered on the road; one of the irregulars and the Factor from the village. He nods to me. Our lieutenant steps down from the carriage and walks to him, then stands with her back to us, head bowed, talking to the Factor. He glances up at us at one point, then walks away. The lieutenant returns, steps up again, pushing her cap back over her dun coloured, scraped back hair. “Sir,” she says, smiling at me. “You have a castle? You should have said.”

“Had,” I reply. I cannot help but glance back in its direction. “We've left it.”

“And a title,” she goes on.

“A minor one,” I grant her.

“Well,” the lieutenant exclaims, gaze sweeping round her nearby men. “What should we call you?”